Altered States (23 page)

‘Well, of course, it was hardly a love match, though they seemed happy enough, at least to begin with. Let her enjoy this little bit of attention while she can; she certainly won’t enjoy being on her own. That’s what drove her into the marriage in the first place. Poor dear. She has no gift for solitude. She’ll stay on in the flat, I suppose?’

I told my mother about the will, which I had had time to examine. It was quite in order: the property was to go to Sarah, while Jenny had a right to the contents of the flat. Apart from three or four clocks, whose value I had no means of estimating, these were negligible, consisting as they did of worn turkey carpets, antiquated sofas and armchairs covered in faded green velvet, a heavy oval dining-table which would be difficult to move, eight massive leather dining-chairs decorated with brass studs, and a chest of drawers in the hall
which effectively blocked one’s passage in and out. The contents of the bedrooms, which it would also be my duty to examine, could hardly be more refined, and it would take some temerity on my part to go through Humphrey’s possessions. I imagined a cobweb-strewn camphor-smelling hideout in which daylight never entered and all the mirrors were tarnished; I imagined malodorous carpet slippers, unravelled pullovers, antique overcoats in creaking wardrobes, and all the dusty remains of a man whose final decrepitude seemed to me far more shocking than his actual demise. My task, on the occasion on which I should have to conduct my inventory, seemed to loom far more depressingly than the funeral; I thought it unfair that Humphrey should linger on in his effects while Jenny faced the prospect of being dispossessed.

Mother was shocked but not surprised by the will. ‘He was always very family-minded, of course. He kept in touch with Sybil, and he was on good terms with Marjorie. Indeed we always thought that Marjorie had her eye on him. He could have done worse; she knew his ways. It was only the accident of his losing his way in Paris that led him to Jenny. Poor darling, she never really fitted in.’

‘That, Mother, is entirely to her credit.’

‘I agree, but where does that leave her now? And it seems so unfair when she tried so hard. And she was happy at first, so delighted to be married. She was a very good companion in those early days, and she was so eager to make friends, to have a family. I think she would even have taken on Sybil and Marjorie, had they shown the slightest sign of welcoming her, but you know how odd they are …’

‘Quite.’

‘And it was her attitude to Sarah that was so sad. She had this fantasy—and it was a fantasy—that the two of them would become close.’

‘That attitude may have changed by now.’

‘It had to, of course; it would have done so in any case, but now that Sarah’s got the flat …’

‘She may not want it.’

My mother sighed. ‘My poor Alan, you don’t know Sarah very well.’

I could not bring myself to discuss Sarah with my mother, so I asked her if she were coming over for the funeral.

‘Of course, dear. Aubrey is not too pleased about it, but I’ve been quite firm. Golders Green, I suppose?’

‘Yes. And I’ve put a notice in
The Times
. This means quite a bit of extra work for me.’

‘It will be a comfort to Jenny to know that you’re taking care of things. I’ll see you on the twenty-fourth then, dear. Look after yourself. Aubrey sends love.’

I doubted this, though I did not doubt Aubrey’s unwillingness to attend the funeral. He had scant sympathy with other people’s illnesses, and as death was the logical outcome of certain illnesses he preferred not to hear about it. But he would be there, in one of his beautiful suits, to escort Mother, and I was grateful for his promised attendance, since it seemed that without him I should be the only man at the funeral and something in the nature of an unwilling host at whatever baked meats Jenny had had time to prepare. In fact I did not see who would want to be present, since Humphrey had lived out of the world so long. That was why I had put a notice in
The Times
, in an effort to drum up support. For some odd reason, though it had nothing, or very little, to do with me, I wanted no suggestion that this was a death of no consequence.

In fact, for a recluse, he had quite a turn-out. There were about eighteen people in the chapel, most of them elderly, none of whom I had ever seen before. I presumed that they were neighbours, for whom a funeral of someone they hardly knew was something of a social occasion, an opportunity to
get out and meet their friends, a welcome break in the daily routine. The three frail-looking men of some distinction I took to be colleagues of Humphrey’s in the jewellery trade, and I had to remind myself that at one point in his life he had been well regarded, a man among equals, rather than the faded and suspicious character I had known. Sybil and Marjorie made a late entrance, Marjorie being pushed down the aisle in a wheelchair; otherwise they seemed not to have aged by a single day. I offered Jenny my arm, since it seemed to have fallen to my lot to be her protector. She looked dignified in her black coat and spotted veil, but she was trembling, as if the full impact of the occasion had only just been revealed to her. This ugly ceremony, among strangers, reinforced her knowledge of herself as an exile, unable to summon up the brave smile, the worldly composure that the English manage to manifest even in these circumstances. She was very pale, but I thought that any grief she must be feeling was for herself and her new situation, a situation in which an outward show of tears would be misplaced. I led her to the front pew, on the other side of the aisle from Sybil and Marjorie. Then, when the service was about to begin, there was a clatter of heels, a whiff of Guerlain, and the empty space next to Sybil was taken by Sarah.

I sensed her rather than saw her; when I was able to turn my head I had an impression of modish drooping black garments, and something else, something different. Keeping my eyes rigidly to the front, I tried to decipher what I had glimpsed. There was a hat, certainly, one of those dire felt hats favoured by her mother; indeed she may have, probably had, borrowed one of her mother’s hats. In the rustle that signified the end of the short service I was able to take a second look, and then I saw what had initially struck me as discordant. She had cut off her marvellous hair, which now stuck out from under the unbecoming hat in a bulky bob.
Her face, pale and sulky, was as intriguing as ever. But although she had lost her initial bloom, had in fact put on weight, so that she looked older, rather more like her mother, the effect on me was unfortunate. I longed to take her in my arms, to comfort her for her lost beauty, to let her know that she was now more accessible to me, that my previous anxieties were in abeyance, that we could perhaps at last meet on equal terms. Had it been up to me I would have crossed the aisle and greeted her, but Jenny was now trembling violently, dreading the moment when she would have to go forward and touch the coffin, fearful of what lay inside it. It was a primitive fear, or rather it was the fear of a primitive person. Around her faces which had been composed were beginning to relax, while through the open doors could be seen the suburban-looking lawns, perfect setting for a largely unlamented death.

I commandeered a car for Jenny and myself, having said a few words on her behalf to those who had attended. Her lips were too pale and too numb to utter the words inviting them back to the flat, so I did that too. On the pretext of rounding up the other mourners I spoke briefly to Sarah, asking her how she was, whether she had had a good journey, the sort of words that would pass unnoticed in a crowd. She stared at me, vaguely affronted: ‘I’ve only come from Paddington Street, haven’t I?’ There was now no time for a conversation, and this was hardly the place, but I managed to say that I would look in on her later that evening, ‘look in’ having the right note of casual improvisation. In truth I said this for old times’ sake. Although I wanted to see her, I had grown tired of my former role of ardent lover, even more my role of deranged pursuer. If I wanted to see her it was for a final reckoning, a settling of our account. I too was older, and I had lived my life without her for what seemed a very long time. I, who had grown used to solitude, had less patience for
sheer absence, and where I had once built romantic fantasies around the compelling character of this particular absence I was now less sure of its potency, more inclined to treat it as a rather tiresome waywardness. I was absurdly shocked by the hat, the unbecoming hair, above all by her resemblance to her mother. I knew that when we met I would make fewer concessions than in the past. I felt tenderness, a willingness to enfold her, but also a lessening of tolerance towards her. I felt oddly in a stronger position, as if her changed appearance had turned me into a more fatherly character, and I knew in that brief moment that if we were to come together I would, I hope smilingly, forestall her caprices and insist on my own centrality in this affair, which perhaps was no longer an affair but more of a meeting between adults, in which I would have my say, so long delayed, and perhaps even now too long postponed.

Back at the flat Jenny had provided sweet sherry and fingers of iced Madeira cake, as if determined to live down to the expectations of Sybil and Marjorie. Mother and Aubrey, their brown faces giving an impression of almost indecent health and well-being in that pallid gathering, moved among the ten or eleven people now apparently willing to while away their afternoon. I found a dusty bottle of whisky and poured generous measures for Aubrey and myself, and for two of the three elderly men who had presumably been Humphrey’s friends. One of them, whose mild shrewd eyes had taken in the contents of the room, introduced himself as Lionel Taylor and gave me his card.

‘You’re looking after things, I gather,’ he said. ‘If you need any advice don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

I thanked him and pocketed the card: all this could be sorted out later. Jenny, her colour a little restored, sat in Humphrey’s chair, apparently grateful to all these new friends for keeping her company. She seemed to me to be
rather less than her usual self, certainly less than the Jenny who had so recently exposed her grievances. My mother, who noticed that she was still trembling slightly, fetched a shawl from the bedroom and placed it round her shoulders. She sat there, quite docile, until Sybil announced that they must make a move if they wanted to get home before dark. They both rose and exchanged a brief kiss—a concession on both their parts—and as if that were the sign for which everyone had been waiting, or to which they were reconciled, there was a general movement of departure. I did duty at the door, thanked everyone for coming, and assured them that Jenny would be in touch. This, I knew, was pure form: I doubted whether Jenny even knew who they were.

‘You go, darling,’ said my mother. ‘I’ll stay here for a bit. I’ve sent Aubrey off; I’m afraid he found it a bit of a strain.’ We both knew that he had in fact found it an imposition, but this was not to be mentioned. ‘I’ll keep Jenny company for a little while. She shouldn’t be alone. Perhaps if you could look in this evening? Just to make sure she’s all right.’

I was glad to escape from that flat, in which all the lights had been on, into the somehow more acceptable confusion of the Edgware Road. I decided not to go straight back to the office but to go home, make some coffee, and sit in absolute silence for an hour. I wanted solitude, though this is frowned on in a healthy adult. The propaganda goes the other way; one is urged to get out of oneself, as if preferring one’s own company were a dangerous indulgence. I wanted, above all else, to be free of attachments, of those personal agendas which are wished on one in any conversation of any depth, and which are as disruptive to the process of contemplation as a telephone ringing in the middle of the night. I was not sick, I was not melancholy: I simply demanded that I might enjoy the peace of the situation I had inherited.

I flattered myself that I behaved like a responsible and
rational being. Indeed this was a role which I had always found natural. I should do my duty in the matter of Jenny and the will, though this involved a stratagem whose implications I was not yet willing to face. Uppermost in my mind was the fact that I should very soon be face to face with Sarah, that is if she took me rather more seriously than she had taken my attempt to see her in Paris. I knew that the sheer triumph of capturing her attention would impel me to folly. I should probably ask her to marry me, and I should be equally aghast whether my offer were accepted or declined. I realised now that what I wanted from her, had indeed always wanted from her, was some kind of reciprocity, if only in the form of an explanation. It had become overwhelmingly important to me to dispel the miasma of bad faith that surrounded our relationship, and for which I was just as much to blame. At least I thought I was: the memory of that Paris escapade still shamed me. I wanted to exchange with her the sort of words adults use, not to engage myself in one more hopeless pursuit, complete with unanswered questions and missed appointments. Perhaps I simply wanted her to talk to me.

To a certain extent, I reasoned, she was innocent of conflict, certainly of the conflicts that assailed me whenever I thought of her. She existed in a state unknown to me and which I should never completely understand. Her life was an improvisation, without roots, without commitments, without guarantees: that was the difference between us. My own progress, unsteady though it was, had brought me to a sort of plateau from which I could contemplate my own follies as serious aberrations, but I needed my own company in order to do this work of self-examination. I needed silence, without the interruption of someone else’s disaffections. Since I had never been able to calculate Sarah’s appearances and disappearances I reckoned that life with her would soon destroy
any logical structure I tried to impose. And yet she had filled my thoughts ever since I had first met her. Perhaps what I was registering was nothing more than the passage of time, to which one should pay great attention, lest one remain fixed in past expectations, without noticing how foolish one had become.