The Bay of Angels (3 page)

Now that I am so much older I see that this new opportunity was not one to be missed, but embraced perhaps a little less than wholeheartedly. This was not first love, which my mother must have experienced for my father, however remote that must now have seemed. This was a prudent arrangement which had been entered upon almost by accident and which was to retain an air of absentmindedness, of not quite willed satisfaction. It was providential: all seemed to agree on that point. If it gave my mother any joy it was a joy she expected to reveal itself in the longer term, when she got used to her new life and was able to take a fuller part in it, when she would come to accept her new dignity (but never to exploit it), and when she learned to be as expansive as her new husband, a task for which she was singularly ill prepared.

I shied away from the prospect of my mother’s physical life, for I was as contained as she was. Simon had perfected the agreeable business of kissing us both, with the same obvious affection, in the short interval my mother spent in our flat, with me, before moving into Onslow Square. Of course I missed her, but as Simon insisted that I see her every day I did not mind too badly. This was helped by the fact that I felt more at home in our old flat than in Onslow Square, and also because I had a great deal of studying to do, for I was soon to go to university. My prolonged childhood seemed to have ended rather abruptly, and I felt unsettled by this: at the same time I recognized the fact that it was over and that in future I should have to rely on my friends for company. I was momentarily in demand, as newly fortunate people are, and the fact of having my own flat added to my prestige. Simon made me an allowance, but told me not to spend it on clothes. ‘We’ll get you something in France,’ he said, as he had said to my mother. ‘You can leave your ordinary clothes here.’ Thus, once again, the transformation scene was being prepared. Truly those fairy stories had proved themselves to be prophetic.

My mother was married at Chelsea Register Office in a ceremony that was rigorously secular. This seemed to me entirely appropriate, for, despite the almost miraculous manner in which it had come about, this union did not have the appearance of one blessed by God. It looked, unfortunately, as if advantage had been taken by both parties, of wealth being exchanged for comeliness, as in some dire Mannerist allegory. Simon wept copiously, which was something I had not anticipated; my mother, on the other hand, seemed composed, almost abstracted. Though there was undoubtedly love of a sort it was not the sort that made an appeal to one of my age, for although it satisfied the requirements of legend it made me aware of what all the stories left out, namely the facts of what happened next. The stories had ended on the highest possible note, whereas what they should have indicated was the life that followed. The nuptial arrangements made me slightly uneasy, as did the wedding itself. It was not that I objected to its sparseness: that was acceptable. Anything more elaborate would have been unwelcome. My contact with religion came mainly from services in the school chapel, and I instinctively rejected all the warnings, the penalties and restrictions, as well as the childlike petitions for forgiveness and the equally childlike promises of rewards, always postponed. If I sometimes felt unconsoled, in a strange uncomfortable way, it was because not all changes are welcome; even in the midst of our good fortune I had a feeling of loss. I knew that I would never lose my mother, but I also knew that she would not be at home to greet me in the early evenings, and that I should have to rely on my own company for a good part of the time.

The physical emptiness of the flat I had left that morning did not frighten me, nor did I dread going back to it, but I began to see it in a new light, was struck anew by the loneliness my mother must have felt, a loneliness compounded by the silence of the street and the yawning creak of her bedroom door, when, tired of standing at the window, she would rest on her bed in the afternoons, for the sake of the relief she would feel when the interval for such matters was safely past, and she could make tea and prepare for my homecoming. Now she would have a different home and there would be a different kind of preparation. I was a little disturbed by this vision, for my mother’s previous life had been so singular, in all senses of the word, and so dedicated, that it had left its trace on my own conduct, and for a brief moment of sadness I wondered whether I should now be obliged to take my leave of a certain way of life which had hitherto seemed to me to be lacking in nothing.

The austerity of the wedding ceremony was emphasized, even thrown into relief, by the hilarity of the girls, and even of the boys, whose acquaintance Simon was and who thus fortuitously provided the link between all the participants. The boys were hearty and extremely enthusiastic, having adopted a manner which probably served them on all social occasions, particularly those in which the protagonists were not too well known to them. The girls were, of course, splendidly turned out, but their hands brought out delicate handkerchiefs at the right moment, and all in all provided the scenic change that turned the whole thing into a rite of passage. The wedding breakfast took place in Onslow Square, where a hired butler and waiters moved suavely among the guests, obliging them all to be on their best behaviour. Simon and my mother were to spend the night at the Ritz in Paris, a convention already out of fashion, and to go on to Venice, where they would stay for a fortnight, returning home by way of France. This would be my mother’s first introduction to his house, some miles inland from Nice: it would be a politeness to show her what would be her future home, to greet the gardienne, Mme Delgado, to give a few discreet instructions, and to keep the visit tactfully short. Two nights at the Negresco were to follow, and then they would be home.

In some strange way I did not altogether believe in this homecoming. The champagne at the reception had left me with a headache and when I returned to Edith Grove I was newly aware of absence. We were now physically separated by more than a few streets, and soon she—they—would be out of reach. ‘My home will be yours too,’ Simon had said, but this was difficult to believe. I could not find the requisite image by which this future could be called to mind. I was landlocked, had been abroad only on school trips, had valued the fellowship of my friends rather more than my surroundings, and was indeed vaguely frightened by the prospect of a new life, however desirable. My mother had come to the door with me and said, ‘You’ve got all the telephone numbers? And the girls will look in on you to see that you are eating properly.’

‘I am seventeen,’ I had reassured her. By this time we were both in tears.

‘I know, darling, I know.’

‘Anne, the car is waiting,’ Simon had reminded her. ‘No more tears, now. This is a new life starting for all of us.’ A wallet of money found its way into my pocket.

‘Goodbye, dears,’ sang Millie. ‘Bon voyage! We’ll take you home, Zoë. Unless you’d like to come back with us? Yes, that might be best.’

But no, I had said. I’d been invited out. This was untrue. I wanted to see how I would fare on my own, promising myself a hot bath, my dressing-gown, routine comforts. This would be my first experience of what might be a tremendous ordeal, as I knew it to be for others, neighbours of ours who turned out bravely for unnecessary errands, aware all the time of their return to an empty house. On this particular evening I was too tired to feel anything but gratitude for the quiet street, for the dark flat, even for the sound of a recalcitrant tap dripping in the kitchen. My mother had seemed to think that I needed comforting: perhaps I did. Even a happy ending cannot always banish a sense of longing.

3

All this changed during my first summer in France, the last of my school years, before I was due to begin university in the autumn. Truth to tell I was initially alienated by Simon’s house, Les Mouettes, a white stucco villa with a flat roof and a protruding central feature which was midway between a conservatory and a glassed-in terrace. The absence of a skyline disconcerted me: the vogue for Art Deco had not yet got under way. I believe it was photographed for a magazine in the early eighties, by which time it was no longer ours and had long ceased to be. Nor was it, as Simon had said, a few miles outside Nice: it was a few miles from the centre of Nice, but still on the outskirts of a recognizable suburb. I did not even much like Nice, with its roaring traffic along the coast road, but I went into town every day on the bus and wandered about rather uncertainly until I found a place I thought I could call my own, the small garden of the Musée Masséna, frequented by children parked there by their Swedish or Danish au pairs. I looked out for them both, the children and the nannies; both became my friends. The au pairs, seeing me as a safe pair of hands, could leave their charges with me and decamp to a café on the front. One such child showed a touching confidence in me. Like most French babies he looked overworked, even careworn, and in moments of low spirits he would sit beside me and lean his head against my arm. At such times he looked older than his age; he was, I was told, just three, having recently celebrated his birthday, which may have explained his air of exhaustion. The girls were equally accommodating; they introduced me to their boyfriends, when I met them later in town. In this way I was able to enjoy one or two adventures, which was a great relief to me. I was allowed total freedom to come and go as I pleased, and took to spending the day on my own, away from the house, knowing that Simon and my mother trusted me, even when I returned late, sometimes arriving only for the evening meal, and going out again soon after that.

France seemed to me a country of various liberties. I admired the way all the men seemed to be able to work with a cigarette in their mouths; I admired Mme Delgado’s dashing speed on her moped, on which she arrived every morning at seven to make our coffee. She sped off again in the late afternoon, having taken care of the rudiments of our dinner. And if I was never quite at home in Nice I was at home with the fierce light, a revelation after the gloomy, shadowy surroundings of my earliest years. The sun is God, said the painter. I accepted the truth of this as I wandered in the pitiless afternoon glare, disdaining the long rest I was advised to take. When Simon and my mother retired to their room I slipped out of the house into the glorious cloudless blaze, took the bus into Nice, was momentarily glad of the shade and silence of the Musée Masséna garden, and sat there with my book until Honoré, my particular three-year-old friend, greeted me before going off to play. This little community delighted me: the girls were friendly, easy-going, emancipated, and I practised being the same. For a time my efforts were rewarded, and I saw myself in a new light, as someone with the same manners as the young people around me. My appearance improved, as did my clothes. I could see what I must become, and did not have to struggle very hard to be that person. Though I was never taken for French, I no longer looked like the obedient schoolgirl daughter I had been until that moment.

Simon was kindness itself, although with my new sharpness of vision I saw him for the old man he truly was. His place at table was surrounded by remedies, mysterious French pills prescribed by Dr Thibaudet, his neighbour, who looked in sometimes in the early evening for a glass of wine on his way home. The formality of this arrangement amused me; there was a Mme Thibaudet, but she stayed behind unless summoned to dine with her husband. Thibaudet and Simon would vanish into another part of the house for a spot check on Simon’s blood pressure, while my mother made desultory conversation with Armelle, Mme Thibaudet, a placid sweet-faced woman of no great pretensions but able to put on a massive dinner when we were invited back in our turn. I did not know my abstemious mother amid all this catering; I was merely glad to see her looking so well. I never told her much of what I did during my free time (but all my time was free), though I think she was reassured when I mentioned the little children in the garden, as was Simon. ‘And how was Honoré today?’ he would ask, and I had no trouble entertaining them in a way they found entirely acceptable.

My mother seemed unchanged to me, or perhaps I merely wanted to see her that way. She was quiet, but she had always been quiet: she said little but watched Simon tenderly as he took his pills. Both seemed in excellent health. I believe she settled down cautiously into married life, although I found it difficult to believe her entirely comfortable in that light, a light that searched out imperfections, the wrinkle of a collapsed neck, a slightly drooping mouth, both of which were visible in her husband. If she had hoped for a more romantic lover she gave no sign of disappointment, though I think she feared turning into Mme Thibaudet, who acted as a nurse and guardian to her own husband, and who had indeed once been a nurse in the clinic in Nice of which he was the director. The only thing I noticed about my mother that gave me pause was that she too liked to be out of the house. As my afternoons were spent some distance away I was for a time unaware that she sometimes went off on her own, much as I did. I assumed that she spent her time in a famous garden near by, sitting quietly, as she had always done. But as she was always there when I returned I did not see anything untoward in this. She had always preferred her own company—and mine, of course—to that of women friends. Whatever the age difference between Simon and herself, I think she was grateful to him just for being a man.

That first summer was the happiest time of my life. As well as the familiarity of my mother’s presence I enjoyed a form of social acceptance, even popularity, that I had never known before. At home I was used mainly as a confidante by more adventurous friends. In France I was learning the attractions of carelessness, of frankness. I was something of a success with the young men who joined the girls and myself for an apéritif before we made our way home. Everyone was, or seemed to be, intelligent, purposeful. I was at ease, whether chatting to Mme Delgado in the kitchen or soothing Honoré through one of his frequent crises of disenchantment. Nice still seemed to me a blatant charmless sort of place, but I was part of a group, persuaded that love and friendship were common currency and that one need never be without either. The cars still streamed past the café where we met for our
apéro
but I had got so used to the noise that I hardly noticed it. I took it for granted that everyone moved quickly: no wayfarers here. Somehow I had put all those fantasies behind me; they remained in London, in Edith Grove. Here I was driven out of my earlier self by the power of the light. Even when I made my way back to the house in the early evening I retained an after-image of the blaze. By the time I was due to go home, alone this time, for Simon and my mother were staying on, I saw that I should never forget that first summer, and that I would return, was indeed expected to return, until, with all my meagre experience and my new-found enthusiasm, I was accepted as part of the landscape.