Falling Slowly Read online

  ‘Goodbye,’ she said, kissing his now familiar cheek. ‘You must forgive me, Jacob. Take care.’

  ‘You too, dear.’

  ‘The lift …’ she said, but he was gone. She closed the door on to his clumping steps, stood quite still, turned out the lights. In the dark she went back to her bedroom. Goodbye, she thought. Take care. And as she fell into sleep the thought recurred. Take care. Take care.

  7

  Neither Beatrice nor Miriam had much regard for Christmas. They thought of it as a purely pagan festival: huge meals of largely unpalatable food, hot rooms, exhausted children, and neglected elderly relatives for whom a family gathering was to be counted a treat. And in addition to all this indoor activity there was a deathly quiet in the deserted streets, broken only by the sound of a car trailing pop music, which faded into the distance as mournful as an elegy. They had lunched early, in defiance of tradition, on Beatrice’s salmon coulibiac, did not intend to watch the Queen on television, and privately wondered how to get through the rest of the afternoon.

  ‘I may sleep,’ said Beatrice. ‘You’ll stay, won’t you?’

  ‘I’ll go for a walk,’ Miriam replied absent-mindedly, wondering why the atmosphere in the resolutely secular flat should have become imbued with the flattening significance of the day. And it was raining, a thin persistent rain that turned the grey day even more morose and threatened darkness shortly after three.

  ‘You’re not seeing Simon?’ asked Beatrice, hesitating by the door, her eyelids already heavy.

  ‘No, no, he’s in Verbier. At the chalet. You go. I’ll see to this.’

  She was grateful for her sister’s tact. She had half-expected gluttonous curiosity, such as she herself felt for the set-up in Verbier. The chalet, she knew from Simon’s uninformative replies to her questions, had been in the family since Mary’s grandfather had bought it in the late twenties. From this bleak statement she had constructed a fantasy of robust English aristocrats imposing their own customs on the docile Swiss. She imagined men in brown tweed Norfolk jackets and women with waved hair, content to take the air, to do a little shopping, rather a lot of gambling in nearby casinos, cigarettes tapped on silver cases, evening shoes worn out by the end of their stay. Why this picture should have formed in her mind she could not have said. She also saw these people as morally, even politically compromised, sympathetic towards Germany, from whose actresses the women had copied the lisp, the bias-cut satin, the sleek synthetic blondness, while the men remained reassuringly large, protective, and, among themselves, dirty-minded. She imagined long-bonneted cars sweeping through snowy streets dotted with Christmas trees, plaid travelling rugs, flasks of martinis. Whereas the reality was both more reassuring and more ominous: Simon and Mary and the children, Sally, and Sigrid the au pair, and whoever else decided to come along at the last minute. For it would all be fairly impromptu, he had laughed; sleeping-bags would be needed in case brothers, sisters, cousins decided to look them up. They would in any event be a large party, but they would be out of doors all day, and would eat out. There were excellent restaurants in the village.

  Normally devoid of self-pity, or indeed of pity in general, Miriam found herself returning to these two discrete scenarios until she could perceive a strong familial connection between them. In her mind’s eye Simon became the bluff dirty-minded hedonist, and Mary the decorative daughter of privilege. There was a certain uneasy excitement in these imaginings which appalled her. She had no reason to think that this was anything but a family holiday, and if she felt intrigued it was surely because she could not picture an ordinary family holiday, never having experienced one for herself. Too rancorous with disappointment to make sacrifices for their daughters, the parents had derived an odd satisfaction from sitting tight-lipped in the drawing-room, to the outward eye correct, even decorous, inwardly totting up the score of jibe and counter-jibe, neither made explicit but after long practice understood and carried on as a mind game, while the girls went up to their bedrooms and leaned moodily out of the windows. In due time they would be summoned to tea, which would be formally served, and as evening fell their parents would sigh at the waste of another day of their lives, but still, curiously, in accord on this point if not on any other. In Simon’s case everything would be haphazard, accompanied by laughter, plans still fluid, skis bundled on to the roofs of the cars, a friendly neighbour waving them off. The more exactly she imagined all this the more distant Simon appeared, her connection with him more tenuous, as she felt him being reabsorbed into his proper context. She would forgive him, of course, for this defection, which, she reminded herself, was largely the work of her own longing. One always forgave fortunate people for fear of being detected as ungenerous, unworthy. And he would come back; of course he would come back, might even be glad to. She had the date of their next meeting in her diary. In her new diary it was the only space filled in.

  Careless, she recognized. People like that, heavily endowed with family affections, were always careless, born to carelessness. While she had trained herself to be careful. That was the difference that inevitably divided them.

  She hung up the tea-towel, washed and dried her hands, regretting the vague smell of fish, regretting even more the melancholy that accompanied all public holidays. These were days without diversion, days it was difficult to fill. In Lower Sloane Street her papers were strewn over her desk. There was no reason why she should not go home and work, thereby gaining a head start on the week. But mysteriously work had let her down. Conscientious though she was (and, she knew, would continue to be), she was now conscious of work as a vast restriction on her liberty, tying her down to one room, whereas others, it seemed, or it seemed to her on this uncomfortable day, were able to command their actions and their time. Again, but fleetingly, she thought of that healthy party in the snow. She shook her head irritably; she was well aware of the dangers of this line of thinking. But just at this moment she felt an overwhelming desire to escape, if only for a few hours. She could escape for longer, she reasoned: she could take a holiday, could go to Paris, look up old friends. But she felt dejected at the thought of the effort involved. The whole exercise would be artificial, undertaken solely so that she could offer such a holiday as conversational exchange, a bulwark against whatever Simon might reveal about his own activities. She had a strong desire to present herself as someone with friends, but knew that such friends were a fantasy, that her own mild curiosity in past friendships had caused her to be cast as confidante, and then retired when the need for confidences was past.

  No one was likely to rescue her from this particular day, and from all the others like it. Yet she reminded herself that she had a source of warmth and energy in her life which had come about without the agency of friendships or introductions or any of the clumsy agencies by which conjunctions were normally effected. Once again the fact that she and Simon had so unerringly come together, without any need of explanations, convinced her that this had indeed been no accident, that they had been guided, directed, by some fate other than their own. The chill thought struck her that this random, or seemingly random procedure could just as easily divide them again when the time mysteriously allotted to their closeness was exhausted. They would know, of course, and there would be no time or occasion for recriminations. Neither would have let the other down; they would be united by the same act of recognition. It was the wordlessness of the affair that she valued. Spending all her days in the search for words or their equivalents had left her with tired eyes and a disinclination to read. Now, working with so much less attention, she could avoid the implied seriousness of what she was doing, could care for her appearance, like any cherished woman. Except that she was not quite cherished, not quite included in any plans that were being made. Except that at this holiday time she stood alone in her sister’s kitchen, aware that the light was already fading, and that it was not yet half-past two.

  She stood for a moment outside Beatrice’s bedroom door, listening for the sound of
regular breathing. ‘Beatrice?’ she enquired softly. ‘Are you asleep?’ No answer. ‘I’m going out for a walk,’ she said. ‘I’ll be back for tea.’ She hesitated. ‘Have a good rest,’ she said. ‘You deserve it. Lunch was delicious.’ Then there seemed to be nothing further that she could say or do, speaking as she was into a vacancy which emphasized the general vacancy of the hour. She turned away, resolutely buckled herself into her raincoat, and left the flat, easing the front door to with her key in the lock so as not to disturb the sleeping building. Outside in the street she waited for a sense of deliverance, a return of energy, but none came. A car, passing slowly along the wet road, was the only other sign of life, but even that soon disappeared.

  She walked along Sloane Street, noting the lights of the Cadogan Hotel, wondering if anyone inside were having a festive time. If so they were being very quiet about it. She crossed Knightsbridge, entered the silent park. Rain fell steadily but without a sound, a mist of vapour that she could feel on her eyelashes, her lips. In the distance a man threw a ball for a dog. She made instinctively for Marble Arch, for Oxford Street, for Upper Berkeley Street, for Bryanston Square. She knew that this was masochistic and quite unprofitable, that there would be no one in the flat, whose windows she could see were tightly closed. Had there been a light on she would have been terrified, but the flat, the whole building, seemed empty, shuttered against intruders. She caught sight of herself in the brass door plate, and was so humiliated that she turned away. Bryanston Square was as deserted as Sloane Street had been, though here the rain seemed lighter, more beneficent. She began to breathe more easily, as if some suspicion had been appeased. If she had to choose between Simon in Verbier and Simon unexpectedly, mysteriously, in the flat, she would prefer him to be away, out of sight, unable to see her lingering like an orphan on his doorstep. And if the worst thing had happened and she had been discovered there she could have offered no defence of her actions. ‘Hello,’ she heard herself composing, in a jaunty uncharacteristic tone of voice, ‘I thought I’d see what you were up to. I’m going to walk round Regent’s Park. Why don’t you come?’ There was no way in which this could be made to sound convincing. Briefly she was glad that there were no witnesses to this evidence of bad thinking. All must be easy, unassuming, even inconsequential – that was the line to take. In that way mutuality could be assured, preserved. She knew that thinking and planning must be avoided at all costs, that she must strive for insouciance, the quality she treasured but did not possess. Anything less, or more, was doomed.

  In Baker Street a pizza parlour was unaccountably open, catering for about eight people, mostly resigned Indians. A solemn Arab family passed slowly by on their way to the Sherlock Holmes Hotel. On impulse she trailed behind them, entered almost on their heels, sat down and ordered coffee. No one seemed to think this request unusual. She glanced warily around, feeling more at home in this anonymous place where her actions could not possibly be held against her. It was warm, even stuffy. A waiter brought her coffee, presented her with a bill at the same time, yet did not indicate impatience. All around her conversation was subdued, monotonous, comforting. Who came here? People from overseas, eager Americans who were valiantly proof against disappointment, Asians interested in currency exchange outlets. If she liked she could spend the afternoon here without loss of dignity, be at one with these transients, all of them downcast by the weather in the streets, the year’s midnight. She could get up at her leisure and walk home again, but that return journey would take her once again into the vicinity of Bryanston Square, and she winced away from this prospect. Bryanston Square, empty, affronted her, as if she had been turned out. She was aware of colour coming into her cheeks at this thought, and resisted it. She would walk round Regent’s Park and then find a taxi. She and Beatrice would have tea and perhaps listen to music. Or read. They would tell themselves that everybody else was doing the same, until increasing yawns persuaded them of the need for an early night. So had their parents passed their evenings, she reflected, and was saddened by an involuntary sympathy for that mute couple. So might she and Beatrice end up, she supposed, and again, and not for the first time, dismissed the thought.

  In Baker Street it was already dark. She turned north and walked in the direction of the park, although by now there was little point in this exercise. It was simply that having started out it was necessary to proceed. There were more cars about now, a certain energy now that the evening could be deemed to have begun. Inside the park the renewed silence was unwelcome, even sinister, and to her dismay she was not the only person about. One person in particular, indistinct in the rainy dusk, seemed to be striding purposefully in her direction. She could make out little more than a bulky raincoat, similar to her own, but infinitely larger; by the size and shape she deduced that this was the figure of a particularly athletic man.

  ‘Good evening,’ she called out cheerfully, thinking this the best thing to do in the circumstances. Her heart was knocking, as if she were threatened. No one in their right mind came out for a walk in the park at this time of day, she reasoned, aware of the sound of cars passing in the distance, and wondering how to escape, if escape were to become necessary.

  ‘Good evening,’ said a light pleasant Scottish voice, as the figure slowed down and stopped in front of her.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ she said, her voice constricted by terror.

  ‘Merry Christmas,’ replied the stranger, amused. ‘Please don’t be frightened; I’m not an axe murderer. If I stopped so abruptly it’s because I’m sure I’ve seen you somewhere before.’

  ‘I don’t think …’

  St James’s Square? The London Library? You usually turn up just as I’m leaving. About four, four-thirty. Tom Rivers’ he said, holding out a hand.

  ‘I know that name. Why do I know it? Oh, Miriam Sharpe, or rather Eldon. Either. How do you do?’

  ‘I’m a journalist.’ He mentioned a Sunday paper, one of the ones she rarely took. ‘Chatham House is useful. And the Library, sometimes.’

  ‘You’re a foreign correspondent, aren’t you?’

  ‘More of a political historian, I like to think.’

  ‘Weren’t you on television?’

  ‘For my sins. Do you particularly like this park? It’s rather damp. Would you like tea or a drink or something?’

  ‘I’d very much like to get out of here,’ she said. ‘I can’t think why it seemed such a good idea. I just felt like a walk.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. I didn’t like it much either. I’m sorry if I frightened you.’

  She smiled, aware of her hair misted by the rain. Now that she could see him more clearly she felt dreamily reassured, his bulk no longer threatening, even a protection against the growing dark. He had a pleasant quizzical face which promised interest, sympathy. He would no doubt appeal to women; men of that size and shape, with pleasant manners, and an equally pleasant directness of approach, would be on every hostess’s list. If hostesses still existed. He would also be pleasantly frustrating, she thought, able to deflect unwanted interest with the very real excuse of an urgent assignment. She focused once again on his steady smile, which had her in its sights.

  ‘I really ought to be getting home,’ she said. ‘My sister is expecting me. I don’t want to worry her.’

  ‘Do you want a taxi?’

  ‘Yes, I do.’

  ‘So do I. I’m going to the office, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh, poor you.’

  ‘I don’t mind. I loathe Christmas.’

  ‘Oh, so do I.’

  They laughed, turned gratefully away from the murky park, walked back in the direction of Baker Street.

  ‘Here’s one,’ he said, raising a long arm.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want it?’

  ‘No, no.’ He hesitated, held out his hand. ‘I’ll look out for you in St James’s Square. At the Library. Or, better still, I’ll give you a ring. Are you in the book?’

  ‘I’m in a rented flat at the m
oment.

  ‘What’s your number, then?’

  She gave him the Lower Sloane Street number, knowing that she was perfectly safe. He did not write it down, which seemed to guarantee her safety. Except that he was probably trained to file away information. She shrugged. What did it matter? She thought of Simon with a rush of love and affection, thought of the diary in her bag, thought of the date of their next meeting. Suddenly she could not wait to get home.

  When she was safe in the taxi she saw that the afternoon seemed to have a point, if only an incongruous one. She was quite sure that she had never seen the man before, although he had obviously seen her. Rivers, he said his name was; she was vaguely aware that she knew it. But she was cold now, conscious of her damp hair, almost anxious to be back in the flat. Rivers would do for an anecdote, she thought, something almost amusing to offer, in exchange for her good lunch, an anecdote it might be useful to employ on a dull afternoon.

  She found Beatrice working at her tapestry, a particularly hideous piece depicting a vase of orange flowers on a beige ground.

  ‘You’ll never finish that,’ she observed.

  ‘No, I shan’t,’ agreed her sister.

  ‘Why, if I may ask, did you start it? Did you think we had a dozen chair seats to be covered?’

  ‘I thought this was what unoccupied ladies did.’

  ‘They may have done once. Nowadays they go to the gym. What will you do with it?’

  ‘I thought it would make a nice present for Mrs Kinsella,’ said Beatrice pleasantly. They grinned at each other. ‘Have you had tea?’

  ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Did anyone phone?’ she said carelessly.

  ‘Oddly enough, yes. Max, from Monaco. Having a perfectly horrible time, from the sound of his voice. I heard him out, heard about the beautiful weather, the oysters he had for lunch … Then he shocked me by saying that he missed London.’

  ‘Oh? Why? I thought he was longing for retirement.’