Damage

by Josephine Hart

  But decent men will try to do the decent thing. And they were decent men. They tried to tell me what a loss I would be. One of them even spoke with desperate sincerity the decent lie, ‘You can survive this. Rescind your resignation. You acted too hastily.’ Then his voice, full of pain, trailed off into truth.

  Andrew rang. ‘The papers will follow their normal pattern. Your house has about ten journalists and photographers outside it. They will soon go to Hartley and also possibly find out where you are now.’

  ‘Should I tell Edward to lock the gates at Hartley?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘So what can I expect?’

  ‘The usual. The quality papers will concentrate on your career and your resignation. Martyn’s paper will home in on the tragedy happening just before the wedding. Quite a lot of innuendo. Didn’t they find you naked? The others will have a field day. They’ll stop short of calling you a murderer. But you and Anna will be front page news. There’s some implication of … how can I put this … sexual games, I don’t know. Oh God! Anyway I’m warning you. This side of libel, they’ll crucify you.’

  ‘How long will it last?’

  ‘Well, you’ve resigned. Anna’s disappeared. After the funeral it will die down. Of course, there will be further press coverage at the inquest.’

  ‘Yes, probably.’

  ‘The other angle which one bitch brought up was your marriage. Were you and Ingrid still together? Would you be getting a divorce? Investigative reporting for the good of society, you know the kind of thing.’

  ‘So it will last a week to ten days?’

  ‘Yes, about that.’

  ‘And then, for the rest of my life! Andrew, there are many issues I will need to talk to you about, but after the funeral.’

  ‘Is there anything I can do between now and then?’

  ‘No. I’m grateful to you for all you’ve done already. I’m afraid I must go now. I still have a lot of things to arrange.’

  To strangers I spoke of the burial of my son at Hartley. With Edward’s help, times and dates were set when his body would be for ever lost to us. Then I spoke again to Anna’s mother. She had decided it was best not to attend the funeral. We said our goodbyes.

  Edward arranged for someone to let me in via the farm. Late that night I set off for Hartley. Images of death and horror lurked behind the ghostly shadows of the trees on the road. The pain of Martyn’s loss was equalled only by the pain of longing for her. The name that my voice cried out was Anna, Anna, Anna. But the tears that I shed were for him.

  THIRTY-SIX

  WE QUIETLY OCCUPIED the small corners of the next day that still seemed normal. Eating and drinking, bathing, walking. We gave these activities more time and attention than usual, almost ritualising them. We found it possible to make preparations for the church service and funeral in short intense bursts of phone calls and meetings. Edward had two private lines and the main phone was off the hook.

  Tired, bored men with cameras, and young colourful women were glimpsed at the end of the drive. The press. I felt no animosity. My son, after all, had been one of them. Anna too had no doubt stood outside homes to report on the stricken faces of mourners. So that between the Kellogg’s and the toast, eternity might clamour across the minds of her readers.

  In black, shiny chariots of metal, on the following morning we drove past the weary recorders of our little story; they were frustrated by their failure yesterday to photograph or talk to anyone. The clicking and the flashing of their cameras, and the questions that the journalists mouthed through the glass, seemed as much part of the ritual of death as the chaplain, who with concerned features greeted yet another family to his house of ancient words and symbols.

  Our small family, a black chorus round the grave, witnessed the impossible. The burial of Martyn. Into this scene of black, I dreamed Anna. I created her standing by the grave, dressed all in white. So white. And she threw armfuls of red roses into the open grave. The thorns as they ripped her arms, released drops of blood into the earth and on to the white, so white, of her dress. White. White. For a second, everything was blotted out by white light. Then it was over. We sped in our black chariots back to Hartley.

  Ingrid sat with me that night in Edward’s study. Two people, tired unto death.

  ‘I don’t want to live with you again,’ she said. ‘Ever.’

  ‘What do you want to do?’

  ‘I want to go away for a few months to Italy. Arthur Mandleson has offered me his place outside Rome. I’m asking Sally to come with me for a month. Jonathan can fly out to see her. Then I think she’d like to live in London with him.’

  ‘I understand. They are clearly right for one another. And after that?’

  ‘I’ll live at Hartley, I think. Maybe I will get a small place in London as well. I’ll ask Paul Panten to contact Andrew and arrange whatever is necessary.’

  ‘I’ll tell Andrew.’

  ‘One other thing.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘After tomorrow, I never want to see you again in my life. It would help me greatly to be certain of that. It will mean sacrifices. Sally’s wedding … other family occasions … like funerals.’ She laughed bitterly.

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Do you understand?

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That night, that strange night when you said, “Give him to me. Give him to me,” some terrible anger left me. It flew to you. I want it out of my life for ever. You must take it with you, and go away.’

  ‘Can I see Sally sometimes?’

  ‘Of course. But ask her not to tell me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘I do not ask your plans. Keep them secret from me.’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You never loved me, you know.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Deep down I knew that. But it seemed to suit both of us at the time.’

  ‘Yes. Oh yes, it did … so well.’

  ‘Is this love’s revenge, do you think? Its lesson? It will not be cheated.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘I’d like to find that certain kind of love too.’

  I remained silent.

  She sighed.

  ‘You’re right. I doubt I ever will. It may be too cruel for me. I’d be too frightened. I liked you a lot. In my own way I loved you. I don’t think you realised how much.’ She smiled sadly. ‘All my old life is buried here with Martyn. At Hartley I will find my own way, as long as …’

  ‘I’m out of your life.’

  ‘Yes. I’m so, so tired now. It’s extraordinary but I know I’ll sleep. And you?’

  ‘I’ll sit here for a while, I want to talk to Sally and Edward, then I will leave.’

  I watched her as she walked towards the door, her body still aching from the brimming pain of grief. She turned and smiled at me. ‘Goodbye. I don’t mean this to sound cruel, but what a pity you didn’t die, in some accident or something, last year.’

  ‘My tragedy is that I don’t agree. Goodbye, Ingrid.’

  She closed the door behind her.

  After some time I too left the room. With coffee and tears and watched by the uncomprehending eyes of Edward and Sally, I cut myself out of their lives as I would a cancer from their bodies. With a silver thread of words I tried to sew up the wounds.

  I left for London. In Edward’s flat I laid down my plans for the rest of my life.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  ‘I HAVE POST FROM Hampstead.’ It was Andrew on the phone.

  ‘Do you want me to send it to you at Edward’s flat?’

  ‘Andrew, I want to have a talk with you — about the future. Can you come to the flat?’

  ‘I’ll come this afternoon, about four.’

  ‘OK.’

  He handed me a large brown packet filled with letters.

  ‘All for me?’

  ‘No. Quite a few for Ingrid, some for Sally.’

  ‘Can you send them to Hartley?’

  ‘Th
ere might be some … well … crank letters.’

  ‘Can you tell?’

  ‘Let’s look at each envelope carefully.’

  We picked out a few that looked strange. But there was nothing sinister. It was just normal post, special cleaning service offers, sale announcements, et cetera. ‘The rest look safe,’ I said. ‘Send them on to Hartley.’

  ‘You won’t be seeing Ingrid … in the next few days?’ He looked at me, then glanced away.

  ‘Andrew. Ingrid and I will not be together again, ever. I want you to liaise with Paul Panten and come to an arrangement. We’re both wealthy. Ingrid must have everything that belongs to our old life. Hampstead, the paintings, everything. If you would liaise with Johnson at Albrights for a statement of affairs, we can agree on a financial settlement. Sally, of course, has her trust fund.’

  ‘And Martyn’s … now. I’m sorry, but this is a financial conversation.’

  ‘No. Please, you are right. Yes, and Martyn’s now. It automatically transferred to her if Martyn died without a family. Andrew, I need a few days to think about my own future. Can we talk on Friday?’

  ‘By all means.’ He looked down at the letters. We both saw the one from France.

  ‘I’ll go now. We’ll talk on Friday. I’ll put everything into operation.’

  ‘Andrew, I’m profoundly grateful. No arguments from you? No advice?’

  ‘I know you too well to try to advise you. Or perhaps too little. Till Friday.’ He left.

  I opened the letter from France. It was from Peter.

  “I have a letter for you from Anna. She insisted that I should give it to you personally. Can you call me? We can discuss how and when I can do this.”

  There was nothing else. I rang immediately.

  ‘Where is Anna?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I don’t believe that.’

  He sighed. ‘Please understand that what you believe or don’t believe is completely irrelevant to me.’

  ‘I’m sorry. When did she leave?’

  ‘On the day of Martyn’s funeral.’

  ‘How did she know the date?’

  ‘My God! It’s hardly been a secret in the English newspapers.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ He remained silent.

  ‘I’m not asking you where she is now, just where did she go that day?’

  ‘She went, my friend, to visit the grave of her brother.’

  For a moment I was blinded by the white light of shock.

  ‘Alone?’

  ‘All alone. I will say it once again. The last I saw of Anna was the day of Martyn’s funeral. She left my home in a taxi. She said goodbye to me. I think this time she meant it.’

  ‘What did she wear?’

  ‘What? A white dress. She said she was going to buy roses for his grave. Then she was gone.’

  ‘Red, I suppose?’ As if in a dream.

  ‘I don’t know what colour. This is a hopeless conversation. Now, as my last act for Anna, do I bring the letter to you, or do you come to collect it?’

  ‘I will come to collect it.’

  ‘You’d better come to my apartment then.’ I took the address. ‘Tomorrow at six.’ ‘Tomorrow at six.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE APARTMENT HAD all the understated elegance and deceptive simplicity I had come to associate with Peter Calderon. He was a very clever man. The kind of man clever enough to hide his brilliance. The kind of man who would quickly learn from the few mistakes he would make. Like the kind of mistakes he’d made with Anna, long ago.

  ‘This is very kind,’ I started conversationally.

  ‘No. It is not kind. It is a duty.’

  ‘Ah!’

  ‘Here is the letter. I’d rather you did not read it here.’

  ‘Why? Do you know what’s in it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you could hazard a guess?’

  ‘No. I could give you my professional opinion. But then you probably wouldn’t listen.’

  ‘I’m listening now.’

  ‘Anna will not find it possible to continue her relationship with you.’

  ‘Why not? Oh, I know the obvious reasons.’

  ‘You mean guilt? No, no, Anna could handle the guilt all right. Actually most people can. For example, you managed perfectly well to deceive your son. One barely finds it necessary to refer to the minor betrayal of your wife. Yet you are here days after your son has died, his death undoubtedly all but occasioned by you. You are here to search for Anna. So please! Guilt, guilt, its pious expression alone is in fact today’s great absolution. Just say the guilt prayer, “I feel guilty,” and hey presto, that’s the punishment. The guilt is the punishment. So punished, and therefore cleansed, one can continue with the crime.’

  ‘Why then? Why can’t she continue with me?’

  ‘Because it’s only now that she has finally said goodbye to Aston. Anna has spoken to me of your relationship with her. You were part of the healing process. You were a vital part. The outer limits which you visited were — how can I put it — a journey which you and she were destined to make. But one which is over. It is over.’ He looked at me. ‘At least at this moment in time it is over for Anna.’

  ‘The last thing she said to me was, it’s over. But I won’t accept it.’

  ‘Because it’s not yet over for you.’

  ‘It never will be.’

  ‘Maybe not. Maybe not. But you will only be a visitor now to old views, old rooms, old dreams. Perhaps that’s enough for you.’

  ‘I won’t give up.’

  ‘Read the letter. Then decide. Be grateful you made the journey at all. Few people do. Perhaps it’s just as well. Tragedy almost always follows. But then, if you’d known a year ago?’

  I looked at him.

  ‘My wife wished I’d died. Not lived to do this.’

  ‘But then you’d never have lived at all. Would you?’

  ‘No.’

  He smiled, as he led me to the door. ‘Few regret the experience.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘I never had that kind of experience with Anna. Neither did Martyn. In that one way you were truly made for each other. Men and women find all sorts of ways to be together, all sorts of ways. Yours was high and dangerous. Most of us stay on the lower paths.’

  THIRTY-NINE

  IN A GREEN grove in the Tuileries Gardens I found a quiet place, leaning against a plane tree, to read my fate:

  “I must take myself back from you. I was a fatal gift. I was the gift of pain which you sought so eagerly, pleasure’s greatest reward. Though bound together in a savage minuet, whoever and whatever we truly are or were meant to be, soared free. Like aliens on earth we found in each and every step the language of our own lost planet. You needed pain. It was mine you hungered for. But though you do not believe it, your hunger is fully satisfied. Remember you have your own pain now. It will be ‘everything, always’. Even if you found me, I would not be there. Don’t search for something you already have. The hours and days allotted to us and now for ever gone are also ‘Everything. Always.’

  Anna”

  A leaf fell slowly to earth like a giant green tear. I had no tears to shed. I felt my body, touching my arms and chest. This thing will need to be housed somewhere until it is finally ready for burial. I must keep my promise to Ingrid — live, live on. But I needed a coffin, of sorts.

  I stood up to walk away. A child in frantic pursuit of a ball crashed into me. We looked at each other, and some wisdom made her race away from me, crying.

  FORTY

  IT TAKES A remarkably short time to withdraw from the world. Certain basic affairs, of course, must be formalised. Andrew deals with all bills, and transfers a monthly figure for living expenses. Personal letters forwarded from Hampstead or Hartley are destroyed by him. The supply dries up with considerable speed. Few people have my address, Sally of course, Peter Calderon — just in case. But I know, deep down, there is no reprieve.

 
I had only one formal public appearance to make, the inquest. The verdict was accidental death. Ingrid, Sally, and Edward did not attend. Of course much was made of the non-attendance of Anna Barton.

  I have an apartment in a small street in the city in which I now live. I chose it carefully. Its white walls and white wood-panelled ceilings guided my choice. Since then I have added white blinds to its high windows, a white carpet, white bookcases. In time I also bought embossed white paper to hide the covers of the books. I found the shades, however subtle, too much.

  The cleaning lady who comes each day for two hours dislikes the fact that I sit and watch her. But I have to. Once she brought red roses. She couldn’t get the white lilies I had ordered. Agonies began, which took me days to bank down.

  I have two large pictures, which are turned to the wall when she comes. I know she would try to turn them round if I weren’t there. They hang opposite each other, in the small hallway that leads from the main living-room to the bathroom. Though the photographer had difficulty enlarging them to the size I wanted, he managed eventually. Mounted on a white background they stand about five feet high. Or lie.

  I have a routine. I exercise. I bought a book based on my father’s old regime — thirteen minutes of naval exercises each morning. Then breakfast. Reading. Always the classics. There’s a lifetime’s reading there. I certainly haven’t got a lifetime left. While the flat is being cleaned I listen to language tapes. I take one holiday each year in the sun, always to a different country. I challenge myself to have at least a grasp of the language of the country I shall visit. This is my third year of such challenge.

  After my cleaning lady leaves I take a long walk. I have a light lunch at a cafe. Then I return to my white haven and continue my reading or I listen to music. Just as often I sit for hours letting the white purity of my room invade me.