Strangers Read online

  And he had looked to one or other of these women to save him from himself! That this was an illusion, and no doubt a fantasy, was quite clear to him. And yet the longing remained, and even the pattern of thought which was somehow indelible: the ideal home, the ideal company. There was the related question of why either of them would want him. Women no longer looked for a husband as they had in the old days; they were now too busy asserting their independence. He sighed with irritation as he read his newspapers in the morning, with their tales of cash settlements for divorcees, or the problems inherent in having it all. Women were no longer beholden: a relationship was just that, a relationship. And yet he knew that both Sarah and Mrs Gardner were needy. The trouble was that the ideology with which they were both familiar forbade any acknowledgement of that need. Of course their needs were very different. Mrs Gardner’s needs were temporal and inconclusive; she would always want more, or perhaps something else. Sarah’s needs were more difficult to identify. She gave the impression of being ultimately disappointed, unfulfilled. Neither seemed to regret the absence of children, though, he realized, he still did. Yet the sort of family life he desired met no echo in either of them.

  What Sarah wanted, of course, and had always wanted, was a man of her own class, more elevated than his own. This was, and always had been, uncomfortable. With his suburban background and essentially suburban tastes he had been found wanting. That had been his own failing, his character being a minor matter. He had chosen to ignore this unstated problem, but the knowledge had existed on both sides, and perhaps still did. What had shown itself as scorn was class confidence, his inability to share it a relic of his undistinguished origins. This matter had never been discussed, though it somehow continued to exist independently, as a given. Only now, with more serious matters to consider, had it been laid to rest. Laid to rest, but not eradicated.

  His best companion, he thought, might be a young child, whom he could instruct in the ways of the world but also in the rules of good behaviour. This child would be a boy, perhaps as young as four years of age, and they would take ruminative walks together, observing works of nature such as beetles and squirrels. Any love he felt could be safely invested in such a child, from whom he would desire nothing in return. They would be innocent together, surely an ideal. But no child was available, and he was left with adults and their tedious agendas, their discontent, their fears. His own fears were left unexamined by those putative partners, whose lack of curiosity now struck him as abnormal. In the course of his increasingly troubled nights he longed for purely corporeal comfort from whatever source. Thus his dilemma was without a solution, whether to retain the illusion of perfect innocence, or to seek the alternative illusion, an inevitable compromise, of a makeshift partnership.

  He reflected ruefully how little he had changed, how little one does change without an agency to reflect one back at oneself. The only cordiality, the only conviviality he had ever enjoyed had been at work, among men with whom he could at least exchange the day’s news. That his colleagues had proved an ersatz form of company mattered little. They had filled a purpose. Even catching the bus in the morning had released him from the solitude of his flat; even the cup of coffee in the café near the bank had cheered him. It was in that café that he had made his first contact with those strangers who he thought would stand him in good stead, if, like Stendhal, he were to collapse in the street. This had not yet happened, but his reflex was to look around him in order to arm himself against such an eventuality. The reflex was still in place: he still left the flat in the morning with a feeling of deliverance; he still maintained a reduced form of cordiality with people he did not know. When he reflected on these matters the desire for change was uppermost in his mind. How to bring this about was still unclear, the choices available to him pitifully small. Yet change he must, even if it meant marrying a woman with whom he was slightly at odds. And even if he made a bad choice he would enjoy the luxury of conformity, of joining the majority. He had no doubt that he would be able to play his part; conformity was in his nature. He saw this not as a weakness, but, on the contrary, as a strength, even a recommendation. He looked forward keenly to becoming a member of that hearty incurious crowd among whose customs he had sought a form of validation, of acceptance.

  The only dignified alternative to these markedly undignified calculations was some form of exile. That at least would have the advantage of prestige. He would be the resident Englishman abroad, like Somerset Maugham or Graham Greene, though without their accomplishments. This scenario had much to recommend it. He could live in an hotel – always the hotel – and spend his days sitting in the sun until the money ran out. Then, of course, he would have to come home, although in such a context the word ‘home’ would have lost its baleful associations. Death would follow in due course, always with the hope of an attendant, known or unknown. Try as he might he could not see either Sarah or Mrs Gardner in this role. Nor could he expect them to be present if he had deserted them during his sojourn abroad. All things considered he might do better to remain in touch, and if that meant living out his days in London then that would be the price to be paid. His current loneliness would be abandoned somehow, though the choices before him remained unattractive.

  There remained the immediate problem of Mrs Gardner’s desire to move into his flat, or rather to send him off to Helena’s flat where he had no desire to be. She would do this by the simple expedient of turning up again with her luggage, and he could think of no good reason why he should object to this. Her own arguments would suffice: that it would be a purely temporary measure until her husband came up with enough money to enable her to acquire some place of her own. But why should she bother to do this if already comfortably lodged in his own flat? In any event her comings and goings were a matter which she managed not to clarify, and this obfuscation remained a considerable obstacle in his dealings with her. And would continue to do so. He even wondered if her husband knew where she was, though she had every reason to keep in touch with him, predominantly through the solicitor friend who, she claimed, would give his services free of charge. He did not doubt this either. She was an attractive woman, and, by present standards, she had a case for compensation. And she needed an address from which to operate. He could not help but remember their lunch in Venice, when he had asked her whether she still loved her husband. Yes, she had said, and her expression had been one of distant nostalgia. That expression had disappeared, to be replaced by one of complete opacity. And who could blame her? She was under no obligation to reveal any secret longings she might have harboured. Nevertheless he locked up carefully as he prepared to leave his flat. He even wondered whether to have a word with the caretaker, until he reproached himself for such idiociy. This, however, was yet another reminder that he had been alone for far too long.

  The fact that he continued to think of her as Mrs Gardner while addressing her as Vicky was significant perhaps, though what it signified was not quite clear. It was indicative, he thought, of her sheer otherness, which remained her most potent attraction, in comparison with which Sarah’s attitude of slightly condescending compliance was less endearing. But they had a history, Sarah and he, and not merely their own. They went back in time, remembered the same things. They were, in terms of age, travelling the same route. More to the point, he could not imagine his life without her, whether or not love came into it. In fact love was by this stage somewhat superfluous, in the sense that it had taken place already. There was no need to go down that road again.

  Such speculations were unsettling. He decided that what he needed was a long walk, preferably away from the working world which now felt like a reproach. He would cross the park and make his way back via the Albert Hall. His property, such as it was, must be left to fate. He had a strong desire to renounce all responsibility. Responsibility had been his lot for as long as he could remember.

  The telephone rang as he was putting on his coat. It occurred to him that he need not answer it, but t
he habit was too strong.

  ‘It’s Sarah. Just to thank you for lunch. You were right, the food was excellent.’

  ‘I’m afraid I…’

  ‘What I wanted to say was that I’ve decided to go to the house for a few days. Just to check up.’

  ‘How long will you be away?’

  ‘Only a few days. I’ll go down for a longer spell after Easter. Did I say that?’

  ‘You did, yes.’

  ‘My memory is not what it was. Getting older.’

  ‘Oh, come, Sarah. You seem determined to think yourself into old age. That stick, for instance.’

  ‘You seem to manage pretty well. How do you do it?’

  ‘I don’t do anything.’

  ‘You’re a good deal sharper than you used to be.’

  He was shocked. ‘Sharper?’

  ‘Critical.’

  ‘Well, I’ll defend my right to be critical. Actually I felt badly about not seeing you home. I wanted to walk a bit, and I didn’t particularly want to go home.’

  ‘That flat…’

  ‘As you say, that flat. And yet they tell me that these flats are hotly contested. I get enquiries. I had one yesterday.’

  But this was dangerous territory. In any event such lines were not to be crossed.

  ‘If I sound ratty it’s probably the effect of living alone for so long.’

  ‘Yes, I know about that. Do you ever think we might have…’

  ‘Oh, no, not really. You were too cautious for me. I wanted more adventure in my life. Funny how we met up again.’

  ‘Only to realize how much time had passed.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Let’s not have this conversation again. It does neither of us any favours.’

  There was a short silence while they digested his remark.

  ‘When do you leave for France?’

  ‘Next Monday. So don’t worry if you ring and don’t get an answer.’

  ‘When do I see you again?’

  ‘Another lunch?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I should be back after a week or ten days.’

  ‘I’ll telephone.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  He rang off, dissatisfied. Was it his own age, old by any standards, that accounted for this discomfiture, this reluctance, this searching for a remedy? He longed for a cure for this non-existent illness but very real malady. Was desire really dead, leaving in its wake mere fantasy? Was he deluded into thinking he had a choice? It was in a desire to beat the odds that he seized his hat and strode out, determined to prove to any witnesses that he was still capable of independent progress. Any doubts that surfaced would be – must be – robustly denied.

  20

  In the interests of ownership he decided to go to Helena’s flat with a view to putting it on the market. This, he reckoned, would finance his sojourn on the shores of the Mediterranean, which, with the onset of lighter mornings, now began to look more plausible, more pleasurable. Although still cold the weather held promise of warmer days to come, yet he was suddenly too impatient to sit out the inevitable slow improvement. In the mornings he could hear pigeons: their mournful notes seemed redolent of England and its slowness, which infected his every movement, his lack of decisiveness. In the sun he would regain some of his early vigour, would be entitled to abandon his conscientious comings and goings down familiar streets, and by the same token to abandon the one fantasy which had preoccupied him and which he now saw was unlikely to be substantiated. At a stroke he would rid himself of ties which were becoming problematic, if not onerous. How this was to be done he was unsure; he only knew that if he got rid of Mrs Gardner he could reassert his autonomy in some way, put an end to speculation, both hers and his own, and make a free choice, if such a thing were ever possible, about the future. It suddenly seemed a matter of urgency to do this; his birthday had brought in its wake a new sense that he was old, that there was little time left before incapacity claimed him. He was still able, but he knew that this would not last, and although reassuring when Sarah complained of her poor health he was not unaware of those fears, those warnings, when it came to his own life. Indeed his words of comfort to her might soon be applied to himself, and he viewed with extreme distaste the exchange of symptoms that might be their lot. Besides, getting rid of Helena’s flat would be tantamount to getting rid of the entanglement that Mrs Gardner had brought in her wake. He had no desire to encourage further fantasies on her part, or indeed on his own.

  Yet the distance travelled between his own small flat and the looming red brick structure he had known mostly from dark evenings after his visits to Helena infected him with an unwelcome melancholy which he thought he had banished. His memory of that relationship was equally dark, her undoubted stoicism striking him anew as not admirable but pitiable. Even in daylight, on a relatively bright morning, the building seemed minatory, untenanted. There was no sound from behind the closed doors; his feet made silent progress in the thickly carpeted corridors; no face met his own on the stairs. Inside the flat the noiselessness was compounded by absence. He moved to the nearest window for a sign of outdoor life, but all he could see was a bus stop at which nobody waited. In almost total silence he longed for the sound of a footfall or the sight of a pedestrian, but neither sight nor sound presented itself. This sensory absence convinced him yet again that he could never live here, nor indeed could Mrs Gardner, on whose behalf he felt a renewal of sympathy. No woman could be assigned to this place without undergoing the same isolation that had afflicted Helena. He saw that his acts of good will, towards both Helena and Mrs Gardner, had been interpreted as something of an insult, an act of charity which both had rejected with hauteur. He felt a renewed distaste for his own calculations.

  As he inspected the rooms the silence became even more palpable. There was no sign of occupancy apart from the unmade bed, with the inevitable bags left where he had last seen them. In the kitchen two cups and saucers, unwashed, stood on the draining board. Had she, even here, found company? Or, more likely, did she leave them for someone else to take care of? He was momentarily touched by the frail old-fashioned cups: his mother had possessed such a tea service, of a kind common in the thirties used for visitors, and as much a sign of gentility as polished shoes and a matching handbag. All this belonged to the past, as did that same silk dressing-gown he had brought home from the hospital and which now trailed on the floor. He picked it up and laid it on the bed: he would not go so far as to open the doors of cupboards, as if fearful of what their contents would reveal, either of absence or of presence. He was emphatically out of place.

  The sitting-room was unchanged, apart from a further cup and saucer, equally unwashed, on the bookcase. He retrieved the copy of Emma which had been opened and placed face down on the table, and for a moment stood wondering what to do with it. Clearly Mrs Gardner had sought momentary solace in Jane Austen and then relinquished her support. He could not blame her: there was little point of contact between them. He wondered where she was, though this was a fruitless speculation. He would leave a note for her, requesting a phone call. He would, he decided, lose no time in putting this flat on the market. He would definitely not want to see it again.

  He took a last look round, one part of him registering the desirability of such a property in the current market, while rejecting any feeling of ownership on his own behalf. He acknowledged that the rooms were more spacious than those in his own flat, but that the atmosphere was curiously confining. Whereas he had no trouble in leaving his own flat in the mornings (was indeed in a hurry to do so), he would find it difficult to extricate himself from these mournful spaces, might indeed sit here all day, awaiting some spectral visitor such as himself. He remembered his dream of the flat with the missing window which had so alarmed him, and realized that the dream was simply a mask for the reality of those Sunday visits, of these very rooms. He made a final inspection. Only the bathroom yielded a sign of occupancy: two towels left on the floor,
and an almost empty tube of toothpaste on the side of the washbasin. As he turned to leave he noticed a used tea bag on the rim of the bath.

  He left as silently as he had entered. Although longing to lock the door he left it as Mrs Gardner had left it and went in search of the caretaker. Only another man, he felt, could enlighten him as to her movements. But there was no one in the basement. Rather than prolong the process, and with no desire to go back inside the flat, he went in search of coffee, in as crowded a place as he could find. He was now possessed of an urgent desire to settle this matter as soon as possible, as if time were of the essence, or rather to annihilate the spectre of time passing before he could be free of the place. The sun, he thought, the sun, as if he were a benighted pagan, fearful of all dark places, of night, of winter, of every form of abandonment.

  After the unearthly quiet of the flat street life struck him as almost exotic. He found a café and sat down with relief, regretting that he had not brought his newspaper with him. The coffee was good, stronger, it seemed, than the sort he would have drunk close to home, the sort of coffee that would have appealed to European exiles, if these still existed. He had no obligation either to linger or to hurry, yet the task awaiting him seemed fraught with urgency, if only the urgency of putting the matter behind him once and for all. Mrs Gardner would have to be contacted, of course, and that, he hoped, would be the end of her. At least it would be the end of his responsibility towards her. What came next must be a matter of free will, his no less than hers.

  On his return he found the caretaker sweeping the front steps. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I don’t know if you remember me. Sturgis is my name. I am now the owner of the late Mrs Sturgis’s flat. I should have explained that I’ve lent it to a friend, but I doubt if she’ll be staying. It’s Mr…?’