Altered States Read online

  We both hold the treacherous view that men are superior to women in the areas of love and work, since we appear to derive more pleasure from these activities than we are supposed to. Although our natures and temperaments are quite different, Brian and I share moments of levity in the office at the expense of plaintive women suing for alimony and other hard luck cases. We also derive enormous pleasure from the appearance of our secretaries, all of whom are nevertheless protected by us: we view their innocence as part of our responsibility, and even Brian respects this. He would not dream of offering them more than an appreciative compliment. They in their turn are devoted to him, and are more at ease with him than they are with me. They seem to sense something not quite straightforward in my sternness, and they are not wrong. The even landscape of my life became quite jagged for a time, and my equilibrium suffered for some time after that. It is not that they are frightened of me, rather that they are more at home with Brian and his affectionate and meaningless compliments. It is as if they sense that a compliment from me might have an undesirable weight. They are right. My conduct towards them is entirely proper, and I am not particularly interested in any one of them beyond their performance in the office. This confers on them a degree of immunity which they welcome. In this and other ways they negate my threat as a man, although they are clever enough to perceive this threat. It is as if they know that, left to myself, I could become a lonely fanatic. I believe that, apart from my mother, these excellent girls are the only ones to penetrate my disguise.

  But is it a disguise? I neither parade nor deny the fact that I suffered a grievous blow while still fairly young, and that I do not appear to be taking any steps to restoring my life to any sort of normality. This is what disconcerts me. They know that my wife died after only eleven months of marriage, and that our baby was stillborn. They know that I live alone in my flat in Wigmore Street and am quite kind to elderly acquaintances. They suppose my heart to be broken, although I give no sign of this, and they must surely be disarmed by the occasional bark of laughter that has been heard to issue from my office. This worries them, as well it might. They are more comfortable with my Robespierre-like impassivity as I wait patiently but without indulgence for female clients to put away their handkerchiefs. They have no access to my secret life, which is not one of licence, or sexual excess (would that it were!), but rather of emotional aberration. I have been in love, and was once in love for a very long time, but I claim no indulgence for these facts. I persuade myself that nobody knows about my love for Sarah, not even Brian, but this is unlikely. Brian has always been supremely tactful; even at the height of my madness he had the grace to keep his comments to a minimum. Men are better at this than women. Perhaps it is an example of the sort of affection between men that women rarely understand.

  Although solitary by nature I should welcome a large family, the sort of panoply of odd relatives that surrounded me in childhood. Mad old ladies have never frightened me, although I have not had much success with younger ones. The first love of my life was my mother, a delightful woman by any standards, not merely my own. She was my father’s second wife, the first, always referred to as ‘poor Mary’, having died abruptly of a wasp sting to which she proved allergic. My mother was a friend of her daughter’s; her subsequent marriage to their father, many years older, was regarded as a scandal by the daughters, Sybil and Marjorie, and my mother was never truly forgiven, though relations of a kind were resumed some years later. The girls, as they were invariably known, seemed mysteriously older than my mother, although only a few years separated them, a consequence perhaps of the dreadful dignity they assumed whenever my mother tried to revive the friendship. But as they were incompetent they often had recourse to her counsel, particularly in later life, when my mother was a widow, a fact which seemed to mollify them.

  The girls were devoted to each other. Marjorie, who was lame and walked with a stick when I knew her, was presumably unrecognisable as the once dashing redhead she had been as a girl, when she owned and ran a dress shop in Dover Street. The day when she could no longer afford the overheads, and when ‘Marjorie’ ceased to exist, was the saddest day of her life. She declined slowly after that; her limp became more pronounced and she spent lonely days at home, earning a living from her now somewhat dated skills as a dressmaker. Gradually she became more and more dependent on her sister Sybil. When I knew her she already looked old: her make-up was craggy and her hair dyed the colour of Mansion Polish. I rather liked her, as did my mother.

  The chief eccentricity of these two sisters was the fact that barely into middle life they made active plans for their old age. These plans were quite concrete: they were to take a flat, on which they had already put down a deposit, in one of those converted country houses that turn themselves into retirement homes for old people with money. They frequently visited this place, which was near the Dorset Coast, not far from Bournemouth, to see that their investment was in order. This despite the fact that Sybil was a married woman with a small daughter, Sarah. Somehow married life was expected to take second place to this plan of a lifetime, a fact apparently accepted by Sybil’s husband, Bertram Miller. ‘I expect you’ll go first, anyway,’ Sybil frequently assured her husband. Obligingly he did, slipping down silently behind the counter of the old-established jeweller’s shop in High Holborn which he ran with his brother Humphrey.

  Sybil was not much put out by this: she saw it as divine confirmation of her plans. With the demise of her husband she was able to make a home for her sister in their house in Parsons Green. As time went on the two women became closer to each other, viewing my mother with suspicion, although frequently telephoning her to ask her to mediate in some quarrel or other, or to go with them to Sarah’s school to ask why Sarah was doing so badly and was so disruptive, hurling other girl’s hats to the ground and stamping on them before the morning bell had stopped ringing. My mother’s calm and authority worked wonders on more than one of these occasions, but she had her reservations about Sarah, whom she thought privately even more odd than her mother and aunt put together.

  The connection did not stop with Bertram Miller’s death. His brother Humphrey, a melancholy bachelor in his late fifties, was inconsolable: tears often misted his eyes as he sold engagement rings to young couples in High Holborn. The young couples, thinking the tears were for them, pronounced him terribly sweet as they left with their purchases, whereas in fact he was simply lonely. For years the two brothers had run a successful business in wordless harmony. When Bertram married, Humphrey moved out of the family home and bought himself a flat behind Marble Arch, in a fusty, somnolent solid building which suited him very well. He saw his brother every day, so felt that nothing had really happened to alter their relationship. When Bertram died he aged considerably. His heart was no longer in the business, which was itself in decline, owing to extensive building works on either side, old-established premises like their own being knocked down to make way for smart new offices. He would have declined with it, had it not been for the sisters, his sisters-in-law, who came driving in every Sunday from Parsons Green, the back of the car packed with casseroles, pies, roast chickens, Marjorie’s special cake, and various other provisions which they calculated would take him through the week until their next visit. The girl Sarah occasionally accompanied them. Humphrey Miller was fond of her, as only a childless man of outstanding simplicity could be. She was always richer by a ten pound note when they left.

  I arrived home from a friend’s house one Saturday afternoon to find some kind of conclave taking place in my mother’s drawing-room. That the occasion was significant was advertised by the fact that although Sybil was formally dressed, as she always was, in her heather mixture coat and skirt and trilby hat, her face and neck were deeply flushed. Both she and Marjorie were silent, though clearly longing to impart something of moment.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ asked my mother, her usual greeting.

  I assured her that I had.

  ‘I think we s
hould like some more tea,’ she went on. ‘The girls are rather upset.’

  ‘What do you think of this, then, Alan?’ said Sybil, who could wait no longer. ‘Humphrey’s getting married!’

  I thought nothing of it. Indeed I could hardly bring Humphrey to mind, although he had been present, along with the girls, at various Christmas gatherings, mainly the drinks parties my parents used to give on Boxing Day when my father was alive. If I thought of him at all it was with a mixture of amusement and distaste. The amusement was caused by Humphrey’s solemn and often lachrymose unworldliness. Although young at the time of these encounters, I recognised and appreciated true blamelessness, which nevertheless disturbed me. My distaste, also occasioned by my youth, was for his collapsed appearance, the narrow chest, the burgeoning stomach, the trousers which nearly reached his armpits. I felt sympathy for his prospective wife, forced to contemplate this disgrace every day, and—but this was unimaginable—every night as well.

  ‘A foreigner,’ said Marjorie bitterly. It now occurred to me that she had had hopes in this direction herself.

  ‘It was the holiday that brought it on,’ said Sybil. ‘That was your idea, Alice.’ Your bright idea was what she meant.

  ‘It wasn’t a bad idea,’ my mother observed. ‘Humphrey’s not old but he’s developed elderly ways. He sits in that flat all day with nothing to do when he could be enjoying the sun somewhere. He’s comfortably off, he’s reasonably healthy. But he’s becoming morbid. And timid. I suggested Hyères, if you remember. He’d have been perfectly safe there. I can’t think why he went to Paris …’

  ‘If he wanted a holiday he could have come on the Sea Princess with us,’ said Sybil, flushing more deeply. This project for a winter cruise, discussed many times, was never likely to be realised; indeed its main attraction was that it need never be undertaken. All three of them, Humphrey, Sybil and Marjorie, were disinclined to move. Should an uncharacteristic fit of restlessness seize them, and the booking actually be made, they would no doubt stay on board the ship as it travelled round the world and never get off it, leaving the world to take care of itself.

  ‘Of course we shan’t stay around to meet her.’ This was Marjorie.

  ‘You must, dear. What can you possibly have against the poor woman? As far as I can see this sets you free. You’ve both been so good to him, but it must have seemed a bit of a tie, sometimes, giving up every Sunday. And all that cooking …’

  At this they both bridled. ‘I hope we’ve never counted the cost, Alice, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘No, of course not. Oh dear, I didn’t mean to offend you, please don’t think that. You’ve both been quite marvellous, perfect friends to a lonely man. But now he’s lonely no longer. That leaves you free. Or freer,’ she added, surveying their faces in vain for a response.

  ‘There’ll be changes certainly,’ said Sybil. ‘For one thing we’ll be moving down to the Hall.’

  ‘That place in Dorset? But you’re both too young to go into retirement. And what will you do with the house?’

  ‘Sarah will live there. It can be her home until she gets married. If she ever does.’ This was accompanied by a sigh of a different order, a careworn spontaneous sigh.

  ‘How can you say that? Sarah’s young, she hasn’t started her life yet. When does she leave Oxford?’

  ‘She’s left. What she got up to as a student I don’t know. I’m glad Alan was there to keep an eye on her. Not that she mentioned you, Alan. But then she never tells me about her friends.’

  It was useless to remind them that four years had passed since I was up at Oxford. The details of my life were hazy to them, and they expressed no more than a conventional interest, which was usually compromised by incorrect information. There was no point in enlightening them. I think they were frightened of young men, if not of all men. This attitude must have deepened during the period of Sybil’s widowhood. Nowadays the girls looked to each other for reassurance, and would continue to do so once both they and Humphrey were off the map. They were a married couple, in all but sex. I could not see that they would be much of a help to Sarah, whom I vaguely remembered throwing a tantrum at a children’s party I had once attended. When she had found out that the beautiful yellow birthday cake was to be eaten politely by all the six-year-olds present she had appropriated several portions and would not relinquish them. Attempts to bring her to order had been countered with looks of scorn. A lot of cake ended up on the floor, I remembered. No doubt the same scorn was now levelled at her parent.

  ‘I can’t do anything with her,’ Sybil went on, in a ruminative voice. ‘She’s not like us at all. We’re peaceful people; we please ourselves, we’re quite contented with our own company. I know she can’t wait to see the back of us.’

  ‘Looks down her nose,’ Marjorie put in. It was clear that she disliked the girl.

  ‘Anyway, I owe it to Marjorie,’ Sybil went on. ‘She doesn’t complain, although I know her leg’s getting worse. Sarah will have to learn to look after herself.’

  ‘Well, of course she will,’ said my mother. ‘She’s young, she’s impulsive, she’s very pretty. Young people should enjoy themselves. That’s what youth is for.’

  She sighed. I knew that she was thinking of her dead husband, than whom she had been so much younger.

  ‘I’m sure we can count on you, Alice.’ This, again, was Marjorie, now clearly anxious to relinquish Sarah and any responsibilities she might have incurred. If she could not have Humphrey she would have Sybil. It occurred to me, as it no doubt occurred to my mother, that the two were perfectly suited, and that their old age, so eagerly anticipated, would probably be benign. That, however, was in the future, and at this distance it seemed unlikely that they could be dissuaded from their project, even by my mother, whose attitude to them had been exemplary. She knew that they distrusted her; she also knew that they relied on her superior intelligence, a fact which they resented. Their visits were onerous but dramatic occasions, since there was so much repressed fury in the air. My mother felt an obligation towards them, though they felt none towards her. ‘Ignore them,’ I had once told her. ‘Or tell them to get lost. They’ve got each other, after all. You’ve only got me, you poor old thing.’ And yet a curious connection persisted, as if they had all issued from the same family, as in a sense they had.

  My mother smiled at me lovingly. ‘Are you sure you’re not hungry?’ she said, and I knew that she was grateful for my unspoken support. Being a tactful woman, and mindful of my own youth, she did not present her frequently bruised feelings time after time in order to hear my reassuring words, but I knew that she would not be altogether sorry when the girls departed for Dorset. Indeed, I did not see why they should enter our lives again.

  ‘You’re not going!’ protested my mother, trying to keep the relief out of her voice. ‘Alan, Marjorie’s stick.’

  ‘We don’t want to get caught in the rush-hour, do we?’ It sounded like a reproach, as perhaps it was. ‘Where are my gloves?’

  ‘Down the side of your chair,’ I said. ‘And it’s Saturday.’

  ‘All right, Alan, thank you very much. You’ll be glad to see the back of us, I dare say.’

  ‘You must come to see us again very soon,’ my mother put in swiftly. ‘Are you planning any sort of reception for Humphrey and his, well, his bride?’

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘Then perhaps I will invite them to a little party. You too, of course. Do we know anything about her?’

  ‘Not a thing,’ said Marjorie triumphantly.

  ‘I see,’ said my mother. ‘A foreigner, you said. And he met her in Paris. Is she French?’

  ‘She may be,’ said Sybil. She was prepared to go no further.

  ‘And has she got a name?’ asked my mother, her patience beginning to wear thin.

  ‘Edwige.’ This was offered reluctantly.

  ‘But that is French. She must be French.’

  ‘Not quite, Alice,’ put in Marjorie. ‘E
dwige is not her real name. Her real name is Jadwiga. Polish, you see.’ She pronounced this as if it were the ultimate proof of the bride’s unworthiness. ‘Not quite what we’re used to, Humphrey least of all. Still, we shan’t wait around to see them make a mess of things. You’ll be in touch, Alice?’

  They always said this, as if anxious for my mother’s company. Maybe they were. She was a sensitive and friendly woman, and she was always kind. I understood the sisters’ desire to keep in contact, though I was in no doubt that they voiced pointed and enjoyable criticisms once they were alone. But my mother’s other friends loved and trusted her, as I did. Although widowed young, she had given me a pain-free childhood and had never visited her sadness on to me. I suspected that her gift of the flat in Wigmore Street on my twenty-first birthday had been in the nature of a bribe, although I did not resent this. She wanted me to go into the firm and follow in my father’s footsteps: that was her way of keeping faith with him. I am sure she never looked at another man. Such simple attitudes were my inheritance. It was to be some time before I betrayed them.

  3

  I first encountered Jadwiga/Edwige at the small party my mother gave at her Cadogan Gate flat to celebrate my return to normality, that is to say my joining the firm after my années de pèlerinage in Paris. The occasion took place on a misty Sunday in November, at midday. At first sight I knew no one in the room, although after about fifteen minutes I recognised the girls, Sybil and Marjorie, and of course Brian and Mrs Roche from the office. Brian was with his then fiancée Felicity, and Mrs Roche was with a short tubby man who was presumably Mr Roche, as he turned out to be. My mother was very animated, though she seemed to me much older. She broke away from an elderly couple to greet me, saw that I had a drink, and then took my arm and led me round the room to introduce me to various neighbours of hers, some of whom I had met at previous parties, some of whom I had never seen before.