A Start in Life (7 page)

In the evenings Ruth walked. She was too lonely to sit in her room reading, too restless to work. She went down to Edith Grove and started walking from there, down to the river, along the embankment to Chelsea Old Church, all the way to Victoria and back to Sloane Square and along the King's Road and into the Fulham Road until it got too late and she caught the 31 bus home. The weather was superb: a golden autumn such as she could not remember. The streets were tranquil; knots of young people dedicated to love and peace strolled along or drank their beer on the pavements outside the pubs. In the cooling dusk she was not disturbed.

She had never found the long vacation so difficult before. Usually she worked in the even more silent library, well pleased with her steady progress, her growing involvement with her characters. But now things were different. Work was a refuge and she found herself unable to seek that particular sort of asylum. Work, she thought, is a paradox: it is the sort of thing people do out of sheer inability to do anything else. Work is the chosen avocation of those who have no other calls on their time.

She did not really mind being at home. It was anonymous, familiar; she had no further need for independence. Her recent encounter with reality had shocked her and made her feel childish. Only her books and her notes allowed her some measure of dignity, but there was no one waiting to read her essays or to question her on the
psychology of
Le Misanthrope
; alone with her work, she felt a regretful distaste for so much unacknowledged effort. That this was but a shadow of a much stronger regret she was not yet fully aware. She only knew that she found it hard to fill the time. Anthea and Brian had gone off to Greece. Richard was with his friends in Somerset: no doubt the wretched Harriet was being listened to still further. Even Mrs Cutler had spent the previous weekend with her sister-in-law, whom she loathed, in Totteridge (‘Beautiful place she's got there. Just like the country.'). In her absence Ruth had done the cooking but had not enjoyed it. ‘Fabulous, darling,' said Helen, her mouth full of chicken casserole, but she went back to bed as soon as the meal was finished, leaving Ruth and her father at the kitchen table with very little to say to each other.

A London summer. She had had many. Holidays were rare in the Weiss household. When she was a child her grandmother had taken her to those mild watering places that she herself had known in earlier days: the Isle of Wight to recover from measles and chicken pox, then Baden Baden, Vevey, Scheveningen. They had sat obediently in hotel gardens and lounges, planning their walks, their rests, looking forward only to the hours between tea and dinner. Sometimes a band would play. Once they took the train from Vevey to Montreux, where her grandmother had spent her honeymoon; once they took a lake steamer in the other direction. Rousseau and Stendhal had left their mark here, but Ruth was too young and they did not yet matter. At Scheveningen they sat huddled in the chill wind in the Kurhaus gardens. Ruth had only once braved the sea, while her grandmother stood guard on the endless and almost untenanted beach.

While they sipped their tea in Baden Baden – her grandmother with an old-fashioned sunshade and Ruth's pullover on her knee – George and Helen went on tour or
stayed with friends in Menton. They were good guests, Helen so vivacious, George so good-natured. But all that had come to an end. Baden Baden and Vevey were still there, Ruth did not doubt; even the improbable Scheveningen was still reachable. But Oakwood Court, now permanently occupied, as if they were under house arrest, had assumed a centrality that had never existed before. The elder Mrs Weiss had imposed calm and order. Now there was a restlessness of continuous yet undignified occupation. They could not get away.

Ruth sensed danger here, if only because she herself had so little to report after her vacations. For how could she talk about wandering the evening streets between Kensington and Victoria? Occasionally she went to Paris, not too often because her parents always reacted with dismay if she appeared to be leaving them. But she knew that Paris was not the answer, for she pursued her same dreamy paths there, or sat in the Luxembourg Gardens as if her grandmother were still beside her with the sunshade and the spare pullover. And getting home was no relief either, for she had so little to say for herself. ‘Well,' Anthea would demand, ‘did anything happen?' Nothing happened.

It was with this knowledge that nothing was happening that Ruth returned to Oakwood Court one evening in mid-September and informed her parents in a tone of nannyish cheerfulness that they should go away for a holiday. That it would do them good. That they spent too much time in the flat. That they did not see enough people. That she would be off herself in October and that she would like to see them looking fit and refreshed before she left. George was deeply annoyed. Helen was amazed. Mrs Cutler was all in favour.

George was annoyed because he found himself unwilling to spend any money, having already spent a good deal in the electrical department at Peter Jones. The record player, which he had not yet presented to Mrs
Jacobs, had cost more than he expected but the euphoria of spending his own money had got out of hand, and he had gone on to treat himself to a sun lamp and a small portable grill in which, the assistant told him, he could make toasted sandwiches. He planned to keep these two items at Sally's flat; he could see himself fit and bronzed from the sun lamp and lean and trim from the steaks with which he would supply the grill. He would have to ring Peter Jones to postpone the date on which he intended to have the things sent to Bayswater. He had warned Sally to expect a couple of bulky packages and had mistaken the look of alarm that flashed across her face for one of pleasure and awe. He did not feel he could go on eating her ice cream and biscuits without making some sort of return. And he did so love to see her face, with her large, anxious, and rather protuberant eyes, scanning the street from between snowy flounces of Terylene at the window, for his departing wave. Why should he need a holiday? He was already having one.

Helen was more receptive to the idea, though not in any practical sense. The mere mention of the word holiday sent her on a bout of reminiscences, mainly of late nights, fast cars, dancing in the waves with a glass of gin in her hand, and someone to iron her evening dress.

‘Well, we can't go to Menton,' said George. ‘We can't afford it.'

‘I believe Freddy sold his place to a retired juke box manufacturer,' replied Helen. ‘Hideous, isn't it, the way everything gets worse?'

Mrs Cutler was in favour of the coast, any coast. Wales, she said generously, Scotland. It did not have to be abroad. Ruth thought this not a bad idea. She felt that her parents needed to recover some vigour and muscularity and the idea of healthful walks in a sea breeze was uppermost in her mind. She perceived in them some fundamental loss of tone that made her uneasy. She wanted to get them repaired, as it were, before she left
them behind.

‘I don't mind where we go, as long as it's not those bloody fjords,' said Helen, closing her eyes.

‘There is no question of fjords,' said George, who had always wanted to see them, and who had mentioned them at intervals throughout his married life. ‘There is no question of Freddy's place, whether it's there or not. We really have to pull in our horns. There is no money coming in, remember.'

Helen opened her eyes and looked serious, as she always did at the mention of money.

‘In that case,' she mused, ‘we'd better go down to Molly at Hove. She's always dying to see us.'

This was a slight exaggeration. Molly Edwards, carmined lips stretched resolutely in a smile, flabby upper arms and thighs fearlessly revealed by a flowered bathing suit, was the Christian Science practitioner who had tried to convert Helen, with no success. Molly herself found that she needed to spend a good deal of time on her own if only to keep her philosophy of life a going concern. From her ground floor flat at the remoter end of the Hove seafront she would emerge every morning, rain or shine, in her bathing dress, covered with a towelling wrap; she would be carrying an oilcloth bag which contained her library book, her copy of the
Christian Science Monitor
, and her lunch, a banana sandwich and an apple. She would repair to her beach chalet, a small hut fitted with a garden chair and an electric kettle, and there she would sit all the morning, reading and sipping tea, until midday when she plunged into the sea and swam vigorously for half an hour. People thought she was wonderful for her age, although she did not look it as she picked her wet chilled way back over the shingle after her bathe. But a quick rub of her short grey hair with a towel, another cup of tea, and she was herself again, ignoring the increasing fibrositis that made swimming so deeply unpleasant. And perhaps she was right. Perhaps she would have felt
worse if she sat around all day thinking about it. In any event she took another bathe just after four in the afternoon, then locked up the hut and went home. She ate mostly health foods, for which she shopped in bulk every Saturday. She had no desire to have her routine interrupted, fond though she was of Helen, to whom she had recently sent a photograph of herself, smiling gallantly, arms akimbo, with the sea as a background.

‘God, doesn't she look ghastly?' was Helen's reaction.

So somehow it was decided that Helen and George should spend ten days with Molly at Hove. Mrs Cutler promised to have the bedroom done out while they were away, and took Helen to the hairdresser so as to make a good and enviable impression on her old friend, whom she had not seen for some years. Ruth found herself in charge of the packing, and was filled with amazed pity as she went through the jumble of dingy luxurious clothes in tallboys and wardrobes. There was no time to have them cleaned but she ironed them all assiduously. George, immaculate, was packed in less than an hour.

Nevertheless, there was a considerable amount of luggage. And as Helen refused to travel long distances by car, claiming that they made her feel sick, Ruth, with some misgivings, purchased two first class return tickets and arranged for a taxi from a car-hire firm to take them to Victoria. The day of their departure dawned warm and misty; it was going to be very hot. Helen, stumbling around in unaccustomed shoes and not too steady on her feet these days, left half-smoked cigarettes burning in saucers as she searched ineffectually for a chiffon scarf or the novel she was nearly through or for the half bottle of brandy she was never without on her travels. George, scented with aftershave, crisp white handkerchief stuck up his sleeve,
The Times
in his airline shoulder bag, whistled to himself on the pavement, trying to believe that ten days would go in a flash. Helen, her face chalky in the now radiant morning light, climbed unsteadily
into the taxi; George's signet ring flashed in the sunlight as he turned to wave goodbye to Ruth and Mrs Cutler in the porch. Ruth felt a lurch of fear. Would they manage at Victoria? Her mother was so unused to crowds. Mrs Cutler sensed her anxiety. ‘Do them good,' she said firmly. ‘They're as sheltered as a couple of kids. Do them good to get buffeted about a bit.' She seemed to like the idea. To George and Helen, now two faces at the window of the taxi, she raised her thumb in an all-purpose gesture. ‘Never say die,' she yelled cheerfully, and went indoors to change back into her slippers.

To her surprise, Ruth found that she got on rather well with Mrs Cutler. They had a sort of holiday of their own. After turning out the bedroom and retrieving from under the bed a year's accumulation of spilt and crushed pills, old tissues, and the crosswords torn out of the Sunday papers, they felt a glow of achievement. The room was thoroughly aired and then just as thoroughly closed. By tacit consent they agreed that too much time was spent in there. ‘There's that nice drawing room,' said Mrs Cutler. ‘I'm the only one that ever sees it.' She cleaned that out too, taking down the curtains and wheeling them to the coin-operated machine at the local launderette. Ruth returned to the dining room, removed the stained damask cloth that still covered half the table from last Sunday's lunch, opened the windows and let out the stale air. There had never been such an autumn.

‘Aren't they lucky?' said Mrs Cutler. ‘I'll bet they're laughing at us here in London.'

‘Mother looked awfully frail, I thought.' Ruth hesitated. The sight of her mother's white face had stayed in her mind.

‘A bit too much of this,' replied Mrs Cutler, lifting her elbow. ‘That and lounging about all day. She's out of touch. Sea air will do her a power of good. You won't know her when she comes back.'

Ruth wished to believe it. She would indeed have welcomed back parents whom she did not know. The
bedroom with its detritus had left a disagreeable impression on her; it was as if they had cleared up after a death. Ruth was glad of Mrs Cutler, with her hoarse smoker's cough, her rakish thinness, her obvious durability. She offered to do the shopping while Mrs Cutler put her feet up. She was determined to become a good cook. Mrs Cutler, unexpectedly, showed her how to make a perfect egg custard. Ruth, in her turn, helped Mrs Cutler to apply her home hair dye, out of a bottle with a twenty-year-old brunette smiling alluringly from the label. ‘Chestnut lights,' she read out. ‘Shampoo once, rinse, then shampoo in the solution and wait for half an hour.' Mrs Cutler looked apprehensive. Ruth sat with her, putting out a restraining hand as Mrs Cutler kept glancing at her watch. Under the plastic shower cap orange rivulets began to trickle down her forehead. The result, when washed out, was not much different from Mrs Cutler's ordinary hair, but Ruth persuaded her to abandon her ochreous powder and crimson lipstick for something more becoming, and was quite pleased with her appearance. She looked more acceptable, less like a saloon bar habituée. Her grandmother would have nodded approval.

Some mornings Mrs Cutler volunteered to do the shopping, but Ruth liked to get out. An urge to stay all day in the divine air of late September was like a physical quickening of her blood. Almost, she was happy. Or perhaps she recognized that this was how happiness felt. All one needed was a pretext. If there were no pretext, one needed an analogue. But Ruth, walking endlessly, was content to experience the unlooked for exhilaration, to hope, to beg, that one day, some day, she might find a reason for feeling as she did, buoyant, serene, anaesthetized against everyday hurts. She imagined, wrongly, that being in love was like this. With love comes seriousness, loss of autonomy, responsibility without power. Love, Ruth thought wistfully, must surely be this state of
sublime ease. She even thought that before she left for France she might get in touch with Richard. But perhaps he would think she wanted the money back? Regretfully, she abandoned the idea and the bright day darkened a little. Without love, there can be no reason for hope.

She began to think seriously about going to France. A room had been secured for her in the La Muette flat of Humphrey and Rhoda Wilcox whom George counted among his most faithful customers. Humphrey wrote popular lives of French favourites:
La Vie passionnée de Madame de Sévigné
and
Robespierre, cet inconnu
still sold pretty successfully in bookshops near the Palais Royal. Rhoda was fashion correspondent for various Scottish papers. Apart from these racy activities, they were an elderly and rather severe couple. Ruth remembered them vaguely from a visit they had paid to Oakwood Court when she was much younger. She did not much like the idea of living with them – or indeed with anyone – but George had been insistent.

‘You will be quite independent,' he assured Ruth. ‘You will be living in the maid's room which I understand is on the top floor. And I can always get in touch with you: Rhoda and Humphrey are on the telephone.'

‘Sounds like a dead loss to me,' said Mrs Cutler, who would be confirmed in her opinion if she ever met them. Rhoda, thin and beautiful like Helen, but much older, was dedicated to the preservation of Humphrey, who was even older and who was currently engaged on a life of the Duchesse de Berry. So much Ruth had gleaned from George's description. Mrs Cutler quite rightly inferred that they would not welcome interruptions, that telephone calls would be rationed and morals supervised. Ruth did not much care. As long as the weather lasted she could be out all day and if anything happened (to use Anthea's phrase) she would look for another flat. The main thing was that she had an address: 154 rue des Marronniers, and any letters that arrived for her could be
sent on there. She decided to leave on October 4th.

For a week the glorious weather continued in all its power and strength: milky white mornings, pale sun at ten o'clock, fire at midday. Even Mrs Cutler succumbed to its allure and consented to take tea with Ruth in Holland Park. They fed the birds and watched the babies, two women on their own, even in each other's company, but peaceable and not noticeably discontented.

‘I wonder how they're getting on,' said Ruth. They had had no word, apart from a telephone call from Molly Edwards to tell them that George and Helen had arrived safely. Molly had sounded so tremendously cheerful and optimistic that Mrs Cutler, who had tried the ways of Christian Science and found them wanting, suspected that something had already gone terribly wrong. But she said nothing, not wishing to spoil Ruth's holiday. And her own, of course.

‘Forgotten all about us by now, I shouldn't wonder,' said Mrs Cutler.

She was nearly right. The taxi had unloaded George and Helen into a maelstrom of returning holiday makers, a world they did not known existed: elderly men with veins standing out on their foreheads trying to cope with five suitcases, elderly women with swollen feet and glistening white cardigans bought especially for the holiday, enduring the fright of a lifetime in order to enjoy the pleasure they had promised themselves all the winter, too many children, shrill with tiredness, their long hair sticking to their damp faces, their mouths smeared and stained with sweets, none of them aspiring even to the relative comfort of a taxi, but queuing patiently for buses, shifting their burdens from hand to hand, trying to quieten the children, longing for that cup of tea at home, safe at last for another year.

‘Good God,' said Helen, emerging from the taxi at Victoria. ‘Where on earth do they all come from? I have never seen such people in my life.'

George, assembling the luggage, rather agreed with her but wished she would not stare. The back of Helen's wrist drifted up to her forehead. One or two people, vaguely remembering her face from the cinema, wondered who she was. Helen was torn between the desire to make an entrance, to plunge into the throng as if it were assembled outside the stage door, and the desire to be taken care of. Her predicament was solved when she caught sight of the open doors of an ambulance, which had evidently just delivered someone on to a train. The two ambulance men, wiping their mouths, returning from a tea break, prepared to pack up and drive off. Helen tottered convincingly. ‘George,' she said, in the voice that had once carried to the back of the stalls. ‘I think I'm going to faint.'

George was ashamed of her, as he was so often these days, but as Helen was conveyed in a wheelchair to the Brighton platform – and not engaging even a ripple of attention, she was annoyed to see – he struggled after her with the luggage, thankful at least that she was sitting down. She would be all right now, he knew; she would have a triumph to recount. That usually did the trick.

The journey down was relatively easy, though George did not get his crossword done. Helen was being very charming to a thin woman sitting in the corner of the carriage, although the thin woman was nervous and clearly wanted to read her book.

‘Anything interesting?' asked Helen, who intended to talk.

‘Henry James,' replied the thin woman repressively.

‘You'll never believe this,' said Helen, ‘but I once played the niece, Miss Whatsit, in
The Aspern Papers.
We toured it. Brighton, in fact. Do you remember, darling heart? George?' Newspaper and book were laid aside. Helen lit a cigarette, ignoring the fact that they were in a non-smoking compartment, and entertained them with anecdotes. Brighton was reached in comparative amity.

It was at Brighton station that the trouble started. Molly Edwards, cheerful and spartan with her beach hut and health foods, did not possess a car. They joined another queue for a taxi, and when crushed into it, were informed by Molly that she had had to put them up in the dining room, as her lodger, now on holiday, had not removed his belongings from the spare bedroom. Why should he? He had paid the rent. What she did not say was that the lodger occupied the only bedroom, and that she herself slept on a divan in the drawing room: they all shared the kitchen. Took it in turns, said Molly firmly. She had no intention of cooking meat but of course would not object if they wanted to cook it themselves.

‘Good Christ,' exploded Helen. ‘What do you want a dining room for, Molly? You could eat a nut cutlet or whatever it is you eat off a tray.'

‘I can't get rid of the furniture,' said Molly. And indeed she couldn't. There was a highly varnished gate-legged table dating from the nineteen-thirties, a china cabinet filled with wedding presents of the same epoch, and six chairs in heavy leather embossed with gilt studs. Nobody would either buy them or take them away. Molly had made an effort. She had shut up the table and ranged the chairs against one wall. In the remaining floor space stood two very narrow divan beds, a small table, and a lamp with a dull parchment shade and a long trailing flex. Helen took one look and raised the back of her hand to her forehead. This time the gesture was entirely genuine.

George thought longingly of Mrs Jacobs's flat, of the entryphone and the door chimes and the electric blanket and the frilled nylon pillowslips he had seen airing in the bathroom. He thought of the record player and the sun lamp and the towelling bathrobe he intended to hang on the back of the bedroom door. You never knew. Molly, putting on the kettle, thought with equal longing of her cool expanse of beach and her chalet and the
Christian
Science Monitor
and its injunctions. She had tried. She had baked a sodden fruit loaf for them. After that they were on their own. The smell of Helen's cigarette and the sound of her lamentations drifted ominously into Molly's consciousness. Well, it was only for ten days. It was a change, wasn't it?

In the bedroom or dining room – it looked like neither – Helen was taking a pull at her bottle of brandy. She had removed some dried grasses from a large green vase and was using it as an ashtray. Her shoes were off and she was lying on her divan with a distant look in her eye.

‘Tomorrow,' she said to George, ‘we go home.'

At this point Molly entered with the tea and a scrapbook. Ignoring the signs of Helen's occupancy, she said, ‘You'll never guess, darling. I found some photographs of you the other day. Look how beautiful you were.' Helen sat up. ‘Still are, of course,' said Molly. She was quite sincere.

Helen pondered.

‘I was just saying to George, we shall have to leave before the weekend. Our daughter is going to France soon and we want to spend as much time as possible with her.'

‘That tiny little thing? Of course you do,' said kind Molly. ‘A bit of sea air and you'll look quite different when you get home. You could do with a swim or two, my girl. Why not come down to the beach with me tomorrow? George can bring a couple of deckchairs over from the bandstand.'

Helen bowed to the inevitable. Reaching out for the scrapbook she said, ‘Is there a photograph of me in
Most Loving Mere Folly
? They say I looked my best then.'

Leaving the two women sitting side by side and apparently in harmony for the moment, George went out to get the supper.

Helen made one effort to join in the spirit of what she
contemptuously called ‘your seaside home' by buying herself a curious peaked denim cap at the local beach shop and by wearing it both indoors and out through the seemingly endless days that followed. Ushered down to the chalet by Molly, she had stared at her friend in amazement.

‘You mean to tell me you sit here all the time? But Molly, you must be mad. You could still get work. What about those talking books for the blind? They're always on at me to record some, but I can't seem to get round to it.'