I wrote a note of thanks to Mme Desnoyers and went out to post it; beyond that I had no plans. The day was radiant, though an acid wind was there to remind one that it was still April, and that the light was not yet that of the settled days to come. Nevertheless there was an almost palpable air of renewed enthusiasm in the steps of passersby, in greetings to neighbours, to café owners, to waiters who appeared on the doorsteps of restaurants to sniff the air and to extend the city’s hospitality to their regular patrons. It was impossible to contemplate leaving all this for London, which I perceived in apocalyptic terms, grey, lowering, morose, whereas in fact it was a comfortable city in which to live, and in comparison with my present arrangements positively luxurious. Yet it lacked the essential component of flair, which even one as undemanding as myself could appreciate, in the mere sight not only of the grander streets but of one’s own humble surroundings, one’s own Métro station, bus stop, stretch of pavement. Thus its glamour was available to the merest and most temporary inhabitant and would remain in the mind of such a transient as an image of the ideal city, a reputation it strove strenuously to uphold.
Knowing the day to be a lost cause, I set out to walk to the Luxembourg, thinking I might cast a critical eye on the layout of the gardens, though I had no need to do so. Instead I might just sit there and try to work out a plan for the future, for I should have to get a job, forswear days such as these. Indeed the feeling that my liberty was already compromised, that the day of my departure was imminent, lessened the pleasure I might have had from sitting on an iron chair and watching the children playing, as I was fully entitled to do, to squander time that had suddenly become precious, as if time were entirely irrelevant. I may have thought this almost questionable inactivity might predispose me to another session with my footnotes, to an almost welcome return to my previous confinement. In the meantime I determined to explore this unearned leisure which was, after all, under threat from obligations of various kinds. Yet that now vanishing memory of beauty, revived by the almost cloudless sky, the children playing, determined me to stay in this place, if possible forever, to find work of some sort, to trust the temporary nature of such a way of life as being more realistic, indeed more sensible than the settled comfort to which I had once aspired.
I ate a sandwich for lunch, walked to the Louvre, lingered in the company of Roman statues, and finally, with a sigh, made my way home, for this was how I might now think of it. My room seemed to me almost intolerably cramped, but I made my peace with it, for this was how I now should have to live. Even the light through the window seemed meagre, recalling me to order. The knock on my door startled me, as did Michael’s appearance; he rarely entered my room unless invited to do so, but now his expression was wary, his eyes evading my own. I was disposed to welcome him but he ignored my remarks and handed me a slip of paper.
‘There was a call for you,’ he said. ‘From London. A message. I thought it would be better coming from me. I’ve read it, I’m afraid.’
I unfolded the paper and gazed at the familiar telephone number. I was unwilling to read the message, which could only be bad news. I knew what it signified, and was entirely correct. My mother had met with an accident. No details were given. I handed the paper to Michael, too faint suddenly to speak.
‘I’ll stay here while you telephone,’ he said, and it was the kindest thing that anyone could have done, for when I asked for the number my uncle, Rob, answered and told me that my mother had died suddenly while out shopping: an aortic aneurysm, he said, his voice choked with tears. Death would have been instantaneous. Then I did faint. Michael must have taken the telephone from me and heard the news for himself.
When I recovered he said, ‘You’ll have to go home. Are you fit enough?’
‘Yes, I must go home.’
‘I’ll take you to the airport. Do you want me to come with you?’
‘No, I must do this alone.’
He nodded. ‘If we leave now you can be in London by midnight. There’s no need to pack, or anything. Although I suppose you’ll need to stay for a bit. Until . . .’ Until the funeral, he meant. ‘Ring me at any time,’ he said. ‘You’ll keep the room, I take it?’ It was my turn to nod. ‘Let me know when you’re coming back.’ He took my hand and held it. Then he picked up my jacket and held it out to me. I handed him my shoulder bag. He examined the contents. ‘Yes, you’ve got enough for a single ticket. You can book the return at the other end.’ For there would surely be a return, he seemed to be saying. And then it was time to leave.
I knew nothing of the journey. I may have slept, or perhaps lost consciousness again: it hardly mattered. But ever since then sleep or the approaches of sleep have been accompanied by a feeling of terror, of omens. It was not until the plane landed and I was out in the cold night air that I was aware of being alone and wished that Michael had come with me. But this was a task I had to perform alone and would have to continue to carry out until such time as I should be allowed to forget it, or if not forget—for who could forget this?—to consign it to a past I was not eager to relive. All I could hope for was oblivion, or some form of amnesia, yet I knew that I should have to stay awake, remain vigilant, although a perverse drowsiness slowed my steps as I made my way out into a solitude greater than I had ever known. ‘Careful, Miss,’ said a voice, and almost absentmindedly I stepped out of the way of a baggage cart. There were few people travelling. They would all have looked the same to me even if I had known them. I found a taxi, a piece of luck at that time of night, and reached the flat in the early hours. I sat down in a chair, careful, even in that extremity, to avoid my mother’s place on the sofa, and foundered again.
I was awoken some hours later by the sound of a key in the front door, and stood up, dazed, to meet my uncle. He looked shabby, red-faced, as I had never seen him before, and if this could happen to a man like Rob, who would be there to sustain me? He began to cry, which terrified me; I had never seen a man in tears before. I smoothed my hair, anxious to impart some normality to the scene, and wondered whether he intended to move into the flat. This would have to be established straightaway; there was no possibility of our cohabiting, and I should, without a qualm or a moment’s hesitation, leave him there, renouncing all rights, careless of the future, if he would only leave me alone. His grief seemed excessive to me, noisy; my own eyes were dry. Only the hammering of my heart and the tremors in my hands told me that this shock was like no other, and must be endured.
‘What happened?’ I managed to ask.
This brought on a fresh bout of weeping. ‘She was out shopping. In Selfridges, as it happens. She simply collapsed and died. Immediately. That’s what the medics told me. Death was instantaneous. They found my address in her bag. There was a card there with my number on it. “In the event of my death,” it said, “contact Robert Moore.” It was signed with her name, and gave her address.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘At the undertakers. I saw to all that.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Of course you should have been there. If you’d stayed at home, as you should have done, none of this would have happened.’
‘But there was no warning. How could it have been prevented?’
‘You knew how frail she was. And you hadn’t seen her recently. You didn’t have the decency to come home regularly to check on her. . . .’
This was true. I had had in reserve the knowledge that I should eventually have to come home for good as my excuse, and my weekly telephone calls had provided some form of reassurance that nothing in her situation had changed. Or perhaps, I thought, I had decided this for my own benefit.
‘The least you could have done was keep her company,’ he went on. ‘It was all left to me, as everything always is, always has been. Your father was useless, and anyway I was against the marriage. It’s not as if we were a large family. You were her next of kin. And she was lonely.’
Yes, I could see that she was lonely. That was what was unforgivable.
No one should live as my mother had done, perhaps keeping to herself intimations of a weakness that was not of the mind but of the body. I knew nothing of this, and I suspected that she had not confided in Rob, whose ever-present indignation would perhaps have rebounded on her, making her life even more wearisome. She had spared us both, only to shock us at the end.
‘I shall never forgive you for this,’ he said, stowing away his handkerchief. ‘And now I must arrange for the cremation. You’ll have the grace to attend, I hope? Not too many social engagements in Paris?’
This spurt of anger seemed to enliven him. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea if you can spare the time.’ The look on my face must have sobered him. ‘You should eat something, I suppose. Well, you’ll have to look after yourself now.’
It was at that point that I knew that I should never willingly set eyes on him again. He knew it too. Only my mother could have reconciled us, and she was no longer there. My only reflection was that he would have to go without his tea, and for a while I felt badly about that.
I wandered into my mother’s bedroom, saw her neatly made bed, opened the doors of her wardrobe, and found everything in order. Already these things looked like relics. Rob, or the police, had brought back her bag, in which there was a lace-edged handkerchief of which she was fond. This I took for myself. In the kitchen her cup and saucer stood on the table, awaiting her return. I did not see how I could ever live in this place, and yet I knew I should have to. I stood by the window of the sitting room and looked out, as if to see her coming home. Yes, she was lonely; I saw that all too clearly. Her life was not the sort of life lived by a normal woman. She was on good terms with everyone—neighbours, shopkeepers, the caretaker—yet intimate with none of them. I should have thought her days entirely empty had I not had some knowledge of how to spend such days on my own account. This training in solitary pursuits was what united us both, and I began to think of her not as someone utterly lost but as a stoical veteran, more resourceful, perhaps, than many of her contemporaries, none of whom seemed anxious to seek her out. They would think such stoicism unseemly, unnecessary in an age of instant communication, of almost obligatory female solidarity, of intemperate confidences. This was not her way, nor mine, but it seemed as if we bore the same marks. I should have to refine my technique if I were to match her courage. Either that or turn my back on such a legacy completely and make my way into an indistinct future.
At some point the caretaker, Mr Morris, came up, having met Rob on his way out and heard the news. He seemed sincerely affected, was disposed to stay and reminisce, not only on my account but on his. ‘Such a kind lady,’ he said. ‘Always asked how my boy was getting on. Always well turned out. I like to see a woman take care of herself. You’ll be staying, I take it? If not, let me know. I’m always getting enquiries about these flats. If you think of leaving . . .’
‘I’ve not had time to think of that,’ I said. ‘But of course I’ll let you know if I decide to make any changes.’
‘Anything I can do,’ he assured me.
After that the doorbell rang several times. Kind neighbours, avid for details, came and went. One old lady, whom I barely knew, presented me with a dish of stuffed peppers. This moved me unbearably, though I doubted whether I should ever be able to eat again. As it was getting dark Rob let himself in again, dumped a bottle of milk on the kitchen counter, and said, ‘Friday, Golders Green. Eleven a.m. You can get there by yourself, I take it? Or do you want me to pick you up?’ His dislike of me was undisguised.
‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’ll get a cab.’
I was surrounded by the amenities of a comfortable, even prosperous flat, and yet I abjured them all. Though I was hot and exhausted I would not take a bath, lay claim to my bedroom. I even unplugged the telephone, though not without a thought that I should ring Michael and tell him that I should be away, for what? A week, perhaps. On reflection it seemed more appropriate to write him a letter, for I did not trust my voice. This I could do on the following day. My mother was strangely absent. This anomaly I accepted as I finally realized that she was gone. Then I went to bed, and waited, terrified, for sleep.
But sleep did not come. Perhaps it was the prospect of the days ahead that kept me awake. I stared into the dark and unfamiliar night, with strange cars passing in the street below, and wished for it all to be over, whatever it was to be. It seemed impossible to remember that less than twenty-four hours earlier I had loitered in the sun, thinking myself entitled to an interval of leisure, sitting at a café table, looking forward to seeing Michael, even looking forward to a resumption of my normal activities, minimal though they were. Faced with a liberty to call my own, with no attachments, my spirit failed. The life I had now threatened to be empty, for those unknown others, in whom I had once placed my nebulous hopes, would prove too insubstantial to fill the abyss that had opened so suddenly under my feet.
I should have welcomed a dream, though I could not hope for a dream as radiant as that strange dream which had seemed to me so significant. Its significance had proved elusive, even fallacious. It had had to do with hope, with a promise of fulfilment. Now it was clear that I should have to proceed step by cautious step. I could anticipate my faltering progress, my resigned determination. Even the luxury of sleep would perhaps—almost certainly—be denied me. As I felt my eyes finally close it was not relief that I felt but a sensation of falling, and the threat of a fear from which there might be no release.
8
‘MY DEAR FRANÇOISE,’ I WROTE. ‘AS YOU MAY HAVE SURMISED I am in London. I had to return suddenly: my mother died, with what seems to me equal suddenness. People have assured me that I have been spared much, in that I did not have to witness a long illness, but I doubt if there is a great deal to choose between one way of death and another. As a daughter, and an only daughter, you can imagine how I feel. I should have written earlier but there has been a lot to do, although we were a very small, not to say nonexistent, family. I shall stay here until I have made all the arrangements, and paid all the bills. I shall return to Paris to collect my things, and may stay for a while. I have not yet decided where to live, and intend to make no hasty decisions. Naturally I shall look in at the library in order to see you, and hope that we can have lunch or coffee, as we usually did. I should welcome your sensible advice, not that I ever took it, but there is a shortage of it here and I find its absence rather depressing. I shall send this to the flat—I can’t quite bring myself to send it to the library—and look forward to seeing you. No need to reply to this. Avec toute mon amitié, Emma.’
‘Dear Michael,’ I then wrote. ‘I can never thank you enough for your kindness on that terrible evening. It seems, in retrospect, like a bad dream from which I have not yet woken. I say bad dream rather than nightmare because its effects have proved so long-lasting. One wakes abruptly from a nightmare and recognizes it for what it is, but I can expect no such relief from my present situation, which is principally one of strange haunted drowsiness. I think of you often, not only in connection with that night, but rather as I remember you, walking, always thoughtfully, and usually on your own, but sometimes on a Sunday, when I was included. We shall meet again—or shall we? The thought has suddenly struck me that I might not return to Paris, although obviously I shall have to come back to pick up my things. I have a feeling of finality, of endings, which I do not quite understand. Clever people, unlike myself, seem to recognize when a friendship has run its course, and everyone knows, however reluctantly, when a love affair is over, but to say goodbye to an enthusiasm is mysterious. I had persuaded myself, only a short time ago, that I could live in Paris, pick up some sort of work, translating or even teaching, and manage an existence devoid of formal obligations. Now I see that what I am describing was a sort of youthfulness which has now come to an end. Frankly, I do not know where to live, nor does it much matter. And in this new mood of unadulterated realism it seems that all my arrangements, even my friendships, were flimsy. This new realism reminds me of
my initial bewilderment at being so unattached, so careful, and so uncomfortable. This was a singularly poor apprenticeship, and my researches, though painstaking, were always this side of enthusiasm. But I know that I shall always remember certain Sunday afternoons that we spent together, wandering, like any other couple, in public gardens, in the early days of a spring that now seems far distant. These walks were without emotional significance, and perhaps all the better for that. There never were two such silent companions, but I think we understood each other as well as we could without the benefit of conversation. Thank you for your company. I am of course assuming that you will stay in Paris, and hope that this reaches you. There is no need to reply. If you want to you can always write to me here, and I hope that you will. Ever, Emma.’
I knew that I might not see him again: this had become clear as my letter took shape. The innocence of that friendship pertained to youth, almost to childhood, and that time was at an end. My heaviness of spirit, and of body, was that of a reluctant adult, beset with adult arrangements, adult decisions. It was only when I heard the sound of my uncle’s key in the door that I regressed: a true adult, such as I thought I had become, would have asked for the key to be given back, but as he was striving to be nice it would have been ungracious to do so. He would look in, always unannounced, to see if I were all right and, having decided that I was, leave with a sense of duty done. He was the single reason for my entertaining the possibility of removing to Paris, but I preferred to postpone any decision of a far-reaching nature until I was clear in my mind, and could face the future, my future, without assistance, for I knew there would be none. I should have preferred to have the future decided for me by others, even though I knew that few people volunteer for such a task. I saw the point of families, of marriage; I wondered how long I was expected to manage on my own. This was my most unsettling dilemma, and in its wake came the conviction that my mother’s loneliness, if loneliness was what it was, might have taken the form of an unfinished internal debate on the nature of self-sufficiency, on its limits, and on the character requirements necessary for a good outcome. It was a debate she had had to have with herself, as I should, and if I were not extremely vigilant I might run the risk of living her life all over again. The prospect frightened me very much.
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