Beatrice had adopted this silence with some grace. Miriam saw that though her life was unfulfilled she had not complained, understanding that women complaining made an ugly sound. The irony was that she would have made a perfect consort for a certain type of man, someone dignified, formal, but susceptible to charm. And Beatrice had remained charming; that had been her victory. She had not declined in an unattractive way. One was aware of her sadness, but also of her imperturbability. She had been beguiled, all too predictably, by Simon’s striking looks, to the extent of forgiving him his message. She had known of Miriam’s affair, but had had the grace never to question her. That too was a victory. By the same token Miriam had never confessed the extent of her enthralment – for that, surely, was what it was. That too had been a danger avoided. She supposed that they had both behaved well. But now that Beatrice was no longer present she longed to discuss the whole matter with her, would now be fascinated to hear her judgements. Beatrice was a romantic, certainly, but her feelings had always been governed by some sort of moral code, even if that code were one of chivalry, of acts and gestures offered out of a high understanding of worth, of honour. That code had proved misleading. But at this moment Miriam longed most painfully for her to be present, and to defend that code, which now, perhaps, she might be in a position to respect.
She moved away from the window, overcame her reluctance to enter her own room, took off her clothes and ran a bath. The grey suit would be consigned to the back of the wardrobe, and would probably not be worn again. She washed her hair, brushed her teeth, contemplated going to bed. But strangely, after such an exhausting day, she was not tired. She dressed in a soft printed skirt and a silk shirt, wandered back through the flat, closing the windows. She could no longer detect Beatrice’s presence. What she felt was an immense stillness, as if she were living in the aftermath of some natural disaster, an earthquake, a volcano. There was no fear in this, only a sort of recognition. This was how it would be now, a life without company, without surprises. Even this silence was appropriate, Beatrice’s last gift to her.
When Tom Rivers rang the bell she snatched up a jacket and met him on the doorstep. For some reason it was important that he did not come in: she wanted the flat to be inviolate. And yet he too had behaved well. But he had never met Beatrice, could only comment politely on her loss, which he probably thought could now be consigned to some distant point where it would give no further pain. She would make no mention of it, nor would she embarrass him in any way. If she desired one thing it was that a certain mutual politeness should prevail.
‘I hope you’re hungry,’ he said. ‘I dare say you’ve eaten nothing all day.’
‘No, I’m not hungry. Tom, could we go for a walk? You promised me a walk.’
‘One of many, I hope.’
She ignored this. ‘We could go to the park. It seems to be a lovely evening.’ She yawned in an effort to break the tension. ‘I think I need some air,’ she said.
‘All right, but you’ll have to eat at some point.’
They walked up Sloane Street in silence, against the roar of traffic. When they entered the park the noise fell away, as it always did. She was glad of his company, although there were no dangers in this peaceful scene. Strangers walked past them, taking a short cut, avoiding Park Lane. She was aware of the apparent anomaly of their walking the other way, into the centre of town. But she wanted to contemplate movement, even the movement of Oxford Street, wanted to gaze at it, this humdrum commercial activity at the end of a working day, the sort of working day from which she felt excluded.
‘We were outside the norm, Beatrice and I,’ she heard herself say. ‘We had too much time to ourselves. We got things wrong.’
‘I hope you’re going to have more time to yourself now,’ he said, misunderstanding her.
‘Oh, yes. I’ll have plenty of time.’
‘Because I shall want to see more of you. Where exactly are we going?’
‘There’s a pizza place in Baker Street,’ she said. For this was a valedictory journey, cancelling out that earlier itinerary, on a Christmas Day now distant enough to be thought safe.
‘You were so kind today,’ she said later, raising a cup of coffee with a hand that shook. ‘I can’t thank you enough.’
‘Don’t cry,’ he said gently. ‘You don’t want that food, do you? Leave it. I’ll take you home.’
‘Am I to be allowed in this time?’ he questioned her in the taxi, looking straight at the back of the driver’s head.
‘Not yet,’ she replied. Perhaps not ever, she thought, but she took his hand, not knowing which of them she wished to console. An embrace was somehow out of the question.
‘Goodnight, Tom. And thank you once again.’
‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said, a little formally, as he did when disappointed. She watched him as he strode away into the night.
In bed she lay awake for a long time, sensing the loneliness of the flat. But when she slept it was without dreams, so that she woke easily and calmly, to another day.
16
That year the summer was exceptional. Every day Miriam rose at five, rejoicing in the light. She made tea, wandered through the flat in her nightgown, then took a bath, put on an old cotton dress, and went out into the radiant morning to buy the papers. She had no work, and supposed she was on holiday; in her room the dictionaries had been put away until they were needed again. She was conscious only of the beauty of the weather, as if not to succumb to it were a solecism, an offence against nature.
Her days fell into a pattern. When the shops opened she would buy a sandwich for her lunch, put it in a bag together with the book she was reading, and make for her usual bench in the small stony memorial garden at the foot of the church opposite the river. There she would sit quite peacefully until the clock struck midday, when she would eat her sandwich and go in search of coffee. After that the blaze of the afternoon sun would drive her back home. In the afternoon she would lie on her bed, reading. Already she had got through What Maisie Knew and The Awkward Age, and was about to start on The Tragic Muse. She marvelled that Henry James knew so much about women and children, yet had remained a bachelor, and by all accounts a man of the greatest integrity. She liked that about him, that and his reputation for modesty. He had deferred to worldly friends, as if he were not more worldly than any of them. There was nothing cheap about Henry James.
Her second excursion would take place at about five o’clock, when she would go out and buy her supper. Here too she made a long detour, thinking any shop near to hand too feeble an attraction. The year was at its zenith, the trees heavy and immobile, the grass dry, the earth cracked. There had been no rain for over three weeks, a fact deplored by the weather forecasters but enjoyed by everyone else. She liked to see the returning workers, their jackets over their arms, their shirts damp with sweat, trudging along to their first drink of the evening. And the girls, more and more skimpily dressed, their bare feet at ease in their sandals. There was little slackening in the fierce temperature; now as in the early morning her sense of holiday was complete.
It seemed to her that the day had been full of incident. The major event, of course, was the extraordinary power of the light, which made human activity seem otiose. And there were lesser diversions, to which she gave her full attention. She had made several acquaintances among those, who, like herself, came to eat their lunch in this little enclave. There was the highly respectable-looking man, whom she suspected of having lost his job, and who read the Financial Times from cover to cover. When he stopped by her to drop his newspaper in the rubbish bin she revised her opinion: he was honourably retired, tasting freedom, and, like herself, with nothing or no one to keep him at home. ‘Good morning,’ they said to each other. ‘Another lovely day.’ And then, unexpectedly, the breakthrough. ‘How are you getting on with that?’ he asked, indicating her book. ‘Sad stuff, isn’t it? And yet it stays in the mind. Well, I won’t keep you. Have a pleasant afternoon.’ ‘You too,’ she replied. Trul
y one made more friends among strangers than among familiars.
There was the woman who singled out Miriam as her particular confidante, a decorative widow, who twitched her floral skirts and adjusted her earrings all the time she was talking, her agitation politely concealed but slowly rising to the surface. The talk was of her dead husband, her son who was doing so well in the computer business, of a holiday she was about to take with a woman friend. Miriam saw that this prospect was upsetting her, accounted for the restless hands, and at the same time the great care given to her appearance. ‘Just because I have no man in my life,’ her attitude seemed to say, ‘just because I am forced to go on holiday with my friend Betty, whom I do not particularly like, do not assume that I am beyond pleasing. I can still attract a second glance, and am keen to do so. That is why I spend the evenings ironing my clothes for the following day, or regilding my hair in my tiny bathroom. I am not finished yet. I see you have got to know that man reading the Financial Times. Just my luck.’ When her still pretty mouth turned down at the corners Miriam would offer, ‘Portofino, you said? It should be lovely.’ A sad smile was her response. ‘I miss my husband so much at holiday time. But life goes on, doesn’t it?’ ‘Yes indeed,’ Miriam would say, although her own life did not seem to be advancing in any recognizable direction. She was mildly interested to note that this stasis did not displease her.
Sometimes, to their delight, a stout baby, always the same one, would do the honours, standing before them on unsteady legs, while his young nurse or au pair sank down on a bench and gratefully lit the first of a succession of cigarettes. The widow was better at entertaining him than Miriam was, yet it was to Miriam’s blue cotton skirt that he stretched out his hand. At once she would cover it with her own, while pretending an interest in other matters. The hand would be withdrawn, to be tentatively replaced, again to be imprisoned. The small face would split into a smile that revealed even smaller teeth. His name was William; they learned that from the somnolescent au pair, whose eyes were now closed as she tilted her yearning face to the sun. He did not come every day, but when he did they were rewarded by a waving hand as he was wheeled out of sight. On such occasions she and the widow were in perfect accord. ‘I’ll bring a drink for him tomorrow,’ one of them would say, already busy on his behalf. But then it grew even hotter and they deduced that he was being kept at home. They both missed him, smiled understandingly at each other when it was time to leave. Such perfect accord was rarely arrived at with those on whom long acquaintance had already built up a considerable dossier of information. All she desired to know about the widow was her name. When she was able to greet her as Helen she was content merely to accept what she was told, without asking a single question. This relationship was so restful that she wondered why it had eluded her in the past. Like or dislike no longer entered the equation. Attention, observation, were all that were required.
She tried to explain this to Tom Rivers when he telephoned in the early evening. She had made an interesting discovery: he was as solitary as she was. This was a great weight off her mind; she did not doubt that he felt the same. She imagined him as one of those fearless explorers featured in old-fashioned children’s books, the sort she had read when she was small, men in goggles and close-fitting helmets, tracking across Arctic wastes, with a pack of dogs in tow.
‘I see you setting off for places unknown to civilized man,’ she said.
‘I am in fact off to Jakarta next week. I rang to remind you.’
‘You should be trekking across the Polar regions.’
‘I seem to be in those with you already.’
‘How long will you be away?’
‘About three weeks. That will give you time to read The Wings of the Dove. There will be a short examination on it when I see you again.’
‘You are very nice to me, Tom.’
‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’
‘Am I nice to you, or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘You’re all right, I suppose. Tedious, unpleasant, unattractive …’
‘Tom!’ she cried, horrified.
‘Don’t be silly, Miriam. You are my friend. It was your decision, remember.’
‘You mean …’
‘Precisely.’
She did not ask him what discreet alternative arrangements he had made when she had declared herself unready to become his lover. He had accepted this with good grace, presumably detecting in her not reluctance but evidence of that same curious stasis. She was confident that he remained fond of her, loved him for still expressing interest in her life.
‘How was Helen today?’ he would ask. ‘How many ensembles is she taking to Portofino?’
‘Don’t mock, Tom. She is really unhappy about going. She is quite frightened.’
‘She should stay at home, then. There is no harm in staying at home. You let nobody down. I spent the day at home and I was perfectly content.’
‘What did you have for lunch?’
‘A tin of sardines and a tomato.’
‘I see. And will you eat out tonight?’
‘Yes.’
She detected, with her new perceptions, a very slight change in the tone of his reply. A woman, she assumed. Her own feelings on this matter would have to be examined, but not yet. What she appreciated about the present situation was his acceptance of her unpreparedness, even her childishness. Even though she was aware that in time these qualities would cause his interest in her to wane she was content not to anticipate that day, the day when she would lose him. That would be difficult, perhaps unbearable. But she had too much respect for the passage of time to violate her present contentment, to offer a sacrifice before one was due. Indifference was a release after months of painful feeling. She was unwilling to relinquish it.
‘What time is your plane for Jakarta?’
‘Eight-thirty next Monday morning.’
‘May I see you off?’
‘I’d like that.’
‘Unless …’
‘No, no, that’ll be fine. I’ll pick you up.’
‘Will you ring me on Sunday?’
‘Yes. Are you going out again?’
‘Later, no doubt. Take care of yourself, Tom.’
‘You too.’
Still the amazing weather continued. It was mid-August, and already the evenings were lengthening. But the days were so filled with a strange plenitude that it was easy to dismiss thoughts of autumn, and impossible to think of winter. She took up her position in the garden as if she had always done so, since the beginning of time, greeted Helen and the man with the newspaper as if they were fellow students in some secret seminar. Once three boys came and kicked an empty Coke tin around but were discouraged by the uninflected stares directed at them and made off, leaving the tin spinning on the ground. This was eventually removed by the man with the Financial Times. Once a small cloud passed over the sun and they looked at each other, concerned. But the sun soon reasserted its rights, and Helen sighed, twitched her skirts, and went on with her story.
‘She wanted us to share a room, but I put a stop to that. I felt mean, but it’s not as if she were short of money. And it takes me so long to get ready in the morning …’
‘You were quite right. I never shared a room with my sister.’
‘Oh, I didn’t know you had a sister.’
‘She died,’ said Miriam briefly.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry.’
‘There’s no need.’
For Beatrice had left her in peace. There could be no ghosts in such a summer. She thought of her every evening, when she went through the flat, but her thoughts were quiet, accepting. Proper grieving, on which she had turned her back, could be postponed until she had time for decent reflection. Because she knew that this process must be gone through, and that she would in due course give it her full attention, she put it off, feeling quite easy about doing so. At some point, she knew; their alliance would reassert itself: Beatrice would once more keep her company, as she had done in the past. A
nd as she grew older the past was lengthening, was no doubt more weighted than the future. Quite simply she had decided to enjoy these days that had been given to her. The great sun cancelled out any incipient darkness within. For this she was grateful.
There was a slight infraction of her marvellous new regime when Helen, at the end of one afternoon, when they had both stayed longer than usual, invited her home for a cup of tea. Miriam did not want this, did not want intimacy of any kind, but it would have been impolite to refuse. Looking round Helen’s tiny immaculate sitting-room she could see why the holiday seemed such an alarming prospect. Helen fitted in here, her full skirts as much a feature of the place as the pretty china plates in a corner cabinet, and the matching china candlesticks and bonbon dishes on the small octagonal table. In the adjoining kitchen she could hear cups being assembled on a tray, could smell scones or muffins being warmed under the grill. She knew that the feast would be served with the maximum of ceremony, felt unsuitably dressed in her old skirt and blouse. Helen, she could see, had refreshed her make-up in the kitchen, where she no doubt kept some sort of kit for all emergencies.
‘My husband always loved to see me busy,’ she said, arranging glass dishes of two kinds of jam at Miriam’s elbow.
‘And you still do all this? Just for yourself?’
‘Oh, yes. I still miss him, you see. That’s why going away with a woman is going to be so difficult. I’m not used to the propinquity …’
‘Why not tell your friend that you don’t want to go?’ she asked. She reflected that until recently she would not have been capable, or perhaps guilty, of such a lack of reticence.
‘But it’s all arranged,’ said Helen, who did not seem grateful for the suggestion, but pleasantly excited, as if she were contemplating a woman of a different species, like the bad girls she had been forbidden to play with on the way home from school.
‘She’s got two weeks to find someone else,’ Miriam went on. ‘You don’t have to make an excuse. Just tell her you won’t be ready in time.’
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