‘No, it doesn’t hurt,’ she said, with all of her old briskness. ‘If you could just strap it up for me, that will do nicely. Oh, and if you would be so kind as to leave me a couple of sleeping pills? I shall be as right as rain tomorrow.’
‘I’ll leave you a prescription. Can you get someone to go out for you?’
‘Oh, yes, I have a friend coming. Do forgive me for not offering you coffee. And thank you for coming. You’ve put my mind quite at rest.’
And he has, she thought with surprise, watching him shrug himself into his coat. Good figure, she noted, and still neat around the waist. That hangdog air must stand him in good stead, as if women were to be his ruin, or as if he were waiting to be punished. I doubt if he is happily married: his wife seems shrill. But then she probably has a hard time keeping an eye on him.
The bell rang. ‘I’ll go,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way out anyway. Give me a ring if you’re worried about the leg, but you shouldn’t have any more trouble. Just rest for a day or two and you’ll be fine.’ The bell rang again. ‘Goodbye now.’
She heard his stifled exclamation, ‘Anna! What are you doing here?’ heard Anna’s composed voice saying, ‘Good morning, Lawrence.’ That was all she heard before the door banged shut.
‘I got you a life of Somerset Maugham,’ said Anna, the brilliant flush fading into patches on her cheeks. ‘And Noël Coward’s Diaries. And this album of English landscapes which I thought you’d like. I’m going to make you a little lunch, nothing too heavy. Did Lawrence leave a prescription?’
‘I didn’t realize you knew him so well,’ said Mrs Marsh, remembering the use of Christian names, also the very slight discomfiture in Lawrence Halliday’s voice, as if unprepared for the sight of her.
‘Oh, yes. After all,’ she said, in a reasonable tone, ‘he used to look in on my mother. Although we switched to Grantley towards the end.’
‘Grantley has since retired.’
‘Yes, the two older partners left at about the same time, at least within a year or two of each other. That leaves Lawrence. Dr Halliday, I should call him.’
‘I believe he has a young woman joining him, so Phyllis Martin told me. Very wise of him, I should say. The books are excellent, Anna—how I shall enjoy looking at those pictures! I shan’t want anything to eat,’ she added.
But in the kitchen Anna had grilled some bacon and a couple of tomatoes, and arranged them on toast. She had bought a slice of apple strudel from the bakery counter at the supermarket, and made a pot of strong coffee.
‘Why, how unusual,’ said Mrs Marsh. ‘But aren’t you joining me?’
‘No, thank you, Aunt Vera, I’ll have something later.’
The flush, Mrs Marsh noted, had quite gone, leaving an impression of startling whiteness.
‘I’ll just clear away. I’ve cut some brown bread and butter for later—it’s between two plates on the kitchen table. I’ll go to the chemist’s in a minute. Is there anything else you want?’
‘Country Life, perhaps,’ said Mrs Marsh a little drowsily. She was quite looking forward to a quiet afternoon with her thoughts. Anna could now leave her. It would not be proper to speculate about Anna and the doctor in Anna’s presence: it would be too unkind. The poor girl, with her flat figure, blushing like that. As if he would ever look at her! Mrs Marsh was as cruel in her judgements as a woman who has never lost a moment’s sleep over a man can be. He would be frightened by a good woman, she thought agreeably. He needed to be taken over, possessed against his will. Ravished, she thought, with a touch of humour. Poor Anna. But then she probably blushed like that whenever a man spoke to her. With Nick, for example, she was just the same. And she is rather tiresome. Very kind, but somehow one can’t quite relax when she is in the room with one. A man would find her impossible.
‘If you could just put the things through the letter-box,’ she said, her eyes half closing. ‘And of course you’ll let me know how much I owe you.’
She thought she heard, ‘That won’t be necessary,’ felt in the atmosphere that offence had been taken, wondered if she had imagined all or any of this, just managed to remove her glasses and lower them to the side table, and fell into sleep, as if sleep were once more her friend.
When she awoke it was as if she had dreamt the last few days. The room was dark, although when she peered at her watch she saw that it was not yet four. She had an impression of emptiness, of dereliction. Yes, that was it: the flat was empty. Anna had gone, eccentrically, without warning her, as if acting in accordance with a judgement to which Mrs Marsh had no access. No note on the kitchen table, but a tray laid with a cup and saucer, and the bread and butter, as promised, between two plates. Mrs Marsh felt cheered. At last she could enjoy a cup of tea from Beatrice’s pot. And The Times, not yet read. She stumped out into the hall, hardly wincing at all. Yes, there was Country Life, and a small white box which must contain her pills. Very decent of her, she thought. Poor girl. What an impression of loneliness she gives, and yet she never complains. I shall have to ask her to lunch again, perhaps when Philippa next comes up. Philippa is kinder than I am. But at that moment her kettle boiled, and she gave Anna no further thought.
10
ANNA DREAMED THAT she was talking to her mother, who was flushed, animated, and in perfect health. They discussed various matters of an intimate nature, with no constraint on either side. ‘I was very attractive to men,’ said her mother, with a fine smile. ‘Even the doctor … And when I was expecting you I did not put on weight. Only a little here.’ She touched her breast. ‘You will be the same.’ In the dream Anna did not protest, for she felt young and strong. ‘How lovely to see you looking so well,’ she said to her mother. ‘Oh, I was always well in those days,’ her mother replied. There was something coquettish about her, as if she were still prepared to make conquests.
Then what happened? Mother, what happened? Waking with a violent shudder, she wanted urgently to confront her mother and ask her what had led to her long claustration. But my mother is dead, she thought, with immense surprise. She has been dead for months, and we never had this type of conversation. Was she like this before I knew her? And what had she to say to me? How did the dream end? Why was she so vividly present, when, in the daily life I live now, she is so strikingly absent?
The fine smile which her mother had worn in the dream reminded her disagreeably of the time when Ainsworth had been in residence in Albert Hall Mansions, and the very great strain it had been to keep her face and voice calm in the presence of what she considered to be her mother’s folly. Amy Durrant had been rejuvenated by the physical life which had been restored to her, but at the same time it had made her vulnerable, as if she thought it might be withdrawn again at any moment, as indeed it had been. Even Ainsworth had been roused to tenderness by her hectic fragility, though he was a man whose sexual tastes were fairly primitive: he liked to conquer. His contempt for Anna was roused by her nun-like patience about the flat, as if she were determined not to notice the sexual games that were being enacted. To Ainsworth this attitude signified benightedness, to Amy Durrant a precious virginity: in fact it masked disgust, more than disgust, horror. To have to admit the intruder was bad enough: to see her mother so reduced, so grateful was worse. To see her hurry out into the hallway when Ainsworth put his key in the lock, to greet him in silent ardour while closing the drawing-room door behind her so that there should be no witnesses, to whisper, to flush, and to conceal, or to attempt to conceal from her daughter a certain tremulousness, a momentary impression of dishevelment, brought simply to Anna’s face a calm smile, as if she had noticed nothing amiss, no change in their relationship, merely another place to be laid at the table, as if Ainsworth were a guest who had turned up unexpectedly, the duration of whose visit was uncertain. She waited on them at table, willing herself to unreflecting service.
‘Well, Anna, what have you got for us this evening?’ Ainsworth would jovially ask. ‘Something delicious, I’ve no doubt. You’ve taught her wel
l, Amy.’
He did not quite say that she would make a fine wife for someone some day, for she was already long past the age of youthful encounters, but in general it suited them both to treat her as a child, a virtuous and innocent minor who would be unable to comprehend the violent attraction which they had for each other. For the attraction was violent, even perverse. Shamelessly they touched one another: Ainsworth, passing behind Amy’s chair, would bury his face in her neck, while she, her head thrown back, her eyes closed, would surrender, palpitating. Anna, who was sometimes in the room when this happened, could not avoid feelings of shock and sadness. Once, Ainsworth had raised his head from Amy’s throat and his eyes had met Anna’s. His gaze hardened; he had straightened up, removed his hands from Amy’s shoulders, and said, ‘We are shocking your daughter.’ His dislike was manifest.
Her role was to be a neutral presence, expressing neither disappointment nor disdain. Thus had begun the years of concealment, after so many years of trust. She took to spending the evenings in her room, on the pretext of reviewing her almost extinct research project, and in the daytime she managed to be busy, reluctant to witness her mother’s dangerous flightiness, ashamed to be so level-headed in the presence of so much ardour, feeling like a governess or a prison wardress, terrified of what was to come. She knew that her mother was giving Ainsworth money. This was known as ‘investing in George’s business’, and the need for capital was explained by the bankruptcy of his former partner. ‘George has virtually had to start again,’ her mother said happily. ‘But don’t worry, darling, your capital is intact.’ In reply to her questions as to what George’s business actually was, her mother was vague. ‘It is a holding company,’ she said. ‘He has various interests—finance, property …’
‘I thought he was a wine merchant,’ she had said.
‘That is a sideline, darling. When he relaunches the company he will put the wine business side of it under management.’
‘And whose name will this company be in?’
‘George’s, of course. Why are you asking me all these questions?’
‘Perhaps because you are keeping me in the dark.’
Her mother was indignant. ‘There is no concealment, Anna. As I said, your own money is in your name. Perhaps I shan’t be able to leave you as much as I had hoped, but you will be well provided for. In fact George was saying to me the other day that he wondered why you didn’t try to get some sort of a job.’
‘Really? What did he suggest?’
‘Well, something artistic. Interior design, or fashion. After all, I’m quite well now, and anyway I’ve got George to look after me.’
And after your money, thought Anna, whose fears kept her at home, as if George might start selling her mother’s jewellery in her absence. For she had never doubted that he was a crook. His very glossiness counted against him. That well-brushed grey hair, those full frank brown eyes that could narrow so suddenly and so suspiciously, the mobile mouth and the plump connoisseur’s fingers, that air of pre-emptive bustle, the camel-hair coat flapping open over the well-cut grey suit, the immaculate shirt … And where was he going, leaving the house in an aura of scent? For he had sybaritic habits, as if he had been separated from life’s pleasures for far too long. Or as if he had suddenly come into money. Sometimes he tried to behave as a family man, inspired by uncharacteristic prudence, but the effect was parodic. Meeting Anna’s expressionless eyes his own would, just for an instant, imply a sneer. She understood him very well: he came to be a little afraid of her. For although he had obtained money from Amy Durrant there was much that had to be concealed. Questions would be asked, were already being asked, as to premises, office staff, the registered name of the company, for the Durrants’ family solicitor had been strangely obstructive. Telephone calls were made very late at night, yet he received none. And that final day of absence, the front door closing behind him at five in the morning, Amy’s explanation that he had gone abroad on business, and even then her utter belief that he would be back … Over the ensuing days the belief had changed to bewilderment that there was no word from him, and then to fear that there might have been an accident. Then finally a letter came, in a thin foreign envelope, with no forwarding address. Even that was ambiguous: business in Europe would keep him absent for some time, perhaps indefinitely. Amy was not to think of him again. Perhaps it would be better if they rebuilt their lives separately. He said—and this was strange—that he had loved her. Perhaps he had.
The following day Anna had the locks changed, and went to see the solicitor, who shook his head.
‘I’ll put a trace on him, of course,’ he said. ‘But I doubt if much will come of it. I advised your mother against transferring capital, but she wouldn’t listen. Fortunately your own money is intact.’
At the sound of the locksmith hammering Amy Durrant had tearfully accused her daughter of enmity, even of jealousy. Then she retired to bed, distraught. It was not until her solicitor called with the grave news that George Ainsworth had previously been imprisoned for fraud, and that his prison record showed him to have been married to a Marguerite Luthier, a Belgian woman, that she gave up hope and entered into her long decline, restored to her unpartnered state and incurably diminished, so that from that day they began to think of her as menaced.
There followed a period of closeness, but it was not the closeness they had previously known, trusting and unreflective. This was the closeness of fear, of impending tragedy. Anna became her mother’s nurse, her comforter. Not a word of reproach escaped her, for Amy Durrant’s humiliation was too great. Together they confronted the days that remained to them, and now it was to Anna’s hand that Amy clung. She seemed to spend her time consumed with grief for her daughter, as if only now conscious of the wrong she might have inflicted upon her. For she could see now that she had been unthinking, that she had been a corrupting influence. Never had her daughter looked so plain, so immature, her slight figure concealed beneath her bright colours, her make-up heightened to cover her paleness. Her odd bedizened appearance was the outcome of an enormous if misplaced courage. Belatedly, her mother knew this, yearned for her, but was too frightened and too ashamed to open the discussion which they had never had, too careful of her daughter’s dignity to try to justify herself, too uncertain of the degree of her daughter’s experience or lack of experience to trust her possible comprehension, or worse, her look of condemnation. So they had come to an unspoken mutual decision: they would be cheerful, they would be polite, they would love each other unreservedly, but it would not be as it had been before, for there would be shame, and to cover the shame the cheerfulness, the politeness. Neither yielded to confession, and as the months passed, and then the years, they were drawn together by a conspiracy which no-one else could ever enter, each determined to protect the other. In Amy Durrant’s last days they had lived on an exalted plane: the pact had been kept. Each played a not inconsiderable part: how could they relate their experience to the rest of the world? They had an impression of triumph, of constancy rewarded. Odd and archaic as their bond might have been, their anachronistic and exclusive closeness had somehow seen them through. Amy Durrant’s death was easy. Anna had not appeared too stricken, had not collapsed, fallen apart, had a breakdown, as the few people who knew her had predicted, for by that time the circle of their friends and acquaintances had, by their unspoken decision, been voluntarily reduced, and when Anna moved from Albert Hall Mansions it was quite a while before anybody noticed.
She had escaped as from a prison cell, and she was determined never again to be imprisoned. But she was to discover that determination had a great deal to do with it, and that vigilance was needed if she were to enjoy her freedom. She was quite free: her mother’s posthumous letter had given her permission to be free, and if she were ever, by the remotest chance, to run across George Ainsworth again she would walk straight past him without acknowledgement, knowing that her mother had nothing more to fear. For the fearfulness of her mother in her later
years lingered like a stain in her memory: the physical shrinking that had taken place, her startled reaction if the doorbell rang, the way her lips occasionally moved as if she were talking to someone who was not there, as if she were rehearsing a speech to be made on some future occasion—all this overlaid, perhaps for ever, the earlier natural memories of a loving mother, whom widowhood had restored to her essential innocent self. Why then had her mother appeared, in that curious dream, to be so complacent, so frivolous, so unaware of what had happened to her? To be the girl she must once have been, beyond knowledge, beyond all possible memory?
To break her mother’s spell had been the work of a lifetime, and now here she was in yet another disguise to pose additional questions, insinuate further complexities. That strange coquettish look … The more she tried to recapture the dream the more she was aware of a certain slyness, a complacency, the look of a woman to whom conquests came easily. This was both relevant and not relevant, in a manner she had yet to decipher. Quite simply, the dream had left her with a headache, as did most of her dreams these days. Only on the nights when she took a pill was she granted sleep without dreams. How she now longed for that chemical sleep, the depth, the totality of it! Such a sleep seemed preferable to life itself, for life was proving problematic.
Nothing had prepared her for the life she seemed called upon to live, a life in which all choices seemed possible but none desirable. She thought fleetingly of the fantasy she had entertained on Christmas Day, of a house on a street in the centre of France, and the bells which would sound through her renewed days and nights, but in fact this fantasy was overlaid by the memory of Christmas Day itself, and the very real grey streets through which she had walked with such determination. For it was, once more, determination which had seen her through that long day, and the remnants of a good-heartedness to which she clung. In middle life, she knew, the feelings wither slightly, rancour and disappointment replacing earlier hope and expectation. And now that she was in middle life herself she must expect a certain coldness to replace the earlier warmth. Yet she rejected the coldness she now felt, thought it pitiful of her to feel no love simply because she herself was unloved, prized the innocence which had not quite left her, mourned her youth only in so far as it had taken a certain whole-heartedness with it. She reminded herself how fortunate she was, of how she might make her freedom work for her instead of letting it weigh her down. Freedom brought with it anxiety, or should do: choices must perpetually be made. Yet lying in bed on a dark morning, with an aching head, she felt in no way enabled to make choices. Her mind would have been easier had she been in the grip of some iron routine. Once more she regretted her comparative idleness. For her previous life had been one of full employment. Such a person as she had once been was now called a ‘carer’, and no status attached to the work, which was thought to be anonymous. She rejected the label. She had acted out of love and had felt the time well spent. Her present problem was not lack of work but lack of love. With all its complications she had understood her mother’s life and had not rejected any part of it. What they had lived through may have been painful, but in a curious way it had been complete, a complete sentimental education. Now she was left with nothing but superficialities, chill acquaintances, doors shutting behind her retreating figure. The onset of self-pity shamed her and gave her the energy to push back the bed-clothes and reach for her dressing-gown.
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