The Bay of Angels Read online

  To sit alone in my room all day, in either of my rooms, whether in Nice or in London, no longer suited me. I wanted noise, company, above all company. It appealed to me to be rootless, as if in this state I might be available, at a moment’s notice, to change, to expand, to divert my energies. And my energies were now considerable, for I was better fed, and in good health. The cataclysms that had brought me to this juncture had receded into the background. I no longer viewed them as monstrous, dangerous. What seemed much more dangerous now was the silence that threatened me, both physically and metaphorically. I collected the manuscript from Dr Blackburn and arranged to return it when I was next in London. When would that be? Oh, very soon, I said. I could always come over for the day. And then of course I might soon be home for good.

  The one advantage the flat possessed over my room in the rue de France was that in it I could listen to music all day. Music was in fact an essential component of my working life, enabling me to concentrate on my current task and keeping me company in the quiet afternoons, when the street was silent and footfalls infrequent. Kind people said good morning, good evening, and finally goodnight, and I was thereby soothed into a sense of community. And these nice people had the tact not to interrupt the music for too long, so that the day was presided over by agreeable voices, by beautiful harmonies. I resolved to ask M. Cottin if I might have a radio in my room. I was spending so much money that I did not see why I should not benefit in this particular instance. M. Cottin would almost certainly say no, but the request would be carefully made, promising no music after lights out, and no pop music at all, ever. I could not live as austerely as M. Cottin, who seemed to manage with only his own company, and that of his customers, but he would surely acknowledge that the needs of the young were different. He approved of me because I made no demands, introduced no visitors, did not come back in the small hours, or indeed disturb him in any way. He was the ideal landlord, the missing link in our non-existent family relationships. There was no one to pass on family secrets, or to whom we might have recourse in times of greater trouble. This greater trouble I could foresee only too clearly. All the more reason then to make this strange interval more agreeable, for once back in London my life would be hedged around with restrictions which the outside world would do little to mitigate.

  My two days in London stretched to four, and would have stretched to five had I not been troubled by the loss of contact with my mother. Not that I saw her more than once a week, but I could be reached by telephone should I be needed. M. Cottin was also relieved that I did not make use of the telephone, which was closely guarded. There was no need for me to do so, for I longed to be out in the air, and would make my way to the Résidence Sainte Thérèse early every morning, merely to say hello to the sister on duty and to inquire whether my mother had spent a good night. She was unaware of these daily visits, nor was there any reason why she should know about them. In truth they were not necessary, but it reassured me to pay my respects in this way, after which I was as free as I would ever be. With a radio, if I achieved one, the work I would bring back with me would be possible, and more than possible, a pleasure. I reminded myself that the money I earned, pitiful though it might be, would help to pay for our requirements. At the back of my mind was the prospect of transporting my mother, together with those belongings I had managed to rescue for her, not to mention her fears and frailties, from a place of safety to one that depended entirely on my resources. It was not something on which I cared to dwell.

  When I left the Résidence Sainte Thérèse after those unofficial morning visits and went out thankfully into the bright air I had an ache in my throat, as if I had consigned my mother to her fate as an inmate, a pensionnaire, an ageing schoolgirl, with a schoolgirl’s limited choices. My own freedom to move about seemed to me to constitute a disloyalty. At the same time I was grateful that I could discharge duties which I should at some time inherit. I knew that we were coming to the end of the present arrangement. I could see that my muted London neighbourhood would be suitable for gentle walks, such as the tentative walks she already took in the steep crooked streets of the Old Town in Nice. I could see that the change would benefit her; I could also see that she would lose some of the stoicism she had absorbed from her French acquaintances, would become timid and valetudinarian with only myself for company.

  I had to face up to the fact that the present circumstances suited me well enough. On the other hand I could not bear my sadness when I thought of her, and pictured her carefully reading her newspaper until it should be time for another meal, another interlude of cordiality, before the long afternoon began. The distance between us was growing. She spoke French now, attended the church of Sainte Rita, had her grey hair unbecomingly dressed by M. Hervé. And yet she longed for home. It would be her home rather than mine, the home she would reach at the end of the long parenthesis which had been her life in Nice. And if this should prove a disappointment there would be no going back. She would be as safe as I could make her, but that would be all . . . She would not be happy; neither would I. But I would assuage the habitual ache that somehow dominated those days in the sun, when I wandered, directionless, until it grew dark. At the end of the day I was glad to hide myself in my room. Yet the following morning I would retrace my steps, for no other reason than that of allaying my anxiety, my sadness. I am here, those visits seemed to say. I shall never leave you.

  I shut up the flat with a lassitude which only slightly masked a feeling of dread. My dread was of my mother’s growing disinclination to think for herself. She had, as I had been warned, become institutionalized, though this had indeed happened long ago. What courage it must take to grow old! And she was growing old in exile, as I should, in exile from our own lives. I knew that I should have to bring her home, as she always referred to it, if only to counter her inchoate longings. We should keep each other company, as if this had always been intended. No word of love, other than our own, would be there to lend support. And yet our fate seemed ineluctable. Normality was, or could be, London, my work, my dusky flat. And maybe she would recover her autonomy in these almost familiar surroundings. And maybe, in time, I should be strong enough to leave her.

  Back in the rue de France I felt steadier. Maybe it was the clarity of the French language that lent some definition to my thoughts; speaking French made me feel braver. I laid out my work on my table and sat there, looking at it. I made a plan: we should go home in the autumn, when the next instalment of rent for our respective rooms was due. I should acquaint her of this when I visited her on the following day, Sunday. In that way she would have a little time to get used to the idea, which should not present too many difficulties. This decreed, I felt a sense of relief, but it was only the relief of having come to a decision. The future was now a manageable prospect, begun in extravagant circumstances, and now strangely, but misleadingly, becalmed.

  I went downstairs to M. Cottin and asked him whether he would object to my having a radio in my room. Not only might I have a radio, said M. Cottin, but he could get me a discount on any radio I cared to purchase. It so happened that his cousin, Louis Gros, had an electrical shop in the Baumettes district, and that on receipt of a letter from M. Cottin, would let me have a very advantageous price. In any event they owed each other a favour; this would serve. He summoned me into the room behind the shop, donned a pair of wire-framed spectacles, and sat down to write a letter to his cousin. This took some time. My presence, indeed my existence had to be explained; news had to be exchanged; the times had to be deplored. My eye followed the pen’s spidery progress. I felt once more, as I had felt all day, that my life was being infinitesimally impeded, though with all the good will in the world, on the part of others. My profuse thanks struck me as excessive, but had the effect of bringing a rare smile to M. Cottin’s face. I renewed my thanks and backed out precipitately into the shop, where I knocked a pair of sunglasses to the floor. Not to worry, he gestured: he was glad to be of service. After such an exuberant
exchange it was a relief for us both to part company.

  Out in the street the light seemed harsher, brassier, as if there might be a storm brewing. I was now obliged to visit M. Gros’s shop, although it might have been wiser to stay indoors. It seemed a long walk under an unfriendly sky, and the Baumettes district was less reassuring than the rue de France, less amiable, less commodious, more functional. I found the shop, and waited until M. Gros had read his cousin’s letter. He then showed me several radios of fairly hideous design and demonstrated their power. I bought the least expensive, which was also the biggest; it made a cumbersome package when wrapped up, and the plastic bag in which it came to rest was oversized. When I emerged into the street it was to a darkening sky and a rumble of thunder that sounded as if someone had dropped a metal tray. As heavy drops of rain began to fall I dived into a nearby café, my plastic bag banging against my leg. I was shown half-heartedly to a table, although the place was relatively empty, and it was too early for regular patrons. I ordered hastily from the menu, annoyed that I had been caught up in M. Cottin’s designs. The kindness of strangers also had its disadvantages. The rain was now falling heavily, and I was without a jacket. I ate gloomily; it was only when I was drinking my coffee that I was able to sit back and look around. The few people who were eating at that early hour had seated themselves in shadowy corners, as if they were ashamed of the fact that they were obliged to eat alone. I lit a cigarette, resigned to waiting for the rain to end. Across the room I singled out a familiar face. Not that Dr Balbi was entirely familiar. But his was the only presence to which I could lay claim.

  I marched resolutely over to his table, my uncouth bag marking me out, as if nothing else did, as an unwelcome presence.

  ‘Miss Cunningham,’ he said warily, laying down his fork with some resignation.

  ‘What a strange coincidence,’ I remarked. ‘I did not expect to see you here. But I am very glad of the opportunity to talk to you . . . ’

  ‘You could always talk to me at the clinic.’

  ‘You know I never like to bother you. Dr Lagarde answers most of my questions. But as we are both here, in this rather bad café . . . ’

  ‘I am not in this rather bad café in my professional capacity. I have been visiting a friend in the neighbourhood.’

  He seemed put out, from which I deduced that the friend was a woman, one of those discreet liaisons which take place off limits, and to which there are no witnesses. I even wondered whether Dr Balbi’s friend were a prostitute, which would account for the reserve with which he viewed my intemperate presence.

  ‘I am sure we are both anxious to be on our way,’ I said suavely. ‘I just wondered whether I might have a few words with you about my mother. I am not happy about her. We shall be going back to London soon, and I should like to know how much care she will need.’

  ‘Your mother will always need some degree of care. I am not unduly anxious about her.’

  ‘But you haven’t seen her recently.’

  ‘I am in touch with Dr Lagarde. He would have advised me of any change.’

  ‘I have very little confidence in Dr Lagarde. And the other ladies don’t seem to like him.’

  ‘That is because he is young and they are old. There is nothing that I, or anybody else, can do about that.’

  ‘She seems so vague, so passive, so patient. Like an invalid. Not like my mother any more.’

  ‘You are not going to cry again, I hope?’

  But I was. There was something about this man, his severity, his melancholy neatness, that reduced me to tears. I wanted him to take over, in a general rather than a particular sense, and tell me that I need have no concern for my mother. This he was clearly unwilling, or unable, to do. And I was being a nuisance; I had breached the only code of manners he was willing to understand, with himself on one side of a protective desk and the supplicant on the other. Instead of which I was untidy, unseemly, and I had caught him out at a bad moment. On his plate was a half-eaten mille-feuille. I bent down as a passing waiter knocked over my bag and surreptitiously wiped my face. When I sat up again it was to see him regarding me with a fixed and by no means friendly expression.

  ‘Aren’t you going to finish that?’ I said, indicating his plate.

  This was another gaffe. He wanted no witnesses to any of his appetites. He pushed the plate away from him and held up his hand for the bill.

  The rain had stopped, and had been replaced by a hectic burst of sunshine which held no conviction. There would be more rain that night. By now I had no desire to go back to the rue de France. What I urgently wanted, and was not to receive, was some sort of direction, which Dr Balbi resolutely refused to give. I felt some anger with him, even more with myself. I had been seen at my worst, as a crybaby, whose tears could not beguile. I felt my cheeks grow warm with the consciousness of how unattractive I must look. Yet I had no thought of persuasion in mind; I did not expect to sway him in my favour. I did not think him a worthy object of my interest. He was not tall, although his extreme thinness made him seem taller than he was. He gave the impression of having worn a double-breasted suit from a tender age, part of his disguise. I remembered his few remarks about his mother and her sacrifices. These seemed to have dried up his sympathies, the sort of sympathies with which Dr Lagarde was so prodigal. Dr Balbi probably, though not consciously, compared all his women patients with his sacrificial mother, to those patients’ disadvantage. He seemed both righteous and self-righteous, an unpromising combination of qualities.

  ‘You have your own man in London, of course?’

  ‘I don’t know. I don’t think my doctor is competent . . . ’

  ‘You seem to have a very poor opinion of the medical profession. Most doctors are competent, though they vary in temperament.’

  ‘Will you see my mother before we leave?’

  ‘There is no reason for me to do so. I shall have a word with Dr Lagarde, though he has expressed no particular anxiety on her behalf. Those ladies receive the best of care. They are in a protected environment. In many ways it would be better . . . ’

  ‘We can’t afford it,’ I said flatly. ‘We have very little money . . . ’

  He regarded me with some scepticism. ‘Would it not be better to let your lawyers take care of that?’

  ‘I should have to be at home. I can’t deal with it by telephone.’

  ‘No.’

  There was a silence. The interview seemed to be over. I leaned down and retrieved my poor radio. In the course of the afternoon I had forgotten why I had wanted it. I wondered whether I might ask Dr Balbi for a lift back to the rue de France, then dismissed the idea.

  ‘Thank you for your time,’ I said.

  I stood up, feeling ten feet tall. The handles of my plastic bag had got twisted. And now I should have to thank M. Cottin all over again. He had shown me a dangerous kindness, and that had weakened me into desiring kindness from others.

  ‘Goodbye, Doctor,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to have spoilt your meal.’

  He stood up and held out his hand. ‘Goodbye, Miss Cunningham.’ He did not tell me not to worry, as an English doctor would have done, nor did he tell me to keep in touch. He did not tell me he was there to help. I knew exactly where I was with him, which was nowhere.

  As I made my way home I realized that I was seriously annoyed. I thought that I should have been shown more courtesy. Yet he had been perfectly correct. I had interrupted his meal; I had taken advantage of him in an unprofessional setting, and he had as much right to be annoyed with me as I had with him. It was that mutual annoyance that had led us to square up to each other like antagonists. In other, more favourable circumstances this would have been unimportant. But I had been seen as unattractive, and that was what I could not forgive, and for which I held Dr Balbi partly to blame. I was tired of being polite and tactful, as my lowly status now decreed. I should have preferred a furious argument with someone, anyone: I should have preferred all sorts of flamboyant behaviour, on both sides.
It was not that I particularly admired him. I simply wanted to be recognized as a woman. My life was cast now among old people, for I saw my mother as old, as she did, and they were old people who dismissed my youth as an irrelevance. I could not join in their conversations, because my experience, in which they had no interest, was so different from theirs. Dr Balbi was nearer to my age than anyone I currently knew. I thought he must be in his early to mid-forties, but in fact he looked no age at all. He had been seen by me in a setting and on an errand which belied his professional standing. Yet I was the more exasperated.

  My mother seemed to have acceded to the prevailing belief that a daughter was of lesser value than a son, which was why I was so eager to attach a masculine presence to my own. She would have listened respectfully to Dr Balbi, who at least impressed one as a man, unlike poor Dr Lagarde, whose assiduity somehow diminished him. There seemed to be an unspoken consensus that his recommendations need not be followed, since he offered them as an option rather than as an order. His flirtatious manner, which should have been thought to work with the elderly, was viewed with a sceptical eye; my mother’s new friends would respond only to a certain masculine rigour. And as they thought they knew their own ailments rather better than he could, they were in no sense dependent on him. Given the chance they would certainly have been dependent on Dr Balbi, which was probably why he did not intervene. Had he been in evidence they would have looked up to him; his severity might have reminded them of masterful men in their own distant pasts. Prudently he made his own inquiries to Dr Lagarde, whom he seemed to trust. Whether he did so or not was his own affair.

  On the following day, Sunday, I told my mother that we should be going back to London in due course. ‘How lovely,’ she said, but she was more interested in Mme de Pass’s son, who had arrived back from New York. All the ladies were interested, for this was the sort of man they could understand: robust, even brutal, but knowing his duties. He had a word with each lady in turn, adopted an attitude that was almost caressing, as he kissed hands, patted shoulders, joked. They looked at him worshipfully, laying aside their habitual toughness, smiling, even blushing. They accepted the fact that he was able to spend only a short time in their midst, for real men had important business and could not delay any longer than was necessary. His departure was almost as tempestuous as his arrival had been: he would be a subject of conversation at dinner. Mme de Pass, for all her three marriages, was obviously in love with her son, this big man who had once been a little boy. She would receive congratulations and would accept them as her due. When he left the emotional temperature dropped noticeably, and faces were turned once more to those who sat patiently beside them. He was their type, as the rest of us were not.