The Radiant Way

by Margaret Drabble

  Esther, either because of her personality or because of her subjects (the quattrocento, Palladian architecture, the history of the early Italian Renaissance), attracts a much better-heeled class of student than Alix, students who like to spend their holidays in Florence or Siena or Perugia or Venice. Esther is indifferent to their class origins, indeed indifferent to her students as a mass together and rarely bothers to learn their names, although she occasionally takes an interest in an individual case. Esther is interested in her subject, and expected her students to be interested in it too. Esther’s professional acquaintance also includes a strange assortment of European intellectuals, not all of them art historians: one of these (to create another link in the circle) once consulted Liz professionally about his relationship with his temperamental stepdaughter, but Esther did not condone this link: she tended to argue that her own grasp of the norm was so weak that she would not see what distinguished the sick from the healthy. We are all very, very sick, and it does not matter much, is Esther’s line.

  But one cannot, really, wholly differentiate these three women. In their mid-forties, after more than half a lifetime of association, they share characteristics, impressions, memories, even speech patterns: they have a common stock of knowledge, they have entered, through one another, worlds that they would not otherwise have known. They have pooled their discoveries, have come back from outer regions with samples of leaf, twig, fruit, stone, have turned them over together. They share much. The barriers between them are, they think, quite low.

  As their professional worlds overlap, so do their diversions – or one, at least, of their diversions. They share, perhaps surprisingly, a love of walking, of the English countryside. This might have been expected from Alix, whose parents had patronized Youth Hostels long after their youth, and who like to boast of long pioneering rambles in the 1930s. But Esther too, essentially an indoor person, likes to walk. The countryside, she says defensively, is an aesthetic experience. She is knowledgeable about flowers, trees, even grasses. Liz, the most reluctant recruit to this wholesome pursuit, has become its most enthusiastic addict and of late tends to take upon herself the role of organizer.

  They have been on some good walks, in their time. Along the Dorset coast path, on the short nibbled turf, spotting ancient field patterns, rare yellow poppies, and hopefully identifying the Lulworth skipper. Along the Berkshire Downs, above Wantage, in a white milky-gold autumnal harvest haze. Through beech woods with bluebells in Sussex, through Norfolk mud, and, for a brave two days, along the Pennine Way. When they have not time to go further afield, they study the Ordnance Survey map of the Dorking and Reigate region, of Outer West London, and discover rural back ways, almost forgotten routes through neglected cow parsley, past the backs of allotments. They have walked the towpath at Barnes, have explored the Hackney marshes.

  They make an odd trio, to the eye of the observer. They refuse to dress seriously for their walking expeditions. Alix favours a pair of gym shoes, socks and a skirt: she does not like wearing trousers. Esther wears trousers, but they are not the right sort for walking in: velvet, loose silk, or striped cotton, with a smart little pair of somewhat indoor boots. Liz wears proper trousers, jeans or khaki land-girl’s trousers from Laurence Corner Army Surplus, but she rather spoils the effect by the ill-assorted sunhats, Indian headsquares, Liberty scarves and ski helmets with which she protects herself from the variable English weather, and by a pair of everlasting Dr Scholl’s clogs which ought to be unsuitable for long tramps but which, according to Liz, serve very well. Off they trudge, with a picnic, happily, once or twice a year. Happily, innocently.

  Alix has a string bag, bought in an Oxfam shop, in which she is allowed to carry the map. Sometimes they speculate on the number of miles the bag has walked. Like Liz’s clogs, it never perishes.

  Men are not usually invited. Charles is a sporting man, or was once a sporting man, but he is not a walker. Esther’s friends have rarely been seen out of doors, even by Esther. Brian has accompanied them once or twice, for Brian loves to walk, but the women tease him about his walking boots. ‘How can you lift your feet up, in those great things?’ they mockingly wonder. They refuse to let him carry the picnic in his rucksack. So Brian does not often go, although they sometimes invite him. Alix has a photograph, taken by Brian on one of these expeditions; it shows the three of them crouching under a hedge, in the roots of hawthorns, in driving rain, eating a wet sandwich. None of them is looking at the camera: they are looking in different directions, wetly, miserably. Liz has her back to Alix; Esther is sitting some way away staring at the ground. They are very fond of this dismal photograph: the essence of the English landscape, Esther declares. The essence of togetherness.

  But, more commonly, England being England, they meet indoors, and thus they meet, on Friday evening, the first Friday of 1980, in Esther Breuer’s flat in Ladbroke Grove. Ursula is not there: she is still up in Manchester for the vacation. Esther, Alix and Liz drink red wine and eat tomato and mozzarella, while Alix describes the New Year’s party at Garfield. They drink more red wine, and eat liver with haricot beans, while Liz tells them about the Japanese at the Metropole. They eat green salad, and Esther tells them about a foiled attempt to snatch her handbag as she was waiting for a bus on the Harrow Road. They then discuss the Harrow Road murderer (acclaimed by the press the Horror of Harrow Road) and the ethics of reporting murder trials and the wisdom of juries. Esther claims, not for the first time, to have no interest whatsoever in the Horror of Harrow Road. Alix recounts, not for the first time, her poignant story of the adult illiterate who was driven to declare his illiteracy and seek help when he was called for jury service and could not read the oath.

  The subject of Charles Headleand and his defection does not come up until they have finished with all these matters. But finally Liz, her feet tucked up under her on Esther’s Turkish-carpet-covered couch, introduces the theme. Smoking a cigarette (which is not like her) she declares herself perplexed (which is not like her). Esther and Alix are not much perplexed, now they have accepted the new situation, but naturally do not wish to appear rude in their lack of astonishment. So they listen in silence as Liz confesses that she had had no suspicion, had really not foreseen this development at all. It is brave of her to admit this, they think: they glance at one another, wondering which of them will take the initiative of response. It is Alix. She leaps in boldly.

  ‘But Liz,’ she said, ‘you hardly ever spend any real time with Charles, you’re both of you always working. And anyway, you said you wouldn’t go to New York when he asked you, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, that’s one of the things I keep thinking about,’ said Liz, knocking a little ash carefully into the small green Venetian glass ashtray on the floor. ‘I can’t remember now if he did ask me. Perhaps I just assumed we’d had a conversation that we never had at all.’

  ‘What did you think he said?’ asked Esther neutrally, genuinely curious, handing round a blue and white bowl of dried apricots.

  ‘I thought we’d had a conversation about whether or not I should go, and that I’d said I couldn’t leave various people in mid course, and that maybe in a year when Charles saw how things went in New York we’d reconsider. Anyway, I said, he might be back by then.’

  ‘That sounds perfectly plausible to me,’ said Alix.

  ‘Yes,’ said Liz, ‘it’s perfectly plausible. But did it happen? When I try to remember what Charles said, all I can remember is what I said. I don’t think Charles did any talking at all. In fact, it wasn’t a conversation, it was a monologue, with me telling him what I was planning to do. I did all the talking.’

  And they all three laughed, remembering other such non-conversations, and digressed for a while, recalling non-proposals of marriage, non-discussions of mortgages, non-agreements about which hotel to book for a holiday, before returning to the subject of Liz and Charles.

  ‘In fact,’ continued Liz, after this digression, helping herself to a couple of apricot
s, ‘in fact, if I’d said I wanted to go with him, or made any sign of assuming that I would go with him, he’d have had to tell me then, wouldn’t he, about Henrietta. It was me that made it possible for him not to say anything until he had to. And now I come to think of it, he did say something about selling the house. It seemed such a silly idea, I couldn’t think why he’d even thought of it. We’d be mad to sell the house, I told him so. He seemed to agree. But perhaps he just didn’t answer.’

  There was a slight pause. The room was small, warm, comfortable, intimate: a gas fire flickered, the lights were low, the red curtains were drawn against the night. They all thought of the high bright cream and white rooms of Harley Street.

  ‘Whose house is it?’ asked Alix, eventually. Liz sighed. She looked suddenly angry, exhausted, old.

  ‘It’s his, I suppose. I’ve never really thought about it much. I suppose it’s his.’

  Alix and Esther glanced at one another. Liz sighed again. Esther opened another bottle of wine.

  ‘We bought it,’ said Liz, eventually, ‘with Naomi’s parents’ money. And some that we borrowed. Charles borrowed money.’

  ‘But since then. . .’ Alix prompted.

  ‘Oh, since then, of course I’ve paid for things . . . yes, of course I have. Decorations, alterations, the roof, the boys’ bathroom. That kind of thing.’

  ‘There aren’t so many of you at home now,’ said Esther.

  ‘It’s a very big house,’ said Alix.

  Another silence fell, disturbed only by the muffled comforting hum of the Black and Decker of the quiet young man upstairs. Liz glared at her friends with some hostility, as they sat in judgement. Then she suddenly revived, sat up, pushed another cushion behind her back. ‘Selling the fucking house. That’s what he was getting at,’ she said. ‘So he can buy another house for Henrietta. What a fucking cheek. What am I supposed to do? Move to fucking Kentish Town?’

  Alix and Esther revived also. ‘Kentish Town is very nice,’ said Alix. ‘It’s wonderful,’ said Esther, ‘in Kentish Town.’

  They all laughed.

  ‘Kentish Town for me, I suppose,’ said Liz, ‘and they’ll be buying a house – where, do you think? Henrietta lives in Kensington. I ask you. Kensington.’

  ‘This is Kensington,’ said Esther. ‘North Kensington.’

  ‘Ha,’ said Liz.

  ‘Perhaps they’ll settle in New York,’ suggested Alix.

  ‘I can’t picture Henrietta in New York. New Yorkers are meant to be dynamic, aren’t they?’ Liz lit another cigarette.

  ‘I think it’s her forehead that’s so unsettling,’ said Alix, helpfully. And thus, for ten minutes or more, they settled amicably into abuse of Lady Henrietta, until Liz suddenly interrupted with, ‘But if we sold the house, we wouldn’t have a family house any more. There wouldn’t be a home for the boys.’

  Esther and Alix looked at one another again.

  ‘But,’ said Alix, ‘the boys aren’t boys. They are grown up.’

  ‘And what about my consulting room? What about my patients? How can I move to Kentish Town?’

  It was hard to tell whether or not, how much if at all, she was joking. Nor could they tell whether she was joking as she proceeded to outline further anxieties: about money, gossip columnists, pension schemes, life insurance or assurance (none of them was sure which was which), divorce settlements, sexual jealousy, alienation of children, shares in the marital home, the rightful ownership of the Albers and the fake ancestor. When Alix pointed out, in an attempt at consolation, that Liz was in command of a good income and well able to keep herself in comfort, Liz snapped in response, quite irritably, ‘Yes, yes, I know I’m not going to starve, exactly. But that’s not the point.’

  ‘Well, it’s partly the point,’ said Alix, with what was, from her, considerable aggression. Liz glanced at Esther for support, but Esther was shrewdly staring at her new potted palm.

  ‘Well,’ said Liz, after a short silence. ‘I know that neither of you ever liked Charles. You’re probably both delighted.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that,’ said Esther. ‘I rather like Harley Street. I’d be sorry not to be invited to Harley Street any more. And I think the Albers and the ancestor are definitely yours. Charles would have thrown the ancestor out, if you hadn’t stopped him. Definitely yours.’

  ‘Well,’ said Alix, robustly, ‘I am delighted. Yes, I am delighted. I think it’s a very good thing, and I bet you’ll think so too, in six months’ time. Or less. And I think it’s completely unnecessary for you to worry at all about money: In fact it would be ridiculous. That’s what I think.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Liz.

  ‘And now we’ve disposed of that,’ said Esther, ‘may I ask both your advice – is that grammatical, I wonder? should I say the advice of both of you? – about something really important? I may? You see that palm that Claudio gave me? I’m very worried about it. They’re tricky things, palms. Where do you think I should stand it? How often should I water it? Liz, you’re better with plants than Alix, tell me about palms. I’ve got to keep it alive. Claudio has already rung twice to see how it’s doing. Will it be all right where it is? Is it a desert palm, or an oasis palm? What do you think? Do tell me what you both think.’

  On Friday evening, the first Friday of 1980, Henrietta Latchett and Charles Headleand sat and stared at one another over their charcuterie at Chez André in Walton Street. Henrietta sighed. She raised a small forkful to her mouth, inserted it, chewed, stared. She sighed again. Charles ate a larger forkful, more vigorously, and stared back. He stared at her arched thin eyebrows, at her dark eyes, at her pale throat, at her pearls. He stared at the ribbon in her hair. He stared at her small, neat, white nose. He stared at her small, even, biting, well-maintained teeth, as they met in the marbled, swirled, veined, green-peppercorn-studded meat. Somewhat to his own surprise, he was in the thrall of what seemed to be a violent sexual passion. Fortunately, unfortunately, he had become sufficiently introspective to be obliged to wonder at this development in his physical and emotional life, and he stared at Henrietta not only with longing but also with curiosity, unable to avoid reflecting that his wife Liz might have been able to come up with an explanation, had he been in a position to ask her for one. One cannot live with a shrink for twenty years without asking oneself a few questions, over the charcuterie.

  But neither questions nor explanations could calm this fever. It was a good fever. It would rescue him, it would rescue Henrietta, it would transport them to the New World. Henrietta, he believed, sat there as enthralled as he, as she dabbed a little mustard on to her forkful. Henrietta, thin as she was, enjoyed her food. She did not consider eating a trivial occupation. It was to be a highly fashionable occupation, in the early 1980s, and Henrietta was always in the vanguard of fashion.

  In his pocket, Charles had a ring. He intended to present it over the pudding. He did not know whether, in the circumstances, this was the fashionable thing to do or not, but the banality, the romance, the innocence of the gesture had proved irresistible to him. The male menopause, he had said to himself briefly as he sat in a small back room with an elderly jeweller looking at stones. His first wife, Naomi, had received from him a pretty but inexpensive Victorian ring bought from Cameo Corner on the advice of a friend of his mother’s: an appropriate gift from an ambitious but as yet poor younger son of a county court judge, to the only daughter of a Jewish banker. That ring was now safely hidden away in a little satin-lined blue velvet box, waiting for his daughter Sally, who could have it when she was twenty-one if anyone remembered to get it out for her.

  Naomi was Sally’s dead pre-stepmother. A curious relationship, Sally sometimes reflected, especially when annoyed with her own mother.

  Liz had been betrothed by no ring. The seed pearls and sapphire which Edgar had given her she kept, but moved to her right hand. She married Charles with her old wedding ring. She and Charles had therefore never been engaged. They had been married, merely. A wild and heady
time. The 1960s.

  And now Charles was worn out by all that, he had come full circle, he wanted a proper wife who paid him attention, a wife who did not mock him and boss and tease and vanish. He had grown frightened of Liz, over the years, of the Liz Headleand that he had helped to invent. She had become knowing, prescient. She had spoken sharply, foreknowingly, of his own thoughts, of the thoughts and actions of his colleagues: she had treated them and him with scant respect, as though his world were trivial, superficial. Her own had seemed to her solid, deep, serious; once too often she had made him feel that his was hollow, timeserving, transient, peopled by boys playing grown-up power games, while she attached herself to the timeless, the adult. She had excluded him from her knowingness, had indulged him with titbits, in passing. She had sapped his energy: he had felt it begin to wane.

  Henrietta had restored him, had restored his vision of himself as a man of power, of action, a man who for the past decade had thrived on combat, confrontation, unpleasantness, on chopping out the dead wood of poor old Britain, on sacking mild older men and angry embattled younger ones. Now he could relax, he could reap the reward of past zeal. His new appointment was quasi-ambassadorial in dignity, and its potential (for it was not only a new, but a newly created appointment) was enormous: he would be in a position of inside knowledge, of influence, of suggestion, of patronage. Vast financial interests would sue for his approval, the new technology would clamour for his attention, he would negotiate between nations. And he would continue to oversee the recording, the selling, the creation of news.

  One of the problems with Liz was that she seemed to have no idea what any of this meant. Her ignorance when it came to satellites, cables, teletexts, videos, home computers, home information services, was, she claimed proudly, lamentable. Yet her very ignorance was unnerving. Invent me a dream print-out computer, she would say, and he would wonder, for an instant, if this might be done. But what are you going to do in New York, she would ask, and he would find himself rambling slightly in his reply. Ah, those were the days, when you were making programmes for Focus on Britain, she would sometimes, nostalgically, dangerously declare, in an odd shared late-night moment in front of the box: recalling his pioneering, campaigning, radical days, the days when he battled heroically with the IBA for the right to show a film of naked old ladies in geriatric hospitals, to show doctors defending the legalization of marijuana, to show IRA terrorists and refugee black Rhodesian politicians infringing the rules of decency of utterance.