by Angela Huth
So here I sit. Most peculiar, being here in quite a different situation from normal. My instinct is to go and find a duster. But Mrs. G has made me promise not to move. And it’s true, my head does ache quite badly still. But I’m not shaky on my feet any more. I’m on the road to recovery. It’s hard not to feel guilty, a little uneasy, switching from daily lady to guest, and I know it means not only extra work for Mrs. G, but also upsetting her normal routine. Still, she has managed to convince me she really wants me here, and I’m no trouble. I must make sure I’m as little nuisance as possible, and I might as well make the best of this recuperation time. I know I’m the luckiest person in the world, benefiting from the kindness of the Grants.
I shall get up, now. Go and chose a book from the shelves: it’s like a library, there are so many. And I shan’t think about going home. That’s something I don’t want to think about at all. I dread it, what with Gary being so unreliable with the truth. It’s my guess he hasn’t gone to Yarmouth, just wants to calm me down for a while.
ISABEL
I hope very much I’ve managed to convince Gwen how pleased we are to have her here, how she’s no trouble at all, and how she’s got to stay until she’s completely better. The truth is, and I wouldn’t admit this to anyone in the world, it’s a bloody nightmare.
This is for several mean, uncharitable … despicable reasons.
It means I have now to do a certain amount of housework, which I loathe more than anything in the world and am very bad at. I ironed one of Dan’s shirts yesterday. The result had me crying with rage at my own incompetence. I have to spend more time on petty journeys out – going to the laundry and the cleaners – to relieve myself of such chores. I have to cook Gwen a simple but proper lunch: she needs feeding for the return of her strength. I have to lay trays. I have to spend at least an hour a day talking to her. I have to keep making sure she has everything she wants and is generally all right – which she always declares she is.
I’m deeply fond of Gwen. I respect her, admire her. I rely on her totally for relieving me of the burden of domestic life so that I can get on with my work. Her capacity for hard work, her constancy, her understanding of my need for time each day to be alone, are extraordinary. I know she loves the family, feels part of it. She joins in celebrating our small successes, and sympathises – but not overly – with our failures. She never grumbles – even about her hard hearted children – and she neither questions my life, nor regales me with stories of her own. She’s one of the old stiff-upper lip brigade whose self-containment and ability to glean the best from her quiet existence are extraordinary. The idea of her not being a part of our life is too awful to contemplate. Dan and I would never not have insisted she came here. We wanted her. We want her.
So it’s not Gwen that’s driving me mad: you could not hope for a more perfect invalid, and her gratitude for my feeble attempts at Florence Nightingale is touching. No: it’s simply that having another person in the house, by day, means goodbye to the routine I so rely upon. Bert was different. He left early each morning, never appeared till the evening. Gwen is a presence. I can never be unaware of her, quiet though she is in her room. In the most vile depths of my heart I resent that presence: it casts a shadow over normality. I sit down, an hour late by the time I’ve got things organised after breakfast, and start on one of the orders that’s already overdue. Two hours fly by and I’m interrupted by the maddening thought of what I should be doing in order to have a cottage pie by one o clock. I’m enraged by something that’s no one fault.
Bad temper rises. I can feel it, a physical wave, engulfing. I sweep aside threads and glue and the pile of beads I haven’t had time to stick on the be-ribbonned mould, and stomp downstairs. I bash my fury into the mince. The scraper snarls over the potatoes. What am I bloody well doing, here in the kitchen in the midday sun, when I could be upstairs at my masks?
I hate myself for such thoughts, such uncharitable rages. I tell myself this is all just a temporary thing, not long. The sooner Gwen recovers the sooner we can all get back to normal. And meantime her delight in the spare room is touching. Yesterday she asked if I could find her a few yards of the toile de jouille. She wants to make curtains for her own bedroom.
She’s much better – suddenly in the last two days. Her dressings are off, though one eye is still a terrifying red, and her bruises have moved into the lurid stage of ghastly greens and yellows. Today she insisted on coming down for lunch (relief!) though that meant I had to share the cottage pie: I couldn’t sit there watching her while she admonished me for only eating half an avocado. She said she’d like to clean the silver this afternoon: she’d feel better back at the kitchen table doing something useful. She didn’t have to press me very hard to agree. She also said she’d be fine to go home on Friday – two more days. I insisted she stay the weekend. The argument wasn’t resolved.
My loathsome seething left me drained and weary. After lunch I came up here to the studio, but there was no hope of work. I turned on Radio 3 and listened to a Haydn string quartet, and thought about Bert. What on earth can he be doing in Norfolk? He left in his teens: can’t be many friends still around. I rather miss him. I liked him coming back every evening, sometimes before Dan, pouring me a glass of wine, standing talking while I chopped things. And he’s so good with Sylvie. He bought her a really expensive notebook for her collection of words: she was so pleased, especially when she opened it to find he’d filled the first page with suggestions, none of which she knew. And it was lovely to hear him and Dan banging on about their usual things, scoring off each other, laughing. Yes, I definitely miss him.
I then thought of Carlotta. I hadn’t rung her for ages: she didn’t know about the whole Gwen saga. As usual, when I’m not in touch with her for a while, l feel guilty. I don’t know why. It’s unreasonable to feel guilty about not much communication between friends – we all understand about the busyness of each others’ lives. But for all Carlotta’s bravado I know she’s ultimately a bit sad, and sometimes lonely, and likes to speak, if not to come round, at least twice a week. I must overcome my reluctance and telephone her.
I must. I will.
But right now I’m going to ring Bert. Not a word from him. I want to know what he’s up to, how he is, what he’s doing.
SYLVIE
This afternoon I took a tray of tea up to Gwen with four ginger biscuits which I know she likes. Mama had taken lots of trouble making it look nice, with the best china and everything. I don’t know why she takes quite so much trouble when she’s got so many other things to do. I wouldn’t.
Anyway, Gwen was sitting in the armchair by the window looking much better now the bandages are off, though she’s still a horrible colour and her red eye is really spooky. She seemed pleased to see me and said she wasn’t used to being waited on like this, and it was all very strange. I asked her if she’d had any nightmares about the mugging. She said she hadn’t, yet, but wouldn’t be surprised if they attacked her soon.
I sat on the floor and ate two of the biscuits, and we got to talking. I don’t know why – it just came into my head – I asked her if she’d had any boyfriends when she was young. She said just the one, Barry, in Blackpool on holiday. When I asked what they used to do, she said they mostly sat on a bench eating fish and chips or ice cream, looking at the sea. They specially liked it in the evening when the sun was going down. I expect it was very nosey of me, but I asked her if she was in love with Barry (Elli says she’s in love with a boy called Rick who she met skating but she didn’t tell me exactly how it felt. Elli says she thinks her mother is in love all the time, with different men). I thought Gwen might be able to tell me exactly what ‘in love’ was, if she could remember. She said she could remember all right, and she turned her spooky eye to look out of the window, though I had the impression she wasn’t seeing the garden, but Barry in Blackpool. She said it made the whole world unrecognisable. Ordinary things glittered, she said. One morning after she’d come home she
went to fetch in the milk bottles and the dew on them had turned to diamonds because Barry existed. I didn’t think that sounded very exciting – I mean, dew melts – but I didn’t say anything. She said when his letters arrived her heart beat so fast and her eyes were so blurry that she was hard put to read what he said. And when she did – here she gave a small sigh – they weren’t quite the letters she was hoping for. Letter writing was not one of Barry’s strong points, but between the rather disappointing lines she could tell that he loved her and felt the same as her. He always finished up by saying all the love in the world to you, my dearest Gwen.
So why didn’t you and Barry get married? I asked then, because she didn’t seem to mind talking about him, even though she was no good at explaining ‘in love’. She gave a bigger sigh than the last one and said it all came to an end when he went to Canada.
I decided she wouldn’t mind just one more question. So why didn’t she marry someone else?
It’s all a question, young lady, of finding the right man, she said. I found no others, she added, after ages. Barry was the only right man for me. But I did find a second best, and married him mostly for security and children. We got on all right, but no one would say it was a love match. As for the children…well. They haven’t turned out quite as I imagined. But still, I count myself lucky, she said, in many ways.
She seemed a bit tired, then, or down or something. I took her tray and said I was very sorry about Barry. I don’t know if she heard me.
What I can’t imagine is what her life is like when she’s not here in our house. But I’d never dare ask her that.
CARLOTTA
Zero spirits at the moment. I’ve been going out a lot with friends who are friends but not great friends: all rather pointless and I’m suffering too many late nights. It’s been hell at work. Everyone complaining, Susan announcing she’s pregnant and has to leave shortly – I’ll never find such a good secretary again. Long meetings have lost their charm and the whole hassle of actually getting to the office every day has become almost unbearable. ‘Why do I do it?’ I ask myself. I suppose, if I didn’t, I’d be bored out of my mind. At least I know that I’m making some considerable contribution to a very large firm, and the money’s nice. My bonus last year was fantastic. But I think I’m becoming disillusioned. I’m no longer spurred by intense ambition. I often think I wish I’d never got caught up in this whole career business.
The only thing I’m enjoying at the moment is doing Bert’s house. I think it’s really pretty good. He should be pleased. I haven’t bothered him at all with problems. I’ve taken various rather serious decisions myself. But there’s one thing I really must speak to him about – that is, his vile old chair. I long to throw it out, it’d be ridiculous in the new rather minimalist look I’ve gone for. But he has some daft sentimental attachment to it, and I know that to abandon it without consulting him could be disastrous. So … I must ring him, reluctant though I am.
The answerphone was on at the Grants. I decided to try Dan at the office. His secretary, perhaps, could give me Bert’s mobile number … though I wouldn’t mind a word with Dan. I haven’t spoken to him or Isabel for over a week. What’s up with them?
I picked up the telephone. The thought crossed my mind that if Dan and I hadn’t experienced two minutes of nefarious passionate kissing, then such a call would mean absolutely nothing and I’d have no feelings of trepidation or anything else. As it is, I feel guilt. It feels very odd, knowing he and I are bound by a secret moment. I still sometimes wish…we’d…
I was put straight through to Dan. He apologised on Isabel’s behalf and his own for not having rung for so long, but explained about poor Gwen. And said Bert had gone off to Norfolk in search of his past, and no one had heard a word from him. ‘Bugger Bert,’ I thought. ‘He could have left his number with his interior decorator. Men just don’t think.’
Dan chatted on for a while – plainly it wasn’t a very busy morning at the office. Then he suddenly said he was still worrying about my powers of secrecy, and was I absolutely trustworthy? That made me pretty cross. I reminded him I’d given my word and we should leave it at that. He was slightly contrite, then. Said he didn’t doubt me, but he supposed that due to his conscience he couldn’t resist checking up. Then he said the best thing would be if we both forgot about that evening completely, as soon as possible.
I agreed.
Actually, I added that I had forgotten (not true). It was he who had reminded me, I said.
He ended by suggesting I came round at the weekend. I said I’d think about it. There’s something of an old woman in Dan. I’m not sure starry-eyed Isabel has ever noticed.
Having got the news from him, there was no need to ring her. Oddly, I didn’t feel like it anyway, though in my heart I missed her.
Instead, I rang Bert. It was nine thirty. It hadn’t occurred to me he wouldn’t be up. But, sleepily, he explained he was in a four poster bed. Alone. Scarcely awake.
‘What on earth are you doing in a four poster bed in Norfolk?’ I asked.
As I did so I felt a surge of unease. People aren’t usually in four poster double beds by themselves. He was as capable of lying as the rest of us. God knows why, but I didn’t fancy his being with anyone else.
He laughed, more wakeful.
‘All alone, I can assure you,’ he said, and I believed him.
Evidently he was staying in some very expensive hotel, eating well, re-visiting scenes of his childhood, having ‘various thoughts.’ About what, he wouldn’t say. So I asked him about the chair. He said at all costs it must not be thrown out as it would come in useful one day.
‘What day?’ I snapped.
By now his air of mystery was unnerving me further.
‘Well, I’m making possible plans, coming to various conclusions,’ he said. But, again, he wouldn’t be drawn.
Then just as I thought the rather edgy conversation would come to an end, it changed key. I can’t quite remember how, or exactly what we said, but it was all rather silly. He made me laugh describing some London woman he’d met in the baker: her braying voice and Gucci shoes.
‘Didn’t used to have those sort of people in the village,’ he said.
I forced myself not to ask him when he was coming back to London, and he didn’t enlighten me. So – thinking I should be the one to finish the conversation – I said I’d let him know when the house was absolutely finished, and if ever he came back from Norfolk I could show him round. He laughed.
‘I look forward to that,’ he said. ‘I must say I do rather look forward to another view…’
In the crystalline pause between us I knew just what he meant.
And to my huge surprise the sensation that now overwhelmed me was one of sheer lust. Also, I suddenly liked Bert very much. His odd charm had come zooming over the telephone. It occurred to me I no longer wanted him just as a friend, as a useful man. His admitting he’d obviously liked ‘the view’ caused some odd and unexpected change. It made me realise I fancied him like anything – or at least I did in this brief long-distance moment. Our goodbye was rather smudged with laughter. Perhaps he felt the same way. I’d have to go carefully…
Mind filled with possibilities, the day improved.
DAN
Isabel’s being marvellous with Gwen. I think and hope it isn’t interrupting her work too much. She says it’s all fine, but she seems a bit distrait. Still, it won’t be for much longer.
As for my work … I’ve suddenly almost given up – on Rejection, at least. For a while I tried to convince myself it was because I couldn’t find the right title. Not usually a problem. But now I know it’s not that. The fact is, it’s simply not working and there’s not much point in struggling on with Act Two, because the play is never going to be produced. That’s a tough thing to tell oneself, but I know it’s the truth. I keep assuring Isabel it’s under way, now, and I’m happy. But I’m miserable. It’ll be the first time I’ve ever given up before the end.<
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So … I sit here. In my study. At my desk. Swing from right to left, left to right, in my comfortable old swinging chair. I know every note of the groaning song it sings when I move. I look out of the window. The pattern of leaves that straggles across it is just beginning to turn. Evenings are getting cooler. My best time to write, September till Christmas.
And I’ve nothing to write.
‘Why,’ I ask myself, ‘do I keep writing?’
It would be so much easier to give up, acknowledge that though it was a compulsion, I was no good at it. Well, perhaps that’s going too far. In all honesty I’m quite good, but just not good enough. My Oxford play was an inspired moment and, after all, undergraduate stuff: easier, among friends, especially those who want parts, to win praise. Pity it made me so vain. Pity its success encouraged me to keep trying. In a way I can laugh at myself. I’m simply one of those millions of people who fancy the idea of being a writer, and spend a great deal of their time and energy producing stuff that’s no good. Perhaps the hardest thing is to realise one’s own limited talent, the fact that however hard you try you’re never going to achieve whatever it is that’s suddenly recognisable, desirable. And just like those other writers and painters who put painter or writer on their passports, I’m reluctant to be defeated. I’ll go on hiding from myself the fact that I haven’t actually got what it takes. Is this masochism? No: because I enjoy the whole process so much. So maybe it doesn’t matter that none of the huge amount of work piled in my cupboard will ever be produced.
Except, it does. It’s a constant sadness.
The act of writing, I think I believe, is when you push aside the kind of daily thought we all have to live with, and allow something else to happen. There’s no denying that’s a process of extreme excitement. The idea that you’re trying to produce something that, as Conrad said, will make people hear, make them feel, above all make them see – is satisfying like nothing else. The fact that you’re not capable of achieving that doesn’t make any difference to the pleasure of trying.