Strangers Read online

‘All right.’ She sounded surprised, not only at him but at herself. ‘As I say, happy birthday.’

  He was the first to put down the receiver, too exasperated to do any more persuading. If it had come to this, he thought, there was little reason to carry on. But in the ensuing silence his annoyance subsided. It was simply evidence of their divergent responses to life. Their love affair had always been slightly combative, and that had been part of the attraction. It would be absurd to hope that nothing had changed. They had both changed, or rather been changed by the passage of time, a subject that could no longer be avoided, though avoid it they must, for the sake of their own endurance.

  Perhaps they were not so very different, those two women. A certain obdurate waywardness seemed to be their prerogative. Despite their different backgrounds they seemed to come together in outlook and attitude. He was fully aware that in their eyes he lacked consequence. Not that they were entirely able to dismiss him; rather they were weary of his reticence, which might indicate a judgement they were not willing to undergo. Both had an insensitivity he could only admire.

  On the previous night he had had a curious dream, from which he awoke bewildered. In the dream he was being shown over a flat by a friend who had heard that he needed more space. The flat was agreeable but in need of some repair. The rooms were larger than those he was used to. He had almost decided to take it when he noticed that the bedroom had no window. The implications of this, like the implications of age, were all too clear. If love were to die – and he thought of love in its widest, most comprehensive sense – then some part of him would not recover.

  18

  And yet this lunch was not going to be a success. He had known this as soon as he saw her, resignation written all over her features. To be sure she had made the effort she judged necessary: she was smartly dressed in a navy skirt and a striped jacket, and she had had her hair done, or he supposed she had, since it was drawn severely off her face and arranged on top of her head – no trace here of the careless looseness through which he had loved to run his fingers. Most alarming of all, she carried a stick on which she supported herself as she crossed the restaurant towards him. Rising from his seat he hoped that his face did not register the alarm, and, yes, the disappointment that he felt.

  Surely this performance was out of place? She was not old, merely a once good-looking woman in her late sixties. He himself, he thought, was not much changed, grey-haired, certainly, but still upright. He rearranged his features into a smile of welcome, although he regretted this invitation, had in truth regretted it as soon as the suggestion had been made. He would have done better to have let the occasion pass unnoticed, have taken himself off somewhere on his own. Instead of which they were faced with a situation which neither of them desired, and he would be forced to see it through until he could deliver her back to whatever she would clearly have preferred to devise for herself.

  ‘It’s good of you to come,’ he said, as menus were placed before them. ‘I hope you’re hungry.’

  ‘Actually, I rarely eat lunch. But as it’s your birthday…’

  ‘I appreciate your making the effort.’ For it clearly was an effort. ‘Why the stick, Sarah?’

  ‘It gives me confidence. I’m not really happy on my own in the traffic, crossing the road, and so on.’

  ‘But my dear girl, you’re not ill, are you?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’

  ‘You’ve seen doctors?’

  ‘Of course I have. They put it all down to the miscarriages, especially the last one.’

  ‘But surely that was some time ago?’

  ‘Yes, but it changed me. Changed me for good.’

  ‘I never thought of you as the maternal type.’

  ‘Neither did I. I didn’t really want children. But something strange had taken place. I knew I wouldn’t ever be the same again. And I didn’t want to make love. Can you imagine that?’

  ‘With difficulty.’

  ‘When a woman no longer has any interest in sex she’s finished. I came to see the whole thing as ridiculous. It ruined my marriage, of course. I simply wanted to be on my own.’

  ‘And yet you’d been happy?’

  ‘We got along. He wasn’t the love of my life. But we both loved the house, our life in France. It’s not the same without him.’

  The waiter hovered. ‘Are you ready to order, sir?’

  ‘Sarah? The grilled sole, I remember, is good.’

  ‘Oh, anything. Sole, yes. No wine for me.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I manage.’

  ‘Money?’

  ‘Oh, I’m not poor, if that’s what you mean. Neither are you, I take it. You look very much the same as you used to. I don’t, I know. No, don’t say anything. I know what you’re thinking.’

  He was in fact appalled by the change in her. The vibrant woman he had known, and as she still was in his memory, was visibly tired, almost defeated. What was almost as bad as her indifference was her seeming inability to rise to the occasion, to do her womanly best to engage with him, ask him the odd question about himself, as he so longed for her to do, if only to rekindle their old exchanges. He missed the scornfulness he was used to. He was obliged to concede that she had changed, almost out of recognition. And the cause, he thought, was not entirely due to illness, but to something less material, less easy to contemplate: the irruption of memory, the fact of ageing, the comparison she was forced to draw between then and now, as if a line had been drawn through her life, facing her with evidence which she was quite unable to accept. Whereas in his own case he had so far managed to disregard such evidence, she was clearly marked by it, and was not to be comforted.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, laying aside his napkin. ‘I had no idea.’

  ‘Why should you have? You’re a man.’

  ‘I’m not going to be put in the wrong just because I’m a man. I remember you so well. The love of my life. What a bore I must have been.’

  She smiled. ‘We won’t go into that again. We both knew where we stood. And now it’s all over. Like everything else.’

  ‘Oh, Sarah, please don’t say that. We have to go on living, whether we like it or not. All friendships are precious. We relinquish them at our peril. We need one another. At least, I need to know that you are still in my life. It’s not easy for me to say this. I dare say I’m just as boring now as you say I was then. My life is boring, I have to admit. And it’s easy to lose heart. Enormous effort is required…’

  ‘I know what you’re saying. I’m sorry if I’ve let you down.’

  ‘You’re here, that’s all that matters. The bill, please,’ he said, in a voice which to his surprise was quite composed. ‘Perhaps this was rather too much my idea. Possibly a mistake.’

  ‘Not entirely. You were always reassuring. And it is remarkable how little you’ve changed. How have you managed that?’

  He sighed. ‘I was never very good at change. I am a dull man, with all the characteristics of dullness. Patience, conscientiousness – that sort of thing. I lack – well, whatever it takes to make a success of life. I’m not discontented, well, not entirely. But I know my life lacks all the essentials. You don’t want to hear this. That’s right,’ he said to the waiter.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Come, I’ll take you home. But Sarah, do try to do without the stick.’

  ‘If you’ll give me your arm…’

  ‘Always.’

  They walked in silence, unwilling to let each other go, until, with a sigh, he hailed a taxi.

  ‘When will you go to France?’

  ‘Probably at Easter. You’re more than welcome to visit me. I’ll stay for a few months, maybe longer. And it would be good to see you. I get quite depressed sometimes. I never used to.’

  ‘That’s why it’s so important not to lose sight of ourselves. What we were. What we are now, though that’s more difficult. I don’t want to lose you.’

  ‘Even as I am now?’

 
‘Even as you are now. We’ve both changed. I’m a bore, and you – well, I sometimes thought you had no heart. Now I can see that you were much braver than I was. I suppose I must still love you.’

  She squeezed his hand. ‘There’s a taxi. I’ll be perfectly all right.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. I think I might walk a bit. I’ll be in touch. Let me know if you need anything.’

  But this somehow was too hearty, too practical. And he was anxious now to be alone. Without her he could think more clearly, more philosophically, could think himself back into his natural solitude. He waved until the taxi was out of sight and then set out to walk home, despite the wind that had sprung up, and the drops of rain that promised a wet afternoon. The weather seemed entirely appropriate. Without forethought, perhaps without any thought at all, they had ventured on to dangerous territory. The facts were unavoidable: she was no longer desirable, and he had never overcome his initial disadvantages. And that they were old, and that this condition was irremediable. His rallying remarks to her had fallen on deaf ears, as they deserved to. In this she was more clear-sighted than he was, and, as ever, unsparing. He thought that they had come closer, she having revealed a pessimism she had not shown previously. And what she said was true: she gave off an aura of fatalism, whereas in the past she had never hesitated to take the initiative. By the same token, his moods of exasperation, though welcome, had made him less acceptable as a companion. For example, he had not seen her to her door, a solecism that was surely out of character, and one he knew that he would actively regret. He was less receptive to the demands of any occasion, just as he was less receptive to other phenomena, works of art being a case in point. He was intolerant of artifice: only a meaningful transparency would do. In that sense their conversation had been a limited success, if a failure in every other respect.

  By the time he reached Hyde Park Corner rain was falling steadily, the icy rain of early spring. Waking each morning in the bleak light and gazing round his small bedroom he was filled with a longing for the sun, for which he felt he had waited too long. Getting up, preparing for the day, he felt nothing but resignation. Even this morning, with the prospect of seeing Sarah, there had been no lightening of his mood. He had not actively missed her, or even very much looked forward to seeing her. She awakened demeaning truths. Nor did he welcome her no less demeaning confessions. There should be an embargo on the sort of conversation they had just had. The desire for transparency was not always rewarded. And he had been aware of the changes in her. It was as if she no longer cared for his opinion, or about the opinion of any man. What persisted was the feeling each might have had for an old friend, one known since childhood, fixed in the memory. He supposed that he would visit her in France, if the invitation were to be repeated, but for the time being he would, he knew, be better off on his own, or in the company of those strangers who were the unwitting inhabitants of his everyday life.

  For the moment, however, there were more practical considerations. He was wet; rain trickled down from his hair into his collar. There was comfort of a sort in the prospect of getting home, of changing his clothes, of settling in for the rest of the day. He had the beginnings of a headache, one of the severe headaches that had affected him in his youth and from which he had been free for some time. It was a day for invalidism, for cosseting. He would ring Sarah that evening, to excuse himself for what he felt was his failure, or perhaps the failure of his invitation, but in reality had no great wish to speak to her.

  Dry, warm, and changed into an old pullover, he went to the window and leaned his head against the glass in an attempt to soothe the dull ache, but also to look for signs of life. To his horror he was rewarded with the sight of Mrs Gardner turning the corner and coming towards him, saw too that she had seen his figure at the window. She waved, with every sign of enthusiasm. Resignedly he waved back. Clearly it was to be his day for female company.

  ‘What a bit of luck,’ she said, discarding her scarf. ‘Are you making a cup of tea? I’m not interrupting anything, am I?’

  In the kitchen he reflected that this was the first and only question she had ever asked him.

  ‘No, you’re not interrupting anything,’ he said, returning with the tray. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve got a bit of a headache. And I don’t seem to have any aspirin. I’ll have to go to the chemist.’

  ‘I usually have some in my bag. Here, take a couple of these.’

  He was absurdly grateful for this token of consideration, unusual as it was. In fact he felt a sort of gratitude towards her for behaving so normally. As ever she seemed quite accustomed to his undemanding presence, seemed to regard him as someone with an answer to her problems, though those problems did not seem to disturb her.

  ‘How are you finding the flat?’ he asked. ‘Quite comfortable?’

  ‘Oh, it’s ghastly.’ She seemed quite cheerful.

  ‘I always thought it rather pleasant, when I used to visit my cousin there. So much bigger than here.’

  ‘Well, if you liked it so much why don’t we just change places? You could go there and I could stay here.’ At his look of horror she laughed. ‘Only joking.’

  ‘I hope so.’

  ‘Well, as you know, I’m looking for some sort of work in town, and it is a bit of a drag coming all this way.’

  ‘And how is that going?’

  ‘Well, I’ve several irons in the fire. And I’m seeing a solicitor about my financial position. At the moment I’m living on handouts.’

  ‘You’ve still got your allowance?’

  ‘Oh, yes, but as I explained…’

  ‘Yes, yes. But a solicitor’s fees might prove more expensive than you realize.’

  ‘He’s a friend. I don’t suppose it’ll cost me anything.’

  ‘Well, you know best.’

  He was anxious for her to go, to leave him on his own. Strange how ingrained the habit of solitude had become. Now he longed for the privacy of his own tiny space: even the usual bad news on the radio would be preferable to these increasingly tiresome women. And he doubted if she had been entirely flippant when suggesting that they exchange flats. Even her lightest remarks revealed a certain steeliness of purpose. He wondered what her husband might be thinking of her now. In any event she was her husband’s problem. Though in fact she did not appear to see herself as a problem to anyone.

  ‘Headache gone?’ she enquired sunnily. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be on my way.’ She heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘And such a long way. Well, if you have further thoughts…’

  ‘Unlikely.’

  There was no change in her expression. Yet again he felt a reluctant admiration. She looked at him, apparently without calculation. When she left he could feel the weight of her calculation as he took stock of the flat and saw it with her eyes.

  19

  This exchange, and the prospect of further exchanges to come – for he did not doubt her pertinacity – activated the concept of home, that great good place to which he had never come and for which he had always yearned. That was the point of those early reminiscences with which he was so familiar. Not that that early home had been satisfactory, rather the opposite. He had exchanged it thankfully for this small anonymous flat and in doing so had thought himself free of uncomfortable associations. Now he realized that a home without associations was not a home at all. He had thought of his flat as the first step towards a better life, one which he would be happy to identify as his own, to which he would invite friends, and, ideally, one which would come with all the attributes of family life. Instead of which his flat remained a temporary refuge, and nothing more. There was nothing to stop him finding somewhere else, but the idea was rebarbative, and in truth another place would pose the same problems. He was forced to concede that his present flat would suit Mrs Gardner’s requirements very well, although those requirements proved nebulous. She looked for favours and saw no reason why these should not be offered. She seemed to have had no difficulty in finding temporary shelte
rs, simply because her own needs came first. This inestimable gift annihilated any possible objections, and had almost done so in his case. Only a primitive sense of possession on his part had stood in her way, and this he would not relinquish without a struggle. But it was a struggle for which he had no taste.

  Of the two women he had to admit that Mrs Gardner was the more entertaining. Her determination not to be fully questioned was all of a piece with her sense of freedom, a sense which usually evaporates as one reaches the age of maturity. This she had somehow retained. On first encountering her on the plane to Venice he had thought her agreeable, no more, an ordinary woman on her way to friends, whose way of life appeared normal. In time, however, those friends had multiplied, and although anonymous, were somehow omnipresent. Her evasiveness was a way of exculpating herself from obligation: it was pre-emptive, in the sense that it proclaimed her to be guilt free. And it was a technique that seemed to serve her well. She would pay for her company with the endless fascination of seeing her will at work. At least that had been his own reaction. Her lack of curiosity he saw as armour against the world’s incursions. Although he strongly disapproved of her he did not question her quality as a life force, a prime mover. Why else had he stood up so urgently outside Florian’s in an effort to waylay her, as if he had instinctively understood her purposefulness and had desired to capture some of it for himself?

  As for his poor Sarah, he feared she was a lost cause. He knew little of women’s illnesses and had no reason to doubt her explanation of her present condition. But there was something about that condition that struck him as unworthy. The woman he had once known would have scorned pathos, would have shuddered at any mention of bodily ills, of pathology. The scorn was still there but it was inconsistent, just enough to remind him, uncomfortably, of the past. Yet he was unable to dismiss the change in her, had to reject any sympathy he might have felt for any other woman in the same situation. He did not wish to know of the stratagems she employed to get her through the day, recognized that these might be arduous, even unattractive. In comparison with her glum realism Mrs Gardner’s lack of complexity shone forth in all its lustre, as it had done in their brief meeting in Venice. It was only since their first encounter that he had become aware of a mindset far less transparent than that of Sarah, whom he still knew as he had once known, despite her unbecoming metamorphosis.