Incidents in the Rue Laugier Read online

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not what they expected,’ she said, sipping the tea. They don’t like me, was what she meant. That she did not say this was her own concession to the new proprieties.

  ‘My father is entirely won over. Mother is simply reluctant to see me go. She’s not a woman who can give words to what she feels. Be a little kinder to her. She thinks you’re too sophisticated for us. Whereas I know that you’re finding this very difficult.’

  She digested this. ‘And Bibi? I had hoped to have Bibi as a friend.’

  He laughed. ‘Bibi is jealous. We’ve always been very close, exceptionally close, perhaps. She doesn’t want to let me go either.’

  ‘How they must love you,’ she said wonderingly.

  ‘Yes, they do. They love me as they loved me when I was a child, and when they thought I’d never grow up. They loved me in the least helpful way, incuriously.’

  ‘Yes, I see.’

  ‘And now I bring home a beautiful girl, whom I’ve chosen without their assistance, and they don’t quite know how to react. They would have been the same with anyone.’

  ‘They don’t find me lovable.’

  ‘Of course not. Not yet.’

  ‘You are very sensitive, Edward.’

  ‘It’s because I love you that I know what you’re feeling.’

  Not all of it, she thought, but reaching out her hand, she said, ‘How on earth are we to manage?’

  ‘By telling the truth, I think. Even when it hurts … For instance I know you don’t love me.’

  ‘Of course not. Not yet,’ she said, echoing his words.

  He smiled, recognising the allusion. ‘And no doubt you find me very kind—I think you said so. I may not be kind all the time, Maud. I may have regrets too, you know.’

  She looked at him, startled.

  ‘I may quite seriously regret that you don’t love me,’ he said.

  There was a silence.

  ‘I will be good, Edward.’

  ‘That’s what Queen Victoria said to Prince Albert.’

  ‘I know how she felt.’ They both laughed briefly. ‘Tell me about the flat.’

  ‘It’s rather pleasant, I think. You’ll see it on Sunday. It looks out onto a little square, and it gets the morning sun. Bibi found it. She and Mother have already filled the place with towels and saucepans and things. Do you want to get up now? I’m afraid Mother’s asked a few people in for drinks, to meet you and so on. Do you feel up to that?’

  ‘I can hardly not be.’

  ‘Quite. What will you wear?’

  ‘Don’t worry. I brought a silk dress; it’s hanging in the cupboard.’

  ‘Very nice,’ he said, after inspecting it. ‘And will you do something for me?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Grow your hair. I’d like to see it longer.’

  ‘Why not?’ She was bored with this suggestion, which seemed to her inconsequential. It had never occurred to her to make herself beautiful for Edward. She had no seductive purpose in mind. Nevertheless she took care with her appearance, added a touch of colour, smoothed her bronze eyebrows, looked carefully in the mirror before leaving the room and going downstairs.

  ‘And this is Maud,’ said her future father-in-law, his arm round her waist.

  She was introduced to eight people whom she would never see again, four husbands and four wives, the wives well built, combative, who gave the appearance of having put on all their jewellery for the occasion, the husbands shy, smelling already of whisky, two of them wearing blazers with an identical crest on the breast-pocket. She offered her hand, mustered a smile, and accepted a glass of white wine. She thought she would be subjected to scrutiny; instead she was ignored. It was Edward who was pressed for details. Her own part in the arrangements was reduced to her appearance, which was found to be adequate, more than adequate, to judge from the husbands’ wavering glances, until sharply summoned to attention by their wives. She began to feel something more dangerous than irritation, went up to Edward, took his arm, smiled into his face, and began answering in his stead. Everyone relaxed: this was how brides were supposed to behave. A ghost of a smile remained on Edward’s face as the guests took their leave. Polly Harrison was flushed and joyful. Her evening had been a success.

  For dinner they had cold meat and salad; as a concession to her foreignness there was cheese to follow, but no wine to accompany it. The cheese was acceptable, thought Maud, but it called out for a good Fleurie, such as her aunt served. At home they drank an undistinguished but perfectly good Beaujolais. Wine would have provided the necessary tonic: she was still feeling rather angry.

  ‘I expect your mother will miss you, won’t she, Maud?’

  ‘She will replace me with a television set,’ said Maud.

  Not knowing what to make of this, they chose to regard it as a witticism, and laughed immoderately.

  The following morning Polly Harrison announced that she was going to do a ‘big shop.’ Maud offered to walk with her, anxious to see round the town. But they were to go by car, which Mrs Harrison drove decisively, wearing a special pair of gloves. In the supermarket she seized a trolley, which she loaded with unattractive items such as washing powder, a bag of green apples, a pair of rubber gloves, a bunch of bananas, a packet of bacon, and a box of soap-filled scouring pads. Maud did not see how the household was to subsist on this. At home shopping was brief and to the point: one shop for meat, another for salad leaves, a third for cheese. Twice a day Maud went out for bread; she always carried the wine. She had no idea where washing powder came from; in any event it entered the house discreetly, more discreetly than this. Mrs Harrison added two packets of digestive biscuits to her load and wheeled her purchases to the till. Maud was then allowed to carry the bags to the car. She suspected that this was something of a Saturday morning ritual. But why? These people lived well; they were even, compared to her mother and herself, in easy circumstances. Yet everything was turned into a chore. They needed hours of sleep to recover from eating a meal. They drew the curtains at nightfall, as if fearful of what they might see if they looked out. They lived by the sea, yet never seemed to leave the house. She could understand that Edward needed to leave home, had indeed already left. It was more for his sake than for hers, she supposed, that he had sought and found this flat. She would merely be a visitor. Because of this, and because of the boredom of the morning, she said to Mrs Harrison, ‘You won’t mind if I keep Edward to myself this afternoon, will you?’

  ‘No, of course not, dear.’ This line was obviously found to be appropriate.

  ‘Get Edward to take you on one of his walks,’ said Mr Harrison after lunch, his eyes already rosy. ‘We shan’t expect you back until teatime.’

  But in fact she kept him out for longer than that, so that they had time for a drink when the pubs opened. Their high colour and shining eyes were remarked upon when they got home. They gave the appearance of happiness. In fact they had surrendered totally to the sound of the waves and had hardly exchanged a word. But there was something peaceful in their silence, so the afternoon was thought to be a success.

  As they drove off on the following morning—the three Harrisons massing at the front door to wave—Maud felt so relieved that she was almost happy. They drove straight to London, where they had lunch in another pub: it was to be all pubs from now on, she thought. Yet when he ushered her into the flat she almost forgave him for everything. ‘I could live here’ was her first impression, as she followed him into a room with coral-coloured walls and ceiling and a coral-coloured carpet on the floor. It was like entering a warm cave, from which the rest of life was excluded. ‘This was all in situ,’ said Edward, feeling the radiators, switching on the wall lights. ‘I bought the carpet and the curtains as well.’ He demonstrated the curtains by drawing them: they were in an expensive dark chintz, expertly made. She noted the black iron fireplace with the wooden overmantel, the sofa, armchair and chaise longue upholstered in more chintz, and the two small tables covered with circu
lar floor-length coral taffeta, to match the coral taffeta cushions. She saw herself at once on the chaise longue, reading, dreaming.

  ‘You mean all this was here?’ she queried, incredulous.

  ‘Yep. The owner went back to America, sold the lot.’

  ‘So in fact you had nothing to buy?’

  ‘Only the beds.’

  He showed her into a pale green bedroom, with green and white linen curtains. The two twin beds were made up with new white sheets and pale green blankets.

  ‘You can get around to organising bedspreads later, when we’ve settled in. I thought you’d prefer twin beds,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Actually I prefer them myself.’ He thought wistfully of his dreams, which must now be consigned to the past, along with other fantasies. ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  ‘I love it,’ said Maud.

  Which was more than she could offer in the way of assurance when she saw the shop. In the dark, with half the stock on the floor, the place looked what it was, a poor thing, a mess. She was handed a mug of tea by the youth who purported to be Edward’s assistant: the three of them stood thoughtfully in the gloaming. It is lower class, she thought. He saw her expression, and his own tightened. It was as if at that moment she had measured the distance between them and their respective aspirations. He handed his mug back to Cook; he was obscurely glad that the gold-rimmed cups had not been produced. ‘Come along,’ he said quietly, and to Cook, ‘We’re staying at the flat tonight, if you want us. Otherwise I’ll see you tomorrow, after I’ve taken Maud to Heathrow.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, holding out her hand to Cook. She did not think she would ever have to see him again: another face to be consigned to limbo.

  They made love that night, as Edward intended. Her response was polite, and might have been convincing to anyone who was half asleep, as they were not. The morning was a rush, and there was no time to discuss this, nor were they ready to do so. Maud knew that she would never be able to be open with him on this matter. In the plane despair descended again, as she reflected that this part of her life was over, and over before it had begun. It was of Tyler that she thought, not in the act of making love with Edward, an act from which she removed herself, willing her mind to remain dead, but walking with her through the night-time city, during which time she had been so attuned to him that all other thoughts were absent. As they were now. In a brief and unwelcome moment of lucidity she thought how ironic it was that the balance of her life had been destroyed by so banal an episode; then something strangely resembling her conscience told her that what might appear to others to be no more than an episode was to her an experience so seamless that she might well spend the rest of her life contemplating the memory of it. It was unfortunate that that particular memory should have set up such a barrier to what was to be her married life. For all its difficulties marriage now seemed inevitable. Despite her indifference she could not disappoint Edward, who, in his calmer moments, was or might be a genuine friend. She supposed that many women marry in just such a spirit. And she was tired, tired of keeping her thoughts to herself, tired of living up to her mother’s pretensions, tired of having no home to return to—for the flat in the rue des Dames Blances, filled as it was with preparations for her departure, was no longer home—tired of life without Tyler. Deprived of Tyler she could think of nothing better to do than to marry Edward. If this was mercenary she did not care. She would make it up to him, would be a good wife, would be dutiful, as she had always been dutiful. Only in one respect might she fail him, yet she thought that men did not retain a memory of lovemaking as women do. That morning, drinking his coffee, he had borne her no grudge, had expressed no disappointment, had even seemed indifferent. She knew that these matters did not affect men so profoundly. That Tyler might have been less profoundly affected than herself was a thought that had occurred to her but been dismissed. There was a perfection about the whole encounter that no amount of objective thinking could destroy. She knew that if ever Tyler entered her life again she would forsake everything and go to him.

  Nevertheless she crossed Paris fearfully. Now that summer had gone and the weather was chill and misty the city seemed closed to her, even hostile. She endured the train journey, lulled by a repetition that would soon no longer be familiar. At the station her mother was waiting to take her into custody. Incurious, she listened to the news being given to her in her mother’s new animated voice. Avid for details of the flat, Nadine was at least satisfied on that score. ‘And the parents?’ To Maud, in Dijon, the memory of that weekend was almost parodic; she longed to serve it up for her mother’s amusement; she longed to give her mother an easy victory. But she found to her surprise that loyalty to Edward forbade this. ‘Very pleasant,’ she replied to her mother’s questions. ‘Very kind. You will see for yourself at the wedding.’

  To the wedding itself she was indifferent, though Nadine seemed to luxuriate in every day of preparation. In order fully to enjoy the various consultations that seemed to be called for—with the dressmaker, with the chef at the Hôtel de la Cloche, with those friends to whom, did she but know it, her assiduity after years of independence came as a surprise—she required to be alone, not hampered by a silent daughter whose pace was so much slower than her own. Maud left the flat on the pretext of visiting friends and then took refuge in the museum, where no one would think of looking for her. In these last days before her wedding she accorded herself a treat: tea in a tea-room, among women spending an inconsequential afternoon gossiping, before going home. Yet the treat failed to match her expectations, and she was reduced to going home herself. In her room a mysterious swathed white garment hung on the outside of her wardrobe.

  Edward telephoned every evening. She listened to his voice with a mild pleasure, though he had little to say, until the evening when he told her that his father had had a mild heart attack and that his parents would not be able to come to the wedding. She was genuinely sorry; she had liked the man, even loved him, had glimpsed through his kindness to her how her life might have been had her own father lived. Then Bibi came on the phone sounding tearful. ‘I am so sorry about the wedding, Maud. I hope it won’t spoil it for you.’

  ‘But you will be there, Bibi. And I shall look forward to seeing you again.’

  Finally the day arrived, and Maud Lucie Simone Gonthier was pronounced the wife of Edward Harding Harrison. The brief civil ceremony was a mere formality; everyone knew that the real celebration was the wedding breakfast. There were thirty guests, Nadine having found it impossible to muster a great number. Even so, many of those invited were surprised to be remembered. The bride, in her white silk tunic and short white silk skirt, was judged to be well dressed for the occasion, though her expression was rather glum, as was that of the bridegroom, preoccupied no doubt by the state of his father’s health. The bride’s mother’s outfit—peacock blue jacket over a multicoloured silk skirt—was thought a success; she at least seemed to be enjoying herself, though as course followed course (too elaborate, they decided: a buffet would have been more appropriate) her colour mounted dangerously; between her flushed cheeks and her peacock blue hat her fine eyes issued a challenge and an invitation to the husbands of all her new-found friends. Bibi, looking very pretty, was seated next to Xavier. They appeared to be getting on extremely well, until Germaine put a stop to that. How she managed to do so, subjecting Bibi to a flow of bewilderingly charming conversation, Bibi never knew. Maud and Edward exchanged a sour wry smile at this performance. They might have been married for years.

  They spent the night in Paris, at a pompous hotel that Edward thought she might enjoy. They soon realised that he had been too ambitious, forsook the restaurant, and ordered chicken sandwiches from room service. She felt sorry for him, for having spent so much money, and for aiming so wide of the mark. They were both exhausted, they told themselves and each other; they would have an early night. It seemed better not to attempt an embrace. In the morning they flew to London and their new home. A mild sun pi
erced the cold mist. It seemed impossible not to accept this as an omen.

  TWELVE

  OF THE TWO OF THEM, IT WAS HARRISON WHO FOUND married life difficult and who sometimes gave vent to unjustified irritation. He was particularly irritated by Maud’s cooking, which he judged to be too ambitious, too far removed from the comforting platefuls to which his mother had accustomed him.

  ‘What’s this?’ he might ask, poking with a suspicious fork.

  ‘It’s fish. You like fish.’

  ‘What’s this stuff on it?’

  ‘Sauce mousseline. Don’t you like it?’

  ‘I like plain food. Anyway I don’t want a heavy meal in the evening. I’d rather have something simple. Tea, fruit, that sort of thing.’

  Later she would find him sitting at the kitchen table with a book, an open packet of biscuits to hand. So she got used to preparing a fruit salad for him, and a pot of Earl Grey tea. Shortbread biscuits, of which he never tired, were arranged on a flowered plate. He would inspect this modest supper to see if she had added anything out of the way, then when he was satisfied that all was in order would eat with every appearance of enjoyment. After a while, tired of seeing her dishes neglected, she joined him in this simple meal. Both ate lunch separately, Maud in the flat, Harrison more often than not at Overton’s, with any visitor to the shop who seemed inclined to stay and talk. On Fridays he took Cook out and stood him a good meal, after which they both spent a somnolent afternoon going over the books and waiting to shut for the weekend. Maud made painstaking vegetable soups for herself, and meat dishes which she put in the freezer. She ate her lunch calmly, laying a place in the dining-room for herself, drinking a glass of wine. Very occasionally, when Bibi came up for the day, or when Jean Bell was over from Pittsburgh, where she was doing postgraduate research, she went out to wine bars, bistros, restaurants in department stores, but was always happy to get back to the quiet of the flat, to whatever book she was reading, and to the unchanging landscape, becalmed in the winter afternoon, beyond her window. As darkness fell she would get up to switch on the lights, go into her bedroom to draw the curtains, briefly inspect her face, and prepare for Edward’s homecoming.