A Friend from England Read online

  I found Heather’s block of flats behind Norfolk Square, a complex of buildings with a Thirties-ish appearance, curved metal windows catching the afternoon sun. A porter reading the Daily Telegraph behind a small desk informed me that the Sandbergs were on the fourth floor. I walked across an expanse of Jazz-Age carpet to a flight of stairs with a chrome handrail, until recalled to order by the porter who indicated the lift: small, but with bronze-coloured doors which slid into one another at the touch of a button. I could smell the Colonel’s cigar before I even rang the bell of Heather’s flat; he must have preceded me in the lift. I found echoes of his presence distasteful, reminding me of the urgency with which he had previously behaved. But it was Dorrie who came to the door, flustered and happy, and who, after a kiss, ushered me into a Nile green drawing-room where I saw Heather sitting on one of those sofas that have the arms lashed to the back by ropes. Clearly, the decorating here had been done by Dorrie. Other notable features of the room were an oval mirror in a gilt frame surmounted by an eagle (possibly an item intended to underline Michael’s masculine presence) and several armchairs of extraordinary depth, with footstools covered in the same pale green silk: elaborate curtains in more of this material were swathed and swagged at the long French windows, one of which was open on to a terrace. The room was in fact rather handsome, and certainly luxurious. Fine china cups and saucers covered with a pattern of little birds stood ready on a piecrust table in front of a fireplace in which a gas fire, simulating live coals, was lit, for it was only intermittently warm, and the windows were soon shut, perhaps as much to emphasize the hermetic closeness of the gathering as for any real reason. Dorrie was obviously longing for it to be dark so that she could light all the lamps with their coral and peach coloured shades. It was the room of a child of the middle classes, one who had never known the austerity, the poverty or the ugliness of an unhappy home. It was also a little out of date, as if fashions which had come and gone had no purchase here, and only the solidity of a conventional bourgeois comfort had any meaning. The air was warm and scented with Dorrie’s muted honeysuckle cologne. Although I had just arrived, she had already darted out of the room, and tinkling noises announced the preparation of tea. It was clear that she was duplicating her own rituals, with no sign of an interruption, barely acknowledging the fact that her daughter was in charge of this establishment, with its elegant appointments and its air of sophistication. She seemed delighted to be doing the honours, and Heather in her undemonstrative way was apparently pleased that she should. In fact Heather was so extremely immobile that I wondered briefly if she might be pregnant. Since she had only been married a month, and since her husband was nowhere in sight, nor was there any trace of him in the room, I dismissed this possibility from my mind. In any event it didn’t fit in with my theory.

  There were only four of us, Oscar, Dorrie, Heather, and myself. The men, Dorrie explained, had had some business to discuss and had gone to the Colonel’s office; they would be back later. Over the rim of my teacup I studied Heather. Her expression indicated that nothing was different; nevertheless there were some subtle changes which had, however, entirely to do with the influence of Italy on her always variable garb. ‘Did you have a nice holiday?’ I asked. (Holiday, rather than honeymoon, seemed to me to be the appropriate word.) ‘Yes, thanks,’ she replied. I was grateful to her for not showing off but felt that probably her reticence was due to the presence of her parents, particularly of her father, rather than to my own. Oscar, leaning back full-length in his engulfing chair, seemed to me to be slightly older, a little less spruce, than when I had last seen him, but the shadow of melancholy had temporarily disappeared from his face. Presently he was mobilized to fit an adaptor to one of the numerous lamps, for the conveniences of this flat, its commodities even, seemed to be the sole preoccupation of the elder Livingstones, as if their son-in-law were incapable of looking after them himself, or, more probably, as if they judged his status to be too honourable for them to ask him to descend into practicalities. He disappeared from the room, only to reappear a few minutes later. ‘I’ll have to go down to the shops, darling,’ he said to Dorrie. ‘I should find something still open. This doesn’t fit.’ ‘Edgware Road,’ Heather offered from the sofa. ‘On the corner.’ Oscar looked at her, and for a tiny second hesitated. ‘I shan’t be long,’ he assured Dorrie. And to Heather, ‘Try to get your mother to sit down.’ But Dorrie was already piling cups on to a tray. ‘I’ll just wash these,’ she said. ‘I expect you two girls want to be alone anyway. You’ve probably got a lot to talk about.’

  The fact that we had never had much to talk about had completely escaped her. I suppose she thought that we had intense and intimate conversations in the privacy of Heather’s car and was too modest ever to enquire about them. In any event there was a silence after she had left the room and it occurred to me that the afternoon was going less well than I had expected, or perhaps was proving less of a treat. I had expected a renewal, or perhaps even a continuation, of that unthinking, almost soporific, warmth that I usually so enjoyed in the Livingstones’ house, and instead everything was being slightly but noticeably mismanaged. Only Dorrie seemed to think that nothing was wrong, that everything was splendid, that all the omens were favourable. Heather herself seemed less overwhelmed by her good fortune, but then she was always fairly expressionless. ‘Well, how have you been?’ she enquired finally, but with that benevolent smile she had inherited from her father. ‘Oh, I’m all right,’ I said. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Fine, fine,’ she said.

  I judged the fact that she had used two words instead of one to be a good sign.

  ‘Not looking forward to going back to work, though,’ she added.

  ‘Will you keep on the shop?’ I asked, in some surprise.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, looking at me with the same surprise. ‘Why not?’

  ‘I thought you might find you had to do more at home,’ I said lamely.

  ‘Well, no, not really,’ she said. ‘He’ll be travelling quite a bit, you see. And Mummy filled the freezer while we were away. There’s nothing for me to do. Anyway, I should be lost without the shop. I’ve built it up quite a bit. You’ve never seen it, have you?’

  I reminded her that we usually met at her parents’ house, for which I already felt nostalgic.

  ‘Well, you must look in and see me. And you’re always welcome here, of course.’

  She smiled, again with that faint but irresistible kindness, to which I always responded. I think it was that smile, which they all shared, that bound me to them.

  I was however a little disheartened. She seemed to me to have passed into another age group, one in which material certainties are taken for granted, romantic love is a thing of the past, and work has assumed the central position that it usually occupies in truly adult lives. I felt, in comparison with this surprisingly assured Heather, a trifle forlorn, as if my life had yet to reach the point at which hers had apparently come to rest. And yet there was no marked change in her. Her hair had grown a little fuller, perhaps, and she was quite conventionally dressed in a rather striking violet print skirt with a thin violet sweatshirt, obviously Italian. Perhaps she had a little more chic, a little more style. If so, it was commendably understated, which I also put down to the influence of Italy. It struck me that she might have some flair in the fashion business after all. ‘I bought some marvellous things in Italy,’ she added, as if to bear out my assumptions.

  That seemed to be the end of our conversation, and I was quite glad when Dorrie came back into the room. ‘I expect Rachel would like to see round the flat,’ she said to Heather. I got to my feet with a show of alacrity, although my curiosity seemed to have evaporated. I remember noting the bedroom as a cold blue room with one wall taken up by a range of white fitted wardrobes, and an immense bed covered by a pale blue satin counterpane. It looked icy and unused, and I wondered how she could bear it. There were none of Michael’s things scattered around, and by now his absen
ce was rather noticeable. And yet I was the only one who noticed it. ‘Lovely,’ I managed to say. ‘You must have worked awfully hard to get it finished so quickly.’ ‘Oh, the parents saw to everything,’ Heather said. ‘Most of the stuff didn’t arrive until after the wedding. They stayed here for a bit while we were away.’

  I reminded myself that there was nothing necessarily unusual about this, although the image of that icy bedroom followed me back into the drawing-room, and I went to the fire to warm my hands. Something had been lost. But, ‘Lovely,’ I said again, this time to Dorrie. She was already pouring sherry from a square cut-glass decanter. ‘Here you are, Rachel,’ she said, handing me a glass. ‘Now, tell us what you’ve been doing.’

  ‘Well, we’ve been quite busy,’ I began, but at that moment the front door opened and shut and an aroma of cigar and a volume of subdued but busy talk heralded the arrival of Michael and the Colonel, whom I must remember to call Mr Sandberg, for he was not a Colonel, nor had he ever been one. The title was some impenetrable joke forged in Michael’s childhood and perpetuated ever since. Nevertheless he was not averse to using it, and I suppose it suited him well in business. On second thoughts I decided to retain it. For some reason I didn’t want to get on the wrong side of him.

  They brought with them a bustle and an air of good cheer that struck me as semi-professional. It seemed essential to them always to be laughing, as if without this activity their spirits might plummet to zero or disappear altogether.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ exclaimed the Colonel. ‘How lovely to see you.’

  I doubt if in that instant he had any idea who I was, but his eyes focused and hardened as he looked at me.

  ‘You remember Rachel, don’t you, Teddy? Heather’s friend?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said, retaining my hand, and even squeezing it rather hard. ‘I never forget a face.’

  ‘Rachel!’ said Michael, having been given the help he needed. ‘You look wonderful! How are you?’

  I replied that I was fine. I was rather taken aback by this evidence of goodwill, and also by the fact that the entrance of Michael and the Colonel actually eased the atmosphere. Their manufactured bonhomie had the effect of putting women at ease, or at least permitting them to behave naturally, perhaps with an element of annoyance, or even bad temper. This at least was the effect they had on Heather, who sighed, ‘Do sit down. You make the place look untidy.’ She did not seem much affected by the entrance of her husband, who immediately bounded to the sofa, along the back of which he laid one careful arm. The Colonel, cigar clamped between his teeth, was wrestling with the cork of a bottle of champagne which he had brought with him.

  ‘Why, Teddy, what a lovely idea!’ said Dorrie, who was now turning on all the lights.

  ‘Well, I thought their first night in their new home,’ he explained, as the champagne foamed over the neck of the bottle and dribbled into an ashtray hastily tendered by Dorrie.

  ‘Second,’ pronounced Heather from the sofa.

  ‘What was that, dear?’ he asked, removing the cigar which he placed in the damp ashtray, where it smouldered disgustingly before Dorrie, with an apologetic murmur, took it away.

  Once again I got the impression that the parents were in charge and that the children were under escort. No one was better at giving this impression than Michael, who seemed to rely on the presence of his father for effective functioning. Heather, I sensed, might turn mutinous in time, although she too had a tremendous tolerance of parental interference. I looked at her, sitting stolidly on the sofa, drinking the champagne which made no appreciable difference to her mood, and at her husband, who was tossing peanuts and tiny cheese biscuits into his mouth like a dog, or a very small child.

  ‘Here, here,’ said the Colonel, lighting another cigar. ‘Don’t eat all those. What about Rachel?’

  ‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, brushing crumbs on to the floor, and offering me a depleted dish. ‘Lovely to see you, Rachel,’ he repeated, and winked.

  It was not quite clear to me why he thought we should be in such complicity. I got up to leave, for I found the atmosphere ambiguous, and rather a strain.

  ‘Not going already, are you?’ said the Colonel. ‘We can’t have that.’

  He was one of those men who think they are good at getting women to change their minds, but I had no trouble in dealing with this. Men of his age like to think they are masterful, whereas their chief attraction, did they but know it, is that they only have power over material necessities. To people of my generation they appear quite toothless. I had no doubt that in the ballrooms of his youth the Colonel had been noted for his charm and his way with women. It was a style which he had carefully taught his son, who had never, as far as I could remember, uttered a serious word. Badinage was obviously the favoured means of exchange in the Sandberg establishment. Part of me could not bear to watch the ruined child I took Michael to be, or to imagine the efforts he would have to make to live without his father’s supervision. Heather I thought the more down to earth of the two, but in her way equally enigmatic.

  I kissed Dorrie, who made disappointed noises, shook the Colonel firmly by the hand, and said to Heather, ‘Would you both have dinner with me one evening? I’ll book some theatre tickets. Think of something you’d like to see and let me know.’ They both looked childishly pleased at this, and I felt almost moved by their pleasure. I seemed to be on the verge of several emotions, an interesting but uncomfortable combination of boredom and sadness, regret too. I realized with a pang of pity that it could not have been easy for Heather and Michael to behave naturally under all this scrutiny. I was almost indignant on their behalf at the continued presence of their parents, although they themselves took Dorrie and the Colonel as an entirely natural component of their communal lives. Poor Oscar, who must still be patrolling the Edgware Road, was no doubt more alive to the potential difficulties of the situation but was too careful of Dorrie’s happiness to try to stop her in her efforts to create a home from home for her only child. Perhaps she thought that Heather would be lonely without her. As I say, she was a very innocent woman.

  I met Oscar on the stairs when I was leaving, my hand skimming along the chrome handrail as I ran down, anxious to be gone. I was aware of his patient tread before I saw his mild eyes lifted up to mine.

  ‘Going already?’ he asked, but he did not seem surprised. He, despite his efforts, was the least happy of them all. ‘Don’t abandon us, Rachel, now that Heather’s gone,’ he said.

  This was strange; both he and Dorrie had made this remark at various times and in different situations. Besides, I thought their function was not to abandon me. But I suppose they saw me as one who might, if needs be, negotiate a passage for them, someone sturdy, streetwise, on their side. And I think that Oscar still had reservations about Heather’s fate. I did not, however, see that I had any further part to play in this, and had indeed found the afternoon disappointing, even slightly disturbing. But I assured Oscar that they would see as much of me as they could stand, and told him that I had asked Heather and Michael for an evening on their own. At this the heaviness lifted from his face, and he pressed my hand in gratitude. I left him, with his adaptor, and a bunch of roses which he had been unable to resist, standing on the stairs and looking after me. His patient face came back to me at various odd moments during the evening, and for some reason I imagined him, a suppliant, with his roses, outside his daughter’s door.

  FIVE

  NEVERTHELESS, it seemed as if our friendship might have reached a natural conclusion, might be at an end. It occurred to me that we really had little in common. I had comforted myself, falsely, I now saw, with the illusion that these people might function as a family for me. Now I saw that they existed only for each other. The horrible thought struck me that all the time that I had been intent on appropriating them for my own purposes, they were in reality sorry for me. This idea, oddly enough, had never struck me before, probably because they were so genuinely kind, so very sensitive and deli
cate. Yet now that it had entered my consciousness I could not get rid of it. My secret life, and what Dorrie referred to, and no doubt thought of, as my feminism, cannot have struck them with anything but with pity. They dealt in euphemisms, and while describing me as brave, felt on my behalf all the deprivations of which I was hardly conscious, having lived with them for most of my adult life. I now saw that I had succumbed rather too readily to the enticements of their existence, and that they had noted this. I also was in no doubt that the arrangement between us could continue for as long as I wished it to, for they were genuinely fond of me, and they still thought of me as a friend of their daughter, and a friend for their daughter in case anything should happen to either of them. They were blameless people, good people, and yet I knew that they had somehow earmarked me as a subordinate, someone who might step in and continue their guardianship in due course. This did not bother me. But the idea behind the assumption did. It was as if they knew that my emancipation would lead inevitably to lifelong spinsterhood, and that in this capacity (or incapacity, according to their thinking) I would be available for, no, grateful for, any function that would give me a purpose in life.

  This idea struck me as rather amusing, although it had a certain painful aspect to it. It was undeniable that I knew more about the ways of the world than Heather, but as far as I was concerned she had only to do her homework in order to catch up with me: the onus was on her, and I certainly did not intend to be on hand to guide her. With the wealth of material goods at her disposal, with all the necessities of life supplemented by all of the luxuries, she had little left to do with her time except cultivate her feelings, and if these feelings, properly cultivated, brought a certain amount of disillusionment in their train I did not see that it was my responsibility to cushion the blows for her. She had chosen a defective husband, that I could see; but on the other hand he might be the instrument, the chosen agent, of her long delayed maturity. I thought of those two children in their slightly overblown apartment – such a contrast to my own deliberately underfurnished rooms – and I decided to let them get on with it. I would proffer my invitation in due course, but I would not be in any hurry. And if they should by any chance think of me, I would maintain a slightly offhand stance. I would not in any circumstances urge my attendance on them. And with their curiously inert attitude to life, I doubt that they would even notice my absence.