Falling Slowly Read online

  ‘A quiet life suits me now,’ Beatrice had replied. ‘The stresses were very great, you know. And I am a very sensitive person.’

  ‘Oh, so am I,’ said Mrs Anstruther enthusiastically, helping herself to a biscuit. ‘It’s a mixed blessing, isn’t it?’

  As she grew older Beatrice grew more frightened. She was unpartnered; few people expressed an interest. This position had been slightly reclaimed of late by Max’s visits, but the audience was still missing. The wretched Mrs Anstruther was her only witness, and had been invited to tea for that equally wretched reason. There was some virtue then in that alternative scenario she had created: a slightly raffish life on the Riviera, under a brilliant sun, on a balcony, with nothing to do beyond taking a siesta and waking up in time to bathe and change for dinner. A little gambling, perhaps; she had no objection to that, and it might amuse Max, who had not so far entered her calculations. Hastily, she made provision for him. He could stroll, perform small tasks; he could wear his panama hat. He would be bored, of course, but then so would she. Her ennui would have something self-indulgent about it; she would reflect on her disappointments, the main disappointment being Max himself, instead of that stranger whom she no longer expected to meet. That she, who was so filled with passionate feeling, should be so cheated, was still a wonder to her. What should have happened had not happened. Fiction was better at arranging such matters.

  Some time ago she had tried to substitute irony for longing, and had almost succeeded. That was why this alternative life so nearly appealed to her. It would furnish her with splendid opportunities for the sarcasm she had always kept hidden. She would spare no one. Those who thought of her as a compliant and anxious character would be surprised by her sharp tongue, her barbed observations. These would be given legitimacy by her own immense stupefaction at having been left out of the race, of having to make do with second best. It was only right therefore that the second best should be fairly spectacular, should have something showy about it, that rumours should reach onetime friends at home. And it would not last for ever, or need not. This part was vague to her; she did not quite go so far as to envisage a further freedom. She only knew that in some vital way she would have rescued her reputation. Women were always being urged to recover their self-esteem – at least they were in the newspaper she read. She would be doing this for her self-esteem. Self-esteem apparently was its own reward. That too would suit her well enough. She had been resigned for far too long.

  And then the sun, the sun! She craved it as though it was still winter in London, but in fact it was the end of a humid July, the sky undecided, rain sprinkling down every so often, and what heat there was damp and uncomfortable. That was why she had so little energy, why that poor woman had been overcome. She shied away from the thought of the woman’s careful dressing that morning, of the feet slipped into the elegant shoes, one of which had fallen off, of the underwear suddenly, grotesquely, on display. The woman’s skirt had ridden up, to reveal several inches of a white slip, such as only women of her age wore these days: that fussy border of nylon lace had put her definitively into a different category from the kind girls assisting her, their pretty faces intent on their task. The staff no doubt had instructions, knew how to cope with emergencies. As she did not. She could only look on helplessly, immersed in her own sense of dread.

  Suddenly the mingled perfumes, even now being dabbed on to wrists, seemed to her intolerable, and she made for the nearest exit, found herself in the fruit and vegetable department, looked round carefully as though calculating her needs, lingered until she judged herself steady enough for the street. She had intended to buy some made-up dish for her lunch, but lunch now seemed unwelcome. She had eggs at home, would make an omelette. Then she would perhaps have a rest; the incident with the fainting woman had upset her. That was why the sun’s embrace seemed so imperative. She would be becalmed, if not entirely safe (no one was safe). And she would be protected, if anything were to go wrong. Max was suddenly very dear to her, in this new role of which he was totally unaware. She would do her best to make him happy, that is to say to make him comfortable. Happiness was no longer an issue. They were both in that uncertain time which succeeds the beautiful impulses of youth, the hungry curiosity of middle age. This was not maturity so much as anti-climax. She had not been warned about this, but had to accept its reality, rather earlier than she had anticipated. She was still, on her better days, an agreeable-looking woman, but behind the careful façade she was aware of defeat. Her good years were past. She had had a revelation, not of fulfilment but of escape, and she had had the sense to recognize it for what it was. For that, surely, she deserved some compensation.

  Miriam could come out for holidays. No, that was clearly unrealistic; Miriam and Max had never got on. Her poor sister, whom she suspected of being unhappy … She had telephoned on her return from Paris but had stayed largely out of sight. That was how Beatrice knew of her unhappiness. She mentally assigned Miriam to that Rivers person, in the hope that he would take care of her. He had taken her out to dinner a few times, but all she would say, when asked if she had enjoyed herself, was, ‘Yes, it was pleasant.’ There had been a set to her lips which Beatrice had not liked. She knew that she too was about to incur opprobrium. But she had to save her own life, for no one had so far shown any signs of wanting to do it for her. She would miss her little sister (the fantasy now taking on the hard-edged appearance of reality). Something was owing to Miriam. Beatrice longed to bring a smile of approval to her face. Miriam had suggested that she go to a museum. That, then, was what she would do. She would then invite Miriam to supper, and discourse intelligently, objectively, for once. The days of recalling their youth were over. Or perhaps had not yet truly arrived.

  It hardly signified that Max had been absent for a week or two. Her plans for him over-rode such paltry considerations. She was experienced enough to know that this was a tactic put in place to secure her wandering attention, though she was never unmannerly enough to let any hint of this escape her. She considered such a course of action puerile, although she would express concern when he reappeared, as she knew he would. Momentarily she was glad that she was too old to take him seriously, was content to relegate him to a jokey stereotype of the kind that had never held much interest for her. She would have to take seriously a facile explanation, would suggest a holiday out of sheer unselfish concern. He would be unwilling, she knew, only enjoyed his own company within the limits of a well-defined day. She would remind him tactfully of his past triumphs, watch the pleased smile return to his face, but at the end of the evening would remark that it was too early for him to live in the past, would sigh, would say that it always seemed to be raining these days, that summer, such as it was, would soon be over, that the long dark nights would soon begin … And he would be vaguely unsettled by such thoughts, as she intended him to be. She would feel her own will turn to steel as he looked downcast. She would urge him to take care of himself, as if he were on the brink of disintegration. And the next evening they spent together she would be all smiles, all reassurance. What was he thinking of, to be so preoccupied with his health? He was in the pink of condition. Boredom: that was his problem. And she would leave the matter there. She found this idea liberating, as if after a lifetime of more or less good behaviour she had glimpsed a whole range of new techniques.

  As she approached Wilbraham Place she saw the elongated figure of Anne Marie Kinsella detach itself from the entrance to her building, lift an arm in greeting. A faint ‘Hi’ acknowledged her presence.

  ‘Why, Anne Marie! I wasn’t expecting you. Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Mum said to tell you she won’t be in this week. She’s bad with her back.’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry. Do come in.’

  ‘And to remind you that we’re going on holiday next week.’

  ‘Oh, yes. Majorca, your mother told me.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘So you’ll take her holiday money home with y
ou. You are still living at home, aren’t you?’

  ‘For the moment. I’m thinking of moving in with my boyfriend.’

  ‘Oh, how nice,’ said Beatrice helplessly. She was not used to the codes that governed young people. ‘Would you like a cup of tea? Something to eat?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m on a diet.’

  The girl was about sixteen, she reckoned, remembered from Mrs Kinsella’s conversation that she had just left school. Yet her hair was already dyed, an unconvincing blonde, and her dress, black and tight, created an impression of streetwise competence. Unfortunately she had inherited her mother’s sturdy legs.

  ‘Do sit down and tell me about yourself. Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?’ She herself was badly in need of one, although the girl’s smooth face and sprawling ease were something of a comfort after the decrepitude she had earlier witnessed in Harrods. ‘What are your plans, now that you’ve left school? I’ve got that right, haven’t I? Your mother said you wanted to be a nurse.’

  ‘Yeah, I did, till I found out how long it would take. I’ve got a smashing job, though, in the record shop. I used to work there on Saturdays, then they said they’d take me on permanently. On trial, like.’

  ‘And you’re pleased about that?’

  ‘I am, yeah.’

  ‘Are you going to Majorca with your mother?’

  ‘Well,’ said the girl handsomely. ‘Since it’s the last time. I’ll be going with Geoff after that. And since she hasn’t got a feller.’

  ‘Yes, I see,’ said Beatrice, who did. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll both have a good time. I shan’t see her for three weeks, then. Give her my best wishes.’ She rather balked at sending her love. ‘And her money, of course,’ handing over a discreet envelope.

  ‘Here’s one you prepared earlier, eh?’ said Anne Marie, stowing the envelope away in a large black gamekeeper’s bag.

  ‘I beg your pardon? Oh, I see. How clever of you.’

  She was desperate for the girl to go, so that she could make herself a cup of tea and relax for half an hour. Anne Marie did not take the hint: indeed no hint had been given. Beatrice shrank from saying that she was busy, knowing that this would cut no ice with Anne Marie, who was now quite comfortably settled and looking around her in an appraising but far from conciliatory manner.

  ‘You’ve got a lot of books,’ she said.

  ‘They’re mostly my sister’s. She used to live with me.’

  ‘Yeah, Mum told me.’

  ‘We both read a lot. Do you like reading?’

  ‘Well, I don’t get a lot of time, what with school and the shop and all. We did Pride and Prejudice at school.’ She made a face.

  ‘Did you like that?’

  ‘Well, it was better on the telly, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I expect you watch quite a lot, don’t you?’

  ‘We watch videos mostly. I only watched Pride and Prejudice because of school.’

  ‘It’s a lovely story, isn’t it?’ said Beatrice.

  ‘It’s okay. Old-fashioned, though.’

  ‘If you’re going home,’ said Beatrice, standing up in a gracious but resolute manner, ‘I can give you a lift in my taxi. It’s Tachbrook Street, isn’t it? Then I can take the taxi on to the Tate.’

  That was what she had half-promised Miriam. The Tate was nearer than the National Gallery. And in any case she had no preference for either, not ever having made a habit of dropping in to renew acquaintance with a particular favourite. She was, if anything, afraid of art, resenting the huge events, the magnanimous gestures, the whole cultural apparatus pictured, encapsulated, and endlessly repeated in the high inimical rooms. The steps that led up to museums made her feel humble, unworthy; she was not at home with admiration, preferred, these days, a world in which cynicism was allowed. Even when young, dragged to an exhibition by Miriam, she would feel uneasy, as if those penetrating portraits served only to undermine those like herself who had an undeveloped sense of their own identity. And she had all the wrong reactions, was profoundly sorry for the Virgin, whose destiny was being revealed to her by the angel, wanted only to rally the saints, to give them a sense of life’s urgency, to tell the crucified Christ that there were other deaths to be mourned. She said nothing of this to Miriam, although Miriam sensed her agitation. The only time they had ever coincided was when Miriam, pointing to a Dutch picture of a lazy servant dozing off in a littered kitchen, said, ‘Oh, look. There’s Mrs Kinsella.’ She had been grateful for that remark, for having art, which was so frighteningly separate, brought into contact with her own ordinary life. Therefore, for Miriam’s sake, if not for her own, she would go to the Tate.

  She shepherded Anne Marie, who was still enough of a child to allow herself to be directed, into a taxi, and resigned herself to an afternoon of duty. She would have preferred to stay in the taxi, to ask it to take her on a little tour, but she had never done such a thing, and now seemed an odd time to start. She was, as she so frequently said, a vulnerable person, one who preferred being at home, and preferably in bed. Briefly a limitless sun-struck corniche flashed across her mind’s eye, and she wondered whether she had made the right decision, whether in fact she need implement it. The beauty of certain fantasies was that they needed no reality to structure them. Her future life in the south of France was already perfect, complete. Why run the risk of translating it into the stuff of every day? But in fact the arguments in its favour remained the same; the whole adventure was in the nature of a vindication of her present existence, a rebuke to those who had forgotten her. As for Max, his part in the affair had always been a minor one: she had no real use for a man past his prime. He was essential only as a companion, for she did not think she would survive on her own. She needed routine, familiarity, to combat loneliness. Even Anne Marie, sitting beside her in her funereal black, was a comfort. She was quite sorry when the girl left her in Tachbrook Street, found herself leaning forward to wave to her as she turned to unlock her front door, was rewarded by a lifted hand and a brief smile. Her own smile was slow to fade. Yet she was not particularly fond of the girl, any more than she was fond of her mother. It was just that youth was the essential component; without its presence the day lost some point. Belatedly she saw that her current fantasy, and even all her previous ones, were at fault. Adults in their various guises could not deliver what the young delivered. Her own longed-for transformation was without merit, she now saw. This frightened her. Without the consolation of that project what would become of her? There had been a certain energy in those brutal imaginings. Without them she was reduced once again to idleness, worthlessness, loss of meaning. This was somehow not to be borne.

  Yet fear followed her up the steps of the Tate. Inside the building, in the great echoing halls littered with what she took to be broken pieces of sculpture, fear turned to dread. This was somehow going to prove too much for her. With an aching heart, as if she had been newly separated from everything she loved, she turned off at random into one of the endless galleries, sank down onto a bench, and looked about her with despair, wondering what she was bidden to appreciate. There were few people about, which was just as well, since she would rather ignore the pictures unwitnessed. The rare spectators were young, students, she supposed, with heavy packs on their backs. She would rather have looked at the students than at the pictures, but that was not why she was here. She was here to please Miriam, to entertain her with an account of an afternoon spent intelligently, rather than of time wasted. In that moment she longed to do something for Miriam, who was not happy. Tears filled her eyes at the thought of Miriam’s unhappiness. A warder, hands clasped behind his back, observed her curiously. She got up, moved towards the nearest picture, assumed a reflective expression. ‘A Ship between two Headlands,’ said the label. ‘J.M.W. Turner.’

  But she could make out neither ship nor headlands. What she saw in front of her was chaos, or perhaps Creation, before it had fully emerged. Perhaps they were the same thing. She saw a serene aqueous void of imp
alpable shapes. The sun was rising, that was certain, as it might have done on that distant first day, before the human drama was enacted. The colours were miraculous: blue shaded into yellow, yellow somehow contained blue. The effect was of majesty, of serenity, and yes, now she could see the ghost ship gliding through the water, which was hardly water, which was evanescence, towards her. Dazed, she returned to her seat. From this vantage point the picture was different. Close to she had felt incorporated into that magical void, as if she too were present on that primeval morning. But seated on the bench she saw the picture as less reassuring, perceived a swirling rhythm that her eyes had not appreciated, for a moment dizzily apprehended that there was no solid ground, no place for rest. This was organic movement in its entirety: ships and headlands were neither real nor relevant. She glanced fearfully round the gallery, saw some conventional canvases which were without interest, although she was grateful for their recognizable shapes. But what she had seen drew her eyes again, and again her eyes misted with tears. If this was paradise, this golden light, this ship becalmed on an immaterial sea, then she saw quite clearly her pitiful fallen condition. If she could scarcely bear this for herself how could she bear it for Miriam? And there was something else, something even more agonizing to confront. The picture now seemed to her to have lost its immobility, to be involved in some surreptitious circular rotation. For a moment – but she had lost track of time – the void represented was the exact embodiment of the void inside her own head.