Brief Lives (11 page)

I remember at that time I went to the hairdresser’s. I did this regularly, but I remember that visit for two particular reasons. The first was that next to me was a young mother with a little girl aged about three. The child, whose hair was about to be cut for the first time, screamed with terror and
clung to her mother. The hairdresser stood by gravely, comb in hand: he recognized that this was a serious moment. The mother, blushing, tried to comfort the child who had suddenly plunged into despair; all around the shop women smiled in sympathy. What impressed me, and what I particularly remember, was the child’s passionate attempt to re-enter her mother, the arms locked around the woman’s neck, the terrified cries of unending love. So dangerous is it to be so close! I had tears in my eyes, witnessing that bond, seeing that closeness, of which only a sorrowful memory remained in my own life. One loses the capacity to grieve as a child grieves, or to rage as a child rages: hotly, despairingly, with tears of passion. One grows up, one becomes civilized, one learns one’s manners, and consequently can no longer manage these two functions—sorrow and anger—adequately. Attempts to recapture that primal spontaneity are doomed, for the original reactions have been overlaid, forgotten. And so the feelings are kept inside one, and perhaps this is better in the long run. A child forgets easily, whereas it is an adult’s duty to remember. But this proves hard, sometimes.

When it was my turn (and the child was soon smiling, and proud of her new short hair) the hairdresser—John, such a nice man—looked at my reflection in the mirror, and said, ‘You’ve got a lot more grey coming through. Have you thought of a tint? I can introduce it quite carefully, while you’ve still got some colour. Then nobody will notice.’ But I felt a little faint and was anxious to get out into the air. Possibly the child had upset me, or I was not eating enough. ‘Let me think about it, John,’ I said. ‘I’ll let you know next time.’ He lifted the hair from my neck, ran his fingers gently through it, something my own husband never thought of doing. ‘It’s good hair,’ he said. ‘Don’t let it go to waste.’ It
had been pretty, a light reddish blonde, the sort of natural attribute for which one was admired in the old days. Now it looked quite colourless, although still light. I gave no thought to my looks at that time and regarded the obligation to take care of them as one more of my duties. It was certainly not a pleasure. I was a middle-aged woman, and not making too good a job of it: loveless, mourning my mother, without children of my own, and beginning to regret my youth. ‘Perhaps when you’re feeling a little brighter,’ said kind John, and because he was so kind, so discreet, I nodded gratefully, paid the bill, and made my escape.

It was a beautiful spring, so beautiful that even being out in the street was a pleasure. There were intimations of happiness in the mere fact that yet again fruit trees had blossomed, and afternoons were bright with the first strong sun of the year. I took to wandering, although I still found the district unwelcoming. Solitude became important to me then, and has remained so. Mother would have said, ‘Out of bad comes good,’ and this realization gave me extraordinary comfort. There had been little comfort of any other sort. Vinnie had paid me a visit of condolence, although she had no time for me these days, and had not quite forgiven me for earlier reprimands. She sat at the kitchen table, swiftly eating a plate of bread and butter and evidently annoyed that there was nothing more substantial on offer. ‘You’ll sell the house, of course,’ she said, poking at the corners of her mouth with her terrible handkerchief. ‘What will you do with the money?’ She seemed to think this quite a legitimate question, as perhaps it was. ‘A little cottage somewhere? Owen has always wanted to live in the country, and of course I was brought up in Sussex. Etchingham. Near Eastbourne,’ she added kindly. ‘We could all go down
in the car one day and look round. Perhaps
two
cottages,’ she added coyly. ‘So that I could be near my boy. And you too, Fay, of course.’ I could hear myself making smiling sounds of interest even as I decided to ignore her.

And Julia came, one evening, on Charlie’s arm. I thought that was decent of her. But Julia knew about mothers and was devoted to her own, that still pretty, rather silly woman, so appreciative of her daughter’s looks and accomplishments that she was her most perfect audience. ‘Have a whisky, darling,’ one of them would say to the other; it hardly mattered which, for their voices were astonishingly alike. Mrs Wilberforce confined herself to the most general of remarks and was thus extremely easy to get along with. She had always appeared pleasant enough, largely, I think, because it was in her interest to do so, but also because she was not a reflective sort of woman. She was another of Charlie’s pensioners, and as long as she had access to her daughter and to the amenities of Charlie’s flat, which included his whisky and cigarettes, she was relatively contented. ‘Too terrible for you,’ said Julia. ‘I came as soon as I heard.’ This cannot have been true: my mother had been dead for over a month. But then why should Julia know that? As usual I was having to do battle with my own scepticism, although I was curiously comforted by the visit. ‘If Mummy went I don’t know what I’d do,’ said Julia in a melancholy voice. ‘All the husbands in the world couldn’t make up for her. Although of course Charlie is my prop and mainstay.’

She was right, I reflected; she was more daughter than wife, whereas I had had it in me to be more wife than daughter. My expectations had not been fulfilled, but that was in the nature of an accident. Owen had come along and I had fallen in love with him. I had not known then that it
is not necessary to marry every man one loves. I know it now. Now I realize that it is marriage which is the great temptation for a woman, and that one can, and perhaps should, resist it. I should have resisted it, or rather I should have resisted it then and given it a chance to come along later. But as a young woman one loses heart so easily, and then one wants all the appurtenances of marriage, the excitement, and the security, and the promise of a new life. And it is so sad to go without. I think differently now. But old women have more courage than young ones. They have no choice but to be brave.

I put the house on the market and told Joan Barber, who had kept her key, to take whatever she wanted in the way of furniture or linen. I neither wished nor needed to have any reminders of my mother’s life. I knew for a fact that the house had been run down, that the furniture, though comfortable, had always been ugly, and that her clothes, which had once been so pretty, were long out of date. I thought that perhaps Joan could use the material to make dresses for her little girl. My mother would have liked that, to see her floral prints and dark silks given a new lease of life in this way. Joan, to my relief, took a great deal; her husband went over in his van and moved out some of the easier tables and chairs. When I visited the house for the last time there was surprisingly little left, only the looming wardrobes and the shadowy dressing-table in my parents’ bedroom, and the marks on the walls where the bookcases had stood. I visited each of the rooms, mentally saying goodbye, for I knew that I should never go back. Owen was again furious when he asked me, and I told him, what Joan had taken. ‘You mean you just gave her the run of the place? You must be mad, Fay. I hope you don’t think you’re a rich woman now. That money should go straight into the bank. You can have your
own account, if you like, but I think you ought to realize how much the upkeep of this house costs me. And it’s not as if you’re contributing in any way. I don’t mean that,’ he added wearily. ‘It’s just that my expenses are rather heavy at the moment.’

Millie came, bless her, and we had a lovely afternoon, sitting over the teacups as we used to do. Millie had known my mother and had accepted her as a natural part of our friendship. Some people, like my husband, allow one no access to their feelings, regard any enquiry as an encroachment. I had had to live with such people and I had not found it easy. But Millie reminded me that there were other, more fruitful ways of being. She cried easily, and just as easily brightened, her cheeks flushing with a lovely colour, to tell me how happy she was, married to her BBC sound engineer. He was some years older than she was, which we all thought rather exciting at the time, but he was a man who managed his life well and who adored his wife. He had a house near Oxford, to which he had planned to retire, and a bachelor flat in London, where he sometimes stayed overnight if he were working late. I asked Millie if she were content with a country life, for she had always been such a vivacious outgoing girl. (One could also be admired for being vivacious, in our day.) She told me that marrying Donald had made her happier than she had ever thought possible. She was radiant as she said this: there was no doubt in her mind. When she met Donald he had been a widower with two grown-up children, the least likely husband for a girl like Millie. But there had always been a certainty about their partnership that impressed me; there was a oneness between Millie and her husband that precluded any questions or comments.

The proof lay in the fact that she loved everything about
him, and in turn loved his house, his children, with whom she got on extremely well, her new life away from all her friends, and even Donald’s life, which meant absences in London, sometimes for the inside of a week, including nights. The mutual trust that existed between them gave her a relaxed wide-eyed appearance, and a permanent and charming half-smile. I have seen women who look like this—as if they were carrying on a conversation with their companion while going about their ordinary business—and they are usually married. If they have been really happy the smile will even survive widowhood. Divorce, never. I felt humble in the face of Millie’s certainty, which I had never known myself. I had felt trembling gratitude, anxiety, exaltation, even fear: I had won Owen in the teeth of great opposition. And he had let himself be won, in a lazy but practical sort of way. My excess of feeling had amused him, for he had none of his own. Of the two of us he was the more passive, but also the more business-like; energy was for work, not for love. We had managed, somehow, although we both knew that this was a misalliance. For this reason we both deserved a little credit.

I said none of this to Millie; I had not spoken of it to anyone, and never should. I saw signs of age in her glossy complexion, now almost innocent of make-up, and the lines around her smiling mouth. She wore country clothes, a tweed skirt and a corduroy jacket. Yet she looked vital, viable, in a way which was no longer available to me; there was an energy there which had to do with plenty. She had brought a full basket with her, eggs from her local shop, jam she had made herself—Millie making jam!—and apples from their own trees which she had stored through the winter. She was in that blessed state of love that makes it natural to give. ‘I go to church now,’ she told me happily.
‘Well, I’ve been so lucky, haven’t I?’ And she told me all about Donald’s children with as much enthusiasm as if they had been her own.

Tying a scarf over her hair as she prepared to leave, she said, with a slight return to her old manner, ‘Do you like this house, Fay? It gives me the creeps, if you don’t mind my saying so. Those colours! Can’t you persuade Owen to do something about them?’

‘He likes them, that’s the trouble. And he wouldn’t hear of my spending money on something that doesn’t need doing.’

‘Well, why don’t you move? Honestly, it’s a bit quiet round here, isn’t it? Doesn’t it get you down?’

‘Oh, no,’ I said. ‘I’m used to it.’

‘I think I prefer our village. Why don’t you come and stay? When Owen’s away? Of course, we’d love to see him, but it’s you I really want. Do come, Fay. You’ve only to pick up the phone, you know.’

‘I’d love to,’ I said, and I really meant to go, but somehow I put it off. I felt she should be shielded from my unhappiness.

My grief for my mother, which I had felt most acutely during her last illness rather than as a result of her death, affected me in a curious way. What youthfulness I had left deserted me: it was as if she had taken it with her. I felt a sad impatience with the childish memories that assailed me, for although the memories were insistent I knew that I was too old to succumb to them and not yet old enough to marvel at them. I felt drained of tenderness, of curiosity, of the emotions that sweeten existence. I was harsh, desolate, yet determined to protect my condition from the easy offerings of public sympathy. My mother’s absence I reserved for my own contemplation and for such time as I might have the strength to mourn her properly. She was still too near to me. I should have to wait until I knew that each of us could survive without the other.

WE HAD A
wonderful summer that year, hot, steady and brilliant. Each day was like the last, so that, unusually for England, one could rely on a continuity that had something prodigious about it. The effect on our vitality was also prodigious. We woke gratefully to the sun before six o’clock and drank our early cup of tea at the window, gazing out at that astonishing light. I would see Owen off to work, rejoicing in the long day ahead of me: I could not wait to get out. My shopping gave me pleasure. The beautiful fruits of summer proved irresistible, and I bought more than I needed, for their colour and their scent; these I made into tarts and pies, which I stowed away against Vinnie’s next visit. It was natural for me to cook for someone else, and possibly I regretted the little parcels I used to prepare for my mother, although Vinnie was no substitute in that respect. I tried to like her, but almost consistently came up against a watchfulness which I found unfriendly. She regarded me as a rival, and perhaps always had: she was one
of those self-flattering women who convince themselves that they come first in their son’s affections. Owen found Vinnie a bore but felt irritably contracted to her. I knew that he made her an allowance; I also knew that she was an impractical woman who frequently had unforeseen expenses. Owen was generous to her because he understood the impulse to spend money—they both had it. My feeling now is that they shared a vast boredom; they were terrified of nothing happening. Vinnie’s haplessness came from a sort of despair, a conviction that no one would care for her or even notice her, while Owen’s case was perhaps more serious. In the absence of distractions he foundered, became blank. That was why he put up with a way of life that would have exhausted many men of his age, why he pursued this fantasy of endless mobility, endless availability. I believe it gratified him even to know that he was expected in a certain place at a certain time. He had the fullest diary of anyone I have ever known. When things were going well for him there was an ardour about him that was still very persuasive. But I came to understand that he must not be balked or hindered, that nothing pleased him so much as pleasing himself. I also came to understand that although married he must be allowed to live as a bachelor. Women, I think, did not appeal to him as much as the opportunity to be someone’s companion for a day, for a week, before flying off to the next bit of business, the next house party—for there was always a party when Owen was expected, or that is how it seemed to me. He feared permanence. Maybe he even feared the knowledge that he was committed to someone for life. It was, after all, against his nature, yet I think I made things easy for him. Once I admitted to myself that he should never have married me, or I him, we made a relatively good job of it. To think too deeply about these
matters was not in my best interest. Owen, I imagine, took his marriage for granted and gave it no further thought.