Love Among the Single Classes (36 page)

The Australian girl has followed me up the stairs and is standing behind me. ‘Help yourself to a look,' she says. ‘Nice isn't it? Me and Brend arrived today. You knew the last fella here or something?'

‘Yes,' I answer. ‘Yes, I did.'

‘We're over for the summer. Boys fixed up for us to live here. We'll stay a few months, till it gets cold, then move on.'

‘Yes,' I repeat. ‘Cold. Wet now. Gone.'

I brush past her and walk stiff-legged down the stairs again.

The young Australian reappears, saying, ‘See? Told you so. Went this morning …' And then, seeing my expression, his own changes and he asks, ‘You all right, lady?

Everything OK? Look, we're having a party. Welcome the girls. My name's Bobby. Come and join us. Cheer you up.'

‘No. Thank you. Better go then.'

He glances down and catches sight of the bottles in my carrier bag.

‘Come on now, lady … what's your name?'

‘Constance Liddell.'

‘Constance, come on, join in the fun! Have a little drink! Seen you around lots of times and never asked you for a…'

‘No, I think I'll be off now, if you don't mind. Thank you.'

He stands aside, then leans forward and opens the front door. Dusk is beginning to fall, and the rain still patters gently on to the warm pavements. A cooling wind is blowing, rustling the leaves.

I walk away from the house and, after a hundred yards or so, stop. He has gone. He's already in the train. He didn't say goodbye. He knew I was coming, and didn't even ring to say goodbye. Perhaps he left a note? They would have told me. Perhaps not. I turn and run clumsily back to the house, ring the bell, bang on the door. The same tall girl opens it.

‘You again!'

‘Did he leave a note for me? Was there a note?'

‘He left some money for the landlord in an envelope. Nothing else.'

‘Are you absolutely sure there wasn't a note?'

‘Look pet, the way that room was left, I'd have noticed a postage stamp!'

‘So no envelope … nothing?'

‘No. Sorry.'

I turn and walk away again, hearing the door close a few moments later. I head automatically towards the tube station. After a while I notice how heavy the bag is. I put it down, leaning it against a tree, and stop to think. Inside it I have packed a picnic for Iwo, to sustain him on his long train journey. A few last luxuries from the West. Brown bread with smoked salmon. A pound of sweet, dark red cherries. A packet of black bread, already buttered and
wrapped in cellophane. A quarter of smoked sausage. I had debated whether to buy him a sharp knife, but decided there was bound to be someone on the train who would lend him a knife to slice it with. A bottle of red wine. Half a bottle of vodka. And my final presents to him. I had spent a long time thinking about those presents. In the end I bought him an anthology of English verse, and wrote inside, To Iwo – I have asterisked the ones that mean most to me – I hope you will like them too. Thank you for that first afternoon on Hampstead Heath. All love, Constance' and the date, written out in full just below the inscription. The other present was an odd one; I hadn't been sure that he would even understand it. I bought him a collection of Posy's cartoons from the
Guardian
and wrote inside, ‘Dear Iwo – This is what you missed. I shall miss you. Constance' and the date again.

I stand for some time looking down at this bag. In the end I leave it where it is, leaning against the tree, and walk away, towards the lights and clamour of the Earls Court Road. I hope somebody finds it who needs – well, the food and drink at least. Not the books. I don't want the books back. What use are books?

In a little while it will be dark. The wind is blowing from the west, and the rain falls softly. Christ! That my love were in my arms, and I in my bed again!

THE END

Several poems are quoted in this book, both English and, in translation, Polish, but the poem from which I have taken the greatest number of lines is
Exequy upon His Wife
by Henry King (1592-1669).

The name Iwo Zaluski has been borrowed, with his surprised but generous permission, from a Pole whom I last knew thirty years ago, when we were both seventeen. Everything else about the character is imaginary.

I am grateful to Kris Kalinski for his help and suggestions for this book, and in particular for his careful translation of Iwo's words on page 145.

This electronic edition published in 2011 by Bloomsbury Reader

Bloomsbury Reader is a division of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc, 50 Bedford Square, London WC1B 3DP

Copyright © Angela Lambert 1989

The moral right of the author has been asserted

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ISBN: 9781448204168
eISBN: 9781448203574

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