He was by this time nearing the end of New King’s Road, entering the suburban—or should it now be urban?—heartland. He admired the straight abrupt little streets, with the strange Greek-sounding names—Elthiron, Guion—and the stucco-fronted cottages, now home, no doubt, to the relatively rich and famous. He heard sounds of furious activity from a school playground and looked at his watch: twelve noon. He would go on to Putney Bridge, he decided, and then take a cab home. The sounds from the playground dispersed, and suddenly he was in the midst of children, streaming along to the bus stop, warm, impervious to the chilly air, excited, shrieking. End of term, he supposed. How strong they were! They looked mythical in their confidence, a future race of giants. How would life deal with them? Their energies made him feel tired, or maybe the walk had tired him. Munster Road. Why name this road in Fulham after a town in Germany? Again, and unbidden, there rose in his mind an image of khaki uniforms in the smoky light of late afternoon, the warrior’s return to army quarters, and the blonde child dodging her father’s hand …
He found a café, sat down gratefully, and ordered coffee and a ham sandwich. The ham came in half a baguette and was very good, as was the coffee. Through the misty window he contemplated the houses which had initially seemed so mysterious to him: now they felt overwhelmingly familiar, as if he had spent half a lifetime in this place. He sat for perhaps forty minutes, then, as the café began to fill up, got to his feet, and went out to look for a taxi. By the time he got home it was nearly three, and he was in need of a rest.
Sleep claimed him swiftly, and just as swiftly relinquished him. In his first conscious moments he heard the sound of the doorbell, and sat up, quite fully alert. Smoothing down his hair, he crept stealthily into the hall and stood for a moment, listening. A murmur of conversation alerted him to the fact that this was probably a harmless invasion, Hipwood with a parcel perhaps, carol singers, or some such. With a sigh of relief he opened the door to face Louise, in a smart black coat, accompanied by a child of about six.
‘Louise!’ he exclaimed. ‘But it’s not Sunday!’ This was ridiculous: she never came on a Sunday. Nobody came on a Sunday. Sunday was for telephone calls.
‘Hallo, George, dear,’ she said. ‘I know we’re unexpected. I didn’t tell you I was coming because I didn’t know myself until this morning. Sarah’s got the flu, so grandma’s holding the fort. And Stuart had a dentist’s appointment. This is Stuart, by the way. Philip’s boy.’
Relief made him exuberant. ‘Come in, come in! What a pleasant surprise! Dentist, eh? Poor fellow. Nothing wrong, I hope?’ He bent down to the child, who stared back at him impassively. ‘Would you like a drink, or something? I’ve got some Bovril somewhere. Would you like that?’
‘I don’t give a bugger,’ said the child.
‘Stuart!’ warned Louise. ‘The school,’ she mouthed at Bland. ‘Stuart’s picked up some very silly words, I’m afraid,’ she added in her normal voice. ‘Sensible people don’t use words like that.’
‘Dad does.’
‘Well, he shouldn’t! We shall have to tell him off, shan’t we?’
‘What about this Bovril?’
‘I think he’d rather have a cup of tea. They drink a lot of tea, though I’m sure it can’t be good for them. Would you like a cup of tea, Stuart?’
‘Yeah.’
‘It’s all right, dear. I’ll make it if you like.’
‘No, no, you sit down. I’ll do it. And I’ve got a rather good cake. From Fortnum’s. Would you like that, Stuart?’
The child considered, then nodded. Louise was already removing her coat. Suddenly the flat seemed full of a not unwelcome animation. Lifting his cake from the tin he reflected that it would not be wasted after all. The thought gave him a disproportionate pleasure.
In the sitting-room Stuart perched moodily, swinging his legs. Not an attractive child, Bland thought. Louise, on the other hand, was looking her best, her grandmotherly rôle giving her cheeks a faint flush, her excellent legs covered in fine dark stockings. His Hermès scarf was laid carefully on the back of a chair. She had time to think of that, he noted gratefully. He did not doubt that it was kept in a drawer from one year’s end to the next. It was for her placid appreciation of his thoughts and gestures that he loved her.
The boy, pacified with cake, had stopped swinging his legs. Louise ate daintily. Another thing he loved about her: there had never been any nonsense about dieting, or refusing the good things of life. They both enjoyed them too much, had too much for which to be grateful. They were alike in that way, as in so many others.
‘Can I have the telly on?’ said Stuart, tea over.
‘No, you can’t. You can look at this book if you like. Look at the pictures. But be very careful: those pictures are precious.’
He handed him the stories of Hans Andersen, with the Arthur Rackham illustrations. He had found the book in a second-hand shop in Paddington, and had marvelled that it had escaped unnoticed. The owner had asked a modest price. Bland had wondered if he knew how much the book was worth. He had salved his conscience by paying something over the asking price, and had sped home with his treasure safely hidden in his briefcase. He felt it to be in the nature of an heirloom, something retrievable from his sorry childhood, an act of loyalty to his largely unloved father. When he had opened it, in the flat, he had been moved. He had been unable to linger long over it. The emotions it had brought forth were still too raw.
‘You can read the stories, if you like,’ he said.
‘They’re about fairies,’ said the boy uncertainly.
‘They’re about children, like yourself. Do you like the pictures?’
‘Yeah. Yeah, I do. Can I keep it?’
‘You can’t keep that one, but I’ll tell you what I’ll do. I’ll try to find you one of your own.’ He had in fact seen a copy, at a vast price, in a shop in Sackville Street. He would telephone as soon as they had gone, and ask them to post it direct to Stuart. There need be no inscription. He did not think the occasion warranted any sentiment. ‘You’ll get it through the post. It will be a Christmas present. Will that do?’
‘What do you say, Stuart?’
‘Thanks.’ He was, Bland could see, reluctant to tear himself away from the strange, hypnotic, almost frightening images.
‘I’ll write down Philip’s address and telephone number,’ said Louise. ‘Perhaps you’ll give me a ring later, if you’ve a minute.’
‘How long are you staying?’
‘Not long, dear. All being well I could be home by tomorrow evening. I hate being away from home now, don’t you? I love my home, although I didn’t like the house when I first saw it. Well, we ought to be going. Stuart, do you want to …?’
‘Okay.’
‘I’ll show him where it is. Then I think we might treat ourselves to a taxi. All the way to Clapham! What do you think of that, Stuart?’
Her guilelessness was infectious. Even Stuart, who probably took a taxi to school when his mother’s car was out of commission, smiled. There was something protective in the smile. Louise was a woman who invited protection, all the more so since she was not obviously in need of it.
‘I’ll ring,’ he said, kissing her.
‘Yes, do, dear.’ She hesitated. ‘I enjoyed meeting that Mrs Lydiard,’ she said. ‘And that friend of yours.’
He was startled. ‘Katy Gibb? She’s no particular friend of mine. In fact she’s not a friend at all. She’s staying in the flat opposite. She’ll be gone soon, I dare say.’
A very slight look of reserve crossed Louise’s face and vanished. ‘I found her rather tiresome,’ she said.
‘Oh, she is.’ But once again he was weakened by a sense of pity.
When they were gone, in a flurry of scarves and instructions, he washed up the cups, then put the book away. He did not open it; he felt sure that he would find a sticky thumb print on one of the pages. He would look for another copy, not only for Stuart but for himself, a private copy, to be kept safe, f
ar from depredations. He ascribed to the book feelings which it could not possess, which were in fact his own. He telephoned the shop in Sackville Street, gave his instructions, and asked them to find him another copy. ‘As soon as you can,’ he said. ‘I’m not worried about the price.’
He left the door on the latch and went down to thank Hipwood for getting Louise’s taxi. A favour of this sort always necessitated a brief conversation: it was Hipwood’s due. They discussed Christmas. ‘I shall probably be away,’ said Bland. ‘But I’ll let you know in good time. And of course I’ll see you before I go.’ This meant that an offering of a pecuniary nature would be handed over. Hipwood was on his dignity. ‘And of course I’ll keep an eye on things, sir. Nothing much gets past me, you know.’
‘We are all in your debt, Mr Hipwood,’ said Bland, as he always did on these occasions.
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Hipwood gravely.
He reached his door without mishap, but as he was about to close it the door of the Dunlops’ flat opened to reveal Katy Gibb, dressed in jeans and a red sweater, her feet bare.
‘Hallo, hallo,’ he said, his voice breezy. Once again the actual sight of her affected him with prickly exasperation. ‘How are you today?’
She ignored this and remained leaning in the doorway. After a few seconds she unwound herself, a sensuous movement, he noted, and one which showed off her figure to its best advantage.
‘Aren’t you going to ask me in?’ she said.
‘Well, I am rather busy,’ he countered, his heart sinking. ‘I’ve got some rather important letters to write.’ All his excuses sounded false to him, as indeed they were.
‘I would have come across earlier,’ she said. ‘Only I saw that friend of yours going in.’
‘Your friend’ would have been more polite, he thought, and then remembered that Louise had used the same words. To each antagonist the other had become ‘that friend of yours’. On the other hand, why refer to her at all? And why had she seen Louise entering his flat? Did she spend her entire life watching and waiting? Why could she not go out like other people? He doubted whether she had voluntarily left the flat since the day of her arrival. Yet she did not have the pallor that characterised those kept at home through illness or disability. She looked healthy, her cheeks flushed, although he noticed a small sore blooming at the corner of her mouth that had not been there before.
‘Are you eating properly?’ he said sharply.
‘Oh, I don’t eat much in the daytime. Most people eat too much anyway.’
‘What are you eating?’
‘There’s masses of tins. Stuff in the freezer. Don’t worry, I won’t starve.’
‘Don’t you think that’s a little irresponsible? Those tins belong to the Dunlops.’
‘You are funny, George. If those people came to my door I’d let them have everything I possessed. That’s what friends are for. But perhaps I’m just like that. If the Dunlops want to visit me they can take what they like. I won’t start counting.’
‘And you think they might visit you? In California? You’d better come in, by the way.’
‘Sure.’
‘But I thought you wanted to stay here? And start your business.’ It was abundantly clear that neither of them believed any longer in this hypothetical business, but he thought it only polite to pretend that he took her seriously. Besides, he was interested. It was like a detective story, or a novel by Henry James. Fate had brought this enigma to his door, and he could not easily dismiss it. In any event, he reminded himself, he had nothing better to do.
‘I want to talk to you about that,’ she said, installing herself in the armchair so recently vacated by Louise. ‘I need some advice. A man’s advice. Someone who knows the business world.’
‘I don’t know anything about the business world,’ he said. ‘I was in personnel.’
‘Oh, PR.’
‘Not exactly.’ He was deeply annoyed. ‘I was responsible for hundreds of people, and not only in their working lives but sometimes out of working hours as well. I arranged their appointment, or their transfer, or their medical retirement, or their disability allowance, whatever was necessary. I’ve worked closely with people throughout my career.’
‘Excuse me,’ she said. ‘You forget I know a bit about people too. I’ve been working with an expert. With the expert, you might say. But I suppose you’re not quite in touch any longer.’
She arranged herself in her chair, her right ankle supported on her left knee, her plump crotch closely outlined by what appeared to be a newish pair of jeans, unlike the ones in which she had presented herself on the day of her arrival. These were clean, and much tighter. Sharon’s again, he supposed, but this now seemed to be taken for granted.
‘Young people like you wouldn’t understand how I gave my life to that company, and was glad to! I suppose you find it strange that I turned up every morning at the same place and did my job for more years than you’ve probably spent in this world. Could you do that?’
‘I doubt it,’ she said. ‘I’m more the creative type.’
‘So there’s no point in trying to make you see how satisfying it is to stick at one thing, to work at it, rather than go around looking for favours.’ This seemed to him unnecessarily severe. He hurried on, hoping that she had not taken offence. He seemed to have summoned up, rather against his will, an idyllic picture of a lost paradise, in which he saw himself eternally walking to the office on a sunny morning, his briefcase in one hand, his neatly rolled umbrella in the other. How he had enjoyed these gentlemanly appointments! And when he arrived, always on time, his secretary was ready for him with a cup of coffee and his opened letters. He had obeyed the rules, had used no stationery for his own correspondence, had made no unnecessary telephone calls. There must still be some of his own headed paper in the top drawer of that big desk which he had relinquished so mournfully. It would be used for scrap, of course. By somebody else, his successor, whom he thought might do the job well, but not as meticulously, as painstakingly, as he had done it for thirty years. Thirty years! He had been a model employee, and he was not ashamed of the fact, although he had few extravagant skills to show for it. Life now seemed to be infinitely more complex than life in the office.
But how to explain to this chit of a girl, with her nonsensical talk, the charm of a regular job, and a job of some responsibility, interviewing nervous young men (but they had become more brash as time went on), explaining retirement entitlements to men as old as himself, with whom he deeply sympathised, and whom he treated more gently than the hearty sweating young applicants. And the incidental charms had not been negligible, saying to this one go, and he goeth, sending that one to do the photocopying … And always the sterling friendship of Putnam in the background, Putnam who viewed the whole thing with a more ironic eye, including his own assiduity, but who never confessed, in an unguarded moment, that he considered the whole enterprise faintly ridiculous. That was a mark of respect, he knew. Putnam, for whatever reason, had respected him. That was what had made their friendship so precious.
But was it ridiculous, he thought? Or rather, was I ridiculous? It hardly mattered when Putnam was there. The contrast between then and now, between matters of some concern and this ridiculous, this truly ridiculous, conversation, was almost too painful for him. Briefly, he shut his eyes.
‘I feel sorry for your generation, really,’ said Katy Gibb. ‘The war must have ruined your chances.’
‘I was a child in the war,’ he said stiffly. ‘It is not exactly a burning memory. Besides, I didn’t live in London then. Reading was pretty quiet.’
‘Well, of course, I wasn’t born,’ she said, spreading out her hands in a pretty gesture.
‘I feel sorry for you, then. You missed the sixties. You just inherited the fall-out, without having any of the fun.’
He remembered himself and Louise, marvelling at the pageant of the King’s Road in those far-off days—and they too were sunny in his memory. He remembered not
hing of the politics of the time, only those sunny Saturday afternoons, spent strolling at their ease, until it was time to go home and probably to bed. Then Kennedy had been shot, and shortly after she had married, a late marriage, when he had had in the back of his mind the idea that the danger was past, that she would not now leave him, but that there was no need to marry her himself. People did not get married in the sixties: he had thought that this suited them both. But Louise was more practical. Sauntering through the crowds on sunny weekend afternoons had not satisfied her as it had satisfied him. She had found this man, this Denis Arnold, and she had imperturbably decided to marry him, although he was deeply unattractive and not even very pleasant. But he was a doctor, albeit recently retired, and perhaps a little innocent snobbery had entered the calculation. She was tired of working: she wanted a child. Bland had known this, but had not known how great was her need. His ignorance was genuine: afterwards he had reasoned that most men were the same, shying away fastidiously from a woman’s needs and functions. He had been desolate, bewildered, when she had removed herself; he had also been on his dignity. He had not got in touch with her until he heard of her husband’s death. He had paid his visit of condolence, had seen the child, whom he could never have accepted as one of his own. That had been a significant reaction. It was at first pity which led him to telephone her, and shortly afterwards the Sunday calls had become a matter of routine. Now when they met there might have been no intervening marriage, nothing to spoil their almost childlike friendship. It had become a sort of marriage in its own right.
He supposed that this invasion of his thoughts by the past was one of the symptoms of ageing. There had been the incident of this morning, the memory of his mother, so vivid, so uncomfortable. Otherwise, he thought, age had spared him most of its indignities. He tired easily, but he could always rest. That was one of the blessings, he supposed: age bestowing the time to rest, along with the aching bones and the suddenly drooping eyelids. He found that talk tired him more than activity: this morning’s walk, for example, had merely left him with a rather pleasant desire to sit and listen to some music, whereas this girl’s presence irritated him to the point of madness. In fact he could hardly bear to pay her any attention, seated as she was in that immodest manner in Louise’s chair, and apparently prepared to stay until she judged that he had listened with due care to her propositions.
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