The Bay of Angels Read online

  In that small hotel in Spain, where we had spent our Christmas vacation, he had seemed so much more accessible, and I in my turn had warmed to his accessibility, reclaiming something of my earlier confidence. Not that I was ever entirely confident when I was with him: I was a spy as well as a lover. As he lay on the bed in our cheap room, his eyes distant, I watched him, safe in the knowledge that we knew no one in this tiny place, and that in the evening, as in the evenings that had gone before, we should walk along the harbour wall, and I should feel his arm around me. That holiday, which he later dismissed as rather boring, had convinced me that the episode must be repeated as frequently as possible. That it was not possible had to be put down to Adam’s extremely crowded social life, and his dislike of having anything decided for him. An accomplished escape artist, he justified his unavailability with elaborate generalizations about men and women, which I found annoying and unconvincing, but have come to accept as obvious.

  ‘The more a woman falls in love with a man the more he’s going to back off. It’s natural. Women lose their power when they fall in love. Men get irritated by this, don’t like them so much.’

  ‘Does this always happen?’

  ‘I reckon so.’

  ‘Does it happen to you?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  He had the grace to look slightly ashamed. He too was young, and not as cynical as he liked to appear. But his liberty mattered more to him than whatever affection he might have felt, and it was in a spirit of making amends that he agreed to come to Nice.

  The visit was a disaster. My mother was bewildered by the freedom Adam felt in a house in which freedom was held at bay by rules which were in fact imposed by an elderly man. Simon hated him because he was young and careless. Adam would put his arms round Mme Delgado when she arrived in the mornings, bestow smacking kisses on her stern face. Clémence, he called her. I could see that she loved it, loved him, the bad boy who enlivened her austere days. My mother was barred from her own kitchen by this strange complicity, and sometimes breakfast was extremely late. But Adam in the kitchen was preferable to Adam in the salon, where he sat with his legs wide apart and an expression of amusement on his face. Simon’s attempts, initially at least, to make him feel at home, were unnecessary: Adam was at home, in a way that caused them great anxiety. They had given us separate bedrooms, but Adam made no pretence of staying in his, and came to me every night, although this caused me anxiety of a different kind. I could hear Simon’s steps in the corridor, patrolling his domain. Sometimes these steps slowed down outside my door: there would be a creak as I imagined him bending down to listen for illicit sounds. This horrified me, put him momentarily beyond the pale. I could not understand how he could behave like this. I did not know anything about the sexual jealousy of the old, who realize that their powers have gone for ever. I did not know the bitterness of this realization. My mother, so much younger, was aware of it. This made me angry and sad on her behalf, giving me an unwelcome insight into their private life. Fortunately Adam slept through that breathing, that unconscious humming, on the other side of our bedroom door. I, as ever, was wakeful, keeping watch. In the end they were as anxious for us to leave as we were to go.

  ‘Funny chap, your father,’ said Adam.

  ‘Stepfather.’

  ‘Whatever. I must say I’m rather glad you’re not related. Though I hardly see how you could be. He’s an old man.’

  ‘Not so old. On the wrong side of seventy, he always says.’

  ‘Seventy-five if he’s a day, even more, if I’m any judge. I feel sorry for your mother.’

  So did I. And it was the secret knowledge of what must have been my mother’s discomfort that drove me away from them for a while. The explanation for her absences in the afternoons, when Simon would expect her to lie down with him, now suggested itself to me. I resented the fact that I was thus made a party to their intimate life, though of course nothing had been said. I pitied my mother fiercely. Nor did I ever forgive Simon for introducing me to this fierce pity. I felt deep shame on my own behalf for the failure of the visit, though I did my best to counteract this by suggesting that we go on somewhere else. On the move, and safe from prying eyes and ears in modest hotels, we were once again comfortable and even happy. We went to various towns in the Rhône Valley, making our way towards Paris. When we arrived it seemed almost like summer. The chestnut trees were in blossom, the sun was shining, although the wind was still cool. We stood blinking in the sunshine after our night in the train. I felt happy, relieved to be away from Nice, romantically happy to be in Paris. It was in every sense conventional, but it promised much. I looked forward to spending these few days with Adam, walking, drinking wine, looking at pictures, buying books, before we had to return to London and our real lives.

  ‘Fix up somewhere for us to stay, would you? I’ll meet you back here for lunch. Twelve, no, twelve-thirty. That should give you enough time.’

  ‘But where will you be?’

  He said that he had promised to see a friend, though I was saddened by this announcement, as I had been by the way he slipped off to make telephone calls, even in Nice, even in Simon’s house, until discouraged by the latter’s disapproving silence at lunch. These calls were always unexplained: they seemed to be occasioned by my presence, for although we were happy together, he was, I think, exasperated by the constancy imposed on him. I accepted this, as I accepted everything. Besides, I was filled with shame at the memory of Simon’s watchfulness, his resentment at Adam’s presence in his house, and the easy way in which advantage was taken of its amenities. He even resented Adam’s familiarity with Mme Delgado, for it was clear that she was all indulgence for him. The teasing that Simon could not help but hear enraged him even further.

  My mother looked on helplessly, refraining from comment. Yet she did not like Adam any better. Something in her took fright at his feral nature, and it did not help that he was amused by this. It was clear that she thought him dangerous, but I was no longer touched by such simplicity. Her blamelessness, which I had always taken for granted, now appeared unduly prolonged: she should, I felt, have grown used to the ways of the world, as I had. My dislike of Chekhov’s virtuous heroines now extended to my mother. Such ludicrous innocence! Then I remembered those afternoon flights of hers, those voluntary escapes, those perhaps hopeless attempts to get back into character, away from Simon’s loving tyranny. For I had no doubt that by this time she was made to pay for his indulgence. I myself was now at the risk of his displeasure, for I had introduced an unwelcome reminder of his age and incapacity into the house he had thought of as a safe haven. Suddenly our lives were darkened with discord, with various incompatibilities.

  I was in no position to effect any kind of reconciliation, since none of this was in the open. But I resolved to spend less time in Nice, to let my love for my mother take second place. This had never happened before. But Adam would now fill my horizon, though I knew that this was not in his plans. I shrugged. I had managed so far. I had indeed managed so well that his inconstancy was now part of my life. This accommodation removed me even further from my mother’s way of thinking. But perceiving the imperfect nature of her own happiness merely reinforced my instinct that we would be better apart, at least for a while. And Adam was the cause of this, though no blame could be laid at his door. His very freedom, and the unapologetic use he made of it, would have invited censure even in less constrained circumstances. At close quarters, the uneasiness, which had to do with sex as much as with age or even good manners, was too apparent to be ignored.

  It had nearly all gone wrong. The situation had been rectified, the danger just averted, by our decision to leave. The time thus saved would be spent away from unwelcome vigilance, a vigilance which we had brought into being. I was now free: we were both free. Freedom seemed to me the only worthwhile objective. I wondered whether Simon’s insistence that he and my mother live in Nice sprang from a desire to isolate her as much as possible from her few f
riends, even from those generous but intrusive patrons so anxious to remove her from her solitary life. He was clearly opposed to any form of closeness that did not approximate to his own. That was why an occasional look of distaste, of suspicion, at my activities was so difficult to ignore. At the same time I had to remind myself that without his financial indulgence I should not have been able to pick an hotel in Paris which was so much more expensive than the ones we had formerly chosen. There was a certain amount of defiance in my acceptance of this. I wondered whether thoughts for my future had played a part in my mother’s acquiescence. But I dismissed this thought as being unworthy even of myself. The compromises I had learned were of a different order of magnitude to those of two solitary people who had found an approved form of company. At least, that was what I told myself.

  In the three perfect days that followed I even managed to feel a little sorry for Simon and his makeshift family, for he seemed to have none of his own. This was now threatened by defection by at least one of its members. He had wanted us to remain as we had been initially, undemanding, grateful, appreciative. Instead we, or rather I, had been perceived as restless, seeking gratification outside the fastness he had arranged for us. He saw that even his wife, whom he surely loved, preferred to be out of the house, although I was sure that she looked after him carefully, entertained his elderly neighbours, played her part as conscientiously as she had played her part with me in our days in Edith Grove.

  ‘You talk a lot about your mother,’ said Adam, sprawling on the bed.

  ‘Well, she is my mother.’

  ‘I don’t go on about my mother, do I? I know where she is. That’s enough.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know that she’s happy?’

  ‘Good God, no. That’s her business, not mine.’

  And yet he had all the hallmarks of a successful upbringing. I had not liked his mother, had been uncomfortably aware that she had not much liked me. My upbringing too had been successful, but perhaps our straitened lives had left their mark, had made us careful, in a way that Adam could not recognize. That was why he took his freedom for granted, as I could not quite manage to do. I could not even understand the freedom to behave badly, which he exercised without remorse.

  ‘Did you manage to see your friend?’ I asked casually.

  He smiled, and swung his legs off the bed.

  ‘Where shall we eat tonight? Did you manage to find somewhere half-way decent?’

  We wandered out into the beautiful greenish dusk. Despite our hunger we were not in a hurry to sit down in a restaurant, with all the other tourists. We walked in silence through glamorous streets, far from regular students’ haunts. We felt pleasantly in harmony, all tedious discussions left far behind. I think that this was the best time for both of us: the cool evening, the stately streets, the passers-by, subdued, like ourselves, by the majesty of the darkening sky. Although we had a little time left I knew that it would be an anti-climax. I had a fateful sense of things coming to an end: at the same time I knew that this memory would never fade. We progressed as if in a dream, not caring where we went, and it was only when we felt the chill of the air that we turned back. That night we both slept.

  We awoke on the following morning knowing that the holiday was over. Instinctively we packed our bags, paid our sizeable bill. On the way to the Gare du Nord Adam held my hand; again there was no need to speak. The journey passed in that way. At Victoria we parted, again with few words. We kissed, and I went back to the flat.

  Even London looked presentable. There was light, there were leaves, even flowers. I wondered if my so-recent happiness had brought all this into being, but once at home I was forced to realize that nothing had really changed. Adam had gone back to Langton Street without a word about our next meeting, but I was supposed to be used to that. I made coffee, unpacked, took another bath. On the other side of the party wall I could hear my neighbour’s dog bark. The barks faded, and could then be heard in the street. I could count on half an hour of quiet reminiscence before they returned.

  I telephoned my mother to tell her that I was home. I had not much looked forward to this call, which was why I had preferred to send postcards—‘Love to you both’—while we were travelling. But this could no longer be postponed. I did not want to think of Nice, of that house, of those people, for whom I felt a certain exasperated impatience. Even my mother seemed old, out of touch. In future I would reserve my time for Adam, despite the fact that he might not want me to do so.

  The telephone rang only once before it was picked up.

  ‘Darling! Where have you been? We were worried.’

  ‘Still in France, working our way home by stages. I’m back now.’

  ‘We were disappointed that you left so abruptly.’

  ‘I felt it wasn’t going too well,’ I confessed. I did not tell her of the footsteps in the corridor, the breathing and humming outside our door. She may have known about this, but it would not be discussed.

  ‘It’s true that Simon was a little shocked. He still thinks of you as a little girl. He couldn’t quite get used to the idea of your friend being with you.’

  Your friend. Not Adam.

  ‘I’m afraid he will have to come to terms with it.’

  ‘Look at it from his point of view, Zoë. He is of a different generation. As, I suppose, I am.’

  ‘That argument doesn’t hold water. All women are in the same boat now. The Women’s Movement . . . ’

  ‘Yes, I have heard of it,’ she said drily.

  ‘We’re free now,’ I went on. ‘We don’t have to respect men, be grateful to them. It’s their turn to respect women, to allow them some space . . . ’

  ‘Oh, yes, I’ve heard of that space. What will you all do in it, apart from complain?’

  ‘Your generation didn’t complain enough!’ I said furiously. ‘I wonder if you realize that?’

  ‘Of course I do. But really opportunities for change are so rare. I was brought up to admire men, to be grateful to them. I may have wanted freedom, but I also wanted protection. Support and protection. I hope you never find out what it is to live without either.’

  It seemed as though we were having an argument. Her voice was slightly raised, her indignation unmistakable.

  ‘And are you grateful?’

  ‘Of course I’m grateful. Simon has given me more than I expected, certainly more than I deserved.’

  ‘There you go again. Deserved!’

  ‘Yes, deserved. There was no way, as you would say, that I could otherwise have entertained hopes of living in the sun, with a man who is kindness itself.’

  ‘Why didn’t he like Adam? Why was he so rude?’

  ‘He wasn’t rude, darling. He was shocked. And really your friend’—still my friend, not Adam—‘was quite rude himself.’

  ‘It was because he felt unwelcome.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate, certainly. But I don’t think he had any thoughts of that kind. He just found us very dull. Not what he was used to, perhaps.’

  ‘You didn’t like him either.’

  ‘I did, in fact. I could see he was attractive. But Simon was so put out that I had to take his part. You and I are his family, after all.’

  ‘Why has he no family of his own?’

  ‘I believe there is a nephew somewhere, but they seem to have lost touch. Now he has only me. And you, of course. Come back and see us soon, darling. Don’t be upset. We love you; we love to see you. You know you can always invite one of your other friends.’ She meant my girlfriends, or, as we were now trained to say, women friends.

  ‘I’ll think about it. In any event I’ve got exams soon. I’ve got a lot of revision and so on.’

  ‘Yes, of course. We’ll talk on Saturday. And it would be nice if you had a word with Simon. He does miss you, you know.’

  I nearly asked her if she were happy, but realized in time that this would strike her as ill mannered. Besides, I had no further wish to know. The subject was closed. As Adam had s
aid of his own mother, her happiness was not his affair. I could never achieve his degree of insouciance, which I privately considered astonishing. But as my ambition now was to resemble him as closely as possible, I left the matter of my mother’s happiness unexamined.

  6

  My studies ended—satisfactorily, to my surprise—and my working life began. Almost immediately I was given a thesis by a Japanese professor to work on: the grammar needed checking, hesitant English to be tactfully corrected. This would keep me in London for the rest of the summer, for which I was oddly grateful. Between Nice and London there reigned an air of embarrassment, even of constraint. My mother, while continuing to assure me that they both longed to see me, was equally anxious, or so it appeared, that another visit on my part might be postponed. I surmised that she knew about Simon’s watchfulness, was shocked both on his behalf and on mine, and no doubt also on her own. I doubt whether she ever brought this matter into the open, but I did not doubt that she knew about it, may even have witnessed it. I preferred not to understand what may have passed between them on that night, which I now viewed with horror. She would have had to be very skilful: they were both too disinclined for a confrontation for one ever to have taken place. Instead, she told me on the telephone that she was trying to persuade him to take her on holiday: Venice, she said, where they had spent their honeymoon. To judge from subsequent telephone calls this holiday was still on the horizon, always a possibility, but a possibility never quite brought into the foreground. She was sure I would understand if I postponed my next visit until Christmas.