Henry and Cato (49 page)

Lucius came in still wearing his cloak. He took his top teeth out, scrutinized them, and put them in again. He said, ‘I don't know what to do about that trunk I put my manuscripts into. If I leave it here it may just vanish, but it's too big to go into the taxi. Perhaps I'd better unpack it and divide the stuff—'

‘I shouldn't worry too much,' said Gerda. ‘Look, I'm sorry I made you burn those poems.'

‘Oh that doesn't matter,' said Lucius. ‘I know them all by heart so I just wrote them out again.'

‘Clump, clump, the old girl. I wasn't really angry. But I wish you'd write me something a little more romantic.'

‘Do you really? Well then I will! Oh good, oh Gerda, can I—what are you doing?'

‘Lucius, could you just help me to open this bottle of champagne?'

Do you consider yourself to be sexually experienced?
Stephanie considered this question.

She was sitting in the kitchen of her flat, wearing her new Japanese house coat with the slit sleeves and the yellow embroidered dragons, and she had just made herself some more coffee. It was eleven o'clock in the morning and the sun was shining brightly onto the vegetable dome of Harrods. The flat and its contents were now legally hers, the papers had arrived by post that morning. So that at least was settled. She had been a little anxious.

Are you confident with the opposite sex?
No, she thought, I am not confident, and I am not sexually experienced either, I am like a young girl in these matters, a shy innocent person really. Isn't it strange that I feel so young, as if I were always at the beginning of things. I suppose that is what they call being young in heart. She sat picturing herself. She remembered what some men had called her. Men were horrible. She had been so unlucky.

Stephanie would have been entirely unable to resolve what had become for her a truly agonizing dilemma had it not been for the sympathetic assistance of Gerda. Stephanie would have collapsed and let the old familiar demons of her life take her over, only Gerda had forced her to think and act. She had seen quite a lot of Gerda during the times when Henry was away on his own private business. Gerda had attended carefully to Stephanie, had sought and gained communication with her, and Stephanie had responded with a kind of gratitude, a kind of trust. Gerda had told Stephanie frankly that she thought that Henry was really in love with Colette, whom he had known all his life. She said, and Stephanie had to agree, that Henry knew very little about the real Stephanie and was not seriously attempting to find out more. ‘That's right, he treats me like a child, like a toy,' said Stephanie indignantly. According to Gerda Henry had only become engaged to Stephanie out of some sort of a sense of duty. ‘Yes, he pities me.' Gerda said that Henry had only been seriously interested because of Sandy, and had not got over the shock of learning that Stephanie had lied about Sandy. ‘He told you?' Stephanie wept. So she had lost by truthfulness what she had won by lying. She had felt so virtuous and heroic when she told him the truth. It had seemed to her then, in a confused way, that some reality which had always eluded her was suddenly within reach, she could stretch out and touch it, the real thing at last, not the dream. And Henry's apparent forgiveness had seemed the guarantee of ultimate safety. Only this too, like everything else that she had ever trusted, had proved unreal.

Gerda went on to point out that Henry was, as Stephanie could plainly see, determined to be penniless. This was Henry's form of romanticism, very charming, very inconvenient. Gerda could understand and shared Stephanie's horror of America. And was there not a woman there in whom Henry was supremely interested? ‘Of course he won't abandon you,' said Gerda. She paused. ‘I feel sure of that.' Stephanie replied, ‘The trouble is that when he's not here I don't really believe in him at all.' If only he had stayed with her all the time as a lover should, she would never have had these terrible doubts. Why had Henry gone away, where was he now, with whom? Gerda professed not to know. Henry was always going away. Stephanie pictured America, she pictured Bella. ‘What do you really want?' Gerda asked her.

What did Stephanie really want? In a supreme spasm of self-knowledge Stephanie decided that what she really wanted was London. This was what she had always wanted during those awful years in Leicester about which she would have told Henry so much more if he had only cared to ask. Her lie to him had effectively blocked that channel of communication. He wanted her to be something which he had just invented, and which he possessed here in the present. He did not want to know about her past, about why she had had to escape from her parents in order to be free. She had wanted freedom and freedom had meant London; and with Gerda's help it became clear to Stephanie that what she wanted now was the London life which she knew so well, the life of shops and pubs and adventures: that, with the addition of money. Stephanie did not believe that reality existed except in London. ‘So you wouldn't have liked it here,' said Gerda, smiling. In the end Gerda offered, and Stephanie tearfully accepted a considerable honorarium. Gerda advised her how to invest it.

Back at the flat, in the frightfulness of the old solitude, Stephanie had spent days of anguish, uncertain once again about what she really wanted. Did she want Henry to pursue her, and would it not be terrible if he did not? If Henry were to say, all right, then we will live at the Hall, would not this be the best thing, the thing which by her flight she had attempted to bring about? She had certainly felt, in writing that letter, that either way she had nothing to lose. As the days passed and Henry was silent she felt pain, then relief. Stephanie, who lived very much inside the lively world of her fantasies, had more than once attempted to ride upon some scheme or other from fantasy into reality. This time, to her shocked surprise, she had very nearly succeeded; but on the whole she was glad to be back again in the freedom of her own dreamy solitude.

She had felt very grateful to Henry but had she ever really loved him or really believed that he loved her? Henry never understood me, she thought, he was always in such a hurry and making jokes, he was never patient with me, never moving at my speed, never really
with
me at all. Talking to Lucius, even to Gerda, was easier. No, Henry was not Mr Right. She thought, I must have my own sort of happiness and be my own self, and that's never very easy with another person. She had felt so feeble and tired and miserable at the Flail, she felt so much better in health and spirits now that she was on her own again. She began to feel proud of herself for having survived, for having escaped. After all things had not turned out too badly. She supposed she would go on looking for a husband, since that was what pretty clothes were for and life was all about, but now that she had financial assets there was no need to be in a hurry about it, no need to feel, as she had felt in the past, that she had to grab just anybody.

Still, I do wish I'd known Sandy, she thought, as I would have done if he hadn't died. I'm sure I would have helped him to find himself. And she thought, if Henry had looked like Sandy I could never have left him. I was meant for Sandy really. Henry was an accident, a mistake. She felt like a widow. She thought, I'll wear black for a while, I think it would suit me, and it'll keep people guessing. And she pictured herself sitting in bars and night clubs, ordering the most expensive drinks, a solitary well-dressed mysterious woman.

Yes, and I'll change the flat and make everything different and modern and bright, and I'll spend some of that money they left behind in the suitcase, that ransom money, they must mean me to have it. She returned to the computer dating form she was attempting to fill in. Did she want her choice to have long hair or short hair? Did she like beards? Did she mind if he was Chinese? How exciting the world was after all and full of various possibilities. No wonder she felt so innocent and free and young. One of the questions they asked her was rather fun to answer: put your favourite colours in order of preference. Of course that would show something important. I think I like red best, she thought. Or do I like blue best? Am I a
blue
sort of person, I wonder?

‘Your side looks higher, Bellamy,' said Gerda. ‘Rhoda, just hold on would you, dear?'

‘I told you those rings were different sizes,' said John Forbes.

‘Well, it was straight before,' said Gerda.

‘Perhaps the floor slopes. Or perhaps you didn't notice before.'

‘It seems a pity not to get it right now.'

‘It's very heavy, some of the rings have been pulled out of shape, I'll get some new ones.'

‘All right, just hook it on anyhow, that's fine.'

Bellamy and Rhoda descended from their ladders. Rhoda disappeared to the kitchen. Bellamy folded the ladders and carried them away. The tapestry of Athena and Achilles hung once more in its old place. The bright light from outside showed up all its colours. Perhaps it had shed some of its dust or perhaps Gerda had never looked at it properly before. What she had vaguely thought of as black turned out to be a sort of marvellous indigo blue. I wonder what's happening exactly, she wondered. She had never asked anybody.

‘I love this room,' said John Forbes. The library had returned to its former state.

‘Sandy was very fond of it.' Gerda found herself constantly uttering Sandy's name to John Forbes, as if continually testing to see how easy it was now to speak of him and how much the pain had changed. She had talked quite a lot to John about Sandy. ‘Sandy bought those blue and yellow Italian vases we made the lamps out of.' There was a steady calm almost pointless bearing of witness which did her good. She said, following her connecting thought, ‘I do hope Cato will come home for the holidays.'

‘So do I, but he's still like a madman.'

They walked to the window and stooped out onto the north terrace. It was past midsummer and two big shrub roses growing just below on the grass were crammed with huge muddley pink flowers, their red transparent stems bending in great arches. The sun was hot. Gerda was wearing a sun dress with shoulder straps. John in shirt sleeves was sweating.

‘Let him come here,' said Gerda, ‘we will heal him.'

John laughed. ‘Sorry, but your faith is touching, as if you felt we could heal anybody.'

Yes, she thought, I can never be healed of Sandy being gone, never, but at least I can think of it now and talk about it. She wanted to say this to John Forbes, but checked herself. She felt that they both did this, formulated ideas for each other and then kept silent.

John Forbes, his mind tracking hers, said, ‘Where's Lucius?'

‘Still in bed. He's got quite lazy these days.'

‘Well, I must get back to the building site.' John jumped from the terrace to the grass and looked up at her, standing in the sun just beyond the slanting shadow of the house, his eyes narrowing but showing very blue in the clear light.

Without saying good-bye Gerda smiled and turned back into the house. There was so much happening now, so much coming and going, there was no need for formality any more.

She went back through the window into the library and looked again at the big Italian vases which Sandy had bought. She remembered how he had brought them back one evening swinging them carelessly one in each hand. She touched the deep luscious glaze. And then she was thinking of Henry. Henry was like a young lover to her, all his wry cleverness which had seemed so destructive now bent upon pleasing. He always evaded her but always returned with a teasing tactful gentleness as if he were dancing about her. Of course he was no substitute for Sandy. The idea that he might somehow take Sandy's place had been a dream of her first grief when she had had to invent some sort of consolation or die. Now she could more calmly see that no consolation was possible. But she had to pretend to be happy for Henry's sake, because she was grateful to him, because she was going to receive after all, beyond her hopes, the best of him, and the effort brought her in fact some sort of genuine joy. She sat down on the club fender and stretched out her bare brown legs in front of her. She felt happy and sad and let the tears gently overflow her eyes.

‘Listen to the cuckoo.'

‘Don't go on about that bird. Need you shower me with pearly drops?'

‘Isn't it refreshing?'

‘Drop the pole straight, don't wave it about.'

‘I am dropping it straight.'

‘No woman knows how to punt.'

‘Look out, I'm going to ship the pole.'

‘God, it's hot.'

‘I'm going to put my feet in the water.'

‘Don't capsize us. You know you're quite a good-looking girl really.'

‘You're not sorry you married me?'

‘The mistake of my life. First you persuade me not to sell the Hall—'

‘I never said a word about not selling the Hall!'

‘It was extra-sensory influence. You and my mother put on some force ten telepathy.'

‘When has any woman made any man do what he didn't want to?'

‘You got married in white at Dimmerstone church like you said in the letter—'

‘
You
decided not to sell the Hall.'

‘I oughtn't to have compromised. You tempted me, like Eve tempting Adam. As soon as you start playing with property you're done for.'

‘You said it hadn't occurred to you that it didn't have to be all or nothing.'

‘I think it did have to be all or nothing. I've failed.'

‘How glossy the water is, it's got a sort of silver skin on it. Henry, I want a pair of black swans.'

‘You'll want peacocks next.'

‘Well, I want peacocks.'

‘I've failed. I was pure in heart once, before I met you.'

‘You were just a terrorist, not pure in heart.'

‘Look at all this. Christ.'

‘Why not enjoy it? You can give it away later.'