A Misalliance (23 page)

To be called to account, constantly, was Blanche’s weakness; not to be called to account was Sally’s strength. Looking through the smeared windows of the basement, Blanche was unsurprised to see a number of suitcases open on the green carpet, and in the middle of them Elinor, in blue trousers and a white anorak, playing with a variety of toys that Blanche had not noticed before. Her little basket chair was upended in a corner; on a plate on the trolley lay a half-eaten
slice of toast. Going down the steps, Blanche realized that once again her contribution was mistimed and misplaced: the flowers would be laid aside, and, when she had gone, thrown away. Plans had been made, but no information imparted. Information, of a remotely relevant order, had been omitted all along, yet Blanche did not now, did no longer, attempt to extract it. She had come to announce that she was going away, and saw no reason why the formalities should be prolonged. Later that day she would see the bank manager and her solicitor and make financial arrangements for Elinor, and after that she was free, free to make her own arrangements and to disappear, possibly for ever. Speed now seemed to her the essence of the undertaking.

Sally greeted her with a look of slight surprise, as if she expected her already to have vanished. Gesturing to her empty suitcases, she said, ‘You don’t mind if I go on packing, do you? Only some friends are calling for me at twelve.’

‘You’re leaving?’ said Blanche, stepping over a little cart with a toy poodle in it.

‘We’re leaving, thank God. Nellie’s going to grandmama and I’m going on holiday.’

‘On holiday? What fun,’ she added hastily, recalling the appropriate response.

‘Isn’t it? A friend of ours from the old days tracked me down. I’m going to his house in Cornwall. God knows I need a break.’

‘Yes, I’m sure you do,’ said Blanche, mindful of the note to be struck. ‘Paul must be pleased.’ She noticed a large bunch of roses, dying from dehydration, in an elaborate crystal vase.

‘Paul must sort out his own affairs. I’ve told him where I’ll be. Then when he gets rid of those awful people he can come and join us. There’s no point in my hanging around here.’

This was tantamount to a great deal of information. ‘Did he tell you what had been decided?’ Blanche asked.

Sally glanced at her. ‘They’re going back to America. Well, you know that, of course. I can’t be expected to wait around for him.’ She seemed to bear a grudge for Blanche’s intervention, as if Blanche alone had been responsible for Mr Demuth’s decision. ‘God knows what you said to them,’ she added.

‘I tried to explain …’ Blanche began, but gave up. ‘It might have been better if you hadn’t asked me to intervene,’ she couldn’t help remarking. ‘I thought it was a bad idea, if you remember.’

‘Well, it doesn’t matter now, does it? At least you saw what we were up against. Not that that helps me much.’ She turned her back and devoted herself to the folding of a long red silk skirt. Blanche bent down to Elinor and handed her the bunch of flowers, which Elinor laid in her cart.

‘Did you see Daddy?’ she asked. Elinor nodded her head firmly. Blanche was surprised. ‘Did Paul come here?’ she asked Sally. There had been no word of this.

‘Oh, no,’ said Sally, closing a suitcase. ‘We went there. He gave us lunch at the Dorchester. Not bad. Nellie loved it. She’s started to speak, by the way.’

‘Why, Elinor,’ said Blanche, with a great feeling of joy. ‘What a clever girl. Can you say my name? Can you say Blanche?’ Elinor nodded firmly once again but remained silent. Oh, well, thought Blanche. This is worth a great deal. It is, after all, a sort of happy ending. At the same time she was surprised that Sally’s indifference had not modulated into something more positive; in fact, with her increased activity, she seemed to be getting more bad-tempered, as if obstacles were being put in her way, or as if she had finally lost patience with those who had, at any time, attempted to impede her. This flight of hers, Blanche saw, might be
another stage in her eternal mobility; since she obviously did not plan to come back, it was clear that somewhere else must be found for her, and the implication was that this task would be left to others. The friends who were coming to collect her at twelve, the friend from the old days who had lent his house in Cornwall, might be obliged to harbour Sally until further plans were improvised. She would not reappear in this place, in this context; this stage of her life was now over, as was the time in which she had lent herself to the nurture of Elinor, who would now pass into the care of her grandmother. By the same token, Paul could be discarded with no blame attaching. ‘It just didn’t work out,’ Blanche could hear Sally saying, and Paul would disappear, dematerialize, leaving no trace behind. And all these necessary plans had been made in the space of a few days, more evidence, if evidence were needed, of Sally’s magical thinking.

‘I’m so glad I caught you,’ said Blanche. ‘I came to say goodbye. I’m going away myself.’

‘Oh, yes,’ said Sally, over her shoulder.

‘Yes,’ Blanche repeated. ‘I may be gone for some time.’

Sally straightened up. ‘In that case, what’s going to happen to your flat?’

‘My flat?’

‘Yes. Will there be anyone in it?’

Blanche stared at her, then burst out laughing.

Sally appeared to be offended. ‘I only thought … Well, if we get stuck. I don’t know what you’re laughing at. Have I said something funny?’

Blanche’s laughter, which surprised her, also liberated her from the thrall of this particular situation. Suddenly, there was no need to feel anything at all. She bent down and kissed Elinor. ‘Goodbye, darling,’ she said. ‘Have a lovely time. Goodbye, Sally.’

‘Goodbye,’ said Sally, reverting to her usual indifference.

‘By the way,’ said Blanche, turning at the door. ‘What did she say when she spoke?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Sally. ‘Something about Grandma. Going to Grandma. Something like that. I forget.’

So even that historic moment had passed without due recognition. Her last sight of Sally was of a figure bending over a suitcase, carefully folding in her expensive multicoloured garments: in this, as in all other matters of presentation, she could not be faulted.

Looking back at the door, as she so often had before, Blanche saw them both busy, turned away from her. Quite suddenly, and without warning, she realized that they were irrelevant to her, and she to them. She was just as easily aware that she should have seen this before: disaster had made her incompetent. The inscrutable child was still inscrutable to her, the mother just as foreign. She had made no difference to them. As always, but with less passion than previously, she blamed herself. To have assumed that she could love them and make them love her was more than folly: it was an error. To have assumed a bond between Elinor and herself was more serious a fault. The child was not hers to love. That was still a surprise. And the child somehow knew this. The wisdom of Elinor’s instincts amazed her into an admiration that was no less genuine for having been glimpsed, imperfectly, before, in other circumstances. As for herself, she had made her usual mistakes, thinking love to be easy, sweet, natural, reposeful, understood. Just as she had thought that love, once reciprocated – the child’s hand in hers – could be counted as a blessed state, without thoughts of possession. I was foolish, she thought. They saw my attempts at love as misappropriation. The full force of this truth struck her with incredulity, stupefaction. It was a misalliance, she thought. I have never fully understood the laws of property. If I had, I should not be alone, at this moment, and apparently forced to remain so.

But being so forced, she let her needs and desires drop away from her, and blowing the child a kiss (which the child did not see) she let herself out of the door, turning almost eagerly to the clear light, away from the musty room to the soft sun of autumn. Walking back through the agreeable, obligation-free streets, she found her mood growing ever more expansive, irresponsible. Bubbles of laughter escaped her from time to time. On an impulse, she went into the hairdresser’s and had most of her hair cut off. This symbolic action seemed to demand others. Airily she made her way to the hospital and told the people in the office that she would not be coming in for some time. ‘For how long?’ asked the Senior Nursing Officer. ‘Only we like to know where we are.’

‘Well, I think for quite a long while,’ said Blanche.

‘It’s just that we like to know who will be here for the Christmas period. And we couldn’t do without
you
, Mrs Vernon. Always so reliable.’

Perhaps you will have to, thought Blanche, as they parted with warm smiles on both sides. After that, there seemed a lot to do, but the weather was so beguiling that she delayed going back to the flat, where she must write many necessary letters, and preferred to saunter in the mild air, looking at shop windows, buying the first blackberries, and more dahlias, for herself, this time. Then, carefully, she selected a magnificent gloxinia, its trumpet flowers shading from deep crimson down to white throats, for Mrs Duff. She determined to spend the afternoon discarding what she thought of as her National Gallery clothes, which Miss Elphinstone could certainly wear, if only she could be persuaded not to give them to the church jumble sale, and putting her affairs in order. One suitcase was all that she would take, and anything she needed could be bought
en route
. These decisions made her feel literally weightless. ‘Lorraine,’ she said, putting her head round the door of the local travel
agent’s. ‘Can you get me on a flight to Paris the day after tomorrow? I’ll call back later.’ Then, almost regretfully, she went home.

The flat seemed dark in comparison with the bright day outside. Perhaps it was. Perhaps it always had been. She stripped the bed, wanting for these last two nights to sleep in immaculate sheets. Walking past her dressing-table, she was surprised by her new appearance: the mournful lines had vanished, along with most of her hair. Interested, she applied make-up, turned her head this way and that, put a dubious hand to the nape of her neck. All seemed to be in order. She changed into a dark purple linen dress, the colour that the blackberries would be when mixed with cream, and, taking the gloxinia and the dish, went next door to Mrs Duff. This acquaintance, to which she had been so long indifferent, now seemed to present itself in the same mellow colours as the day. She would not forget that deep compassionate look, that succouring arm, for many years, nor did she intend to. Fiercely disciplined, and long inured to dealing with herself, ill or well, she looked back in wonder to the moment of her rescue. She thought it probable that her new lightness had its roots in that moment.

‘Oh, you look lovely,’ said Mrs Duff, ushering her into a room identical to her own but much brighter. This was no doubt due to Mrs Duff’s taste in decoration, which expressed itself in terms of love seats and embroidered rugs and a crowd of Staffordshire figures. The walls were covered in a handsome yellow grosgrain which set off the darker gold of the carpet. In a large brass jardinière, dazzlingly polished, was assembled a flourishing collection of fleshy green plants. Thick white Nottingham lace curtains hung from brass rails and were looped back at the windows. From this uncompromising apartment Mrs Duff had wrested a Victorian cottage. Blanche expressed her delighted admiration. ‘Oh, but you must see our bedroom,’ beamed Mrs Duff. ‘I was
going to redecorate it but my husband told me not to change a thing. He loves it. And it
is
comfortable.’ It was more than comfortable; it was seductive. It was also redolent of the deep peace of the double bed. White flowers twined over the walls on a blue ground; deep blue carpet covered the floor and a thick white chenille counterpane the bed. Under an ottoman covered in blue and white stripes were placed two pairs of slippers, both red. At the head of the bed, on two white tables, curved two milk glass lamps on brass stems, their globes shaped like the flowers of the gloxinia. A modest tube of hand cream indicated Mrs Duff’s side of the bed. ‘We made the second bedroom into a dressing-room,’ she explained, throwing open another door on to a room done in blue and white stripes, with white louvred wardrobes and a long looking-glass on a stand. ‘A psyche, those used to be called,’ she said. ‘It came from Mother’s workroom. Yes,’ she went on, ‘we meant this room to be something different. But there it is. I mustn’t go on. And it’s not too late for coffee, is it? I’ve just made some almond biscuits.’ For there was, predictably, a fine smell of baking.

Seated on a small plump sofa, Blanche told Mrs Duff of her plans and met with her entire approval. ‘I’ll keep the key,’ she said, ‘and make sure that everything’s all right.’ Blanche felt safe in the other woman’s care, and at the same time felt she had been granted licence to try her wings. For no one could tell what this journey would bring, or even whether she would come home again. This knowledge made the present day seem like a holiday, agreeably temporary, soon to vanish, along with the entire scenery of her life as she knew it. She had a vision of flying railway lines, narrowing, crossing, diverging again, and of herself on some wayside station in the very early morning, sniffing the thyme-scented air. For the moment, taking coffee in this parlour had the charm of novelty, as did every detail of Mrs Duff’s appearance: her cream-coloured skirt and her dark blue
blouse and the very small coffee-coloured shoes into which her astonishingly highly arched feet nestled. ‘You have a dancer’s feet,’ said Blanche, and Mrs Duff delightedly confessed that she loved dancing and had thought she might take it up as a career, had it not been for the sight, when she was sixteen years old, of her future husband, and her determination to marry him, forged in that significant moment. ‘He didn’t know, of course.’ Out of the window went her plans to dance on the London stage, and she helped out Mother in the showroom, simply biding her time until she judged it seemly to accept John’s proposal, and all the while putting away quantities of fine linen, so that their first home should lack none of the niceties. A white wedding, of course, and all the trimmings. And never a cross word since. Mind you, a woman had to know how to handle men, how to make them feel comfortable. Once you knew how to do that you could deal with any little problems that might arise. Mrs Duff was of the opinion that all men were little boys at heart. Blanche nodded, entranced by this view of human affairs and by the firmness with which Mrs Duff delivered it. Her sapphire ring sparkled on her fine white hand as she lifted Blanche’s cup and poured into it a fragrant stream of excellent coffee. Blanche had expected the coffee to be weak – her own was always too strong – but the beautiful decorum of Mrs Duff’s household management confounded her expectations. A shaft of sun struck through the window, as an almond biscuit, essence of bourgeois sweetness, crumbled into sugary dust on Blanche’s tongue.