Strangers Page 16

  ‘What happened to your husband?’

  ‘He remarried, and then he died shortly after. Heart attack.’

  ‘That must have been a blow.’

  ‘It frightened me, certainly. But by that time I was rather ill myself. There are no good memories of that time. Just illness.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘I suppose I’ve got into the habit of taking care of myself.’

  ‘That’s not good, Sarah. And so unlike you, that’s what I can’t get over. You never seemed to tire in the old days.’

  ‘I know. Now I can’t wait to get to bed. I sleep a lot.’

  ‘I wish I could. I seem to have too much time on my hands. But I’ve come to dread the nights. Age again, I suppose. Sleep seems too close to death.’

  ‘Must you?’ She stirred restlessly. ‘Shall we go?’

  He sighed, picked up the bill. This excursion had not been a success. He had hoped to divert her, but in fact she was visibly tired. He himself had not been as enthusiastic as he had hoped, had been distracted, unable or unwilling to give the pictures his full attention. The truth was that they were both conscious of their own histories, unable to escape from their memories. And not simply of their memories of each other, but of themselves. This was a particularly cruel realization, and one which they seemed to share. Was this to be the pattern of the future, an unnerving self-consciousness? Her presence now, so longed for in years gone by, was unredeemed by any desire for future company. He sensed that she was anxious to get away from him, simply because he communicated a sense of the past being irrecoverable. He himself felt this, and it struck him as a tragedy. He wished that he could have seen the pictures on his own, despite his diminished response. Instead he had felt her weight on his arm, had felt obliged to support her, and increasingly irritated by her stick. She was right: they were better off on their own now. And yet what sadness to relinquish their past in this fashion. Was love merely an intrinsic part of youthful energy? It seemed that she had made her peace with this conclusion more willingly than he had. Maybe women were more realistic than men, maybe that was why they lived longer. But what hell they must endure in their selfishly guarded but lamentable old age.

  He steered her carefully through the crowds and into the open air, where they both paused to catch their breath.

  ‘Shall we walk a bit? You don’t have any appointments this afternoon, do you?’

  ‘Of course I don’t. Thank you for lunch, by the way.’

  ‘Be careful on these steps.’

  ‘Oh, Paul. You’re such an old woman. I’m not entirely senile.’

  Offended, he knew for the hundredth time that she was irritated by what was intended as loving concern, though truth to tell he felt little of that at the prospect of irritating her yet again, felt a certain weariness on his own behalf. Left alone he would have walked home, dissipating his own feelings of regret. He steered her carefully round the young people sitting on the steps, reached the pavement with a sense of deliverance. They were silent, anticipating the solitude that they both craved. They greeted the arrival of a taxi with relief.

  ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said.

  ‘There’s no need. If you want to walk…’

  ‘No, no. I’ll walk later. I’ve plenty of time.’

  They both smiled, but said nothing further. He noticed, with a slight return of pleasure, pigeons going about their business in the chilly streets. Nature, it seemed, was about to replace art. It might help if there were any reduction in the greyness of the weather, but this spring was bleak, with frequent rain showers. Again this seemed symbolic. He sighed; this was how he had felt in the school holidays, all those years ago. Beside him Sarah was suddenly a stranger, apparently attentive to the view beyond the window, no more eager to talk than he was. The sight of those young people – students, he supposed – sitting on the steps, had irritated him even further. To be young again was a wish that could never be granted. He was almost glad that he knew no young people. Children were a different matter, but he knew no children either. He began to understand the disappointments that had so changed Sarah, the sense of failure at not having brought about this fundamental procedure. Not that she would have made an ideal mother, but her tonic indifference would have been something of a gift to any son she might have had, made him into the sort of man she admired, tough, restless, self-reliant. Now, as then, she had no use for any other kind of man. His very loyalty told against him. Fidelity had never been an attribute she admired. Some of the worst misunderstandings of their lives had been occasioned by this very divergence. Despite any virtue he might have had as her admirer he could never overcome this fundamental failure.

  ‘Careful,’ he warned, as she stepped heavily out of the taxi. ‘That stick is a hindrance, if you ask me. Careful,’ he repeated, as she stumbled.

  ‘My ankle. Oh, God, my ankle.’

  ‘Lean on me. Just let me pay the taxi.’

  ‘It’s sprained. I know it’s sprained.’

  ‘Let’s get inside. Or would you rather go to the hospital?’

  ‘Oh, never again. I’ll die here.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sarah. You’ve twisted your ankle. There’s no need to panic.’

  Bearing her full weight he guided her into the house and settled her in a chair, noting for the first time how gloomy the room was: red walls, heavy curtains, a vague gesture in the direction of the more prestigious houses she had known in her youth. He knelt down in front of her, in a parody of allegiance, like a page before his knight, gently moved the ankle from side to side.

  ‘It’s not broken,’ he said firmly, remembering incidents from the school playground. ‘I doubt if it’s even sprained. If it were you couldn’t move it. It may need some sort of bandage. Or something cold. Can you take off your stockings?’

  Unwillingly he watched her struggling with her clothes, marvelling at the ungainliness so very different from her manner of undressing – swift, unhesitating – in earlier years. The sight of her bare legs, the now swollen ankle, moved him not to pity but to a certain reluctance. He had not been meant to witness this. Yet she seemed willing to abandon her former pride, rather more than he would have expected her to do. Living alone had not made her stoical: rather the opposite. What she was experiencing was not pain, but fear. Her expression was one of acute anxiety, as if this small injury marked the end of her life as a viable individual. This must have been the effect of her long period of illness. No wonder she was changed.

  ‘How’s it feeling now?’

  ‘A little better. I didn’t want you to see me like this.’

  ‘You know I’ve seen you many times before…’

  ‘Not like this.’

  ‘No, not like this, perhaps. But anyone can have an accident. No one is safe. Do you want me to stay?’

  ‘No, not really. I’ll just rest for a bit.’

  ‘Can I call a neighbour?’

  ‘Maria will be here shortly. My cleaner. She comes every day. Although I don’t want to rely on her.’ She smiled faintly. ‘It’s come to this.’

  ‘You’ve got me,’ he said soberly. Yet he felt, along with his old devotion, an unreadiness. Why could he not have stayed quietly at home instead of devising this pointless excursion? What had the Tate to do with this scene of ugly domesticity? They would do better to avoid such activities in future, or indeed all activities which involved such a high degree of uncertainty. In this respect she had been the wiser of the two, dismissing his suggestions, ignoring his hearty reproaches. But perhaps he himself tended to be too cautious, as if cautiousness led to weakness. Looking at Sarah now he saw how easily the scales might be tipped, how little separated them from each other. It was in his interest now to get away from this ungainly spectacle, even to get away from memories which he had thought indelible. His own survival now depended on a wariness which he had not known before, certainly not in relation to this last attachment. His hand remained on her ankle, in a gesture of appeasement. Instinct
told him to breathe in a less compromised air, to get out, to walk as he was accustomed to walking, as if nothing could ever stop him. To stay any longer in this red room was to accept confinement, not merely to sympathize, but worse, to empathize, to mimic this fallen condition. Never had he so longed to be away, to preserve his autonomy in surroundings which held no memory. He removed his hand, stood up.

  ‘You’re looking better,’ he said, as much for his own sake as for hers. But it was true: colour was back in her cheeks. Her look of exhaustion gave her an unusual gravity. These portents affected him as much as they had affected her. He wondered how long he could endure if she were to die. More pointedly he wondered how soon he could leave.

  The sound of a key in the door brought the hiatus to an end. A small dark woman bustled into the room, and almost immediately the air was filled with lamentations. This must be Maria, the lamentations her prompt reaction to the sight of her employer almost supine in her chair. The two women embraced, which rather shocked Sturgis: the Sarah he knew would not have countenanced such a contact. He stood up awkwardly, his presence now redundant. Sarah, he was interested to see, was rapidly recovering some of her old dominance. Indeed he was almost forgotten, or at least marginalized. The two women were intent only on each other, Sarah pretending to ridicule Maria’s easy tears, but secretly accepting them as her due.

  ‘Perhaps you could make a cup of tea,’ he suggested.

  They both looked at him in surprise, as if they had forgotten he was there.

  ‘Yes, I make tea.’

  ‘Anything you need, Sarah, let me know. Shopping, of course I can do all that. I’ll ring you later, call round in the morning. I’ll leave you with Maria.’

  ‘I call doctor.’

  ‘I’m sure there’s no need,’ he began, but then decided to leave them to it.

  As ever he was glad to reach the blessed anonymity of the street. This was his climate, the everyday, the spectacle of others absorbed in thoughts different from his own. What he had witnessed was incapacity, the same incapacity his mother had demonstrated in her declining years. He concentrated on the reality of his present surroundings, the sight of a bus, the promise of the evening paper. It was drizzling now, but he walked on. She would be fine, he reassured himself. And if she were not he would find others to help. There was no onus on him to assume exclusive responsibility. He was shocked to discover that it was his own survival that now had priority. Never before had he suspected himself of such meanness of spirit. Perhaps this was one of the no doubt unwelcome surprises that awaited him. A telephone call would be adequate, he decided. Then, in the morning, he would take a view.

  There was a message on his answering machine. ‘Hi, Vicky here. Just to say don’t worry if you don’t see me for a bit. I’ve been invited to stay with friends in L.A. Hope to pick up some useful contacts. See you! Ciao!’

  24

  There followed an interval of near-domestic concord. Every morning he bought supplies at the Italian shop, as he had done before, but more expansively. ‘What have you brought?’ was her usual greeting, though she quickly lost interest. After a few days this changed to, ‘That’s too much for me. You’d better stay and share it with me.’ In the kitchen he divided the food – ham, cheese, salads – into two, and took the plates back into the red room, where she sat immobile, her ankle swathed in a white bandage, her foot on a low stool. If there was a dining-room he had yet to see it. Part of him deplored this laissez-faire attitude; privately he thought she should be making more of an effort. Don’t let me be like that, he silently addressed some problematic or disputatious deity. Yet her tone was as uncompromising as ever. This, if anything, was a relief. He washed up, parcelled up the rubbish, and awaited further orders.

  ‘You might as well go,’ she would say, but there were the old unmistakable signs that she expected him to protest. After a time she became more discursive, referred to some business she had to see to.

  ‘Business?’

  ‘The usual things. Daddy put me on the board of one or two of his companies before he died. I go to the meetings, the dinners, that sort of thing. Not that I can do that now. It doesn’t look as if I’ll be able to go to France, either.’

  ‘What did the doctor say?’

  ‘Just to rest it. Keep the foot up. I’ve never been so bored in my life.’

  ‘Any visitors?’

  ‘Only you.’ There was no mistaking that tone. ‘Not that I’m not grateful.’

  He supposed that she was, though she gave little sign of that. Yet he could not bring himself to leave her unattended. He would stay until Maria arrived, when she would become her old self, relaxing with some satisfaction into the reliable routine of mistress and servant. As he closed the door behind him he would hear her voice gaining authority, the hallmark of her circle in the old days. Once, calling for her at her office in her father’s headquarters, he had been impressed by the ringing tones of various secretaries, most of them her old schoolfriends. She, and no doubt they, were working there as temporary assistants. They seemed to do a reasonable job of work, though this was interrupted from time to time by the holidays they took, mostly with one another. This was apparently part of the routine, to which their employers gracefully submitted. Once, four of them had hired a camper van and set off to tour Greece. No one appeared to take exception to this. It was in keeping with the flippant attitude they took towards their bosses, to which their bosses seemed to subscribe. This was, after all, a family affair, and the pattern of behaviour had no doubt lingered from boarding school. Heads were no doubt shaken at management level, but with an indulgent smile. No word of criticism was ever heard. And the work got done quite efficiently, or so he supposed. They were not without resource, these girls, as relaxed about obeying the rules as they were about breaking them.

  That had been the climate of their earliest encounters. Even now she seemed inseparable from that company, or perhaps simply from that sort of company, those confident voices. They all got married at about the same time, to the same sort of man. That was when he felt at his most ill-equipped, genetically unable to match that confidence. His own early associations had been modest, local, tenacious. He had been accepted, to his surprise, with some provisos. The only real surprise was that he had stayed. And he was somehow still present, carefully stacking plates in her kitchen, still a reluctant admirer of all that he secretly disliked, still instinctively objecting to all that she stood for, still loyal to his original adoration, but at the same time restless, with the same restlessness that had originally affected him on being introduced to her friends, whose allusions escaped him and had probably been instilled at birth.

  ‘Do you ever see those girls you used to know?’ he asked, picking up the plastic bags in which he had brought the shopping.

  ‘Jane? Clare? Oh, occasionally, though they’re all scattered now. Nobody lives in town now. Richard and I used this place as a bolthole. We were mainly in France. We had them to stay once or twice, but they had children, and we more or less lost touch.’

  He suspected that she had distanced herself from those friends when they successfully gave birth to children. With this he could sympathize.

  Maria’s key in the door put an end to the morning’s attendance. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ he said.

  ‘No, not tomorrow. I’m being taken out to lunch. One of Richard’s friends from the old days.’

  ‘How will you manage?’

  ‘We shall see. He’ll drive, of course. In fact, don’t think you have to come every day. I’m sure there’s plenty of food.’

  ‘There’s plenty of food, yes. It’s in the fridge.’

  ‘Then don’t come for a few days. Why don’t you look in at the weekend?’

  ‘Will you be all right on your own?’

  ‘I’m used to it. Maria will stay if I need her.’

  ‘Well, then, I’ll see you at the weekend. You can always ring me if you…’

  ‘Yes, yes. Do go, Paul. You’re making
me nervous, standing over me like that.’

  He kissed her cheek, reassured to see her face lifted expectantly, then left, not without a sense of relief. The street, for once, failed to revive him, seemed, on the contrary, to hold him prisoner in a routine which he now saw as unavoidable. He glanced with distaste at the unchanging grey skies, and put his malaise down to the absence of the sun. He felt as grimly conditioned by these skies as any conscript, and, scanning the faces of passers-by, captured something of the same disappointment, from which only a different climate could deliver them.

  Reaching home at the dead hour between three and four did little to sweeten his mood. The interruption to his days had resolved nothing. He supposed that Sarah was glad of the attention, was even grateful for it, but was too proud to acknowledge it, whereas her company had severed his links with his habitual solitude. He was at a loss, in more ways than one. He had to acknowledge the fact that their attachment, their friendship, was little more than a relic of the past. She had clearly seen this much earlier, how much earlier he did not care to think. He supposed that he fulfilled some sort of function in her life, but was shamed by his own persistence, which was all too obviously an irritant. She could always telephone if she needed him. That, after all, had always been the arrangement.

  Yet a few days later, on what he had already decided would be his last visit, he found her agitated. The bandage had gone, but she was still immobile. He felt the beginnings of a yawn as he sat down opposite her, and prepared, yet again, to sympathize.

  ‘How have you been?’ he enquired.

  ‘I’m all right in the daytime. But the nights are bad. And I have bad dreams. Although they’re not so much dreams as memories.’

  ‘My dreams are like that. I used to find them quite interesting. Now I’m not so sure.’

  ‘For instance, last night I woke in a panic. And it wasn’t a dream that woke me. It was a memory. I remembered I had forgotten to lock the garden door when I left. And I can’t go there to see to it.’