‘Julia,’ I said, accepting a cup of tea. ‘Do you ever hear from your brother? Where is he now?’
‘No, I haven’t heard for a little while,’ she said, but tenderness struggled with grief and broke out in a reminiscent smile. ‘Oh, I’m sure he’s all right. At least, he couldn’t wait to take himself off.’
‘Where is he?’ I repeated.
‘He lives in Spain,’ she said. ‘In Mijas. We went there once on holiday, when we were little. He must have remembered it. It was quite unspoilt in those days. We had such a lovely holiday—but of course that was a long time ago.’
‘Why don’t you go and visit him?’ I asked.
‘Because he doesn’t want me to,’ she said.
‘But Julia, how do you know that if you haven’t spoken to him?’
‘He could have invited me, couldn’t he?’ Fierce hurt was in her voice, as if this were the only subject that had preoccupied her in the past weeks or months or even years. Rage made her voice uneven, but it was the rage of childhood, hot and tearful and mixed with disappointment.
‘You could always invite yourself,’ I said gently. ‘People do, you know. They say that they’ll be passing through and that they’d love to look in. It’s done all the time.’
‘I could never contemplate such a thing,’ she said, with a return of something of her old grandeur.
‘But don’t you want to see him again?’ I asked.
With those words an incredible thing happened: tears came into her eyes, into those adamantine eyes whose gaze fell so pitilessly on others. Without waiting for her reply I took from Pearl’s outstretched hand the piece of paper on which I read a long telephone number: this could only be Spain. I dialled it and waited; after a few seconds a languid voice answered, so like Julia’s own that I nearly gasped with surprise. ‘Do forgive me,’ I said. ‘You sound so like Julia. I’m with her now. I think she’d like to speak to you.’ I handed over the receiver and retired into the background with Pearl. I just heard Julia say, ‘Gerald?’ with a girlish intonation of eagerness, saw her tilt her head provocatively, and then I vanished into the kitchen to do the washing up. It seemed indelicate to stay.
When I went back, ten minutes later, Julia and Pearl were already at the whisky, shakily congratulating each other.
‘Such exciting news, Fay, dear,’ said Pearl. ‘Julia’s going to Spain.’
‘Excellent,’ I said, picking up and sorting out the pages of The Times. ‘When are you going?’
‘You’re very anxious to get rid of me,’ said Julia, in her normal tones, and then I knew it would be all right.
Once we had settled on a date, and Pearl had promised to stay with her while she made her preparations, and I had arranged a car to take us to the airport, there was a general air of relief, even of tearfulness. We were all aware that this was a leave-taking. Julia would walk out of the flat with a magnificent disregard for what she left behind. Quite clearly I should have to deal with whatever business remained undone, but it seemed a small price to pay. There was, after all, no reason for her to stay. Far from leaving home, she was going home, back to childhood, back to her first affection.
‘He was always the one I loved the best,’ she said, with the honesty that never failed to shock me. She left one in no doubt that she recognized the implications of what she had said, or even that she had acted upon them once, long ago, when such games seemed innocent. ‘Where the apple reddens never pry, Lest we lose our Edens, Eve and I.’ I thought those words so sad when I first read them, as if a woman’s love were hedged about with danger and with sorrow. And the words were a warning to the unwary, for nothing is straightforward in this life, however ardently one desires it, the one true outcome. On this day of days, with both of our futures decided, I felt a grief that was not merely personalized but general, and an unwilling solidarity with all female destinies. Cast aside now, no longer suitable as partners, we could only rely on alliances forged long ago. The old law, the commandment to go forth and multiply, was still the best, the only one that could stand the test of time. But for those who had not obeyed the commandment, or had mismanaged it, there was little on offer. One could seek solutions, but the solutions were not always forthcoming, or available. One should not lose heart, though this was difficult. One should—one must—remember that it was difficult for everybody. Inroads were constantly being made, the will under permanent threat from the mortal body.
I thought of Alan Carter, who could have preserved me from this knowledge and who had not done so. From neglect, from refusal, from lack of imagination: it no longer mattered. One could not love such a man, and therefore further meetings, if there were to be any, would be inconsequential, insignificant. One longed for, fought for, significance, and a certain respect. Only the fortunate do not feel the lack of such commodities. Walking home, under the still churlish sky, which was already darkening into winter, I thought indifferently of the empty kitchen that awaited me. There was nothing to eat, and I lacked the heart to buy food and to cook it only for myself.
On an impulse I turned and went back to Onslow Square. ‘I’m taking you both out to dinner,’ I announced. Both looked at me in astonishment, but I was not in a mood to brook refusal. ‘Where would you like to go?’ I asked. ‘The Savoy Grill used to be quite good,’ said Julia, who rallied first. ‘Or the Caprice.’ Pearl was already in her coat: the prospect of further hospitality lightened her heavy features, drawn by the afternoon’s events and the fatality that hung over them. ‘We’ll find something nearby,’ I said firmly. ‘Then we’ll put Pearl into a taxi. She can take a taxi home. Yes you can,’ I said, in the face of her as yet unuttered protests. ‘The Savoy Grill will have to wait, I’m afraid. This will just be the three of us. Nothing to dress up for.’
‘True,’ said Julia. ‘Pointless to go to such places without a man.’ She looked agitated at the idea of venturing out, but disappeared into the bedroom and reappeared ten minutes later wearing an entirely new and rather too heightened make-up. ‘After all, we are only three old women.’ Swiftly she stuffed cigarettes and a lighter into her bag.
‘Even old women have to eat,’ I said, turning out lights.
‘Oh, leave them on,’ Julia said, with a magnificent gesture. ‘I’m done with turning out lights. I’m finished with all that. And with Maureen. And with Mrs Wheeler. Not that she’ll ever come back.’
‘And with me?’ I asked. ‘Are you finished with me?’
We were standing at the front door, almost anxious for her reply.
‘You’re not a bad little thing,’ she said, carelessly, but with Julia nothing was unplanned. ‘Silly, like all women. But I doubt if there was ever any harm in you.’
So ended my thraldom. This partial reconciliation, if that was what it was, eased some of my pain. We had a surprisingly agreeable evening. We found an Italian restaurant, or rather we went in search of one of which I had already heard. Julia, between us, each of us gripping an arm, made unsteady progress, but it was progress of a sort and we were disproportionately delighted with her. We drank a lot, and our faces flushed, no doubt unbecomingly. There comes a time when one lets go, or gives in, and we had reached that time. We drank wine like old lags and ate ice cream like girls. Assuaged, eyes bright, lipstick smudged, we sat back and nodded at each other in recognition. Around us young couples went through their courting rituals. We recognized those too. With a sympathetic yet satirical eye we watched them, undeterred by good manners. It was they who became self-conscious, I noted.
‘Such a funny way they do their hair now,’ said Pearl. ‘All that frizz.’
‘No style at all,’ agreed Julia, although I thought the girls looked very pretty. The young men seemed to me cool, cruel, talkative, although I knew that they were uncertain as to how the evening would end, whether the old rules still applied. For us there was no longer any uncertainty. Waiters looked alarmed as we staggered to our feet, then respectful when they saw the size of the exorbitant tip. The night air hit us li
ke a blow in the face. Pearl laughed weakly. I was quite glad I was near home. Of the three of us Julia was easily the one most in command. ‘Rather an amusing evening,’ she said, surprised to have enjoyed herself so much.
We saw her back to Onslow Square, and then I put Pearl into a taxi. Suddenly I was on the pavement, alone, in a deserted street. A full moon shone fitfully through shifting cloud. The next moon would be the hunter’s moon, the golden moon, the most beautiful of the year. And after that? Better not to think. I walked very slowly back to Drayton Gardens, past the silent garage and the locked-up hairdresser’s. I was no longer dismayed. A sadness had settled on me, but it was devoid of fear. I made a note to myself not to drink too much too often, but I was not uncomfortable. In the flat I drank glass after glass of water, then prepared for bed. I told myself that there was nothing to prevent me from inviting Alan Carter to dinner. If Julia had reminded me, that afternoon, of Miss Havisham, from whose fate I had rescued her, then I should have a sporting shot at being Estella. I should invite Alan Carter to dinner, and then I should break his heart.
For I had not yet said what I might have said. I had not yet mocked his coldness, his so carefully devised opacity. I had it in my power to leave him shaken, shocked. Whether I did this or not I still had it in my power to do so. This knowledge cheered me, added a little decisiveness to my thoughts. Waking in the night and stumbling into the kitchen for yet another glass of water, I knew that when the time came, if it ever came, I should say none of these things. Yet there remained with me the enticing knowledge that I might say them if I wished, and that he, all unsuspecting, would never know just how tenuous was his self-esteem, which to him had always been more important than my own. Maybe this weakness was already known to him. The difficulty of his position would be enhanced by the fact that I now knew it too.
On the following day, although I felt slightly hollow, and had to do battle with a considerable headache, I noted that a certain anxiety had left me, and with it many ghosts, past and present. I no longer thought of myself and my own life as once I had. What had happened to me had at last become irrelevant. I looked around me with a clearer eye, no longer wistful and appeasing, but, rather, inclined to have expectations, even demands. I had at last caught up with my real age, and although I was fully prepared to play the part of an old lady I felt younger in my own mind. There were to be no more indulgences; what strength I had—and I still had quite a lot—must be conserved to protect me against whatever illness might come to put an end to all speculation. I knew at last that the inevitable would happen to me, and that neither love nor friendship would be my protection. Naturally I should, given the chance, have wished for a hand to hold mine at the end, but it seemed that this was not to be. I hoped that I should have the courage to be exacting, querulous, formidable when the time came. Somehow I did not have the patience for good behaviour any more, and I felt all the better for having lost it.
Pearl had moved into Julia’s flat and was almost as happy as she had been in those early days, when the two of them conspired to make Julia an unforgettable stage presence. We kept in touch: an unexpected mood of comradeship had descended on the three of us, and even Julia would telephone me at the end of the day to tell me what she had decided to pack. This preoccupation, and the ministrations of her former dresser, restored something of the authority of her younger days, and she no longer felt the need to snub and belittle, as disappointment and frustration had inclined her to do. After her long claustration she woke to a new effectiveness and was determined to give a final performance. Her voice even held a note of hope. I thought that praiseworthy, for I did not know what sort of a welcome awaited her in Spain. It might be that she would be forced to return to Onslow Square, yet she behaved as if she were never coming back, and I had the conviction that I should never see her again. This conviction was strong, so that all her preparations, of which I was kept informed, had an air of finality. I did not know what would happen to the flat, nor did it much bother me not to know, for I felt that Julia had the matter in hand. If it suited her to give one final performance then I should respect her wishes. Others could deal with the details. I did not know who these others might be, but the shades of managers and agents seemed to be summoned up simply by virtue of her determination to be gone. I busied myself with tickets and timetables and recounted the information in those nightly telephone calls which had now become standard practice. I even arranged a wheelchair, for I thought she might be overcome with weakness when the moment came. Even if the chair were not needed it seemed to me that Julia might accept it as a prop, and one that would enable her to make an unusual exit.
Her plane was to leave at midday. The weather was cold but clear, with a hint of sun behind the ever present cloud. When I got to Onslow Square I found Julia looking exceedingly pale and exceedingly chic, in a light grey suit, with a fur coat over her arm. Mountains of luggage were stacked in the hall, which now looked frankly neglected. In the drawing-room the light struck dully on the acid yellow and white, colours which were in any event intolerable under an English sky. Pearl had made coffee, which we drank, thoughtfully, unable to think of much to say. I did not ask Julia for her last instructions, for I did not intend to carry them out, whatever they were. I viewed the prospect of newspapers and letters piling up with absolute equanimity. I washed up the cups and put them away, aware of dust even in the kitchen. ‘Keep your keys,’ I said involuntarily. ‘In case you need to collect anything.’
I had ordered a car and Julia was sufficiently mistress of herself and the occasion to charm and dazzle the driver into carrying all the suitcases down. A flicker of excitement had brought a little colour into her pale cheeks. I thought it would be fitting if we could recapture something of the spirit that had visited us in the restaurant, but that was not to be. Our journey to Heathrow was passed in silence, although Julia was able to express sympathy with the driver over his various complaints: in the end theirs was the only conversation. Pearl was badly affected, I could see. For her the adventure was over. I was quite calm, but preferred to keep my thoughts to myself. I gazed out of the window at the hideous landscape, and began to plan a trip myself. Fiesole, I thought, or Istanbul. There would be no one to see me off, but I should have to get used to that, used to wandering around with a guidebook, or sitting alone in a café: a mute life, no longer subject to modification.
At the airport dread descended on us. Pearl and I struggled with the luggage while Julia tried to maintain a regal presence. I could see how hard she struggled, and I willed her to succeed. We had to say goodbye before we were ready to do so, for the attendant was already present with the wheelchair. This may have been providential; the strain was beginning to tell on us. ‘Goodbye,’ I cried, although the crowd was so dense and the noise so distracting that I doubted whether she could hear me. Pearl was already in tears, while I was nearly incapacitated by a mixture of anxiety and relief. ‘Goodbye!’ I shouted, behind the backs of people pushing trolleys. ‘Goodbye, Julia. Good luck.’ As if in answer her hand was briefly raised. She did not look back.
I took Pearl back to the café, sat her down, and let her cry. ‘It’s for the best,’ I said, and then I remembered that that was what people said to grieving relatives after a death in the family. ‘It had to happen this way,’ I amended. ‘Just think! In three hours’ time Julia will be in the sun.’ Nevertheless we felt diminished, and we clung together as we made our way to the taxi rank. I brought her back with me and made a strong pot of tea: neither of us felt like eating. We spent the afternoon together, as if we were recovering from a deep shock. Fortunately it was the day I did not go to the office. ‘Do you think she’ll telephone when she arrives?’ asked Pearl anxiously. ‘I’m sure she will,’ I assured her. ‘Then I’d better get home and wait for her call,’ she said. ‘To tell you the truth, Fay, I’m rather tired. I’m quite looking forward to being in my little flat again.’
As I was. Julia had done this for us, she had reconciled us with the i
nevitable. The evening darkened outside the windows as I thankfully drew the curtains and put on the lights. I promised myself little treats—television, an early night. These were now to be my lot. But, for the moment at least, I was thankful, thankful to grow old unobserved. Tomorrow I might feel differently. But then tomorrow is always another day.
SEVENTEEN
SHE NEVER CAME BACK. Whether this was from pride, as I suspected, or because she had been made genuinely welcome we never discovered. All the news we had of her was contained in the messages on two postcards, which we examined with a care which would not have disgraced a couple of paleographers. Pearl’s card said, ‘Arrived safely. Weather marvellous. Love, Julia.’ Mine, which was more mysterious but more affecting, stated, ‘Should auld acquaintance … Regards, Julia.’ There was no address. Thus she had effectively put herself out of reach.
For a little while this was a torment. The ghost of Julia, whom nothing escaped except the correct interpretation of what she saw, looked on sardonically as I, a plump spry figure, pretended to myself that all was well. In some secret depth, the depth to which I consigned unbidden truths, I knew that she was merely tolerated by her brother and his friend, that she was having to adapt herself to their grudging and ambivalent company, that the green paradise of childhood loves was effectively cancelled, and that there were no happy endings. At least, I thought, as if to reassure or comfort myself, she will have servants and the warmth of the sun. And then I shrugged at my continuing and guilty concern. Julia was no worse off than the rest of us. I thought of my old people on the telephone to me at the office, unable to get out, to shop or feed themselves, sometimes suffering from painful conditions, and dependent on the likes of Mrs Harding and myself for a little cheer. I thought of Pearl, sad-eyed and trusting, marooned in her tiny flat in a suburb which held no charm for her, brooding on her memories in which her grandchildren expressed no interest. Last of all I thought of myself, growing old alone, with all hope gone.
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