At the Hairdresser's (Penguin Specials) Page 3

  ‘Is it still raining?’

  ‘No. Going to be a nice day. Well, if you’re sure about this morning I’d better get going.’

  ‘Perhaps you’ll come back tomorrow? I really do need to go to the bank.’

  ‘Fine. Sure you’ve got all you want? Newspaper?’ ‘No, thank you. I’ll go out later. And I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  ‘Same time?’

  ‘Same time. If that’s convenient.’

  ‘About nine, then. And thanks for the coffee.’

  It was utterly quiet after he left, the flat sinking into desuetude. Yet he had saved me from a day which might have been spent in regret, remorse. And the ease with which he put himself at my disposal was the best of recommendations. And tomorrow I would have the coffee ready for him, without fear of making him late. His ambitions struck me as outlandish, but they were not my concern. For him the future held promise, nothing but promise. It was not my place to offer advice. I trusted his confidence. His confidence was perhaps his most serious attribute. It filled the gap that is usually occupied by sex.

  6

  It was pleasant to be offered an arm to guide me down the front steps, wafting me back to the sort of past that I had never known. We had had our coffee and I was preparing myself for a visit to the bank, although I wondered if I shouldn’t have been wiser to make my own way there. I was wasting money, I knew that, but his presence was agreeable, and it seemed a fair exchange. I knew perfectly well that I was paying for his company, as I had never in my life done before, but there was more to it than that. He was some sort of safeguard, one that might become necessary. I did not put any words to this. I had no need to. It is always later than you think.

  He seemed to consider it quite in order to talk about himself, and in fact was eager to do so. He had no objection to answering questions, and although I warned myself to keep a distance I was fascinated by his apparent wholesomeness and wanted to know how this had been achieved. I had been reticent for far too long, simply on account of my circumstances, but now I was impatient, too impatient to spend another day reading in this dark flat, and already succumbing to my own curiosity, with the same recklessness that now ruled whatever financial arrangements we had – both – contrived. He found it natural that I should want to know about him, and perhaps enjoyed the approval that I did not bother to hide. Nevertheless I refrained from comment, confining myself to routine enquiries of the most mundane and innocent kind, and cautioning myself to remember that this was an arrangement that put my mind at rest, although I somehow regretted my previous self-reliance, as if I had sacrificed my independence, squandered it on a chance encounter, as I had done too many times in the past. But I was not proof against the charm of pouring his coffee, as if catching up on a form of family normality. And the deciding factor was his entirely natural acceptance of this formality. His serene availability did not mask a healthy self-absorption: he found it natural that others should be interested in him and was willing to interest them even further. I saw too that he was completely incurious and found this commendable, an aspect of energy and therefore commensurate with his youth. Simple egotism exerts its own fascination.

  He was again meticulously dressed, almost polished. I could not suppress a smile as he greeted me almost joyously. This was evidently his manner with old ladies, and if it contained the slightest suspicion of mockery, or self-mockery, those same old ladies were not in a position to complain. But in fact the stratagem invited complicity, and recognition on both sides that this approach was the correct one. For a brief moment I regretted my former colleagues, now as old, or older than myself, weathered by a lifetime of duty and entirely sceptical about its benefit. In comparison this young man was a novice, and an ignorant one at that. He paid his dues simply by his attendance, and his willingness to lend his presence to charmless elders like myself.

  I wondered about his way of life. References to ‘my flat’ and ‘the gym’ indicated that he was not in need. But he was greedy. He seemed to take great care of himself, was eloquent on the subject of his diet, which was obsessively healthful, many vegetables, lentils… No carbs, he told me, no fats. All this over a cup of sugarless black coffee, which I had ready for him, although on my own I should have been out at this hour. Behind the radiant smile there was a blank.

  ‘Have you got a girlfriend?’ I could not help myself asking.

  ‘I keep my options open,’ he replied. ‘I’m quite close to one or two friends, but I’m not ready to commit. Things to do, places to go. Now, you said you wanted to go to the bank.’

  I was effectively put in my place. But I deserved this snub. ‘The bank is in Wigmore Street,’ I said. ‘Do you think we could go through the park?’

  ‘Certainly.’

  The arm was held out for me, and I was carefully installed in the back of the car. These attentions made me feel old, older than my usual self, but then I reflected he did not know the grim determination that keeps old people on track. And it was not my place to enlighten him. I settled down to enjoy my outing, but the morning had been slightly overshadowed. And the park, which I had longed to see, was also a disappointment, bleak, under a sunless sky, with few pedestrians, none of the activity that I had anticipated. I was almost glad when we reached Wigmore Street, and the bank, to which my father had ceremoniously introduced me when I was ready to open my first account. I still banked there, although it was inconveniently situated, out of a remnant of family piety. My father had taken a certain pride in handing down instructions, and I felt bound to him in this respect, if in no other.

  I was again handed in and left with a cashier.

  ‘I’ve left the car on a meter,’ he said. ‘It’s round the corner. I’ll come back for you. Can you manage?’

  Of course I could manage. There was quite a lot of business to transact, and I withdrew more than my usual amount of cash for the week ahead. It seemed essential to set the financial record straight before I was consigned to decrepitude. Besides, I had no idea how much he charged. ‘The account’ was purposefully vague. The sensible thing would be to settle up with him as soon as we got home, and then contact him on an ad hoc basis. But when an assistant cashier approached and said, ‘Your son asked me to tell you that the car is parked round the corner, and that he’ll come back for you,’ I could not resist a certain pleasure in the pretence, certainly for myself, even, I hoped, for him as well. I gained some status from my supposed relationship, and responded graciously to the farewells which seemed to me less indifferent than those usually offered.

  After that the park seemed to have retrieved something of its former charm. Nonetheless I was glad to be out of it. London seemed smaller than I remembered it, crouching under a grey sky that persisted regardless of the changing season. It was almost a relief to be back in my basement, though that too seemed darker than usual. And I had not stopped to do any shopping, which meant another outing on the following day. This was proving to be less helpful than I had anticipated.

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

  ‘Fifty pounds should cover it.’

  ‘Does that include yesterday?’

  ‘Oh, I’d forgotten about that. Let’s say sixty-five. What about tomorrow?’

  ‘Yes, I’ll want to go to Waitrose.’

  ‘Okay, call it a hundred.’

  It was ridiculously expensive. But how else was I to proceed, with friends widely scattered, neighbours no doubt well-meaning, but as old as myself? I cursed my circumstances, which certainly could have been worse, but at the same time could have been better. I was reduced to employing this young man, whether I liked it or not.

  ‘Do sit down,’ I said tiredly. ‘Would you like more coffee? I certainly need some.’

  ‘No, I’ll get off. Sure you’re all right?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. Suddenly I could not wait to be on my own. ‘Don’t look so worried. I’m perfectly all right. Oh, the money.’ I handed over the notes. ‘And I’ll see you in the
morning.’

  ‘Same time?’

  ‘Same time. After that I shan’t need you for a bit.’

  He looked concerned. ‘You’ve got my number. Don’t hesitate to ring me if you change your mind.’

  His concern seemed genuine, and despite my impatience to see him gone I was touched. ‘You’ve been a great help,’ I managed to say. ‘I’ll see you in the morning.’

  It seemed oddly quiet after he left. I was sorry to have shown weakness, even more sorry to have felt so suddenly deprived. I made coffee, drank it slowly, not quite reconciled to my habitual solitude. And I had nothing to read. But there comes a time when books let you down. Surely that time had not arrived? But in comparison with a living presence there is no contest. That I knew and had always known. Ideally that living presence should be of one’s own choosing. The default presence was that of a stranger, whose goodwill must be paid for, and who may or may not be willing. At least this young man was willing. And he seemed to care. For that I must be grateful. And gracious. After all, I had no choice.

  7

  Arm-in-arm we entered Waitrose. ‘Leave this to me,’ he said, detaching a trolley. We strolled at a leisurely pace through milk, tea, coffee, oranges, washing powder, smoked mackerel fillets, biscuits, eggs, bread, a dish mop and a bottle of sparkling water. Even so it seemed a meagre haul compared with what I saw around us, trolleys piled high with goods wheeled by purposeful women whose shopping proclaimed them to be wives and mothers and no doubt chief executives into the bargain. The sight of such extravagance, or so it seemed to me, underlined my poor performance as a functioning woman. When we reached the till I remembered I could not expect this service on a daily basis, nor was there any need to. As my purchases were being put into a bag I darted off, almost enthusiastically, for an extra pint of milk. That way I could last out until the weekend. He swung the bags, four of them, back into the trolley, then stood beside me protectively as I entered my card. ‘Pin number,’ said the assistant. I punched it in, and the morning’s work was done. It had taken little more than three-quarters of an hour.

  Outside it seemed warmer, lighter, less clouded, not yet spring but no longer winter. I breathed in the London air, stood almost appreciatively on the pavement, devoid of anxiety. When we reached Eccleston Square I was not quite resigned to being home. ‘You go on in,’ he said. ‘I’ll take care of this stuff. Leave the door open.’ I put the kettle on for coffee. When I had laid out two cups and saucers I heard his steps, then, turning, saw a stout grey-haired woman entering the sitting-room behind me.

  ‘Did you know your front door was open?’ said this person.

  We stared at each other. ‘Mary. Is it you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s me. How are you, Beth?’

  ‘It must be more than fifty years,’ I said wonderingly.

  ‘Hadn’t you better close that door?’

  ‘I’m expecting deliveries.’ This sounded not only prim but pretentious. I could hear the approaching footsteps, and wondered how soon I could get rid of him, or of Mary, or of both of them. Socially this presented a challenge, and I was out of practice. ‘What are you doing in London?’ I asked. ‘Oh, do sit down. I’ll make some coffee.’ I thought lingeringly of previous arrangements, now relegated by this bulky stranger whom I had once known so well and who was now disposing herself in my usual chair.

  ‘Coffee would be very welcome. We’re here for a memorial service. Old friend of Alec’s, and I dare say the last. I must say you’re not looking too bad. At least I recognized you.’ She laughed.

  ‘Where have you come from? You never come to London. At least, you haven’t …’

  ‘That church in Piccadilly. Absolutely packed.’

  ‘How did you find me?’

  ‘Well, our man was waiting for us, so I told him to drop me here before taking Alec on. We’re staying at Robin’s.’

  Robin, I remembered, was the diplomat.

  We surveyed each other. Seeing Mary divorced from her former persona was unwelcome. Evidently she felt the same. If, as she said, I hadn’t changed, she, disastrously, had mutated into a majestic old lady, reflecting my own age back to me.

  ‘Eighty-one,’ she said unerringly. She had always been good at reading my expression. ‘You were a year younger, if I remember.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And do you manage?’

  ‘Well, I have to, don’t I?’ I could hear bags being dumped in the kitchen.

  ‘Mind if I make myself a coffee?’ sang a voice.

  ‘Oh, of course. You know where everything is.’

  Mary raised an eyebrow. For a moment I thought she was going to reproach me for being too eager, and I felt sharply disappointed that she was drinking the coffee that was not hers by right.

  ‘How long are you here for?’

  ‘Only the night. And perhaps a day, to see the grandchildren. You never had any, did you?’

  ‘No. My marriage was short-lived.’

  ‘What happened to your husband?’

  ‘He went to a post in America, and married again. Then he died.’

  ‘And you’ve stayed here?’

  ‘Well, it suits me well enough.’

  She cast a critical eye. ‘It’s fairly central, I suppose. Though it could do with a lick of paint.’

  Chris entered the room, his ever-ready smile in place, his coffee cup in his hand.

  ‘Do sit down. This is an old friend, Lady Fellowes. Chris is my taxi driver.’ It was not the most tactful of introductions, and the smile had hardened. Quite deliberately he took a seat, though it was clear to everyone in my suddenly crowded room that status was likely to become an issue. Mary’s eyebrows remained raised. She had always been good at enforcing and reinforcing social boundaries.

  ‘Do you ever hear from Julie?’ I asked, somewhat desperately.

  ‘No. Probably dead. She went into a convent, didn’t she?’

  ‘Something like that.’ I remembered it was Julie whom I had preferred, her sweetness, her happiness, her ideal marriage… She was the template for all my aspirations, none of which had come to fruition. There seemed no possibility of making this company cohere. Chris lounged uncharacteristically in his chair, one leg crossed on his knee. Suddenly there was nothing to say.

  ‘Well, I suppose I’d better be getting back. Can your friend give me a lift?’

  ‘Of course. And stay longer next time.’

  But the boot was on the other foot. ‘Take care of yourself, Beth.’ I was enveloped in an old woman’s embrace, physical features blurred into an unindented shape, a memorial service of its own. ‘When you’re ready, driver. Eaton Place.’

  ‘Goodbye,’ I said sadly. My sadness was for Chris, not for Mary who had become markedly authoritarian, and who no longer resembled that friend of my youth, still vivid in my memory. She now meant less to me than the offence that seemed to be my fault. And he was offended; of that there was no doubt. And in this incipient class divide I was instinctively on his side.

  ‘Eaton Place,’ Mary repeated sharply. ‘I take it you know it?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He did not offer her his arm. ‘Will you need me tomorrow?’ he enquired with exaggerated deference. ‘Only I’m rather busy. Chockablock, in fact.’

  ‘I’ll call you in the morning,’ I said. ‘Mary, come back soon.’

  She waved a desultory hand in my direction as she preceded him up the stairs. When the street door closed it sounded like the end of an era.

  My most immediate disappointment was that my dream had been unreliable, and yet it had seemed so convincing at the time. Mary’s reappearance was little more than an interruption and a renewed emphasis on her superior social attainments. No doubt she had summed up my own as having deteriorated from a position which had never been secure to one in which I was dependent on the kindness of strangers. And why not? I thought defensively. What had those friends done for me, or would do for me now? That young man – but how old was he? He had suddenly, with the hardening of his m
outh, looked older, possibly thirty, or even a little more. What was young was his ambition, his vocabulary. His sudden expression of alienation was an instinctive reflection of a background of which I knew nothing. I imagined an unsympathetic upbringing, a lack of maternal love. My own childless state now appeared to me as a compass error, one which disposed me to make-believe affections. There was no need to examine this more closely: it had been obvious from the start. But for him the case was different, perhaps more extreme. What had been unstated had been brought to the surface. This was somehow my fault, or rather it had occurred through my agency. I must make it up to him, I thought, as I tidied away the cups. And if that involved me in extra expenditure that must be regarded as a side-effect. I relied on our next conversation to imply – no more than that – that I could not manage without him, that his presence was a benefit like no other. This, I realized, was no more than the truth.

  8

  There was little I could do to repair this gaffe, which was not of my making but for which I felt entirely guilty. I postponed thinking about it and concentrated on Mary. The night had brought no new dreams. I had slept heavily and when I woke it was with a feeling of oppression and the conviction that I had been tolerated rather than liked and that my so-called eagerness had signified my ineptitude at gauging the responses of others. There was no reason why I should consign this friendship to the past, a past which I saw as almost legendary, but I did so. The knowledge that Mary would make the same assumption was of no comfort: in a sense nothing had changed. But at some point in the night I knew that everything had changed. Even my memories had changed, and the early friendships that had seemed to me so natural, so promising, had in fact been ephemeral, the creation of circumstances which had been bound to change. I registered, for the first time, that certain friendships rely on distance, even on indifference, if one is not to overstep the bounds that had seemed so strong. Mary’s social antennae had in fact been an accurate guide, her rudeness a statement of the obvious. That she still had some memory of our friendship was of no comfort to me. Our interpretations of friendship were radically at odds, and I reproached myself for not having recognized this at the time.