“Poor old boy. He’s right out of his league with these people. I’m actually sorry for him.”
Charlotte enjoys seeing Rose in this jokey frame of mind. Indeed, Rose seems in high spirits at the moment, which is further relief for Charlotte because it makes her feel that her continuing presence can’t be too irksome. And it will end, she tells herself, though right now repatriation to her own home looks a rather distant prospect. There has been a glitch. She slipped while pottering in the kitchen, and gave her hip a knock—nothing too drastic but enough to have her hobbling once more, with pain triumphantly nudging in. There! says Rose’s expression: so you think you could manage back on your own?
With time on her hands—too much time—Charlotte is much given to reflection. She reflects upon the past, she reflects—with irritation—upon the present. The past is not gone, but is now that abiding ballast without which she would capsize. She visits constantly, in appreciative recognition of that moment, this place, those people. Her head is full of what was said—what Tom said, what Rose said, in a different incarnation, young Rose, child Rose. Marvelous, she thinks, the way in which it all goes on still, not lost, surging up unsummoned, indestructible. Until I go.
The present is less inviting, as material for reflection. The present is a matter of nagging concerns, of hour-to-hour negotiations. Should she or should she not take a painkiller? Check again that date for the next clinic appointment. Will Rose be cross if she suggests doing something useful, such as a bit of ironing? When, when will she be able to go home? And then, like sudden bursts of sunlight, there arrive, as ever, those glad moments: the silver sliver of a new moon against the evening sky, lilac—snuffed as she shuffles to the gate, the sound of the girl next door practicing the piano.
And Anton presenting her with a bunch of creamy tulips: “For thank you, because now I read. Nearly I read.” And it is true; Anton’s reading has progressed apace. No wonder he was cheerful, flourishing his tulips.
Anton has little time for reflection. You do not do much reflecting when engaged in heavy manual labor, and when not working he
cannot spare the time; he needs to read, to sleep, to pay attention. The climate of the flat is certainly not conducive to reflection: television, card games, beer, banter. Nevertheless, there are crevices each day into which he finds himself retreating for moments, for a minute or two; he is surprised by satisfaction, by a sense of possibilities. It was right to come here; soon I shall read this language well enough to offer myself for a real job; and see—it is spring, nearly summer, feel the sunshine.
The past, for Anton, is indeed ballast, but a freight that he does not particularly wish to investigate. When his former wife surfaces, he tells her to go away—polite but firm. Childhood and youth are welcome, but he doesn’t have time to dwell there. Family and friends deserve a wave, a nod, he is glad of them, he values them, but he cannot spare them too much attention at the moment.
This moment. This now. This present which begins to feel less alien, which begins to feel like a place he can inhabit, where he can spread himself, take charge of his life perhaps, cease to be driven by circumstance.
He sits composing a text message, during the lunch break on the site: Thank you for yours. I have look . . . looked . . . on the map for Richmond Park, and in the book. Yes, I think very good for a walk.
“Unsatisfactory,” says Henry to Marion. “One wants to know where one is with this project. Ah, here’s Corrie with the pudding. Trifle today—excellent. A small helping, Corrie—well, not too small.”
Marion eyes the trifle. “Gorgeous—but just a bit for me, Corrie, please. So many of these things come to nothing, you know, Uncle Henry.”
“Really? Not a world I’m familiar with, of course, but I do feel one could contribute.” Henry digs into the trifle, appreciatively. “I’ve rather revised my views about popular performance. It has its place, I feel, these days. We need to give ordinary people access to superior discourse.”
Oh, gawd . . . thinks Marion. Please, Uncle Henry.
“I look forward to making my ideas more . . . generally approachable.”
“People-friendly,” says Marion, gritting her teeth.
Henry beams. “Is that the term? You are always wonderfully up-to-date, my dear. Anyway, it is very tiresome to be held up in this way. Not to hear when we get started. Ah, well,” He lays the subject to rest. “So how are your own affairs going?”
If Marion were to give a meaningful report, she would say that affair Jeremy is going but that she occasionally wonders if it should not be gone, while affair Hampstead flat is beginning to give her a certain amount of grief. The restructuring of the bathroom was a wobble, but now a couple of other things have come in well over budget, and there begins to be a cash-flow problem. She has had to become more pressing with George Harrington’s secretary.
“I really do need to have a word with him.”
“I’ve passed on your messages. I’m sure he’ll be back to you very soon. He’s got New York, and then L.A. It’s just rather a busy time.”
Well, we’re all busy, thinks Marion with irritation. This must not go on. As it is, she is having to hold back on paying suppliers, which is something she does not like to do—never has done. She has prided herself on efficient business management. Even though she had never seen herself as a businesswoman, when she embarked on a career in interior design. Creativity, that was the point. Using your skills with color, your imagination, your talent for serendipitous discovery. The business aspect was a bit of a shock, but nothing that she couldn’t cope with, and cope with pretty well. She is good at figures, she is good at budgeting, she has learned how to gauge costs and a reasonable profit margin.
Her mother had been proud of her but also slightly shocked. She herself had grown up in a world where girls did not bother their pretty little heads with money—the dying days of that world, admittedly, but the family was somewhat retarded. Bolstered by inherited funds, business ventures would have been inconceivable, Trade. And now here was Marion, dealing with cash in, cash out. Her mother had
concentrated on the products and determinedly ignored the seamy side: “Such lovely curtains and things, so clever with her ideas.”
Cross with George Harrington, Marion is glad of the Poles, who are always cheerful, who work away, who, it would seem, never worry. Never grumble. Who have adapted to circumstances.
Could be a lesson to some, she thinks, putting down the phone after an extended wail from Jeremy.
Rose says, “I’ve said I’ll take Anton to Richmond Park for a walk next weekend.”
It is breakfast time. Saturday breakfast. Charlotte looks at her: “Oh—well, I’m sure he’ll appreciate that.”
Gerry is going through the
Radio Times
, marking programs.
Rose says, staring over his head, out of the window, “Do you fancy coming, Gerry?”
He makes a mark, then another. “Who? Oh—him. No, no—I need to change the washer on that tap upstairs.”
Rose continues to gaze out of the window. Birds have burst into song, and oh! Look at the cherry!
Jeremy has seen Stella. That is to say, he has seen Stella but has been unable to speak to her. He has something to wail about, he feels. He was within an ace of being eyeball to eyeball with Stella, when he would have been able to put his case, to talk to her reasonably and sensibly, perhaps to persuade her to dump the odious solicitor, and enter into personal negotiations. All this was within his grasp, and was then whisked away.
He had driven to the surgery where Stella worked, knowing the time when she was likely to leave. He had seen her car, had parked his own as unobtrusively as possible, and waited in the shelter of a nearby gateway. At last she came out of the surgery. He stepped forward, and met her on the path from the door. When she saw him, her hand flew to her mouth.
“Stella,” he said. “Stella . . . Darling, I must talk to you.”
She stood there. The hand came down. She hesitated. She was about to speak.
And then the surgery door was flung open. Someone called “Stella—you’ve forgotten your shopping.” Some idiot was waving a carrier bag, came toward them. Stella turned, took the bag, looked again at Jeremy, and the moment of hesitation was gone. She swept past him, ran to her car. He heard the door slam, the engine start.
That was that. Fuming, he drove back to London. Should he have pursued her to the house, tried to confront her there? No, she was in crisis mode, once she had fled. There had been that one instant—hand falling away from her mouth, what was she going to say?—and it has been lost.
He poured out all to Marion, who seemed not entirely receptive.
Stella rushes into the house. In the kitchen, she reaches for her pills, takes two, puts the kettle on. Tea. She is desperate for tea, with sugar. When you are in shock you crave for tea, she has read.
Mug in hand, she sinks down onto the sofa, picks up the phone, calls her sister.
“. . .
normal
. The thing was that it didn’t seem odd, to see him there. I mean, he sometimes used to come and pick me up from the surgery. I just thought ‘Oh, there’s Jeremy . . . ,’ and I was sort of
pleased
. I was going to start
talking
, and then . . .”
“Well, thank goodness you didn’t,” says Gill. “Tell Paul Newsome.”
“Tell Paul Newsome?”
“Of course. Jeremy is out of order. Completely out of order. No contact, that’s the rule. While the divorce is proceeding.”
“Oh,” says Stella. “Yes, I see.”
“. . . desist from approaching my client . . . maintenance claim remains unresolved . . . must inform you that . . . must warn you that . . . shall be obliged to . . .”
Jeremy bins the solicitor’s letter.
Sometimes Jeremy cannot remember how the hell all this began. How and why did his life fall apart? Oh yes, the wretched text from Marion. What on earth was it about? Nothing much. She couldn’t meet up, for some reason. Something to do with that uncle of hers. What the devil has her uncle got to do with Jeremy? Why should he be persecuted by a solicitor because of someone he doesn’t even know? It is so wrong.
Stella sees Marion as a scarlet woman. Marion, in her mind’s eye, is tall, dark, sleek, ruthlessly seductive, she wears skin-tight dresses with plunging necklines and is wreathed in expensive perfume. Stella would be surprised by the real Marion, who is of medium height, a bit plump, has fine, fair hair, and is personable but no siren.
Actually, Stella does not much think of Marion, who is indeed the reason for all this but has become somehow irrelevant. It is Jeremy who is at issue, not the rather evanescent scarlet woman. It is Jeremy’s betrayal that matters; with whom he was betraying is somehow not especially important. When her mind is churning away, and she has to reach for the pills, or for her sister, or for Paul Newsome, it is thoughts of Jeremy that prompt a new outburst of distress. She is trying to concentrate entirely on the divorce process now, and she does indeed feel much more in control, much aware that for the first time she has made a firm decision, that she is running things. But these insidious thoughts of Jeremy will keep sneaking in. And when he suddenly appeared like that she was thrown, quite thrown. Well, momentarily thrown.
Henry has rather lost sight of the original spur toward television fame. That dire occasion in Manchester has faded from his mind—mercifully. He has forgotten all that soliciting of newspaper editors. His old enemy’s acolyte still occasionally smirks at the edge of his
vision, but the full horror of that day’s humiliation has subsided, tactfully, into a for once obliging black hole. When Marion referred to the trip, he could not remember why she had been with him. Oh, something to do with Rose’s mother.
And still Delia Canning does not call, or write. Most inconvenient. It is not that one’s diary is so very full, but one wants to be able to plan ahead. Most of all, Henry wants to get going on his scripts. That young fellow—what was his name?—was all very well, didn’t do a bad job, but the real thing will need professional polish. The common touch will be required, of course—the nation’s sofas are not an audience of cognoscenti—but Henry fancies that he will be able to pull that out of the hat. So come along, Ms. Canning.
“Well?” says Delia Canning.
Colleagues are silent.
Someone says, “Wow!”
“Interesting?” says Delia. “Or not?”
There is further silence.
Someone else says, “Actually—this may sound barmy—but I rather like him.”
“He does compel. In a sort of awful way.”
“Huge risk.”
“We could have egg on our faces.”
“How old
is
he?”
“A throwback? Or a new departure?”
“He’d
have
to wear that suit.”
“The voice . . .”
“You couldn’t
invent
him.”
“The delivery . . .”
“So . . . ?” says Delia Canning.
Marion is vaguely sorry for Stella, but finds her pathetic. She feels no guilt, where Stella is concerned. All right, she has been having an
affair with Stella’s husband but she had—has—no intention of appropriating him, and all this is a storm in a teacup, frankly. Stella should know Jeremy well enough to be able to rise above this. Marion does not think that Jeremy is a philanderer, but neither does she flatter herself that she is his first and only aberration. Stella should have the measure of Jeremy by now, and recognize that if she wants him she has got him anyway, for better or for worse.
If she doesn’t want him and so it would appear, with all this rattling of solicitors, then it is Jeremy who has to face up to things.
Just leave me out of it, thinks Marion. I have my own problems.
One of the Poles has sprained an ankle and can only work at half strength.
George Harrington is said to be in China.
Marion had not realized that banks charge such punitive rates for an overdraft.
“Not that one was in any doubt,” says Henry. “But it is good to have confirmation. Filming in a couple of weeks’ time, apparently. It might amuse you to come along and watch, Rose. Oh, and I think perhaps my tweed suit should go to the cleaners before then, if you would. Actually, more than just watch, I think it would be advisable to have you there as PA—check that I have the script, that sort of thing. We don’t want any hitches. The script is not yet in its final form, of course. I am working on the draft. Walpole, I propose—a definitive consideration of the man. So back to the drawing board.”