Strangers Page 9

  His growing irritation with his flat, now unavoidably complicated by Mrs Gardner’s belongings, forced him to get up earlier and earlier. He tried to stuff her bulky coat into his small wardrobe without success. The bag remained unhoused. He was aware of its presence as soon as he woke, could not, even mentally, find a place for it. Bathed and dressed by an hour too early for any reasonable activity, he nevertheless went out, determined to remain out for as long as possible, to walk until the shops opened, by which time he hoped that his temper might have cooled. He set out in the direction of the park, which was desolate and unwelcoming, and sent him back to the streets, in which there was some evidence of life. The weather was still mild, but with a gusty wind and a hint of rain to come. His nerves were gradually calmed by the sight of young people going to work. That was his true climate, he decided: his former occupation, advising on investments, now bathed in a prelapsarian innocence, each day filled with meaningful activity, with acceptable company, and with a comprehensible progression. At least it was all this in hindsight, but this version was preferable to the reality, which had contained its fair share of frustrations. He had never looked forward to the end of the day, had never anticipated the journey home, the moment of putting his key in the lock and settling down for the evening. This reluctance had been compounded by the idleness of retirement. He thought it must have been this factor that had let him indulge in the false nostalgia of memory. Whereas in fact, viewed without love or longing, as he was now able to do, he wondered if the past had been as protective as he imagined it to be, whether it might have been a false image of life as it might have been, had he had a more philosophical cast of mind. Now no rethinking was possible. He told himself that he still had his health, and in comparison with those elderly wrecks in the hospital this would have to do. In any event he was still active. To prove his point he would walk, eat out, not go home until he was too tired to walk any further. He would go to the London Library, seek consolation among the stacks, take out books that he had read before and would read again, find instruction and even corroboration in writers who, miraculously, seemed neither afraid nor ashamed to reveal their inadequacies, their disappointments, and whose very failures went some way to strengthen him in his long search for a fellow spirit, and, in the absence of such a spirit, for an understanding of his own life.

  He walked to Piccadilly, which was properly awake, and went in search of coffee. He bought a newspaper, although he had one at home, and settled down in a small Italian café off Jermyn Street. He remembered buying scent for his mother’s birthday at Floris, remembered too her reproaches that he had spent his money on such fripperies. He had not known how to coax a sign of pleasure from her, and had felt guilty for making her annoyed. He sighed, paid for his coffee, and left, finding some energy in his own annoyance at the recollection.

  In Jermyn Street, on his way to the Library, he was calmed, as always, by the prospect of an hour spent in the proximity of books. What composure he was able to cultivate – and it occurred to him, ironically, that composure was the quality for which he was best known – had been the gift of all the books he had read, and, he supposed, would go on reading for as long as he was able.

  He was pondering the merits of Henry James (too like himself in his hesitations and scruples) and Trollope (a diligent worker, also like himself) when he heard his name called.

  ‘Paul? It is Paul, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sarah.’ It was less a question than a statement.

  ‘Do you remember me?’

  ‘Of course I remember you.’ I have never forgotten you, he added silently.

  ‘How extraordinary to meet like this. But you haven’t changed.’

  ‘Neither have you,’ he said politely. But she had, he saw, had grown older, and was marked by the process. ‘Are you in a hurry? Have you got time for a cup of coffee?’

  ‘Just shopping. And yes, I’d love some coffee.’

  ‘Give me your umbrella. In here, I think.’

  Seated, they gazed at each other like the friends they had once been, like the lovers they had also been.

  ‘You’re still beautiful,’ he said eventually.

  ‘And you’re still nice.’ Too nice. He heard the angry words again, the accusation that had remained with him since that time and had never lost its power.

  ‘How long has it been?’

  ‘Let’s not think about that. At least we recognized each other.’

  ‘You really haven’t changed, you know. I have – oh, don’t bother to protest. I’ve had a hard time, and it shows.’

  He gazed into her face, with the privilege he had retained, and saw that it was true. She now wore rather a lot of make-up, whereas previously she had worn little. But the make-up failed to disguise a slackened jawline, an air of fatigue. He remembered her as a woman of decisive movements, staccato heels on the pavement, keys thrust carelessly into pockets. Now she was encumbered with an umbrella and a handbag draped cautiously over her shoulder and across her chest, which, he saw, was more voluminous than he remembered it. She must be in her late sixties, at an age that ushered in regret. And yet he would have known her anywhere. Age had altered them both, but their past intimacy reunited them, as if little time had passed since she had stormed out of his flat, infuriated by his forbearance. There was little sign of that now. She seemed genuinely glad to see him.

  ‘Tell me about yourself,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’

  She smiled. ‘You always did want to know everything. Such searching questions! I felt quite intimidated at times. Well, there’s too much to tell, really. And I hate the past, really hate it.’

  ‘You said you’d had a hard time.’

  ‘I’ve been very ill, Paul. After my husband died…’

  ‘Whom did you marry?’

  ‘There you go again. I married Richard. Do you remember Richard Crawford?’

  ‘Vaguely.’ He had a memory of a confident young man met at a party to which he had escorted her. Seamlessly she had transferred her attention, sensing someone more suited to her ambitions.

  ‘Were you happy?’

  ‘Yes, I think we were. We didn’t know each other all that well to begin with – a whirlwind romance, really. But in time we settled down pretty well. And we had a good life. Richard was well off. There was no need for me to work.’

  ‘Didn’t you miss your work?’

  ‘Not a bit. A woman never gets along too well in the business world.’

  ‘That’s hearsay, I suspect.’

  ‘Yes, yes, I know all about that. But I liked having time to myself, planning holidays and so on. We had a little house in France, inherited from Richard’s mother. Did you know he was half French?’

  ‘I did, yes. I thought that gave him an unfair advantage.’

  ‘It may have done. But I loved the house, almost as much as I loved him.’

  These women and their houses, he thought. ‘Have you kept it? The house, I mean.’

  ‘Of course. And what about you? Still in that horrible little flat?’

  He smiled at this return of her old asperity. ‘Yes, still there. You said you’d been ill.’

  ‘I still am. Or perhaps I’ve lost my nerve. That happened when Richard died. Ironic, really, since I was the one who was ill. And anyway we were no longer together. I was in hospital at the time.’

  ‘Any children?’

  ‘No. I had three miscarriages, and they left a certain amount of damage.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. It’s hard to have no children. I know about that. I always longed for them myself.’

  ‘I remember that. I also remember thinking you were still something of a child yourself.’

  ‘That may be true.’

  ‘You never married?’

  ‘I never married, no.’ There was a brief silence which neither was able to break. ‘How is your health now?’ he asked.

  ‘Poor. I have to rest a lot. I usually spend more time in France than in England, so it’s the purest ch
ance that we met like this.’

  ‘I hope we can meet again. What do you like doing? Going to the theatre? The opera? I’d be more than happy to suggest…’

  ‘I don’t go out much,’ she said. ‘Not in London, anyway. Perhaps we can meet again like this. For coffee. I still want to know about you, you know.’

  He saw that she was anxious to get away, her movements slightly agitated.

  ‘Can I walk with you? Get you a taxi?’

  ‘Yes, a taxi. I want to go home. Don’t take it personally, though you probably will. It’s just that I tire so suddenly I feel I might collapse.’

  He glanced at her. She did indeed look tired. He stood while she retrieved her belongings. ‘We’ll find a taxi,’ he said. ‘Take my arm.’

  They walked slowly, in the direction of Duke Street.

  ‘Where do you live now?’

  ‘Bedford Gardens.’

  ‘And the house in France?’

  ‘Near Nice. Saint-Paul-de-Vence.’

  ‘I know it. A beautiful place.’

  ‘Maybe you’ll pay me a visit.’ She was polite now, or maybe absent-minded, concentrating on her own condition.

  ‘There’s one. Do you want me to take you home?’

  ‘No, no. I’m better on my own when I’m like this.’

  He handed her his card. ‘Please get in touch. If there’s anything I can do…’

  He watched the taxi disappear into a maelstrom of lunchtime traffic, regretting that he had not taken her telephone number. He doubted if she would contact him. He did not know if either of them truly desired a further meeting. And yet they had spoken without embarrassment, as if they were old friends. In truth, they were old friends, with more than a shared past behind them. If she did, by any remote chance, get in touch, he would be more than happy to see her again. They were both in need of company. He was surprised, heartened, by the absence of restraint between them. Of course that meant little in these days of easy exchanges. But perhaps it still meant something.

  Love, at this age, was no longer possible. This he knew without a doubt. He had been made aware of the frailties of the body and had no desire to subject himself to further depredations. Nor, he suspected, had she. Neither would they want to engage with the urgent imperatives that had governed them in the past. Indeed, he viewed the idea with some distaste. The business of old age was wisdom and recollection. He hoped that she thought along the same lines.

  In the flat, tired now himself, he stubbed his toe on Mrs Gardner’s bag. He had the idea that he might simply transfer it to Helena’s, now his, flat, and present her with a fait accompli. But that would be discourteous, against his nature. He sat down, promising himself to review this as a possibility, but instead fell into a doze from which he woke with a start two hours later. He smiled. She had done him the service of giving meaning to a meaningless day, and for that, as much as for her company, he was grateful.

  14

  ‘I hate the past,’ she had said. The remark had struck him as significant, and he was resolved, not without misgivings, to find out how much, or how little, that past related to himself.

  This was their third meeting. They were in the same café, at the same hour, and both seemed acceptable. They were marked by the change in their circumstances, content to sit and gaze at people unlike themselves, in whose lives they had little interest beyond furnishing both a distraction and a welcome note of neutrality to their meetings. The weather was fine: commentators were reckoning that it was the mildest February on record. The passage of time before them seemed endless, the seasons unmarked. Sun penetrated the windows and reflected, or induced, a certain amiability. Patrons were few at this hour, most people being at work. Even the customary activity seemed to be in abeyance, as if it were already summer.

  ‘Do you want to sit outside?’ he asked.

  ‘No, no. I feel the cold so much now. I never used to.’

  ‘When do you go to France?’

  ‘In a couple of months. It’s quite an undertaking now that Richard is no longer there to look after things. I might even sell the house. I’ve had plenty of offers. And there are too many memories.

  ‘The past,’ he prompted.

  ‘The dreadful time I had with Richard’s mother, who wanted everything kept as she had left it. I was relieved when she died. I never liked her.’

  This was more like the Sarah he remembered, unabashed at proclaiming her dislikes. That she had been able to do so freely in his presence had always struck him as evidence of a singular robustness, an ability to make unfettered choices. That had been part of her attraction: her fearlessness, although it had put an end to an association that had seemed to him to promise an inevitable conclusion. Although too sensible to envisage a happy ending, he had hoped that the signs were favourable. In truth he did not entirely believe that such an ending was possible; that he chose to put his faith in it was his misconception and his alone. And yet now that she was here, and that they were both able to reflect without acrimony, it seemed to him too good an opportunity to be wasted.

  ‘I loved you, you know.’

  ‘Oh, I know. It was not for want of hearing you tell me. I hated that.’

  ‘Why? That was what I never understood.’

  ‘You were a good man and you were wasting your time.’ (‘Good’ seemed to be little more acceptable than ‘nice’ in this context.)

  ‘What did I do wrong?’

  ‘You were entirely decent. Any other woman would have thought herself lucky, I suppose. I had other ideas. I was enjoying my freedom. I had a career, or thought I had. I had plenty of friends. I didn’t like the idea of sole possession. It rather frightened me. As far as I was concerned you were just what I still thought of as a boyfriend.’

  ‘I wanted more.’

  ‘I wanted less. You were so courtly, so predictable. The dinners, the theatres: it was all so stately. Your idea of a good time was a long walk.’

  ‘I must have bored you. I think I knew that at the time.’

  ‘There was nothing I could put my finger on, just a growing feeling that we were incompatible.’

  ‘You were right. I can hardly, at this distance, blame you.’

  ‘There you go again. Why can’t you call me names, lose your temper? I gave you enough reason to.’

  ‘We wanted different things. I wanted stability. I wanted to come home to the same person every day. Every night.’

  ‘You frightened me. I felt as if I were being taken over, made into something I was not cut out to be. That’s why I was attracted to Richard. He never looked beneath the surface. That suited me perfectly. That was how we got along.’

  ‘It sounds depthless.’

  ‘It was. That was how I liked it. We had fun. We had the house, which we both loved. Although it was the house that became a problem in the end.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Richard’s mother. A typical French matriarch. She insisted that everything remain the same, the way she had always done things. I couldn’t even move the furniture. Richard thought the world of her. But we got across each other so much that I tended to raise objections to her. As she did to me. And Richard’s death killed her, almost literally. In a way it was the only solution. And yet I don’t feel the same about going back. Too many memories.’

  ‘Your health?’

  ‘My health is poor, Paul. I don’t believe in morbid explanations for this. I was unlucky. Not that I was all that keen to have children – it was my mother-in-law who was keen. But I had a bad time and I’m still suffering for it.’

  ‘You’ve changed in some ways, not in others.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me how. You would if you could, I know. But I’ve never shared your taste for analysis. And you must agree, most people get on well enough without it.’

  ‘The unexamined life…’

  ‘There you go again. I’m perfectly happy to meet like this. In fact I think I like you better now than I did then, when I was merely in love with you.�
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  ‘Merely?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Friendship, attraction, call it what you will, is easier to live with. And my state of health makes love seem so ridiculous.’

  ‘Illness alters one’s perception of other people.’

  ‘It’s not just that. I feel old. Well, I am old.’

  ‘Younger than me.’

  ‘Not much. I’m aware that I’ve made mistakes. I sometimes think of them.’

  ‘I think of mine all the time.’

  ‘Yet I still hate this sort of discussion we seem to be having. But I don’t have too many friends these days, and you were always someone I could trust.’

  ‘Are you lonely?’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘What sort of a question is that?’

  ‘The sort that wants an answer.’

  ‘Well, you won’t get one from me. I manage. That’s all I’m going to say. Richard’s friends have all been very supportive. They don’t ask for explanations for everything. You always did. You still do. Are you lonely, indeed.’

  ‘I sometimes wish that someone would ask me the same question. It would give me a chance to…’

  ‘That’s why they don’t ask you. It would set you off for hours.’

  ‘True. But I still think it’s a question that should be asked.’

  ‘Not by me.’

  ‘I’m sorry if I’ve bored you.’

  ‘You’re not boring, exactly. Just something of a problem. But I do know that I can trust you. I always knew that. Now do you think you can find a taxi? That is what happens now. I suddenly run out of energy. Even talking wears me out.’

  He saw that this was the case. Her whole appearance had changed, not solely because her colour had faded but because it was clear that her attention was focused on herself. He wondered if she were really ill, or, more likely, whether he had bored her, as he must have done in the past. And yet she leaned trustingly on his arm as he led her into the street, where she seemed to revive a little.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I’ll take you home.’