A Closed Eye (16 page)

Besides, she thought, this woman had come into being before Tessa’s last illness, summoned out of Jack’s other life, where their imagination could not follow him. She must have been a secretary, or rather a superior sort of assistant, devoted, competent, level-headed, and ruthless, and therefore not unlike Jack himself, as he had recently revealed himself to be. This person—she could not bring herself to think of her as a girl—had had a settled air, betrayed no excitement, had no proprietory gestures, kept her hands by her sides. Nobody greeted her. This she ignored, assuming that her existence was at least as important as that of Tessa’s broken parents, her stricken friends. Harriet, Mary, and Pamela had huddled together at the back of the crematorium, restored to childhood solidarity, aware of the process of separation. In the front row stood the Dodds, and on the other side of the aisle Jack and this woman. But was this not shockingly unorthodox? She had exchanged meaningful glances with her friends. The kindest thing was to suppose that Jack was so weakened by his ordeal that he needed the support of a friend, a friend whom none of them had had the chance to meet.

But Jack was neither weak nor weakened. He had been exemplary, had brought tears of admiration to Harriet’s eyes, the only tears she had shed until the day of Tessa’s death. And even then … Those three weeks in the hospital had been oddly serene, peaceable. They had sat there talking, their voices low. Pale sunshine briefly bloomed on the white bed. From time to time Tessa would turn her face to the window, and in those moments they would see her sorrow. Harriet and Jack had kept her company, although company was now irrelevant. She had passed beyond them, becoming recognizable as the woman they had known only when Lizzie came in, brought by Tessa’s parents, with whom she was staying. At once the spectral look left Tessa’s face, and for a while she was animated. The minute the door closed behind Lizzie she fell back exhausted. ‘I don’t want to go on,’ she had once said. They had offered automatic words of comfort. The following day the nurse had remarked to Harriet, ‘She says she doesn’t want to eat or drink any more.’ ‘How long?’ Harriet had asked. ‘Perhaps a week,’ said the nurse.

There was no need to say anything to Jack. He kept vigil, stern, wordless, not noticeably moved. She sometimes heard his heavy sighs, which were sighs of frustration as much as of endurance. The immobility was almost more than he could stand. When Tessa was put on a drip, when the oxygen cylinder was wheeled into the room, he moved nearer the bed, as if anxious to scrutinize these last days. Still Tessa turned her sorrowful eyes to the window, no longer able or willing to speak. Once she said, ‘Lizzie?’ but fell asleep before Harriet could reply, ‘She’ll be here soon.’ The most intense silence prevailed. When the nurse came in to settle her for the night they left her, parting wordlessly at the hospital entrance. There was nothing left to say.

She died early one morning, when there was nobody there. Her mother, Jack, and Harriet, alerted by telephone, made their way instinctively to the room and stayed there for the
better part of the day. Nobody seemed to think this strange. At some point Jack disappeared, went to Cadogan Mews, collected Lizzie, and took her in to see the dead Tessa. ‘Lizzie has said goodbye,’ he said, ushering the tearless child into the hospital room. Harriet had bent down and put her arms round the child, but, as always, she resisted. ‘Take her home,’ said Jack to Anne Dodd. ‘I’ll collect her later.’ ‘What have you decided about her?’ Harriet asked, when Lizzie had gone. ‘She could come and live with us. We should love to have her.’ Belatedly, she saw how unpopular this might be. Her heart ached for Lizzie, so bleak, so composed. ‘I haven’t decided where she is to go,’ said Jack. ‘If we were staying in England we should have her, of course,’ said Tessa’s father, but he seemed too old, too bent under the weight of his grief to be able to tolerate a young life. ‘Let me have her, Jack,’ Harriet had said. ‘She can go to France for the holidays. Wouldn’t that be the best plan?’ ‘But then I should never see her,’ he said. ‘And she is my daughter. I’ll let you know. You have been very kind,’ he added, turning away.

Lizzie did not go to the funeral, the ugly flower-decked disposal at Golders Green. ‘Where is Lizzie?’ Pamela had hissed, but Harriet was forced to say that she did not know, had not seen Lizzie since that day in the hospital room. In any case this was no scene for a child to witness. And by that time she was distracted by Jack’s companion, still mysterious, still without a name. After the service she had gone up to the Dodds and offered condolences. The colours on Anne Dodd’s face had run, and a bubble of saliva bloomed at the corner of her mouth. ‘So sad,’ she gasped, ‘so sad,’ and let her husband guide her to the car. To Jack Harriet had said, ‘Would you like to come back to the house? I’m sure you need some coffee.’ He had merely replied, ‘I’ll ring you in a couple of days and let you know what I’ve decided. By the way, this is Elspeth Mackinnon.’ The girl had bared tiny even
teeth, but her expression was absent. Harriet had stood with Mary and Pamela among the terrible flowers, and watched them drive away. At this they exchanged looks which seemed oddly free of judgement, as if the ceremony had drained them of censure.

If they felt anything it was regret mingled with respect. They were growing old, Harriet thought. After the first shock of seeing Jack with another woman, the new alliance seemed entirely natural. They were suddenly very tired, with harsh involuntary shudders of cold and fatigue. The weather was immaculate, the first day of a new spring. The sun showed in cruel relief the lines on their faces, the recent passage of tears. ‘Did you say coffee?’ demanded Mary, almost querulously. ‘Of course,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s all ready. And sandwiches.’ ‘Curious how weak one feels,’ observed Pamela, blowing her nose. ‘You’ll miss her, Hattie.’ ‘Yes,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll miss her.’

She had felt so close to them, the girls, as Freddie used to call them. They had spent the afternoon together, unwilling to part, in silence, mostly, lying back in chairs or on sofas, watching the light change and fade. At four o’clock she had made tea, which they drank gratefully. Reviving energy renewed their curiosity. ‘Have you any idea who that woman was?’ asked Pamela. ‘A girlfriend,’ Mary replied. ‘Seizing the opportunity to go public. Rather cool of her, I thought. Had you any idea?’ ‘No,’ said Harriet, daunted. ‘No idea. Do you suppose Tessa knew?’ ‘I think she probably did,’ said Mary. ‘Or guessed. If so, she was immensely grown up about it. They both were, given the situation.’

‘I never know these things,’ confessed Harriet, who was beginning to feel intimations of a more normal emotion. The ease with which people make life bearable for themselves, she thought. The accomplishment … But she had not liked the girl, or woman, and now that the funeral was beginning to
recede she disliked—no, not disliked: distrusted—her all over again. That air of competence, that glassy absent smile, which seemed to proclaim them all as irrelevant, that air of having a full timetable in reserve … It was as if Tessa’s old friends were already out of place in the new dispensation drawn up by Elspeth Mackinnon. And what was to happen to Lizzie? For surely there would be no room for Lizzie in whatever arrangement Elspeth Mackinnon had in mind?

‘I could have Lizzie,’ she said aloud.

‘Or she could come to us. I’ll talk to David, and ring you.’

They kissed the air on either side of each other’s face, then smiled and hugged one another, rocking to and fro.

‘Look after yourself. Take care,’ they said, knowing that they would not meet for a long time, if at all. With them, in the suddenly empty room, went her youth, or what was left of it. She bent to pick up cushions, found herself moving slowly, heavily. I am tired, she thought vaguely. Well, it has all been a strain. Sorrow waited in the background, waiting for the night hours when she could give it her full attention.

Several bleak days followed, during which she felt a growing estrangement. She waited to hear what had been decided. She felt it would be inappropriate for her to telephone the Dodds, or Jack, that it would not be becoming to demand accounts. Maybe she would be left out of the calculations altogether. This did not surprise her: she felt listless, marginal. She supposed she would now drop out of the picture. With Tessa gone her early affections seemed to have disappeared; the past appeared uninhabited. Now only Immy remained to tie her to her present life. Even Immy, sensing her curious mood, avoided her, preferring to spend time in Miss Wetherby’s basement, eating toast and watching television. Freddie was kind, respecting her grief, yet anxious for her to relinquish it and return to normal. He sensed detachment, even disloyalty, was, at times like these, unsure of her. She herself
was outwardly calm, moved about the house as she normally did, shopped, cooked, seemed self-possessed. Every afternoon, when the house was quiet, and the noises from the street dropped to a monotone, she lay down on the sofa and tried to think. Yet what she saw in her mind’s eye was not the important business of her own life, of Freddie’s ageing, of Immy’s future, but Lizzie’s tearless face. She does not love me, came the sudden illumination. She has endured me, as one of those burdens she has been forced to carry throughout her uncomfortable childhood. If she came here she would hate it, but continue to endure it. She is a stoic, more of a stoic than I am, who can hardly bear … Banishing Lizzie’s face she thought of an empty room, with sunlight falling across a creaseless bed, and herself preparing to lie down in that bed, beautifully untroubled. So forceful was this image that she recognized it as her deepest desire, akin to death, or to sleep—it did not seem to matter which—and felt a yearning for it so strong that she could almost feel the sun on her face, although outside the window the weather was lightless and damp. The false spring was over, it seemed. Only the mildness of the air reminded her that it was late February. In the park the daffodils would be in bloom. She had no desire to see them; the imaginary picture was more beguiling. If only I can hang on until the summer, Harriet told herself, yet nothing threatened her, weighed upon her. Only the unfinished business of Lizzie … But I am not her mother, she thought. Then memory supplied her with the image of Elspeth Mackinnon, the tight, patient, tolerant smile. Lizzie had not been at the funeral. Had she met Elspeth? And if she had—and this must be faced—would she prefer her to Harriet?

She sat up. But surely Jack would not dream …? And if he did, could she prevent it? But this is unimaginable; the child has suffered enough. And yet there was this curious enmity between her and Immy. And Freddie would not be
happy to have another child in the house. Freddie. She had almost ceased to consider him, yet now she must. He was a generous man with money, but not with patience. Even Immy tired him; he looked forward to her going away to school. He was proud of her, but disappointed by the child’s indifference to him. Her early raptures, when she was a tiny baby, and even up to the age of two, had cooled. Now she no longer turned to him, was sometimes tolerant of, sometimes irritated by, his clumsy overtures. This left a residue of bad feeling on both sides: something which must be watched. Immy, when a woman, would not bother with men like Freddie, thought Harriet. She would be capricious, demanding, as her beauty gave her the right to be. For she was beautiful, with her white skin and her dark hair, already slim and straight, not stocky and shapeless like other children of her age. I shall not discipline her, she thought. I shall let her have her way. Why should she make do, politely, with second best? For once women have been trained in the ways of politeness they can make disastrous mistakes. All those maidenly virtues were a way of selling the pass. I am not much of an example to her. She must be bold and fearless. Fortunately, she seems to know her own mind. Her lovely impatience … If there were to be a clash of wills between her daughter and her husband her daughter must win. For none but the brave deserve the fair. And none but the fair deserve the brave.

And Lizzie, in all this? Where would Lizzie be in ten years’ time, when Immy was breaking hearts? Well, Lizzie would survive, she thought. Lizzie had toughness, stamina, qualities that had prepared her for the cruelty of the real world. She would have a sensible life. She was clever, thoughtful, loved her books. Books would be her companions. However, books contain terrible reminders. ‘You know that you are recalled to life?’ ‘They tell me so.’ ‘I hope you care to live?’
‘I can’t say.’ And there was the reality of her mother’s empty bed, seen from the doorway of her bedroom, and the stained pillow. But childhood fades, she comforted herself, impatient now with grief. One grows up, grows older. One can do this at any age. Maybe Lizzie had made her gigantic leap into adulthood on that very night. Surely nothing would ever hurt her again as it had then. She would recover, might have done so already. There was something impenetrable about Lizzie: no one knew what she thought. She had not cried since she was very young, had learned, somehow, lessons of endurance. It would be unwise to bring her up with Immy, subject her to the suffering of being less beautiful, less endowed, less favoured. For Immy came first, and always would.

Lizzie would work, she thought painfully, and live a sensible life. Some children are born to lead sensible lives, others to folly and to joy. And there was no help for it; the die had already been cast. It was only the pale closed face that disturbed her, as it always had, the trudging resignation, the small empty hands. Let her go, she whispered to herself, already slightly frightened of the child. Life will take care of her. Or not, as the case might be. You are beyond anything I might offer you, Lizzie, she thought. And yet if you should want to come to me I should feel strangely rewarded. Like many difficult people, Lizzie had the capacity to bestow unexpected favours.

So that when Pamela telephoned, Lizzie’s fate was still in the balance.

‘She can come to us,’ said the voice, restored to its normal briskness. ‘She can grow up with the boys. You’re in touch, I take it?’

‘No,’ she answered, sitting up, jerked out of her afternoon reverie. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I haven’t heard from Jack. Maybe he’s taken her away somewhere, to get over it, you know.’