Falling (47 page)

Sometimes she thought, almost with terror, about the cottage; empty and deserted but full of him with her, of her excitement and joy at being able to trust that she was so loved, and now full
too of some unknown evil undercurrent of his plans. Sometimes she thought that if he had succeeded in getting her to marry him, he would then have murdered her – for whatever she owned or had
– and gone on to the next woman: an exaggeration, possibly, but one that she could not absolutely dismiss. She said something about it to Anna, who had agreed – quite calmly –
that indeed it could have been his option. Being able to talk about him in that way became a step away from mindless pain. She would not go back to the cottage. Knowing that, she could allow
herself to look at it, to see it as it had been when she discovered it: the slates on the roof blue from a recent shower, the white walls streaked with livid green where a drainpipe had leaked; the
cobwebs on the window in the kitchen; the mossy smell of airless damp, the unkempt ragged garden – a desolation of weeds. And then its transformation, the cleaning and the painting, the very
simple furnishing that turned it quickly into somewhere that she longed to return to. She remembered lying in her hospital bed in Los Angeles, imagining herself there, sitting by her fire in the
long, low-ceilinged room with its pale red walls and its white bookcases waiting to be filled. She would garden and cook and write: it was to be a new life and she would not mind being alone there
at all. And then, because of his first letters, she had begun to imagine the garden that he wrote about, the charming scented place that she was to enjoy.

It was half-way through the second week before she felt able to consider work – the play – the idea for which was so embryonic that it could not stand much sustained attention.
Possibilities, details so small as to appear useless, pieces of bone structure that did not seem to fit with one another, and – more than anything – what it was all
for,
occurred
and vanished like gnats in summer air, or the tiny indeterminate specks that come from holes in the cornea, gone before she could record their erratic mazy movement.

When she said something of this to Anna and asked what she had thought of the treatment, Anna had simply said, ‘I don’t think you were ready to write it. I think your attention was
otherwise engaged.’ She smiled with an ironic sweetness that left the truth with no sting in it. It was perfectly true.

And eventually, she began to notice where she was – the climate, warm, scented air, the clear Greek light, the dazzling whites of the houses and the low walls that surrounded them, the
chequered shade afforded by the dusty plane trees in the village square, the vine-covered terrace of the restaurant, and the pure, clear, beautiful sea that changed throughout the day from colours
of verdigris and jade to the richest ink blue and slowly darkened as the sun sank until the random glitter of crocus lights from the fishing boats decorated its blackness.

The evening before they were to leave she tried to thank both of them for the time they had given her. They had returned from the restaurant, were settling on the sunset terrace, but there was a
little light coming from the open kitchen window – she felt concealed enough to say such things that brought tears to her eyes which they would not see.

‘You have made the whole difference ... I cannot imagine ... I am so . . . fortunate to have either of you, let alone both . . .’

‘Yes, we are rather marvellous,’ Anthony said, ‘but it is good of you to say so. Darling Daisy, if you don’t know how much we treasure you by now you never
will.’

‘But I do.’

‘She does,’ Anna said.

‘I do rather dread going back.’

‘Of course you do. This isn’t ordinary life – it’s been an interlude. It’s always nasty having to stop being in them.’

‘Katya will be pleased to have you back: she so wanted to come – to be here with you. But she’d promised the children their London treat.’

‘You’d think they’d rather come here than be stuck in London.’

‘No,
no.
They want to go on the Underground, and have hamburgers at McDonald’s and go to that swimming pool that’s got a wave machine and a water chute. Oh, yes, and
have tea in an hotel. I don’t know why they thought of that, but Caroline was mad for it. I staked Katya for that.’

‘You have been a fairy godfather to her.’

‘Careful what you say. Not a bad fairy, anyway.’ He passed his hand lightly over the top of her head.

‘You have got the most staggering hair. You’ll get over that horrid old shit, you’ll see.’

‘Yes.’ His demotion was curiously comforting: he shrank in significance.

‘Yes. I can even imagine,’ she said uncertainly, because it was not quite true, ‘even imagine really knowing that he never loved me at all. Not for a second.’ She looked
at them. Maddeningly, her eyes filled. It was not yet true, but she did know then that it
would
be – both true and, eventually, acceptable.

She has left me. This last, most terrible blow has knocked me out. Everything going so well, more or less according to plan, you might say, and then she slips off to London on
some excuse about her daughter. Obviously a ruse, I can see that now, but I would never have suspected her of dishonesty. The shock! I am peacefully asleep, and that queer is standing over me
telling me to get up – there’s a letter for me in the kitchen.

‘I have learned a lot about your past that you did not tell me, as a result of which I never want to see or hear from you again . . .’
What
had she learned? That was my first
thought, although I gave nothing of that away to the two standing over me at the table. He’d brought a pal with him – wouldn’t have the guts to face me alone. He’d have been
right about that: for a moment I was filled with such rage that I could have strangled him with my bare hands.

I tried argument, of course, but I knew really that, somehow or other, the game was up. Then it turned out that the other one was a policeman, and that did put the wind up me. I know I
don’t stand a chance against them. Twenty minutes to pack. The policeman followed me out to the shed; it was lucky that I had everything in carrier-bags – my writing, my magazines, my
money, all paper and stuffed in a tin so he couldn’t know what anything was. I stowed it all away in the bag she’d brought down with her files, and then, without so much as a cup of
tea, they bundled me off to the station. I’d thought of going back to the cottage when I’d made sure that they’d left it, but they got my key off me. The policeman warned me not
to go back and it seemed best not to say anything. I told them I had no money for a ticket – at that point I had no desire to go anywhere – and the queer fished a bunch of notes out of
his jeans’ pocket and bought me one. ‘A one-way ticket to Edinburgh,’ he said, with a nasty smile. That lot are always spiteful, if they get the chance.

Then I was in the train on its way north. They said I’d have to change for Edinburgh and I didn’t answer them. What was the point of going there? Or anywhere else, for that
matter?

What can have possessed her to go like that, giving me no chance at all to find out what she knew, what she minded, how I could mend the fences? She was in love with me – I’m sure of
that – or was she simply sexually infatuated? But infatuation should have done; it has served before, for as long as I have wanted it to.

They must have told her I wasn’t good enough for her, not middle class enough, didn’t have enough money or a nice car, the things women are supposed to go for.

I just don’t have any luck, that’s what it is. In spite of all my efforts, the time and trouble and, yes, intelligence I put into getting my life right, it goes wrong. People are so
selfish, so concerned for their own welfare that they can’t look at anything excepting from their own point of view.

She’ll miss me in bed. She’ll remember that for a long time. I hope she aches for it: it would serve her right. A woman of her age isn’t going to find it easy to get a man to
want her enough to do it. I’m not usual there. In fact, she probably hasn’t realized what she has missed out on.

What to do now? I thought of returning to Northampton, having another go at Hazel – turn over a new leaf and see if I could persuade her to change her mind about selling her parents’
bungalow, and we’d go off to Wales or somewhere and I’d grow organic vegetables. I’d taken the ring, which Daisy had left by the bed; it would do as a peace-offering . . . But I
discarded the notion. I hadn’t the heart for it. It would be a heavy, unrewarding slog to bring Hazel round.

I realized that I badly needed a drink, and went along the train to the buffet car where I bought four small bottles of tonic to go with eight minute bottles of vodka. I helped myself to four
plastic cups. ‘That’ll keep them happy,’ I said to the barman. I wanted to be able to return for more without comment.

The drink helped. I was able to think a bit more clearly. How on earth had they found out about Charley? And what
else
had they found out? There have, naturally (I have lived a long
time), been incidents I hadn’t mentioned to Daisy: the short but disastrous affair with Carol, which had forced me to leave Bristol, and then that divorcee I picked up on the boat. What was
her name? Jackie something or other. She’d pursued me in person and then through some agency because she’d left her credit card about and blamed me for what happened with it. I
didn’t think much of any of that would have come to light. But Rackham – I had made a serious mistake in mentioning Rackham, and maybe they’d gone poking about there. Not being
able to smoke on these trains is monstrous. My nerves were still on edge. I went to the lavatory and had a quick fag, but quite soon someone rattled the door so I had to get rid of it.

When it comes to the point, people are just out for themselves. It doesn’t matter what you try to do for them, it’s never enough and you get no gratitude.

I finished the vodka.

What was
she
doing now? I tried to imagine her, sitting in some smart restaurant in London with her daughter and that woman I’ve never trusted. She’d gone to London in her
denim skirt and red and yellow shirt. They’d probably take her shopping: women are material creatures and spending money always seems to cheer them up, but really, given what she’d done
to me, I need not care too much what she felt like then, or ever. Water under the bridge – that was the way to look at it.

As I went along the train to get ‘a second round’ from the barman, he pointed out that the train was stopping shortly and it would be all change. So I took the drink and went back to
get my stuff off the luggage rack.

The train for Edinburgh was on a platform the other side of the station: it was not due for some minutes so I bought a ham roll and a packet of cigarettes from the station buffet.

Platforms are desolate places. Not many people were waiting for the train. I was still in two minds about catching it, but no alternative presented itself. When it came in, I simply got on to it
without thought.

It was a very long train, of the kind that has long, open carriages, interspersed with closed compartments and a corridor. As the train drew out of the station I started to walk forward through
the coaches in search of a closed compartment that was not full of children or garrulous businessmen. Eventually, right at the far end, I came across a first-class compartment that contained only
one passenger. She wore a grey linen suit and her shoes and bag were black, real lizard skin, and she had very fine, grape-coloured stockings. There was a book on her lap and she looked up from it
as I slid open the door, peering at me over her small, smart spectacles.

‘Is this seat taken?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘I hoped that it wasn’t.’ I sat down opposite her. She glanced at me and then continued to read. My magazines were not suitable for railway reading, so I stared out of the
window – at the dull north-Midlands countryside. Time had to go by, but during it I had the chance to observe that she was somewhere in her late forties, that she bleached her hair and that
she was making conscious efforts to ignore me.

The train entered a tunnel and the compartment was dark except for my companion’s reading light, which shone down on her book leaving the rest of her in shadow, and I almost invisible to
her.

For the last time, I considered the blow that Daisy had dealt me – the poor return it made for all my trouble. She had left me and the shock of it was still appalling. Then I decided to
think of it no more, or perhaps to think of it merely as an incident – an unfortunate incident, which really, when one came to think about it, could have turned out very much worse.

The train emerged into grey daylight, and I caught her eye and smiled, but I said nothing. One should never seem to rush anything on these occasions: I would wait because I knew that in the end
she would be the first to speak.

Praise for Elizabeth Jane Howard

‘She is one of those novelists who shows, through her work, what the novel is for . . . She helps us to do the necessary thing – open our eyes and our
hearts’

Hilary Mantel

‘Magnificent, addictive . . . deeply enjoyable, beautifully written’

The Times

‘Elegantly constructed and intelligently and wittily written . . . remarkable’

Daily Telegraph

‘A compelling storyteller, shrewd and accurate in human observation, with a fine ear for dialogue and an evident pleasure in the English language and landscape’

Guardian

‘Howard is such an astute observer of human behaviour. She conveys volumes with tiny, brilliant touches . . . This is Howard’s true magic: her humanity transcends
the individual’

Sunday Times

‘Love and relationships are the abiding themes of Howard’s novels . . . [this is] a novel about constants – loyalty, kindness, compassion – and like
the best of its characters, never less than heart-warming and wise’