Falling (28 page)

So I went back to the boat again, finished the vodka (it was only a half-bottle, after all), reread her letters and the notes and pieces of copying I had from her diary until it was dark enough.
There was a half-moon, but it was a cloudy night, so that the moonlight was fitful. I worked my way through the wood until I was at its edge, looking on to the garden. Now I could see that the
windows upstairs were illuminated. An owl had hooted a few minutes before I reached this point, and just as I was considering imitating him to draw her to the window, there she was opening it and
leaning out. She wore a white nightdress, long-sleeved and ruffled at the neck, and her lovely hair was silhouetted against the warm light behind her. The owl hooted again just as the moon came out
and I moved further back into the wood, but another cloud came and it was comfortably dark. I watched her until she drew her curtain and retired and almost at once put out her light.

The next morning was set fair – not a cloud in the sky and the sun devouring mist from the canal. I drank some Nescafe, ate a banana and set out. It was ten, earlier than I usually went to
the cottage, but I could not bear to wait any longer.

When I reached the cottage, the car had gone: I might have thought that they would go shopping, but it seemed like an awful anticlimax. Then it occurred to me that naturally I would assume that
if a car was not there they had not yet arrived, in which case I would follow my usual practice of going into the cottage to see that all was well before I repaired to the shed with the plants.

As soon as I opened the door I was assailed by the delicious scent of rose geranium wafting down the stairs from the open bathroom door. Then I heard her call out.

I did not reply. I wanted her to come out of the bathroom, which I knew she would do if she was met with silence. I stood at the bottom of the stairs – could hear my own heart
pounding.

Then, suddenly, there she was, wrapped in a white bath towel, her shoulders bare, her legs bare from below the knees. Her skin, against the whiteness of the towel, was like warm ivory. I could
see that she was frightened, and hastened to apologize – to say all the right things that would reassure. I had not realized she was back, came in each day to check that things were all
right, more apologies and talk of seeing to the seeds. But when she said she would come down, I ventured to say how much I wanted to show her the garden – safe ground, the garden. She agreed
to this.

When she appeared, wearing jeans, a dark red flannel shirt and moccasins, I hastened to approach and shake hands. This gave me the chance to look at her at close quarters for fractionally
longer. She had left her stick upstairs, and I went to get it. Her bed was not made, and the nightdress lay across it. It was an antique – the kind that can be found in junk shops. I picked
it up to inhale the intoxicating scents of fresh laundry that had enclosed warm flesh, and laid it back carefully before grabbing the stick and rejoining her.

During our short tour of the garden, I learned that Miss Blackstone was leaving on Sunday evening.

Flirting with someone you do not know very well, or – perhaps I should say in this case – cannot
seem
to know well, is a most delicate procedure. Naturally it depends upon the
woman you are trying to court. But however tentative or small the advances may be, they have to be made or there will be no progress. Ideally, they have to be on the edge of presumption and retreat
has always to be possible. I tried a little of this when she told me that Miss Blackstone was leaving the next day, when suddenly a most apposite line popped into my head. Before she could respond
– sometimes one has a stroke of luck – there were sounds of Miss Black-stone’s return and I could escape to help her with the shopping.

There was certainly enough of that. The very large boot of the car was crammed: quantities of carrier-bags, boxes and even furniture. She must have spent hundreds of pounds, because there were
several boxes of drink – mostly wine by the look of it, but it emerged that she had bought one bottle each of whisky, vodka and gin. And Miss Blackstone was suggesting a deep freeze. There
was never any hesitation about whether any of these things could be afforded; and after a pang of straightforward envy (in order to smoke and drink, I had to live on a pretty rugged diet where food
was concerned), I felt considerably comforted. Where money is concerned, a sheep is infinitely preferable to a lamb.

When everything was cleared out of the car I offered to help put things away, but I could see that Miss Blackstone didn’t want me hanging about. So I went off to put the seed trays and
small plants back into the shed. She said nothing, but Miss Blackstone thanked me. She does not like me, I can sense this, and there is very little I can do about it except play the humble,
faithful retainer with as much subtlety as I can command.

During the drive to the station on the following evening, in spite of my efforts to keep the conversation general and innocuous, she asked me leading questions – six I think. She asked if
I was married, and I told her about my separation from Hazel and stalemate about the divorce. She asked what I had been doing before I started working for Miss Langrish, and I said that I had been
looking for that sort of work. Later she asked me what I had been doing when I was married. I knew that this was a dangerous question because, in fact, after my marriage I did not do very much
(Hazel had inherited twenty-five thousand pounds from her mother and nothing would have induced her to give up her physiotherapist’s job, so I had plenty of time on my hands). Given the
choice of working or not working, I would opt for the latter, and for about eighteen months I was able to do that. I had explained to Hazel that I had invested the money for her and paid what I had
told her was the interest quarterly into our bank account. But I had kept the capital stashed away in a separate account, and it had provided me with a few extras that helped to cushion me from the
dreary discovery that, in Hazel, I had definitely picked the wrong woman. Of course, I am perfectly aware that such things are ‘not done’, but I suspect that this is chiefly for lack of
opportunity. Such a lump sum had never come my way. Of course, during that time, I did occasionally get the odd job – small ones, like equipping a conservatory with suitable plants, stocking
a garden pond with marginals, water plants and fish – but most of the time I read and, from time to time, went to town and picked myself a trouble-free good time. I told Hazel I was going for
a job and usually turned up three days later not having g
^{ot it}
.

So – I told Miss Blackstone that I had been writing a book about gardens.

‘How interesting! How far have you got?’

Sensing what she would say next, I said that I
had
almost finished it, but that made no difference now as my wife, in a fit of anger after my departure, had destroyed it:
‘“Put it out with the other rubbish,” she said.’

There was a silence after this. Then, when we reached the station, she said, ‘I’m sorry about your book. It must have been most distressing for you.’

Her voice sounded different, and far warmer.

Driving back, I felt a sense of exaltation – a heady blend of power and excitement. She was mine now: there was nobody between us; it was simply a question of gaining her confidence and
interest. Simple! Far easier thought than done, I was to discover in the ensuing weeks during which I made progress, but so slowly as to be unobservable except in retrospect. If I looked back to
her arrival and the first morning, I could see that I had got no further: she now called me by my name, but even that small advance had been resisted at first, and I was not invited to reciprocate.
She
had
received my last letter and it had had the desired effect. My description of Charley and her death had touched her, as indeed it had touched me when I wrote of it. But, still, I
detected that she was on her guard: any too sudden move would cut the little ground I had gained from under my feet. I concentrated upon being the good, reliable servant.

I arrived every morning punctually at eleven o’clock, by which time she was bathed and dressed for the day and working with her books and papers at the garden table. At the end of the
first week I suggested a visit to a nursery garden and she agreed at once. It was a beautiful day and I took her to the furthest nursery that I knew of in order to prolong the outing. I drove
slowly for the same reason, but she seemed not to mind that at all. Indeed, I glanced at her – only once – during the drive and saw that she was leaning back in her seat watching the
country ahead with a small smile curling her mouth.

She was thrilled by the nursery and wanted to buy everything she saw. I had only to suggest something for her to want all varieties of it. When she fell in love with a standard ‘Little
White Pet’ and almost begged to get it, I could not help smiling; she was behaving like an excited child and before I could stop myself, I said so. But when I backtracked on this, I made
matters worse. I called her Miss Langrish in a manner that invited her to grant me more intimacy. I saw her face close; her escape into herself, her formality with me crystallising into what I knew
to be some fear. She played music all the way home, lay with her eyes closed, but this time my covert glances showed me the violet smudges beneath them. I had gone too far, and she was anyway tired
from the excursion. I had noticed how easily she tired and knew that she was often in some pain, although it was never mentioned and I did not know how much. She said that she was tired and her
back hurt, and I said that if she would lie down on the sofa, I would bring her some tea. I knew that I had upset her and was sorry for it and told her so. I brought her the tea and said I would
put the plants out in the garden, then see if she wanted anything else before I went.

She was asleep. The sun had gone down, and the air from the window open above her was chill. I fetched a blanket from the spare-room bed upstairs to cover her, but first I shut the window. She
lay with one hand clasping the back of her neck, the book she had been reading spine upwards on her breast. I removed it gently. The sofa was low, and I kneeled to arrange the blanket over and
round her. She was deeply asleep and did not stir. Her long, slender feet were bare. There was something touching and vulnerable about their position askew on a cushion that made me want to kiss
them, although I hesitated, for fear of waking her, but the desire to kiss her for the first time without her knowledge became overwhelming, and I put my mouth to each foot in turn before tucking
the blanket round them. Still she did not show any sign of waking and when I was standing again I was able to gaze at her face, so pale and still and dreamless. For the first time I touched her
wonderful hair, as soft and light to my touch as I had imagined. I wanted then passionately to leave some message – an apology to allay her fear, a declaration of some kind that might kindle
her interest. I sat in the kitchen for minutes before I was able to write exactly what I wanted to say, and then I returned and tucked it into the edge of the blanket under her neck.

Back at the boat, I returned to thoughts about my preoccupation with her – what is it, I wonder, that drives one person to become obsessed by another? For I recognized that in my case this
was what it had become. For weeks now, almost everything I had done, and much of what I had thought, had been about Daisy. That evening, for the first time, I considered what exactly it was that I
wanted from her. I wanted her to love me, to be dependent upon me, to regard me as the most important person in her life. I knew that courting her, flattering, beguiling, pleasing her and, above
all,
talking
to her were the ways into her heart – or any woman’s heart, come to that. I also knew that all these seducements were much as the Emperor’s new clothes –
they were the imaginary cover for sensual satisfaction. If you can please a woman in bed – which happens less often than is commonly supposed – you have her, or at least you are
three-quarters of the way there. She will invent the rest of you to suit her romantic excuses, and if you lapse, she will make allowances of the most ingenious and sensitive kind. My indifference
to earning money would become merely the unfortunate result of my having a better intelligence than was usual in someone with my upbringing. I had laid the ground for her to be the pioneer so far
as understanding me was concerned. My trials, the treatment I had received, the tragedies that had punctuated my life were enough for her to want to be the first person to treat me well. It was
clear that she had enough money for both of us and I would never interfere with her work. We could travel together: I could still remember with the utmost clarity the heady experience of staying in
hotels with Charley where everything was done for us without my even knowing the cost.

These were some of the thoughts that circled in my mind that evening, and I allowed them full rein because I knew that the next day they must be thrust utterly into the background. I would not
succeed unless I focused entirely upon my being in love with Daisy, because to convince her I had to convince myself. You see what an honest creature I am, privy to many thoughts that most people
pretend have never entered their heads. I have never thought that the world should be lost for love, rather gained, and there was no reason why she, Daisy, should not be the gainer. I wished her
nothing but good and, given that premise, there seemed to be no reason why I should not enjoy the power that I might have over her.

That night I indulged myself in any fantasy that occurred to me or that I could summon, working my way through the well-worn film of my sexual triumphs over women hitherto ignorant of or
impervious to their own sensuality. Daphne and Charley both appeared here, but mastery over either of them no longer excited me and I had to substitute. Not Daisy: I could not bring myself to do
that; my fantasies of her were still of a more general kind (a touch of superstition, I suppose), but even the lightest touch of my imagination where Daisy was concerned had a potency I had never
experienced before. I imagined her smiling at me, holding out her narrow hands with the long sensitive fingers; her lying in my arms to be comforted from some night terror, her saying my name with
some endearment attached to it, her teasing me in her high, clear voice, her eyes, like stars when she acknowledged my love . . . I lay awake for hours with all of this, until I was so on edge from
excitement and lack of sleep that I had to revert to my first encounter with Lily, and her breasts.