A Stairway to Paradise (2 page)

‘What’s that place where she lives?’ asked Andrew. ‘Looks rather a good address for someone without a job.’

Alex laughed. ‘Oh, you’d be surprised,’ he said. ‘The benefits system here is really interesting.’ He laughed again. ‘As it happens, however,’ he said, ‘she has in fact a sort of job at the time of speaking. The flat in Belsize Park is a tied cottage. She cooks and cleans for the people in the house. She gets the basement flat rent-free in return. Plus they pay her fuel bills. Not bad going.’

Andrew laughed. ‘So she’s a servant,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Alex.

They both laughed.

‘Some servant,’ said Andrew.

They laughed again. They were both in pretty desperate need of laughter at this juncture, were these two.

‘Does she sing for them?’ asked Andrew. More laughter.

Alex stopped laughing. ‘No, she only does that when she wants to annoy
me
,’ he said.

Andrew looked at him. ‘I thought you said you hardly knew her,’ he said. They were both sitting down now and Alex was making a spliff.

‘So I did,’ said Alex; ‘so I did.’ He licked the gummed edge and fastened the whole thing up. ‘Here you go,’ he said, and he handed it to his host.

Andrew went to the kitchen and fetched the matches. He took a drag and handed it back to Alex. What was going on? Who was watching over whom? ‘How is Claire?’ he asked.

Alex took a while before answering. ‘As I told you,’ he said. ‘She’s fine. She’s fine, is Claire.’

‘Pity she missed the party,’ said Andrew. ‘Sorry not to see her there.’

‘Well, you can’t have everything,’ said Alex. ‘Not even Claire can have everything. Can’t go on holiday to Brittany
and
go to a party in Battersea at the same time. Isn’t a reasonable proposition.’

‘Maybe she’s been at a party in Brittany,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes, why not?’ said Alex. ‘Well, but—do they have parties in Brittany? Doesn’t sound likely to me. What do you think? Did you ever hear of a party in Brittany? Ever get asked to one?’

‘I suppose those hats would get in the way,’ said Andrew.

‘Yes, that would be it,’ said Alex. ‘No future for those hats at a party.’

‘Do you think Claire has got one of those hats?’ said Andrew.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ said Alex. ‘She goes in for authenticity these days, Claire does.’

‘Usedn’t she to?’ asked Andrew. He hadn’t actually ever known Claire at all well: Claire wasn’t from the old crowd; Claire was a
trouvaille
of Alex’s own.

‘Not as such,’ said Alex. ‘Not
as such
.’

‘And Barbara,’ said Andrew, ‘does she go in for authenticity?’

Alex thought for a moment, or perhaps his mind was merely wandering, under the influence; Andrew waited. Andrew knew the form.

‘Very probably,’ said Alex at last. ‘Shouldn’t be at all surprised. Probably where Claire got the idea, come to think of it. Yes, Claire probably caught it from Barbara. Wouldn’t surprise me at all.’

There was another brief silence.

‘She’d look good in one of those hats,’ said Andrew. ‘I can see her dressed up
à la Bretonne
.’ Dressed, undressed, dressed up—Barbara, all golden-brown.

‘
What?
’ said Alex, astounded. ‘
Claire? À la Bretonne?
’ He began to laugh. Poor Claire. Poor Claire,
bien sûr
.

‘No, you moron,’ said Andrew. ‘Barbara, for God’s sake.’

‘You’ve got that girl on the brain,’ said Alex.

Fuck, thought Andrew. The cat’s out of the bag, and no mistake. Pretty pussy, nice pussy: come here, puss, nice bag, come on in, puss. He laughed. ‘Looks like it,’ he said. The dope was wearing off. That was how it seemed to go, these days. It was after three a.m. and he was feeling sober, and very soon he would be abandoned to sadness and solitude and pain once more. ‘She’s so…juicy,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘She is that. But authentic with it. You want to watch out for these juicy but authentic types. Bad combination, from the masculine point of view.’

Andrew looked at him carefully. ‘You speak from experience, I take it,’ he said.

‘Not me,’ said Alex. ‘No. Just observation. The times we live in. Juice, plus authenticity. There’s a lot of it about.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Andrew. He was thinking, I could just go up there: I can remember the house. The flight of steps, the urns with geraniums, the number: 51. Impossible by public transport. I’ll have to buy a car. He was going to buy a car (which heretofore he had told himself he would not need) in order to go and see a woman who had only with difficulty remembered his name: because he wanted watching over. Because we all do.

‘You must come and see us after Claire gets back,’ said Alex. ‘Come and have dinner. Meet the brats.’

‘I’d love to,’ said Andrew.

‘Good,’ said Alex. ‘I’ll get Claire to give you a call. I know she’d love to see you again.’

‘Any time,’ said Andrew.

Alex had risen. Andrew got to his feet and saw him out. All the pain, sorrow, failure was over there in the shadows: here under the light was this golden-brown present, this fine, long, delicate filament of future: I’ll ring the bank first thing on Monday, he thought; then all I have to do is actually buy the bloody car. How long will that take? I could be behind the wheel by the middle of the week, couldn’t I? I could be seeing her before the week is out: couldn’t I?
Dear God, could I?

I could just go up there, thought Alex. Just bloody turn up, unannounced, tomorrow morning. Well, midday. She might just be hungry: she might just be hungry enough to come out for lunch with me. And then…can I do this? Should I? No, never mind
should
: fuck
should
. I can, I must, I fucking
will
.
There
’
s a somebody
I
’
m longing to see
. I’ll give her
longing to see
. All the way home to Highbury;
longing
. I’ll give her
longing
. He noticed the red light coming up only just in time.

There was a message on the answerphone when he got home. Claire.
I
’
ve been trying to get you all evening
.
I
’
ll try again
tomorrow around midday
.
For God
’
s sake be there
. That was that then. I’ll be here. And then there’ll be what’s left of the afternoon, drifting away into emptiness and waste. No Belsize Park, not tomorrow: not after Claire on the telephone: not, probably, at all. Not ever. Fuck Claire. No: not Claire’s fault: sorry, Claire. Poor Claire.
Bien sûr
.

And right now, there’s nothing to do but go to bed. Don’t drink, don’t smoke, and above all don’t think. But as Alex drifted towards sleep in the sketchily made bed he thought, maybe later in the week. Maybe I could manage it later in the week. It was—what? Two years more or less since he’d last seen Barbara; one whole year, one whole year at least since he’d even thought of her. And there, suddenly, she’d been, tonight, as golden as ever.
Longing
, intolerable longing. Then merciful sleep inundated him.

3

‘Hello…’ Andrew’s tone was hesitant; he was almost turning away again, as if having after all thought better of the whole enterprise, but he carried on, nevertheless; brave, stalwart. ‘Andrew Flynn. I met you the other night at the Carrington party—we came home together with Alex Maclise.’

She was still staring at him, quite silent, standing in the doorway.

‘Yes,’ she said. She had been so sure that she would not see him again. Not that she had particularly wanted to.

He was almost turning away again; but he went on. ‘Would you like to come out somewhere? We could go and get a Marine Ice, or something. I’ve just bought this car.’

She was suddenly touched. Ice-cream. New car.
Sweet
.

‘Yes, all right. I’ll just—hold on a sec. I’ll just get my bag.’

And she left him standing there on the threshold. He looked through the open door along a passageway at the end of which was another door through which he could see a tiny kitchen where yet another door, directly opposite this one, but made of glass, gave a view of a trellis covered with creepers beyond which there was evidently a back garden. The doorway on the left of the passage through which she had vanished and through which she now reappeared led presumably to the flat’s chief or only room, perhaps a rather large studio room. Would he ever discover the truth?

She came out carrying her large bag and closed the front door behind her. ‘Off we go, then,’ she said.

After they’d bought the ices he parked the car in a street near Primrose Hill and they walked on the hill while they finished eating. Then they sat down on the grass. Soon it would be autumn: as the light began to fade, one could already see that haze in the air. They sat quite quiet, each transfixed by the shimmering prospect. That was something he’d forgotten, away there in the USA: the melancholy inhering in the English scene: a heart-rending sense that everything you see before you might in the next instant vanish for ever, that everything trembled on the verge of a sudden and total dissolution.

After some time, unable, unwilling, to keep his own counsel any longer, he spoke. ‘This is the first time,’ he said slowly, ‘since I’ve been back here, that I’ve felt really…’ happy? No: that gave too much away; gave away even more, perhaps, than was the case.

‘Yes?’ she said.

‘Glad,’ he said. ‘Glad to be back.’

She gave him a brief, intelligent stare. ‘How long since you came back?’ she said.

He told her, giving the merest possible account of the circumstances of his solitary return. Then she asked him what he did: I’m a mathematician, he told her. I used to do it; now I mainly teach others to do it. I’m burnt out.

She thought about this for a while. ‘Would you like to take me home now?’ she said.

There was something in her tone: he couldn’t, couldn’t possibly, believe his luck. ‘Yes,’ he said.

They got up.

She unlocked the front door and he followed her inside, and he saw, now, the mysterious large room. It had french windows at the nether end giving a view of the trellis and glimpses of the garden beyond—chiefly of a large lime tree in the middle distance. ‘Sit down,’ she said. She went into the kitchen and made some coffee.

Of course it was too good to be true: she couldn’t possibly, not possibly, have meant—no; not possibly. Now that he was here, in this room, with the divan bed hugely in view, he couldn’t possibly think, couldn’t possibly imagine, that she had been inviting him into it. She gave him his coffee and sat down on the edge of the bed. She drank for a while and then leaned back among some cushions. ‘Come over here,’ she said.

Even before he reached home, he was aching to have her again. His mind felt almost dislocated with happiness; he did not want to think: he was glad to be as incapable as unwilling to do so: he had long ago forgotten what it was to feel this dislocation, this ecstatic dislocation. How soon, how early in the day, could he telephone her? How long would it be before he could be with her again?

4

Barbara let herself into the main house and went into the kitchen with the shopping which she began to unpack and put away where necessary. For most of the day she had been sitting under a tree on Hampstead Heath reading, but it was time to get the dinner ready for her employers, who were two lawyers, and their offspring. She started to clatter about.

Shrieks were now heard from above and footsteps descending the stairs, and two faces appeared around the doorway: two exactly identical androgynous thirteen-year-old faces with floppy fair hair and long eyelashes.

‘Hello, Barbara,’ they said very politely. ‘Can we help you?’

She looked at them. It was easy to do: one could do it indefinitely. There was something almost absurd about their beauty, now on the eve of its perilous transition into the adult form.

‘
No
,’ she said.

They came into the room.

‘We know you don’t actually mean that,’ said James.

‘Of course she doesn’t,’ said John. ‘She needs us much more than we need her.’

‘No I don’t,’ said Barbara. ‘I don’t need you at all. Now leave me alone.’

‘Never,’ they said. ‘We shall never
ever
leave you.’

‘Except when we go away to school,’ said John. ‘But we’re not responsible for that.’

They were about to go away to boarding school.

‘We could take her with us,’ said James.

‘No you couldn’t,’ said Barbara. ‘I don’t want to go.’

‘You’ll miss us, you know,’ said James.

‘You’ll simply cry your eyes out,’ said John.

They started to imitate her imminent grief, crying and wailing and waving their arms in the air in a pantomime of female anguish. Then they suddenly stopped.

‘Will you come and see us?’ said James.

‘Oh,
yeah
,’ said John. ‘
Brilliant
. You can come down on the train and see us. Will you?’

‘No,’ said Barbara. ‘I’ve got better things to do.’

‘I always knew she didn’t really care for us,’ said James to his brother.

‘She has a heart of stone,’ said John.

‘That’s right,’ said Barbara. She was getting on with the dinner.

‘What are we having?’ they asked.

‘Smoked salmon,’ she said.

‘Yuck!’ they cried. ‘Anything else?’

‘
Tarte aux asperges
,’ she said.

‘
Ah, ca ç
’
est formidable
,’ said James.

‘
Oui, c
’
est tout à fait bien
,’ said John. ‘Anything else?’

‘Raspberry fool,’ said Barbara.

‘Wicked!’ they yelled. ‘Wick
ed
!’

‘Now go away,’ she said. ‘And let me get on.’

‘Couldn’t we just watch?’ said John.

They both sat down at the kitchen table and watched her with their long-lashed blue eyes. She could fairly have eaten them. They would never be like this again: the imminent term would be their first as boarders; they would be changed for ever.

‘What did you do today?’ she asked. As almost every weekday evening, for the last several months: and then the replies: bizarre accounts of the daily grind at their day school, where the rites designed to prepare them for the approaching initiation were supervised by adults of fabulous eccentricity. That production had now reached its triumphant conclusion; these last weeks of childhood had been allotted to a vacation in France and a flurry of tightly scheduled activities of the improving kind.