A Friend from England (13 page)

Nevertheless, I was inhibited from doing any of this by her lumpen immobility, her absorption in the cat, who now seemed to be her companion of choice, her
indifference to what might be happening around her, and the fact that I had not been offered any tea. In fact I had not even been asked to sit down, but was left awkwardly stranded, as if my only purpose in coming had been to enquire after her health, like a delegate of a foreign power being received in audience. Michael too had been seen to stand and hover, although in his case reluctance to linger had kept him on his feet. As against this Heather seemed obstinately rooted, as if she would still be there when everybody else had been forced to leave. I thought I saw in this the power of possession – the flat was in her name, having been bought with Oscar’s money – but this was out of character: she had always been unthinkingly generous, like her parents. But something in the set of her jaw and her brooding silence led me to think that whatever grievance had put her under this enchantment it was no mere material meanness. Nor was it the effect of her illness, for there was no perceptible change in her normal pallor.

‘Heather,’ I said. ‘Are you all right? You don’t seem quite yourself.’

She glanced at me briefly. ‘Don’t I?’ she asked, unhelpfully.

‘Perhaps being ill has tired you,’ I said, rather annoyed by now. I was extremely mindful of the fact that I had been ill too. ‘Or is something wrong?’

‘Something wrong?’ she echoed. ‘What on earth could possibly be wrong?’

‘Are you unhappy?’ I said, exasperated by now. ‘Are you disappointed? Are you bored? Are you having regrets?’ My rising fury goaded me to ask these questions. ‘Your mother appears to think you need cheering up.’ No response. Exhausted, I dropped into a chair. ‘Heather, is there anything at all you want to tell me? Anything you can’t tell your mother?’

At last she turned on me that mild gaze that had been the despair of her aunts and cousins. I could see now,
although I could not stop myself, that there might be something obscene about this goading of Heather, although she was so extremely unforthcoming that one was always tempted, and indeed felt entitled, to go too far. The gaze promised nothing but was held for a little longer than I felt to be comfortable. There did appear to be a speculative factor hidden somewhere within it but not near enough to the surface to be of any help. As my anger cooled I began to wonder if I had annoyed her, or at least unsettled her. But surely that was what I was there for, what I had always been there for. I tried again.

‘Perhaps you’re worried about something,’ I ventured. Then a thought struck me. ‘You’re not expecting a baby, are you?’

At that she gave a single brief laugh.

‘Well, it’s not such an extraordinary idea,’ I said, nettled again. ‘Maybe you hadn’t noticed because of the flu.’

‘Oh, I’m sure I’d notice,’ she said, with a touch of irony. She lifted the cat off her lap and brushed down her skirt. ‘Don’t worry, Rachel. You’ve asked all the right questions. You’ve done what my mother sent you to do. I’m perfectly all right. Let’s have some tea, shall we?’ And she got up and left the room.

There was no solving the mystery of Heather, if in fact there were any mystery at all. I looked round the room, which was cold, and felt a sense of dereliction. The grey light seeping through the windows made the green furnishings look sour. If it had been my room, instead of that small white bunker I called home, I should have lit all the lamps, put on the fire, pulled the curtains. As always, I appreciated luxury in other people without actively seeking it for myself. Mentally I changed the furnishings in that terrible bedroom – I could quite see that she would have no desire to languish there – and livened it up with patterns of red on the walls and more brilliant paint. If I had been Heather I
would have sat in the cheerful blue and white kitchen, furnished with all Dorrie’s loving expertise, and made plans to go off to Spain with Michael. Even if he were unappetizing as a husband, he could still be, surely, a useful companion. And he would travel cheerfully, possessing that all-purpose good humour that would come in so useful away from home. I began to see that he might be unhappy too, having failed to secure from Heather the anxiety that had so protected him when lavished on him by his father. He would not register this as unhappiness, bearing as he did the hidden imprint of secret, private, unhappiness, the unhappiness of a child in a world populated by unreliable adults, but rather as discomfort, boredom, restlessness. There was no real harm in him. It was simply that he was untutored, that nobody read his mind in order to save him the trouble of trying to read it himself. But in a place where nature provided all the gifts – sun, wine, good manners, good humour – might he not gain more of an ascendancy than he could ever do here, in this important flat, with its too new furnishings, and the sinister light of an English November outside the windows?

There had been a touch of mockery in Heather’s last remark which I considered uncharacteristic, at war with the euphoric image furnished by her mother. Poor Dorrie, who had always seen this marriage as a gift from an indulgent fate, had made her peace with it, had seen no change occurring in it, had thought it as well aspected as the material gifts she brought to it. Oscar, who had had reservations of his own, which he had heroically kept to himself, would be less surprised than even I was that the marriage had apparently already run its course, served its term. I seemed to see in this a partisanship which made me a little uneasy, for I felt that Heather’s parents, blameless as they were, might be a little less indulgent to their daughter’s inability to tolerate her husband, might have reproached her for her
childishness, might have seen to it, in short, that she behaved herself. Her attitude to Michael had been one of fatigue verging on boredom, yet by now she should have seen that he required more of her, too much, perhaps, but not too much to incur that downcast expression, that concentration on the cat. What he required was protection, first and foremost, and then opportunities to amuse himself. As far as I could see, this was not enough to cause Heather to sulk. But of course she had always been the protected one, allowed to remain a child for as long as she wished, and then presented with a set of grown-up toys when the passage of time demanded them. I felt sorry for her, but I felt impatient too. It was impossible not to feel sorry for that creature on the sofa, blank-faced, as if she were in the waiting-room of a deserted railway station, as if the train for which she was waiting had already gone. Yet at the same time I wanted to shake her. Don’t you know, I wanted to say, that many women would envy you, your home, and even your husband? After all, what is asked of you beyond a little tolerance? Michael may not be the world’s most exciting man, but given the right opportunities I dare say he could make himself quite agreeable. I also saw that there was no point in my saying any of this, for someone as gently nurtured as Heather had been would not take kindly to my strictures, to any strictures. She would, on the contrary, look for sympathy, and no doubt receive it, from her parents most of all. I felt a spasm of distaste for her and for all those women like her, women who work for fun and marry for status, and still demand compensation. The only excuse for such women is incurable frivolity. And Heather was not even frivolous.

The sound of a key in the lock made me jump: Michael was back, and I did not want to confront him. But it was Oscar who came into the room, looking heavier than when I had last seen him. When he greeted
me his eyes took on a watchful expression, the expression that used to be bent on Heather.

‘Rachel, my dear,’ he said. ‘How nice of you to come.’ He scooped up the little cat and began to stroke her, but his eyes never left my face. ‘And what have you two girls been talking about?’

‘Nothing, really,’ I said. ‘I think we’re both too exhausted by being ill. Maybe we’ll revive after a cup of tea. Heather’s in the kitchen, seeing to it.’

I felt anxious in his presence, as if I had failed in my duty towards him. But he smiled kindly, seemed as if to relax, and lowered himself into a chair, with the cat on his knee. Sounds of spoons, being dropped, rather than lowered, into saucers, signalled a return to normality.

‘Yes, it’s a nasty business, this flu. You probably need a holiday. You didn’t go away this summer, did you? You can always use our place in Spain, when we’re not there, you know.’

‘Perhaps Heather should go,’ I said. ‘But how would she manage at the shop?’ How did she manage, I wondered, with all these honeymoons and other absences?

‘Oh, didn’t she tell you? She’s found a manager, a nice chap. Calls himself Jean-Pierre, if you please. But otherwise perfectly sound. She’s made him a partner. She’s a limited company now – I saw to that. It leaves her quite free. And she trusts him absolutely. She’ll just see to the buying now.’

‘What a good idea,’ I said. ‘Then perhaps she should go to Spain. Catch the last of the sun.’

‘Well, maybe she will. But she’s going to Milan next week for the collections. Didn’t she tell you? And I’ve persuaded her to have a few days in Venice afterwards. She has this Italian friend, Chiara. I thought it would be nice if they had a weekend at the Gritti.’

For of course life was easy if there was plenty of money, I reflected, and then felt a little ashamed of
myself, for I might have behaved in exactly the same way had my circumstances been different. But poor Michael didn’t seem to be getting much of a look in. It amazed me the way that Heather and her father had closed ranks so easily. I detected in Oscar an unwise desire to detach his daughter from her husband which was a little too overt.

‘And will Michael join them? The two girls, I mean.’ I felt I had to say this, as if the poor fellow needed an advocate, as if plans were being made in his absence about which he knew nothing.

‘Oh, I expect he has some business in Spain,’ said Oscar absently, still driving a rhythmic and steady hand down the cat’s spine. ‘I expect they’ve both decided to be away at the same time. Ah, here she is. How are you feeling, dear?’

Heather’s closed face relaxed slightly in her father’s presence. She had assembled a tea of sorts, although the cake looked to be of Dorrie’s make. They were really rather claustrophobic, I decided. But perhaps that is the curse of happy families, the curse of which they are unaware but which they visit on all outsiders. No doubt Heather would never get free of them, and might not even want to. As if in unwitting contrast, Oscar began to discuss my plans for buying my flat and then buying out Eileen Somers, which to me, although an obviously sound idea, represented a slow uphill slog of many years. I would need to take out a loan, and, as far as I could see, spend the rest of my life paying it back. But I liked the flat – at least I liked it when I didn’t compare it with anything better – and I loved the shop. It was just that in moments of weakness, such as now, I wished that my life were not quite so reasonable.

With her father, Heather became once more the devoted daughter of the old days, quiet, amenable, acquiescent. Perhaps there was a more closed look about her, as there was about Oscar, but they seemed to find
contentment and security in each other’s company. I almost expected Oscar to say, ‘Where’s your mother?’ Where was she, in fact?

‘How is Dorrie?’ I asked, once again advocate for the absent.

‘A little tired,’ said Oscar. He put the cat down and took a cup of tea from Heather. That subject, too, appeared to be closed.

I took my leave of them as soon as I decently could. Their complicity disheartened me. I felt that Oscar was there in some protective or consolatory capacity which seemed to me faintly indecent. I had no experience of this kind of relationship, my own father having died when I was quite young, but I could not see myself behaving in the same way. I had always felt that adults should maintain a superior ignorance in this respect, and I felt Oscar to be too involved in Heather’s domestic life, too watchful, too much a confidant. The very idea made me feel faint, as if the wretched Michael’s secrets were laid bare. But he was essentially a man without secrets, too unwise to censor his very obvious childishness. Much as I disliked and pitied him, I disliked the idea of his being betrayed, in all his silly innocence, even more.

I found myself striding home, fuelled more by indignation than by returning strength, but recovering a little strength from the indignation itself. My supine acquiescence in all these stratagems, my enrolment as an additional protector, began to enrage me. With the clear light of prescience I realized that this situation could not be prolonged indefinitely, and that once I was out of sympathy I must either stay away or show my hand. In any event, I was fed up with Heather, who had tried my patience in her various manifestations for long enough. If she were not sufficiently mature to sustain her own marriage, she must see to it that the getting of wisdom must be her first priority.

The whole thing had been a waste of money, I thought, while simultaneously trying to calculate my own income and expenditure: Oscar had promised to look over my figures. These romantics with their elaborate weddings and their princely trousseaus, and not a thought, or not enough thought, for the sometimes sour and disappointed sensations that follow, as if the world is necessary to sustain the illusion, as if, left alone, no couple can wholly live up to it. This reflection served the useful function of reaffirming me in my independence, in my adventurous single state, in my disabused view of human affairs. I would press ahead with my own enlightened plans, I thought, and once I got home I would invite Robin for a drink and discuss with him the prospect of our partnership. As far as I could see, this would work perfectly: all it needed was a little planning, a little energy, a little goodwill. I turned to this prospect with relief after the insubstantial exchanges of the afternoon.

As it happened, Robin was just going off for his swim when I got back to the shop. He of course tried to persuade me to join him – he would never give up – but was easily diverted from this plan when I said that there was something I wanted to talk over with him, something to do with our future. Could he come back for a drink after his swim? Or would he like me to meet him somewhere? What about that peculiar wine bar he had once taken me to, the one with the lifebelts and the mess jackets? The Mauretania?