The Rules of Engagement Page 14

  My own holiday plans had taken an unexpected turn. In one of the weekly journals to which I had graduated from the newspapers—I was a subscriber to everything, no matter how arcane: the facts! the facts!—I had seen an advertisement for a Christmas walk, or rather Walk, and a telephone number which, after some thought, I rang. This was desperation: I could not face the long empty day, the silent streets, and the ever-present spectre of families enjoying themselves. In this I was more like Betsy than I had allowed myself to suppose. My telephone call was answered by a sombre male voice, to which I bravely announced that I was interested in his advertisement, but would like to hear a little more. Was this a sponsored walk? Was he an organization? Was it for charity? Not that I cared much. I did not intend to join anything.

  ‘I am not an organization,’ said the voice. ‘At least, not in the accepted sense. My name is Nigel Ward. I’m the warden of a Hall of Residence for foreign students. Many of these can’t get home for Christmas. We have a large contingent from Japan. I thought this would get them out, give them something to do.’

  ‘Is it only open to students?’

  ‘Not at all. Anyone can come. I have found that quite a few people are interested. A small fee will be charged. The money will go towards buying a new coffee machine for the students’ Common Room. As you can imagine the old one has had a lot of use. It won’t last much longer.’

  His voice died away. He seemed exhausted at the prospect of spending a day with his charges. But resolute. I liked that.

  ‘Where would we be going?’

  ‘I thought round Hyde Park, then down to Green Park, and on to St James’s Park, finishing up at Victoria Station, where, if we’re lucky, we may find a cup of coffee, even something to eat. That would be the end of it; people will find their own way home from there. Nothing too taxing, you see. Just a pleasant walk in the fresh air.’

  ‘It sounds a very good idea. I’d like to come.’ There was silence at the other end. ‘My name is Wetherall. Elizabeth Wetherall. How do I find you?’

  ‘Departure from Knightsbridge Tube Station at 10 A.M. Are you a good walker?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m a good walker,’ I said, thinking back to my night walks in the phantasmagorical interval between Digby’s death and his funeral. These now seemed furtive, shameful, even illicit, as if I had hoped to surprise other lives, to take them unaware, steal their secrets. The prospect of something so honourable by comparison had a pleasing effect on me, as if I were being given a chance to expunge my former aberrations, now obvious in all their bleak opportunism, and I was almost eager in my acceptance of this prospect.

  ‘Wear comfortable shoes,’ said the voice. ‘Is it Miss or Mrs Wetherall?’

  ‘Mrs. How will I know you?’

  ‘You won’t. You’ll see a group of people to which you will attach yourself. Or not, if you think better of it. Identities will emerge in the course of the morning, by an entirely natural process. You are free to be as private as you wish.’

  ‘I will of course recognize the Japanese. Are there many of them?’

  ‘Quite a few. Until Christmas Day at ten o’clock, then. Goodbye, Mrs Wetherall.’

  I replaced the receiver with a small feeling of triumph. I had done something positive, as everyone had urged me to do. And it need not commit me to anything. If I liked I could silently steal away, into the depths of one or other of the parks; no one would hold me to account. And I should be mercifully free of all the wassailing and its attendant discontents, the noise, the headaches. This would also provide me with an alibi. Doing something for charity was unassailable, the ideal excuse to offer those kind neighbours who had enquired about my plans. And I had no plans, which might have been obvious. Young people were their own source of interest and amusement, and I rather liked the prospect of observing them. Just as I had admired the children on their way to school (and still did, timing my outings to the supermarket to encounter them on their way home) I was willing to enjoy, at a distance, the requisite emotional distance, the young and their conviviality, which might even be extended to myself. My only concern was that it might rain and the whole thing be called off. But the weather forecast was simply for low cloud and fog patches. These did not deter me. I had been used to seeing this weather through the windows of my flat for some days now, and I was more than ready to confront it.

  In fact the day was almost enjoyable. The sombre Mr Ward, easily detectable because of his extreme height, was tactful enough not to insist on introductions, leaving our group, which consisted of about ten adults and perhaps a dozen Japanese, to make their own alliances. I did not see anyone I wanted to accompany, and struck off on my own. The other walkers were either elderly women or elderly men, some in pairs, all obviously willing to put a brave face on what might otherwise have been a day of acute loneliness. At one point Mr Ward loomed up beside me but was called away to answer a stout woman’s enquiry. I was beguiled by the tiny Japanese figures threading their way along the misty paths, stopping to admire the Serpentine, which was glaucous on this dull morning, without movement or reflections, and chattering to each other in bird-like voices. They had all made an effort, were neatly dressed, polite to the old people, successful at concealing any boredom they might have felt. Although my legs were aching by the time we reached Victoria I was reluctant to see the students go, and stood with them for some few minutes, my farewells more cordial, less guarded than my greetings had been. I thanked Mr Ward for his excellent initiative, and said I should be interested in any further activities he cared to organize. I left my telephone number and trudged the rest of the way home, my mind’s eye still occupied by the sight of those small figures dispersed among the leafless trees, and their smiles as they shook hands on parting, their delicacy such a welcome contrast to our bulk.

  At home melancholy overtook me once more in the dull silence, but the day had not been wasted. I would have liked to tell someone about it, but all doors were shut against strangers, and the telephone was mute. I was aware of Digby’s absence, since the flat still seemed to be his by right. I had merely been drafted into it when I married him. I reflected that it was precisely an equable disposition like his that had enabled our marriage to run so smoothly, that I had been unworthy in treating it so lightly. And yet my infidelity had felt so natural, or had been made to seem so natural, Edmund’s fatal gift being a laughing acceptance of things as they were, or as they presented themselves, with conscience a tiresome and unattractive irrelevance, so old-fashioned as to provoke scepticism, if not scorn. The ethos of the day was that one should claim one’s freedom and enjoy it, and the claim must have had some validity because it has persisted and has now taken over the whole of human behaviour. There seemed to be no danger in obeying one’s impulses; there was certainly no blame. What scruples that were left were unevenly shared, so that one never knew what reservations might have persisted in any one individual. But gradually the old taboos were being discounted, seen for what they were: prohibitions imposed on instinct, and therefore against nature. Everything else was a learned response and could therefore be unlearned. Some managed this more easily than others. And yet no one respects an adulterous wife.

  In the days that followed I found it more difficult to maintain my equanimity. I was unwilling to face up to the implications of the coming year, when I should once again find myself on the sidelines. If there were any satisfaction in my position it consisted in the fact that I had not imposed my company on Edmund once I had outstayed my welcome. For this is always apparent. And it is not easy to depart gracefully. I thought with some exasperation of Betsy’s enslavement to the Fairlie household. One attachment I could understand, but not the confusion between passion and friendship which she had persuaded herself that she could accommodate. When I judged that sufficient time had elapsed and that she was temporarily relieved of her duties, I telephoned her and invited her to lunch. ‘We might go to the V & A afterwards,’ I suggested. ‘There’s always something precious to look at.’ And
, I reckoned privately, but again instinctively, a public place, and one as dignified as the sculpture galleries at the V & A, would preclude the sort of confidences that I now dreaded to hear. In that way I was able to greet her with composure and affection. We were after all old friends.

  My quiche lorraine was thoughtfully and sincerely praised. ‘I wish I knew how to make this,’ said Betsy.

  ‘I’ll show you. It’s not difficult.’

  ‘Actually, I think it is. I tried to make one the other night—Edmund came to dinner—but I had to throw it away. We had an omelette instead.’

  ‘Edmund came to dinner?’

  ‘Well, he’s on his own, with the family away. Actually I’ve been seeing quite a lot of him.’

  ‘Seeing’ in this context is used as a metaphor. Yet her expression was more ambivalent than assured. She seemed confident, certainly, even brisk, but not particularly comfortable in the role I had once enjoyed. She was also a little untidy, which was out of character. One of the lapels of her jacket was slightly crumpled, and the jacket itself was beginning to show its age.

  ‘You want to steam that,’ I told her. ‘Or I’ll do it for you.’

  ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I’ll do it when I get home.’

  ‘Take it off,’ I ordered, and was sorry I did so, when I saw the jacket’s torn lining.

  She smiled faintly. ‘Yes, I know. Unfortunately Edmund noticed it. He asked me if I were short of money.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’ She blushed hotly, annoyed with us both.

  ‘If you gave up working for nothing you could get a proper job and earn real money. You’re bilingual. It shouldn’t be difficult to find something.’

  ‘Oh, I will. It’s just that I promised Constance that I’d help them with the move.’

  ‘How long will that take?’

  ‘No idea. In fact it’s all a bit undecided. Constance hates the new house, but then she doesn’t much like the old one. She complains of the noise, which I can’t say I’ve noticed. Anyway it’s sold.’

  ‘Where’s the new one?’

  ‘I don’t like it much either.’ (I had not asked her that. She seemed to consider herself entitled to a view on the matter. Rather as if she might at some point consider taking up residence.) ‘Oh, off Oakley Street. You know, that rather bleak little square.’

  I made a mental note to cross this particular area off my itinerary. It was an act of faith, as well as a matter of principle, never to encounter the Fairlies again. That way we could consider ourselves to be strangers, with no history behind us.

  I tried to divert her by telling her about my Christmas walk, but she was less equable than usual and let her lack of interest show. Whatever the reason for this it could only be a sign of deep preoccupation. And it too was uncharacteristic, as was the proud brooding expression of which she was not conscious. She had a slightly unreliable authority, which would have been welcome were it not for the evidence of negligence that accompanied it. She looked as if she had slipped down a social notch or two, and was determined not to regret it. The torn lining of her jacket was merely the outward and visible sign of this. Yet it seemed that love no longer made her happy, from which I deduced that it was the real thing.

  ‘I shall be glad to see the children again,’ she said.

  ‘They must be growing up,’ I pointed out.

  ‘Oh, yes.’ She sighed. ‘All too quickly. Even David.’

  Her tone was proprietorial, as if she owned a part of them.

  ‘How do you see your role there?’

  ‘Part of the family, I suppose. An expendable part, but I know how to fit in.’

  Always the family cited as protection, as if once admitted one need never fear expropriation.

  This illusion was rudely shattered at the V & A, as soon as we had climbed the steps and were in the entrance. To my horror I saw Constance, in the company of an older woman exactly like her—a sister, I supposed—approaching from the direction of the shop. I took Betsy’s arm to propel her away, but ‘Constance!’ she said delightedly. ‘When did you get back?’

  Constance considered her. ‘My sister,’ she explained, but did not introduce us. ‘A couple of days ago. We should have stayed longer, but there’s this wretched move.’

  ‘You know I’ll help all I can,’ said Betsy.

  ‘In fact we may not stay in that house. We’re thinking of moving on. What have you been doing with yourself?’ she asked me.

  I made noncommittal sounds. ‘Sorry to hear about your husband.’ There was a pause. ‘Happy New Year,’ she added.

  ‘I’ll come tomorrow, shall I?’

  ‘What? Oh, Betsy. Yes, come tomorrow, why don’t you? I may not be there, but someone will let you in.’

  Again there was a pause. The sister’s impassive expression indicated that she was aware of the situation.

  ‘It was kind of you to entertain my husband,’ said Constance. Betsy’s tell-tale colour flared in her cheeks. ‘And I insist on seeing that you’re not out of pocket.’

  ‘There’s no need . . .’ said Betsy.

  ‘Oh, I think I’d feel better if I knew you were paid something.’

  The insult hung in the air, until, smiling, Constance and her sister moved on. My hand tightened on Betsy’s arm. ‘Come,’ I urged. ‘Let’s go home.’

  We wandered out in silence. ‘You won’t go, will you?’ I said.

  ‘Of course I’ll go. I want to see the children before they go their separate ways.’

  ‘Constance is no friend to women,’ I warned her. ‘Do you know what you’re in for?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘She can be a bit edgy sometimes. I’m used to it.’

  But when I saw her walk down the road she did not turn and wave. This was a sign to me: the fault was mine, because I had witnessed her humiliation.

  12

  IT PROMISED TO BE AN EARLY SPRING. WHEN I WENT out soon after dawn for my papers it was still dark, but the darkness was slightly leavened, not so much by a change in the sky as by a hint of luminosity to come. This transformed the coming day into something more bearable, although the promise was rarely kept. It seemed that we must endure the long passage of time before the sun broke through as best we could, and that, as always, was proving difficult. I was tired, with the tiredness of one who has too little rather than too much to do, and longed for the night when I could sleep again. Yet I seemed to be functioning normally, or so I believed: I had no notion of how others were managing. I ate conscientiously, although I no longer cooked proper meals, dressed, as I thought, appropriately, but sometimes I had to remind myself that I was not an old woman whose life was virtually over. I behaved as I was expected to behave, though there were few witnesses. ‘You’re looking better,’ said my hairdresser. ‘We were quite worried about you.’ Again this kindness was proof that my progress was being monitored and was thought to be satisfactory.

  I was more than grateful for this since I seemed to be entirely alone. This was not as threatening as it had been after Digby’s death, though I was aware that I was not fully alive, or even fully awake. I spent as much time as I could away from the flat, even telephoned one or two old friends to arrange to meet for lunch. But these friends, most of whom dated from before my marriage, were so much more confident than I could ever be. They had jobs, which I envied, and I felt like a humble petitioner, seeking an hour of their time, in wine bars and restaurants near their places of work. Their conversation was full of allusions that were foreign to me and names I only half recognized. They viewed my empty days, which I could not hope to disguise, with open disapproval. ‘What do you do with yourself all day?’ was their most predictable question. What did I do with myself? I was not entirely inactive, or so I persuaded myself, for the time seemed to pass, as it does for everyone. But it was not the sort of time by which others reckoned. It was ruminative, attentive to change, to those alterations in the light, to tiny inconsequential happenings and accidents:
that dead pigeon, a mess of dirty feathers, lying in the gutter, the warmer wind, a familiar shop being refurbished by its new owner, the smell of coffee from the open door of a café. I often wished that I could do something with these impressions, that I were a writer of some sort and could form them into a pattern, though there was no narrative thread that I could invent. I felt, mysteriously, that there was some virtue attached to being a witness. My walks afforded me a mild contemplative pleasure. At the same time I knew that I had no valid excuse to offer my busy friends, and that my efforts to renew contact with them were proving something of a failure.

  I telephoned Betsy once or twice but got no answer. I assumed her to be out of reach, either at the Fairlies’, or transporting their effects to their new house, and in any event not anxious to hear from me. A breach had opened in our friendship: the simple fact of my having been present at an awkward moment, even a critical moment, had served to turn me into a hostile witness, someone to be avoided. She was the sort of eager vulnerable woman who saw the mildest hesitation as a withdrawal of favour. I regretted her apparent absence, but was not anxious to enter into that world again, that worship of all the Fairlies, or worse, that intimation of darker confidences that I had no wish to hear. It seemed monstrous that Edmund’s last gift to me was to deprive me of a friend, equally monstrous that Betsy would accept this, with perhaps a suspicion that it might be prudent to do so. She would by now be awake to jealousy, and to the sort of calculation that was not normally in her character. She had, as far back as I could remember, looked to me for a sort of legitimacy. I was the one with the correct attributes, a mother, a father, eventually a husband, and the sort of home that was open to visitors, whereas her homes had always been makeshift, unpeopled. Even her present flat, in which Edmund was the only guest, had resisted my efforts to turn it into something else, something more open to the public gaze, and was now reduced to its humblest elements, a hiding place for a more or less clandestine arrangement, and thus disbarred from the public gaze.