Strangers Page 10

For once he made no inspection of her surroundings, indifferent, perhaps for the first time, to houses and their contents. He settled her into a chair, went in search of a glass of water, which she drank gratefully.

  ‘I’ve tired you,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Everything tires me. Not just you, Paul. Don’t stay. I’m sure you want to get on.’

  ‘What will you do when I’ve gone?’

  ‘Watch television, I suppose. Oh, don’t look like that. I’ll telephone you if I need anything.’

  ‘And will I see you again next week?’

  ‘Why not? And don’t forget, if you feel like a break you can visit me in France.’

  On his way home he decided that he was no more at fault than usual. He remembered that she was always adept at dismissing those whose company she no longer desired. He remembered her sudden changes of colour in the past and had thought them evidence of a powerful temperament. Now that she was no longer young she pleaded poor health, obtaining the same result.

  ‘What do women want?’ Freud had asked. And if Freud had no answer, what hope was there for the rest of them? He imagined legions of exasperated men asking themselves the same question and finding no answer. He felt a certain exasperation himself, and this was welcome. Surely women wanted to be loved – but why only women? Presumably Sarah had adapted to the needs of her own situation, had found the sort of man to whom she need not surrender her will. She and her husband had had a good time, as she said, without ever asking themselves if they wanted more. They had thus achieved a life which suited them, left them undisturbed, even undisclosed, and thus avoided the questions to which he was still trying to find answers. If there were any answers, which he now doubted. ‘Monsieur, il ne faut pas partir d’ici,’ had said that man in Paris when he had asked directions. But to question his younger self seemed so retrograde as to appear absurd, distasteful. And for his present solitude he had only himself to blame. At least that was what his mother would have said. He had been impressed by Sarah’s dismissal of her own mother-in-law, as if such attachments could be cancelled unilaterally. But she had always had the assurance, and presumably he had come into the same category as the tiresome mother-in-law, whose frustration with her son’s wife had no doubt been as painful as rejection had been to him. It had made him excessively cautious, as if his own longing were at fault. Every woman he had met after that rejection had wondered why he had not lived up to his masculinity, his material situation, and had drawn her own conclusions, blaming them both, and for the wrong reasons. He had rejected the idea of marriage, let alone of a happy marriage, had realized that his basic desires would not be met, and had retreated into an amiable distance. This at least had had the effect of sparing him further accusations. In the face of such blandness no woman could feel justified in finding fault with him. He fulfilled certain requirements, and apparently required nothing for himself. The success with which he had effected this transformation made life easier, but did nothing to assuage his own solitude. To have no one to blame but himself, as his mother would have said, seemed to him a poor result for a life of unavailing effort.

  Never had his flat appeared more inhospitable, as if it had received no visitors in decades. This was more or less the case. Only Mrs Gardner had found her way in, more or less welcome at the time but now appearing rather more of a nuisance than she had originally. He surveyed his sitting-room, which he had once furnished with a sense of entitlement, recalling the purchase of that chair, that table, as if he were at last his own man. The bedroom was and had remained disappointing, more so now that it was home to Mrs Gardner’s bag. He had shared it intermittently with various partners, and notably, long ago, with Sarah. But those days were over; he was likely to remain undisturbed. That was the cruel fate of the elderly; he had seen it in Helena’s pretence of social activity, which had revealed itself as nothing more than that. In truth the only person with whom he remained on equal terms was Sarah. With her he had a partner of sorts. They were still able to speak their minds to one another without causing offence. It was even slightly amusing to discover that they could recapture a certain familiarity. Without the burden of courtship he had felt a certain freedom in her company. Her invitation, careless though it had been, made a certain sense. Care would be taken not to annoy her further, just as she might in turn no longer wish to reproach him for the mistakes of the past, mistakes into which he had been led by the faults in his own nature. In the sun they might discover a friendship, or at least a friendliness that had been lacking. And if she were unwell he would minister to her – but not too much. It would be important to set limits to this. If he had to pay a price for his solitude he would see that in future it would take the character of independence. True solicitude, the kind he had made a point of showing to others, must now be redirected. This was a novel, even a revolutionary idea. He did not yet see how it could be implemented, but he would make it his business to find out.

  15

  He decided that he was not cut out to be a householder. Although he had always registered a strong desire for a space to call his own, the walls surrounding such a space were a matter of indifference to him, almost an irrelevance. Each arduous purchase had left him unsatisfied. Yet again, the idea of an hotel entered his mind. The ideal hotel, wherever it might be, should be in the centre of a great city. He must be able to step out into a radiant morning and return in the blue haze of early evening. After this vision the idyll faded somewhat, or perhaps imagination gave out. What business would he have in that city? How would the intervening hours be spent? Better, surely, to be safe at home, with no one to call him to account. Cocooned by an absence of witnesses, he was nevertheless in need of an audience, and of companions who knew him so intimately that he need never explain himself. Yet the image of anonymity, of which the hotel was the symbol, pursued him, much as his earlier memories of the old house had pursued him, until they died of their own accord.

  The image came to him again, as did the conviction that he must change if he were to make his remaining time tolerable. How this was to be achieved was unclear. It came in the form of an energy which occasionally disturbed his habitual sense of loss. He had limited – very limited – choices. He could move house. He now had an additional property, and additional money. He could move into Helena’s flat and discover a new neighbourhood. But he knew that he would soon become restless: the problem of the enclosing walls would soon return. He could marry one of the two women whom chance had put in his way. This had certain advantages, but equally certain disadvantages. If he married Sarah he would have to live with the verdict on his character which she had so unhesitatingly delivered. He would have to live with her poor health, whether real or imaginary, and thus condemn himself to a lifetime of care. This was well within his capabilities but no more attractive than his own condition, which, as time progressed, would claim all his attention. Or he could marry Mrs Gardner, with whom he was barely compatible. The advantage of this was nebulous but persuasive. Should any accident befall him – and this was increasingly likely, given his age – she would use her not inconsiderable initiative in contriving favourable circumstances, would commission doctors, specialists, private treatments, would appoint nurses, housekeepers, and thus to a certain extent care for him. His money would ensure her loyalty. This thought, grim but practical, seemed the more pragmatic choice, though he knew that both parties would enter into it with a reluctance that would soon become evident. He was surprised to discover that Mrs Gardner had the edge in these deliberations, though for the time being, since he was well enough to look after himself, there was no need to take this idea seriously. The novelty of her presence would soon translate into a subdued but persistent irritation. He had only to remember that he would never know precisely where she was to dismiss the matter out of hand. His memory was good, too good. The charm of their first real encounter, outside Florian’s, had subsided quickly enough, and been replaced by various frustrations, the most tangible of which was the bag
he had frequently to displace in his unavailing effort to disregard it.

  This resolution was helped on its way by a telephone call from Sarah, cancelling their next meeting. She was not well, she said. Obediently he made searching enquiries.

  ‘Oh, don’t fuss, Paul. I’ve been having bad nights. I don’t sleep well.’

  ‘Nights can be rather frightening. Do you take anything?’

  ‘I have various pills, but they don’t always work. They leave me rather disorientated.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?’

  ‘No, no. I’ll just have a quiet day.’

  ‘Ring me if you need anything.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll see you soon.’

  ‘Well, you’ve got my number. I should go easy on the pills, if I were you.’

  He replaced the receiver thoughtfully. The truth was that their idyll was over. Time had overtaken them both, and no pill could remedy this state of affairs. He remembered the vibrant woman she had been, impatient with his moderate manners, striding ahead when they were out together, and always sharp in her judgements. She had been striking, not quite beautiful, but beautiful to him, lithe, almost feral in her movements. She had seemed to him to be more in touch with nature than anyone he had ever known. Now nature had deserted her. Or maybe nature had taken over. Her nights, she said, were uneasy, she who had always slept like a cat. She had leaned on him, readily accepting his proffered arm. Her tongue was as sharp as ever; that at least had not changed. But the rest was subject to change, and its inroads were perceptible to both of them. They had passed the stage of knowing each other’s bodies as intimately as they knew their own. Now they were victims of the secret disgraces of advancing age, and could no longer claim to know each other as they once had.

  By contrast Mrs Gardner seemed almost unassailable, jetting across the Atlantic on a whim, living in other people’s houses, and shored up by a sense of personal immunity which was an object of fascination. She would not suffer from night fears, and in her presence he would soon forget his own. She would dismiss his occasional weaknesses, look at him in surprise if he confessed to feeling tired, or perhaps not look at him at all, her attention permanently elsewhere. Her indifference would be therapeutic, a saving grace. He alone would know the truth of the matter, the calculations on both sides, and in due course these would cease to be relevant. And they had no memories in common, and thus no means of evaluating the past. There could be virtue in that alone.

  A sign of his own advancing age was that he had begun to admire all the wrong qualities: vigour, triumphalism, egotism, and what was once condemned as brute force. These, however questionable, were unmistakably Darwinian, and more enjoyable than passive good behaviour. He now dismissed the injunction to turn the other cheek as mere foolishness. What purpose was served by selflessness, when, theoretically at least, it was possible to satisfy one’s own interests? With the inevitable waning of physical strength came a corresponding desire to appreciate cruder qualities, particularly those he had never possessed, or perhaps had overlooked in his well-regulated progress through life. Sarah had been correct in condemning him as ‘good’. Goodness was not an evolutionary goal. If he had succeeded in anything it was in fulfilling the requirements of others, as he had been instructed to do. Moral education was right to wage war on instinct, but instinct too had its rights. As it was, having resigned himself to behaving well, he was only able to appreciate evidence of more primal qualities in others. Sarah’s undeniable willingness to condemn, Mrs Gardner’s refusal to meet expectations he saw as safeguards. Both women exerted an attraction that was very nearly subversive. The spectacle alone deserved recognition.

  Along with this discovery, or perhaps concomitant with it, went an aversion to anything which did not yield immediate results. The attraction, as opposed to the disincentive, of marriage, was that it could be done in record, or at least foreseeable time, so that the future would have a recognizable shape, would put an end to speculation and achieve a state of permanence. Not only that but a guarantee of safe-keeping. Along with this magical thinking came the conviction that his plan was entirely plausible. It was only when he examined more closely the characters of those involved that he knew that it was out of the question. But the realization did not bring closure. To be returned to himself seemed a condemnation of all his past. Yet this too was unavoidable. The shadow of a possible decision lingered in his mind, fantasmal though it now appeared.

  Out in the blessedly normal street these considerations appeared ludicrous, as if prompted by an access of fever. He put them resolutely out of his mind, as if they had been suggested by someone else, some well-meaning but over-insistent friend. Neither of these women had shown any real feeling for him, and indeed he thought of them as strangers, as they now were. Fortunately they were both so absorbed in their own lives that they were likely to leave him alone. But alone he was all too free to contemplate an empty future, one in which he would probably need help of some kind, and in which, ideally, he could count on someone else to provide it. There was no solution to this problem. Even the prospect of returning to his old habits was now hedged with uncertainty. He could no longer tolerate his own company. Even the prospect of boring, and being bored by, somebody else, seemed preferable to the habitual sameness of his own thoughts. If only he could fall in love again! Only in that climate of urgency could he make decisions. But this was no longer possible. He was left with reason, which, at his stage of life, would propel him in directions which were uncertain, and which he would have to negotiate alone.

  The weather was fine, his mood gradually adjusted itself to his circumstances, and he pursued his normal itinerary as unthinkingly as if he had been programmed to do so. He was free of obligations: that at least he acknowledged. He might ring Sarah, but decided not to. He was all too aware of her uncertain temper; with Sarah he still retained a vestige of pride which he was not inclined to forgo. They would no doubt resume their meetings in a week or two’s time, resume too a certain sense of entitlement which they had always enjoyed with one another. There was too much in their past to be overlooked, but, he thought, a crowded past did little to relieve an empty present. That was his dilemma, as it was no doubt the dilemma of all those who reached his age, the age at which only one thing in the future was ascertainable. And that did not bear thinking about.

  At home he settled down with a selection of books, not really inclined to read any of them. He was startled when the telephone rang, and more than resigned when he heard the familiar greeting.

  ‘Hello, hello.’

  ‘Vicky. You’re back. That was a brief visit.’

  ‘To tell you the truth it didn’t work out as I had planned. I thought I might drop in on you if you’re not too busy.’

  ‘But of course. Come as soon as you like. I shall be in all afternoon.’

  ‘I’m round the corner.’

  ‘Then come straight away. I’ll make some coffee.’

  He had thought himself no more than resigned to her company, even amused by it, was almost grateful for the interruption. He was less grateful when he saw that she had brought with her a hold-all, slightly, but only slightly, smaller than the one encumbering his bedroom. He decided to make no reference to this: she might, after all, be en route to yet another friend, and he had no desire to put ideas into her head.

  ‘So you cut your visit short?’

  She pulled a face. ‘People are so difficult, aren’t they? So I’m homeless again.’

  Yet she looked untroubled by this announcement. In fact she looked energized by it, on her mettle. She drank her coffee appreciatively, cleared the plate of biscuits, and lit a cigarette.

  ‘So I got in touch with my ex. It’s his fault, after all, that I’m in this fix.’

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘No, not really. We’ll meet for a drink some time. That was the best he could suggest. So I wondered…’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Vicky. There’
s no room here, as you can see.’

  She looked shocked. ‘Good heavens, did you think I meant… No, it was just my things. I can’t carry them around all day.’

  ‘What did you plan to do?’ His voice was gentler than he had intended it to be. She did indeed appear puzzled, as if not quite understanding his reluctance.

  ‘Oh, I’m meeting up with someone I used to know. There might be a job in it. If not…’ She made an expressive gesture with her hands. ‘It’s in the lap of the gods.’

  ‘I’ve got a better idea,’ he heard himself say. ‘I know of a place where you can stay. Why don’t I show it to you tomorrow? Then we can take your bags – both of them – with us. You’re free tomorrow morning, I take it? Then I’ll give you breakfast, and then we’ll be on our way.’

  16

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘West Hampstead.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he said, in the face of her obvious reluctance. That she had not been in a good mood had been noticeable since her arrival for breakfast. She had been late, which had given him time to have the keys copied. Now, as he viewed her set face, set in obstinate profile as they traversed London, he acknowledged that the plan was his and his alone and might not necessarily find favour.

  ‘I own a flat there. You’re very welcome to stay there as long as necessary.’

  ‘I don’t know anyone round there. All my friends live in central London. Chelsea. Or Belgravia.’

  He had reason to doubt this, although her whereabouts were usually a matter of speculation. However, she seemed to turn up so regularly on his doorstep that he had to assume that her headquarters, if she had any, were in the vicinity of his flat. Somehow the subject was, or remained, out of bounds. New York was the nearest she had ever come to a specific location. Otherwise it had been a matter of staying with friends who apparently had neither names nor telephone numbers. Not that there was any reason why she should enlighten him, determined as she was to retain her elusive status. He had to admire her ingenuity. But this surely was an expedient that was self-limiting: sooner or later she would be obliged to reveal more about herself. Or would she? It was clear that she was under no obligation to him, apart from voicing her needs from time to time and expecting an unfailingly sympathetic response. Initially he had found this entertaining. Now he was disappointed. He had contrived this situation as part of his desire to be more decisive, to be agent rather than recipient. He had even considered marrying her, although the idea now filled him with alarm. Yet he was hurt at this lack of reciprocity, of an acknowledgement, however insincere, of his good intentions.