Strangers Read online

  ‘Call me Arthur. That’s what they all call me, all the residents, that is. I’ve been here too long. Well, that’ll all change in a few months when I retire. I doubt if they’ll replace me. Not at this salary, at any rate. If you’d like to come in.’

  ‘I won’t take up much of your time…’

  ‘To be honest I’m glad you’ve turned up. I didn’t like what I heard from that flat, footsteps and so on. Then it all went quiet. Seems there’s nobody there now. But you can’t leave property empty these days, not even in this area. Vandals. Joyriders. Know what I mean?’

  ‘I’ll see to that. I shan’t be living there myself. I’ll probably sell it in the very near future. I’ll leave you my telephone number, er, Arthur, and let you know my plans as soon as I know them myself. I may be going abroad,’ he added, although the prospect once again struck him as fanciful. That, of course, was the price to pay for solitary decisions which involved no one but oneself. But this put him back in the realm of speculation, and what he needed now were firm decisions, preferably hard-headed and as realistic as possible.

  ‘You’ll get a good price if you decide to sell,’ the man said. ‘I was going to make myself a cup of tea.’

  ‘I won’t detain you.’

  ‘Only I could get you a new owner, no problem. I’ve had enquiries. Save you going through an agency. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Of course. I’d be very grateful. We can discuss this when…’

  ‘If you’d like to join me in a cup of tea we could discuss the matter of price. And I’ll need to know how to contact you.’

  ‘I’ll give you both my numbers,’ he said, following the man to his flat in the basement. ‘Oh, how much lighter it seems down here. And how nice you’ve made it.’

  It did indeed seem attractive, mainly with signs of occupancy, two chairs and a small table in what was clearly a much lived in kitchen, a kettle already filled and waiting. Meekly he sat down. This man obviously considered him an equal in the matter of buying and selling, though there was no doubt which of them occupied a more advantageous position.

  ‘Yes, well, the wife does all that. Not that we won’t be glad to see the back of it. We’ve got a little place in Essex, lovely it is. That’s why I’m looking forward to retirement. So if we could come to some arrangement as soon as possible…’

  ‘Of course. I’ll be in touch as soon as I can.’

  He endured a lengthy recital of the amenities of the house in Essex, the en-suite bathrooms, the patio doors, the state-of-the-art sound system, before standing up to leave. ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he repeated.

  ‘If you want to remove any personal possessions I’d do it now if I were you.’

  But this was taking entrepreneurship a little too far. Further pleasantries were exchanged, and then, finally, he was free to go.

  It occured to him to wonder how and when such monies were to be conveyed, and also the crucial matter of how much commission was expected. A hundred pounds? Five hundred? To be on the safe side he opted for five hundred, assuming that this was the going rate. He had no knowledge of such transactions, having never been in receipt of financial favours and being rigorously correct in such matters. He surmised that the house in Essex had profited from Arthur’s commission. Perhaps he had been expected to hand over money straight away, as a pledge of good faith, but the banker in him objected to such unsupervised disbursements. The transaction would, of course, never be referred to, an envelope discreetly handed over, or left on that kitchen table. Five hundred, he decided, and that would be the end of it. How and when he decided to leave was unclear. He would be relieved of the flat, need never see it again. For five hundred pounds it would be disposed of sight unseen.

  There remained the problem of how to convey this news to Mrs Gardner, or rather the intractable problem of Mrs Gardner herself. A pragmatist might have solved it by going to live with her in the flat, and being the conventional man he longed to be. But this was deeply unattractive. He had left a note asking her to telephone but doubted that she would, her preferred method of communication being to call on him unannounced. There was the further problem of getting her to leave, although she professed to loathe the place, much as he had come to do. She remained something of a menace, with her seemingly eternal rootlessness, but there was no need for him to assume responsibility for her movements. That he continued to do so was merely a sign of his own weakness. Those other friends, who would be expected to accommodate her, might in fact feel as reluctant as he now did. And his own small flat was in her sights, and had been, he now realized, as soon as she had first entered it.

  It was a relief to be out in the air, away from the business of property, his own or anyone else’s. It was only out in the air that he felt untrammelled, in command of himself. That was probably the reason why he took so many walks, not, as he thought, because he was simply hungry for faces. Air was his element, weightlessness his ideal condition. There was little chance that this would continue indefinitely. He was in his seventy-fourth year, still in relatively good health, but apt to tire abruptly, like a small child. He had only his will to see him through, and that must not be surrendered. Therefore all depredations must be resisted, even if the effort were to be, or to seem, disproportionate. He had a strong desire for a solution that he would not have to engineer for himself. He did not doubt that this was a common wish, a willed helplessness of which he could not approve, long for it though he might. He was a grown man, he reminded himself: he must see it through. At the same time he regretted that he could rely only on himself. But that too was a common wish, inappropriate in an adult. Except that others seemed to bring it off, Mrs Gardner being a case in point.

  The air revived him. He breathed deeply, newly indifferent to others. Every step he took seemed to armour him against further incursions. He would have liked to discuss matters with someone, Sarah being the obvious choice. She would have regarded him with astonishment, laughed at his scruples, reproached him as she had always done, launched into her usual barrage of criticisms. For once he would have welcomed all this. But Sarah was out of town, and he wanted the matter settled as soon as possible. Unfortunately Mrs Gardner was also out of touch and likely to remain so until she chose to re-enter his orbit. He saw all too clearly why he had failed with women. It was his desire to see them in a good light that had let him down. Even when they were manifestly at fault he had withheld his reproaches. There had been those who simply drifted away, baffled by his restraint. This too, he thought, was a matter of class, his own politeness having been drilled into him by parents too anxious not to give offence. He had never been able to overcome this predisposition, could not see it as a virtue. Only someone known from infancy might have seen it that way. But the days of innocence were long gone. Against his expectations the age of reason was proving something of a disappointment.

  21

  His reading now was confined to diaries, notebooks, memoirs, anything that contained a confessional element. He was in search of evidence of discomfiture, disappointment, rather than triumph, over circumstances. Circumstances, he knew, would always overrule. Those great exemplars of the past, the kind he had always sought in classic novels, usually finished on a note of success, of exoneration, which was not for him. In the absence of comfort he was forced to contemplate his own failure, failure not in worldly terms but in the reality of his circumscribed life. He knew, rather more clearly than he had ever known before, that he had succeeded only at mundane tasks, that he had failed to deliver a reputation that others would acknowledge. Proof, if proof were needed, lay in the fact that his presence was no longer sought, that, deprived of the structure of the working day, he was at a loss, obliged to look for comfort in whatever he could devise for himself. His life of reading, of walking, was invisible to others: his friendships, so agreeable in past days, had dwindled, almost disappeared. Memories were of no use to him; indeed, even memory was beginning to be eroded by the absence of confirmation. As to love, that was gone for g
ood. Whatever he managed to contrive for himself would not, could not, be construed as success.

  Sarah was absent, and their last meeting had, he saw, pleased neither of them. Each mirrored the unwelcome changes in the other. To all intents and purposes sympathetic, he had merely been spruce and jocular, attitudes unlikely to appeal to any woman once known intimately. She had a past of which he knew too little, merely the outlines: a husband now relegated to some sort of prehistory, a house in France to which she resorted from time to time, a life lived without enthusiasm. This differed from the life that had so fascinated him during the years when he had been in thrall to her decisiveness, even when that decisiveness excluded him. Now she saw him only as a relic of her own refulgent past, and one that was not flattering. He was dismayed by the changes in her, which, he knew, afflicted her in ways with which she was not familiar. Illness, infirmity, whether real or imagined, were a cover for a distress very different from her old impatience. They would meet from time to time, but any pleasure would soon turn to irony, as if re-enactment of a ritual were a worthy substitute for what had once been meaningful. The saving grace, if grace it could be called, was that they both knew this and had decided that it was better than nothing. And though he could not answer for her in this or any other matter, he thought that she felt the same. Thus their defeat united them in ways which neither of them entirely welcomed. Circumstances again. What had once been their youth was now something of a myth: the cruelty of age now constituted a common ground which he found easier to tolerate than Sarah evidently did. His training in obscurity, in duty conscientiously performed, but performed without réclame, had resulted in a sense of endurance in which he took no pride. For a woman, he knew, or thought he knew, this would be even worse. Sarah’s pride had always resided in her success with men, her unshakeable confidence that she could command their feelings for her, that she would always have a choice. Now she had even less of a choice than he had. Only the memory of attachment remained, that and certain moments of affection, when she took his arm, leaned against him. But then went back to whatever life she lived now, one for which she obviously had little taste. His own desire for disclosure, for total knowledge of the other, of others, remained unfulfilled.

  As for Mrs Gardner, he was even more at a loss, though a loss that contained an intriguing element of mystery. His sympathy, which had once been aroused, had fallen into abeyance, and yet the very irritation he felt was something of a stimulus. He wanted her out of his way, and yet he wanted to follow her story. He remembered her saying that she felt lucky, that she was being looked after by some benign providence; he had thought this absurd, but had not had the heart to tell her so. But perhaps that was all it took, a willingness to assume that all would be well. That willingness extended even to himself: he would accede to her wishes, or at least she assumed that he would, under the benign gaze of that entity to which she entrusted her fate. And if her wishes were not immediately fulfilled she would not take it amiss, would simply present them from time to time, as she no doubt had when she contacted her husband, or ex-husband. There was matter here for comedy rather than for tragedy: that was the essence of her attraction. The trouble was that those who believed in their own destiny usually proved something of a burden for others. He could only count on her presence, or absence – absence on the whole being preferable – for as long as she decreed, his own will in the matter defeatedby her curious blitheness, for which his admiration remained undimmed.

  Momentarily rendered philosophical by these reflections, he was almost annoyed when the telephone rang. He was not ready to contemplate further action, at least not at that moment. He decided to be prime mover in any action that was to be taken, to assert his autonomy in the face of those same circumstances against which he had no protection. There was no need to accede to others’ difficulties, sympathize though he surely would. His sympathy, he thought, was, and would remain, a constant.

  ‘Arthur here,’ said a voice in his ear.

  ‘Arthur?’

  ‘Your flat. I’ve got a lady here interested in it. Wants to know how much you want for it.’

  He had no idea how much the flat was worth but named a sum which he considered astronomical. There was a muttered conversation, a hand having been placed over the mouthpiece.

  ‘No problem,’ came back in a normal tone. ‘Lady’s name is Mrs Fitch. Says she’s going out to lunch but could meet you here this afternoon, if that’s convenient.’

  ‘Certainly. Shall we say two-thirty?’

  Again the hand was placed over the mouthpiece. ‘Two-thirty is fine.’ ‘Sir,’ was added.

  Clearly Arthur was the linchpin in these negotiations. Five hundred, he reckoned.

  As a guarantee of good faith he went straight to the bank. That he was being out-manoeuvred he had no doubt. But did it matter? He had little feeling for the flat, but spared a thought for Helena, whose province it had been, and whose presence had seemed so palpable on his recent visit. The money was almost irrelevant, was quite unreal. Events seemed to be making up his mind for him: he had not yet decided what to do. Too restless to go home he took a taxi to the flat, anxious now to present himself, as if he, rather than this Mrs Fitch, were the supplicant.

  He found Arthur in the basement, making tea. He placed his envelope on the kitchen table without comment. Equally without comment it was removed to a drawer. He was offered, and accepted, a cup of tea.

  ‘That was quick,’ he said.

  ‘Yes, well, she’s enquired a couple of times. I didn’t like to say anything when your friend was here, but now she seems to have gone… As I say, you can’t leave property empty these days.’

  ‘She’s coming back at two-thirty, you say?’

  ‘Gone out to lunch with her daughter. It’s on account of the daughter that she wants to come back to London. Been living in the country, doesn’t know whether to keep the place on there. Not short of a few bob, I should say. Knows what she wants and how to get it.’

  So money had been exchanged on her part as well as on his. What further improvements to the house in Essex could now be put in train? Underfloor heating, perhaps. He felt admiration for this man, who also knew what he wanted and how to get it.

  ‘I’ll go out and get a bite to eat,’ he said. ‘Thank you for your help. I’m sure we can wrap things up as soon as we’ve exchanged the names of our solicitors.’

  ‘Well, you don’t want to hang about. I reckon this is her last offer. There’s a place round the corner if you want lunch. Though if I was you I’d be back before two-thirty.’

  ‘I have every intention of doing so. To the left or to the right?’

  ‘Left. And much obliged.’ ‘Sir,’ was once again added, not quite as an afterthought. At least he had got that right.

  As ever he felt reprieved once he was out in the air, away from property, from proprietorship, from negotiations. The answer to his frequent bouts of distress, he thought, was simply to stay out as long as possible. His strength seemed suddenly in rather short supply. He found the restaurant and sat down heavily, gazing abstractedly at the menu, annoyed at the further decision forced on him. He was not hungry, wanted only coffee, but ordered a dish of pasta, thinking it would supply some much needed energy. Beyond the windows the weather seemed bright, brighter than when he had left home, but cold. In Saint-Paul-de-Vence, where Sarah was, it would be warm. Suddenly he longed for her return. She was his familiar, and by the same token his harshest critic. But even that harshness would be welcome on a day like today, when old associations were being stripped from him. He would, of course, be glad to be rid of the place, was, he supposed, grateful for the promptness with which this had been effected, but would have liked more time in which to think his way forward.

  He was back in Arthur’s basement by just after two, thinking he had no further right to enter his, or rather Helena’s flat, though it was still his. Distantly he wondered how to convey the news to Mrs Gardner, who still had a set of keys. This was a pro
blem he decided to leave to Arthur to sort out. Once dispossessed, and thus restored to her natural condition, she would surely turn up sooner or later. But this was an old problem, and one to which, as ever, there was no solution.

  A piercing female voice, accompanied by reassuring noises from Arthur, alerted him to the fact that the business of the day had yet to be completed. He detached himself from the wall against which he had been leaning and stood resolutely awaiting the arrival of Mrs Fitch who, to judge from the timbre of her voice, was as resolute as he was preoccupied. Descending footsteps brought them face to face, with Arthur in attendance. To his surprise Mrs Fitch was elderly, even older than himself, but by no means undermined by this fact. Rather the opposite: she scrutinized him very much as if prepared to find him wanting in some essential way. This, again, was to be a matter of class, he concluded. ‘Paul Sturgis,’ he announced, holding out his hand. ‘Mrs Fitch, I believe?’

  ‘I’m in rather a hurry, I’m afraid. I trust that this won’t take long?’

  ‘If you’d give me the name of your solicitor, I’m sure we can exchange quite speedily. I’ve written down my man’s name and address. How soon would you…?’

  ‘As I’ve said, as soon as possible.’ She took the card from his outstretched hand and examined it. ‘Quite a reputable firm, I believe. I may even have met this man at some point. Have you been with him long?’

  He felt his credentials were in the balance. ‘Yes, ever since I retired.’

  ‘There’s the matter of clearing the flat. Of course I have my own furniture, some of it rather valuable.’ More valuable than poor Helena’s, he was given to understand. ‘If there’s anything you want to take perhaps you’d do so now. My son-in-law will see to transport. Or perhaps you have someone…’