At the Hairdresser's (Penguin Specials) Read online

  This reminder of the real world is more than welcome: it is necessary. After the rigours of a night filled with phantoms the street represents normality, the world of work, of the young, of the light. Even at the end of winter there are intimations of change, though it takes an experienced eye to discern them. For a brief moment I feel renewed, as if I still belong in this world, am still a part of it, enlivened by a young face, by a smile, which I freely return. But then I remember my age and its precariousness, and turn reluctantly, but more carefully, towards home. The newspapers bring no comfort: they are a measure of my estrangement, but I am bound to read them, searching for links to the world I once knew. They restore me briefly to a lost sense of citizenship. But in truth I am more interested in familiar local detail, my ties with my neighbours, the man in the house opposite bending over his breakfast. I imagine him reading his paper and settle down to mine with a brief flicker of solidarity. He too gets up early, and perhaps his nights are as troubled as mine. Or perhaps he is anxious to begin his day, and feels nothing for the past. We have never spoken, but nod if we encounter one another in the street. Our lack of interest is neutral but not uncomfortable.

  My second outing is more laborious and less pleasurable. It is then that the brutality of the season reasserts itself, and the faces are no longer young. There are more women than men, a new population of people on their phones, too busy to smile. I proceed now with more caution, even with fear. Fear stalks the old and must be conquered every day, mostly experienced at night but sometimes erupting in the daytime, during an ordinary walk, on an ordinary street, performing ordinary everyday tasks. It is at such times that I long to be at home, although the usual dull day awaits me. And if there is no taxi in sight I warn myself to be patient, while at the same time registering the fact that the situation is intolerable but must be tolerated.

  The afternoons hold something better. There are my bi-weekly visits to Top Chic, where I submit gratefully to the ministrations of others. Gaby, who does my hair, is from Eritrea, and is a beauty. But her beauty does not seem to work to her advantage; she has trouble at home and she is pregnant. She is at least fortunate in her work, for the other girls are stoutly on her side and form a bulwark against any male depredations. Any man dropping in for a haircut soon learns to mind his manners.

  ‘How are you?’ I enquire as a towel is placed round my neck. But she is not forthcoming.

  ‘Water all right?’

  ‘Yes, lovely, thank you.’

  The formalities concluded I allow myself to relax, lazily attentive to the buzz of conversation to which I have no duty to contribute. These girls are nominally under the supervision of two male stylists, but they take no notice of them and seem to run the place quite efficiently as a sort of female collective. They are hot-tempered, or seem to be, and infinitely kind. A cup of tea is placed before me as a matter of course, and sometimes there is a biscuit in the saucer. I am fond of these girls, who have no particular feeling for me other than as a client who tips well. They remind me of my days at work, when I was surrounded by students, equally indifferent, equally self-absorbed, but also well-disposed.

  I take my time, for now I am tired, and grateful for a hand under my elbow as I lever myself out of my chair. Briefly the conversation is halted as they say, ‘See you on Friday,’ and hold the door open for me. Then the day is over. The street seems strangely quiet after the hectic atmosphere of the salon. I appreciate this new form of what I suppose is feminism, each espousing the cause of the other. This was not the form in my day, when individual effort was more de rigueur, and voices were kept down. On my return the flat seems more silent than usual, but my outing has satisfied some brief social impulse and I settle down with my book – Dr Faustus – and fill my time resignedly until I abandon all efforts and prepare for the long night ahead.

  4

  I rejected Dr Faustus, which was a long way from fulfilling my need for reassurance, or rather reaffirmation. Deranged personalities should be avoided, in art as well as in life. Keep it to yourself, I wanted to say, just as I wanted to admonish those women (and it is mostly women) who choose me as the recipient for their observations, on the simple basis that I am bound to be sympathetic since I have no family, or at least none that I refer to, and am therefore fair game for their reminiscences which I do not welcome. But of course I am less tolerant now that I am old and much more selfish. Once I would have marvelled at such confessions, even encouraged them, as well as their uninhibited readiness. But that was when I was, as Mary said, eager, and before the discovery of solitude. I still treasure my working days, but even more that walk home each evening from Bloomsbury, that blessed interval before the evening began, at which time solitude lost something of its charm. I now know only too well how one can long for company, but only company of one’s own choosing. And books, which have always been my companions, can sometimes disappoint. That was why Dr Faustus had to go back on the shelf. I detected an arrogance, a self-centredness which I found distasteful. Something more modest was needed, but nothing appealed.

  At this bleak time of the year (early February) one watches the sky anxiously for signs of change. A light rain falling intensifies the darkness and the silence, and on this particular day made my second weekly visit to Top Chic problematic. But it was important to maintain one’s arrangements in case any break in routine held a superstitious indication of ultimate change, of submission to circumstances. I set out grimly, already bored by the prospect of the day, which seemed to bristle with discomforts. Going out was only mildly preferable to staying in, and my self-imposed routines brought no satisfaction. It was just that having devised them I saw no reason to let them lapse. They imposed a discipline of sorts which seemed to answer some vague moral prompting, and that was the measure of their value. My appearance held no interest for myself or for anyone else. Briefly I wished I had a confidante who would loyally buck me up, but I knew no one so compliant. Also I had nothing to read, which made the day stretch endlessly before me. Even the routine pleasantries at the hairdresser’s seemed preferable to my own silence. And those girls, of whom I was fond, did all the talking necessary and were in themselves a diversion. They were kindly, they were familiar, and familiarity would have to do.

  The rain had stopped but the light was bad and the street unwelcoming. I was greeted with something like warmth: apparently there had been cancellations, owing to the weather. Even the girls’ conversation was subdued. In this atmosphere it was easy to let oneself be lulled into acceptance. I was provided with a magazine and devoted my attention to the adventures of celebrities of whom I had barely heard. ‘The heartache behind my new album’, I read, until the print blurred, and the next thing I was asked was, ‘Did you bring an umbrella?’

  ‘No. Why? Is it raining?’

  ‘Look at it.’

  It was indeed raining, not heavily but with a stolid persistence, the sort of rain that is the bane of hairdressers and customers alike. No wonder the place was empty.

  ‘Could you get me a taxi?’ I asked, shelling out tips.

  ‘Doubt it. I could give Chris a call, if you like.’

  ‘Chris?’

  ‘He runs a car service. You might have seen him here.’

  ‘I don’t think…’

  ‘Youngish. Tall. He takes Mrs Armitage home.’

  ‘I don’t remember seeing him.’

  ‘I’ll give him a call. You’ll be quite safe with him.’

  This was met with some cheerful sniggering, which I ignored. Sometimes the young do nothing for one’s dignity.

  Despite innumerable social advances it is still difficult for a woman to have to rely on a man, particularly for a woman of my age with little to recommend her. An obligation was involved, and a certain grace required to discharge it. It was only a taxi, I told myself, as I sat glumly watching the rain, but what was the reason for the girls’ implied mockery? One of us, either myself or this Chris, was in some way laughable, for the laughter was not ironic
but vaguely spiteful. When a tall figure appeared I thought I detected the reason, or perhaps merely an explanation. It was he who had the upper hand, as in days of old. He greeted them heartily, but it was clear that he regarded them individually and also collectively as a species. He was exceptionally well-favoured, tall, easy in his movements, and with an unusually pleasing face, alight with a desire to oblige. Never mind the rain, he seemed to imply: I’m here now. And he was young, or youngish, in his mid to late twenties, I guessed, as he turned to me almost eagerly.

  ‘Mrs Warner?’ he enquired.

  ‘Elizabeth Warner. This is very good of you.’

  I could hear the age-old submission in my voice and took myself in hand.

  ‘Eccleston Square,’ I said more firmly.

  ‘Chris,’ he replied. No surname, but that was all he was prepared to supply.

  ‘I’ll see you next week,’ I said to Gaby. She took no notice. Indeed there was something of a hiatus in the usual background conversation. This was hardly surprising: he was exceptionally good-looking and would have been something of a conquest, had it not been for that easy smile, that willingness to please. A really desirable man, or what I still thought of as a real man, would display a certain reluctance, even a defensiveness, when his own wishes in the matter, or perhaps his own arrangements, had not been consulted. Yet this Chris was all smiles, all anxiety to please. Any defensiveness was exhibited by the girls in the face of his superior attractions.

  ‘You wait here,’ he said. ‘I’ll fetch an umbrella. Don’t want to get your hair wet.’

  Settled in the back of the car I reflected how agreeable it was to be managed in this way. I would have liked to be wordless, lulled by the wet road, the darkening sky, but I made my usual effort.

  ‘I expect you’re rather busy,’ I remarked. ‘In this weather. Such a long winter.’

  ‘Busy? Yes. But I’m as busy as I want to be. I’m freelance. I’ll give you my card. That way you can always get me. Shopping, and so on.’

  The idea was attractive. I was sick of my excursions. And at my age I thought I deserved a little indulgence.

  ‘On the corner, there,’ I said. ‘On the left.’

  Again the umbrella was unfurled. There was courtesy but no undue deference. This evidence of good manners pleased me. It was like being in the hands of a superior hotelier taking care of an old and valued client.

  ‘You must let me know how much I owe you.’

  ‘Twenty pounds is what I usually charge. Or you could open an account.’

  ‘I’ll do that. I doubt if I’ve got enough money on me. I forgot to go to the bank. Perhaps you could take me there in the morning.’

  ‘It would be a pleasure.’

  I was longing for a cup of tea, and now anxious to be alone.

  ‘What time shall I pick you up?’

  ‘Would nine be all right? Then I could do a big shop. And thank you once again.’

  When he had left I looked at his card which merely gave his name (C. J. Gordon) and the number of his mobile phone. I made my tea and reflected. His smile had remained constant throughout my tedious remarks. For some reason I trusted him. I smiled in recognition of his much warmer smile. Young, I thought. That was what made me smile.

  5

  That night I had a disturbing dream. I dreamed that a flat I had once considered moving into revealed itself as a wilderness of staircases. Staircases led up to every level and ended abruptly in corners and alcoves. And what I had thought was a flat was in fact a six-storey building. It was unoccupied: there was no one there to give me directions. Sun shone through dusty plate-glass windows. The task of re-negotiating several of those staircases in order to reach the ground floor was impeded by unexpected turns which led to more stairs. In the dream I was willing and able but I woke with a sense of horror before I could find my way out. Like other dreams, good and bad, it was difficult to dispel.

  Blind alleys. That was the meaning of the dream, and it cast an unwelcome light over my past life, banal and harmless though it might have been. My early friendships, which it had been difficult to replace, my attachments to men, my life of work, even my past travels, which I had undertaken so resolutely after my divorce, my lack of context in this flat which I had not chosen and to which I did not truly feel entitled, now seemed bleak, a life of making-do, without alternatives. The lack of joy in everyday living, the loss of that eagerness which had once sustained me through changes of fortune and then deserted me, now, in the bleak daybreak, threatened to undo me. I thought, but rejected the thought, that I might go back to bed, since I was fit for nothing else, but resisted the temptation. Besides, that young man was coming to drive me to the bank and I had not paid him or indeed made proper arrangements to be picked up in the future, as had previously seemed such a good idea. I rather thought I might revert to relying on my previous habits, since any change invites superstition. For this reason I dressed carefully, for it was important to remain in command. Once the morning had been got through my failure of nerve would be without witnesses, returning me to the barren devices that the dream had revealed. How clever, I thought, was my unconscious mind, summoning up a lifetime in the space of at most a couple of hours.

  How wrong I had been to measure myself among those more fortunate friends! My place was with the lowly, those for whom a walk home after work was pleasure enough. These had not been lifelong friendships. Perhaps no friendships are. The experience of drifting apart is hard to bear, yet all are subject to that sort of change. My vision of the world, in which all certainties are exceptional, delusive, was no doubt accurate enough, but I found it hard to bear, more so in winter, even more so at night. Little now remained of that dream apart from the frustration of those stairs, and my own gallant acceptance of the challenge, the endless contretemps. I could see the man in the house opposite bending over his breakfast or his newspaper or both and silently extended what fellow-feeling remained to me. It was easier to do this to a stranger than to anyone close. For all I knew he had a family or associates, or both. I found his apparent solitude hard to contemplate and roused myself to put on the kettle and begin some semblance of a normal day.

  When the bell rang I was startled, looked at the clock and saw that time had passed, that it was almost nine o’clock. I opened the door to be met with that smile of ready accessibility that I had forgotten, so shadowed had been my more recent thoughts. He was indeed an attractive prospect standing there, slender, fresh-faced, almost enough to dispel the miasma of the night. He had an air of health which immediately recommended him as someone to be trusted. He was lightly dressed in an impeccable white shirt and black trousers, like some sort of businessman ready for a day of meetings. And young, as if impervious to change and decay.

  ‘Chris. Good morning. I’m afraid I’m running a bit late this morning. Would you like a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Coffee’d be great.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ I said in a hostessy voice. ‘How do you like your coffee?’

  ‘Black, please, no sugar.’

  ‘I hope I’m not delaying you. Are you busy today?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got Mrs Armitage at ten. After that I’m my own man.’

  Ah yes, Mrs Armitage, to whom I owed this prodigy. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I’ve got various ideas. I’m planning to set up a business. Get myself on-line, build up a client base.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re wise.’

  He spoke like a businessman already. On-line, client base. How realistic this was I had my doubts, but there was no mistaking his drive. ‘In the taxi line?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, maybe. The idea is to make some contacts, build up a business, then sell it and retire.’

  ‘Well, retirement is not all that great. Better to keep working. At least that’s my experience.’

  He raised an eyebrow. ‘There’s a great big world out there. I want to see it all. Have you travelled much?’ This was pure politeness on his part, but it set off a series of v
istas in my mind: Rome, Seville, Athens… I had seen them all, but had not lingered, had come home to duty. What I remembered was the promise of enchantment. And the sun, the sun!

  ‘More coffee?’ I asked. ‘I’m afraid I’m making you late. Perhaps tomorrow would be better. I was going to the bank, wasn’t I? Remember, I haven’t paid you for yesterday. And you must charge me for this morning.’

  ‘Don’t worry. It’ll go on the account. I’ll take your card number, shall I? And yes, I’ve got time for another cup of coffee.’

  ‘So, you’re ambitious. You’re quite right to be so. I’m sure you’ll do well. Have you a family to support?’

  ‘No, I’ve no family. I’m adopted. Nice people, but we grew apart. I never really wanted to think of them as my real parents.’

  ‘Did you try to trace your real parents?’

  ‘No way. They gave me away, didn’t they?’

  It was the first time that nature had broken through his apparently sunny disposition. There was a resentment there which had not faded, and now might never fade.

  ‘Mark you, my so-called parents did the right thing. Sent me to a good school and all that.’

  That was why he spoke so well. And yet beneath the cultivated accent there was something a little more raw, the legacy of a genetic trace. Nature again.

  I poured him more coffee. Looking after him in this way was good for both of us, particularly for myself, after such a night. This had now almost vanished, although I knew I should return to it in the course of the day. But for the moment I was happy to watch him, to envy his ease. He was certainly attractive, with his graceful manners. If there was something unfinished about him that was part of his youth, and it was his youth that was his greatest advantage. Strangely, I found him utterly sexless, which was perhaps why Gaby and the other girls had been so antagonistic. But in my case this almost added to his charm. I might have been an elderly relative, an aunt, for example. That was my role these days. I did not think of myself as anybody’s mother, and there was nothing maternal in my appreciation of his temporary presence in my kitchen.