A Closed Eye Page 13

  Freddie, who thought his wife uncharacteristically voluble, suggested that Jack might not have eaten.

  ‘Of course! What can I be thinking of? We had cold chicken and salad, Jack. And apple pie. Would that do?’

  He considered this. ‘I should like a chicken sandwich,’ he said. ‘And apple pie. I am actually on my way to Paris. I can catch a later plane.’

  ‘When will you be back?’ she asked.

  ‘Early next week, depending on how this interview goes.’

  ‘What have you decided about the little girl?’ asked Freddie, watching the white teeth sink into the bread.

  ‘She’s staying with my friend Elspeth Mackinnon,’ he said briefly. ‘I think it a good idea to leave her with Elspeth. A competent woman,’ he alleged, as if no more need be said.

  ‘Who is Elspeth?’ asked Harriet, as vivaciously as she could manage. ‘We saw her at the … You introduced us. Where does she live? Does Lizzie …? I mean, will Lizzie be happy with her?’

  ‘Elspeth is my assistant, my secretary, whatever you like to call her. She arranges my work, types my stuff. She has a largish house near Windsor. There is plenty of room for Lizzie. And I can see her there, of course, whenever I want to.’

  ‘What will happen to Judd Street? Will you give up your flat?’ she asked, with sinking heart. She realized that plans had already been made, may have been long established.

  ‘Oh, I shall keep the flat. I bought it years ago. Lizzie can have it when she’s older, if she decides to work in London. This pie is excellent, by the way.’

  She sat down slowly. ‘Does this mean that we shan’t see Lizzie again?’

  ‘I dare say Elspeth will bring her to town in the holidays, for clothes and so on. I want her to have a fresh start. I want her to get away from all the old associations.’

  ‘Poor Lizzie,’ she said. ‘Does she know she is being forced to make a fresh start? A fresh start sounds rather gruesome to me. Is she not to remember us at all?’

  ‘Don’t be so morbid,’ said Freddie. ‘I think Jack is right. A fresh start is what the girl needs. After all, she’s going to school next year.’

  ‘This year,’ she corrected him.

  ‘Already?’ He looked startled.

  ‘The children are leaving home,’ she told him sadly. ‘I somehow never foresaw it. Did you?’

  ‘It will be quieter, certainly.’

  ‘I think it so hard on children,’ she went on, collecting dirty plates. ‘There is so much for them to learn. And all that school, day after day. What if they are homesick? Will there be anyone to care for them?’

  ‘Don’t be so absurd, Harriet. Of course there will.’

  ‘I enjoyed school,’ said Jack, rolling a cigarette. ‘I can’t see that it did me any harm.’

  ‘Has Elspeth children of her own?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then how can she look after Lizzie?’

  ‘Lizzie will only be there in the holidays. Elspeth has a large family. Her mother has a place in Scotland. It will be a different life for her. A better one, I hope.’

  ‘Well, of course, we hope so too,’ said Freddie, glancing sharply at his wife. ‘She can always visit us when she’s in town.’

  ‘Will I see her before she goes? To Elspeth, I mean?’

  ‘She’s already there,’ he said mildly. ‘We took her back there after the funeral. I came by this evening to ask if you would mind packing some clothes for her.’

  ‘She had better have new ones,’ Harriet said. ‘I can’t … I can’t go to the flat just yet. I’ll buy her some new clothes. And she left one or two things here. I’ll bring them round next week. Round to Judd Street, I mean. When will you be back?’

  ‘I’m sure Jack wouldn’t mind picking them up,’ said Freddie.

  ‘Oh, it’s no trouble,’ she assured them both. ‘I’m only sorry I shan’t see her.’ She was appalled at herself, mentioning the child in the same breath as arranging an assignation, if that was what it was. If Jack were a man of conscience, she thought, as he undoubtedly is not, even he would be slightly disconcerted. And if Freddie had any imagination, which he has not, he would be indignant. And if I were a decent woman I should feel ashamed, disgusted. As I am. And poor Lizzie, in all this. I shall buy her some decent clothes, as if I were buying them for Immy, and I shall simply leave them outside his door. There will be no need for me to see him at all.

  ‘When will you be back from Paris?’ she asked.

  ‘Wednesday, at the latest.’

  ‘Very well,’ she said calmly. She said nothing more.

  Later she was to wonder how they had all behaved so normally, while thoughts of insurrection came so near the surface. At that stage it was almost a dream, not yet an intention. She wanted only a meeting, some sort of exchange. She only wanted to know him, she thought. And Freddie sat there, unsuspecting. But what was there to suspect? Only a desire, that duty should have stifled, might yet vanquish, an unjustified desire for that one interview … It did not matter to her that he was completely indifferent. If the opportunity arose she would know how to deal with that. And of course, none of it need take place, she told herself. It is just that I should like something of my own, some memory that is entirely mine. She thought in terms of a conversation, one of those significant conversations that change everything. In the world’s terms quite harmless. In terms of her own continued existence, almost a necessity.

  AS IF in collusion with her curious mood—which was one of daring, but a daring entirely unconnected with the idea of damage—the weather turned seductively mild, damp, sunny, profuse, spring-like. Drops of water sparkled on grass which was sprinkled with the pink strewn blossoms of cherry and prunus; magnolias, with their waxy purple and white buds, opened fatly on branches that were still black. Sometimes, in the late afternoon, a sudden sun chased a rainbow through dense grey clouds, and an unnatural Pre-Raphaelite intensity and radiance enveloped the evening landscape, before all the colours gradually dimmed, and she realized, with regret, that she must turn her thoughts homewards (though she had only been standing at the window) and resume her domestic duties.

  She had two days like this, a Wednesday and a Thursday. On the Friday she thought she might go to Brighton, for she was restless, and the wider horizon of the sea beckoned: she wanted to walk until she was exhausted, for there could be no sensible thinking until this unforgiving energy was somehow converted to peaceful purposes. This is the best time, she thought, before any undertaking is possible; love is sometimes wasted on those who act on it. Like this, one has both ardour and innocence, and it is difficult to say which is the more precious. She only knew that she was bathed in a sort of gratitude, so that she looked at the jewel-like grass and the thick mauve fingers of the magnolia buds as if she had never seen anything of such splendour before in her dreamlike existence. All losses seemed cancelled: Tessa, Lizzie. The future, beyond the following Wednesday, was indistinct. On returning from taking Imogen to school, a task for which she suddenly volunteered, she met Miss Wetherby, prudently emerging from her basement into the sunny air. Miss Wetherby wore a raincoat and a hat shaped like a modified turban: she carried a shopping bag and turned her good ear to Harriet by way of greeting.

  The dustiness of Miss Wetherby, her preparedness for rain, impressed Harriet as being emblematic of that age when nothing more than the daily round can be imagined, when desire is not even a memory. The idea made her feel boisterous, hilarious. Not for me, she thought, not for me. ‘Shall I do your shopping for you?’ she asked, unable to bear the sight of Miss Wetherby on this glorious day. ‘I’m going out myself.’ Miss Wetherby’s pale lips moved, as they often did before words were allowed to escape from them. ‘I like to get out,’ she said. ‘But I should get out more often if I had a little dog.’ This hint had been dropped on more than one occasion. ‘If she had a dog she’d be out all the time,’ Freddie had said. ‘Just when we might need her. And anyway, I don’t want a dog in the house.’

>   Freddie could thus legitimately be blamed for Miss Wetherby’s unpartnered state, yet in some ways, Harriet reflected, she was the ideal dog owner, placid, regular, uncommunicative. Was it not unkind to deprive her of what might be a natural companion? These days she walked with a stick, although she was apparently quite healthy in other respects. She was getting old; her usefulness was diminishing. Yet the very fact of her age gave her a claim to greater indulgence. Harriet began to see that she could never be dislodged from the basement she loved so much. After consultation with Freddie she had suppressed the rent. ‘We are in your debt,’ she had said. ‘And Freddie insists on your having a salary.’ Miss Wetherby had been delighted. And Imogen seemed to get on with her, the two of them enjoying a comfortable mutual independence. Apart from her ghostly air of contentment it was difficult to know exactly what Miss Wetherby thought. Harriet always felt humble, and a little uneasy, in her company.

  Today, however, she was in a generous mood. ‘Perhaps when Immy goes to school,’ she smiled. ‘We could talk about the dog then. I’ll have another word with my husband.’ Miss Wetherby’s pale lips moved, prior to another pronouncement. ‘If you would,’ she eventually said. ‘You see, I shall miss the child so much.’ Harriet felt ashamed: she had not taken this factor into account. ‘You shall have a dog,’ she promised rashly. ‘As long as you keep it downstairs.’ Miss Wetherby smiled, her unexpectedly fine teeth glistening in the sun. ‘We shall both miss her,’ she said. ‘I dread the day. But you have all been very kind.’ She really does love Immy, thought Harriet. How could I refuse her anything?

  With Imogen away, how would life be? Her thoughts were reckless, unfocused, as thoughts of liberty always are. The idea of a future which might consist of personal gratification seemed audacious beyond the bounds of belief. For one brought up in the ways of docility, as she had been, such thoughts had not previously presented themselves: unawakened, she had had no quarrel with her own peace of mind, although tacitly recognizing its limitations. Now she felt reborn, simply from the power of her own expectation. This had very little to do with Jack himself, although without him the transition might never have taken place. She simply knew that for once she was acting on her own volition, and the sensation was almost fulfilment in itself. For what could Jack add to this? Jack dwindled in importance; his own thoughts were as nothing to her. She had read an answering calculation in his eye, nothing more. In a sense she was willing to make do with that, for anything more might add weight, depth, to something so delightfully immaterial that she experienced it rather like a degree of painless intoxication. And part of her wished to retain the status of an honest woman, or at least, she thought, in a moment of true honesty, of an honest dissimulator. To have all she had and this would be almost enough, she reckoned. To have anything more would put her in the wrong. This wrong was a nebulous condition, unexamined. Freddie would be wronged, undoubtedly. But when she thought of Freddie it was only in terms of the most disagreeable aspects of Freddie, his restrictions, his suspicions, his stoutness, the horn of his fingernails. In comparison with Freddie she felt scandalously young. No, to be in the wrong would have to do with her daughter, whom she might never yearningly contemplate, with the same degree of love, again. Love would have become subterfuge. To be diminished in Immy’s eyes, even if Immy never knew anything about any imagined misdemeanours, would be something from which her mother might not recover. Therefore the mood alone, the amorous mood, would have to suffice. There remained the question of the visit to Judd Street, a now almost unwelcome reminder of present realities. I shall leave the bags outside the door, she thought, or simply hand them in. There will be no need—or time—for anything more. And as if in repentance she bought Lizzie three Viyella dresses, two pairs of jeans, some cream-coloured tights, and a red jacket. Shoes made her hesitate; she was unsure of the size. Elspeth can buy her the shoes, she thought.

  Later in the day, when the light finally faded, and with it her ferocious energy, her mood became darker. It was physiological, she consoled herself, something to do with low blood sugar. At this time she saw herself as a restless dissatisfied woman, dissatisfied because of that very innocence that had seemed her safeguard, and likely to be frustrated through the very timidity of her desires. It is all very well to be innocent, she thought, but I sacrificed true innocence long ago. Since meeting Jack I have made do with a facsimile, whether I knew it or not. It seemed real enough at the time, but secretly I wanted more. Perhaps most women did. Perhaps most women had unfulfilled life left in them, and sought a way to use it. But these thoughts were stale, and she dismissed them impatiently. In this mood of distaste, which always coincided with the early evening and the fading of the light, she knew that she had a choice, and that to deny that choice, or the possibility of choice, would be fatal. She did not doubt—she had never doubted—that the burden of responsibility was hers. The fabled lover, the imagined love affair, must be subsumed into one encounter, and that one encounter, which she still could not entirely envisage, must do duty for the life of adultery which she knew she desired. She judged herself quite coldly as a foolish woman, despised herself for being weak, but recognized the decision as ineluctable. Quite simply, the desire remained. But the desire, she knew, must also remain unsatisfied.

  ‘Do you want to come to Brighton with me tomorrow?’ she asked Immy. ‘You can miss school for a day. It’s nearly the end of term anyway.’

  ‘We have painting tomorrow,’ said Immy. ‘And my dancing class after school.’

  ‘Oh, of course. You don’t want to see Granny and Grandpa, then?’

  ‘Where has Lizzie gone?’ asked Immy, her cheeks unusually flushed, her attention to her drawing redoubled.

  ‘Lizzie has gone to stay with a friend of her father’s. You knew that. I told you. Why, do you miss her? You’ll see her at school in the autumn, you know.’

  Immy slid down from her chair, and carried her drawing off to show to Miss Wetherby.

  ‘I don’t miss her,’ she said. ‘I don’t care where she is.’

  But Harriet paid little attention to this, struck as she was by the sight of the new moon, glimpsed unluckily through the window. Later she was to see that moment of bad luck as emblematic of all her indecisiveness.

  ‘You can have dinner with us tonight,’ she called after Immy. ‘Would you like that?’ There was no answer. She had not really expected any.

  The seduction fantasy, or what she later came to think of as the seduction fantasy, took hold again the next morning, as the train was pulling out of Victoria. The seduction fantasy was, in itself, extremely seductive. It enabled her to bask in a glow of possibilities, imagined endings, which brought colour to her cheeks, but permitted her to remain on the safe side of experience. All it needed, she thought, was an element of imaginative daring, the knowledge that the situation was already adumbrated but could be controlled at will, like the switching of channels on a television set. Outwardly a pleasant-looking middle-aged woman, still youthfully slim, with dark hair that showed no signs of grey, she was inwardly luxurious, ruminating adventure. It was perhaps significant that the adventure was limited to one incident, which might not even take place.

  Sun, shining through dusty windows, illuminated her seat. The southern suburbs of London struck her as poignantly homely, beautifully unassertive. Back gardens, narrow strips of poor soil, with clothes-lines and sheds, boasted a few late daffodils, a flowering tree. Briefly she imagined herself in one of those little houses, the French windows of her sitting-room open on to that small private space, sitting with a cup of tea, listening to a serial on the radio. A careful humble retreat from the outside world: something she no longer had. For she was marked now, both by affluence and by dissatisfaction, both conditions absolutely foreign to her. She felt homesick for the shop, for the back room, and her father humming as he made the tea. He pulls me back, she thought; had he been stronger I might have left home more easily. I should have left home anyway, but I should not have felt this home
sickness. Whether I like it or not, I have kept true to those early experiences. They seemed sweet now, pitiable, filled with the pathos of a home long gone. I am more like him than I realized, she thought with some surprise. Everything else has been a madness. One room would have sufficed. But then she would never have had Immy, and it was almost worth living as she did—for she hated it, she now realized—to have had her daughter, the daughter who was so marvellously unlike herself, who was bold, beautiful, fearless, and who would take what she wanted without a second’s hesitation.

  In her mind her parents and her daughter belonged to two disparate lives. The link between them—herself—she could no longer get into any kind of perspective. Her daughter seemed to her to possess a spirit which she had come by as if by magic: certainly she had not inherited it from her mother or her father. Freddie, corpulent and cautious, might never have been young, while Harriet’s famed docility had not only kept her from harm but had precluded curiosity, experimentation. She had learned nothing but contentment in obedience, whereas Immy had been audacious, unafraid, even as a baby. Rough, sometimes, and laying claim to privileges without waiting for them to be handed down, and always, in every mood, beautiful. She seemed made of finer materials than those who had produced and nurtured her, like a princess in a fairy tale, bearing witness to money, and to that slow social ascent made so painfully by her anxious mother. She had an assurance which was entirely natural; in this, did she but know it, she resembled her father in his professional capacity. Otherwise, no features, no trick of expression, could link her with her parents, or, despite fond comparisons, with her grandparents. In character too she was different, impatient, voracious, easily roused to anger. Yet these not notably attractive characteristics possessed a certain virtue, for it was understood that Immy demanded only the best, was impatient only with the second best, required from life only what she saw it could deliver, was not fearful, shy, self-effacing, knew, with some scorn, how meekness could conceal a certain holy vanity, preferred vanity unadorned and unashamed, was in fact shameless.