The coincidence of this near-encounter is not as extreme as it might appear, for the woman she recognizes is an art historian, and where else should one expect to see art historians but in art galleries? She is Esther Breuer, friend of Shirley’s sister Liz Headleand. Esther is accompanied by a man whom Shirley does not recognize, although Robert Holland does. Robert pretends not to see him. Everybody pretends not to see everybody. Shirley had once, on one of her rare rain-avoiding visits to the National Gallery, seen Esther give a lecture on Neapolitan art and the treatment of the subject of Judith and Holofernes. She cannot remember a word of the lecture, but she remembers the occasion well, and recalls it now.
Shirley and Robert move on, along the main concourse, towards the exit.
‘Do you know who that was?’ asks Robert.
‘No, who?’ says Shirley, guiltily, wondering how well Robert knows Esther, and whether he also by some disastrous misfortune knows Liz.
‘That was Robert Oxenholme, Minister for Sponsorship,’ says Robert Holland.
‘Oh, really?’ says Shirley, relieved. She has never heard of Robert Oxenholme. And they continue to make their way through the lofty halls, towards the taxi, the tomato salad, the steak and Stukeley, as Esther and her Robert linger in front of Moreau’s ambiguous, quaintly obscene, well-endowed Jason, who is trampling on a small feathery monster. Jason’s penis is tied up in a large pink silk ribbon, like a birthday present, and the sorceress Medea stands behind him with an expression of half-amused expectation.
Half an hour later, Esther Breuer and Robert Oxenholme settle into their little green basketwork chairs in the museum diningroom, in front of a reserved table covered with starched napery. Overhead, the chandeliers glitter. The waiters are attentive. Esther slips off her shoes, under the table: she too has Museum Foot, though not as badly as Shirley, for her shoes are soft and flat, not high and pinching.
‘I think,’ says Esther, as a waiter covers her diminutive lap with damask, ‘that I saw Liz’s sister, somewhere down there.’
‘Really?’ says Robert, without hesitation, as he reaches for the wine list.
‘I
think
so,’ says Esther. ‘Rather surprising, really. One wouldn’t expect to see her here. And she seemed to be with a strange man.’
‘Then you’d better not tell Liz,’ says Robert Oxenholme, pondering the vintages of white burgundies. He is not really interested in Liz or her sister. And neither, at this moment, much, is Esther. She has other things on her mind. One of them is Robert Oxenholme, who has just asked her to marry him, and the other is the museum itself, which she has just seen for the first time. What does she make of it, what does Robert make of it? Do they agree that the impressionists and post-impressionists are ill hung? Do they think there is too much junk, too much kitsch, too many multicoloured onyx and marble maidens? What do they make of the architectural conversion? What will they make of this restaurant and their approaching dinner? The view, they agree, is beyond reproach. The Seine flows beyond and beneath their repast.
‘This restaurant is frightfully expensive, Robert,’ says Esther, peering at the list.
‘Is that a criticism or a complaint?’ he asks.
‘Well,’ says Esther. ‘I’ll say one thing for this Museum. I haven’t seen a single sponsorship advertisement. Not one. Nothing about Degas by courtesy of Dunlop tyres, or Maillol sponsored by Michelin, or Renoir by Renault, or any of that kind of stuff you have to pretend you’re so keen on. The French spent government money on this. Is that right?’
‘What about a Meursault, for a change?’ asks Robert.
‘Well, am I right or not?’
‘There were many donations,’ says Robert vaguely. ‘In lieu of inheritance tax. It’s a different system.’
‘Donations,’ says Esther. ‘Yes. From artists and collectors. From the Redons, not the Renaults.’
‘Those Redons are amazing,’ says Robert, distracted. ‘Amazing.’
And they talk, for a while, about the paintings. The meal proceeds, discreetly, smoothly. The lights of the city shimmer in the dark flowing water. Esther and Robert are both Italian Renaissance scholars, after their fashion: art nouveau, symbolism, the
fin de siècle
are not their field, but they enjoy wandering in a foreign land, and they are still under a strong enchantment. Robert talks well, about painting: he does not spend all his time discussing cost-effectiveness and subsidies and admission prices and lighting, although Esther teases him about these preoccupations. He likes the paintings, he understands them. He does not see them as walls of money. Esther wonders, if she marries Robert, will life proceed smoothly, well attended, into old age and the next century, the next millennium? With waiters and white burgundy’ at beck and call? It is a seductive prospect, and Robert knows it. But there are great gaps in their friendship, great holes and absences, subjects of which they never speak, cannot speak. Will it do? Can she have any faith in the fact that Robert seems to think it will do?
Now Robert is talking about the Puvis de Chavannes and Augustus John. The poor fisherman. It is a great painting, he says. The greatest portrait of poverty ever painted. He enthuses. The poor fisherman, with his sad rod at a sad angle. Impotence incarnate. The little boat, the flat water, the babe among the flowers on the shore. The discretion of the sacred, the high horizon. The resignation, the patience. He speaks of John’s gypsies, of Gwen John’s portraits of Dorelia, of Harold Harvey’s Cornish fishwife.
Esther watches him. He is charming, he is rich, he is well connected, he is intelligent, he has a good job, he has a sort of title, he has curly hair, he shares her interests, and he is interested in marrying her. Why?
Esther has never been married. She cannot imagine what it would be like. The risk-taking part of her, the Bohemian freelance part of her, is attracted, perversely, to this gamble, to this gamble of security. She who has never covered her bets, never secured her interests or insured her life or possessions or committed herself to any one person—shall she not take the greatest risk of all?
She cannot decide whether marrying Robert would be taking a risk or throwing in the sponge. And if the sponge,
what
sponge? Is the sponge Elena Volpe, the woman with whom Esther has been living for the last year in Bologna?
Esther does not know. She does not wish to be moved by the fact that life with Elena in Bologna has been less than easy. She had looked upon Bologna as a forbidden dream, had succumbed to its temptations with a slight guilt, seduced by the architecture of the city and the gracious ardour of Elena’s protestations. She had abandoned for Bologna and Elena her flat off Ladbroke Grove and a life of austere eccentricity, of solitude and concentration, of a narrow clear depth. But what she has embraced is neither soft nor simple. Or not, at least, for her. She is too old to learn new ways. Elena is young, still in her thirties, a fully paid-up, radical-feminist-lesbian-Marxist. It is easy for her. But for Esther it is impossible.
Had these options been available when she was young, Esther thinks she might have chosen them. Might have led a happier, richer, more ‘normal’ life. A less devious, more deviant life. But they were not available, and it is too late now, and Elena—well, yes, Elena
irritates
her.
Will Robert Oxenholme start to irritate her soon? Any minute now, perhaps? How can one tell?
He has assured her that they need not have a conventional marriage, a humdrum monogamous marriage. She will be free, he will be free.
Then why marry at all, she had asked. And he had answered, devastatingly, ‘for fun’.
Esther, feeling for her shoes under the table, suddenly longs for her dark little London flat, with its red room, its blue room, its dying palm, its view over a dank unweeded garden, and its murderer upstairs. But it has gone, it has been demolished. She is homeless now, her boats are burned. She will have to wander on to the end of time. Of course she cannot marry Robert. Nor can she go on living with Elena. Where shall she go?
Robert is finishing off his pudding. He looks pleased with himself. He enjoys paintings, and he enjoys his food, and he enjoys the company of Esther Breuer. He has put himself on offer. There he is. Well polished, cultivated, not too heterosexual,
fin de siècle, fin de millennium
Man. He is on offer, but what is the price? There is no tag, no label. What will Esther have to pay for this smiling bargain, if she takes it? What would it cost, to become the Honourable Mrs Robert Oxenholme?
Howard Beaver has told Alix that he has made her his literary executor, but he will not show her his will.
‘I don’t think that’s fair,’ said Alix. ‘I refuse. You can’t make me an executor without my consent. Can you?’
‘I told my solicitor you were delighted,’ said Beaver.
‘Well, you can tell him different. Take my name off. I won’t do it.’
‘Don’t be sulky, Bowen. You’ll find it’s to your advantage.’
‘I don’t want your money. Or your manuscripts. I’ve had enough of your manuscripts. I’m up to my ears in them. It just means more trouble. I bet you’ve left some ridiculous bequests that will mess up my declining years.’
‘I’m going to live for ever, anyway, so the question is academic,’ he says.
‘Hma!’ snorts Alix. She decides to take the offensive. The moment is ripe. ‘Beaver,’ she says, threateningly, putting down her thick white cup noisily in its chipped saucer.
‘Yes?’
‘I don’t believe you
ever
worked on
transition
. I’ve looked through the complete run, and there’s no mention of you at all. Anywhere.’
She stares at him. Does he look guilty? He stares back.
‘I was only the tea boy,’ he says after a while. ‘They don’t list tea boys, in the credits.’
‘I thought you said you were assistant editor. In that interview you gave on Radio 3.’
‘Did I?’
‘According to the transcript.’
‘All right,’ he says. ‘I was only there for a month or two. I admit it. So what?’
‘And what
did
you do in Paris?’
‘None of your business. I had a job. I worked.’
‘But not on
transition
.’
‘Not for long.’
Alix sighs. She can never get a straight answer from him about Paris. There is some mystery there, some deliberate obfuscation. She continues to open his post, using a hideous crudely carved wooden African paper knife. Given to Beaver by a fan. Or so he says. But how can one trust a word the old chap utters? He is looking ghastly today, his eyes are bloodshot, the lower lids droop to expose a yellow-white fleshy inner rim. He has been annoyed by a letter from a literary charity, begging for a manuscript or a legacy. Well, he is pretending he is annoyed. Really, he is flattered.
She lays aside various items of junk mail and attacks a more promising crisp white envelope with a handwritten address. It contains an invitation from Fanny Kettle,
AT HOME
, 7.30
ONWARDS
, it says. She smiles at it, hands it over.
‘Whoever are Ian and Fanny Kettle?’ he wants to know.
‘He’s an archaeologist. She’s a bit crazy, I think. But he’s a proper archaeologist. He did those chariot burials at Eastwold. You’ve got his books. You may even have read them.’
‘Have you been invited?’
‘Yes. We got ours this morning too.’
‘Will you go?’
‘Maybe.’
‘I think
I
will,’ says Beaver. ‘You and Brian can take me along. I could do with an outing. What do they drink, the Kettles?’
‘Quite a lot, I should think.’
‘Well, I’ll come along with you.’ Alix looks fierce. ‘If you’ll let me. Please,’ he adds.
‘Oh, all right,’ says Alix. She gets up, puts the invitation on the mantelpiece, by the tea caddy.
‘La Tene burials.
Viereckschanzen
. The only ones in the country,’ meditates Beaver. ‘Do you know what that chap Hardwick argues? He argues that there was a ritual element involved in the filling in of Iron Age wells with old bones and domestic rubbish. What do you say, Bowen?’
‘I say, rubbish,’ says Alix. ‘No more ritual than the contents of your dustbin. Did Mrs Phillips come yesterday? No? I thought not. Why don’t you get a proper home help? I do enough washing up at home.’
‘I wonder if your friend’s sister fell down a well,’ says Beaver, provocatively. ‘Still no news of her, you say?’
‘Not a word,’ says Alix, rather snappily. She cannot help feeling that others, perhaps even Liz, feel that she, Alix Bowen, is somehow responsible for Shirley Harper, somehow concerned in her fate, which seems to Alix absurd: just because they now live in the same city and have supped together once or twice, does that make Alix Shirley’s keeper? Has she got to be
everybody’s
keeper? She hardly knew the woman.
‘Are you going to send anything to the begging authors?’ she asks, to change the subject.
‘We could send them a poem,’ he said. ‘Just one poem. We could send them the manuscript of that one you found the other day. “The Druid’s Egg.” I quite like that poem. It should be worth a few bob. First published in
Horizon
, I think.’
Alix shakes her head, but says nothing. It certainly didn’t appear in
Horizon—
more likely
Penguin New Writing
, she thinks, but she hasn’t tracked it down yet.
‘And what was a Druid’s egg?’ she wants to know.
‘Who knows? An oak apple? A dried puff ball? It’s from Pliny. Story of a defendant in a lawsuit who was found to have a Druid’s egg on his person in court.’
‘What would he have that for?’
‘Witchcraft. Didn’t do him much good. They executed him. And who was more superstitious, he that had it in his pocket, or they that chopped off his head?’
‘So
that
was what your poem was about. Thanks for the gloss. I sometimes wonder why I bother to read poetry at all.’
‘You haven’t read your Pliny? It’s charming stuff.’
Alix shrugged. ‘Not really, no. Only bits and pieces. Here and there.’
‘Nobody ever reads more than bits and pieces. No need to. A magpie mind, that’s what you need to make poems. A bit here, a bit there. Little nests, little pickings. You don’t want a world view. Just scraps.’