A Friend from England (14 page)

‘The Titanic,’ he said. ‘Fine. See you there about seven.’

In the event I got there first and had to wait for him. I took a seat at the bar and ordered some fruit juice, then, thinking I looked a little too obvious, or rather, thinking I looked obvious when I had no plans for being obvious, I moved towards a table near the door. The place had filled up while I had had my back to it; sounds
of laughter and a haze of smoke gave it an old-established air, although it was still fairly new. I rather lazily watched a knot of people who were evidently celebrating something or other, probably a business deal of some kind, as they were all men. A pearl grey flannel back evoked some vague reminiscence of something I had seen but it was not until the man wearing it turned round that I saw that it was Michael. He was in his usual state of hilarity, tossing back his leonine hair between each bout of laughter. He looked not in the least disconcerted at seeing me, but made no move to greet me. He did however move aside from the group he was with to raise his hand and give me his habitual wink. It was when he lowered his eyelid, in the glare of an overhead spotlight, that I saw that he was wearing blue eyeshadow. As he rejoined his friends, and burst into yet more laughter, I further saw that the glossiness of his lips and cheeks owed nothing to the suns of Spain, but had been obtained with instruments nearer to hand.

M
Y
first thought was that Dorrie must never know. The others, presumably, already did. Heather had found out, in her incurious way, and no doubt the secret was contained somewhere in that glacial bedroom; I had visions of Michael preparing for his nights out in the north light of those large windows, the pitiless and undifferentiated glare almost encouraging him to add colour to the scene. Heather would have told her father, no doubt trusting him to solve the problem, untie the knot, abolish the so inconvenient husband, who might or might not be a fraud. How did I know? I had never come across this little idiosyncrasy before. The Colonel had of course always known; hence the anxiety that was so striking a feature of his parental attitudes. His pre-marital behaviour now struck me as desperate, his relaxation at the wedding, and his sporting proposals made when Michael and Heather were away, as obscene. But Dorrie had no notion, I was quite sure. Dorrie still thought of her daughter as happily married, ‘adjusting’ to her new status, and perhaps a little ‘tired’ on account of it. Eccentricities of this sort could never figure in Dorrie’s view of the world, where all was truly for the best, and patience was rewarded, and everything came to those who waited, and, naturally, the best was always worth waiting for. And so Dorrie must be protected, from her own incomprehension, as much as from anything else. I would say nothing, to any of them. The burden of this secret must be borne by each of us in isolation.

I left the wine bar without waiting for Robin: I would talk to him next day at the shop. I felt humbled and embarrassed as if the revelation affected me personally.
Out in the safety of the street I blushed when I remembered Michael’s childish hilarity. It was the inconsequence of his behaviour that offended me: he had not appeared to mind that I had unmasked him but had gone on smiling and winking with as much fervour as if we were the best of friends. I began to wonder if he were in fact mad, or whether this were some super-refinement of the travel business, an attempt to persuade others of the beneficent results of living in the sun. Whatever the explanation he would have to go. I could see that. Even if Heather armed herself with the roughest of good humour, she could not be expected to tolerate a farce of this kind. There was something peculiarly menacing in the way the marriage had been engineered, as if the victim, in this case Heather, had been of no importance whatsoever; all that had mattered had been to provide a cover for this incorrigible child, so that he might enjoy his little games under the cloak of respectability. I wondered if I had missed any signs, if any of us had. But looking back, all I could see was that dreadful eagerness. And Dorrie had been as eager as the Colonel: I saw that now. In her desire to bring her daughter to that longed-for apotheosis, she had not minded too much that the bridegroom was of rather inferior quality. Dorrie was easily persuaded: her shopping expeditions proved that. And since she imputed all faults to herself (‘I hope I did the right thing’) she would no doubt quash any little misgiving she might have had before it even reached the level of consciousness.

And Oscar could not have known. Whatever instinctive objection he had had to Michael, whatever reluctance he had felt to the idea of Michael as a man, had surely been of a nebulous and general nature, for his own life had only prepared him for problems that were straightforward and in the nature of things, to be tackled with the patience and good humour that were
his professional attributes. Men like Oscar never discussed sex, let alone sexual peculiarities or aberrations; they would have felt a strong distaste at the very idea of these subjects being brought under the public gaze. In the days when we had gone to the theatre together I had learnt very quickly that he was only at ease with the noble passions. He was moved, I could see, by the idea of great and impossible love, the sort of love for which kingdoms were sacrificed, and which might prove to be fatal. Indeed, my strongest impression of those evenings we had spent at the opera was of the way that he and Dorrie had clasped hands tightly when such a love was heralded, as if in no circumstances could it be withstood, let alone rejected. They were curiously romantic for their age. For all Dorrie’s joy in weddings, and the pride she took in Heather’s engagement, it was true love which held her, which brought a look of mature recognition to her face, which convinced her of its inevitability, despite the warning signs.

I had been softened and amused by the solemnity with which they had accepted all the farrago of romantic passion. For to me it was a farrago, both on the stage and in real life, something archaic and unmanageable, unsettling and devastating, and to succumb to such a passion would be a quite voluntary step towards self-destruction. When I thought of those great operatic emotions I felt, for a moment, a quaking, a dissolution, as I had when I surrendered to the drowning waters of my dreams. I had no doubt that I would find the real thing as distasteful as I had that commotion, that violent and threatening disturbance that I had experienced when I consented for that one and only time to go with Robin to his health club, and immersed myself, as if fated to try to please him, in those blue and chemical waters. It was a mistake I would not make again.

I saw that I had no part to play in what must come next. If Heather had chosen not to speak to me, not to
confide in me, there was no way that I could let her know that I had discovered her secret. I owed it to her pride to represent myself as passive and uninformed. And I did not see how I could be of any use to her unless I joined her in her dilemma. Truth to tell, I was as ignorant of what to do as she probably was herself: an annulment, I thought vaguely, should be arranged, but I had no doubt that the Colonel would put up a furious opposition to this. And Michael would of course be governed by what his father thought he should do. And there would inevitably be an unpleasantness surrounding this action, for many people would demand an explanation. I could see those sisters of Dorrie’s retrieving the upper hand, sincerely shocked by the misfortune that had overtaken her but settling in quite comfortably to this new dispensation, which would return their little sister to them as innocent, and as in need of help and protection as she had always been. And did one return wedding presents in the case of an annulment, or were they just thrown in, as if the recipient probably needed or deserved some sort of consolation prize? I saw all sorts of indignity ahead. Yet the pretence could not be sustained. However impermeable Heather appeared to be, she could not be expected to put up with this outrage, this insult. I felt hugely angry on her behalf. Did the Sandberg ménage think her so stupid that she would not notice what was going on, or, worse, that she would not mind? I could think of no more gross behaviour to a woman than this indifference, this coarse bungling of her emotions. Whatever women put up with from men, they should never countenance indifference. Any violation of inner secrets is preferable. This was a surprising thought to me, for I usually err on the side of implacability, but for a moment or two I identified so completely with Heather and her gentle upbringing that it was I who had issued from that suburban villa, from that virginal bedroom with the
apple tree outside the window; it was I who now sat in moral darkness in that pompous flat, with the wedding presents still inviolate in their cupboards, and only the little cat called Phoebe for company.

I no longer blamed Heather for confiding in her father. I felt for them both in what would inevitably be a sentiment of utter disarray, of helplessness, and, worse, of embarrassment. I could see that it was not good for a father and a daughter to meet on those terms, in such a situation, and that it might colour their relationship for some time, perhaps for ever. I could not think of a solvent for this situation. These things, after all, did not happen. To forfeit one’s innocence in such circumstances was unimaginable. I could see further that Heather would not reclaim her innocence unless something utterly unexpected happened to her; if she stayed the same, she would stay tainted. My heart ached for her, as I thought of her trying to lead a normal life, to go to her shop, although there was little enough for her to do there now, with Jean-Pierre installed, or to sit out the time that she was condemned to spend with her husband. Significantly, the Colonel had begun to make himself scarce: I could picture him tiptoeing like a marauder from the scene. No doubt he would return if he sensed that trouble was about to be made. By ‘trouble’ he would understand any righting of the wrong in which he had been instrumental. And Michael would of course profess smiling ignorance of what the trouble might be. One of the main difficulties of talking to Michael had always been to try to get him to be serious. He spoke in clichés, and no doubt some psychic trick had taught him to think in clichés. They would get no help from Michael, who would maintain his unfocussed
bonhomie
until such time as events really threatened him with exposure or, more probably, dispossession, when he would instantly break down into hysterical panic. Trying to deal with him in that condition
would be even worse than trying to breach his habitual radiant indifference. And yet I still felt a twinge of pity for him and his terrible life. I could see his frightened face, as in fact I had never seen it, or had seen it only in that misty anteroom in which all these sightings of mine took place. And I could see him back with the Colonel, cramping his style again, and the Colonel’s lady friends not too pleased about it. Everyone would lose face. It was not to be borne. But the only alternative was to go on as if nothing had happened. That was not to be borne either. There was no way out.

I remember that the weather deteriorated sharply at about this time, as if in sympathy. I awoke every morning to the sound of water gurgling through a broken pipe into a drain blocked with leaves; the sound of that steady surreptitious progress, the thought of the puddle that would inevitably form and into which I would be forced to put my hand, produced all the usual shudders in me. Finally, when it looked as if my little courtyard would flood, I had to ask Robin to do it. All day we sat with the lights on as a grey mist of fine rain blurred the street outside. Customers were few, and those who did come made a mess with their dripping umbrellas. We were constantly mopping the floor, and trying to protect the stock from wet hands and elbows. I was exasperated by all this water which prevented me from going out or feeling well; my eyelids seemed to thicken and my vision to blur, my legs to stiffen and my ankles to swell, as if I were really the victim of a physical affliction, an allergy to the dripping skies which rendered me inactive, incompetent, ineffective. I chose to look on the weather as an element which would put a stop to all social movements; I chose to think of everyone as immobile as myself. In this way I managed to still my conscience over my silence. I knew that my sympathy for Heather should have prompted me to take
some action, to proffer some sort of invitation, even if it was refused as mournfully as I expected, but I could think of no way in which I could be helpful to her if the truth lay unexamined between us; I lacked the patience to let her fears subside in my presence. I was always slightly rough with her, as if I could galvanize her in this way, but it was never a success. I lacked gentleness, I supposed; perhaps she was right not to trust me. I felt wretched when I faced up to this truth. I felt as if I had accepted friendship on false pretences. And yet I was not sure that Heather had ever really accepted me as a friend. In some ways I was almost sure that she disliked me. I think she disapproved of me, thought me shallow, too pleased with myself. Although I had never confided in her I rather fancy she knew quite a lot about me, and what she knew did not amuse her. Heather was shrewd, and she kept her own counsel. In many ways she would have made a very responsible adult if fate had allowed her to be one. I knew that I would have to make some sort of gesture sooner or later, if only to relieve my own anxiety and sore feelings on her behalf, but I kept putting it off until the weather improved; this veil of water prevented me from thinking clearly, deprived me of initiative. I was always glad when night fell, releasing me from any obligation to initiate action. I was hardly going to invite them to the theatre now.

The weather put a stop to all my activities. Every evening I got into bed earlier and earlier. It was as if I were travelling backwards, back into childhood. I slept voraciously and was aware of dreaming copiously, although I always forgot my dreams as soon as I awoke. In any event, these dreams were of no consequence to me or of interest to anyone else. Down this dwindling corridor of reminiscence, as if some shreds of the night were slow to leave me, I saw the two white-clad figures of Heather and Michael dancing at their wedding, I saw Oscar starting up with a cry of alarm, I saw the Colonel
laughing with relief. Whatever I saw I did not like. And all this was involuntary, the product of those unconscious hours when I was not aware that I was seeing anything at all. The mornings found me irritable, unsettled. I put off speaking to Robin about the partnership, dithered about completing the purchase of the flat. All that was required of me was a little decisiveness, and yet some kind of sick caution held me back. For a time I was afraid of making any kind of movement. I suppose that I was generally confused about initiating any kind of action. I knew what I should do, in many directions, and yet I could not get myself to do any of it.