Strangers Page 11

  ‘At least you will be able to get rid of your bags,’ he now said. ‘I’ll sell the flat eventually. There’s no rush, of course. But until I put it on the market you’re welcome to stay.’

  ‘I can usually find somewhere to stay. That’s not a problem. And this is really not very convenient.’

  ‘It’s only a short journey into central London.’ He found he was now pleading with her. ‘Why don’t you take a look round? The flat is quite comfortable. And you’ll be free to come and go. Just let me know how long you’ll want to stay. Ring me. Or I’ll ring you.’ It would be some sort of relief to be able to locate her. He handed over the keys. ‘Let me show you round.’ He paid the taxi driver, and, with a show of determination, removed her bags to the pavement. ‘As I say, you’ll be entirely free.’

  The flat, which he had always considered well appointed, even luxurious, now appeared fussy, over-elaborate. The two sofas facing each other over a small table were designed for guests, for tête-à-têtes, but had probably received only himself and a very few others. The room now struck him as unbearably sad. Hastily he led the way into the bedroom, which was equally abandoned: no trace here of the normal life lived by an ordinary woman, no book on the bedside table, no radio, only the dressing-gown he had taken to the hospital and brought back again. Wordlessly he moved her into the kitchen: here at least were some signs of domesticity. He felt diminishing enthusiasm for his plan, and from her silence he deduced that she felt none at all.

  ‘Who lived here?’ she asked.

  ‘A distant relative. Now unfortunately…’

  ‘You don’t have to tell me. This place is like a morgue.’

  ‘I’m sure you can make yourself comfortable.’ Comfort was not in question: at least there was no argument about that. It was the general unsuitability that now struck him. This was no setting for a vagrant personality. It was even less appealing than his own flat, which at least had the virtue of economy. Here the air seemed to be eroded by over-large objects, by heavy fabrics. He saw it through her eyes and instinctively rejected it. Nevertheless he carried her bags through from the hall and placed them by the bed. ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said. ‘Then I’ll leave you to get settled.’

  ‘Can’t we go out? This place is giving me the creeps.’

  It was true that it seemed easier to breathe seated at a café table, in a mild sun, than in rooms which now struck him as dark, darker than they should have been at this time of year, winter beginning to yield to the distant but perceptible spring. The clocks would soon go forward, and then the impulse to move would return. Or rather to move on, as everyone seemed to say. Restlessness was not in his nature: perhaps he was becoming attuned to the restlessness in hers. He could see the attraction of being utterly feckless, free to change his mind, to become unreliable. But this too was a fantasy, and likely to remain so. It was entirely possible that the world had some vestigial need for boring characters like himself; in any event it was too late to change.

  Silence fell between them. As she continued moodily to stare outwards at the traffic he realized that he had somehow offended her. That was the trouble with offering help: one came up against an opposing agenda to which one had no access. He noted that she had done little to enhance her appearance: her hair was listless, her face equally so. But her continued silence implied disapproval for his intrusion into her arrangements, though these remained nebulous. Apparently it was important to her to retain the right to being unknowable, untraceable. He sighed inwardly. He might venture some delicate probing, but then he would be back to his wearisome programme of boring interrogation, of engaging virtual strangers into exchanges about holidays, about their children – all the questions to which he usually reverted in his desire to initiate conversation, the illusion of familiarity.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he now said. ‘We know so little about each other. Or rather I know so little about you. I must seem like an open book: an elderly bachelor, living alone – not much to tell. Although everyone has some sort of story. Isn’t that what they say about aspiring writers? Incidentally I doubt if it’s true. Though some people seem more interesting than others. You, for instance.’

  She turned to face him. ‘There’s nothing to tell. My marriage broke down. I’m looking for work. You know all that.’

  ‘But before that? Your parents, your early life: that is so relevant. Do you have family? Forgive me. I’ve always been interested in people’s early life. It shapes the adults they become. No one escapes their past.’

  ‘Well, I hope I’ve escaped mine. I think I told you that my parents live in Norfolk.’

  ‘But do you see them? I wondered why you didn’t go home when you found yourself between jobs. Your parents must worry about you.’

  ‘I ring them from time to time. We’re not close.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘Well, they always preferred my brother. He and I were close. But he was ill, he’d had polio as a two-year-old, needed a lot of looking after. So I was more or less irrelevant. I took the hint, got out as soon as I could.’

  ‘What happened to your brother?’

  ‘He died.’

  ‘I’m so sorry.’

  She shrugged. ‘It was a long time ago.’

  ‘So, as you say, you got out.’

  ‘As soon as I could. I got a job as an au pair in Paris. And after that there was no stopping me. After Paris there was no place for Norfolk in my life.’

  ‘Yes, Paris does open one’s eyes to the world. How long did you stay there?’

  ‘Oh, about six months. I more or less had to leave; there was a certain amount of tension. So I teamed up with a girl I knew, in the same position as myself, and we moved south, worked in a café, that sort of thing. As soon as I had a bit of money I went off on my own.’

  ‘That was quite brave.’

  ‘She looked at him in surprise. ‘Brave?’

  ‘I shouldn’t have had the courage. I always wanted to be in one place, and to fit in. And I had work. In the end work was what I came to rely on.’

  ‘But you can always pick up some sort of work. At least I could. I was with a guy for some of the time – not the one I married. So I had someone to rely on. What I really wanted was freedom, the freedom to come and go when I felt the urge.’

  ‘You mentioned South America.’

  ‘Yes. I’ve always wanted to go back. As soon as my husband agrees to some sort of settlement I’ll buy a house, rent it out, and go off again.’

  ‘So any work now would be temporary?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Work is only a means to an end, isn’t it?’

  ‘It depends on the sort of end you want. I valued my work, but perhaps it’s different for a man.’

  ‘I dare say.’

  She had lost interest, although it seemed as though the glamorous past now had little currency except as anecdote. That having been offered, she apparently considered the matter of the past closed. At no point was there any sign that it had left an emotional trace. She had no inner life, it seemed. This to him was phenomenal, he to whom the inner life was all. Someone had warned him against such rumination, mocked him for his propensity to discuss it. Oh yes, Sarah. But he was on dangerous ground here and had no wish to incur the same sort of criticism.

  ‘I take it that the flat is unsuitable? Or rather that you don’t like the idea of staying there?’

  ‘The flat?’

  ‘The flat I’ve just shown you.’

  She shuddered. ‘It’s hardly me, is it? All that furniture. All those things. And so quiet. Miles from anywhere. As I say, all my friends live more or less in town.’

  ‘You could stay there until…’

  ‘No. I don’t think so. It was a kind thought. I might leave my things there for a day or two. Until I know where I’m going.’

  He handed over the keys. ‘I’ll walk you back.’

  ‘There’s no need. If you’re going home perhaps we could share a taxi.’

  Alone
he would have taken a bus, the same one he used to take after visiting Helena. He realized, with a grimace of irony, that he had been prepared to repeat the procedure on Sunday afternoons when silence became too much for him, or when dutiful cultural excursions lost their appeal. What else would transpire during those visits would be fairly predictable. And then he could go home to his own peace and quiet, and to his books. He gave a small choked laugh: magical thinking again.

  ‘Are you all right? Look, there’s one.’ As ever, she did not wait for an answer to her question.

  Obediently he raised his hand. ‘Where shall I drop you?’

  ‘Oh, drop me anywhere. I’ll find my way.’

  ‘Take care of the keys.’

  ‘I’ll let you have them back, don’t worry.’

  That meant another random visit, he understood. The matter was out of his hands. Just, he supposed, the way she wanted it.

  17

  He found somewhat to his dismay, but also to his considerable interest, that he had lost contact with his past. Only two memories remained, one of the old house, with its intimate geography, and one of his office at the bank, which had been his home for so many years. Both these places now appeared in a less friendly light. The climate of the first had been overshadowed by intimations of his parents’ failure, of their disaffection. There had been no laughter in that house, few visitors to disrupt the mournful tenor of family life. All that remained was the decor of that life, one that he had been willing to abandon in favour of his first – and only – flat, which held no mystery and which now bored him.

  As for the office, in which he had thought himself contented, this too was now overladen with all the evidence of missed opportunities, with what he now saw was his own cowardice. Those colleagues, with whom he had been on such cordial terms, did not, after all, have his wellbeing at heart. If he were to see them now he would be aware of their fundamental indifference, be aware too of their more richly furnished lives, their families, their children. He would not have sought their company, as he once had done, persuading himself that they were true friends. He saw now that they had indeed been friends, but of a careless unseeing type, friends who were unlikely to seek him out for the pleasure of his company. If he were to meet them now he would have had no difficulty in behaving with the same indifference, not wishing to go beyond the formalities that governed office life. There had been social encounters outside the office but these were purely functional: drinks parties, Christmas parties, frequent lunches, but with no intimacy involved. He had been in the background to their lives, and there was now no reason to look for more.

  Of his schooldays he remembered virtually nothing. Holidays, undertaken eagerly as soon as he had achieved full employment, were a jumbled impression of museums, pine forests, and Baroque staircases. Only in later life was he able to discriminate, to linger, to observe. Even then he had seen himself in a romantic light, and although this was misleading the illusion had persisted. His love affairs were unsuitable, none more so than his love for Sarah, who came with a full complement of family and friends, lovers even, and whose careless assurance formed an indelible part of her attraction. Too often she had found him an irritant and had told him so. And had told him so quite recently, so that he knew that his memory was not at fault. Yet Sarah stood out from the past, was in fact part of the present. That he could not quite see her in the future he put down to his own propensity for introspection. At the prospect of redesigning his own nature he felt a familiar weariness, which he knew it would be his task to overcome.

  He was not sorry to see his past for what it was but it had one morbid and disturbing effect: he no longer slept well. Without the comforting illusion of a context he could not ignore the fact that he was on his own and had always been so, and that sleep was no longer his refuge. He would wake suddenly, not knowing where he was, knowing only that he was adrift. In the hours of daylight he could dismiss his night fears, realizing that they were the baleful sign of old age, that they foreshadowed a death, which, though not imminent, was inevitable. For that reason he made strenuous efforts to live in the present, and sometimes almost succeeded. But the present was a poor thing without company, even poor company. Which brought him back to his resolution to make things new while he still had a chance to do so. And if that meant a change of direction which was not entirely to his taste that too must be envisaged.

  He told himself that men throughout the ages had had such thoughts, had looked for some woman to take care of their needs, their comfort, even their safety. Quite simply he wished to put himself in someone else’s hands. This was not entirely reprehensible: women too must think like this, particularly when they were no longer young. To abjure safety, to take risks was all very well when one was young, but that was no longer the case. What mattered now was to put an end to those night fears, to imagine comfort even in the teeth of the evidence. To become a conventional man now had its appeal. He would be able to look his former acquaintances in the face, be entitled to greet them heartily and without further desire to know them better. And if he had to say goodbye to certain cherished habits, to his solitude, his lack of responsibility, he thought that a price worth paying.

  His desire to contact Mrs Gardner was destined to be thwarted. There was no answer when he tried to reach her in Helena’s flat. This did not surprise him. He had nothing in particular to say, merely wanted to know if she had settled in, was comfortable. Her indifference, if anything, reassured him. She would not in any sense impinge on his consciousness, would remain a possibility, no more than that. She would, presumably, get in touch at some point. Or he would get in touch with her. They seemed to have established a connection which could be activated when one of them chose to do so, one based on his passivity and her needs. This was a novelty to him: he had never been so indifferent to a woman. The situation amused him. In fact Mrs Gardner amused him. It was only when he became aware of his detachment that he thought himself on unfamiliar ground. But this might have been a sign of emancipation from his former self. When he thought of his wistfulness in former love affairs he assured himself that this detachment was by far the better guarantee.

  With a bit of luck this new decision – to change – could be postponed sine die, or at least until the summer. In the summer one was more optimistic, could plan journeys, feel one’s muscles relax, banish thoughts of ill-health, keep mortality at bay. In the summer one let down one’s defences, looked with pleasure at young faces, tried to emulate the unthinking confidence one saw in them. In the morose days that preceded this short annual apotheosis, there was little cause for joy. From his window he could see an orange plastic bag being blown by a considerable westerly wind: no temptation to go out. Yet he was restless, the consequence perhaps of his bad night. He contemplated making another effort to reach Mrs Gardner, but in fact telephoned Sarah instead.

  ‘Sarah? How are you? It’s Paul by the way.’

  ‘Oh, I know it’s Paul. How am I? Tired, very tired.’

  ‘I’m afraid at our age this is pretty much par for the course.’ Silence. ‘Of course, you’re much younger than I am.’

  She gave a dry laugh. ‘You haven’t changed, have you?’

  ‘I was wondering if I might take you out to lunch?’

  ‘Any particular reason?’

  ‘It’s my birthday. I thought perhaps the Ivy…’

  Another laugh. ‘You’d never get a table at the Ivy.’

  ‘Or the Caprice. The partners gave me dinner there when I retired. It was rather good.’

  ‘I’m not sure…’

  ‘Meet me there and I’ll take you back. You won’t have to do a thing.’

  ‘Perhaps. I don’t really like to commit myself these days.’

  ‘One has to make an effort. Believe me, I know how you feel. But doctors say it’s important not to lose contact. Sociability, they say…’

  ‘I know what they say. I read the papers too.’

  ‘It’s important to keep one’s old frie
nds.’

  ‘There aren’t so many of them now.’

  ‘So what do you say?…’

  ‘I’m not sure. As I say, I’ve had a bad night…’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sarah, you’re not decrepit. All I’m suggesting is a couple of hours in the middle of the day. You’re up to that, surely.’

  ‘If it’s your birthday…’

  ‘It’s actually my birthday today.’ He had a desire to get this over.

  ‘Happy birthday,’ she said glumly. ‘How many is that?’

  ‘Too many. Let’s not talk about age.’

  ‘You brought it up.’

  ‘Yes, well, I’m sorry about that.’ He was, profoundly sorry. Having banished reflection he was not anxious to remember past birthdays, latterly spent alone, with nothing to mark the occasion. And he still, he found, wanted to see her. Perhaps he still loved her. In any event he was not inclined to let her go. That would be too easy. And even if he had no future to think of he was still determined to invest in the present. It seemed newly important to make changes to his life. And he knew that however unsatisfactory their meeting turned out to be she would still entrust herself instinctively to his care. Already he could feel her arm in his, her fingers in search of his own. ‘Why not today? I’ll book. I’ll see you around midday.’