A Closed Eye (28 page)

But they had come, first, to Nyon, for no good reason other than Freddie had thought he might stumble on the clinic from which Sanders had so signally benefited. It was the hotel room that decided him. Anger at being cheated of his vision of balconies and woodsmoke had restored a certain vigour. ‘Bring that bag, Harriet,’ he said. ‘I’ll go down and order a taxi.’ ‘Are we going to Montreux?’ she asked. ‘Not directly,’ he said, with some cunning, for the mirage of the perfect hotel was still vivid in his mind, and he knew that it had to be somewhere undiscovered, far from urban life. Dazed, she sat in the back of the taxi, watching small stands of trees give way to fields of yellow rape. Nyon was left behind, forgotten, cancelled. So, in due course, were Rolle (Hôtel Regina) and Morges (Hôtel du Mont Blanc). ‘Freddie, I am very tired,’ she said, watching a red sun descend slowly into the grey waters of the lake, as they speeded past. ‘Lausanne,
vous connaissez?
’ asked the driver, who was now far from home. Without waiting for an answer he unloaded their bags in front of the Beau Rivage, casually mentioned an enormous sum of money, and got back into the car. Through plate glass windows what looked like members of a seminar or conference, all men, were dining. Freddie saw them too. ‘We can have something sent up,’ he said, already disappointed. It was his fourth hotel of the evening, and none had corresponded to his original, his ideal hotel, in which, somehow, he would be the only guest, honoured and prized by the proprietor, who would be a discreetly attractive woman of a certain age, perfectly silent unless he wished to talk. He saw a younger slimmer version of himself; he saw appreciative glances from villagers who knew their place. He did not want
chandeliers, in which, inevitably, the bulbs, although numerous, were too weak, and long airless corridors, and waiters whipping silver domes off plates of unfamiliar fish. He wanted to feel at home, and wondered how he could ever manage to do so again. At that point he felt unwell, and put his hand to his heart. Harriet was at his side, vigilant.

‘It’s been a long, tiring day,’ she warned. ‘Tomorrow we take it easy.’

‘Tomorrow,’ he said, in a voice that wheezed slightly, ‘we look for a flat. Furnished. Rent it by the month.’

She did not have the heart to argue with him.

Both slept badly. Harriet woke early, worrying about Freddie, worrying about Immy, who, she thought, had not been given sufficient warning of their departure. When would they get back, to reassure her? More important, how long were they to be away? She had not taken seriously Freddie’s suggestion that they look for a flat. This was not their home, nor was it ever likely to be; she had in mind a visit to this Lecoudray, and then a swift return to London, where they were, or would be, safe. She thought that this might be accomplished in the space of a week, but intended to keep her thoughts to herself. She saw Freddie stirring, watched him carefully as he made his way to the bathroom, and ordered breakfast. She had to admit that he looked better, acted more like a man. This adventure, or initiative, had served the purpose of reviving him, of reminding him that he could make certain choices, could pay effortlessly for certain mistakes. The rejection of all those hotel rooms, which, though doleful, had not been entirely impossible, had stimulated him; he would now bend the country to his will until he was satisfied that it met his requirements. The sun rose magnificently and imperviously outside the window; inside, all was discreet luxury, infinitely depressing. Both the discretion and the luxury annoyed Freddie, as did the noise of trolleys in the corridor,
and the cars starting up in the car park. It was already hot. Suddenly, Harriet herself wanted air, and silence. She would have liked to be alone, but suppressed this thought. She watched him pick up the telephone, order a taxi. If I let him have his own way in this adventure, she thought, then maybe it will be my turn to have mine, one day, when we are home again.

Their driver, this time, was a younger man, placid and relatively cheerful. He seemed to understand instinctively that Freddie was both rich and unwell, yet did not take undue advantage of the fact. Instead he drove them carefully along the lake shore, from which they could see small yachts, like tidy children, bobbing at anchor in minuscule boat basins, and municipal flowers, gravely chosen with an eye to maximum contrast of colours, blooming obediently in equally small flower beds. Yet as the sun rose high in the sky and flooded the lake, without in any way piercing its opacity, they began to see a more benign landscape, bushes and trees of lilac and wistaria cascading over low stone walls, a glimpse of snow on distant peaks, and, spreading outwards and upwards, green hills dotted with peaceable houses, each with its own view of life below, in the valley, and its own sloping meadow to isolate it from its neighbours.

It was absurdly scenic, and yet it was properly domesticated. It would, Harriet saw, be possible to live here, to take an evening walk along the lake shore, watching a great red sun sink into those grey waters; it would be possible, and even desirable, to turn, eventually, towards home, and to sit on a balcony until the light had finally faded. The bed, ultimately reached, would be white, austere. This life would be possible with a lover, with whom in fact it would be idyllic. She imagined the silence, like the silence at the end of the world, which would unite two lovers after the long disparate journeys which had eventually brought them together. How they
would turn, from the balcony, in the fading light to that white bed! Even now, in the hot car, with Freddie’s heavy body beside her, she saw the rightness of that conclusion, after which she would be indifferent to death, or punishment. If only, she thought, circumstances and her own nature had favoured a more decisive way of life. Yet she could see that somehow her own unconsummated longings had derived an odd beauty from the very fact of being unconsummated. In whatever dreams and desires she had entertained she had always seen herself as free and unencumbered, neither wife, nor mother, nor daughter, whereas her very real situation had militated against her taking any definitive steps to free herself. Outwardly conventional, she could now see that she was inwardly conventional as well. And now there was the additional worry of Freddie’s health, for if he were to die she would be faced with the very real dilemma of choosing her own life, of acting on her desires, of abandoning Immy to her young fate, and becoming what she had never been, a vagabond, a fugitive, an escapee. She did not doubt her capacity to become all or any of these things. But that, she thought, with a flash of realism, is because I have never tried to be independent. It is all in the mind, magical thinking. Whereas reality is the heat from Freddie’s body, the bristling blonde hairs on the back of the driver’s neck, and the shafts of sun dazzling on the waters of the lake.

They drove on, inexorably. Lutry was passed, Saint Saphorin, Vevey. On the outskirts of Vevey the car stopped and the driver courteously suggested that they might like to lunch. He himself, it was clear, was dying for a beer. He indicated the terraces of two hotels and said that if they agreed he would pick them up again in two hours’ time. Had they, he enquired, any particular destination in mind? Montreux, said Freddie, but they were in no hurry. In fact he himself was agreeably impressed by the quiet of the place, a sort of suburb,
he supposed, populated by a sparse and docile citizenry, with the great silence of the lake on one side and the spreading green hills above. I will lift up my eyes unto the hills, he thought, and felt vaguely comforted. ‘What is the name of this place?’ he asked the driver. La Tour de Peilz was the answer. The air shimmered; in the boat basin the little craft were motionless on the tideless waters. Tiny brown waves spread over the cobbles below the wall on which they leaned, momentarily dazzled. ‘All right, Robert. Come back in a couple of hours,’ he said, handing the driver money for his lunch. All was silent in the midday heat. Reluctantly they made their way to yet another hotel, where they ate more fish.

‘You should get a little exercise after lunch,’ said Harriet. ‘It’s not good for you to sit in the car all day. Can’t we stop here? At least for the night. I’m awfully tired, Freddie. Could we get a little air, do you think? It might be cooler down by the lake.’

Freddie was now gloomy. It no longer seemed to him to matter when he saw Dr Lecoudray, whose address was safely in his wallet. Now that Dr Lecoudray was within reach there seemed to be no particular urgency in reaching him. The impulse of energy which had brought him to this place was ebbing away; he felt the gradual invasion of an immense discouragement.

‘Have you got my pills?’ he asked fretfully.

Harriet suppressed a sigh. ‘You know I have. Come on, Freddie, let’s walk.’

They strolled past the notice which proudly proclaimed that they were on the
voie fleurie
, raised their eyes towards the impalpable cloud that clothed the mountains on the far side of the lake, and lowered them again to the careful lawns and flower beds of the municipality. They turned inland, away from the lake, up a little street which lay open and deserted
in the sun. Freddie stopped, straightened up, looked about him.

‘Some decent building here,’ he said. ‘Good sensible domestic architecture.’

He saw balconies, shutters, pitched roofs, shadowed entrances, secrecy and order. He was attracted, and saw, with an intimate thrill, that he was about to make a significant personal choice, in which Harriet would have very little to say. The car, and Robert, were waiting by the lakeside.

‘Robert,’ said Freddie, choosing to make this announcement to his chauffeur rather than to his wife. ‘We are looking for a furnished flat. Is there an agency around here?’

Robert brightened. ‘My cousin,’ he said. ‘In Vevey. He is the best. He will find you what you want.’

By the late afternoon they were installed in the Résidence Cécil, a white concrete building in a daring but not outlandish Art Deco style, reassuringly small, promising all modern comforts. Their apartment, which belonged to a wealthy widow, was furnished with an extravagance, a shamelessness which Freddie found immediately reassuring. Harriet opened all the windows, took a deep breath of air, and turned round to view, with stupefaction, the parrot-green sofa, the yellow and white striped armchairs, the black coffee table complete with large Japanese ashtray and a flowering gloxinia in a ceramic pot which might have been left there only that morning. Green garlands studded the cream coloured carpet, and flowered chintz of staggering munificence was looped and draped at the windows. Cushions, in the same chintz, were placed primly in the angles of the cockatoo sofa. Freddie sank into one of the striped chairs, visibly exhausted. That happened nowadays, the sudden expiring of energy. Harriet went into the bedroom, which was less dramatic, was in fact rather prim, with
toile de Jouy
wallpaper and a plain carpet. She turned back the
toile de Jouy
counterpane, revealing a heavy
white duvet. Then, abandoning the still unpacked suitcases, she went and stood at the window. After a few minutes of reflection she walked back into the sitting-room.

‘How long did you take this place for, Freddie?’ she asked.

He looked shifty but resolute. ‘Five years, actually,’ he said.

‘Five
years
?’

‘Be sensible, Harriet. If I’m to have any treatment I’ll have to come back for check-ups, won’t I? It all takes time, you know. And I’m sick of hotels. Cheer up, old girl. We don’t have to live here all the time, just spend part of the year here.’

‘I can’t leave Immy on her own.’

‘Miss Wetherby is there, isn’t she?’

‘But she might want me, need me.’

He looked at her coldly. ‘Don’t be a fool, Harriet.’

She was obscurely aware that he would have his way whatever she said, that he was exacting his revenge on her. It was as if he had divined all her secret thoughts, had known for ever that it was for love of her daughter that she endured all the rest. And yet he knew her to be blameless. He resented her technical innocence, which meant that he could not punish her more directly. All this she knew, and knew that he would not forgive her. Time was short for him; he would be ruthless. Goodbye, my life, she thought. Aloud she said, ‘There is nothing to eat.’

‘I’m not hungry,’ he said. ‘A sandwich would do. The shops must still be open. Why don’t you look around?’

‘Of course,’ she said. She was anxious to get away from him, out of the oppressively tidy room, out into the air. The evening was beautiful, and she must not let him see her anger.

She found a small supermarket, bought bread, coffee, and mortadella. To buy more would be to acknowledge that she was putting down roots in this place, for which, nevertheless, she felt a bewildered sympathy. Dogs were now being walked by the lake, along the
voie fleurie;
passing cars signified the end
of the working day, the beginning of the long benign evening. If we find the clinic tomorrow, she thought, and make an appointment for a consultation, there is no reason why I should not go home immediately afterwards. There are things to do, clothes to pack. And yet she knew that she would not leave Freddie. She did not know how ill he was, had chosen to trust Mordaunt’s optimism. This uncharacteristic behaviour must have tired him mentally, as well as physically. She did not know how long he could last, was unwilling to make demands. What he had done—and she was uncertain as to how deliberate his actions were—was to remove them from a life in which she might have made an independent decision. She respected his desire for health, for safety. She respected his instinctive urge towards a longevity which might, even now, be fatally compromised: she could not help but respect this. At the same time she permitted herself a glance beyond his life, beyond his death. I shall not weaken this time, she thought, and so thinking walked back to the Résidence Cécil, where she found Freddie, still in the yellow and white striped chair, and now fast asleep.

She telephoned Immy, at the flat, but got no reply. She dialled Miss Wetherby’s number: again no reply. She glanced at her watch and calculated that it was the time at which Miss Wetherby habitually took the dog out. Perturbed that nobody knew where she was, she sent a telegram, giving their address and telephone number. Then she woke Freddie, gave him his pills, and shepherded him into the bedroom, now shadowy in the grey light of the declining evening. Freddie slept again, at once. She herself stayed awake a little longer, then fell abruptly into blackness.