Love Again (39 page)

To whom was she writing these messages like letters in bottles entrusted to the sea? No one would read them. And if someone did, the words would make sense only if this someone had experienced this pain, this grief. For as she herself looked at the words pain, grief, anguish, and so forth, they were words on a page and she had to fill them with the emotions they represented. Why then put them on a page at all? It occurred to her she was engaged in that occupation common to (even diagnostic of?) our times: she was bearing witness.

She stopped writing ‘I did not know this degree of misery could exist,’ and her diary reverted to: ‘Worked with Sonia and Patrick all
day on the costumes.’ ‘Worked with Mary.’ ‘Mary says she saw Sonia and Roger Stent having dinner together in The Pelican. Sonia doesn’t know we know.’ ‘Patrick has gone to visit Jean-Pierre about
The Lucky Piece
.’ ‘Sonia and I worked all day on…’

In fact she was doing half the work she usually did. She woke in the morning with a groan and often sank back into…if it was a landscape of grief, then at least it was not the same as the one she inhabited awake. If at home, she might sleep all afternoon, work a little, be asleep by ten. Sometimes she dragged herself out of bed in the morning and got back into it by mid-morning. Normally she slept lightly, with pleasure, her dreams an entertainment and often a source of information. Now she crawled into sleep which was both a refuge and a threat, to get rid of the pain—a physical anguish—in her heart.

She was also observing her symptoms with curiosity, none of them—surely?—necessarily a symptom of love.

Worst of all, she was bad-tempered, might snap and snarl suddenly, without warning, as if she only just managed an even keel, but the slightest demand, or even a too-loud voice, was enough to tip her over. She wanted to make unkind and sarcastic remarks. Normally not particularly critical, she was critical of everything.

Unpleasant characteristics she believed long outgrown came back. She spoke loudly in public places in a boastful way, for the benefit of strangers whose opinions did not matter to her.

She actually had to stop herself boasting of past loves to Mary, but had said enough to embarrass both: Mary, whose acute, quick look told Sarah that her condition was being understood. One day Mary remarked, apparently about Roy, who was having a difficult time with his wife and was bad-tempered and morose, ‘What we forget is, people know much more about us than we like, and forgive us much more.’ Was this a plea for herself?

Music still affected Sarah too strongly. She found herself switch
ing off music on the radio, going out of the theatre when they were doing rehearsals and there was music, closing a window if music floated towards her down the street, because even a banal and silly tune could make her cry, or double up in pain. A workman reslating the roof of the house next to hers burst into the torch song from
Julie
, or, rather,
The Lucky Piece
—the song had taken wings because of a radio programme. He was sending it up, straddling the house ridge, arms extended, like an opera singer accepting applause, while his mate, leaning against a chimney, clapped—and Sarah’s hands flew of their own accord to cover her ears. She felt the sounds were poisoning her.

From the moment she woke, daydreams had to be pushed away, dreams like drugs. Then, at last succumbing, she could spend hours in day-dreams, like an adolescent.

She was greedy for sweet things, wanted to eat, had to stop herself if she didn’t want to buy a complete new wardrobe.

Words that had the remotest connection with love, romance, passion, she believed twisted the same nerve as that weakened by music, so that phrases or words or stories she normally would have found stupid brought tears to her eyes. When she was able to read at all—for it was hard to concentrate—she nervously watched for them, these places on the page, able to see them coming half a page before, and she skipped them, forcing her eyes to bypass or neutralize them.

She bought beauty products which a sense of the ridiculous forbade her to use. She even thought of having her face lifted—an idea that in her normal condition could only make her smile.

She began to make a blouse, of a kind she had not worn for years, but left it unfinished.

Sometimes a conversation, apparently without any intention by her, acquired sexual undertones, so that every word of an exchange could be interpreted obscenely.

But worst of all was her irritability; she knew if she could not outlive it, she was heading straight towards the paranoia, the rages, the bitterness, of disappointed old age.

Stephen cut short his visits and came to London to see Sarah. They walked about and around streets and parks and even went to the theatre. They left some comedy at the first interval, saying that normally they would have enjoyed it.

Susan had written to him. It was a love letter that offered everything. ‘I shall never love anyone as I love you.’

‘I swear it’s that damned music,’ said Sarah.

‘I was hoping it was because of my intrinsic qualities. But I suppose it does make things easier to stick a label on them.’

This was the same need to snap and snarl that so often possessed Sarah.

‘Sorry,’ said Stephen, ‘I simply don’t recognize myself.’

A week later she telephoned him at his home and at first thought she had got the wrong number and had reached someone whom she had awakened. She could hear breathing, and then a mumbling or muttering which could be his voice, and she said, ‘Stephen?’ Silence, and more difficult breathing, and he said, or rather slurred, her name. ‘Sarah…Sarah?’ ‘Stephen, are you ill? Shall I come?’ He did not answer. She went on talking, even pleading, urging, for a long time, but while he did not put down the receiver, he did not answer. She was talking into silence, and her own voice was sounding ridiculous, because she was making the reassuring optimistic remarks that always need an interlocutor similarly cheerful to carry conviction. At last she felt he was not listening. Perhaps he had even gone to sleep, or walked away. Now she was full of panic, like a bird trapped in a room. She had the number of the telephone in the kitchen at Queen’s Gift, used for domestic matters, but there was no reply. She sat for a while in indecision, feeling that she ought to go to him at
once, but telling herself that if he had wanted her to come he would have said so. Besides, why did she always assume he had no one else to turn to? In the end she took a taxi to Paddington, then the first possible train, then a taxi to the house. She asked to be put down outside the gates, for her sudden uninvited appearance at the house itself would seem too dramatic. The great gates had been newly painted glossy black with gold touches, like the ‘highlights’ hairdressers use to enliven a hair-do. She went in through an unobtrusive little door in a brick arch at the side. This was like an allegory of something, but she could not think what. In her present condition, signs and symbols, portents and presages and omens, comparisons apt and silly, formed themselves out of a voice overheard in the street, a dog barking, a glass slipping out of her hand and smashing loudly on a hard surface. Her irritation at this unwanted and insipid commentary on everything she did contributed to her bad temper. Now her heart was racing, for she was possessed with the need to hurry, while she felt her trip here to be absurd. There seemed to be no one about. Posters for
Ariadne on Naxos
were everywhere, and Julie’s face was nowhere. Of course: they were trying out this opera. A small cast and delicious music, Elizabeth said. Where was Elizabeth? Not in the vegetable garden, nor with the horses, nor anywhere near the house. And what would Sarah say when she did find her? ‘Look, Elizabeth, I had to come, I was worried about Stephen.’ (I am worried about your husband.) Elizabeth must at least have noticed that Stephen was—well, what was he at this moment? Worse: he was much worse. After wandering about for some minutes, feeling like a thief or at least an intruder, she saw Stephen sitting on a bench by himself, in full sunlight. He sat hunched, legs apart, hands loosely dangling and folded between them, like tools he had forgotten to put away. His head was lowered, and his face was dripping sweat. A hundred yards away stood the great ash tree, James’s friend. Under it was a bench, in deep shade. She sat down by him and said, ‘Stephen…’ No response at all. Right, she thought,
this is it: I know this one, I’ve seen it before. This is the real thing, the Big D (as its victims jocularly call it when not in its power), it is the authentic hallmarked one-hundred-percent depression: he’s gone over the edge. ‘Stephen, it’s Sarah.’ After a long time, at least a minute, he lifted his head, and she found herself the object of—no, not an inspection, or even a recognition. It was a defensive look. ‘Stephen, I’ve come because I’m worried about you.’ His eyes lowered themselves, and he sat staring at the ground. After another interval, he said, or mumbled, in a hurried swallowing way, ‘No use, Sarah, no good.’ He was occupied deep within himself, he was busy with an inner landscape, and did not have the energy for the outside world. She knew this because she sometimes underwent a much less total version of this condition. She was absent-minded, heard words long after they were spoken, felt them as an intrusion, had to force herself to pay attention, and then spoke hurriedly to get the irrelevance over with. At meetings at The Green Bird, in conversations with colleagues, she had to make herself come up out of depths of an inner preoccupation with pain actually to hear what they said, then frame words appropriate for an answer. But at least she could do it, and she was getting better. Stephen’s state was worse by far than anything she herself had known, and the panic she felt deepened.

What should she do? As a beginning, get him into the shade. She said, ‘Stephen, get up, you must get out of the sun.’ He seemed surprised, but her hand at his elbow prompted him up and then, slowly, to the cool under the ash tree. His clothes were soaked with sweat.

What he needed was someone to sit by him all day and all night, bring him cups of this and that, cool drinks, tea, a sandwich of which he might perhaps eat one mouthful, while she—or someone—talked, saying anything to remind him he was in a world with other people in it, and these people did not all live in a world of suffering. No one performed this service for her, but then she was not and never had been anything like as ill as he was now. Her mind
approached carefully, and in controlled terror, the thought that if the pain she felt was a minor thing compared to what he felt, then what he felt must be unendurable. For she had often thought she could not bear what she felt.

She went on sitting there beside him. She wiped the sweat off his face. She felt his hands to make sure he was not now chilled by the coolness under the tree. Sometimes she said, ‘Stephen, it’s Sarah.’ She made casual and even random remarks, trying to keep his exterior landscape in place: ‘Look, the horses are racing each other in that field.’ ‘That’s going to be a pretty good crop of apples.’ He did not look at her or respond. Not a hundred yards away was where she had seen him walking and talking with the neighbour Joshua. Now, that was Stephen, surely? That was what he was? A competent and serious man in command of his life? Again her emotions reversed, and she felt ridiculous being here at all.

After a couple of hours she said, ‘Stephen, I’m going to get you a drink.’ She went to the kitchen, directed there by women’s voices. Shirley and Alison were making pastry tartlets for that evening’s
Ariadne on Naxos
. They wore scarlet plastic aprons too small for their ample bodies. These two amiable, infinitely wholesome and reassuring women worked on either side of a table where heaps of flour, dishes full of eggs, and bowls of butter cubed into ice water made a scene of plenty, and they were giggling because Shirley had flour on her cheek, and Alison, trying to wipe it off, had brushed it onto Shirley’s plump golden plait.

‘Oh, sorry, Mrs Durham,’ said Shirley. ‘We’re just being silly today.’

‘I’d like to take Mr Ellington-Smith a drink,’ said Sarah.

‘All right. What? Orange juice? Apple juice? Pineapple juice? James likes that. Mango juice—I like that.’ And Shirley broke again into giggles.

‘Oh, Shirl,’ said Alison, ‘I’m going to lock you up if no one else does. Help yourself, Mrs Durham. It’s all in the big fridge.’

Sarah chose orange juice, thinking vitamin C was good for depression.

‘Do you know where Mrs Ellington-Smith is?’

‘She and Norah were around not long ago. I think they went upstairs.’

As Sarah left she heard the two young women start up again: giggles and teasing. It occurred to Sarah she was thinking of them as if they were two new-laid free-range eggs; and that she didn’t want to know if one was a single parent and the other looked after an invalid mother.

Stephen had not moved a muscle. She said to him, ‘Stephen, please drink this. You’ve got to drink in this weather.’ She set the glass down on the bench, but he did not take it; she held it to his lips, but he did not drink.

She said, ‘I’m going off for a little, but I’ll be back.’ She had to find Elizabeth. If not her, then Norah. It was mid-afternoon. She went up the steps at the front of the house, where Henry had stood looking after her on that last morning, and into the hall, and then into the room where the company had had their buffet meals, and through the room where the family ate informal meals, and then into the back part of the house, not to the main staircase, but the one where she had seen Stephen’s James stand to gaze out at the tree as if it were a friend. She went on up past that landing to a room that Elizabeth used as an office. She had to force herself to knock, because she was afraid of Elizabeth: not her anger, but her incomprehension. And what was she, Sarah, going to say? ‘I’m worried about Stephen—you know, your husband.’ And what would Elizabeth say? ‘Thank you
so
much, Sarah. It
is
kind of you.’

No reply. She heard voices. Yes, they were Elizabeth’s and Norah’s voices. It occurred to her that not only Elizabeth’s office but her sitting room and her and Norah’s bedroom were up here. She had never been into these rooms. There was a wide corridor with rooms off it, a pleasant corridor with old-fashioned floral wallpaper.
It was dimly lit from a skylight and from the tall window halfway up, or down, the stairs. The scene was domestic, intimate.