If Edmund had appeared before me at that moment
I should have sent him away, as I had never been
able to do. I should have consigned him to whatever
complexities of feeling he might have entertained
when sitting in Betsy's flat after the funeral of
an old friend. Indeed the emotions aroused by a
funeral might have had their effect. His own mother had
recently died; he might have been touched by a
sense of mortality. If he thought of me it would
have been with the same unwelcome aura. But I was
convinced that he no longer thought of me, nor was I
able to derive any pride from the way I had
avoided tedious discussion. What reasons could I
have given for ending the affair? None that he had not
known, and ignored. My own actions now appeared
to me severely delimited, as if a natural
conclusion had been agreed by both of us. He would have
had a brief nod of recognition at the elegance
of my gesture in leaving the key, and then have given
the matter no further thought.
“
You will let me know if there's anything you
want?
”
Betsy said.
“
I mean, you must be
pretty worn out. Let me know if you don't
feel like shopping ...
”
“
I'm not an invalid,
”
I said.
“
Of course you're not. But I know how these
things take their toll. Are you eating properly?
I'd suggest lunch, only I've got to be
back for the central heating man. You probably
noted how cold it was in there.
”
I sent her on her way, knowing that that was what
she wanted. I had a feeling that the central
heating man had been an excuse. Yet when I
turned at the end of the street I saw that she had
done the same. As we both waved, with
unmistakable yet surprising fervour, I saw
in that precise moment that we were still friends,
and that it was precisely our friendship, odd though it
was, that would save us both.
Seated in the restaurant at Peter Jones,
after a fruitless morning spent comparing prices and
disputing the advantages of this sofa over that, and
ending up defeated by the spirit of the place, which appeared
to address itself to women who knew what they wanted,
I saw that Betsy had accepted my invitation as
if she were conferring a favour, whereas I had thought
to do the same. I had a sense of obligation
towards agreements which had been bred in me since
childhood, and I knew that in a burst of fellow
feeling I had suggested this excursion in an effort
to make Betsy feel more comfortable in an
uncomfortable world. Now I saw that I need not have
troubled, for Betsy smilingly deflected my
suggestions, which I urged on her as if I were her
absent mother or some other elderly relative. It
was I who selected the items I thought she
needed, the chairs, the table, the lamps which she, still
with a smile, admired but turned down, saying that
she still had plenty of furniture in store and was in
no hurry to replace it until someone was willing
to advise her on this matter, or,
alternatively, to take it away.
The restaurant did not restore my temper,
since it was populated precisely by the sort of
women I was coming to resemble. I wondered why we
had not gone to a place frequented by men, in
Covent Garden, say, until I reflected that
we might not be very welcome or feel at ease
there. Even in a feminist age the restaurant
barrier is the last to fall. Kind waitresses,
safe food seemed to be our lot, but at least
no one pointed the finger of scorn, which was a
considerable comfort when one had been reduced to the
sexless protection afforded by a department store at
twelve noon on a weekday morning, when all
the serious people were at their work, speaking to each other in
the kind of code employed by colleagues, enjoying
a more natural form of protection than ours, although
we had the freedom of our own decisions. This
freedom only Betsy seemed disposed to exert
as she gazed out of the window, paying little attention
to her surroundings, as if marking a distance between herself
and the other women, whom, as someone with a full
timetable, she was inclined to pity. For this was her day
off, and she was keeping me company, since
her day off, in a sense, was time of no consequence,
in which nothing much would happen, unlike the days she
spent in the Fairlie establishment which were filled
with incident and matters for reflection.
It was more than a few weeks since I had
seen her, and to my alarm she seemed fully
integrated into their household. I could understand this:
I had craved such closeness myself but had had the
wisdom to remain on the sidelines. My
sceptical temperament saddened me but perhaps gave
me an outsider's advantage. Betsy,
however, would seek such closeness wherever she went and
would no doubt persuade herself that she had found it,
as she always had done. This seemed to me
extremely dangerous, although I could see that this
disposition was so entrenched that there must be some degree
of satisfaction in indulging it. Besides, I was coming
more and more to doubt my own judgement. Although I had
behaved with a modicum of face-saving decency I
did not care for where this had landed me. I was alone,
without consolation, and growing more unwillingly
independent by the day. Even I could see the
advantages that Betsy now seemed to be
enjoying, the chatter, the flux of family life,
the more spacious vista than that afforded by her own
cramped flat. And she had taken on some of that
air of possession that is consciously or
unconsciously enjoyed by those who have come into an
endowment, either by inheritance or by association. She
looked happily bemused, as if attending an
entertainment that I had arranged for her. It was I
who was disadvantaged now.
I was resolute in not asking her questions. Indeed
what I most wanted was some sort of abstract
discussion such as I craved and one I found
extremely difficult to come by. Whether the
constant evasiveness and jokiness were a particularly
English feature I could not decide, but I did
miss the sort of overheard remark I had so
relished in Paris, the willingness to discuss first
principles and to invest passion in one's own
arguments. For instance, I very much wanted to debate
the matter of right and wrong, or whatever terms were
now relevant, though Peter Jones was hardly
an appropriate setting for this. Why is the
Bible so unreliable on this matter, I wanted
to know. We are told that the wicked flee where no
man pursueth, and then, in another context, that they
flourish like the green bay tree. It was only
too easy to imagine them, having
flourished, fleeing to the kind of resort
—
Capri, or Cannes
—
where they would be
adequately catered for. This was contingent on my
old obsession that time passed doing one's duty was
time wasted, or if not wasted, then not fully
enjoyed, but who to discuss this with? Certainly not with
Betsy, who could only recognize and embrace
goodness, and whose acquaintance with evil was so
rudimentary as to be useless as a guide. Even in
circumstances of the utmost ambiguity, into which I was
determined not to enquire, she would maintain a
disastrous innocence, crediting everyone with superior
and altruistic motives, herself included.
I could not help but notice an overall
glossiness which made her stand out in this bourgeois
setting, and something of that imperviousness
to temperature which is the province of the happy and
successful. The weather had declined into daylong
cloud and mist and I was already shivering. Betsy,
however, wore one of her Parisian suits and
seemed not to feel the cold. Several women had
appraised her as we had taken our seats, but
had, presumably, been disarmed by her unassuming
smile. For Betsy, with her excess of good will,
was everybody's friend, or was prepared to be. I
thought that such obvious virtue, if not its own
reward, was certainly its own armour, affording a
protection available in all circumstances.
Predators would not prevail, for their intentions would
not be understood. She was destined to be rewarded by a
man of equally spotless disposition, the legendary
knight in shining armour in whom she no doubt
firmly believed, despite what experience had
taught her. And if this person did not exist she
would invent one in his place, as she no doubt had
done with Daniel. As for the further disillusionment
when it came (and there was no doubt that it would come),
she would have to rally as best she could. In that way she
was no more protected than any other woman, perhaps
less so. And I did not see that I had any part
to play in that
débâcle
. I had my own sadness
to contend with; my sympathy would be limited by that very
fact. And if the reasons for that sadness remained
undisclosed, so much the better. One's dignity
is a poor thing at the best of times. All the more
reason to safeguard it from further attrition.
“
What do you do in this job of yours?
”
I
asked.
“
I mean, what is there to do?
”
“
It's the lists, you see. Keeping them up
to date.
”
“
Lists?
”
“
Lists of donors, actual and potential.
There are so many other charities, all fighting for
funding, that it's important to get ahead of them.
Fortunately Constance is well placed. She
knows so many people. And she has the experience. Of
course she does the actual asking.
”
“
Begging.
”
“
I don't think it feels like begging if it's
in a good cause.
”
“
And where do you do this?
”
“
Well, there's a proper office, with a
secretary, on the third floor. I sit in a
little room she calls her boudoir. Fortunately
there's masses of space.
”
“
You make it sound like Versailles. I do
know the house. It's just a large house.
”
Privately I was willing to concede that this was not
a house like the houses most people lived in. Both
Betsy and I had been brought up in houses of
fairly generous proportions, but our instincts had
remained suburban, as if fashioned by an older
mind set. Besides, Betsy's living quarters were
reduced to the two floors above her father's
surgery, and thus of limited access. Now our
homes were even more reduced, and our status had
declined proportionately. The Fairlie
establishment was palatial, in a prime position
overlooking the river, and in the way of these things it
conferred a certain splendour on its owners. And
there was the mother's house in Scotland, which might be
sold, the house in Hampshire, and the house in the
Alpilles to which they also had some kind of
entitlement, although it belonged to friends who merely
lent it to them for the children's holidays. Even friends like
these were not within everyone's scope. I thought of the
secretary on the third floor, which must be the
storey with the dormer windows which I had admired when
Digby and I first went there. Even then I was
attracted to windows. Now my windows looked out
on to an ordinary street and a garage, and although the
flat was pleasant enough it was also tame. Betsy's
flat was even worse, a pit-stop for
transients, overloaded with the furniture which she
refused to replace. We had seen, or rather I
had pointed out, some pleasant pieces which would have
made it more habitable, but by now she was imprinted
with the grandeur of the Fairlies' place and had
metaphorically thrown in her hand, as if anything
that did not rise to their standards was not worth
bothering about.
She would never move now, that was clear, as long
as she had this adopted home. That was the position:
she considered herself to have been adopted. Whereas I
was perfectly free to move, and at that moment I
could see the advantages in doing so. But that would
mean breaking off all attachments, and I was not quite
brave enough to do that. Though I knew remarkably
few people, I could rely on the kindness of
familiars, neighbours who had offered their
condolences after Digby's funeral, the caretaker,
the tradesmen, and my particular friend, the
dignified Indian who supplied my many
newspapers. Though I longed for wider vistas and
cleaner air I could not see myself in the country or
even in a small town. There were possibilities
in my present situation, as those neighbours were
keen to remind me. I could visit exhibitions,
the theatre, without worrying how to get home late
at night. I had done none of this, but the
possibilities were there should I choose to take
advantage of them. Or I could take up some
sort of study, a degree course at
Birkbeck, or lectures at the City
Literary Institute. I was free to do all or
any of these things, and though I might not the choice
was mine. The memory of those fictitious evening
classes which had been my alibi clouded my
mental horizon and might affect any reality
I could hope to embrace. This was dangerous
territory; such subterfuge, though no longer
necessary, was something that troubled me. I was marked for
life, whatever my own wishes in the matter. A
stronger will than mine had ordained what had taken
place, and although I had chosen to cancel it, it still
had the power of a broken contract which had left me
mentally as well as physically impoverished.