The Rules of Engagement (22 page)

My own holiday plans had taken an
unexpected turn. In one of the weekly
journals to which I had graduated from the
newspapers
—
I was a subscriber to everything, no
matter how arcane: the facts! the facts!
—
I
had seen an advertisement for a Christmas walk,
or rather Walk, and a telephone number which, after some
thought, I rang. This was desperation: I could not
face the long empty day, the silent streets,
and the ever-present spectre of families enjoying
themselves. In this I was more like Betsy than I had
allowed myself to suppose. My telephone call
was answered by a sombre male voice, to which I
bravely announced that I was interested in his
advertisement, but would like to hear a little more. Was this a
sponsored walk? Was he an organization? Was
it for charity? Not that I cared much. I did not
intend to join anything.

“
I am not an organization,
”
said the
voice.
“
At least, not in the accepted sense.
My name is Nigel Ward. I'm the warden of a
Hall of Residence for foreign students. Many of
these can't get home for Christmas. We have a
large contingent from Japan. I thought this would get
them out, give them something to do.
”

“
Is it only open to students?
”

“
Not at all. Anyone can come. I have found that
quite a few people are interested. A small fee will be
charged. The money will go towards buying a new
coffee machine for the students' Common Room. As
you can imagine the old one has had a lot of
use. It won't last much longer.
”

His voice died away. He seemed exhausted
at the prospect of spending a day with his charges.
But resolute. I liked that.

“
Where would we be going?
”

“
I thought round Hyde Park, then down
to Green Park, and on to St James's Park,
finishing up at Victoria Station, where, if
we're lucky, we may find a cup of coffee,
even something to eat. That would be the end of it; people will
find their own way home from there. Nothing too
taxing, you see. Just a pleasant walk in the
fresh air.
”

“
It sounds a very good idea. I'd like to come.
”

There was silence at the other end.
“
My name is
Wetherall. Elizabeth Wetherall. How do I
find you?
”

“
Departure from Knightsbridge Tube
Station at 10 A.m. Are you a good walker?
”

“
Oh, yes, I'm a good walker,
”
I
said, thinking back to my night walks in the
phantasmagorical interval between Digby's
death and his funeral. These now seemed furtive,
shameful, even illicit, as if I had hoped
to surprise other lives, to take them unaware,
steal their secrets. The prospect of something so
honourable by comparison had a pleasing effect on
me, as if I were being given a chance to expunge
my former aberrations, now obvious in all their
bleak opportunism, and I was almost eager in my
acceptance of this prospect.

“
Wear comfortable shoes,
”
said the voice.

“
Is it Miss or Mrs Wetherall?
”

“
Mrs. How will I know you?
”

“
You won't. You'll see a group of people to which
you will attach yourself. Or not, if you think better of
it. Identities will emerge in the course of the
morning, by an entirely natural process. You
are free to be as private as you wish.
”

“
I will of course recognize the
Japanese. Are there many of them?
”

“
Quite a few. Until Christmas Day at
ten o'clock, then. Goodbye, Mrs Wetherall.
”

I replaced the receiver with a small feeling of
triumph. I had done something positive, as
everyone had urged me to do. And it need not commit
me to anything. If I liked I could silently
steal away, into the depths of one or other of the
parks; no one would hold me to account. And I should
be mercifully free of all the wassailing and its
attendant discontents, the noise, the headaches.
This would also provide me with an alibi. Doing
something for charity was unassailable, the ideal
excuse to offer those kind neighbours who
had enquired about my plans. And I had no
plans, which might have been obvious. Young people were their
own source of interest and amusement, and I rather
liked the prospect of observing them. Just as I
had admired the children on their way to school (and still
did, timing my outings to the supermarket to encounter
them on their way home) I was willing to enjoy,
at a distance, the requisite emotional distance, the
young and their conviviality, which might even be extended
to myself. My only concern was that it might rain and the
whole thing be called off. But the weather forecast was
simply for low cloud and fog patches. These did
not deter me. I had been used to seeing this weather
through the windows of my flat for some days now, and I
was more than ready to confront it.

In fact the day was almost enjoyable. The sombre
Mr Ward, easily detectable because of his
extreme height, was tactful enough not to insist on
introductions, leaving our group, which consisted of about
ten adults and perhaps a dozen Japanese,
to make their own alliances. I did not see
anyone I wanted to accompany, and struck off
on my own. The other walkers were either elderly
women or elderly men, some in pairs, all
obviously willing to put a brave face on
what might otherwise have been a day of acute
loneliness. At one point Mr Ward loomed up
beside me but was called away to answer a stout
woman's enquiry. I was beguiled by the tiny
Japanese figures threading their way along the
misty paths, stopping to admire the Serpentine, which
was glaucous on this dull morning, without movement
or reflections, and chattering to each other in
bird-like voices. They had all made an
effort, were neatly dressed, polite to the old people,
successful at concealing any boredom they might
have felt. Although my legs were aching by the time we
reached Victoria I was reluctant to see the
students go, and stood with them for some few minutes,
my farewells more cordial, less guarded than
my greetings had been. I thanked Mr Ward for
his excellent initiative, and said I should be
interested in any further activities he cared
to organize. I left my telephone number and
trudged the rest of the way home, my mind's eye
still occupied by the sight of those small figures
dispersed among the leafless trees, and their smiles
as they shook hands on parting, their delicacy such a
welcome contrast to our bulk.

At home melancholy overtook me
once more in the dull silence, but the day had not been
wasted. I would have liked to tell someone about it, but
all doors were shut against strangers, and the
telephone was mute. I was aware of Digby's
absence, since the flat still seemed to be his by right.
I had merely been drafted into it when I married
him. I reflected that it was precisely an
equable disposition like his that had enabled our marriage
to run so smoothly, that I had been unworthy in
treating it so lightly. And yet my infidelity
had felt so natural, or had been made
to seem so natural, Edmund's fatal gift
being a laughing acceptance of things as they were, or
as they presented themselves, with conscience a tiresome and
unattractive irrelevance, so old-fashioned
as to provoke scepticism, if not scorn. The
ethos of the day was that one should claim one's
freedom and enjoy it, and the claim must have had some
validity because it has persisted and has now taken
over the whole of human behaviour. There seemed
to be no danger in obeying one's impulses; there
was certainly no blame. What scruples that were
left were unevenly shared, so that one never knew
what reservations might have persisted in any one
individual. But gradually the old taboos were
being discounted, seen for what they were: prohibitions
imposed on instinct, and therefore against nature.
Everything else was a learned response and could
therefore be unlearned. Some managed this more easily
than others. And yet no one respects an
adulterous wife.

In the days that followed I found it more
difficult to maintain my equanimity. I was
unwilling to face up to the implications of the coming
year, when I should once again find myself on the
sidelines. If there were any satisfaction in my
position it consisted in the fact that I had not
imposed my company on Edmund once I had
outstayed my welcome. For this is always apparent.
And it is not easy to depart gracefully. I thought
with some exasperation of Betsy's enslavement to the
Fairlie household. One attachment I could
understand, but not the confusion between passion and friendship which
she had persuaded herself that she could accommodate.
When I judged that sufficient time had elapsed and
that she was temporarily relieved of her duties,
I telephoned her and invited her to lunch.
“
We might go to the V and A afterwards,
”
I
suggested.
“
There's always something precious to look
at.
”
And, I reckoned privately,
but again instinctively, a public place, and one
as dignified as the sculpture galleries at the
V and A, would preclude the sort of
confidences that I now dreaded to hear. In that way
I was able to greet her with composure and affection.
We were after all old friends.

My quiche lorraine was thoughtfully and
sincerely praised.
“
I wish I knew how
to make this,
”
said Betsy.

“
I'll show you. It's not difficult.
”

“
Actually, I think it is. I tried
to make one the other night
—
Edmund came to dinner
—
but I had to throw it away. We had an
omelette instead.
”

“
Edmund came to dinner?
”

“
Well, he's on his own, with the family
away. Actually I've been seeing quite a lot of
him.
”

“
Seeing
”
in this context is used as a
metaphor. Yet her expression was more
ambivalent than assured. She seemed
confident, certainly, even brisk, but not
particularly comfortable in the role I had once
enjoyed. She was also a little untidy, which was out of
character. One of the lapels of her jacket was
slightly crumpled, and the jacket itself was beginning
to show its age.

“
You want to steam that,
”
I told her.
“
Or I'll do it for you.
”

“
No, no,
”
she said.
“
I'll do it when
I get home.
”

“
Take it off,
”
I ordered, and was sorry
I did so, when I saw the jacket's torn
lining.