A Closed Eye (19 page)

Her mood, when she left them, was curiously diminished. It was as if remembrance of things past had cancelled the earlier excitement. Now she felt only distaste for the feeling of recklessness to which she had only that morning so willingly surrendered. It was as if she would be betraying them if she acted out of character, and even to fantasize an erotic episode—now vague in her mind, almost irretrievable—was a lapse from everything, notably good taste. Whatever she was or had become was unlikely to change. Evening sun lay beneficently on the back gardens of the suburban houses. Now she longed to be inside one of them, with a clear conscience, preparing for the return of the breadwinner. Quiet ways, simple thoughts, seemed to her utterly desirable. And yet she knew that she had somehow put herself beyond
their reach. Freddie, Immy, Miss Wetherby, possibly even Jack, awaited her with varying degrees of impatience or indifference. They appeared unimaginably complicated, as indeed they were. Marriage, the married state,
her
married state, presented incalculable difficulties. How, then, could she ever have contemplated adultery?

I
N THE MIRROR
she saw a pale face sharpened by anxiety, eyes wide, as if shocked, mouth painted a dark red, a mass of beautifully cut dark hair. If she turned her face to the side and scrutinized her right profile—the short nose and high brow gave it an austere and scholarly outline—the birthmark on her left jaw was not visible. She knotted a silk scarf loosely inside the collar of her suede jacket, took gloves and keys, as if to leave, and then turned back for another look in the mirror. This time she thought she looked impossibly serious. Oh, why so sad? She was simply going to drop the carrier bags outside the flat in Judd Street; she was not going to do more than ring the bell, and, after a few desultory remarks, leave. The task before her seemed immensely difficult, which was perhaps why her breath came and went with such an effort, why the distance between Wellington Square and Judd Street seemed immense, and why she lingered in the dark hall, although it was a matter of urgency to perform this task, after which she would be safe.

Her reluctance to leave the house was so severe that it amounted to a kind of dread. She knew, without knowing exactly what she knew, that she faced the greatest challenge of her life, that she was in danger, not of succumbing to Jack—even supposing that he wanted her, or had ever wanted
her—but of succumbing to self-knowledge, which she had now successfully kept at bay for half a lifetime. And now it was here, exposing her in all her venality. Technically innocent, as she had always been—but only technically—she strove, in the dark hall, her gloves clutched in her hand, for a memory of times when she had known herself to be candid, transparent, and could summon up nothing more substantial than a picture of herself on her way home from the bookshop in Cork Street. Sometimes she had stopped for a cup of coffee, eager to prolong the adventure of independence; sometimes she had opened the novel that was always in her bag. Sometimes she read, in the bright café; outside, the peaceful home-going crowds, the fading daylight, a rising evening excitement. At home, she knew, this peace would be lost. Therefore the journey was a respite, one she thought she was allowed. After that all would be spoiled.

And what shabbiness, what uncertainty since then! Lying at Freddie’s side, alternately amused and repelled by his touch, silently conjuring up a lover who did not have a name, and in the daytime hiding that unawakened body in expensive clothes, and being gentle and gracious to friends who were ruthless enough or sensible enough to have discovered life for themselves, and who saw through her disguise with casual cruelty, and pitied her. Thus everything had been false, everything except the birth of her daughter, which had freed her momentarily from frightened acquiescence, made her calm and strong, and a little more selfish, but not quite enough. Thus are lives lost, through what must be despair at knowing oneself too weak to deal with the dangers, the choices. And only the memory of those few brief moments of permitted freedom, in a café in New Burlington Street, a book on the table in front of her, with the clear conscience of one who had done a good day’s work—only that memory now appeared to be free from any kind of adult stain. The
image was almost virginal, or at least pre-pubertal, for virginity had never been truly surrendered. The heaviness which she now felt, turning her gloves in her hand, loosening the scarf at her throat, as if she were oppressed, must also date from those days, when she had known, instinctively, that her path must be one of obedience, because obedience was the discipline in which she excelled. And was there not also an adolescent fear, prolonged well beyond the age of adolescence? And how could she, having at last seen all this in perspective, ever live with it again?

She wanted to leave the house before Freddie returned, for to compare Freddie with Jack in the space of an hour seemed to her too cruel, both to Freddie and to herself. She wrote a note: ‘Gone round to Judd Street with Lizzie’s things. Back in time for dinner.’ She realized that she could have gone earlier, when there was less chance of seeing Jack. Or was there more? She had no idea of how he spent his working day, whether he went to an office, or whether he still came back to the flat in the evenings. Maybe he simply went off to Windsor and Elspeth Mackinnon. It was all, somehow, irrelevant. What mattered more was that she should once again have the freedom of the evening, that moment when the street lights came on, and the workers lined up at the bus stops, virtuous, tired, and harmless after their honest day, with the prospect of home to comfort them. What mattered now, and perhaps for the first time, was not to be part of that population, which she could never now rejoin, but to leave home, simply to leave home, and to go out into the night with ardour and desire, no matter how impure those qualities were.

She knew that she would never again have a clear conscience. Innocence would no longer protect her from her thoughts. She saw herself putting the plastic bags down on to what she saw as the cracked black and white tiles of the floor
of the Judd Street building, saw her hand reach out to a brass bell push, saw a green-painted door slowly open, saw herself hand in the bags, and retreat. Intact, and guilty. For the invasion of her mind by uncensored thoughts and unwelcome images was total; her mind, she knew, would remain subject to those thoughts and images for a very long time, until the slow death of the body released her from their dominance. She knew that she had always been guilty of not loving her husband, but had somehow not considered her lack of love to be a grave error or a culpable fault; now she saw how absent-mindedly she had given her affection, and how insulting this behaviour must have seemed. The first intimation of guilt had been to wonder—but idly—whether Freddie had had a mistress, and to sympathize with his imagined need. Now they were locked together for the rest of their lives, and her bad faith must be her punishment. For she saw, drearily, that there was to be no going back, or forward. The revelation of that moment coincided with the beginnings of a headache, which she could ill afford.

She bestirred herself, went down to the basement, where Miss Wetherby and Imogen were watching television. It was cosy down there: she would have liked to linger. Imogen sat on the floor, on several shabby cushions, in front of Miss Wetherby’s brown velvet sofa. The curtains were comfortingly drawn, although it was not yet dark, and the lights were low.

‘We’ve had our tea, Mother,’ said Miss Wetherby, who only addressed Harriet in this manner in Imogen’s presence. Harriet suspected far more conspiratorial exchanges between the two of them when she was not there, something far more idle and natural than she was ever permitted. It occurred to her that Miss Wetherby was a little uneasy with her, just as she was occasionally uneasy with Miss Wetherby. And how to avoid being addressed as ‘Mother’? When she encountered
Miss Wetherby at the top of the stairs, or at the front door, the woman seemed quite composed and dignified, yet it was clear that she found Imogen an easier conversational proposition. Or perhaps the child was more genuinely lovable, crude, and, yes, it must be said, cruel as she was. She had the careless cruelty of the natural beauty, of those favoured by fortune. Already she had outdistanced them, had a sureness denied to either of her parents. Only with Miss Wetherby did she behave like a child, consent to be treated like a child. After initial hostility she now took Miss Wetherby for granted, someone with whom no pretence was necessary. And there were deplorable indulgences, Harriet knew, orgies of crisps, toast, thickly buttered bread, terrible unhealthy foods that she was not allowed upstairs. Imogen was not greatly interested in these treats, and was certainly not interested in the fact that her presence permitted Miss Wetherby to recreate the atmosphere of a nursery which she had long outgrown. She liked Miss Wetherby’s television, which was larger than the one her parents had; she liked being silently handed a Mars Bar while she was watching; she knew she could, and would, stop visiting Miss Wetherby the minute she found something more interesting to do.

‘I’m going out for half an hour,’ said Harriet. ‘Will you see that she gets to bed? She can stay up and say hello to her father, and then she must go to bed. But of course I shall be back by then. I just thought … In case I am delayed. But there’s no reason why I should be.’

She found herself addressing their rigid profiles, and felt irritation.

‘An apple would be better for you, Immy, than that chocolate. You’ll get spots, and then you’ll be the first to complain. You can watch this programme, and then I’d like you both to come upstairs. Miss Wetherby can give you your bath. I want you in bed by the time I come home.’

She later thought that if Immy had asked her where she was going she would have accomplished her errand in all simplicity, have come home, greeted Freddie, kissed her daughter, all with a semblance of ease. But Immy was indifferent, uninterested, did not remove her eyes from the screen. ‘She does love this programme,’ said Miss Wetherby, by way of an excuse. ‘It’s her favourite.’

‘I’ll see you later, then,’ said Harriet, heavy-hearted, all her indecisions restored.

On the way out she felt a ladder springing in her stocking, which seemed to seal her fate. No one would want her now, she who was never less than immaculate. She suppressed a desire to run upstairs again and change, walked steadily out of the front door, realized she had completely forgotten the carrier bags with Lizzie’s things, the very pretext for her visit, saw that time was getting on, and that Freddie would soon be home, rushed back into the hall, and finally sat in the car, her heart beating uncomfortably fast. If it was to be like this the battle was lost even before it had been engaged.

The evening was blue, mild, conducive to dreaming, but with an acid edge to sharpen desire. It was April, traditionally the cruellest month. The soiled petals of almond blossom lay in drifts in gutters; trees opened clenched buds to release tentative leaves. All of this—and the bushes thrusting greenly at her through the railings—was a backdrop to the marvellous electric bustle of the city, the queue outside the cinema, the doors of pubs opening and closing, the slow surge of buses, the clashing trolleys at the entrance to the supermarket. She realized how seldom she was out in the evening, and yet it was the time she loved the best, most of all when she was alone. She drove, with a pleasurable coolness from the open window fanning her cheek. At the same time she longed for summer, for intense heat, when tensions are released, and energies renewed.

She mounted the stairs at Judd Street calmly, saw, also calmly, that the floor was indeed paved with dirty black and white tiles, but that the door was brown, thickly varnished, with a few blistered bubbles where the job had been hastily finished. Calmly she rang the doorbell. The door opened instantly.

‘Hello, Jack,’ she said, almost indifferently. ‘I didn’t expect to find you here. I’ve brought Lizzie’s things.’

He stood back and ushered her in. ‘You must let me know how much I owe you,’ he said.

‘You owe me nothing.’

She felt that she had made some sort of statement, unconnected with matters of material exchange. At the same time she followed him into the flat, glancing, without much curiosity, at the dingy cream walls, the desk and the typewriter, the terribly large sofa. At the window hung incongruously dainty and expensive curtains, the work, she thought, of some Elspeth Mackinnon or other, an attempt to introduce a feminine touch, a reminder of the donor.

‘I like your curtains,’ she said, aware that there was nothing much else to admire.

He took the bags from her and put them behind him on a chair.

‘You won’t forget to give them to her? With my love, of course.’

‘With your love,’ he said gravely. She thought he must be laughing at her; there was, perhaps, a hint of amusement in the way he looked at her. At the same time his movements were slow, as if this transaction might be expected to take a long while.

Her cheeks burned; she had no idea how to behave, for she supposed a seduction was about to take place, or rather a mock seduction, in which she would be cast for the lesser role.