Altered States Page 19

  Fortunately my parents paid little attention to my strange fore-knowledge which, I repeat, was not visible. Nor did it in any way subvert my performance in the noisy swimming pool or the silent examination room. In time, and no doubt as I grew older, I came to dread the feeling even more than the event it foreshadowed, as if my essential being were under attack, and I were in no position to overcome the attack, since my will, and everything that had hitherto made me what I had become, were compromised. I was no longer in control of my destiny: God was no longer benign. I grew out of it, yet I could not ignore the experience, largely because I could not decide whether it was cause or effect. By the time I went up to Oxford it had receded, become overlaid with more rational concerns. On the whole I found life easy, and continued to do so for the next ten or fifteen years, until stopped in my tracks by the intimations of that illness which had turned out to be real and which was the herald of my unfortunate marriage. That was why I had reacted so badly to it, I now reasoned, as I came level with George Street: the inner and the outer worlds had come together, and the effect of this was to make me so terrified, so undone, that I had to take refuge in another person, assuming that other person, Angela in this case, to be strong enough to bear my weight, whereas in reality she had looked to me to do the same for her.

  The tragedy was that we could not console each other. Our woes were never acknowledged and so remained unknown. To me she had always appeared transparent; I foolishly had not seen that there was more for me to discover. And what she had wanted, I now saw, was some kind of confessor, to whom she could reveal secrets over which she had kept silent for far too long, since childhood, perhaps, when the boy I was then might have understood her much better than the man I had become.

  The irony of my turning such matters over in my mind just as I was about to face a dilemma in my life was not lost on me, nor was the fact that I was thinking of Angela when Angela was no longer there to benefit from my new understanding. Or, rather, from my recovered memory of dread, of fate, of the road I was obliged to take, though no one could accuse me if I refused to take it. It seemed to me (and I was nearly at Paddington Street) that for once in my life I would do better to go home and commune with my dead wife, in some way to let her know that I was thinking of her even at this juncture, when I was leaving what had been our home to pursue an early fantasy to its conclusion, to destruction, one might say. I saw, quite clearly, Angela’s face, her newly washed hair, and felt again that species of alienation I had known as a boy before the swimming lesson or the examination, as if the world had turned its back on me, as if I were newly excluded from God’s love, as if the ordeal must be undergone with as much self-mastery as was appropriate in the circumstances. I could have abandoned the whole enterprise, of course, but I had a mission to accomplish, one that was quite specific and fairly urgent: I had to persuade Sarah to let Jenny stay in the flat, and if possible—but I did not yet see how this might be possible—to persuade her to make the flat over to Jenny, in effect to give it to her. Knowing Sarah, and her inability to answer a simple question, this was in the nature of a knightly quest on my part, and yet I was committed to it, as I was committed to scrutinising her, and myself in relation to her, once more.

  Whatever love I had had for her I was now able to decipher as that primeval anxiety that I had always known, as if her very presence could invoke this feeling of loss. To gain her would be to lose the world I knew; to lose her might threaten a loss of which I so far had no knowledge. I stood on the corner of Paddington Street, taking deep breaths in order to lighten the oppression round my heart. Behind me was my flat, its silence, its memories. I knew that if I married Sarah I could no longer live there, for that would be a violation of which I could not be guilty. I saw us as a couple without real definition, moodily attached, unreal by daylight, inventive by night. But did even that attraction last? Did the desire to exorcise it signify that it had come to an end? Would the waxy smell of Sarah’s abundant hair (no longer so abundant, I reminded myself) be sufficient to obliterate the memory of my dead wife, or even of my living wife, with all her innocent fantasies, her gentility, her legacy to me?

  Perhaps, if we had grown old together, we would have learned to make the necessary concessions. Paradoxically, at that moment, standing outside a shuttered betting shop, I longed to be old, to be measured, to have vanquished my doubts, along with the visceral memory of the boy I had been. I did not see myself ageing well with Sarah, who had already struck me as older in that first uncertain glimpse. I realised that all along my love had coexisted with dread, of her indifference, her negligence, the disorder in which she lived, her refusal of the friendship which should be natural between a man and a woman. None of this made her insignificant, unfortunately; for a woman without defining characteristics she was able to exert enormous power. She did so even now, as I stood outside the betting shop. I heaved one last sigh, acknowledged as my intimate enemy, now almost a warning, my feeling of loss, passed a hand through my hair, and made my way to Sarah’s front door.

  This altered state was my accompaniment up to the moment of our encounter, to be replaced by a prolonged stare. For several seconds we gazed at each other thoughtfully, as if words could be postponed until we could find a use for them. We were thus equals once more, but equals in disaffection. I saw no friendship in her face, which seemed armed against disclosure; nor did the normal courtesies and pleasantries of welcome seem in order. Eventually she raised a black-sleeved arm to her hair in a vain attempt to smooth it down. The gesture was evocative of the bedroom, of waking, but all she said was, ‘You’d better come in. But I warn you, I’ve got to go out soon.’

  ‘There are a couple of things I have to say,’ I began, following her into the flat, which seemed markedly more dilapidated than when I had last seen it. The usual furnishings of old newspapers and the mirror, not yet hung, were in place, but most of the floor space was occupied by a large grimy white armchair, a new addition, or an old one, in which I was not invited to sit.

  ‘You don’t know anyone who’d like to buy this chair, do you?’

  ‘It’s very dirty.’

  ‘Well, they could have it cleaned, couldn’t they? Or you could, if you bought it.’

  ‘But I don’t want it. And anyway I didn’t come here to talk about …’

  ‘Only I’m thinking of putting this place on the market.’

  ‘You’re leaving London?’

  ‘I’ve left, you might say. I’ve been living in Paris.’

  ‘With the Rigauds?’

  ‘God, no. I’m with someone else.’

  ‘I know. De Leuze, who seems to be permanently in reserve. Sarah, why didn’t you meet me in Paris?’

  ‘You weren’t serious, were you?’

  I stared at her. ‘I was never more serious about anything in my life.’

  ‘I thought it was a joke. I mean, the George V. The assignation. It seemed hilarious.’

  ‘I wasn’t at the George V. Didn’t you get my note?’

  ‘What note?’

  ‘I put a note under the Rigauds’ door.’

  ‘But I wasn’t there, was I? What did it say, the note?’

  ‘It told you where to meet me. Sarah, were you deliberately avoiding me?’

  ‘Why should I bother to do that?’

  ‘Why can’t you ever answer a simple question?’

  ‘If you’re going to be unpleasant you can go. I don’t have to account to you for my actions.’

  ‘Nor I to you for mine, I suppose.’

  ‘Well, you didn’t, did you?’

  ‘Didn’t what?’

  ‘Tell me that you were going to marry Angela.’

  I flung my hands up in exasperation. ‘But you were nowhere to be found. You vanished, always without an explanation. Could you not at least have got in touch, telephoned? I walked past this flat night after night, hoping to see a light on.’

  ‘You could have rung the bell. I came back from time to time.’


  ‘But how was I to know? And anyway, I was ill.’

  The memory of that illness, which had not in reality been threatening, had in fact been banal, overwhelmed me once again, together with that more primeval feeling of desolation that now seemed to have foreshadowed this entire interview. We stood in the centre of the room and once more gazed at each other. I recognised an ending, and understood that I had been prepared for this.

  ‘There’s one more thing,’ I said stiffly. ‘Your uncle’s will.’

  ‘Relax, Alan. You’re not in the office now. Anyway, what about the will?’

  ‘He’s left you a considerable sum of money, enough to enable you to live your own life, without benefit of protectors. He’s also left you the flat, for which I’m sure you’ve no use, determined as you are to live with this friend of yours …’

  ‘That’s my business.’

  ‘As I’ve said, you have no need of the flat …’

  ‘I’ve really got under your skin, haven’t I?’

  ‘You might say that. I want you to make the flat over to Jenny.’

  I was exhausted. I had said what I had come to say and felt that I could make no further effort. I sat down heavily in the white chair, which revealed itself to be remarkably comfortable. I leaned my head back; for a moment or two it seemed almost possible that I might take a short nap.

  Sarah’s answer was to remove the accumulated piles of the Financial Times from another chair and to sit down, her knees almost touching mine. In contrast to my extreme lethargy she seemed tense. There was even a little colour in her face.

  ‘You are joking, aren’t you? Why on earth should I give that old bat a property which I own, which was left to me …?’

  ‘Which you don’t need.’

  ‘I might.’

  ‘You’ve got this place.’

  ‘I told you, I’m thinking of putting it on the market. I thought you might do it for me. That’s why I agreed to meet you this evening, for a business discussion.’

  ‘We are having a business discussion.’

  ‘You’re mad, Alan. You’re a fantasist. First Paris, then this. I suppose you think I’m a complete fool.’

  ‘I think you’re the fantasist,’ I said. ‘Fantasists avoid action; they scarcely have time for it.’ I wanted to tell her of my regard, still persistent, but the moment hardly seemed propitious. Besides, I was too relaxed. With an effort I sat up straight and looked at her, face to face, confronting her in a willed union that in the event had proved to be illusory. Now that I was about to lose her (but had it ever been otherwise?) I was full of tenderness for the pouting face, which looked tired, its colour now drained away.

  ‘I want you to make the flat over to Jenny,’ I repeated.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because it’s the decent thing to do. Because you don’t need it. Because she’s a tired old woman, with nowhere else to go. Because it’s time you made a start on your own life.’

  ‘You say I don’t need it. Well, I might, mightn’t I?’

  ‘You’re on your own now. Time for you to find out what it’s like.’

  That was my one moment of bitterness. I had tried to be impartial, and on the whole I thought I had succeeded. I could not judge the effect this had had on her. I was only grateful that I had managed not to say more, while at the same time conscious that I would never have another chance to do so. I took her hand in mine and held it. I was left with a residue of sadness, both on my account and on hers.

  The hand was withdrawn. She had evidently sensed my mood. Yet she was not one to take a reprimand lightly. Colour seeped back into her face, darkened.

  ‘Thank you very much. You’ve just made up my mind for me. You’ve just decided me to marry Pierre.’

  ‘I rather thought you might marry me.’

  ‘And follow in Angela’s footsteps? No thanks.’

  ‘Please, don’t say any more. Just do this one good thing.’

  ‘For your sake, I suppose.’

  ‘Hardly.’

  ‘I thought you were on my side.’

  ‘So did I, oddly enough. It’s too late, isn’t it?’

  ‘It was always too late. You were too slow, too innocent.’

  ‘And it’s the fate of innocents to be massacred, or so we’re told.’

  ‘Just leave me alone, will you?’

  No word of love had been offered, but these were as little in order as they had ever been. Our conversation was, as ever, quite unsatisfactory. Yet even now a mysterious feeling of kinship, of recognition, had managed to surface. We both felt it. She smiled unwillingly, and at last I felt able to take her in my arms. But it was a valedictory moment. We both felt that too.

  ‘I’ll want to see you in the office first thing in the morning,’ I said. ‘I’ll prepare a document; you’ll sign it, and it can be witnessed. And no, I don’t know why I’m doing this, either. It’s just that I want to be fair, and I want you to be fair.’

  ‘Alan Sherwood, the last of the innocents.’

  ‘Oh, no, Sarah. I lost my innocence the day I met you.’

  She turned on her heel and made her way through the discarded newspapers to the door, which she held open for me. ‘Any time you’re in Paris,’ she said, with a brilliant and unforgiving smile.

  ‘I’ll need your current address,’ I told her. ‘And anyway I thought there was some talk of your moving to Geneva.’

  ‘I shall certainly not expect to see you there,’ she said, with the same public smile.

  ‘I look forward to seeing you at nine-thirty tomorrow morning, in my office,’ I told her, looking round for my briefcase.

  ‘Goodbye, Alan. We made fools of each other, didn’t we?’

  ‘Not entirely.’

  I tried to think of some last word, some tribute to her, but nothing came. It was not a moment for easy graceful words. I shook her hand, quite formally, before the door was shut in my face.

  As a young man in Paris, free and unworried, I had had no visitations from my former enemy, and, with no ordeals or obligations that I could possibly foresee, had felt encouraged to look forward to an innocent and hedonistic life in which I should play my part by being orderly and law-abiding after this permitted period of licence. I had once looked forward, but vaguely, to a time when I should be accounted a man of good character. Perhaps it was natural for me then to have little idea that life should develop in complexity, since I had supposed myself to have grown up and learned the rules of the game. I had no idea, perhaps fortunately for my peace of mind, that middle age, the age I was now, could muddy the waters all over again, and that my intimate fears could once again rise to the surface. Walking back down Baker Street I discovered that my original conceptions of vice and virtue were confused, that I no longer knew how to apportion praise and blame, and, more important, that I was in no position to do either. I had become a law-abiding citizen by default, though originally with good if not exactly heartfelt intentions, and to the outside world, with one unfortunate interruption, had remained so. Yet if I had performed a good deed in the course of the evening I had no conscience of having done so. That was my discovery: that there are no rewards, and few consolations, so that what are described as good deeds in children’s primers and the boy scouts’ manual, are, by the age of maturity, clouded over by knowledge of one’s own mixed motives. I had acted for Jenny, but I had thought of Sarah. Had there been no possibility of seeing her I should have undoubtedly been more lax in the matter of Humphrey’s will. I should not exactly have left Jenny to her fate, but neither should I have seized the first opportunity to transact business on her behalf. And though, from Jenny’s point of view, the evening had been successful, from mine it had been something of a failure, or perhaps would have been had Sarah and I not met, or rather parted, on a more honest basis than we had ever managed before. We had lost each other, but had done so knowingly: we had not been evasive. That was the only indemnity I could offer myself, and little as it was it would have to do.

>   It occurred to me, as I put my key into the door of the flat, that Sarah might not turn up on the following morning, but I dismissed this as unlikely: for the first time in my life I was inclined to trust her. I was by now exceedingly tired and even hungry. I ate an apple and a banana, and left everything to be taken care of by my new cleaner, Mrs Simpson. ‘Call me Wallis,’ she had said at our first interview, which indicates her age at seventy or more. She is a spry sparrow-thin widow who lives on the far side of Victoria Station and who is delighted to come into the West End every day and to be left the money to go home in a taxi. She is intrigued by the clothes in the cupboard of the spare room, but her curiosity is so far unsatisfied: this particular story is not for indiscriminate consumption. I made my plans for an early start, went to bed, and slept deeply and efficiently, as usual. On waking my brain seemed inordinately clear and devoid of anxiety. I dressed, drank a cup of coffee, and left the house at seven-thirty.

  In the empty office I drafted the short document, in which I stated that the property of the late Humphrey Miller, willed to his niece Sarah Miller, was henceforth, by the wish of Sarah Miller, to pass to Jadwiga, known as Jenny Miller, to revert to Sarah Miller on the death of the said Jadwiga Miller. This took care of what had seemed to me, on the previous evening, the smallest indictment of unfairness to Sarah’s interests. All doubts and uncertainties had now to be dismissed. I sat with my hands flat on my desk, apparently unoccupied, in fact waiting for Debbie, the temp, to arrive, but grateful for this interval of uninterrupted quiet. My mood, at this particular hour, was perhaps a little more vulnerable, for once again I was waiting for Sarah, and I was not entirely reconciled to the possibility of disappointment. But when the girls in the outer office made their gossiping entrance, and one of them brought my coffee, it seemed as if an ordinary day were under way, and my misgivings gradually subsided. At nine-fifteen I resigned myself to waiting; indeed I prepared myself by waiting, as if the ceremony demanded due observance. At ten o’clock Sarah arrived, signed the paper, which was witnessed by Mrs Roche and Telfer, observed that I was doing well out of this (fair comment in the circumstances), and was gone. Within minutes nothing remained of her but the smell of her scent, and when I opened the window even that dispersed, evaporated, and was soon gone.