A Private View Page 7

  But once inside the Royal Academy he was joyously divested of misgivings and hesitations, as he realised, with great good fortune, that he was to be afforded an unexpected treat: the Sickert exhibition. After no more than two minutes in the first gallery he surrendered to a general atmosphere of wit and pungency, of visual panache and overriding affection. There followed a passage of time in which time was almost forgotten, as he wandered round the galleries, completely absorbed in a world of beery gaslit pleasure, where men in ill-fitting tailcoats belted out low-grade songs, their teeth spotlit, their uplifted hands a smudge of pink, and where the respectable poor, bowler-hatted, leaned down from the gallery to catch every nuance from the distant performer on the stage. He saw St Mark’s, sombre under a greenish Venetian sky; he saw Dieppe, brushed broadly in chalky pinks and mauves. He smiled, as did others near him, as chunky Tiller Girls took a curtain call in a blur of red and blue, and he realized that art was not always solemn, and could even—heretical thought!—be viewed as entertainment. Perhaps all artists, even the most exalted, were in the entertainment business. This he promised himself to think about.

  Just as this vivifying idea was making inroads into his consciousness, and just as he was circling the galleries once more, two of the images reminded him suddenly and painfully of his earlier home and of earlier, humbler associations. One was the front of a shop called Dawson Bros, its windows filled with white hats as vibrant as a flock of seagulls. The other was a glum view, completely without incident, of a tube station with the name Whiteleys plumb in the centre of the canvas. Simple scenes, contemplated without comment. Here was a man who loved cities, he decided, and even their inconsequential outcroppings: not only Venice but Whiteleys. And once again, by some trick of the dim gallery light, he felt like a boy in new long trousers, anxious to avoid the discordant slumbers of his parents’ Sunday afternoon, but not quite assured, greeting the street, as he had done that morning, in a spirit of timid gratitude, and gazing in shop windows until it was time to turn reluctant footsteps homeward. And it had never ended, this feeling. A Few Words, he read in his catalogue, and scrutinised a picture of a shifty-looking man making an excuse to go to the pub: that was his father all right, except that his father had been spruce, jocular, had made no excuses, and was expert at being drunk and not showing it. His mother had been Dorothy, his father Clive: that, he thought, placed them perfectly. As he turned to leave, feeling now very weary, he paused to admire the shadowy violinist plying his trade in some French café, where the ladies leaned their hats together in conversation. He read the title as O Nuit d’Amour, the title of the tune, he supposed. All at once the events of the previous evening, and his morning reaction to those events, were present in his mind, and once more he was reluctant to go home.

  He stumbled slightly in the now dark afternoon. He had, he realized, been out all day and must have been on his feet for most of the time. A cup of tea seemed the obvious priority, and for that he might as well call it a day and go back to the flat. A taxi, sailing slowly by in the strangely silent turning by the Ritz, stopped with a creak of brakes. Bland turned once more to his catalogue, unwilling to relinquish those images of urban vitality as the Sunday gloom began to close around him. What a cove, what a card, he thought to himself, lost in admiration. His calf muscles ached: he had difficulty in disengaging himself when the taxi drew up outside his building. A few lights were on, but not many. He could see a light in the Dunlops’ flat and reminded himself once more to be cautious. But he was too tired now to disentangle the thoughts that had plagued him in the morning, and was simply grateful for the dull warmth of the lobby, and the fact that there did not seem to be anybody about. He had half expected to be ambushed, either by Mrs Lydiard, or more probably by Katy Gibb. He had no idea why these people should have a claim on him, yet they had seemed to be in no doubt that access to him was henceforth to be unlimited. He suddenly desired not to know them, not to know anyone, in fact, to be left alone to read and to look at pictures, to make the best of his solitude, even to find pleasure in it, above all to be free of the conflicting demands of both his conscience and his desire. Such poor desire, he thought, fluctuating all these years, though never entirely sunk, hardly the desire of late twentieth-century man. That too was said to be unlimited, although he doubted the truth of such an assumption.

  He felt younger than his age, but it was the memory of those adolescent Sunday walks, brought to life so vividly by the pictures he had just seen, that now preoccupied him. Ennui: that was it, both the best-known image and the aptest description of his earlier condition. He had been so lonely then, so unprepared to face the world! Even friendship would have made demands that he could not satisfy. At home there were the argumentative parents, and he could not be sure whether he loved them or not: that had been his torture. When he had started work, after his one year at the university, he had been surprised by the varieties of friendship on offer, and only later did he interpret this as ordinary goodwill towards himself, whom he had considered beyond the range of human sympathy. His spirits had begun to improve, but by this time he was preoccupied by his mother’s deteriorating condition and had to hurry home to care for her on those evenings which he might otherwise have spent at concerts, at lectures, or even in the library. The early death of his father, of a heart attack at the races, and losing, as usual, had affected his mother to an extent which had surprised them both. After a lifetime of disaffection she had decided that she could not live without him, and consequently cared no more for herself. It was all unnecessary, even provocative, and again his feeling for her verged on sheer dislike. But he had been patient, and loyal: at least he had been that. Simply, such patience and such loyalty, deployed at a time of life which should be characterised by spontaneity and excitement, seemed to have impeded the full flowering of his vitality, so that ever since he had been cautious with his feelings, preferring affection to love, and fearing disorder above all else.

  ‘Excuse me, sir,’ said Hipwood, leaning confidentially over his desk. ‘I wonder if I might have a word?’

  Reluctantly Bland retraced his steps. He had been about to get into the lift. The stairs had seemed too much of a challenge.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mr Hipwood?’

  They were Mr Hipwood and Sir: thus were the social distinctions honoured. Hipwood wore a navy blue uniform, and appeared, from his handlebar moustaches, to have had a background in the armed forces, albeit a distant one. He controlled an extensive network of cleaners, car washers, newspaper delivery boys, and odd job men. Thus most of the tenants were in his debt and were resigned to being so. He was in his way a powerful man, reporting to the managing agents rather more of what went on in the building than it was his duty to know. Bland suspected that Mrs Cardozo, who was one of Hipwood’s protégés, told him exactly the facts as she knew them of his habits, expenditure, quantity of drink imbibed, scale of gratuities, number of visitors etc., though as her speech was so heavily accented, and as she was given to odd bursts of on the whole benevolent hilarity, it was questionable that her information was of any great value. Bland disliked Hip wood, who smelt powerfully of some sort of unguent and of the extra-strong mints which he sucked between bursts of ostentatious activity.

  ‘It seems, sir, that we have an intruder in the building.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ said Bland. Normally he would have been mildly interested, but by this time he only wanted his cup of tea.

  ‘A young woman.’

  ‘Oh. I see.’

  ‘Came in yesterday morning, when I’d just nipped out the back. Thought I hadn’t noticed her, but I had. I didn’t say anything. But the point is she’s still here! She hasn’t come out again! And where is she?’

  ‘I think I can explain, Mr Hip wood …’

  ‘It’s more than my job’s worth to countenance this, sir. I’m in a position of trust here. People rely on me for their security. I can’t let them down, now, can I?’

  Bland had heard this speech many ti
mes before, usually at the approach to Christmas, when Hipwood would reiterate his loyalty and devotion to whomever happened to be in earshot.

  ‘She’s a Miss Gibb, a friend of the Dunlops. She’s staying in their flat while they’re away. And she’s quite above board, Mr Hipwood. In fact, if you’d been on duty last night you’d have seen her come out to dinner with Mrs Lydiard and myself.’

  The mention of Mrs Lydiard’s name calmed Hipwood slightly, but not for long.

  ‘I haven’t seen her today, sir. You would have thought she would have come down, introduced herself, so to say. After all, that’s what most people would have done.’ And have handed over a token of their appreciation for his vigilance, Bland was given to understand. This sort of behaviour would not be within Katy’s sphere of understanding. Her attitude to Hipwood would have been that of a person of high regard to an indentured servant, the attitude all the tenants were so scrupulously careful to avoid.

  ‘And Mr Dunlop said nothing to me about it before he went away,’ Hipwood continued. ‘I find that odd. He’s usually so careful, especially about his own affairs.’ Bland was given to understand by this that Tim Dunlop was mean.

  ‘It was all fixed up in America, apparently. They all met up in New York, and Mrs Dunlop invited Miss Gibb to stay in the flat.’

  He was well aware that matters had not been so clear-cut or even so straightforward, but, faced with Hipwood’s insistence, and by now seriously tired, he was suddenly on Katy’s side.

  ‘It’s the responsibility, sir. Put yourself in my position. There was that business only last month, that other intruder.’ Anyone not known to Hipwood personally was termed an intruder. Bland had heard this story too, more than once. He took out his wallet, extracted two ten-pound notes, and handed them over.

  ‘I’m sure this will take care of any inconvenience,’ he said. ‘And of course I’ll keep you informed if I hear anything further from the Dunlops.’

  This cleverly implied that he had already been in touch with them. It occurred to him to wonder why he was being so devious, but the main priority now was to put an end to Hipwood’s complaint. He had done this too precipitately, perhaps had not thought matters through. But did any of this really concern him? Was it right that he should be waylaid in this manner? His tactic was crude, but it was effective. Hipwood subsided, and retreated once more behind his desk.

  It was only when he was in the flat that Bland reflected that he had been a fool, had in fact made a monumental blunder. How would his largesse look to Hipwood, who would lose no time in leaping to conclusions? No doubt the Dunlops would be taken on one side as soon as they returned, would not even be allowed to put down their bags before Hipwood requested a word. And he, Bland, would be forced into more explanations on behalf of a person who so singularly forbore to explain herself. He poured water carelessly into the teapot, splashing and scalding himself in his agitation. When the doorbell rang his heart sank. It seemed a matter of self-preservation to delay answering it until he had made the tea.

  She was back in her jeans and T-shirt, which now, he saw, were not perfectly clean. There was no sign of the previous night’s seductress. The princess had turned back into a scullion, or at least the sulky creature, half girl, half woman, whom he had first encountered. The change interested him: he thought that, unobserved, when not on public display, she might be a slut. This somehow was acceptable, for reasons he was too tired to go into. Yet her bearing was quite queenly, almost authoritative; she entered his flat as of right. She sauntered, looked about her, seemed inclined to examine his possessions, yet desisted out of boredom, or indifference. Bland had an involuntary memory of a woman he had once halfheartedly courted. Edwina Sutton had denigrated everything and everyone, though she was neither clever nor amusing. ‘Neither clever nor amusing’ had been his mother’s verdict on anyone she disliked, which was nearly everyone still browbeaten enough to visit the house: the phrase had remained with him. When Edwina Sutton had come to his flat in Baker Street, and had picked up and put down his precious books with a gesture of impatience, he had conclusively decided that they were incompatible. Thereafter, when he ran into her he greeted her cordially and professed himself to be overwhelmed with work. She was not deceived, but was too languid to challenge him.

  This girl was not languid, although like himself she appeared to be at a loose end. Unfilled time, he sensed, would not make her restless, would not drive her out into some unremarkable activity, as was often his case. She would wait for some way of occupying it to present itself; how else to account for the fact that she had apparently been waiting for him all day? The mere fact of her turning up at his door filled him with foreboding, together with the disagreeable memory of his recent donation to Hipwood. Yet there was nothing remarkable about her, apart from her assurance. In her tired clothes she seemed confident, even slightly annoyed with him, as if he had let her down in some way. She made no effort, and continued to make none, waiting for him to give an account of himself, of his absence. Her feet, once again, were bare. He noticed that she had painted her toenails. This evidence of her day’s activity was not impressive, yet he found it pathetic rather than exasperating. She appeared to have washed her hair again; there was a faint smell of lemons. He could think of nothing more depressing than what must have been her empty afternoon. At the same time, and overwhelmingly, he wished she would go away. ‘Nightclub queen’, another derogatory locution of his mother’s, came to mind. He had an image of a nightclub, in the daytime, the lights out, the doors open, the staff clearing up. Just why this came to him he was unable to say.

  With a start he came back to the present. He was aware of extreme fatigue.

  ‘Hallo,’ he said, with as much joviality as he could muster. He sounded like his own father, he thought with disgust.

  ‘I thought you might have looked in, to see how I was,’ she said, but without the smiles of the night before. Once again he felt vaguely cornered. ‘I tried you earlier,’ she said, ‘but there was no reply.’

  ‘I’ve been out all day,’ he said. And then, lamely, ‘I went to the Royal Academy to look at some pictures.’

  ‘I wish you’d told me you were going. I’d have come with you. I love art.’

  He noted that art was not granted a capital letter by the curiously antagonistic way in which she mentioned it. In this way it was accorded a lower status than her other pursuits. Again she was angry; again he seemed to be the cause of it, or perhaps the reason for it. But he thought it went deeper than that, went back a long way, and he sensed something enthralling there, some secret history that it might be his task, and his pleasure, to uncover. He felt a flicker of genuine objective interest: this was more like the old days, when it had been his job to assess individuals applying for promotion or for a transfer within the firm. Always he had managed them gently and kindly, yet his word was law. Perhaps if he employed the same skills there might be a way of reconciling this girl’s unspoken but insistent demands with his own peace of mind, which was apparently under attack from this very quarter.

  ‘I’ve just made some tea,’ he said. ‘Would you like a cup? Unless you’ve already had some. It is a bit late, I suppose. I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Tea would be fine,’ she said.

  When he carried the tray from the kitchen to the sitting-room he found her on the sofa, her arms spread along the back, her right ankle resting on her left knee. Again he noticed the beauty of her feet.

  ‘And what have you been doing today?’ he enquired heartily, handing her the tea. She detached one arm from the back of the sofa to take the cup from him.

  ‘I’ve been asleep most of the time. I’m still jet-lagged. And I went to bed too early after that dinner. I should have stayed up, really. You should have made me stay up.’

  ‘Well, you can please yourself, of course, but it was pretty late for me. And for Mrs Lydiard. We’re not as young as you are.’ Again the distasteful note of false jocularity. How he hated this! He wanted her to
go away; he wanted to be alone. He even wanted the second cup of tea that she was now drinking.

  ‘I expect so,’ she said, and lapsed into a brooding silence.

  It was a relief when the telephone rang. He glanced at his watch and saw that it was six-thirty, the time when he usually rang Louise. But it was Louise herself on the line. He heard her placid ‘George?’ with relief, with genuine pleasure.

  ‘Two minds with but a single thought,’ he said. It was sometimes a relief to fall into clichés with Louise. ‘I was about to ring you.’

  ‘I just wanted to let you know that I’ll be in town tomorrow. I’m spending the night with Philip and Sarah, and I thought I’d do some Christmas shopping.’