I could see, or thought I could see, what the future held for Betsy. She would become one of those selfless volunteers who devote themselves to others, simply because she had more in common with the dispossessed than with those who were rightfully her peers. She would drop out of their ambience, take refuge in books, become so accustomed to being alone that she would be an awkward guest, unfamiliar with social norms, and soon cease to be a guest altogether. She had the courage of the survivor, but survival of this sort is a grievous condition, beside which I had to count myself fortunate. She was subtle enough to make comparisons with whatever she perceived about my life, yet too good-hearted to feel envy. What in fact would she envy, even if she knew the truth? Certainly not the fact that I had a lover, for this would surely have shocked her. Her own dream of love, unrealistic though it had been, had in many ways reflected her true nature, which yearned towards the impossible of attainment. She may have understood the various chimeras she had encountered, but she would not have avoided them in the name of prudence, of practicality. Such behaviour had served to isolate her even further; the fact that she had brought nothing back from her adventure was not quite apparent to her, as it would be apparent to others. I hoped that she would come by such knowledge slowly and if possible gently. And yet there was a strange beauty in her abandonment. She had kept her integrity, had forfeited nothing of her original innocence, had committed no fault. My own conduct in comparison seemed shabby, compromised, yet adult in a way that Betsy might concede, but would not understand.
Naturally I told her nothing. That this isolated me, and perhaps at a further remove from what we both once had been, was a matter for my private contemplation. I could not regret what had taken place, although I had certainly experienced flickers of disquiet, as recently as this evening. In retrospect I saw Edmund’s behaviour as grandiose but flawed, as if he were a representative of a conquering race and I one of the conquered. I found this exciting, but knew it was questionable. Yet the endowment was not one I was willing to forgo. In giving me access to my own licence, my own lawlessness, Edmund had made me know myself, and in doing so I had gained a liveliness and even a courage that had not previously been within my reach.
‘What we should do,’ I said, ‘is go to Peter Jones and look at their stuff. You’ll soon see what you like. And you can afford it now; you can please yourself. I’ll help you; we’ll go next week, have lunch there. Like ladies.’ We both smiled, as if at a picture of those ladies we could not yet hope to become. ‘And eat something,’ I urged her. ‘You’re far too thin. And your looks are too good to waste.’
It was a relief to be in the street again. It was a beautiful evening, soft, warm, and dark, with a rising mist. It had been a truly golden October: sharp mornings, mellow afternoon sun, the pungent smell of leaves. It had been easy to ignore the portents of winter and the shorter days, and with them my own reclusion. I had no wish to go home, and for once I had a perfectly valid excuse to offer for my absence: I had been with Betsy. I should have liked to stay out in the air, to take a long walk, as I had done in the early days of my marriage, before the instinct to escape had led me into aberrant behaviour, yet had already been felt in the blood, along the nerves. I was impatient with myself, with my tendency to dwell on recent pleasure, as if it were a singular endowment unshared by other women. My thoughts were if anything coarse: I could have this and more if I so wished. I regretted my circumscribed life in Paris, my only opportunity for emancipation, and my refusal then to seize it. Like Betsy I had come to love late in life, and I knew that a longer apprenticeship would have served me better. But I had received the wrong instructions, had thought that marriage was the answer. And no doubt it was the answer, for I did not really want the sort of independence that is more often forced on one than truly desired. Betsy’s independence was assured, and yet I knew that she would have been the sort of wife who was going out of fashion. We both had had that picture in our minds when we were girls. But we were no longer girls, and now I understood the regret in those lovely songs I used to hear in Paris, in the odd café, or through an open window. Le Temps des Cerises is a land of lost content, whatever one’s condition, a realization that what has gone will never return, whether it be love or a vision of love which has somehow failed to materialize.
I was surprised to find the flat empty when I got home, particularly as it was nearly seven-thirty. Digby was rarely late. He was a man of settled habits who frequently cited routine as a principle. I looked in his desk diary to see whether I had forgotten a meeting he was supposed to attend, but the pages were blank. Indeed all the pages were blank, the desk diary an annual gift from a Canadian colleague which kept company with the other accoutrements of his small desk, the old-fashioned fountain pen, the paper knife, his telephone extension. His study seemed so empty, so inscrutable, that I determined to turn it into something else, and yet it was too small for an extra bedroom, and Digby did occasionally use it when he wanted to write letters. The life he lived in that room was closed to me; it had been there before he met me, no doubt held secrets that were not to be disturbed. I found it sad, perhaps for that reason, yet the room was perfectly ordinary, summarily furnished, benefiting from the morning sun. But blank, like the diary.
I wandered into the kitchen, made myself a cup of tea. The flat seemed very quiet. I was more tired than I realized, resolved to take a bath before Digby returned, yet was reluctant to move. When the doorbell rang I jumped. There were confused sounds from outside; when I opened the door the first thing I saw was Mrs Crook, standing outside her flat, her face a mask of horror. Then I saw what had caused this: Digby, leaning against a wall, supported by his secretary, Jean Thompson, one hand useless at his side, the other dragging Miss Thompson’s sage green jacket from her shoulder, as if to get a last purchase on something tangible while it was still within his grasp.
‘He was taken ill at the office,’ explained Miss Thompson. ‘At first it looked like a sort of seizure, yet he seemed to recover from that. He even told me not to be alarmed. Fortunately he had someone with him at the time; otherwise I might not have disturbed him till I left. I made some tea and took it in to him. That’s when I saw what had happened to his face. And he seemed to be deaf in one ear. I thought I should call an ambulance but he stopped me. He could still speak at that stage, told me he wanted to go home. So I waited half an hour and then called a taxi. My father went this way. You’ll probably want to see your own doctor.’
We took him into the drawing-room and sat him in his chair. His face seemed to have been divided into two halves, the mouth distorted, one eye closed. We all knew what had happened. Digby certainly knew. Yet we were determined not to name it, all three of us.
‘If you could just help me get him into the bedroom,’ I said. ‘I’ll look after him. I’m most grateful to you. I think this is what he would have wanted.’
I did not call the doctor. I understood what was taking place. I wanted to keep him with me.
We laid him on the bed. This was the signal for Miss Thompson to leave. The kindness of strangers, I had time to reflect. I wrestled with his clothes, wrapped him in his bathrobe, and pulled the covers over him. At some point, much later in the night, I undressed and got into bed beside him. He seemed to know that I was there, although I doubt if he knew exactly who I was. I took his hand, but it was not his good hand, and it slipped from my grasp. He slept, a stertorous breath informing me that he was still alive. That grew quieter in the course of the night, and I thought he slept almost naturally. When it became light again I examined his face, to see if there had been any further alteration. But it was beginning to relax, to become more recognizable. I had a moment of hope, but when I spoke his name he appeared not to hear me. I spoke his name repeatedly through the course of the day, but there was no response. I knew what I had to do.
I washed his face, combed his hair, took up my position by his bed. At some point I must have unplugged the telephone, but I had no memory of having done this.
Again I took the heavy hand in mine and held it. I did not speak, since he could no longer speak. The day progressed, without my participation. I retained enough awareness to see that it was a fine day, a beautiful day, like the one that had preceded it, yet I was anxious for it to be over. It seemed as if the night were more appropriate for a vigil. And so it proved. Once again I lay down beside him. This went on for two more days and nights. I tried, on the following morning, to spoon some yoghurt into his sloping mouth, but it ran down his chin and I was indignant for him. On the third day I felt faint and went into the kitchen to make some tea. When I went back to him I saw that he had died. I felt a sadness so pure, so untainted by immediate concerns, that it was as if I had joined him in his new condition, and that this would be my inheritance, not only in my waking hours but for the rest of my life.
8
IN THE DAYS THAT FOLLOWED IT SEEMED AS THOUGH I were fighting death myself. I had letters to write, yet my handwriting wandered about on the page, no longer obedient to my intentions. I saw this as an omen, prelude to a larger disintegration that might already be under way. When I looked in the mirror my reflection showed a creature with dull eyes and a pursed mouth. I was hungry for sleep yet was unwilling to enter the bedroom. I had stripped the bed but not yet remade it. I spent the nights in an armchair and thought I might do so until such time as I was able to behave normally. I trusted in the natural order of things to restore something like instinct and appetite. I had no idea how long this process would take.
And yet I behaved efficiently, or efficiently enough, felt a moment of relief after the undertaker’s men—subdued tactful creatures—had left, felt able to refuse the sedatives the doctor offered me. Miss Thompson, also tactful, said she would contact Digby’s business associates as soon as I gave her a date for the funeral. More difficult were the neighbours, acquaintances who felt obliged to express extreme shock and sorrow, as if doing all this on my behalf. They were perhaps disconcerted by my apparent lack of emotion and strove to compensate for my deficiency. Mrs Crook in particular seemed eager to keep me company, now that we were both widows, and I was obliged to listen to her own reminiscences for one whole afternoon, a helpless prisoner in my own flat. As soon as I felt able to do so I mimed exhaustion and excused myself, saw her back to her door, washed the teacups, ate a banana, and prepared for the main business of the day, which was to walk. This I could only do at night or in the very early morning, when there were no witnesses and pure anonymity could be taken for granted.
I discovered this resource on the night after Digby’s death. I may have had a genuine physical longing for fresh air, but what I really wanted was an illusion of liberty, of freedom from the immense amount of labour that confronted me, not in learning to live without Digby, for that I knew I could manage, but in composing a life in which there would be no limits, no demands on my time or my attention, no duties from which I could make a legitimate escape. This was easier to contemplate in the dark than in ordinary daylight, and besides, I was no longer tired. My walks were long but uninteresting. One night I walked in a straight line along Old Brompton Road to Knightsbridge, to Hyde Park Corner, along Piccadilly, through St James’s, and back along the Mall, Ebury Street, Pimlico, Royal Hospital Road, and then, in a taxi, to Melton Court. Another night took me along the river, though I was careful to go nowhere near the Fairlies’ house. I had put their names on the list I gave to Miss Thompson; they would be informed along with all the others. I had no wish to see them, to see anyone. When Betsy telephoned about our proposed lunch I told her the news briefly, and heard her faltering expressions of sadness for me with gratitude, but without much sadness in my response. My own sadness was not an issue. I had told so many people that I was able to manage that I felt obliged to be tougher than I was expected to be. My own expectations were as shadowy as those obscure, silent wanderings, passing from the light of one lamppost to the next, barely aware of other wanderers, who I assumed to have much the same preoccupations as myself, grateful to be among strangers.
For it was not quite grief, this feeling of displacement. It was rather more like a period of transition, an initiation into a different life, one without instructions. I should have to invent a life that others would see as normal, but which would in fact be profoundly, essentially different. If I thought of Edmund, as I did, it was because I knew that sex is the antidote to death, and also because I was newly aware of the domesticity of others now that my own had disappeared. In the early morning, almost before daylight, I peered into the windows of basement kitchens, saw tables with checked tablecloths, place settings, or, alternatively, blinds and shutters which excluded me and my kind. I was not yet ready to confront the knowledge that Edmund, in his household, was catered for as easily as I had perhaps catered for my husband, that his life was normal, more normal perhaps than his indulgences. My stolen glances into other people’s houses, sometimes symbolically frustrated by curtains, could not help but encounter the solidarity of those not yet obliged to confront my solitude.
I saw Edmund now as he was, a family man, to use the quaint expression, a man supported by all the systems that have to be in place if life is to proceed normally. A knowledge of the rules to be obeyed, together with a consciousness of having in due course obeyed them, had brought about a sense of safety from which it might become necessary to escape. That was where I fitted in, and I saw my tenure as limited. Perhaps I was unduly pessimistic, perhaps I had a general sense of endings, but now I also saw how little emotion this sort of affair could contain if it had to remain pleasurable. Hence no empathy, no curiosity, none of the conversations I was able to fantasize on my own and which had no place in Britten Street. No place anywhere, for intimacy would be reserved for home. A sort of loyalty would thus be maintained which would give a man like Edmund a consciousness of behaving correctly, for any real infidelity would involve an exchange of feeling. If no feeling other than the purely creaturely were experienced then no real transgression could be seen to have occurred. It came to me, in the course of one early morning walk, that only worldly respectability, of the sort enjoyed by Edmund and his kind, could act as a bulwark against the qualms of conscience and the reproaches of the just.
It was perhaps an added unfairness—a purely social unfairness—that it was my position that was impossible rather than his. I should be conspicuous now, no longer shielded by my husband. I should be subjected to scrutiny, as the lonely always are, a subject of speculation for those very people who had expressed sympathy on my behalf. I no longer thought of disappearing to Paris; the thought of greater isolation intimidated me. The only protection would be another man, not the kind of man to whom my thoughts all too naturally turned, but someone mild, respectable, well thought of— rather like my husband, in fact. I should be warmly accepted back into the mainstream so long as the idea of passion were rigorously absent. What I desired would not be relevant. I should be re-admitted if I exhibited all those marls of benign normality—holidays, dinner parties—that are the province of the maintained and the protected, of whom no questions are asked. If I were to exhibit an unseemly solitariness I should fail a number of tests and be condemned to perpetual marginality. On my own I should have to live without a mask. Men would leave me alone, for any appeal to them would be ambiguous. Even Edmund would find me awkward, as if he feared encroachment, as if I were making some kind of appeal. We were not friends, as I now saw. We had no common ground, and apart from what took place in the flat in Britten Street, no real intimacy. From his own intimacy I could expect nothing; Constance had disliked me even before she had any reason to do so, and I had always been a little frightened of her without quite knowing why. Now every kind of custom or politeness barred me from her presence. It was not the company of women that I craved; I needed something stronger, more cynical, more brutal. Only a sustained scrutiny of the facts would help me to ignore those glimpses of other lives afforded me on my dawn walks, of a table set for more than one place, of a vase of flowers on a wi
ndowsill, of a child’s toy abandoned by a chair.
‘How will you live now?’ asked my mother on the telephone from Spain. We had agreed that she would not attend the funeral but would come later, for a proper visit, as she put it. ‘Of course, you’ll have the flat,’ she went on, without waiting for an answer. ‘And enough to live on, I presume. Did Digby leave much?’
‘I have no idea.’ This was true. ‘I haven’t seen a lawyer yet. I suppose that takes place after the funeral.’
‘It’s not easy,’ she said. ‘Even with money, although money helps. When your father and I split up I felt a certain relief. And of course it wasn’t a sudden decision. We’d been back and forth for years. And we weren’t happy. Were you happy, would you say?’ Again she did not wait for an answer. ‘Happy enough, I suppose. And we’d always looked after you. A charmed life, really.’
‘Yes, I was lucky.’
‘Yet when the relief wore off I felt rather exposed. That’s why I went away so much. It took courage, I can tell you, but I managed it. I met new people, although I never got to know them. That was how I met Judy, the girl I share with. I call her a girl but we’re really two old women. When I look at her I see myself, and I don’t like it. Oh, we get on all right, I suppose, but I can’t help feeling that women aren’t meant to live together. But what can I do? I’m no good on my own; I need company. You’re not like me. You were always happy enough on your own, even as a little girl. Of course you’ll feel it now. I should marry again, if you get the chance. Even today, in this liberated age, married women have more prestige. Or you could always take a lodger.’
The Rules of Engagement Page 9