Undue Influence (21 page)

Fifteen

I did not have long to wait. When I got to work the next morning the door was unlocked and there were piles of books on the floor as if some gigantic upheaval were under way. I wondered briefly if there had been a break-in; some of the shelves were almost empty, and Muriel’s desk—and mine—had been moved. A young man emerged from the basement, and said, ‘You must be Claire.’

‘And you must be Peter,’ I replied.

He smiled and held out his hand. He wore a tie loosely draped round the collar of his bright blue shirt, the sleeves of which were rolled up. He looked sunny, effective, and unreliable. People do not want to see this sort of character in a second-hand bookshop. They prefer someone austere, preoccupied, preferably reading, paying them no attention. They prefer a person like Muriel, in short. This man looked too managerial, as if he worked for some sort of organization. And the smile and the handshake were a little too ready, a little too falsely convivial. I could see that there was no longer any place for me here.

‘Muriel gave you the keys, then,’ I stated. Clearly this arrangement had been made some time ago. I had been told only when there had been no possibility of concealing the facts from me any longer.

‘Yes. We’re more or less ready to start trading,’ he said.

Trading. It was what they did in the city, young men like him. He clearly did not belong in this context. I felt a belated proprietorial indignation. ‘You’re moving the books?’ I queried.

‘Just putting them into some sort of order.’

‘Muriel preferred them as they were. I think you’ll find that the customers prefer them that way too. After all, we’re not Waterstones.’

‘You can say that again. Dad!’ he shouted down the stairs. ‘Come up a minute, can you?’

The head of an older man, that of Muriel’s hoped-for intended, appeared slowly as he emerged from the basement. He too held out a hand with alacrity. ‘Miss Pitt?’

This appellation seemed to relegate me to the role of office drudge, faithful, uncomplaining, the sort who can be relied upon to oppose change, hold up progress. ‘Claire Pitt,’ I told him. ‘You’ve moved in, then?’

‘Yes. We shan’t be needing you much longer, you’ll be glad to hear. We thought we’d close for a couple of days and reopen on Monday. Of course, if you’d like to give us a hand moving the books we’d be most grateful. And Muriel left this for you.’ He handed over an envelope. I studied it for a moment, then put it in my pocket. There was a moment of hesitation.

‘Could Claire make us a cup of coffee, do you think?’

This question was addressed by Peter to his father. Evidently something in my face prevented him from asking me directly.

‘If you’re sure there’s nothing else I can do,’ I said pointedly, ‘I think I’ll leave you to it. If you see Muriel would you tell her that I’ll bring her father’s papers round to Marchmont Street this evening?’

They looked at each other, briefly alarmed.

‘Papers? She said nothing about any papers.’

‘These would not interest you,’ I said. ‘A project I was working on. An idea of Muriel’s. I don’t suppose she said anything to you about it. There was no need. Now, if you’ll excuse me …’

‘Lovely meeting you,’ said Peter, his corporate manners pressed into service once more. I could have managed him, I reckoned. It was the older man who was the stumbling block. I could see why Muriel had had no success with him. He had not smiled once. He was handsome in an obdurate sort of way, the sort of man who relents only briefly, lapsing into a concession as if it damaged him in some way to do so. And Muriel, so maidenly, would have admired this, thinking that it indicated strength of character. The father, then, was a bully, and the son was a weakling. The ‘problems’ to which Muriel had alluded all stemmed from the inevitable conflict between a heavyweight parent and an inadequate offspring. I saw this Peter as a child (it was not too difficult) larking about at the breakfast table, trying to amuse his father with his antics, resorting to ever more frantic pantomimes until it all ended in tears and he was sent to his room. His face was a pale reflection of his father’s, with all the character left out. Only the all-purpose smile remained, a guarantee of willingness to please. He was smiling now, revealing faultless teeth, which reminded me of Cynthia Gibson’s former nurse. They would have got on famously, I reflected, whereas I, who was so clearly failing to respond, would have no further place here. He would begrudge any disagreement I proffered: he could no doubt sense the disapproval I was making an effort to conceal.

‘There’s a café round the corner,’ I told him. ‘And an electric kettle in the basement. There’s nothing else I can do
here, I see. You’ll want my keys, of course.’ I laid them on the desk.

‘You’ve got your P45?’

‘Oh, we didn’t bother with that. I was paid on a part-time basis. I didn’t earn enough to make it worthwhile to tax me.’

They both looked shocked, as well they might. But this had never bothered me. My little envelope of money at the end of each week had been quite enough for me. Now I had to give some thought to how I would manage without it.

My needs were simple. I lived at home—and here I realized thankfully that it was now mine entirely—only rarely went to the theatre or the cinema, ate frugally from choice rather than necessity, and never ‘entertained’ in the Gibsonian sense. I had not been away since my mother’s death; some instinct bound me to Montagu Mansions, which I was loath to leave. Perhaps that enforced separation had made me aware of the shallowness of my roots, which I felt now were exposed. The silence of the flat which had so frightened me when I became newly aware of my solitude was no longer inimical: besides, I had those rare evenings to look forward to when my solitude was replaced by an enactment of some sort. Cordiality? Certainly not quite intimacy. All this was manageable, even desirable. I was not aware that money was needed for what Peter and his kind would inevitably refer to as my lifestyle. At the same time my complacency had received something of a jolt. I should have to look for another job, and I was not foolish enough to imagine that I could find another one anything like so congenial as working for Muriel. And she had telephoned me after my mother’s death, I remembered, with a flush of gratitude: she may even have been fond of me. I resolved to put my affairs in order, go to the bank, see what assets remained. My mother’s will had left everything to me, but I had paid no attention
to it, holding on for dear life to surface normality as I had been, as I was now. There was probably enough to tide me over, although I instinctively shied away from the idea of unearned income. If there was any. I preferred the feeling of the envelope in my hand at the end of the working week. I liked that feeling of solidarity with the homegoing crowds. This, I suppose, is characteristic of those who find themselves alone through force of circumstance.

I could almost certainly last out the summer, I reckoned. Then, when the skies began to darken, I would think seriously about the future. I might even take a brief holiday, like a normal person. If Martin could go to Italy I could go to France. The point of this would be to have views to exchange. Instantly I saw that this was an illusion. He was far more self-sufficient than I could ever be. Ours was not an affair, properly speaking, even though I had a desire to attach myself, which I knew was dangerous. That was why I was so upset at being dispensed with by Peter and his father. I could have made myself useful to them if I had been a different sort of character. But I was too stiff-necked to ingratiate myself, and, being men, albeit men who had not known me until I had walked through the shop door, they knew this instinctively. It was my awkwardness, my unclassifiability, that made me unwelcome. They, or at least Peter, may have had some confused awareness that I was being summarily treated. But because I was evidently ready to leave they made no move to detain me. And I had proved tellingly uncooperative in the matter of their coffee. This, it was clear to me, had been a test case. I had proved that I was no collaborator, so it was only natural that I would not fit in as an employee. This was more or less out in the open, except that we were all still smiling. Even the father had forced a grim smile to his lips. This would be described as a decision arrived
at by mutual agreement. I wonder who thinks up these terms. They must have come in useful time and time again.

It may have been the thought of the coming autumn and winter that kept me lingering in the shop long after I had received my cue to leave. It was only August, but the summer was virtually finished. Thick cloud was rarely pierced by anything resembling normal sunshine, and what heat there was was excessively humid, spoiled. Only that morning I had found a large moth spread-eagled on my bedroom wall, with no tremor at my approach. This attitude seemed to mirror my own inertia, although inertia now seemed to me something of a luxury I could no longer afford. I felt an uncomfortable mixture of emotions as I turned over a couple of books, deliberately taking my time. I felt anger, of course, but also some satisfaction at the uneasiness I was causing these two men to feel. They had no way of making me leave, as we all knew. I also felt fear. My fear was of the primitive variety; quite simply I did not know how to fill the rest of the day. And there would be days to follow about which I did not permit myself to think. In a few moments—since this scene, in which I briefly held the upper hand, could not be prolonged indefinitely—I should find myself on the pavement, as hapless as any monoglot tourist. A shadow on the window behind me alerted me to the fact that Doris had come along to see what was happening, no doubt in order to inform the others at the café. I waved pleasantly, then offered the same hand to Peter. The father retreated to the desk and began ostentatiously to examine the contents of the drawers. My quarrel was with him, I told myself. For myself and for Muriel. I believe he may even have sensed this. He was the sort of man who pours scorn on feminine intuition, knowing it can be used to his disadvantage.

‘Doris will make your coffee,’ I told him. ‘She knows where
everything is kept. She is, so to speak, a regular visitor.’ Doris was wearing her usual uniform of shorts and baseball cap. The panic on their faces was my sole reward. After that I was on my own.

It was only ten o’clock. As I retraced my steps—for it seemed as if I had no alternative but to go home—I felt ashamed that I could think of no way of passing the time. All the tourist attractions were open to me, I who now felt as uprooted as the tiny Japanese girls and the bulky Americans who had taken over the streets, Martin would not know where to find me; that was the thought that was uppermost in my mind. The scrupulously uncommitted nature of our arrangement would now be at an end unless I could think of some other way of establishing the same careless contact. His avoidance of any reference to our meetings was now going to be an obstacle, whereas until now it had seemed almost amusing. At least it had amused me to witness his mournful dignity collapse from time to time. I took a sort of pleasure in the suspicious, almost resentful, face he showed me when his guard was down. Now I did not see why, of the two of us, he should assume the mantle of outraged virtue. I too had wishes. I shrank from the word needs, but it was true that I had a need for something that was not contained in this affair, for some sort of friendship. I too was vulnerable. My future was uncertain. I was only grateful that he had not been present when I had been dismissed, as I now saw. He would have been of little help, but I should have felt more dignified, less exposed. I had the sense to realize that I was fantasizing in a peculiarly unhelpful way. Martin would never protect me. It was I who protected him, against all sorts of failings, against smugness, complacency, a falsely flattering view of himself. For none of this did he thank me: rather the opposite. I kept him in a state of creative indignation at my
audacity. I made a man of him, as he was eventually all too willing to prove. After years of good behaviour I had awakened him to the pleasure of slipping below his own knightly standards. I had given him a great deal to think about. Unfortunately this left little room for thoughts of a more generous nature. But when he could spare the time and the attention to take a broader view I knew that he would acknowledge this. Then my turn would come, and I should be ready for it.

I would drop him a note, I thought. Surely that was permitted? A note, rather than a telephone call, which still seemed like an intrusion. He would find it on his return from Italy. I was strong enough not to go round to Weymouth Street. I had always been scrupulous about not dropping in. In a curious way I respected his life, though I could spare little respect for my own. He had humbled me too. The thought of the letter, which I should write that afternoon, cheered me a little, and I made my way to the National Gallery along with all the other transients. I would have something to eat in the restaurant, I told myself, and only look at one picture. But in the event I was so discouraged by the crowds that I did neither. Unemployment was making me apologetic. I did not even have the patience to walk home. Instead I took a taxi, as though I had run out of strength. In a way I felt I had.