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  When Mr Hardy fell ill, after a lifetime of inertia, cogitation and smoking, Christine was devotedly at his bedside, thinking that at last, now that they were allowed to be together without much interference from Mrs Hardy (who, for all her hospital training, preferred to make herself scarce), they might be close, might discover the bonds of affection that had been so mysteriously absent for as long as she cared to remember. She had no idea that he might die. When it became apparent that he would, she slept in a chair at his bedside. One night she was alerted to the fact of a final alteration by the noise of his breathing. ‘Father,’ she said, leaning forward in a thrill of dedication. ‘Father. Tell me what to do.’ There was an interval of noise and silence, alternately mingled. ‘Father,’ she said. ‘Tell me.’ After an immense effort Mr Hardy turned his head in her direction. ‘Don’t sell Glaxo,’ he said, and fell back, dead.

  Upon receipt of the news Mrs Hardy retired to bed for a week, during which time Christine, by now extremely frightened, was obliged to wait on her. Grim-faced, a fact which she ascribed to one of her heads, Mrs Hardy was not communicative, although when the bridge cronies came to pay visits of condolence she would reveal herself as a woman of sorrows, and murmur, ‘Don’t ask me what I’ve been through.’ ‘I can imagine,’ one or other of the visitors would respond sympathetically. ‘No,’ she would reply. ‘No words can express…’, and would let her hand fall in a noble gesture of despair. Christine had an inkling that she was referring to the marriage rather than the bereavement, but of course did not allow the thought to take root. She herself was in a state of loneliness compounded by a terrible fear, fear that she might have to spend the rest of her life ministering to Mrs Hardy who would never get up again. Mrs Hardy did in fact remain in a reclining position until the will was proved: the money, of which there was a surprising amount, was left equally to them both. After that Mrs Hardy seemed to recover her energies. One day Christine came home to find four suitcases in the hall, and beside them Mrs Hardy, in a fur coat that had belonged to Christine’s mother, waiting for her.

  ‘Well, Christine, I’m off,’ she said. ‘You can stay here. He left you the flat. You’ll have enough to manage on for life if you’re careful.’

  ‘But where will you be?’ asked Christine.

  ‘I’m off to Bournemouth. I’ll leave you my address, although I can’t promise to be in touch. I’m going into the hotel business with my brother-in-law. My first husband’s brother, that is. He’s on his own, like me.’ The light of remarriage was already kindling in her eye. ‘Look after everything and don’t forget to lock the doors.’ There was a ring at the bell. ‘My taxi,’ she said. ‘Well, that’s about everything, isn’t it?’ She put out her hand, which Christine, after a moment, realized she was supposed to shake.

  ‘Buy yourself some new clothes or something,’ said Mrs Hardy. ‘You look awful. And take that expression off your face. Men hate a misery. As far as that goes,’ she added, ‘the best of luck. You’ll need it.’

  Then she was gone.

  Mrs Hardy’s departure, rather than the death of Mr Hardy, affected Christine in an odd way: she became nervous in the silent flat and frequently had to slow down her rapid breathing in order to strain her ears for untoward noises. She continued to make herself a sandwich in the cavernous kitchen and to scuttle back with it to her bedroom. Dust thickened in the drawing-room and in Mrs Hardy’s bedroom, for she no longer dared to go into these shadowy apartments which were still redolent of the scents of their previous inhabitants. All day she would try to read, and in the evenings, for which she longed, she would go to Compayne Gardens. By this time Aunt Marie was failing and did not question her presence. Thus Christine was not able to confide her troubles, and she laid them to rest regretfully, as if realizing that nothing in her early life was a matter of record. The task of explaining Mr Hardy would in any case have been a difficult one, although she had practised saying to herself, ‘My father is dead,’ to see if any tears came. But she did not weep, and she finally realized that what she felt was relief, or would have been, could she get rid of the fear that dogged her. When Fibich walked her home in the evenings she would dread the moment when he would turn and leave her. This was additional proof to her that they were meant for each other.

  When Hartmann came back from the army, he sized her up. ‘Buy yourself something new, Christine,’ he said. ‘They are wearing long skirts now. The New Look.’ He hated to see a woman in a state of self-neglect: he experienced it as an insult to himself. Christine looked at him in amazement. ‘Perhaps you’d like to go to a concert one evening?’ he said boldly, ignoring Fibich. He felt that he must limber up in order to practise his re-entry into society. He meant no harm: anyone would do, for he had nothing nefarious in mind. Christine declined his invitation as if he had been suggesting adultery. Her place was with Fibich, listening to the wireless in Compayne Gardens. It was like being married already.

  But how to alert Fibich to this idea? For she was not beautiful, not stimulating, had no experience, and little acquaintance with the ways in which these matters were arranged. Hartmann had cast a seasoned eye over her slender figure, which, once she had bought herself a couple of the long full skirts which had already been in fashion for some time, was seen to advantage. But his seasoned eye also told him that she was all virtue, that her heavy hair would be loosened for no other purpose than to brush it for the night, and the large blue eyes that looked at him so trustingly were in fact only hiding calculations of what to prepare for their dinner. Mentally he consigned her to Fibich, if only to put his mind at rest, for as the prospect of his own life grew brighter in his imagination he felt that he must make arrangements for Fibich’s care. He knew that Fibich would not survive for long alone, although he now seemed relatively happy with Hartmann returned and Christine in the background. Fibich was living, in fact, a sort of protracted adolescence, with Hartmann as his brother and Christine as his sister.

  It was natural to Christine to help Fibich with his work, to type those letters which Yvette had not managed to finish or even to start, owing to the pressure of other commitments. She liked to think of them both as united in as many ways as possible. She was intrigued by the idea of Yvette, but once she heard that Hartmann wanted to become engaged to her lost no more sleep on her account: in fact relief that it was not Fibich who was so affected made her put her best efforts into cooking a good meal when Hartmann brought Yvette home to Compayne Gardens for the first time. The evening was unexpectedly convivial. Christine saw in Yvette a woman of style and confidence who might hand down vital information: her admiration was entirely genuine. Yvette saw a decent little soul whom she could bend to her will, and one, moreover, with no figure to speak of. Cautiously, they agreed to go shopping together, to find items for Yvette’s trousseau. The idea delighted Hartmann who was already euphoric and paternalistic. But it was Christine who came back from their first expedition with short hair that revealed an elegant jawline. The hair was already beginning to go grey. A wing of the lighter colour swept across the brown like a blush.

  Christine felt the full weight of Fibich’s existential anxiety. Nevertheless she forced herself to remain calm. Her new hair and her longer skirts gave her a little confidence, but with Hartmann’s marriage in the air she grew wistful. Uneducated in the ways of love, she matched Fibich in innocence, except for this odd drive she had always felt towards partnership. Anxiously she wondered what she lacked and thought perhaps she had been too presumptuous in her hopes. She tried to turn for guidance to the God in whom she did not believe, read her Bible, willed herself into imagining a state in which justice would roll down like many waters. This beautiful dream, common to the entire human race, gave her strength when she thought about it, although she did not see how she personally could make it come to pass. She continued to sit with Fibich in the evenings, and when Hartmann moved out to Ashley Gardens and Yvette was busy decorating the new flat, a process which was described to Christine in many telephone call
s, she moved her typewriter into Aunt Marie’s, now Fibich’s, sitting-room, and consigned her life to hope, good deeds, and blind faith.

  It was hardly love, although there was no other beloved object in Christine’s life. Perhaps there never had been. It was yearning, longing, a desire to compensate for all the loveless years. She hardly thought of herself at all, certainly not as one possessing certain attractions – for she now looked unusual and even distinguished – but rather as an attendant, an acolyte who might, if circumstances were favourable, turn into a permanent employee, her status at last assured. She did not know that Hartmann had calculated on her remaining in Fibich’s life, or even that Fibich himself did. She did not see why anything should ever change, and neither did Fibich.

  As Hartmann’s wedding approached she bestirred herself to go out and buy a new dress. ‘Blue,’ she said uninterestedly to the salesgirl, for weddings made her increasingly sad. ‘Blue is my colour.’ So she had once been told and she never questioned the fact, indeed scarcely considered herself worthy of having a colour at all. As a matronly blue garment was being laid to rest in tissue paper, she caught sight of a dress on a model which she instinctively allocated to a more promising sort of woman than she knew herself to be. As her bill was being made out, something drove her to ask, ‘Could I try that?’ When she caught sight of herself in the grey-green silk dress, with its narrow bodice and full skirts, she blushed with excitement. Her two wings of grey hair framed a face with unusually pink cheeks and brilliant eyes. Something about the colour of the dress had turned her eyes to an almost transparent grey. She felt nervous but determined. ‘I’ll take this one,’ she said. If she had made a mistake it hardly mattered. After all, she thought, no one will be looking at me. So she had been frequently admonished as a small child. ‘No one will be looking at you, Christine,’ she had heard ancestral voices say. Or command.

  She enjoyed the wedding. Yvette’s mother had provided as much food as she could lay her hands on, and Cazenove had laid on many bottles of champagne. After the second glass Christine’s flush deepened, and her eyes became more brilliant. When Fibich took her home, she said, ‘It seems so silly each to go back to an empty flat.’ Fibich, also enlivened by the festivity, looked at her. The flush was fading now, but the eyes were enormous. ‘I’m not ready to make any changes,’ he said awkwardly. ‘Until Hartmann gets back from his honeymoon I shall have a great deal of work to do.’ The eyes became beseeching. ‘We could become engaged, if you like,’ he added. ‘It’s just that I don’t want to get married yet.’ That night, after he had left her at her door, Christine wept for joy.

  But that was not the end of the matter. The engagement lasted for two years, for Fibich was never ready. Finally Hartmann took him on one side and told him what to do: Hartmann prevailed, while Christine still piously waited. After a register office marriage, Christine and Thomas Fibich went back to Compayne Gardens as man and wife.

  The happiness that Christine felt was tinged with wonder. ‘I am married,’ she said to herself. ‘I have got married.’ Love-making, to which she took with unexpected ease and delight, did not surprise her, and if it turned Fibich and herself into more ruthless versions of the persons they knew each other to be, she was not to know that this process, which amused her, fuelled Fibich’s already extreme anxiety. His silences she put down to tiredness, for he was working hard. Indeed, he seemed to want to go to the office at times when they might have been alone together; however, she knew that she must not try to change him. When Hartmann announced that he had found them a flat just below the one occupied by himself and Yvette, she hesitated. As she surveyed the empty rooms that were hers to furnish as she pleased, she felt a thrill of the old fear. ‘How will I manage?’ she thought. Had it not been for Fibich’s blind trust in Hartmann, she would have suggested remaining at Compayne Gardens. But Yvette was pregnant and not feeling well: Christine knew that she would be needed. Slowly, and with many mistakes, using and wasting the money that had never been of any use to her, she prepared their new home. On their first night there, both she and Fibich slept badly, waking many times to search instinctively for a window, a door. Everything was in the wrong place. They never entirely got used to this.

  But as the years passed her contentment became thin, brittle, and then began to vanish altogether. Fibich remained distant, self-absorbed, and his self-absorption took him away from her. She put this down to pressures at work until she could no longer make this excuse to herself. The holidays in Normandy, the parties that Hartmann and Yvette gave so successfully, dwindled. Enraptured by their small daughter, Hartmann and Yvette kept more to themselves, leaving Fibich with too much time and with too little conversation with which to beguile his wife. Now that his problems were confided to the analyst, there was little left to be discussed between them. This act of his signified to Christine the end of their intimate life. Although they could not envisage any other kind of existence, for each knew that they had been fated for the other, it was not quite clear how they were to continue. Slowly, as if by osmosis, Fibich passed his fears over to Christine, who began to feel, as she had once felt in her father’s gloomy house, an outsider.

  And as the years went on, an inner melancholy turned her to silence. The poor remnants of her early life gathered around her in those hours of winter afternoons when the light fades and the night begins too early. Sitting on her sofa in the somehow unresolved furnishings of her drawing-room she would wonder, for the thousandth time, why her surroundings did not please her. Thinking out of the way her cold blue velvet curtains and her pinkish carpet, reflecting yet again that the pink cushions did not really enliven the inert blue velvet chairs, she would wonder uninterestedly if she should change everything. If she changed the chairs she would have to change the curtains, for everything dishearteningly matched everything else. Her taste, if she were asked (but she never was) was indeterminate and therefore of no use to her. Instinct told her that rooms should be dark, featureless, rich with ennui, and this she recognized as a memory from her earliest childhood. Her drawing-room exasperated her by being too insistently blue, an antagonistic colour without a hint of warmth. For this reason she kept the heating on at full strength, so that the room smelled permanently dry. This she attempted to palliate with bowls of pot-pourri, which added their own faded aroma to the iron stillness. In the distance a radio burbled. Overhead, Marianne Hartmann fell down, cried, and was comforted.

  On rainy days, when Christine awoke in the warm wet dark, a sense of hopelessness would descend on her: she felt as if her physical disintegration were taking place minute by minute. Her thick hair seemed clouded with moisture, her hands felt damp, her feet enlarged. Instinctively she would put a hand to her eyes as if to brush away cobwebs. Waterlogged, she would resign herself to staying indoors, turning on the lights in the hot flat, nowadays habitually indecisive. The afternoons, especially, were endless. Outside the window a drowned world, leaves sticking to pavements, trees stripped bare, cars refusing to start. It was no comfort to her to reflect on her good fortune in not having to turn out and queue for buses, spend the day in wet shoes, and lumber home, devitalized, after hours of prolonged discomfort. What she longed for, in the sultry stifling air, was a cleansing wind, both physical and metaphorical; she wanted the sinews of her body to tighten, as they had briefly tightened when she was an all too hapless girl; she wanted the chambers of her mind to be scoured by bracing certainties. In these moods she would think briefly of her unhappy early years, doomed to silence in her father’s house, ordered not to upset her stepmother, she who was upset by everything. She would think of the kind of marriage for which this sort of youth prepared one, and the gratitude that was still her strongest emotion. She knew now that this was wrong, and a worm of subversion began to turn in her mind. She sometimes surprised herself into thinking that she no longer wanted to be respectable, that she would have felt more in character as a woman who had finally let go and lived with some irony, but a great deal of acceptance, on
expedients: any old food, anyone’s money. Lovers undoubtedly, for she would allow her own needs to surface from the deep underground chamber to which she had prematurely consigned them. Looking out on the wet street, hearing only the hiss of tyres and the indistinguishable burden of the radio, she could see herself in many slovenly attitudes, fat perhaps, smelling of cigarettes, coarse and wily. When Fibich came home on the evenings of such days he would find her as immaculate as ever. But the vacancy that had lately established itself around her would communicate itself to him, and to his own habitual anguish would be added the consciousness of hers.

  5

  The children of Hartmann and Fibich were beautiful. Their beauty seemed to Hartmann ratification of the fact that the good times were come (‘Look! We have come through!’), while to Fibich it meant that their very beauty might put them in jeopardy. Marianne Hartmann and Toto Fibich were born six years apart, and, like everything else between the two families, were held in common. It was even Hartmann’s wish that they might eventually marry, despite the difference in their ages, but this idea was quashed by Yvette. ‘A girl needs an older man,’ she said firmly. ‘A younger man means trouble.’ In any event she intended to choose Marianne’s husband herself, for she knew that her instincts had guided her wisely in this matter. Where would she, Yvette, be if she had not chosen an older husband (by several years, as it happened) and had had to spend her life worrying about a man who might at that very moment be making a fool of himself with young girls? One heard about such things all the time. That Hartmann might have had a speculative eye never crossed her mind. In any event, she had made him too comfortable to doubt him, had studied his culinary needs, his love of luxury, his disposition towards geniality. She had held parties in her apricot, green, and white drawing-room that were exemplary in their lavishness, had exhausted herself unstintingly in their preparation, had left nothing to chance, had retired late, had risen early to inspect the results of last night’s cooking, had frequently had to disappear when the room was full of enthusiastic guests, to reappear in a more elaborate guise, having been momentarily overcome by the heat or the excitement. Hartmann was used to her re-entrance, heralded by a fresh blast of scent, a high flush on her cheeks, and a new toilette to fuel the anticipation. Such evenings – and the old-fashioned feminine codes by which she lived – appeased him at a profound level. It was as if she had experienced his early life for him and was now compensating on his behalf for all that had gone before.