She had called once more in Amy Durrant’s lifetime. Anna had opened the door, dressed this time in forest green, the same suit fashioned endlessly from the same pattern.
‘She’ll be so glad to see you,’ she said affectionately, and with no apparent loss of cheerfulness. Mrs Marsh grieved for her then, and for the hope that kept her in such good spirits. The flat had seemed to her darker and more muted than she remembered it, and she had a sudden pang of longing for her own faded blue sitting-room and for the chair in which Nick sometimes sat. She followed Anna into the bedroom, where Mrs Durrant, in a pink brushed nylon nightdress, was sitting up in bed.
‘How lovely to see you!’ she said, in her normal voice, but Mrs Marsh saw the effort behind it. ‘Anna, darling, will you make tea?’
Mrs Marsh lowered her grey head to the head which remained obstinately blonde—or did Anna see to that?
‘How are you?’
‘Better,’ said Mrs Durrant. ‘Don’t worry about us. We shall manage.’ Mrs Marsh had felt dismissed, as if what was to come was too important to be shared with outsiders, as if the love of the two women could only feed now on itself. She had felt oddly excluded; she had also felt something like respect. When she got up to leave Amy Durrant had pressed her hand. ‘You’ve been so good,’ she said, which added to the impression of finality. ‘You won’t forget?’ ‘No, no,’ Mrs Marsh had replied. But in fact she had forgotten, a fact which she attributed to old age and to the wholly irrational grief she had felt when Anna telephoned the following week to say that her mother had died in her sleep. Reaching into her bag for her handkerchief Mrs Marsh encountered the manila envelope. It was with something like anger that she thrust it into the drawer of the tallboy that stood against the far wall of her sitting-room. From her chair she could see this tallboy; it was in her direct line of vision. Therefore there was no danger of her overlooking the manila envelope.
At some point, she remembered, all this story of Anna had become obscured. She had forgotten about Anna, or would have liked to. She would have liked to have put her entirely out of her mind. She had found her burdensome, and saw no reason why she should admit her to her life, which was, she reckoned, circumscribed, if only by her own wish. But then Anna had been kind, more than kind, useful, offering help on more than one occasion. Even so, even in moments of weakness, she had not really taken to her. The selfishness of age had met some resistance in Anna, which had left a discomfort in her memory. Quite simply she had not wished to see her again, and had been reluctant to contact her. She was aware that she had been remiss, had deliberately kept her memory short, had been ungracious. She had never been a convivial woman, even when she was much younger, and eventually had realized with something like relief that it was too late for her to change. But there had been dereliction, if only of duty. At the same time she recognized that it was not a duty she could ever, with any degree of sympathy, have discharged.
3
AFTER AMY DURRANT’S death Mrs Marsh had relegated the matter to some forgotten corner. This she found easy to do. There were patches of loss in her memory, which she accepted uncomplainingly as part of the process of growing old. Although the past was startlingly vivid, recent events tended to get mislaid, or worse, misplaced. She had forgotten about Anna Durrant until she received a telephone call from her. There was a strenuous gaiety in Anna’s voice. Apparently she was in the best of spirits.
‘Aunt Vera! How are you?’
Mrs Marsh had no nieces. After an infinitesimal pause she said, ‘I do wish you’d call me Vera, Anna.’
‘Oh, I couldn’t do that,’ said Anna readily, as if prepared for a rebuff. Still maddening, thought Mrs Marsh, but said, ‘How are you, my dear?’
‘Oh, I’m perfectly fine. I was wondering if there was anything I could do for you. You were so kind to Mother, to both of us, really. I feel I should have been in touch much sooner. Could I come round and see you?’
‘I am rather busy in the evenings,’ said Mrs Marsh, aware of her churlishness, even as she spoke. She was not a sentimental woman and not even very interested in the young; above all she had neither the capacity nor the desire to penetrate what she divined as Anna’s carapace of artifice. She was aware of a complicated existence behind the sunny face which Anna so determinedly prepared to meet the world, aware of enormous frustration, possibly of anger, certainly of resentment. She did not want the task of dismantling this structure which, after all, must have been built up consciously and with some care. Mrs Marsh had no patience with the attempts, often made by complete strangers, to understand those who, although possibly impaired, even faulty, were making valiant and even successful efforts to run their own lives. She was equally hard on herself, which, she felt obscurely, justified her in her occasional harshness towards others. ‘Get on with it, Vera Marsh,’ she would say, as she hoisted her stiffening limbs out of bed in the morning, looking forward at that early hour to the prospect of the next night’s sleep. She lived alone, bleakly, but with a certain grim pride, cooked proper meals, at least at the weekends, went to the Oratory most Sundays, although she was not a Catholic, and was on the whole glad that there was no one at home to witness her inevitable decline. The prospect of having this painful and ultimately serious process interrupted by the visits of such a one as Anna Durrant was not to her liking. One of the weaknesses she permitted herself was the luxury of bad temper, and even of a certain generalized intolerance. The ardour of Anna, the near saintliness of Anna, which she sensed were based on a false premise, made her scowl. Above all she felt an old woman’s repugnance for Anna’s wasted girlhood, despised her obvious virginity, thinking it now mere folly, although she herself had been a virgin when she married (and had much regretted the fact in the course of her honeymoon), saw Anna’s good humour as misplaced, rooted only in inexperience. At this stage of her life Mrs Marsh favoured only completeness, satisfaction, fulfilment, had trained herself to see these in another’s smile, in another’s calm, and tended to turn away if she did not find them. If she was lonely, if life was a burden to her, she said nothing, never complained, although the effort of not doing so gave her a grim expression, and to some she was a forbidding old woman. She was aware that she had been chosen to be the recipient of Anna’s beneficence, whatever form this might take. She was aware that Anna’s beneficence would be unwearying. But above all she was aware of Anna’s fear, of her desire to place herself under another’s protection. She was even aware that this fear of Anna’s might not be entirely rational, that it might in fact border on panic. She wished to have no part in Anna’s deliverance, in the enormous rescue operation that must take place before Anna could be transformed into a sane, realistic, and no doubt drastically saddened human being.
‘What about the weekend?’ the voice went on.
‘Well, I usually rest on Saturday afternoon, and then on Sunday I go to church.’ She deliberately did not say whether she went in the morning or the evening, nor did she go into the complicated details of why she went to the Oratory when she was not a Catholic. She went because of the intensity of the ritual, which she hoped would fan the weak flames of her faltering belief (which she would need, she reasoned, at the end), and because the Oratory was a conveniently short distance from her flat.
‘I know,’ said the voice in her ear. ‘I’ll call on Sunday morning and walk you to church, shall I? I’ve got so much to tell you. I’ve moved, you know. I sold the flat a month after Mother died. I’ve got a dear little place in Cranley Gardens. You’ve probably not been able to get in touch with me. That’s why I worried; I thought you might be needing a little help. I’d hate to think you couldn’t call on me if you wanted anything.’
Mrs Marsh ignored the offers of help, which she thought were spurious, but felt surprise that Anna had been decisive enough to move, and so soon after her mother’s death. This indicated a sense of purpose of which she had previously given no sign. She had thought of Anna growing peacefully old, amid the brown and pink roses of Albert H
all Mansions, and had even hoped it might be so, thinking an untroubled decline appropriate to one of Anna’s age, temperament, and notional usefulness. Yet here was a manifestation of energy, of ruthlessness. What had Anna done with the furniture, with all those genteel appointments? Why had she disposed of her mother so efficiently, and with such apparent lack of sentiment? Mrs Marsh was intrigued in spite of herself. Anna, she reflected, was not without power, even if that power were confined to the mystery which she both contained and partly concealed. The power was there, although latent: it had failed to come to the surface of her life, and was therefore not a subject for discussion.
‘You had better come to lunch on Sunday,’ she heard herself say. ‘My daughter will be here.’
‘Oh, but I’ll call for you first, shall I?’
‘As you wish, my dear,’ sighed Mrs Marsh, and prepared to have her Sunday morning, and her grim attempt to retain contact with an Almighty in whom she no longer believed, disrupted. The casserole would have to go in on a lower gas than usual, she reflected, if they were to get anything to eat. Anna could talk to Philippa while she was in the kitchen preparing the vegetables. The prospect was annoying. But then she remembered the envelope and resigned herself to doing her duty, as she had done so many times in the course of her long life.
Her first thought, when she opened the door to Anna, was that the girl was beginning to resemble her mother, for a certain degree of embellishment had taken place, and Anna now wore the rosy make-up which had so enhanced Amy Durrant’s faded pretty face. The result was pleasing, even surprising, as was the waft of gardenia scent as Anna leaned forward to kiss Mrs Marsh on both cheeks. Her sempiternal suit was of rust-coloured wool, which matched her abundant and cunningly contrived hair, beneath which her open childish-looking face beamed with joy. She would never be a pretty woman, thought Mrs Marsh, interested in spite of herself: her face was too broad, her eyes too flat, her mouth too wide for anything like beauty. The general effect was almost Dutch, Christmassy, maniacally merry: honest good cheer was conveyed, and a certain innocence, as if sex and all that pertained to it were confined to a distant civilization, a civilization in which marriage and giving in marriage were prevalent, such customs being unknown in the territory in which Anna had grown up. She is like a nun, thought Mrs Marsh, or a saint; she is determined to do me good. Of Anna’s suspected rage there was no trace. Maybe it had been transmuted into this sudden taste for personal adornment, for she looked extremely smart, wore narrow shoes, flat gold ear-rings, and had an expensive suede bag hanging from her shoulder. The general effect, thought Mrs Marsh, is striking. If one were to see her a long way off one would think her an attractive woman. But as soon as one saw the face one would know that this attractive woman was merely a girl, plucky and good and desperate, and if one were a man one would move on. How unfortunate it all is, this business of sex, thought Mrs Marsh, adjusting her navy felt trilby in the hall mirror; if Anna met a man similarly deprived she could probably make him quite comfortable. But that is most unlikely to happen. Few men think of themselves as impotent or unattractive, yet so many of them are.
‘Well, Anna, you’re looking very smart, my dear.’
‘And so are you, Aunt … I’m sorry. You look lovely.’
Mrs Marsh sighed and let her arm be taken.
‘You’re quite comfortable walking? You’re sure it’s not too far?’
‘I usually walk,’ said Mrs Marsh, as mildly as possible. ‘We get so few quiet days. The traffic is not so bad on a Sunday, even in the Brompton Road. You will stay to lunch, won’t you? It will be more interesting for you to talk to Philippa, much more so than talking to me.’
‘But I love talking to you …’
‘I’m an old woman, my dear, and I’m very selfish. I like my privacy, my silence. You will too when you get to my age.’
They crossed the road to the Oratory.
‘Won’t you come in?’ asked Mrs Marsh with a smile that was almost kindly.
‘Oh, no.’ The answer was flatly given. ‘I believe, in my own way. At least I did once. I tried to go on with it, but it wasn’t easy. I’ll walk round the park and collect you later, shall I?’
Since what Anna had said was almost interesting and might prove food for conversation on the way home Mrs Marsh acquiesced. I must do this with a good grace, she thought. It is practically an act of charity, might even be thought of as a spiritual exercise. I must give her a good lunch, hand over Amy’s envelope, let her stay for the afternoon, if she shows signs of wanting to, and send her off cheerfully, having somehow conveyed that this is not to be a regular occurrence. Make sure that she is taking care of herself—she is very thin, surely thinner than she was. But the shock of her mother’s death, and then the exertion of moving (that telephone number to be written down) probably account for that. Nevertheless she is too thin for a woman of her age: one tends to get heavier in the middle years, which are of course problematic in other ways. Her hips are scarcely wider than her waist, she thought, watching Anna’s retreating back. Again there was a suggestion of uncharacteristic vigour in the way her heels clipped the pavement.
A profound smell of cooked meat pervaded the flat as they reached it after the service. Unpleasant, thought Mrs Marsh, removing her hat. Had she been on her own she would have had cheese on toast.
‘I usually have a glass of sherry before lunch,’ she said. ‘Will you join me? Philippa should be here shortly, then I can leave you two together while I do the sprouts.’
‘Shall I help?’
‘No, no, my dear; let’s sit and drink our sherry, shall we?’
Anna drank quickly, leaving a smudge of pink on the rim of her glass.
‘Another?’ enquired Mrs Marsh. At the back of her mind she could hear her father saying, ‘Another? Sounds as if you’re counting.’
‘Good heavens, no, Aunt Vera. One is quite enough.’ She gazed about her expectantly. ‘It’s so pretty here,’ she said.
Fortunately there is Philippa, thought Mrs Marsh, as the doorbell rang. It seems as if I am to be Aunt Vera after all. She went to open the door, although she had given both her daughter and her son a key. Philippa must have forgotten again. Mrs Marsh was forced to reflect that her daughter would not be much good in an emergency. Anna, on the other hand, would be assiduous. She must remember to take her telephone number.
Philippa Barnard was a big woman, as big as her mother, with the same reddened cheeks and wiry hair, which on her produced a not unpleasing effect. She offered a large hand and a welcoming smile, accepted a glass of sherry, and lit up the first of many cigarettes. Mrs Marsh left for the kitchen. ‘What a pretty suit,’ she heard Philippa say before she closed the door. She smiled. Philippa might look hearty, she might be unreliable, but she was matchless at putting the nervous at their ease. ‘Don’t mind me,’ she would say. ‘I’ve had a difficult morning (or afternoon). Do you mind if I tell you about it?’ She had been a good daughter, Mrs Marsh reflected, brave and kind. No second marriage in the offing, unfortunately. But Philippa did not seem unhappy, certainly not discontented. Maybe she had even found a man, thought Mrs Marsh, in which case he was almost certainly married. She did not much mind. If he made Philippa happy she was grateful to him. So few things mattered as they once had. Immorality, she reflected, seemed less important. You got too old for sex, and that was that. Being young enough was a different matter. Live all you can, she thought. Dear Henry James.
Another of Philippa’s virtues was her enormous appetite, which had overlooked her mother’s indifferent cooking throughout the various stages of her life and was even now equal to the task of absorbing two-thirds of Mrs Marsh’s casserole. Anna ate nothing, daintily manoeuvring morsels round her plate while laughing enthusiastically at most of Philippa’s remarks. She is such an obvious guest, thought Mrs Marsh; she is quite out of practice. Does anyone ask her out? ‘There’s only cheese and fruit,’ she observed. ‘But the cheese is rather good. And the pears are wonderful this year.’
‘Nothing more for me,’ smiled Anna.
‘But you’ve eaten nothing,’ exclaimed Philippa. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes, Anna. You are most frightfully thin, you know.’
‘I suppose it’s the novelty of being here,’ said Anna.
‘Novelty?’ Mrs Marsh’s voice held a note of distaste. ‘I don’t see that this is very novel.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Anna, her own voice dropping to normal. ‘It’s been quite a tiring year so far. I dare say I’m not as calm as I should be.’
‘Perhaps you should have a check-up,’ said Mrs Marsh. ‘Yes, I think you should certainly do that. I wonder Halliday hasn’t suggested it.’
‘She probably needs a holiday,’ observed Philippa, blowing smoke. ‘Have you got friends you could stay with?’
‘Oh, yes,’ said Anna, brightening again. ‘I have a very dear friend in Paris. Marie-France Forestier. I’ve known her for years. In fact she was an assistante at my school. She gave up her work when her mother died. She’s been looking after her father since then. He’s a writer, Bertrand Forestier. You might have heard of him.’
They shook their heads.
‘He writes popular history books, lives of Napoleon’s sisters, that sort of thing.’
‘And what does she do, your friend?’
‘She looks after him, and the flat, and so on. And they have a little house in the country, near Meaux.’
Another one who will be well provided for, thought Mrs Marsh. Another martyr. What profound emotional disposition made these women give up so early, yield to a sickly selfish parent, or perhaps, to be fair, to a protective and unthinking one, and spend the rest of their lives living so modestly, so incuriously? Did they perceive the world as threatening, or cruel, or simply so obscure that they could not hope to decipher it? Had they been infantilized at some point in their adolescence, when, with a different throw of the dice, they might have matured into some semblance of normality? Of course, I cannot speak for this Marie-France, she thought: she may be a perfectly capable middle-aged Frenchwoman, with that air of authority the French seem to have, as though they have been better fed, better nourished all their lives, and have grown stronger, harder on this adult diet. Whereas Anna, who could not tackle my admittedly not very appetizing casserole, seems to have grown up on pale sweet foods, as if her life were a more or less eternal teatime, and all her hopes vested in nothing more exciting than a festive tea party.
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