Providence Page 13

  I handled that badly, she thought, but she was too glad to escape from the room, and the smells of smoke and wine, and the joyless reflections set up by Adolphe to devote much time to worrying about what she should have done. She craved the garden, deemed suitable for off-duty thinkers by the kindly manufacturer who had donated the land to the university for this purpose. There paths criss-crossed under the trees now heavy with the leaves of summer, and it was pleasant to walk and meet one’s colleagues out of school but still within greeting distance. Kitty hurried down the passage to Pauline’s office and found her alone with large sheets of timetable for next year’s lectures spread out on the floor beside her.

  ‘Come and have tea,’ urged Kitty. ‘I feel like strolling in the garden like an ordinary human being. I feel like getting Adolphe out of my system. Pauline, I don’t think I’m any good at this kind of work.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Kitty, no self-searching, I beg. The Romantics are having a bad effect on you. Can you see my bag?’

  ‘Under the first-year timetable. And frankly, Pauline, that skirt is much too heavy for this weather. How is your mother?’

  ‘Oh, mother’s all right,’ said Pauline, passing a large, worn powder puff over her otherwise unornamented features. ‘The dog gives rise to a certain anxiety, though. You are right about this skirt, of course.’

  ‘I should put it away if I were you. Or get rid of it. Do you think Adolphe an accurate reflection of male thinking? On the subject of love, I mean.’

  ‘The trouble is that if I get rid of this skirt I can’t wear the jacket and it was frightfully expensive. Cheltenham’s best. I think Adolphe is a remarkable novel but I doubt if the author is a representative case. And if you are worried about your lecture, kindly do not ruin my tea by worrying out loud. Keep it to yourself and beat the system.’

  ‘Which system.’

  ‘The Romantic Tradition, of course,’ said Pauline, who was not her mother’s daughter for nothing. At the door she paused and looked back at Kitty who was deep in thought. ‘You are very flushed, Kitty. I hope you are not upset. Redmile thinks highly of you, as you well know.’

  ‘If I am flushed, it is because I have been drinking. If I were to think of my work, I should be pale with anxiety. There seems to be no peace around here, all of a sudden. Here you are planning next year, and where am I? Where shall I be?’

  ‘I’m not allowed to tell you,’ said Pauline, with a broad grin. ‘And I want my tea, please. Look sharp, Kitty. What is the matter with you today?’

  ‘That is the sort of handbag designated as sensible, Pauline. I should get rid of that too, if I were you, while you are about it. I am buying tea today. Eat as much as you like.’

  ‘I shall eat as much as I can,’ agreed Pauline, striding on ahead, her sensible handbag banging against her calves. She was glad that she would see Kitty again next year. Kitty, for her part, was weak with relief. I have been working too hard, she thought. I am taking everything too seriously. I shall come back next year and work in a reasonable manner, like Pauline. And I can get through the lecture. I shall have to, since that is what I am going to be paid to do.

  With Pauline she took one of the paths leading across the garden to the Senior Common Room. ‘You are always so well-dressed, Kitty,’ said Pauline.

  Kitty reflected. ‘Déclassée women like myself frequently are,’ she remarked. She looked up and saw two figures coming towards them. ‘There is Professor Redmile,’ she said in a casual voice, although her heart had begun to beat uncomfortably.

  And as Professor Redmile and Maurice drew near, they all raised hands in a mild gesture, smiled, and moved on.

  TWELVE

  Kitty Maule, her expression absent, her eyes apparently dazzled by the reflection of the sun on the round rim of a small silver bowl containing rocky pieces of a sweetmeat fabricated by her grandfather, stood very still on a sheet in the middle of her grandparents’ sitting room. A bolt of raw silk, the colour of honey, had been breached and now hung about her, firmly tacked. Louise, her expression equally absent, stood with a yardstick in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Vadim his lips pursed, his fingers stroking his jaw, nodded from time to time.

  For Kitty, this rite of passage, which she found tiring, uncomfortable, and inappropriate, was nevertheless an essential preliminary to any important occasion. It had been thus all her life: before going to a party, or to her relations in France, or on her birthday, she had had a dress made for her by Louise. The ritual was so familiar as to be unnoticeable: the silent consultation, the gravity of expression, the lengthy fingering of the material, the draping, the pinning, the minute adjustments to a shoulder seam, to the hang of a skirt, to a sleeve, tiny pinchings at the back of the waist, the weighting of the hem. There was never any discussion over the design and colour of these garments, for Louise had always been dictatorial in her professional life. She knew better than anyone else what would be suitable for a particular occasion. She, the product of the rue Saint-Denis and Percy Street, was on more intimate terms with the rituals of society than her many clients, at home with the requirements of royal garden parties, wedding receptions, Glyndebourne, the south of France, Scotland. She had not, it was true, yet designed any clothes suitable for someone giving a talk but she did not doubt that she would be equal to the task. She saw that this might be the last dress she would ever make, and although her eyes were no longer good, although her fingers were getting stiff, although she could no longer kneel, she knew that she would in fact kneel, and pin, and measure, and that the honey-coloured silk, which had been wrapped in black tissue paper since the death of Marie-Thérèse, for whom it had been destined, would finally be made into a dress not only in keeping with her own professional career, now vanished, now hardly remembered, but which would tip the scales in favour of her grand-daughter’s future. What that future could be, Louise had little idea. It seemed to her absurd that an event so far outside her own experience that she could not even imagine it – some sort of formal occasion, she gathered, at Thérèse’s place of work – should preoccupy her grand-daughter so or indeed have anything to do with their shared life at all. And yet she knew that however outlandish Kitty’s activities might seem, she must be there in the form of a guide, of designer; whatever happened to Kitty, Louise would see to it that she was, on this occasion at least, perfectly dressed.

  The design that Louise had in mind, a plain shift with long sleeves, was undeniably elegant but seemed to Kitty too fashionable, too positive a statement, too glamorous. There had been a slight argument about this, which was unprecedented, for Louise always knew best and was never questioned, but Kitty had been adamant. ‘I need room to move in,’ she had said. ‘I need a fuller skirt. I need pockets. Is there enough material for a jacket? Maman Louise, don’t look at me like that. It will be beautiful, I know, but I can’t look too expensive.’ She meant, I can’t look too old-fashioned, too obvious. She thought of Pauline, indifferent to her baggy skirt, and of how much easier she was to be with than Caroline with her fearless colours and cunning arrangements. She thought, what will Maurice like? Certainly not something tight and straight, like something worn by a model. For myself, I think the material is too elaborate, too noticeable. And yet I need a dress suitable for a formal dinner. Oh, I don’t know. I am uneasy about this. ‘Maman Louise,’ she had said, ‘give me some of your pleats.’ Louise had been famous for her pleats. There had been a further consultation with Vadim. ‘Elle a peut-être raison,’ he had said, anxious to save her time, for he saw that she was not really up to so great an effort. ‘Une petite robe avec une jupe plissée. Ligne évasée. Avec un veston. Très décontracté. Tu vois le genre?’ Louise had been unwilling. ‘Le tissu est trop important,’ she had murmured, and then she had seen the look in Kitty’s eyes, and for the first time in her life she had allowed the girl to have her own way, and the dress had been cut, and pinned, and sewn. And after this fitting it would be finished and she would never see it again. None of these thoughts
had shown on her face, which was expressionless. But she had sat up late into the night, too late, perhaps, and the result would be something of which she could be proud.

  It had been agreed that Kitty would stay until the dress was finished, which would mean from Saturday to Monday night, when it would be passed in review and given the final seal of approval. This in turn meant that she had a great deal of time on her hands, for both Louise and Vadim were totally absorbed and there was apparently nothing she could say to them. They had retreated into their former lives, were preoccupied with the perfecting of the dress, spoke to each other briefly, like conspirators, like accomplices. Kitty again, as on so many other occasions, tried hard to reconcile the life she lived with them and for them, with the life she lived outside. She had many fears and one great hope and the hope was finally greater than the fears. But the hope, she knew, meant the end of Thérèse and the beginning of Kitty, and the thought of the dress that she would carry away and the occasions on which she would wear it afflicted her with alternate moments of sadness and of joy. The sight of her grandmother kneeling before her to straighten the hem of the dress, the anxiety on her grandfather’s face, and that awful moment when Louise had been unable to rise to her feet again and had put out an arm behind her, for Vadim, and the breathlessness that had ensued from the effort of getting her upright: that moment when they had both clung to Louise and lowered her into her chair and had hovered over her until she had recovered and waved them away, affected Kitty like an illness whenever she thought of it. After the incident she had sat quietly in a corner, watching them; then she had gone into the kitchen and made them all a cup of strong coffee, and it was only when Louise had replaced her cup, and had taken a deep breath, and had even eaten a piece of Vadim’s dusty fudge, leaving a trail of powdered sugar on her dress, and had snapped her fingers at Vadim and said, ‘A toi, maintenant. Débarrasse et aide-moi,’ and he had beamed and taken away the tray, and she had started on the hand-sewing of the seams, that Kitty let out her breath, and, feeling suddenly in need of air, had announced that she would be in the garden if they needed her.

  But in fact she had been too restless to sit for long and had taken an unremarkable walk in small streets ablaze with summer flowers, and had allowed herself to think of the extraordinary treat ahead of her which, far more than the lecture, would determine her future. She had been at home two Sundays ago, putting the final page into her typewriter, when Maurice had called, quite unannounced. It was the first time she had seen him alone since her return from France and she had been overjoyed. While she made him tea he had sat in her chair and looked through her material. ‘This is really very good, Kitty,’ he had said. ‘You ought to celebrate.’ He had looked happy, at ease, and far more relaxed than she ever could, and she longed to put her hand inside his collar and fondle his neck, but she knew she must not. As she was thinking this, he had, amazingly, put out his hand and taken hers. ‘It’s going to be a good summer, isn’t it?’ he had said. She had not known what to make of this, but instinct had told her that he meant it for them both. She took his hand between both of hers and said, ‘Will you help me to celebrate? Will you come to dinner?’ He had laughed and replied, ‘No, my darling, you must come to me. I will give a dinner party for you after your lecture. Or perhaps it would be better on the Saturday? What do you think, Kitty? Kitty, why are you looking at me like that? After all, I’ve had enough meals here.’ And he had laughed again and kissed her, lightly, on the cheek.

  After that, they had sat together on the sofa and planned the dinner.

  ‘But what about the cooking?’ she had asked.

  ‘Oh Ma will lend me Manuela if I ask nicely. Or I’ll get somebody else. Don’t worry about the cooking. Worry about the guests, Kitty. Whom shall we have? The Redmiles, obviously.’

  She pondered. ‘The Roger Frys?’ she asked. He had cast up his eyes and shuddered elaborately.

  ‘If you must,’ he had said. ‘If you absolutely must.’

  ‘He does come to your lectures,’ she reminded him.

  ‘And she, I suspect, is in love with you.’

  He laughed at that, and said, ‘All right, but you’ll have to keep them amused.’

  ‘Of course,’ she had agreed. ‘We don’t need anybody else, do we? Six is enough, isn’t it?’

  He had lost interest and had strolled to the window. Hands on hips, he had said, ‘Who is that extraordinary woman with the orange hair and the very high heels?’ She joined him at the window. ‘Oh, Caroline. Caroline Costigan. She lives next door.’ Where could Caroline be going on a Sunday? Had she perhaps encountered the man whose name began with J? In the entertainment business? Kitty was so filled with goodwill that she hoped it could be true, and resolved to invite Caroline to supper that evening. For the moment she loved everyone. Voluptuously, she returned to the subject of the dinner party. ‘Six will be enough, won’t it?’ she had asked. ‘Six what?’ he had said. He was lost in thought, miles away, his arms on the sill. ‘Six guests,’ she had laughed. He had turned round to her, his mild distancing smile back in place. ‘Six? Oh, no, I think eight is a better number. I’ll think of two others.’ His earlier enthusiasm appeared to have waned.

  But the promise of a dinner party had been the focus of Kitty’s thoughts ever since that day, and the prospect of the lecture had paled into insignificance by the side of it. She imagined that the dinner would be a formal occasion, and wondered, endlessly, if the honey-coloured dress would be adequate. Indeed, she spent most of her evenings, in Old Church Street, worrying about this, and had invoked Caroline’s advice on the matter. One evening Caroline had materialized in her doorway when she heard Kitty’s steps on the stairs, a voice behind her announcing, ‘And now we go over to our friends in Ambridge, where Sid Perks finds he has a problem on his hands,’ and had followed Kitty into her flat. Caroline was of the opinion that Kitty looked too austere, that she need touches of colour, and had kindly offered to lend her some jewellery. ‘The thing is, Kitty, that your clothes are very well cut, but they need dressing up a bit. You can afford to make more of an impact.’ Caroline had then looked through Kitty’s wardrobe, draping garments appreciatively against herself or laying them on the bed. As she shook her head slowly over what she saw, Kitty resolved to wear the new dress anyway. Lady Redmile and the Roger Fry Professor’s wife, whose unfortunate name was Wendy, would hardly be likely to wear anything more elaborate. She said as much to Caroline, who then had to be invited to stay for supper. ‘True,’ Caroline agreed. ‘And you can slip off the jacket. That way you don’t need to worry about a coat. And I will lend you my gold chains.’ Kitty thanked her. Caroline sighed elaborately. ‘You are lucky, Kitty. I wish someone would invite me out.’ ‘No luck with the entertainment man?’ asked Kitty. ‘Not yet, but I went back to her last week, and she’s quite definite that I’ll be out of here by the end of the year and into something else.’ These evenings usually ended far too late, but they had become a bit of an institution. Caroline was as bizarrely attractive as ever, but Kitty, looking at her, and noticing for the first time a slight fattiness on the underside of her jaw, prayed to those indeterminate forces of which she was intermittently aware, ‘Don’t let her wait too long.’

  The unprecedentedly fine weather, the dry sunny evenings, made Kitty long to dispense with all distracting company and to sit or walk alone, thus able better to concentrate on her extraordinary fortune. As it was, she was confined to a dusty calculating world of clothes strewn all over the bed, or condemned to stand in her petticoat in her grandmother’s flat, a lay figure, unwilling to lend herself to the business of her own adornment, which, she felt, should be accomplished by herself, alone, in secret. She looked forward to that Saturday evening when, in decent obscurity, and with no accompanying remarks, no rectification of the shoulder seams, no strictly professional appraisal, she would prepare herself and sit quietly at the window, savouring the enormous and unbearable pleasure of waiting for the taxi that would take her to Maurice. Sh
e would have liked to shut her door to Caroline whose intention, she knew, was to oversee every stage of the ritual, from the vantage point of a greater experience of the world. But Kitty also knew that she had her own ritual to follow, and that it was fraught with superstition, that if she did not obey her own imperatives, something would be wrong and the evening would be ill-omened. She could not have said what this ritual was, but she perceived that it was something to do with acknowledgment of the luck that had come to her, that in fact her earlier bewildered searchings and dreads had been neutralized, sanctioned, that she was no longer a petitioner, that plans had been made in which she had a part. For this supreme leniency on the part of fate she did not know what or whom to thank, but made a polite obeisance in the direction of what she now regarded as Providence, and for this, she needed to be alone.

  As she sat in the garden of her grandparents’ house, she was aware that the time had come to say goodbye to those who had been with her on the first half of her journey, and that she must now prepare to live a different sort of life. No more clairvoyants, no more waiting in hotel rooms, no more glum acceptance of Caroline’s advice. From now on she would be more definite, more admirable, she thought. She would eat reasonable meals, she would not panic before her lecture, she would deal sensibly with everyone, but would not allow anyone to dominate her. She was saying goodbye to her very pliancy, the quality that had kept her, like her mother, a girl for far too long. And I am thirty she said to herself. I am already thirty. It is time.

  For two days she sat in the garden or walked about the streets, and she would remember those two days as a curious interval, when all things seemed possible, an almost mystical time of promise and anticipated fulfilment. The hours of the day were uniform in their bright silent intensity, and the sun did not appear to move. There was a suspension of appetite and of all agitation, replaced by an extraordinary concentration of the faculties, a stillness, something strange and new. It was as if some genuine metamorphosis were taking place, yet she did not know what it was.