As he helped to dry her, rubbing her bluish-white feet, while Molly shook herself like a dog and plugged in the kettle, George knew that he no longer loved his wife. He felt—and this he had always felt, although he did not know the reason—extremely sorry for her. As a natural corollary, he felt extremely sorry for himself. He was still vigorous; he did not think of himself as an aging man. His looks had not changed noticeably since his mother died. He still eyed himself appreciatively in the glass every morning. He had, he felt, a future. With Mrs. Jacobs. He would tell Helen that he was going to buy a share in the bookshop and spend his time there. The others would have to make their own arrangements. Ruth, if necessary, could stay at home. All this flashed through his mind with a rapidity that amazed him. When the moment of revelation passed—really, this holiday was doing them no good at all—he knew that he could not carry out all his plans, put all his projects into effect. But some . . . Oh, dear God, why not some?
Helen, with frozen hands, jammed on her peaked cap. They were all, for various reasons, subdued. Then Molly, against every principle she held dear, reached into her canvas hold-all and produced a bottle of gin.
Helen turned to her with her beautiful smile restored.
“Molly, my darling, you are an angel. Always were. Never jealous or ratty. Not even when I had that little affair with Eric.”
Molly had not known about this. She had trusted her late husband implicitly. But she was a sensible woman; she saw, in Helen’s face, the end of many love affairs. We shall none of us ever make love again, she thought, and did not much care. Life had not been too harsh; the sea would still be there at the end. She was nearly ready.
But Helen, she saw, would be taken unawares.
Eleven
* * *
RUTH, trying to put her notes into some kind of order, realized that the days were getting shorter. She could no longer walk in the evenings. Leaves were being raked and burnt in back gardens; from noon to three in the afternoon the sun still blazed, and clothes felt too heavy. Then the brightness went out of the air; the light, with infinite slowness, receded into a grayish mist; the smoke rose from the gardens and drifted round the trees; as dusk came down, late roses startled with the intensity of their color.
Ruth, in her bedroom, struggled with Modeste Mignon, in which all the vices turn out to be virtues. Mrs. Cutler, at the kitchen table, studied her horoscope in the evening paper. The flat was clean, the storage cupboard provisioned. In Ruth’s wardrobe hung a new blue dress in which she planned to take Paris by storm, for had not Balzac laid that obligation upon her? Her ticket was booked, Humphrey and Rhoda Wilcox alerted. She was in two minds about going. Oakwood Court was now so peaceful that she felt she might work here quite as well as in the Wilcoxes’ maid’s room. The quality of life had improved; Mrs. Cutler was now watching cookery programs on afternoon television, but as she never wrote down the recipes, there was little chance of her ever reproducing them. She regarded them as pure entertainment in the same way that she sat through programs about woodland predators or crime on the streets of New York.
“The kitchens they must have,” she marveled. “And fancy eating all those courses at one meal.”
They had both benefited greatly from the holiday in Hove.
It was therefore with something like dismay that they became aware that the surge of the lift and the noise of its doors slamming meant that George and Helen were home.
Their eyes met over the kitchen table. Neither moved. Cautiously Mrs. Cutler diminished the volume of her transistor radio. In the hall, voices were raised, lights switched on, and a stumbling struggle, in which cases were dropped or even dragged, dominated the whine of bullets from the detective play to which they were listening.
“Never again,” they could hear Helen groaning, “never again.”
Reaching out a hand, Mrs. Cutler turned off the radio, and resignedly they both got to their feet.
* * *
“IT was ghastly,” said Helen the following morning from her bed, although she seemed quite cheerful. “Sitting in that dog kennel all day with the monsoon blowing, and Molly’s cooking permanently sticking in one’s teeth. Why are vegetarians so unreasonable?”
George and Ruth and Mrs. Cutler had reassembled in the bedroom, which had resumed its air of disorder and permanence. Suitcases had been opened but not unpacked. An open bottle of nail varnish, its brush already stiff, added a strong smell to the already stale air. Helen wore her denim cap, her nightdress, and a cardigan, and was lighting one cigarette from the stub of another. George lined up the pair of shoes from which Helen had thankfully removed her feet the previous evening. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw them under the bed. Ruth observed him as he picked minute pieces of fluff from the sleeve of his jacket. He seemed quieter than usual.
She thought that something in her parents had changed, but could not identify the change. Physically, they were both very much present. They seemed to be occupying more space than usual. Perhaps she had got used to the relative silence of Mrs. Cutler. Perhaps being in the open air had made them seem so voluble, so oppressive.
“Now that you’re home,” said Ruth, “you mustn’t slip into bad habits again. You’re much too lazy, Mother. You should get out more.”
Helen turned her head very slowly.
“Get out?” she questioned. “I don’t even feel like getting up.”
That was it; that was the change. Helen meant it. They all knew that she meant it. Something would have to be done. But Ruth remembered her mother’s face as she had seen it the previous evening, frightened and old under the unbecoming slant of the peaked cap. George had seen it too. Mrs. Cutler had seen it and was determined to do something about it.
Mrs. Cutler had liked being alone in the flat: she didn’t count Ruth. She remembered a time when she had been mistress of her own small house in Battersea, when Douglas would take her to the pub on a Friday evening, when she had a captive audience of her own.
“I’ve been thinking,” she said, unconsciously fingering her left hand. “I might like to get married again. Can’t give up without trying, can you?”
George was stunned. Helen, on the contrary, seemed very sympathetic. She foresaw entertainment for the weeks ahead. And she need not even get up for it.
“There are marriage bureaus, of course,” mused Helen. “I believe there’s one next to Barker’s. Why don’t you sign on or fill in the form or whatever you have to do, and then you can ask them back here, whoever they are. If anyone turns up,” she added kindly. “As you know, I’m a pretty good judge of character. And men are such liars; they certainly won’t tell you the truth. But they won’t get much past me.” She seemed cheered by the prospect. “With my experience,” she said.
Mrs. Cutler, who had already decided to take her project seriously, but to meet any aspirants at the Mexicana coffee bar, next door to the launderette, agreed to let Helen help her with the application.
“Say you’re of independent means,” advised Helen, well into her new project. “That always gets them. And, after all, you are, aren’t you?”
Ruth slipped out of the room as her father was leaving.
“Is she all right?” she asked. “She looks different, somehow. Thinner, more highly colored.”
“Of course she’s all right,” replied George. They were whispering. He was annoyed. Nobody worried how he was. He was becoming restive.
“I don’t like the idea of your going away, Ruth. Don’t like it at all. Especially if Maggie’s going to leave.”
Ruth looked at him in astonishment.
“But who on earth would want to marry Mrs. Cutler?” she asked. “She doesn’t mean it. This is the only home she’s ever likely to have.”
George shook his head.
“Think about it, Ruth. You have a duty to your mother, you know.” Then he left, in a hurry to get to Harrods to oversee his purchases and perhaps buy himself a towelling bathrobe.
This was the first Ruth had
heard of her duty, which she had imagined was confined to the characters of Balzac. She had a duty to them, certainly, and the British Council, no less, had recognized it. Her father could not really imagine that she would be of any use here?
In the days that followed, it became quite clear that he did.
* * *
ON the first Tuesday in October, in an atmosphere of suppressed disappointment and anxiety, Ruth waited for the taxi to take her to Victoria station and to Paris. Her mother was in bed. (“You don’t mind, do you, darling heart? My precious girl? I am just a little bit tired.”) Her father, who was gravely displeased with her, had gone to Mount Street to prove it. Ruth was suddenly bereft. As her taxi drew up and she prepared to say goodbye to Oakwood Court, she glanced up at the window of the dining room. There she saw Mrs. Cutler, watchful and pinched once again, her chestnut lights faded, her lipstick incarnadine. Behind her stretched a day already full of instant coffee.
Mrs. Cutler raised her thumb. Ruth could not make out the words she was mouthing. Her throat ached, her eyes burned with loneliness. She waved. Mrs. Cutler threw open the window.
“Keep in touch,” she called thinly, so as not to attract the attention of the neighbors. Ruth could barely hear her. “Make the most of it,” yelled Mrs. Cutler, getting into the spirit of the thing. “Go on, Ruth, don’t hang about.” She raised her thumb again. “Never say die.” And she slammed down the window.
Twelve
* * *
RUTH woke up, sat up, and eased herself into another day in the rue des Marronniers. She reached for her notebook and wrote down her dream, having read in a magazine that this was therapeutic. The dream, as usual, had been disagreeable. She had been waiting in a freezing-cold bed-sitting room, painted white, for her examination results. She knew, with a deep and ancient inner conviction, that all the other rooms in the house were heated, and all the other occupants were in receipt of good news. Before she could be moved to begin her usual mild protest against this state of affairs, she was transported to Brussels, where an enormous hunger came over her. She was so busy bolting down coffee and rolls that she could not spare the time to entertain her companion, a person of indeterminate sex with gray hair. She awoke, bewildered, in the knowledge that she had been left alone at the café table while her companion set off with purposeful gestures to cross a small wood or garden thickly carpeted with fallen leaves. This dream had been in color. Rather like a film.
In contrast to her dream, the sepia light that strained to get through the barred windows of her room on the sixth floor of the rue des Marronniers reduced her life to monochrome. She still could not believe that anyone had consigned her to this place when she had committed no crime. Although Rhoda and Humphrey Wilcox had been severe and owlish enough to inspire a certain discomfort, she had liked their bright chintzy flat and had looked forward to living a quiet life there. Rhoda had given her a cup of tea and a very small biscuit, had steered her toward the eighty-year-old Humphrey, who was sitting, tortoiselike, in his armchair, and had left her to do something in the kitchen. Ruth had been aware that this was the equivalent of one of those country-house weekends at which you are assessed for your suitability to occupy a minor but significant post in the Civil Service. Ignoring Humphrey’s hand, which strayed toward her knee and rested there, ignoring his insistence on speaking French—he wrote his biographies under the pseudonym of Maurice de Grandville—she listened for twenty minutes to his disquisition on the life of the Duchesse de Berry, and would have listened longer had they not both become aware of Rhoda, returned from the kitchen, and standing with folded arms by the door. Humphrey removed his hand.
“Humphrey has quite taken to you,” said Rhoda. “I think it will be all right to let you have the room, although Humphrey sometimes meditates up there. You do know about maids’ rooms, don’t you?”
Ruth shook her head. “I only know they’re usually on the top floor.”
“At one time all the servants in the building had the top floor to themselves. No servants now, of course, but there is a staircase outside the kitchen door which they all used when they started work in the mornings. So much more civilized than having them living in.”
She led Ruth, with her suitcase and her typewriter, out through the kitchen door, up the staircase, and along an endless prison corridor which appeared to have small cells opening off it at regular intervals. She fitted a large iron key into an obdurate door, forced it open, and went over to push back the shutters of the window. This made no appreciable difference to the quality of light in the room, which was furnished with a double bed, a small papier-mâché table, and a sink with a jaunty little screen around it. One cold tap.
“You’re extremely lucky to find the room empty,” said Rhoda, peering at Ruth narrowly as if she were indeed a servant, were up to no good, and might possibly be pregnant. She was a queenly and reproving woman who made Ruth feel apologetic. Although, she said to herself, the boot is really on the other foot; I’m paying good money for this.
“My nephew usually has the room when he comes over on business,” Rhoda went on. “But Humphrey doesn’t care for him much.”
She straightened a dim glass oval on the wall. Ruth’s eyes followed her.
“I see you are admiring my needlework pictures,” said Rhoda. Ruth, who could hardly see anything, searched her heart for words of admiration and could find none. “The last of my mother’s pieces,” said Rhoda. “From my home in Ringwood.”
There was a slight pause.
“Mrs. Wilcox,” murmured Ruth, “are there any arrangements for having a bath?”
Rhoda looked pensive, as if she had not reckoned on such a request.
“The only bathroom is downstairs in the flat. I suppose you could come down at six o’clock for a quarter of an hour and have a bath. But do not, I beg you, disturb Humphrey.”
Ruth walked toward the window and tried to move it.
“Does it open?” she asked Rhoda.
“I don’t think so.” Rhoda’s voice was remote. “But you will be very comfortable here. I have made up the bed myself. There is an electric kettle. You have your own lavatory next door but as it is not much used Humphrey has taken to keeping some of his wine in there. Marianne will clean your room once a week. I will tell you what to pay her. And you can have your bath at six o’clock in the evenings.”
“One thing,” she added, with minatory outstretched arm. “We are both writers. We need peace and quiet downstairs. I hope you will not introduce any . . .” She searched for the right word. “Distractions,” she said finally. Ruth knew what she meant.
She sank down on the bed in panic, not daring to move until the sound of Rhoda’s heels had disappeared down the iron staircase. Then, as quietly as if she were being overheard, she crept along the corridor, down the staircase, through the kitchen and into the reassuring safety of the street.
Here all was pleasure and purpose. The sun, once more, blazed; thin dresses were still being worn, tables outside cafés were thronged, everyone was in an exceptional humor. “L’étonnant été d’octobre,” announced France-Soir on its front page, and showed a photograph of an elderly couple sunning themselves on a bench in the Tuileries. Ruth walked. Under chestnut trees now the color of her hair, she walked all day, trying to decide whether she was better or worse off than she had been at home. On the whole, worse, she thought. As dusk fell, she wandered slowly back up the rue de Passy, admiring the shops, the bright-eyed, quick-tempered people, the beautiful children. She was now very tired and realized that she might sleep, even in that terrible room. She bought some milk and some coffee and turned into the rue des Marronniers.
* * *
THAT had been three weeks ago. Since then she had got used to shutting up her books in the Bibliothèque Nationale at five sharp so that she could clock in in time for her bath, had even got used to Humphrey’s observing her through a crack in the bathroom door. The evenings were long, that was the only thing. The mazy pleasures of Paris d
istracted her in the daytime, and besides, there was so much to do: so much work, so much French to be spoken, meals to be eaten in the brasserie round the corner, books to be bought. In the evenings, though, she did not always feel like reading. Bursts of foggy music from the cinema next door signaled the beginning and end of the performances; high heels tapping along the corridor announced the return home of her neighbors, whom she had never met. She felt too humble to buy a radio.
One endless Sunday she went to the Louvre. She made the classic promenade down the Champs Elysées, through the Tuileries to the Square Court, where children were wheeling about on their bicycles, and because she was reluctant to leave the still-warm air, over the Pont des Arts and up the rue Bonaparte to the Luxembourg. There she sat, becalmed, going only to a café in the Place Saint-Sulpice for a sandwich some time after half past one. Dahlias blazed in the flower beds of the Luxembourg Gardens; when the gardeners removed them winter would have begun in earnest. The long straight paths were now thick with fallen leaves for it had been a very dry summer. An ancient invalid sun came out briefly to warm her iron chair but was soon vanquished by the haze obscuring the gray-blue sky. The easy days were over.
She wandered back to the museum, although the light was no longer good. She was indifferent to most of what she saw until she came to the Flemish primitives, with their immaculate pain and sorrow, their thoughtful grieving little heads, their chilly, pallid Christs deposed, as it were, into the unhelpful climate of northern Europe. She paid a duty visit to the early nineteenth-century galleries and was bemused, as always, by the sheer size of everything: giant figures enmeshed with one another, toiling toward rescue after shipwreck, toward liberty after oppression, toward Paris after Moscow; never would they find peace or be reconciled to their proper dimensions. At a country funeral stretching down a considerable expanse of one wall, a woman wiped her eyes with a handkerchief the size of a small tablecloth. A noble Roman, turning his back on his dead sons, twisted enormous and imperfect feet to demonstrate his anguish. In front of what she considered to be a vaguely improper allegory of Endymion being embraced by a moonbeam, she saw two youngish people convulsed with laughter. The laughter seemed to her not French; it contained the agonized excesses and repressions of English school life. She moved closer to the couple: a man and a girl. The man, though young, had white hair; the girl was dark and pretty. They appeared to be very much in love; their exuberance was too much for the Louvre to contain and attracted reproving looks from the attendant. As the gallery emptied and the light became bluish and obscure, Ruth and the couple found their way out and down the main staircase. She was not surprised to hear them speaking English and wished that she could signal to them that she was English herself. But she was by this time too immured in her own silence to make a sign to anyone.
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