If Edmund had appeared before me at that moment I should have sent him away, as I had never been able to do. I should have consigned him to whatever complexities of feeling he might have entertained when sitting in Betsy’s flat after the funeral of an old friend. Indeed the emotions aroused by a funeral might have had their effect. His own mother had recently died; he might have been touched by a sense of mortality. If he thought of me it would have been with the same unwelcome aura. But I was convinced that he no longer thought of me, nor was I able to derive any pride from the way I had avoided tedious discussion. What reasons could I have given for ending the affair? None that he had not known, and ignored. My own actions now appeared to me severely delimited, as if a natural conclusion had been agreed by both of us. He would have had a brief nod of recognition at the elegance of my gesture in leaving the key, and then have given the matter no further thought.
‘You will let me know if there’s anything you want?’ Betsy said. ‘I mean, you must be pretty worn out. Let me know if you don’t feel like shopping . . .’
‘I’m not an invalid,’ I said.
‘Of course you’re not. But I know how these things take their toll. Are you eating properly? I’d suggest lunch, only I’ve got to be back for the central heating man. You probably noted how cold it was in there.’
I sent her on her way, knowing that that was what she wanted. I had a feeling that the central heating man had been an excuse. Yet when I turned at the end of the street I saw that she had done the same. As we both waved, with unmistakable yet surprising fervour, I saw in that precise moment that we were still friends, and that it was precisely our friendship, odd though it was, that would save us both.
10
SEATED IN THE RESTAURANT AT PETER JONES, AFTER A fruitless morning spent comparing prices and disputing the advantages of this sofa over that, and ending up defeated by the spirit of the place, which appeared to address itself to women who knew what they wanted, I saw that Betsy had accepted my invitation as if she were conferring a favour, whereas I had thought to do the same. I had a sense of obligation towards agreements which had been bred in me since childhood, and I knew that in a burst of fellow feeling I had suggested this excursion in an effort to make Betsy feel more comfortable in an uncomfortable world. Now I saw that I need not have troubled, for Betsy smilingly deflected my suggestions, which I urged on her as if I were her absent mother or some other elderly relative. It was I who selected the items I thought she needed, the chairs, the table, the lamps which she, still with a smile, admired but turned down, saying that she still had plenty of furniture in store and was in no hurry to replace it until someone was willing to advise her on this matter, or, alternatively, to take it away.
The restaurant did not restore my temper, since it was populated precisely by the sort of women I was coming to resemble. I wondered why we had not gone to a place frequented by men, in Covent Garden, say, until I reflected that we might not be very welcome or feel at ease there. Even in a feminist age the restaurant barrier is the last to fall. Kind waitresses, safe food seemed to be our lot, but at least no one pointed the finger of scorn, which was a considerable comfort when one had been reduced to the sexless protection afforded by a department store at twelve noon on a weekday morning, when all the serious people were at their work, speaking to each other in the kind of code employed by colleagues, enjoying a more natural form of protection than ours, although we had the freedom of our own decisions. This freedom only Betsy seemed disposed to exert as she gazed out of the window, paying little attention to her surroundings, as if marking a distance between herself and the other women, whom, as someone with a full timetable, she was inclined to pity. For this was her day off, and she was keeping me company, since her day off, in a sense, was time of no consequence, in which nothing much would happen, unlike the days she spent in the Fairlie establishment which were filled with incident and matters for reflection.
It was more than a few weeks since I had seen her, and to my alarm she seemed fully integrated into their household. I could understand this: I had craved such closeness myself but had had the wisdom to remain on the sidelines. My sceptical temperament saddened me but perhaps gave me an outsider’s advantage. Betsy, however, would seek such closeness wherever she went and would no doubt persuade herself that she had found it, as she always had done. This seemed to me extremely dangerous, although I could see that this disposition was so entrenched that there must be some degree of satisfaction in indulging it. Besides, I was coming more and more to doubt my own judgement. Although I had behaved with a modicum of face-saving decency I did not care for where this had landed me. I was alone, without consolation, and growing more unwillingly independent by the day. Even I could see the advantages that Betsy now seemed to be enjoying, the chatter, the flux of family life, the more spacious vista than that afforded by her own cramped flat. And she had taken on some of that air of possession that is consciously or unconsciously enjoyed by those who have come into an endowment, either by inheritance or by association. She looked happily bemused, as if attending an entertainment that I had arranged for her. It was I who was disadvantaged now.
I was resolute in not asking her questions. Indeed what I most wanted was some sort of abstract discussion such as I craved and one I found extremely difficult to come by. Whether the constant evasiveness and jokiness were a particularly English feature I could not decide, but I did miss the sort of overheard remark I had so relished in Paris, the willingness to discuss first principles and to invest passion in one’s own arguments. For instance, I very much wanted to debate the matter of right and wrong, or whatever terms were now relevant, though Peter Jones was hardly an appropriate setting for this. Why is the Bible so unreliable on this matter, I wanted to know. We are told that the wicked flee where no man pursueth, and then, in another context, that they flourish like the green bay tree. It was only too easy to imagine them, having flourished, fleeing to the kind of resort—Capri, or Cannes— where they would be adequately catered for. This was contingent on my old obsession that time passed doing one’s duty was time wasted, or if not wasted, then not fully enjoyed, but who to discuss this with? Certainly not with Betsy, who could only recognize and embrace goodness, and whose acquaintance with evil was so rudimentary as to be useless as a guide. Even in circumstances of the utmost ambiguity, into which I was determined not to enquire, she would maintain a disastrous innocence, crediting everyone with superior and altruistic motives, herself included.
I could not help but notice an overall glossiness which made her stand out in this bourgeois setting, and something of that imperviousness to temperature which is the province of the happy and successful. The weather had declined into day-long cloud and mist and I was already shivering. Betsy, however, wore one of her Parisian suits and seemed not to feel the cold. Several women had appraised her as we had taken our seats, but had, presumably, been disarmed by her unassuming smile. For Betsy, with her excess of good will, was everybody’s friend, or was prepared to be. I thought that such obvious virtue, if not its own reward, was certainly its own armour, affording a protection available in all circumstances. Predators would not prevail, for their intentions would not be understood. She was destined to be rewarded by a man of equally spotless disposition, the legendary knight in shining armour in whom she no doubt firmly believed, despite what experience had taught her. And if this person did not exist she would invent one in his place, as she no doubt had done with Daniel. As for the further disillusionment when it came (and there was no doubt that it would come), she would have to rally as best she could. In that way she was no more protected than any other woman, perhaps less so. And I did not see that I had any part to play in that débâcle. I had my own sadness to contend with; my sympathy would be limited by that very fact. And if the reasons for that sadness remained undisclosed, so much the better. One’s dignity is a poor thing at the best of times. All the more reason to safeguard it from further attrition.
‘What do you do in this
job of yours?’ I asked. ‘I mean, what is there to do?’
‘It’s the lists, you see. Keeping them up to date.’
‘Lists?’
‘Lists of donors, actual and potential. There are so many other charities, all fighting for funding, that it’s important to get ahead of them. Fortunately Constance is well placed. She knows so many people. And she has the experience. Of course she does the actual asking.’
‘Begging.’
‘I don’t think it feels like begging if it’s in a good cause.’
‘And where do you do this?’
‘Well, there’s a proper office, with a secretary, on the third floor. I sit in a little room she calls her boudoir. Fortunately there’s masses of space.’
‘You make it sound like Versailles. I do know the house. It’s just a large house.’
Privately I was willing to concede that this was not a house like the houses most people lived in. Both Betsy and I had been brought up in houses of fairly generous proportions, but our instincts had remained suburban, as if fashioned by an older mind set. Besides, Betsy’s living quarters were reduced to the two floors above her father’s surgery, and thus of limited access. Now our homes were even more reduced, and our status had declined proportionately. The Fairlie establishment was palatial, in a prime position overlooking the river, and in the way of these things it conferred a certain splendour on its owners. And there was the mother’s house in Scotland, which might be sold, the house in Hampshire, and the house in the Alpilles to which they also had some kind of entitlement, although it belonged to friends who merely lent it to them for the children’s holidays. Even friends like these were not within everyone’s scope. I thought of the secretary on the third floor, which must be the storey with the dormer windows which I had admired when Digby and I first went there. Even then I was attracted to windows. Now my windows looked out on to an ordinary street and a garage, and although the flat was pleasant enough it was also tame. Betsy’s flat was even worse, a pit-stop for transients, overloaded with the furniture which she refused to replace. We had seen, or rather I had pointed out, some pleasant pieces which would have made it more habitable, but by now she was imprinted with the grandeur of the Fairlies’ place and had metaphorically thrown in her hand, as if anything that did not rise to their standards was not worth bothering about.
She would never move now, that was clear, as long as she had this adopted home. That was the position: she considered herself to have been adopted. Whereas I was perfectly free to move, and at that moment I could see the advantages in doing so. But that would mean breaking off all attachments, and I was not quite brave enough to do that. Though I knew remarkably few people, I could rely on the kindness of familiars, neighbours who had offered their condolences after Digby’s funeral, the caretaker, the tradesmen, and my particular friend, the dignified Indian who supplied my many newspapers. Though I longed for wider vistas and cleaner air I could not see myself in the country or even in a small town. There were possibilities in my present situation, as those neighbours were keen to remind me. I could visit exhibitions, the theatre, without worrying how to get home late at night. I had done none of this, but the possibilities were there should I choose to take advantage of them. Or I could take up some sort of study, a degree course at Birkbeck, or lectures at the City Literary Institute. I was free to do all or any of these things, and though I might not the choice was mine. The memory of those fictitious evening classes which had been my alibi clouded my mental horizon and might affect any reality I could hope to embrace. This was dangerous territory; such subterfuge, though no longer necessary, was something that troubled me. I was marked for life, whatever my own wishes in the matter. A stronger will than mine had ordained what had taken place, and although I had chosen to cancel it, it still had the power of a broken contract which had left me mentally as well as physically impoverished.
‘Do you go there every day?’ I said quickly, while signalling for the bill.
‘Most days, yes.’
‘Not the weekends, surely?’
‘Well, sometimes, if Constance has something for me to do I quite often help out in the house, or go to the shops, although of course there’s a housekeeper.’
‘You’re not a domestic, Betsy,’ I said, sincerely shocked.
‘I enjoy it. What else would I do? Besides they’re so nice. Constance says I’m such a help. And Edmund says she’s grateful to have more time to herself.’
‘When did he say this?’
‘He sometimes gives me a lift home.’ Her helpless smile, the unguarded look of reminiscence in her eyes, which she sought to disguise by looking out of the window, were eloquent in a way no words could convey. Nor were words needed to complete the picture. The picture was already complete.
I felt a sadness which had nothing to do with jealousy but was both more intimate and more universal. It was the same sadness I had felt when I had finally packed my books away, as if henceforth I should be excluded from their stories of trials endured and sometimes overcome. Endurance I knew about but I could see no victory at the end, merely an unwanted stasis. We were in the triumphalist 1980s, when it was almost indecent for a woman to be bereft and to yearn. I felt at one with all those people on the sidelines of life, forced to contemplate the successful manoeuvres in which others were engaged, obliged to listen politely and to refrain from comment. There were no surprises here: this situation had been adumbrated from the start. Indeed I felt as though I had almost willed it, though in fact I had always been an observer. Now, if I were not very careful, I should be called upon to observe another woman’s love affair, and worse, to hear every word I spoke to be an agent of compromise, as if I welcomed this development which estranged me even further from a role I had once occupied, as if I were something neutral and colourless and well-meaning that could be called upon for protection and approval.
Nothing was left of the tactician I had once been, offering manufactured excuses, getting away, as I now saw it, with murder. The sun had seemed to shine on my adventure, not only metaphorically but physically, as I sat in that garden that was now only a memory. It had been spring, summer, but now the sky was grey, the mornings dark. I was dominated by the pathetic fallacy; the declining year mirrored my situation. And all I could count on was the night, on which I had come to rely. I yearned for those night hours at low points during the day, went to bed earlier and earlier, making an unnecessary ritual of bathing, comforted myself with a tisane, listened respectfully to the news in an attempt to connect myself with the outside world, in much the same spirit as I read the newspapers in the morning, eager for facts which did not on the whole concern me much. My safety was assured for as long as I did nothing, behaved discreetly, kept my remarks anodyne. The reward for all this was sleep. If I were not careful I should dematerialize. In comparison with this prospect Paris seemed once more a viable alternative.
I saw Betsy looking at me with concern, and I rearranged my features into the sort of pleasant smile that was obviously required of me. Our positions had been reversed, as was all too plain, but she was too innocent to know the reasons for this. She must be kept in that state, if necessary at my expense, for I had been sufficiently imbued with the spirit of the times to believe in sisterly solidarity, although I knew this to be a fiction in the face of rivalry. But I had retired from this particular conflict, or been retired from it. I viewed my immense courage with astonishment, but in truth I was no fighter, and had always found my best protection to be my independence. Now I was not so sure, but to manage things differently was beyond my powers. I saw the logical outcome of my history to be a form of exile, both figurative and actually available if I had the further courage to put this into effect. And I need not confine myself to Paris; if I chose I could go anywhere, absent myself for good. On my honeymoon in Venice I had sat on the steps of the Redentore, and thought, ‘Is this all?’ This was not so much incapacity as a longing for further fullness, for completion. I was sufficiently cl
earsighted to know that I had experienced that completion only briefly, and that memory is no substitute for permanence. Now my place had been taken by another, whose blithe smile had reflected only confidence throughout her life and to whom I could not refuse a favourable outcome. That that was unlikely only added an extra poignancy to a situation which seemed to have come about at the behest of a dramatist of the old school. I was determined to behave well, for that was what I should be called upon to do. I no longer had any choice in this matter, and there was no one to blame.
‘Are you all right?’ I heard, as if from a distance.
‘Me? Fine.’
‘Only you’re so quiet, not like you somehow. Of course you’ve had a rough time.’ Her face twisted into a sympathy which was clearly genuine. ‘You need cheering up.’
I could not quarrel with that. ‘What do you suggest?’
‘Something new to wear, perhaps? I always think that helps. Let’s see what they’ve got here.’
‘I hardly think . . .’
‘While we’re here. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’
No, I was not in a hurry, was even averse to going home, to an afternoon that would end only when darkness fell. Meekly I followed a now masterful Betsy down the stairs, and with a sinking heart submitted my almost extinct will to that of another. There followed the hell of changing-rooms, as I tried on one unbecoming garment after another, standing obediently as a seamstress pinched a too large skirt tightly at my waist. In a last bid for freedom I almost shouted, ‘No, I’m sorry, I’ve changed my mind,’ and had time to regret my rudeness as a disgruntled assistant removed the offending skirt. ‘I’ve got plenty of clothes,’ I pleaded. ‘I really don’t need any more. Besides, I’m not going anywhere.’
‘That may be the problem,’ Betsy said. ‘You ought to find something to do. Mount a plan of attack.’
‘I’m actually rather tired,’ I said. ‘And it’s stuffy in here. Shall we go? We could walk a bit.’
The Rules of Engagement Page 12