The Bay of Angels Read online

  I said something of this to Dr Balbi. Did I detect some slight relief in the alacrity with which he stood up and guided me to the door? When I got to know him better I was not entirely surprised at his occasional lapses. He had risen from the ranks by sheer assiduity, had acquired his polished manners along the way, together with his interest in period artefacts. At that stage I was pathetically grateful to him simply for having put in an appearance. My own lamentable performance would have to be improved at subsequent meetings.

  I told him that I should be absent for two or three days, which he accepted as entirely reasonable. I may have said something about the bank. He patted my arm and told me not to worry. It was unlikely that my mother would be completely awake when I returned, but her progress would be monitored with extreme care. He could vouch for the vigilance of Marie-Caroline, and for the night nurse, Marie-Ange. Even at night my mother’s sleep would not be natural. It was true that she was a healthy woman, and that no harm could come to her in this place. But the whole of Nice was now inimical to me. I longed to be back in my ugly flat, with its reassuring noises, the water in the pipes, the barking of Mr Taft’s dog. Once my mother had recovered I would stay with her at the house until she was well enough to make her own plans. She was not old; her life was not in danger. I reassured myself in this way as I made my way down the stairs. I told Marie-Caroline that I should be back at the end of the week. Smiling, she put down her magazine, and permitted me to approach the bed. My mother looked deathly pale, her lips bloodless. She seemed stern, even judgemental. I placed a light kiss on the hand that was not connected to the drip.

  Back at the house I poured some wine into a mustard glass and drank it off to give myself courage. I regretted my earlier tears: nothing less than grim determination would see me through. Yet I felt immeasurably sad, the weight of Simon’s death more palpable as my eye encountered the objects of which he had been fond. These were not imposing, but like all relics made their own mute statement: his paper knife, his ashtray, unused since he had given up smoking, the spare key to the terrace. In his dressing-room I should find his clothes, his brushes, his shoe-trees, which I should leave untouched. My mother would no doubt want to see them when the time came for her to make the house her own again. Except that it had never been her own; in an odd way I had settled into it more happily than she had done. When I had my first sight of it, so white and uncompromising in the brilliant light, it had signified the beginning of an adventure, the door closed on my childhood, and I had willingly exchanged loyalty to our shadowy home for this alluring strangeness, into which were built all manner of references: the sea, the beach, the holidays which need never end.

  But my feeling now was one of alienation. I dreaded the silence of the rooms, even of the kitchen, where Mme Delgado had hung up her dusters to dry. The house was now the domain of those who had departed, whether through choice or through necessity. When my mother returned I would urge her to make some changes, though I knew she would refuse. The house had always been to her a museum in which she was the main exhibit.

  Curiously I examined this theory, which would once have seemed to me outlandish. Now I perceived her loneliness, which I had never taken into account, for I was used to her solitary dignity, had grown up with it. It had been the climate of my childhood, yet when the rescuer appeared, when the providential arrangements were made, and all was changed, it did not occur to me that a certain settled sadness might be more rooted than the upheaval of new opportunities, and that when the excitement and the romance had faded she might find that she missed her half-life in a way she had not anticipated. For we had been happy, too fiercely fond of each other to tolerate outsiders. That Simon had been such an outsider I did not now doubt. Our life at home was our secret, the secret we shared only with one another. Yet it had been for my sake as well as her own that she had made her decision. And the stark white house bore witness to the courage this had taken, and must at times have seemed the outward embodiment of such courage.

  Darkness had fallen, and the wine was making me sleepy. I was to leave for London in the morning, to visit the bank, then to take another flight back to Nice. It occurred to me that I was the wrong person to be entrusted with such tasks. I was sober, certainly, practical, but deeply uninterested in financial details. I did not even know how much money there was in my account, let alone how much was needed. And there might be a will. Surely Simon had left a will? Without such a document nothing would be possible. Reluctantly I went back into the study, tried the drawers of his desk, all but one of which were locked. The unlocked one contained more sad relics, including a photograph of Simon taken some thirty years previously, to judge from his slimness, and his hair. His disarming smile reminded me why I had once loved him, and why my mother had found him difficult to resist. There was no will: how could there be in that unguarded place? In the waste-paper basket, which Mme Delgado had not emptied, there was an envelope with an English stamp. I removed it, was disappointed to find that it was empty, but for some reason noted the superscription: ‘Redman and Redman, Solicitors’, and an address in Seymour Place. These people knew Simon, knew his address in France, must surely provide the kind of support I was seeking, even if they had no idea who I was. Suddenly everything made a little more sense. They knew me at the bank: there was no problem there. And Redman and Redman could furnish some of the information that was so badly needed. I went to bed with my confusion a little relieved. All I had to do was seek advice. This was what was lacking in all this terrible affair.

  Back in London, and in the flat, I looked round with surprise. I could make no connection with the person who actually lived there. Who had supplied that clock, that kettle? On the table my dictionaries were as I had left them. I allowed myself a brief half-hour before undertaking the business of the day. I felt a vague indignation on my own behalf, for I saw that in the future my loyalties would be divided. I too had felt relief on handing over my mother to Simon. Now she was in my care, for ever, it seemed. Either she would recover completely and live at Les Mouettes, with another version of Mme Delgado, whom she would have to engage, or she would, as I suspected, want to return to London. In which case I should have to find a flat big enough for the two of us. At the moment my own flat seemed highly desirable, probably because I saw that I should have to leave it. I could not see my mother in a flat of her own, alone and unprotected, and no doubt bearing the marks of what had happened to her. For the shock of Simon’s death, which she must have registered, if not consciously, would undeniably affect her for some time. And her subsequent way of life would, except for myself, be unaccompanied and definitively altered.

  There was an old copy of The Times on the dresser. I looked at the property advertisements with horror, for there was nothing we could conceivably afford. Surely Simon had left some money in trust? That was what wealthy men did, and there was no doubt that he was wealthy. I picked up my keys and went to the bank. This, I thought, must take priority. Then I must telephone Redman and Redman and make an appointment to see someone conversant with Simon’s affairs. The suspicion that these might be well concealed visited me only briefly.

  I walked to the bank in Sloane Street, glad of the time it took me. It was February again, as it always seemed to be in that area, but the same old ladies were shopping at the supermarket, the same old men walking their dogs. Had my time been my own I should have lingered, bought some milk, another newspaper. But I had to be purposeful, to come to terms with the fact that I had obligations to meet. I turned into the doors of the bank regretfully, thankful that there were other people at the information desk. What was ineluctable was the knowledge that such problems would in future accompany me throughout life. Until . . . But this could not be envisaged.

  I explained to the girl behind the desk that I wished to close my account. She expressed disappointment, that of a parent with a disobedient child. I asked her humbly how much money I possessed; she mentioned a sum which seemed respectable but inadequate to meet
further costs. I then said I should like to close my mother’s account. That would not be possible, I was told; her permission would be needed. Or power of attorney, she added. In any event she thought it unwise. Wearily I explained the situation. After some discussion we agreed that it would be better not to disturb my mother’s account. My own money would have to suffice for current expenditure. In time, when my mother was recovered, she would no doubt want to take charge of her own affairs. I agreed to this, because I already had an uncomfortable amount of money in my bag. With this I should have to pay bills at the clinic and buy my ticket back to Nice.

  Redman and Redman, in Seymour Place, sounded remote, until I explained that I was acting for my stepfather, Simon Gould, who had sadly died. The voice at the other end of the telephone softened slightly: oh, yes, Mr Gould had been a client, and they had been very sorry to read of his death in The Times. Mr Clifford Redman would certainly see me, but unfortunately he had no free time before the following Friday morning. I made an appointment for the Friday morning, wondering why everyone I needed to see was so busy. I remembered my day spent waiting in the corridor of the clinic, and the pure gratitude I had felt at the sound of approaching footsteps.

  In the interstices of a crisis there is nothing much to do. I telephoned Nice for news (there was no change) and told Marie-Caroline that I should be back shortly. The French voice induced a pang of nostalgia, not for Nice or the clinic but for the days of easy exchange, a long time ago. In a strange way I was imprinted by that first visit, just as I was imprinted by Adam, and our days in Paris. A peculiar innocence was gone for ever. By innocence I really meant ignorance of the world’s demands. I had been blessed, I now understood, and my present situation was the common consequence of unsought responsibilities. Though I was not yet old I felt old, for I was now to be my mother’s guardian, a parent to my own parent. Later I came to understand that this too is the common lot. And yet I longed for my freedom. Deliverance was no longer possible. Even envisaging my mother’s total recovery required an effort I could no longer make. And my own recovery? That, I feared, would have to be postponed indefinitely. It would be safer, and wiser, to assume an endless vigilance. The motionless figure in the hospital bed was now all my future.

  8

  Mr Redman impressed me favourably. A large mild man with a soft voice, I identified him with the brothers Cheeryble, those benevolent men of affairs who disposed of a cottage at Bow to house the helpless Mrs Nickleby and her daughter, Kate. I hoped he might do the same for me, until I remembered that such felicity occurs only in Dickens.

  Even more reassuring was the interesting decrepitude of his establishment. In the outer office a lady in advanced middle years was working at an upright Royal typewriter which I instantly coveted. There was a smell of coffee and a sense of order which only initiates could understand. Seymour Place had alarmed me: it had seemed severe, metropolitan. The office, such as it was, breathed a kind of dusty informality which formed a sharp contrast to the silence and efficiency of Dr Balbi’s clinic. Apart from the noise of the typewriter this place too was silent. I wondered if Mr Redman had any clients at all, apart from Simon. It was possible that men of immense wealth preferred to entrust their affairs to this diffident affable man, but I was not convinced that he would be able to control the ramifications of their interests. Perhaps there was an invisible stratum of discreet millionaires who preferred to keep their activities from the public gaze. In which case no better guardian could have been found.

  Mr Redman stood up slowly to receive me, as if I were a bona-fide client, albeit one without resources. I was grateful to him for his courtesy, his almost complete lack of curiosity. He indicated a chair and asked me if I should care for coffee. I assented eagerly: I seemed not to have eaten for some time. He went to the door of the outer office. ‘Scottie,’ he said, ‘could we have some coffee?’ and to me, ‘You will find Miss Scott most helpful with inquiries. She has been here almost as long as I have. Which is a long time,’ he added, with a smile which took in myself as well as Miss Scott, a woman whose rectitude was evident from her unpainted face, her bleached dry hands, and her martial activity at the typewriter.

  I longed to work in such an office, to turn up every morning with a handbag and a briefcase, to hang my coat in a cupboard, and to be only dimly aware that outside the window a whole area of activity, in which I would have no part, would be keeping others working in offices just like this one. At the end of the day I would retrieve my coat from the cupboard, pick up my bag and my briefcase, and go out to take my place at the bus stop. I should make my peaceable way home to an outer suburb where no further tasks awaited me. Or I might meet a woman friend, one of long standing, for a meal and a chat. This would take place no more frequently than once a fortnight. We should both exchange views of our employers, in whom we took a maternal interest, and profess to look forward to the weekend, when we might visit relatives. Our consciences would be crystal clear, our clothes seemly, chosen for their quality and their suitability. On Sunday evenings we would not be depressed by the thought of the working week. By the same token we should be quite ready for retirement, when we planned to move to the coast. We should miss the company, of course, but would always cherish the memory of the small party given to mark our last day at work, and of the presentation of the cheque which would take care of at least some of the arrangements. On that day our walk to the bus stop would be more pensive than usual, but we were made of sterling stuff and were determined there should be no regrets.

  ‘Very sorry to read of Simon’s death,’ said Mr Redman, breaking into this agreeable fantasy. ‘We go back a long way. He was a friend as well as a client, you know.’

  I was relieved to hear this. Scottie’s excellent coffee, and the biscuits she produced, woke me up from my reverie, focused my woefully unfocused thoughts.

  ‘Heart attack, was it?’

  An accident, I replied. A fall. He shook his head. ‘None of us is safe,’ he remarked. ‘How did your mother take it?’

  ‘Rather badly,’ I told him. She was at the present time in hospital, and I should soon be on my way back to her in Nice. I thought of Nice with loathing. ‘I just wondered whether you had Simon’s will. I should be very grateful if you could tell me something about his affairs. I shall have to deal with the arrangements until my mother is well enough to do so for herself.’ I had no idea when that would be.

  ‘I have his will, of course, which I will open, since you are here.’

  He went to a large iron safe and brought out a file. How wise those millionaires were to trust him! Everything was under lock and key; there were no other parties, no officious underlings to scrutinize these documents. I was prepared to love Mr Redman for the rest of my days. In his hands I was safe.

  ‘He leaves his money to your mother, Anne. That is quite straightforward. The money is in a Swiss account, in the BNP in Geneva. Rue des Bergues,’ he added.

  ‘Is there . . . ’ A lot, I wanted to say, but did not.

  ‘There is not as much as there would have been a few years ago, I’m afraid. He had been spending rather freely.’

  ‘Where did the money come from?’

  ‘He owned commercial properties in Walthamstow. Warehouses. Two he sold to finance the purchase of a property in Onslow Square. The sale of Onslow Square, when property prices were up, was advantageous. Then, against my advice, he sold two of the remaining properties and opened two new bank accounts.’

  ‘For my mother and myself.’

  ‘Quite so. Well, now, there is one property remaining, which I should advise you to sell.’ He smiled. ‘This sounds more complicated than it is. You will find a purchaser without difficulty.’

  ‘Can I leave this with you? I must be with my mother in Nice, until she is quite restored.’

  ‘I can give the appropriate instructions, certainly.’

  I prepared to go, searched for my bag. ‘Then there will be enough for her to live on? That is really what I hoped you w
ould tell me.’

  ‘She will have to be prudent. For instance she will need to look for somewhere to live. I should advise London rather than Nice. You should be able to afford a small flat, though not in the centre. Wandsworth, perhaps. Balham. Tooting.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. She has the house in Nice, and if she decides to sell, which I’m sure she will . . . ’

  He took off his glasses and laid them on the desk.

  ‘That will not be possible, I’m afraid. The house would not be hers to sell.’

  I stared at him. ‘But it was Simon’s house. Surely there is no question of ownership?’

  ‘Indeed there is. Simon did not own the house. It belonged to his first wife, Margaret Spedding. Her will, which I also possess, specifies that he should enjoy it for his lifetime. That now, sadly, has come to an end.’

  ‘But could he not have sold it?’

  ‘Not without breaking the terms of the will, which would have been contested.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘By the man to whom the house now rightfully belongs, Anthony Spedding, Margaret Spedding’s nephew.’

  The nephew with whom Simon purported to have lost touch . . .

  ‘He will certainly want to take possession. Your best plan would be to rent it from him, if he is willing to let it in the short or long term. Long term might pose a few problems. But I’m sure you will be able to come to some arrangement.’

  ‘Do I write to him? Have you got his address?’

  ‘I have an address, certainly, but it may be an old one. He may have moved. I should get in touch with his bank; they will follow it up. And they will know more than I do at this stage.’