Authors: Elizabeth Jane Howard
This wasn’t the kind of thing Jimmy usually asked anybody, and really wondering, I said: ‘What do you feel about it?’
There was a pause, then he said: ‘That’s the funny thing. My instinct is not to, but I haven’t explained the practical situation here because it would sound crazy and they
wouldn’t
let
me book it.’
I said: ‘I should stick to your instinct.’
‘OK.’ He sounded relieved. Then he said: ‘I’ve heard of a place out of town where I thought we might have lunch. Would you like that?’
‘Very much. When will you be coming back?’
‘After I’ve been to American Express. Don’t go out, Lillian, in case they call from the island, will you?’
‘No.’ We hung up. I felt sure then that Jimmy was right – although not in the way he thought: they were going to call from the island and say they were going back together, and
it was Jimmy and I who would use today’s tickets. I got out of bed and went into the bathroom – I suppose that was instinct too because my stuff was in there – but I was caught
before I could reach it off the shelf – skewered on a circle of pain that constricts until there’s no room for anything but the skewer . . . I was on the tiled floor – still
upright, leaning against the bath clutching my left side where the skewer was embedded and waiting for the extraordinary choking gasps to give me air. I’d never reach those capsules now
– in any case nothing in the room was keeping still – even the floor was heaving at me so that I couldn’t see properly and there seemed to be something cold, heavy, and unpleasant
pressing on the back of my neck. I shut my eyes and concentrated upon the gasps and on pushing the skewer right home and that seemed to work, as the pain died down and the gasps brought air. Then
it was just a question of time – of waiting until I dared lever myself up to the shelf with the capsules on it. If the telephone were to ring now it would be a pity, but it would not make any
real difference. The facts would be the same; it would only be that I shouldn’t know them. After one false attempt I thought that by the time I was able to get up to the capsules, I
shouldn’t need them, and that somehow seemed to fit with everything else just now. I was very thirsty, but that would have to wait too. If they did not get here until after we had left, I
would have to leave without my pictures of Sarah. Perhaps that would not make a real difference, either. After that I concentrated upon my breathing and relieving the extraordinary tension in my
chest until I was able to get up.
I drank a little water and then took the glass and the capsules back to the bedroom: even that effort made me sweat: there was nothing for it but to lie down. It had been the thought of facing
poor Jimmy with these changed plans that had struck me after he had been talking. I felt that he might well have accused me of being both a fool and a coward to have left Em on the island with her,
knowing what I knew and not telling Jimmy. This was confusing; I no longer felt able to attach anyone’s judgment of me to the last thing I had done, and therefore Jimmy would probably be
right. I hadn’t meant it like that (had I? I wondered), and with these weak and uncertain reflections I fell asleep.
I woke again as the door opened with a rattling of keys – Jimmy, I thought, let in by the chambermaid – but it was Em. I was so astonished that I lay quite still, looking at him
without speaking.
‘Lillian? Were you asleep?’
‘How did you get here?’
‘We came over on a boat last night.’
He stopped, and I waited for him to say something more, but he didn’t. I sat up and looked at my travelling clock: it was nearly twelve.
‘It is rather stuffy in here,’ he remarked and went to open a window. Near the light I saw his face more clearly: he looked calm but absolutely exhausted. He saw the capsules by my
bed and said: ‘Are you just keeping them by you, or have you been ill?’ His voice was sharp, edgy, with anxiety, and remembering how I had used these attacks, I said: ‘I’m
just keeping them by me. Have you seen Jimmy?’
‘No. I’ve just had a shower in his room and changed, but they said he was out.’
‘He’s coming back to take me out to lunch,’ I said, wishing desperately that he would tell me something.
‘You’d better get up then.’ He put my dressing gown on my bed, and lit a cigarette. As I got out of bed, he said: ‘Why don’t you tell me the plans?’
I got into the bathroom before replying – held on to the basin and seeing the glass over it looked myself firmly in the eye: once in the day was enough, for heaven’s sake. I looked
terrible – with purple circles under my eyes and all my skin too thin. I said: ‘What did you say?’
‘What are the plans?’ I heard him moving restlessly about the room.
‘Jimmy has succeeded in getting two tickets for a plane leaving this evening and two for tomorrow. He couldn’t get four for today.’
‘How on earth did he know we’d be here in time?’
‘He didn’t. He just got them to be on the safe side.’
‘Well – she wants to get back quickly. We’d better go tomorrow.’
I couldn’t see the face in the glass any more: everything blurred as though I had been looking into a stream that had been still and was starting to move. He was not going with her –
not going . . .
‘You’re very quiet in there – hadn’t you better get dressed?’
He had come to the open door of the bathroom. I seized a sponge and turned on the cold tap: I seemed to wash my face for hours, until it was numb. The water stopped him talking and he retreated.
When I came out, I found that he had sent for my luggage.
‘You hate wearing the same clothes for two days running. You may want to change into your other scarf.’ He tried to smile, and that too, made me want to weep: in that attempt he
exposed himself: I knew all over again that I had been right about his face on the terrace.
‘Do you think we might have a drink up here while I dress? I missed breakfast and I’ll be giddy by the time we get to lunch if I don’t have something.’
He ordered drinks. In the top of the first suitcase I opened was the folder which had Sarah’s pictures. He was sitting on the unmade bed, and I felt him watching me – knowing that I
would pick up the folder and put it, open, on the dressing table; he must have watched me so many times. I picked up the folder and opened it – knowing what I would see by heart – like
the print of seaweed against certain kinds of stone, these pictures were indelibly printed into my memory – I did not need them in the folder. I looked round the room: for the first time in
my life I realized that certain gestures, if they are to be honest, must be made without any appearance of drama – that they must be quiet and light or they lose any value: but it was an
extraordinary feeling, to know quite well what I meant to do, and be at a loss about how to do it. Eventually, I tossed the folder over to him and said: ‘Darling – I really don’t
need
these any more, but I can’t quite bring myself to throw them away: could you dispose of them?’
He said: ‘Are you sure you mean me to throw these away?’
‘Yes. After all, there is the whole album that I left in New York if I ever want to look at it, but I’m not sure that I do any more. I think I’ve changed a little in this
way.’ It was very odd: I could not look at him and felt myself actually blushing: luckily, then, our drinks arrived, and he put the folder into his pocket. I found my shantung suit, and while
I was burrowing for a shirt, he brought me my Americano and said: ‘When we have a house, I shan’t allow you to travel with so much luggage. I’m afraid I didn’t pack it very
well.’
‘Did
you
pack it?’
He got to his feet abruptly . ‘Yes. Now, I’m going to see if Jimmy is back so that we can arrange things. Shall I fetch you, or will you meet us in the bar?’
‘I’ll meet you in the bar; won’t be long.’
He went leaving his drink behind: he had not wanted it in the least – it had been simply another concession. Now that I was alone I could afford some of the relief out of this extreme and
light-headed change that he had unwittingly made for me – it would not matter if I laughed or cried or became intoxicated by this – it seemed to me – miraculous reversal. But
because my fears for myself had melted – had so instantly dissolved – I could turn in their absence, naturally to him . . .
He was very unhappy: he had not said her name and only referred to her when I had told him about the two tickets: had she, I wondered, failed him with no response? Or had he, deeply touched by
her, recognized her requirements as separate from his own, and made his decision as the best he could do for her? Whichever it was I felt he had been struck in some different way – that he
was suffering a new and difficult pain – and there was nothing inconclusive about it – he had made up his mind. I tried to imagine him making it up: could feel the instant’s
warmth, almost inspiration that would come when he resolved it – like a new laid fire with its paper burning, before the paper becomes black ash and the fire has to live on its own. How rare
it was to live any promise out; how hard to keep every minute of any decision; how painful to reach even to the height of one’s own nature . . . Were he and I going to live with the image of
her always before us, as we had lived for so many years now with Sarah? If we were to be so haunted, it was I who had taught him the trick of it. But perhaps he was trying to do more than I had
ever tried, and this thought gave me a great gentleness for him as I discovered that one does not only want to protect what is weak. This was new, unmistakable, and I could recognize it: a movement
and warmth of concern and joy for him that still, I thought, after all these years of my life might be a very beginning of love.
3
JIMMY
O
N
the way back from American Express, I bought her something. I don’t know why I was so sure she would be back in
time for the plane, but I was sure, and I bought the bracelet as a kind of proof to myself. Oh, I bought it for other reasons, but the idea of buying it
then
– even if I wasn’t
going to give it to her for months – came out of the feeling of being so
sure
– how I’ve never felt about anything before except getting to England when I was a boy. Even
not getting a call through to them on the island hadn’t thrown me. I’d felt crazy booking the seats and I’d called Lillian because I’d felt mean at going out without seeing
her and I suppose I’d wanted backing over my hunch. She’s been sweet, Lillian has: more and more I’ve wondered, since we’ve been in Athens, whether she doesn’t know
just as much about Emmanuel’s feelings as I do – she’s just dumb about them to me because she doesn’t want to upset me; but it isn’t just her courage –
she’s been sweet with it, listening to me last night when she was dead tired, being patient and kind of
good
about it all. I’d offered, on the spur of the moment, to take her out
to lunch at this taverna out of the city because I know she adores trips and new places to eat, but walking back from American Express I began to regret the offer. I didn’t want to go that
far away on account of my hunch that the others were going to turn up. That’s the trouble in life: you make a plan, or offer something, and you’re sincerely thinking of the other person
at the time, but then you start thinking of yourself, and if the plan doesn’t suit you you’re in trouble. But maybe if I was right about her knowing, Lillian wouldn’t want to go
out to lunch either.
I’d decided to walk back to the hotel to use up some of the morning. It was a wonderful day and in spite of anxieties, uncertainties and wondering how she was I couldn’t stop the
feeling of being light-hearted and the world all before me and containing her. Just the sheer certainty that I would see her before the day was out was enough to make it a good day: after that, it
was up to me, and I found this a new and exciting way to look at anything. I’ve never had much sense of direction, and wasn’t thinking about it anyway: Athens is a small place, and you
have the feeling that you can walk to anywhere in it – but after quite some walk I knew I was lost. This made me twist about into narrower streets where an automobile has to hoot and nudge
its way through the people, who don’t walk like they do in New York, like they’re going some place – nor like they do in London where you feel they’re taking
exercise-never-mind-the-weather, but just as though they are on the street because they like it that way. I started looking in the shop windows and that’s how I saw the bracelet. It was just
a circle of pale pink beads with pearls fixed in between some of the beads: it was hanging on a nail at the side of the window which was so stuffed with all kinds of jewellery that afterwards I
wondered how I’d ever noticed the bracelet. I went in and got the man to show it me. The pearls were pierced by some kind of golden wire which made them hang stiffly – the pink beads
were coral. He wanted fifteen hundred drachma for it – when I asked him where it had been made he shrugged and said something which I think just meant that it hadn’t been made in
Greece. It looked somehow as though it had been especially made for somebody, and, whoever she had been, I felt that it had also been made for Alberta, so I bought it. I did try to argue about the
price but it didn’t work, and he knew I didn’t really care. He wrapped it up in very thin foreign kind of paper, and within a few minutes of seeing it I was outside the shop again with
the bracelet in my pocket. Then I just had to get back to the hotel and took a taxi. In the cab I unwrapped the bracelet to be sure it gave me the same feeling of being the right one for her, and
it did. I’d never bought a serious present for a girl in my life: flowers and scent and scarves and candy – anyone could buy those for anybody and that was just how I’d bought
them. This was different – this was an antique, something that she could always wear; I wanted to laugh out loud, I was so lit up about it.
When I got to the hotel they told me that Mr Joyce had arrived and was using my room. I said I’d go up, and got them to give me her room number – she was a floor above my room; I
took the elevator to my floor, waited until it had gone, and walked the last flight. Now that my hunch was proved right, and she was actually here, I found myself breathless – not only with
impatience to see her – but fear of the kind that I had had when we left her on the island with Emmanuel. How did she feel about him – all that again, plus her being unhappy –
perhaps sobbing her heart out on his shoulder . . . I knocked, and at once she let me in.