Falling (25 page)

Anna woke her with tea and toast on a tray, saying that she was going on a preliminary exploration of shops. ‘I’ve made a list of what it is plain that you need, although Katya did a
pretty good job, and we can always go out later for anything else that occurs to us. You take it easy; the water is hot if you want a bath.’ She was lying in the bath when she heard the latch
of the front door click and then the door shut. She had not bothered to shut the bathroom door so these sounds were clearly audible. Perhaps Anna had come back because she had forgotten something
– her purse or the list.

‘Anna?’

There was no reply and she was suddenly unnerved. She got out of the bath and wrapped her towel round her. She could hear someone moving about below. ‘Who is it?’

She stood on the landing outside the bathroom looking down the stairs: she was hardly dressed for confronting a marauder. Then she saw him, looking up at her from the bottom of the stairs.

‘I do beg your pardon. I didn’t realize you were back. I come in most mornings to check that everything is all right.’

Henry Kent. It was odd: she had almost forgotten what he looked like. But seeing him, his appearance seemed oddly familiar – familiar and unremarkable; memorable chiefly for the thick,
brindled hair, a lock of which lay across the right side of a forehead that was otherwise enlarged by a receding hairline. He was clearly looking up at her, but with his back to the light she could
not see his expression.

‘I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’ve got some seeds in the shed. I’ll be watering them and then I’ll be off.’

She heard herself saying, ‘I’ll be down in a few minutes.’

‘I should so much like to show you the garden.’

‘Yes, all right.’

As she dressed, she was conscious of confused, distant but unusual feelings: some excitement, curiosity and a certain embarrassment. The letters he had written were full of revelations not
normally divulged between one stranger and another. And she had replied to them; not, she was sure, with the same intensity of intimacy, but still certainly more than she would have expected. She
remembered her conclusion the night before, that he was obviously lonely and that therefore he might become intrusive. It was a fine line, she thought, as her own loneliness obtruded, between being
isolated and being thought intrusive. He might, she might,
anyone
might be thought to be that when they were simply making efforts to communicate to another person in order to put an end to
their isolation. But supposing I don’t
want
to know anything more about him? What happens then? He could be sent away; he could stop being her gardener. It was rather ridiculous to
have
a gardener with such a small garden – particularly if she did decide that she wanted to live here. Then she remembered that Jason used to tease her about getting worked up over
meeting strangers. ‘You’re the most
secretly
shy person I’ve ever known.’ She had asked him what he meant. His reply: ‘Oh! You get all uptight and queenly and
everyone runs a mile.’

This apparently careless remark had caused her further anxiety, and knowing that Jason had no difficulty in meeting people – never had a second’s anxiety about whether he would get
on with them or be liked by them – she had begun watching to see how he achieved this. But she learned nothing, or nothing that she felt able to apply to herself. He had only to walk into a
room for everyone to become more animated, to gravitate towards him, and his apparent unselfconsciousness about the effect he had on people merely increased it. He was never beset by her doubts
– about whether he could think of anything interesting to say, or, she now discovered, if she
did
manage that part of it, whether it would involve her more deeply with the recipient
than she felt inclined. She didn’t take risks with people; she didn’t
go
for it; she wanted both insurances and assurance that an intimacy would have happy consequences. No way
to live, she thought now, as she brushed her hair, and ridiculous at my age not to have acquired these essential skills for friendship – which, after all, could exist at varying levels.
Wholeheartedness, perfection, was not by any means the only thing to seek. She had had that, after all: she’d had Jess and Jason and Anna. And perhaps with time she’d have Katya as
well.

She had thought much about Katya that morning: the rails in her bath, the telephone in her room, the banister down the stairs that she was now gratefully clutching, the stores in the cupboard
– all that was Katya.

It was a beautiful, milky morning; still, cloudless, the sun quenching the dew on the lawn, the hedge each side of her garden gate glistening with new leaves, budding may and diamond-encrusted
cobwebs. The stone path was slippery, and she had left her stick upstairs. As she turned back to the house to fetch it, he came round the corner from the back. He hastened towards her, almost
bustled, and held out his hand and she found herself giving him hers. His hand was damp and she felt that he, too, was nervous.

‘It’s wonderful to see you,’ he said. ‘You can’t imagine how anxious I have been about you. Such an awful thing to have happen. And here you are – walking
without a stick!’

‘I’m supposed to use one. I left it upstairs.’

‘I’ll get it.’

Before she could either stop or thank him, he had gone. She remembered his eyes now – a light hazel; she remembered that he had looked at her in the same way the first time that they had
met, and she had felt really
seen
by him, and that the experience had been unnerving.

‘Here it is. Oh, and I’ve made a very rough sort of garden seat in case you get tired walking about.’

‘In this enormous garden?’

‘Well, if the weather stays fine you might want to be out without being about, mightn’t you?’

He was leading the way round the corner of the house.

‘It’s just a plank with two tree stumps. If I had known you were coming I would have done so many things.’

‘I think you’ve done a lot. The garden is almost unrecognizable. Oh, and thank you for the primroses.’

‘I’ve been putting fresh ones in every day. And your daughter came and we made a few alterations inside to suit you. Did she bring you down?’

‘No. Anna brought me. Miss Blackstone. She’s gone shopping. I can’t drive yet.’

‘Will she be staying, then?’

‘No. She’s got to go back tomorrow night.’

‘Well, I can drive you anywhere you want.’ There was a pause. He stood in front of her and then, in a voice that sounded as though it was a joke against himself, he said, ‘I
have no precious time at all to spend – but of course you know that.’

And then, before she could respond, but she didn’t know how on earth
to
respond, there was the sound of Anna returning with the car.

‘I’ll go and help your friend with the shopping.’

Had he meant that she would recognize the quotation, or had he meant that she would know that he had nothing else to do but look after her? Or perhaps both? It was silly to feel uneasy about
someone simply because they were wanting to help. Why should kindness make her feel shy? It doesn’t with Anna and nobody could be kinder than she. Then she thought that it probably (and
drearily) had something to do with sex: no man had been more than indifferently kind to her for a very long time. And, anyway, it wasn’t exactly kindness – attentive was more what he
was being.

‘It looks as though you’re preparing me for a siege,’ she said later, as the kitchen slowly filled with carrier-bags and cardboard boxes.

‘Well, it seems sensible to stock up. I shan’t be able to get down for a few weeks. I was thinking that it might be a good idea for you to get a deep freeze.’

Mr Kent straightened up from dumping a case of wine on the floor.

‘Where would you like me to put the garden chairs?’

‘I should think straight into the garden. The cushions come off, but I shouldn’t think we need do that today. I thought you’d want somewhere to sit outside. I got a small table
as well in case you want to work out there. Or eat things.’

‘He
turned up pretty smartly, didn’t he?’ she added, when he had gone to fetch chairs.

‘He says he’s been coming in every morning to water seeds.’

‘And arrange the flowers.’

‘Oh,
Anna
! He means well. And if I do stay here I shall need someone to fetch and carry things for a bit.’

‘That’s perfectly true. Just don’t let him mean well too much.’

He returned to say that everything was now out of the car, and that he would be back in the early evening to put the seed trays back in the shed. ‘I’m hardening them off, but there
can always be a frost until the end of this month.’ He smiled at her and turned to go.

‘Thanks for all your help,’ Anna called.

‘It was a pleasure.’

By mutual unspoken consent, they did not mention Mr Kent for the rest of that day. The sun became deliciously warm; they had lunch in the garden with the new chairs and table. There was even
some shade; an oak tree from the wood overhung a corner of the lawn. Anna described the town.

‘It’s nice. A small market town, but with most of the shops you’ll need. There’s no fishmonger, but apparently a van comes once a week to the market and has a stall on
Fridays. There’s a butcher and grocer, and an acceptable small supermarket run by an Asian family with an incredible range of stuff. One rather haughty little delicatessen – the kind
that explains sun-dried tomatoes to you – and even a cobbler. A lovely sweetshop with huge jars in the window and a greengrocer with pots of herbs outside. No bookshop, of course. And I
don’t think you’ll get papers delivered.’

‘I shan’t mind that at all. I can have the
Literary Review
and the
Spectator
sent by post.’

‘Yes. And you never really
read
newspapers, do you? There’s a bank – two, actually, and a post office and what looks like a promising junk shop. And, of course, there
are pubs. I didn’t count them, but three or four, and one off-licence where I got the wine. There’s a square in the middle where they have the market. Just a pity it’s ten miles
away, really. The village has nothing but one shop and a pub. Poor old people. What a time they must have – having to find buses to collect their pensions and get meat and things.’

‘You have cased the joint.’

‘I enjoy it. I love going to new places and having a good look round.’

After lunch, Anna read a manuscript and Daisy slept. After tea, they went for a walk – up the lane to the bridge over the canal. From the bridge the canal stretched north, straight for the
half-mile to the village. She remembered driving back that first weekend, and Mr Kent kissing his hand to her. She walked to the other side to look south. But here the canal curved rather sharply
with a steep wooded bank on one side, which more or less concealed the towpath on the other. His boat must be on that side since there was nothing to be seen on the straight stretch. Anna suggested
that they walk beside the canal, but she said she was tired and they retraced their steps. She was reluctant to encounter him in his boat with Anna or, indeed, to talk about him with
her.

The subject did come up on Sunday morning, after Anna had rung to find out about trains.

‘I’m sure Mr Kent would take you to the station.’

Anna agreed to this. ‘But we ought to find out about local taxis. You might need one.’

‘I expect Mr Kent will know. I hope he does come about his seeds or we won’t be able to ask him to take you.’

But he had thought of that. He turned up in the morning and asked when Miss Blackstone would want to be taken to the train.

‘I’m going to ring up every day to see how you are getting on,’ Anna said, as she left. ‘And I’ll go to the London Library with your list to be sent.’ And as
she kissed Daisy, she said quietly, ‘And don’t be proud. Come back if you get too lonely.’

While she was being taken to the station, Daisy wrote her a letter saying all of her grateful acknowledgements of the layers of Anna’s affection and friendship. Kindness always made her
want to weep.

For the rest of that month – for over three weeks – she settled with increasing enjoyment to her country life. May was providing a beautiful end to the spring; she was astonished by
how much she had forgotten, how much she remembered and how much she had never known of the country at that time of the year. The different ways in which trees became green; the suddenness of
blossom; cherry, may, lilac, chestnut, bluebells in the wood, celandine everywhere. A peaceful, pleasant rhythm developed. She would wake early to the dawn chorus and sleep again in the ensuing
silence, then wake again from the sun streaming through her small casement window. She would make tea in her room and drink it in bed while she read Gerin on the Brontës. Then she would bathe and
dress and make coffee and toast. At ten the postman would appear; at eleven Henry. He had become Henry the day after Anna had gone when he had arrived earlier than usual in the morning with the car
keys. ‘I didn’t like to bother you late in the evening with them.’ And she had said, ‘How thoughtful, thank you, Mr Kent.’

‘Oh, please call me Henry. Mr Kent sounds as though you disapprove of me. But perhaps you do.’

‘No. Why should I?’

‘Well – I was afraid that my last letter to you may have . . .
annoyed
you in some way. Or perhaps you never got it?’

‘I did. But not until I came back to England. It was forwarded on to me from the hospital.’

‘I see.’

‘Why should you think it annoyed me?’

‘I thought, as you never answered it – but then you didn’t get it. But it has not been mentioned between us, so I couldn’t help wondering . . .’

‘Oh. I felt so sorry for you about your Charley. Poor g
^irl!
’

There was a silence. Then he said, ‘You cannot imagine what a relief it was even to write about it to you. My last wife was so jealous that even the mention of Charley’s name sent
her into a furious sulk. It was only possible to co-exist with her in artificial silence. Not my line at all. You need more wood.’