Altered States (11 page)

‘See you tomorrow,’ she always said as we left. And she had already given me her telephone number at home and at work, and had asked for mine. I was obliged to give her the office number, saying that there was no point in ringing me at home, as I was hardly ever there. ‘Where are you, then?’ she said. I winced, and told her that I spent a lot of time with my mother, noting with a sinking heart that this fallacious information was yet another point in my favour.

As a matter of fact Mother did ring me one evening and
asked me to come over, as she had something to discuss with me. I imagined that this had something to do with her investments, on which matter she habitually deferred to me, although she was quite capable of managing very well on her own. As I trudged through the park I felt vaguely uneasy. Looking back later, I saw that this was premonitory; at the time, however, I merely looked forward to eating one of her delicious suppers and listening to her news, to which I need pay little attention. She was a supremely tactful woman, who had no doubt spoilt me in this respect: she saw that she must not burden me with information of any significance until I had eaten, and never before she had satisfied herself that I was comfortable. Therefore I was largely unprepared to find her so nervous and so abrupt. Scarcely had I taken off my coat than she ushered me without ceremony into the drawing-room and indicated a chair. I sat down warily, thinking that I must be in for some additional duties. All I could think of was Sybil, presenting Mother with some intractable family problem which I should have to sort out.

‘My darling,’ said my mother hesitantly, ‘I have something to tell you.’

‘Are you ill?’ I said, alarmed.

‘No, no. It’s just that Aubrey and I were married this morning.’

‘What? You mean you didn’t tell me? Warn me, I should say.’

‘I made up my mind very quickly,’ said this woman who had once claimed that her position in life was to be my mother. ‘Of course it will make no difference to my feelings for you. In my heart you will always come first. And Aubrey has been so kind: that’s why he stayed upstairs—he knew I’d want to see you on my own. We’ll move in together when we get back.’

‘Back from where?’

‘From Cagnes, darling. He has this little house, and we’re going there soon, perhaps next week.’

‘For your honeymoon,’ I said, trying to come to terms with the fact that my mother was not only going to marry this man but to sleep with him as well. I felt like Hamlet, though as far as I could see (and I had to concede this) Aubrey was not in the least like Claudius. Then I got to my feet and kissed her and was rewarded for my effort when she wiped her eyes and put away her handkerchief and gave me a shaky but happy smile.

‘What decided you?’ I asked. ‘After all this time.’

‘Such a silly thing. I was out with Jenny, on one of our afternoon excursions. Perhaps I was a little out of sorts, or perhaps I wasn’t listening, as I usually do, to Jenny’s chatter. Suddenly I caught sight of the two of us in a long mirror in one of the shops, and, Alan, I saw two old women, arm in arm, with obviously nothing better to do with their time than spend it in department stores, in that terrible overheated atmosphere. I could feel Jenny’s arm weighing me down. And I suddenly thought, “I don’t want to get old like this. I want a sense of renewal. I want to be with a man again.” ’

‘And is that what Aubrey offers you? A sense of renewal?’

‘He offers me kindness, care, generosity, and a social position. And perhaps the last is the most important. A woman on her own is rarely respected for what she is, and not always for what she does. She has to make a strenuous bid for recognition if she wants to merit attention, even in this day and age. And she is not always treated kindly, particularly when she is no longer young. I look in the mirror these mornings and I am shocked. And to think that I was once admired for my looks! And I notice little things about myself that tell me
that I’m getting older. I dread the winter, dark nights, wet leaves on the pavement. I could so easily fall, or Jenny could, pulling me down with her.’

I sensed a new regard for self, where previously there had been only selflessness. I took her in my arms and comforted her, until her renewed sobs had subsided. I longed for her as she had always been, and was to be no longer.

‘So perhaps you’d give Aubrey a ring this evening, when you get home, darling, to offer your congratulations? And there’ll be a few people for drinks on Sunday, just to avoid the awkwardness of writing to everyone. Not that there are too many of our old friends left.’ She meant, I knew, the friends that she had had when she was married to my father.

‘Jenny will miss you,’ I said. I felt in that instant for everyone who would miss my mother, for I did not doubt that she would quickly become absorbed in her new life. ‘I suppose you’ll be travelling more,’ I went on. ‘Aubrey’s always off somewhere, isn’t he?’

‘I’ve told him that he must go on his own, that it will be good for us to take occasional breaks from each other. Then you and I will be just as we’ve always been, darling.’

‘Until he comes back,’ I said.

‘Oh, Alan. Be kind, dear. After all, one day you’ll marry and leave me on my own …’

‘I should never do that.’

‘Oh, yes. And perhaps sooner than you know. And I don’t want to be alone any more than you do. And it will be good for you to know that you don’t have to worry about me. Aubrey will do that.’

‘Are you fond of him, then?’ I asked.

‘I am, yes. And he is fond of me. That’s always a comforting thing to remember. I think we shall be very happy once these awful announcements are behind us. You won’t forget
to ring him, will you, dear? And Sunday for drinks, twelve noon.’

Only the empty park, I thought, was wide enough to contain my thoughts, which were of rage and loneliness, as if I were an infant. Yet gradually I calmed down and began to see matters more objectively. There was no point in not being glad for Mother. Everything she had said made sense. I knew and liked Aubrey, to whom I must this very evening offer congratulations, as if I were a hearty senior in a club frequented by old buffers. What made me sad was a comparison of Mother’s situation with my own. I had no one. At that moment the thought struck me that Sarah’s absence might be permanent, that she might never come home, that if she did she would continue to be as elusive and as uncommitted as she had always been. A new notion was making its insidious way into my consciousness: that this was unworthy behaviour, that one did not wander affectless through life, ignorant of or indifferent to one’s influence on others. I thought that I deserved better, or perhaps needed more than an occasional casual recognition of my enslavement. For she can have been in no doubt, despite my plucky offhandedness. And I had thought that I was sure of her response, of that light so persistently hidden under a bushel. Strange how the Biblical phrase came back to me, I who had been devoutly secular all my life. I wanted my reward on earth, now more than ever. I was aware of spiralling self-doubt, like physical nausea, threatening to overwhelm me. The force of my distress made me feel literally queasy. I could not wait to get back to the safety of my flat.

It did not occur to me to wonder at the discrepancy between my equable public persona and the private turmoil that assailed me whenever I was engulfed in my own thoughts. Never having encountered this turmoil before I
chose to believe that it was customary in the circumstances, and that others had been similarly assailed before. Nothing had prepared me for it, but I had no proof that it was unprecedented. Certainly the dichotomy was worse when I was alone, as I was now; on the other hand, nothing would have induced me to ask advice. Suddenly it all became intolerable, and I was as forlorn and bewildered as I had not been since early childhood. I took a sheet of paper, and, almost without thinking, began a letter. Dear Sarah, I wrote. I seem unable to reach you, and this is now a problem, in many ways. I long for you, but for the first time without hope. You had seemed to me once to be part of my future, or rather part of an everlasting present that would become that future, yet you barely deign to acknowledge the present, let alone that future. I want you in my life, yet you remain obstinately outside it. Perhaps it is time for me to take my leave, no longer to let matters remain unfinished, but to finish them. In my heart you will always come first. (I remembered my mother saying this.) I will make no further attempts to contact you. You know where to find me if you ever need me. But you will understand if I no longer wish to spend my life running after you, or even to remain on my own. (This last remark was sheer bravado. I must have thought I could torment her by hinting at a rival, several rivals. This I knew would not severely disturb her, but I left it in. It felt mildly dangerous, provocative.) I am yours devotedly, in spite of, or rather because of, everything, Alan.

Then, feeling noble and calm, and quite resolute after my recent distress, I telephoned Aubrey and wished him well. He was very pleased.

‘We shall always be glad to see you, Alan. Don’t leave it too long. And of course the house in France is yours whenever you want it. You’ll be with us on Sunday? I’ll look forward to seeing you then.’

The following morning in the coffee bar I ordered eggs with my toast in an attempt to make myself feel better.

‘Gosh, you look awful,’ said Angela, her eyes widening in sympathy. ‘Has something upset you?’

‘My mother’s getting married. No, she’s got married. She was married yesterday morning. I still can’t believe it.’

‘How absolutely frightful for you,’ was her response. Frightful for
me
, I noted. She had instinctively got it right.

‘They’re giving a small drinks party on Sunday,’ I told her. ‘I don’t suppose it would amuse you …?’

‘I’d love to come. I’ll pick you up, shall I? I’d love to see your flat. Then perhaps we could walk across the park. I’m a great walker.’

In the light of what was to come, all I can offer was the fact that I had posted my letter to Sarah, and consequently did not want to be alone, or to be seen to be alone, in case news of me should ever get back to her.

In fact I was glad to have Angela with me on that Sunday, when Mother and Aubrey were the centre of attention, and I had no function except to assure friends that I was delighted for her. I felt like a bridesmaid at the wedding of her oldest friend, aware that life would soon separate us. I was of course glad to see Mother so happy. I saw her glancing speculatively at Angela, who once again made herself useful handing round the canapés. I wondered if the poor girl faced a lifetime of doing this, at least until someone rescued her and elevated her to a position superior to that of handmaid. Strangely, Mother did not seem to appreciate her assiduity, and at one point took a tray from her and told her to sit down and drink a glass of champagne. The only other people sitting down were Humphrey and Jenny, Jenny looking doleful, Humphrey nearly asleep. I could see why Mother wanted to enjoy a form of life rather more removed from their orbit than would have been possible had Aubrey not
been at hand. One makes significant decisions sometimes on the strength of insignificant pointers. One look at Jenny’s swollen feet told me more about those afternoons that had been deemed so pleasurable than Mother’s remarks about status and respect had been able to do. As she had said, she had once been admired for her looks and even now was an attractive woman.

‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’ whispered Jenny. ‘I’m so glad for her. Of course I’ll miss her.’

‘But she’ll still be here,’ I assured her. ‘Although we can’t expect her to be here as much as formerly.’

‘Oh, no, Alan. It won’t be the same at all.’ There was a finality to her tone that spoke of past disappointments, past betrayals. ‘Come, Humphrey. It’s time for us to go. You’ll come to see us, Alan? Humphrey is so fond of you. As I am, of course.’

‘Still waiting to show you my clocks,’ said Humphrey, as Jenny manoeuvred him to his feet. ‘Come any time. Always pleased to see you. And Anthea, of course.’

I wondered who Anthea could be until I saw Angela faithfully posted on Humphrey’s other side. She was invaluable in awkward or dreary situations, although ill at ease with people of her own age. She took Humphrey’s other arm and kissed him goodbye, at which I saw Jenny give her the same lightning appraisal that had momentarily arrested my mother’s happy exuberance. Jenny’s expression was considered, as if she might be sorry for one so inexperienced, but at the same time devoid of indulgence for that lack of experience. I remembered that she had been a working woman, possibly a woman who had lived on her wits, and that this event, my mother’s marriage, signified for her the end of something she had come to treasure: equality. With Mother she had been allowed to think of herself as a lady. Now she was on her own again.

The party broke up at about two o’clock, and soon we were out in the dead calm of the Sunday street, a calm broken only by Angela’s breathy enthusiasms. She thought everything was marvellous, my mother amazing, Humphrey adorable. I suddenly found this hard to bear. She was no companion for my forlorn state. I thought only of the letter I had sent to Paddington Street, and cursed myself for having sent it. It seemed to me then that my moment of lucidity was no substitute for a lifetime of hope and expectation, fallacious though both might have been. I had a headache; I felt vaguely sick. I remembered how I had tried to avoid Mother’s parties all my adult life. My ungracious mood must have communicated itself to Angela; certainly I did nothing to disguise it. I took her home in a taxi, refused her invitation to coffee, and walked back. In the flat I resisted an impulse to sleep, and settled down to study some papers. These too I eventually pushed aside and spent the rest of the afternoon watching a football match on television. I have no interest in football, but I could think of nothing better to do.

At what point does destiny reveal itself? I woke up the following morning with a temperature. I plodded into the office, feeling dreadful, and was sent home by Mrs Roche. It was only the flu, I told myself, but I had never been ill, and did not know how to take care of myself. I remembered a vague injunction to drink plenty of fluids, but I did not have the strength to make myself a cup of tea, and cold water made me feel worse. Eventually I went to bed and tried to sleep, without success. Some time in the middle of the night I realised that I was unnaturally hot, and also that I had not cancelled my appointments for the following day. Regardless of the hour I tried to ring Brian, but there was no answer from his Dorset Square flat. If I were to die I thought it important that someone should know. I could not bring myself to disturb Mother; that was my last sensible thought,
and I was rather proud of it. But by the morning all reticence, every shred of self-respect had vanished. That was when I telephoned Angela.