‘Don’t tell me you’re getting sentimental in your old age.’
‘Remind me how the grades went.’
‘You haven’t forgotten.’ But she slips her hand into his as they stroll out of the Festival Hall and beside the river. The lights on the water are unchanged, timeless, reassuring. He could never live without her but he can never trust her again. Something precious has gone for ever and she doesn’t even know. It’s not the sex that has done it, it’s the sending him away.
‘Wagner and Mozart starred firsts. Beethoven, Brahms and Bach ordinary firsts. Verdi, Sibelius and Schubert upper second. Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky and Puccini lower second.’
‘But Dvorak, Grieg and Schumann got thirds.’
‘Lucky to get them, some say. Had to pull strings.’
‘What about Mahler?’
‘The examiners are going to have another meeting.’
‘Trouble is,’ he says, ‘I seem to prefer the chaps who got lower seconds.’
They go on playing the game all the way back to the parking lot, feeling childish, feeling nostalgic. In the dark of the car he kisses her as if they were teenagers, aware of the unseen presence of that other, the lover, the rival, as keenly as if he were sitting on the back seat watching them, waiting to be given a lift home. He loves her very much and he can’t wait to punish her for betraying him. He drives home with one hand on her knee.
* * *
Richard gives Kate his new address on the first day of term. He waits till everyone else has gone home and she is putting her things together in the empty staff room. It’s been a stressful day and she looks tired. She says, ‘God, one day back and I don’t feel I’ve ever been away, do you?’
He says, ‘I know what you mean.’ He feels quite embarrassed about telling her his news. The only time they have talked about anything personal was when Inge had her miscarriage and Kate was so sympathetic that he felt like a hypocrite.
‘Well, I’m off.’ Kate slings everything in a hold-all and makes for the door.
He says, ‘Oh, by the way, I’ve moved, so I’d better give you this,’ and hands her a piece of paper with his new address and phone number. ‘Just in case you need to get hold of me any time.’
She looks surprised. ‘I didn’t know you were moving. Quite an upheaval, isn’t it? I don’t think I could face it again.’
He hesitates, but he must tell her or sooner or later she will ask about Inge. It will have to come out and he wants to get it over. But he’s afraid she will disapprove of him for leaving his wife so soon after a miscarriage and it will spoil their working relationship.
‘Well, actually, it’s just a room. I’ve moved on my own.’
‘Oh, Richard, I’m sorry.’ Her face softens. ‘What a shock. I don’t know what to say.’
‘Well, we’ve been having problems for a long time and over the holidays we just decided this would be the best thing.’
She looks thoughtful, watching him. ‘Still, it’s never easy is it? Especially with children. It happened to us eighteen months ago and I’ve only just got used to it.’
‘Oh. I didn’t realize.’ He’s surprised. In a year of working with her he’s only heard her mention her husband a few times but never with any hint that they were divorced or separated. She hasn’t spoken much about her children either, so he just assumed she was a naturally discreet person who guarded her privacy.
‘No, well, it’s not something I like talking about,’ she says. ‘You always think it can’t happen to you, don’t you? Until it does.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ he says. He doesn’t like to tell her it’s happened to him twice, and indeed there are times when he can’t believe it himself: it’s so far from what he intended.
‘Oh well,’ she says, ‘I suppose it gives us something more in common with the kids we’re teaching, poor little devils. Not too many happy families there either.’
* * *
‘Hullo?’
He hesitates. It sounds like Helen but it ought to be Sally at this time of day. He hasn’t rung the house since Richard left so he can’t be sure. He attempts to disguise his voice with a Scots accent, always the one he finds easiest, for no particular reason, and has used many times on tiresome husbands who shouldn’t have been there.
‘Is that Helen Irving?’ He’ll have to pretend it’s business if it is and then disconnect himself in mid-sentence. He really doesn’t fancy a conversation with Helen after all this time: he has the feeling she could almost castrate him over the phone. He also doesn’t want to foul up Sally’s Easter vac.
‘No, it’s her daughter. Mum’s at the studio.’
‘Oh, Sally.’ There is something endearing about her public persona, which he would never normally encounter. ‘Your voices are so alike.’
‘Felix.’ She sounds surprised, disconcerted, not altogether pleased. ‘It didn’t sound like you.’
‘No, I was trying to be devious.’
‘Well, that shouldn’t be difficult,’ she says instantly. He’s annoyed with himself for walking right into that one. He must be getting careless. He laughs. ‘Darling, don’t tease me, I’m ringing to invite you to lunch.’
There is a pause, and then she says, ‘After all this time,’ in a small, cold voice.
‘Well, I’ve been busy with the book and I’ve been away. I did send you postcards.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘I got them.’
‘I’ll take you somewhere nice on the river. Shall I pick you up at the end of the street about one o’clock?’
‘Today?’ she says in a shocked tone, as if she had a social secretary.
‘Yes, why not?’
‘I’m busy today. It’ll have to be tomorrow.’
He doesn’t know whether to be amused or offended by this. She probably just wants time to wash her hair, he thinks. But he remembers a time when she would have been eager to see him at no matter how short notice.
‘All right,’ he says. ‘Tomorrow.’
She doesn’t reply and he’s just about to say goodbye when she suddenly asks like a detective pouncing on a suspect, ‘Are you back with Elizabeth?’
He hesitates only slightly, then says, ‘Yes,’ in what he hopes is a cheerful, casual tone.
‘Ah.’
‘Well, I told you it was only temporary.’
‘Must be a great relief,’ she says, with a nasty edge to her voice.
‘It’s certainly nicer than living at the flat.’ He keeps his tone even and relaxed.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ she says.
* * *
It’s a perfect spring day. He drives her down to a riverside hotel where he has booked a room in case she is in the right mood after lunch. It’s hard to tell: she is pleasant but remote, which could mean she is playing hard to get or, equally, gearing up to say goodbye. He doesn’t know her tastes in clothes or music any more, so he has bought her a string of pearls because he thinks it’s about time she has some. On the drive, while they chat about nothing in particular, he imagines her pleasure when he gives them to her and wonders if they will tip the balance in his favour. He’s never had to offer a bribe before and he hopes it won’t look like that now: either way they should be an ideal present, whether for reunion or farewell.
He still wants her, but he no longer knows if it’s desire for her as she is now or nostalgia for the lost Sally or simply as a revenge on Elizabeth. He has such mixed feelings about her, he’s given up hope of disentangling them. She looks older, thinner, more beautiful. She looks like a stranger. He still wants her and yet he knows she’s more trouble than she’s worth and he should have got out long ago. Or rather, he should never have gone back. But it was so tempting.
‘Oh, Richard’s left Inge again,’ she says importantly.
‘Really?’ This is interesting. In fact it’s the first interesting thing she’s said. ‘When?’
‘Don’t know. Recently, I think. I haven’t seen him. Mum told me.’
Felix thinks
over what this could mean to him. ‘Is Helen going to have him back?’
‘No, she’s got someone else. It’s exciting, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ he says cautiously. ‘Very. Who’s she got?’
‘An old painter she used to know when I was little. He’s quite nice but he’s had three wives and five children.’
Perhaps this is why he still desires her, he thinks. Because she reminds him of Helen and he will probably never see Helen again.
‘D’you mean he’s got no spare cash?’
‘No, he’s quite rich apparently. I mean he doesn’t sound very reliable.’
‘Well, that should make a change from Richard.’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Richard turned out pretty unreliable in the end, didn’t he? Leaving Inge twice and leaving Mum and trying to kill you.’
‘Don’t exaggerate,’ he says. ‘A punch on the jaw is hardly attempted murder.’
‘It is when he left you unconscious and didn’t call an ambulance.’
‘Well, I’m still here,’ he says, irritated, ‘alive and well. And it’s not your problem about the old painter.’
‘It is if he makes Mum unhappy. I want her settled. I want her off my hands.’
He laughs. ‘You sound like Mrs Bennet trying to unload one of her daughters.’
‘Maybe that’s how I feel. But it’s not very flattering of you to say so.’
‘Why not? Mrs Bennet is a wonderful character. I’m very fond of Mrs Bennet.’
‘She’s a pain. I think Jane Austen is overrated.’
‘Oh, Sally.’
‘Oh, Sally, what?’
‘That’s like saying Mozart isn’t musical.’
‘He’s overrated too.’
So they are already arguing as they arrive. She looks sullen. It will be too ironic if they end up not going to bed because of Mrs Bennet and Mozart.
He orders champagne, thinking, well, even if it doesn’t help, he’s never known a situation where it made matters worse. They study the menu and sip their drinks while sitting outside on the terrace in the soft spring sunshine. That always lifts his spirits.
‘What perfect weather,’ he says. ‘Reminds me of Cambridge. Our lovely weekend.’
‘That was July,’ she says.
‘Yes, I know. But it’s just the same sort of feeling, sitting by the river on a fine day. And I don’t know any poems about July. But everyone knows “Oh, to be in England now that April’s here”. There’s always a sort of optimism about spring, don’t you think?’ He wants to lighten her mood. ‘D’you realize we’ve known each other properly for two whole years. Or should it be improperly? In the Biblical sense, anyway.’
‘Or “April is the cruellest month,”’ she says predictably.
‘Oh, Sally. Not that again.’
‘Yes,’ she says. ‘That again. We could have a child a year old by now and you’re rabbiting on about the weather. Don’t anniversaries mean anything to you?’
‘Only happy ones,’ he says sadly.
‘I don’t understand you,’ she says. ‘You’re obviously expecting me to enjoy being with you all over again and yet we’ve got all that behind us.’
It’s the only place for it, he thinks, but it wouldn’t help to say so. ‘Can’t you let it go?’ he says. ‘I’m sorry it happened but it was a long time ago.’
‘And it was my fault. That’s what you mean, isn’t it?’
‘Well, you were in charge,’ he says reasonably. ‘If I’d known you were taking a risk I’d have been more careful.’
‘It’s that simple, is it?’
‘Well, those are the facts, aren’t they? I’m sorry, my darling, I’d love to change the past but I can’t.’
‘Even you,’ she says.
The waiter comes and takes their order.
‘D’you know why I keep going on about it?’ she says when they’re alone again. ‘Because I didn’t have a choice. You and Mum just told me what to do and I did it.’
‘You did have a choice,’ he says. ‘You could have told Richard.’
‘Not really,’ she says. ‘I’d have had to have it adopted. Mum didn’t want to bring it up. There was no point in telling him, not once I knew you wouldn’t leave Elizabeth. I didn’t want to make him angry with you for nothing. I’m not spiteful. But if we’d stayed together and had the baby he wouldn’t have been so angry.’
‘You wouldn’t have liked life with me and a baby,’ he says. ‘You honestly wouldn’t.’
‘You mean you wouldn’t,’ she says. She sounds fierce. ‘I’d like to have had a choice, that’s all. And I’d like to have felt that someone was putting me first for a change.’
‘By someone you mean me,’ he says. ‘Do you?’
‘No one has ever put me first,’ she says.
‘I should have thought Helen has put you first for twenty years. Isn’t that what mothers are supposed to do?’ But not mine, he thinks.
‘No. Her work. And now it’s this man.’ She pauses. ‘I’m sorry, I’m ruining our lunch, aren’t I? I don’t know why I keep doing this. I can’t seem to leave it alone. I keep thinking I’ve finished and I never have.’
‘We’d better go inside,’ he says. ‘They must be nearly ready for us. And it’s clouding over.’
They eat wonderful food in a half-empty dining-room overlooking the river. He watches drops of rain splashing into the water. April showers, he thinks, and the Disney tune sparkles up from his memory bank along with the cheerful cartoons. He thinks how much he hates gloom, how futile it is, when they’re all going to die in a few years and should be concentrating on having a good time. Gather ye rosebuds. Carpe diem. Think positive. All these philosophies are the same really, he reflects, ancient and modern. Mankind hasn’t really come up with anything original to counteract the one undeniable unbearable fact of death. He smiles at her encouragingly.
‘And my father left and Richard left and you left,’ she says.
‘I didn’t leave,’ he says. ‘I’m here now, aren’t I?’
‘Not really,’ she says.
‘In that case I’d better give you this,’ he says. ‘As proof of my presence.’ And he hands her the slim parcel of pearls.
She stops eating and unwraps it slowly. ‘My God,’ she says. ‘Are they real?’
‘Well, they’re cultured, not wild. They’re not fake, if that’s what you mean.’
‘They’re beautiful,’ she says.
He puts them on for her and she admires herself in the mirror.
‘You’re very good at presents,’ she says. ‘You’ve given me so many lovely things.’
‘Well, it gives me pleasure.’
‘Is this to make up for last time?’ she asks. ‘It was so horrid last time.’
‘I was limp,’ he says bluntly, irritable at being reminded. ‘It happens to everyone.’
‘I didn’t mean that,’ she says. ‘But you didn’t want me. You were sad about Elizabeth.’
‘We’ve been married a long time.’ He can’t think what else to say: it’s like trying to tell a blind person about the sea.
‘I suppose you’ve booked a room here, just in case,’ she says.
‘Yes. Why not? I’m an optimist.’
‘What did you tell them?’
‘That we were changing planes and couldn’t bear to stay at Heathrow.’
‘Will they believe you?’
‘I shouldn’t think so but it doesn’t matter. It’s just something to say.’
‘Where’s our luggage?’
‘At the airport, of course.’
‘I wish we could have had a proper holiday,’ she says. ‘With real luggage, gone somewhere hot. Or to Venice. We talked about that once, d’you remember?’
‘Well, we still can.’
‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘Don’t you see, Felix, I’m trying to say goodbye?’
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I rather thought you were.’
There are tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t know wh
y it’s so hard,’ she says, ‘when I’m so angry with you for not loving me enough. Well, for not loving me at all really.’
‘Oh, come on,’ he says, ‘that’s not true.’
‘I know I’ve been horrible to you every time we’ve met for the last year. I know I’ve been unfair. It was my fault what happened. So why can’t I say goodbye?’
‘It’s because we still fancy each other rotten,’ he says gently.
‘Oh,’ she says, ‘is that all it is?’
‘Goodbye is quite hard to say anyway,’ he explains. ‘Even to someone you don’t really like. It’s a bit like dying. It’s too final. You don’t want to do it till you absolutely have to.’
‘Well, I absolutely have to. I’m in love with my tutor and he doesn’t have a wife.’
‘I’m glad,’ he says, ‘if that’s what you want.’ He wonders if she is lying.
‘Don’t you even care? Aren’t you even upset?’
‘I’m very upset but that won’t make you change your mind, will it?’ He thinks how he will never get used to the eddy of feelings, loss and relief and anger, all swirling into each other and getting confused, how two people are never quite ready to part at exactly the same time.
She manages a wan smile. ‘Do I have to give back the pearls?’
‘No, of course not,’ he says. ‘Wear them with my love.’
‘That word,’ she says.
* * *
They drive back without speaking, leaving the room unused. In the car he puts on some music, Bach; he wants something measured to fill the aching silence, but she switches it off. When he stops at the end of her street she suddenly says, ‘It’s funny, but I could make love to you now.’
‘Then do,’ he says. ‘Come back to the flat, or another hotel. Just to say goodbye properly. I could make it really special today. That will take all the pain out of it, I promise you. Let’s end on a good note.’
‘No,’ she says. There are tears in her eyes again. ‘I could but I’m not going to.’
She gets out of the car without kissing him and runs towards her house. He doesn’t watch her go; he drives off at once and is out of sight before she reaches the door.
A Gift of Poison Page 18