The Walking Stick (10 page)

Not that we were very close – it was a light, easy relationship – and I found I couldn’t ask her about Bruce Spring. Even though we normally discussed everything under the sun
on a skim-surface level, like swallows over an evening lake, we never plunged in. She had no hesitation in openly asserting her right in principle to sleep with whomever she pleased, but I
couldn’t say to her as a personal question: ‘Are you happy? How do you feel? What’s it like? How does it work out in practice?’

So in a while I put the needle back on the Beethoven and left her to her music and her Kama Sutra, and went up to bed. The light was underlining Erica’s door so I tapped and went in.

She was sitting up reading in a blue silk bed jacket, her glasses half-down her nose, the white satin counterpane carefully folded back, a smell of Eau de Cologne, the lights too bright for a
bedroom.

‘Hullo, darling,’ I said. ‘Headache?’

‘Oh, Deborah . . .’ She ran her middle finger along the bone of her nose to push her glasses up. ‘Mavis left an overspill of work when she went on holiday, and difficult cases
always come in blocks.’

‘Can I get you anything?’

‘No, no. Just a little tired.’

‘Couldn’t you do with some more frivolous reading?’

‘One has to keep abreast of things. And you?’

‘Yes, fine, thanks.’

‘With Leigh again?’

‘With Leigh . . . What did you do with the picture he gave you?’

‘It’s in Sarah’s room. Have you been to his studio?’

‘This morning.’

Douglas’s blue Viyella pajamas were laid out on the other bed. Erica was a stickler for some of the niceties, even though she despised others. A few years ago she had tried to convert us
all to nylon sheets, but led by Douglas we had all rebelled. And he still refused to be dragooned out of his warmer nightwear.

‘I asked Sarah,’ Erica said, ‘to ask David Hambro about Leigh Hartley. You remember I asked her when you were there.’

‘Oh, yes?’

‘It seemed odd, this young man, living alone in the East End. Of course David confirms what Leigh told you. He came to London a few years ago on a legacy and has been painting on and off
since.’

‘Well, I didn’t suppose he was a liar.’

‘No. Oh, no. Of course not. It wasn’t for that reason that one asked.’

For what reason then? ‘I think I’m off to bed,’ I said.

‘Did you know,’ Erica said, ‘that he was married?’

‘Who? David Hambro?’

‘No, Leigh Hartley.’

On the table beside Douglas’s bed was this thin pile of brightly coloured folders. Greece. Corfu. Yugoslavia. Erica’s holiday in Ireland had been fixed months ago. Douglas never made
up his mind until the last minute.

‘Oh, Leigh,’ I said. ‘Yes.’

‘You knew?’

‘Yes.’ Erica picked up her article, which seemed to be on contra-indications of the barbiturates.

‘Have you met her?’

‘Who?’

‘His wife, of course.’

‘Oh, no.’

One advantage of my father and mother working in different practices was that they could both be on holiday at the same time, even though they went in opposite directions. Opposite
directions.

Something fought its way up into my mind. ‘She lives in Stratford-upon-Avon now – works as a receptionist at a – at a hotel.’

‘Are they divorced?’

‘I’ve no idea.’

I was trying to swallow something sour that had come into my throat. It was as if I had vomited and couldn’t get rid of the taste. ‘You’re so civilized, Erica, it’s
strange you don’t believe in Platonic friendship.’

‘Not with him, I wouldn’t.’

‘Why? Does he look so sexual?’

‘Not in so many words, no. He may be a very agreeable fellow. But there’s an earthiness about him. It surprises me . . .’

I didn’t ask what surprised her. If only I could escape now – escape on the right note, without giving any appearance of running away.

‘Where’s Douglas?’

‘He went to a meeting at the Joe Rogerson’s.’

‘Oh, yes,’ I said.

She pulled her glasses down an inch again and looked over them at me. ‘Will you be in to lunch tomorrow? We’ve got the Mayfields coming, and you know how fond they are of
you.’

‘I’ll be in to lunch.’

The piece of the Attic black figure vase had been set into a thin wooden frame for safety. It depicted, so far as one could tell from the fragment, a drunken dance. It was made
of a high quality clay of about the sixth century bc, polished and orange-red in colour with the scene painted in what then must have been brilliant black. One pictured it complete, as it had been
first moulded: a graceful urn-shape with slim handles like ears and a flat black lid. I liked to believe it had been painted by Exekias.

It represented perhaps the limit of perfection in a style which soon after had changed to red-figure and thus set off a new chain of invention and inspiration. A few months ago a good example of
the red-figure style had come into Whittington’s but it had gone for too high a figure for me to buy. I would have loved to have stolen it.

Perhaps I had no higher a moral standard than Leigh. He would steal if he could; he lied (by omission) when it suited him. Who cared for ee-thics these days? He had hinted at that to me but had
not liked to say it any plainer. Life was a free-for-all, and devil take the fools who were gullible enough to think otherwise. Lovely fragment of a purer age.

I shut my eyes but didn’t put off the light. Light was my only company. For the time I couldn’t do without it. Dark would bring a shutting in of thought.

She came from Ireland. Her name was Lorne. She was twenty at the time.

She was five feet four and dark with blue eyes, and he painted her six times. Also, quite by the way, he happened to marry her. A simple little accidental occurrence not worth mentioning. This
morning his hands had been on my naked body, on my breasts, the first man’s ever. Swallow the poison, it meant nothing these days. What did jealousy and hate have to do with a simple
light-hearted piece of petting? A civilized girl didn’t get angry, blood didn’t beat, heart freeze, passion and pain breaking. Fun, fun was the thing; have fun. Come then, kiss me,
sweet and twenty, youth’s a stuff will not endure. But when you’re sour and twenty-six and twisted of mind and body?

Two lovely plates, think of them, rest, cool one’s soul on them. One on either side of the long mirror. The first, a Rockingham in apple green, had been a birthday present last November
from Sarah and Arabella. Ornately scrolled, with a harbour scene, a sailing ship at anchor, land and castle behind painted a delicate apricot. On the other side was a Coalport I had bought myself,
simpler as to design but rich in colour, painted with flowers by William Cook and rimmed with gold.

To get away, that was the thing, to get away. Time to reason, to think, to forget. I ought to put the light out. Sleep might come. Needed a couple of sleeping pills. Some downstairs, no doubt in
the room at the back where Douglas kept his stuff; but how to know one pill from another?

Sleepless then. John Hallows in hospital; Maurice Mills flying home; Viscount Vosper protesting. Who shall abide in thy tabernacle, Who shall dwell in thy holy hill? I’m crazy about you,
Deborah. Get that? Let your hair blow, it looks fabulous. Among the productions of the Dutch potters must be noted the figures: miniature pieces such as vases and dishes, dogs, violins, slippers
and ewers. You really should have more men friends, Deborah. There’s absolutely no reason why not. At high tide my balcony is under water. Why did you not let me kiss your mouth? It looks
nice. Isn’t it for use? She’s having one of her turns, says Erica, we really must wake her.

I start up with a jerk, look anxiously round the room. Empty and quiet – no one here – the light still burns. Twenty past three. A pain in my solar plexus.

A small Rakka jar from Mesopotamia; not such a good colour but cheap at one of the sales. In a year or two would sell it, buy something Greek in its place. There was a Turkish Isnik dish I
coveted in the coming sale. The
arcanum
or secret of making porcelain was closely guarded . . . from 1744 . . . Sleeping pills.

Put the light out. Mustn’t be red-eyed in the morning or Erica will suspect.
Out
with the light . . .

Heart goes thump, thump, thump. Not ready yet for the coffin or the grave. But how am I alive at this moment in inky darkness? Only because I can feel pain and hear the ticking of a clock.

Only perhaps because I can feel pain.

I got up about seven and took an early bath. Sunday was a late day for everyone unless there was some unexpected call out. Douglas had once said that a moratorium should be
declared on all illness between six and eleven of a Sunday morning.

I crept down and got one of the papers and spread it and stared at its black and white surface over a cup of tea. No communication passed, so I went back to bed and lay there very quiet till
nine. I dressed then and rang Sarah. We had a long conversation.

Over breakfast I said to Erica: ‘I’m thinking of going to stay with Sarah for a bit. Virginia Fisher is starting her holiday on Thursday, and Sarah will be alone.’

Erica spread butter thinly over a piece of Ryvita. ‘She often has been before.’

‘Well I’ve often stayed with her when this house has been closed. And she’s working all hours.’

‘I’m sure you’re better here on the whole, Deborah,’ Erica said. ‘Generally speaking you get regular meals and lead a settled life.’

‘I thought of going on Tuesday,’ I said. ‘Just for a few weeks.’

‘But that would take us up to the holidays! You’d be there seven weeks at least.’

‘Not if I come to join you.’

‘If you did.’

‘Well, I might well. I’ve no plans for the holidays.’

‘If you go and stay with Sarah,’ Arabella said, ‘you might be able to sort out how serious she is over Philip Bartholomew. I’m not sure if she hasn’t caught the bug
rather badly this time.’

‘Who’s Philip Bartholomew?’

‘You must remember him, Deb. He was at that party and doing a fly-round-honeypot act. Serious type. Too serious I’d have thought for Sarah.’

‘No, I don’t remember.’ Perhaps because someone had been doing a fly-round-honeypot act with me. Someone who was a liar (by omission) and not at all the serious type.

‘What does he do?’ asked Erica.

‘He’s in law. His father’s a judge. They met at some “do” in the Temple.’

Highly respectable, highly suitable. Not East End and fly-by-night and slipshod and needing a bit of sex to keep things going. The son of a judge, not a railway worker. The friend of law and
order, not the friend of Ted Sandymount and Jack Foil.

Douglas came in looking shiny and hairless and clean from his long immersion in the bath. He greeted his family with engagingly frank, cool eyes, and his family got up and made fresh coffee and
put on his eggs and bacon. I wondered how far he was in Erica’s confidence, how much he knew of my friendship with Leigh Hartley, more important how much he cared. I would have
loved
to have gone to his room after breakfast and told him everything. Whether he offered advice or not, the mere act of telling someone sympathetic and understanding and wise . . . But I knew it
wouldn’t work. If I went and asked him about any general, impersonal subject – from Taoism to Lesbianism – he would talk intelligently, clearly and with great understanding and
sincerity; and moreover he’d listen keenly to anything I said. But if I went to him with a
personal
problem – not what should one do in principle but what should
I
do in
fact
– he would shift mentally a foot or two away as if close contact were to be avoided. Douglas, I’d say, I’m involved, half caught by a man and spinning on the edge. Now
I learn . . . He never told me . . . We’ve about a quarter made love . . . He was persistent, pestered . . . How should I break altogether? Somehow it’s much harder for me. It was
harder to go with him in the first place; now it’s harder to stop. There’s no doubt he’s attracted to me, physically attracted. But what does it mean in his language? I
don’t want to get involved any further now, now this has happened. But how can I make a break?

They’d surely done their best, both Douglas and Erica. The taboos inherent in any parent-child relationship had been knocked over one by one. We were on a level; friendly, companionable,
appreciating the same jokes, discussing the same articles, arguing with the same balanced appreciation of the other person’s point of view. The only things lacking were involvement, loving
kindness. Did I ask too much?

‘The egg’s double-yolked,’ said Erica. ‘They’re threepence dearer than the others, but very fresh.’

The plate was put in front of Douglas as he opened his newspaper.

‘Ah,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘I see there have been more protest marches in Madrid.’

John Hallows was back as usual on Monday morning, a plaster on his cheekbone. It was the day of the porcelain sale and I sat almost all day in the sale room, noting purchasers
and prices. I didn’t see old Mrs Stevenson there but her two little Chelsea scent bottles fetched £325 and £375, so my estimate hadn’t been a bad one. The Turkish Isnik dish
didn’t fetch as much as we had expected but I felt too miserable and unsettled to bid for it.

On the Tuesday I telephoned Whittington’s and told them I had a sore throat. Then I packed a bag. I just took three frocks and some underwear and a nylon dressing gown and a few personal
things, as if I were going only for a week or so. In the top of the wardrobe as I reached for a new scarf, my fingers closed over the irons I’d worn until I was twenty. I took them out and
tried them round my leg, and it seemed as if the leg had filled out a bit since then.

Erica was just leaving for her surgery. She said: ‘And what if people ring? Do I tell them where you are?’ ‘Of course,’ I said, ‘I’m not in hiding,
darling.’ ‘Well, one just wishes to know,’ she said. ‘I never ask, but do you still do the massages regularly?’ ‘Not regularly but often enough.’
‘I’ll say no more, as I know how you hate being fussed over.’ ‘It’s bad for me, darling, you know that. Bad psychologically. Isn’t it, Douglas?’