Letters From Prague (16 page)

Hugh put his hand beneath Susanna's arm. He shepherded his family from beneath the dripping awnings, and along the pavement, keeping them out of the way of a passing taxi. People went to and fro; Harriet and Marsha fell back, allowing them room. They held hands, walking behind the others, and Marsha, who had been silent through most of lunch, began to talk again, asking what they were going to do now, and what they would do tomorrow, and what time their train went on Sunday. Harriet made perfunctory answers, watching the last of the clouds ahead drift away, and a watery sun appear; watching Hugh and Susanna, arm in arm, looking now and then in shop windows: seeming, from this distance, so companionable and close.

He moved on, and I followed him, through the darkness and the small, soaking rain. The boulevard was all deserted, its path miry, the water dripping from the trees; the park was as black as midnight In the double gloom of trees and fog, I could not see my guide; I could only follow his tread. Not the least fear had I: I believe I would have followed that frank tread, through continual night, to the world's end
…

Is it me, thought Harriet, late in the night: is it me, or is it Susanna?

The bedroom was dark, the apartment quiet. She sat by the balcony window, whose long fine curtains let in a little of the light from the street lamps below, touching the walnut wardrobe, the pale carpet, the bed across the room where Marsha lay sleeping. In ten years they had been separated for two or three nights at a time – no more, and not often. My dear companion, Harriet thought, watching the stillness of the form beneath the bedclothes, hearing the light high breath.

Is it me, or is it Susanna? It is such a long time since I endured separation and parting: in different ways, on different occasions, I have endured it twice. I am alone, still, though Marsha, for all these years, has been my solace. Susanna has a husband, but is childless, and grieving, and neurotic. I fear for her, and for Hugh, and their future. What kind of separation is she enduring now?

She leaned back in the armchair, closing her eyes; listening for the opening of a door, footsteps along the corridor, a woman smothering sobs.

There were none of these sounds: only from outside came footsteps along the street, returning to other apartment buildings, the slam of a taxi door, a distant plane.

Christopher Pritchard was flying to Prague.

Harriet, in the darkened room, relived the moment in the Cockatrice when she had seen that look pass between him and Susanna, excluding everyone. She relived a number of moments in the days since her arrival: his entry into the apartment kitchen – so large, so overpowering, so hard to like; their argument at the dinner table, and Susanna's gentle deflection of their mutual irritation; his looking up at her portrait above the fireplace; Harriet's own recognition of his presence – and yes, somewhere within that boorish, off-putting manner, the attraction he held for her. She saw Hugh, pouring drinks, making easy conversation about his work, making Marsha laugh, and she saw Susanna, the morning after their arrival, weeping before the delicate glance between lovers on the tapestry in the Hotel de Ville.

I have watched you, and watched you: at last you are mine
…

Who was watching and waiting for whom? Who in this city was destined – like Charlotte Brontë, like Lucy Snowe – to suffer the anguish of unrequited love?

It was Saturday, their last full day. In the morning, Hugh had to go into the office; Harriet, Marsha and Susanna, took the metro out to Anderlecht, to visit the Béguine convent.

‘Is that all right?' Susanna had asked them at breakfast. ‘I think you'd enjoy it, but I don't want to inflict –'

‘We'd enjoy it,' said Harriet, buttering a croissant.

‘The funny kind of nuns.' Marsha was dipping her croissant in a bowl of hot chocolate.

‘Yes. You won't be bored?'

She shook her head, leaning over the bowl. ‘I wish we had breakfast like this at home.' She took a mouthful, quickly, before it all fell apart.

Hugh rose to go. ‘I'll see you at lunchtime, and we'll walk along the canal; would you like that?'

They made their arrangements; Harriet, on impulse, followed him out to the hall.

‘Hugh?'

‘Yes?' He was pulling on his jacket, feeling in the pocket for keys.

‘It's just –' She felt suddenly shy. ‘Just that we haven't really had time to ourselves. And we'll be gone tomorrow –'

‘Is there anything special –'

‘No.' She hesitated. ‘It just feels strange, to spend all this time with Susanna, but not you. I mean, she's been so good to us, but you and I –'

He had found the keys and picked up his briefcase. ‘Well. Let's try and have a talk this afternoon, shall we?'

‘Thanks.' She reached out and kissed him, touching the smooth, well-shaven cheek with her lips, smelling the subtle scent of expensive soap. Then he was opening the door of the apartment, saying he must be off, and she rejoined the others – feeling, she realised, better than she had done for days.

And now the three of them, this familiar little company so used, by now, to spending time together, came out of the metro at Saint-Guidon, and walked through clean, half-empty streets towards the convent. It was after ten, but the atmosphere, as Marsha said, felt more like Sunday than Saturday: few morning shoppers and few tourists, just a handful of early visitors to the nearby church and the museum of Erasmus House. Susanna led them past the church on the Place de la Vaillance, and into a little square. The morning air was light and cool; a bell began to ring.

‘That's it.'

She nodded towards a dark door, half open, set beneath an arch in a medieval wall; they followed her across, and as she fully pushed open the door Harriet felt as though she were stepping into a Dutch painting: a door opening into a courtyard; flagstones; a woman in a silent room beyond; the sound of a bell. But this woman was not the serving girl of a Vermeer, nor, dressed in a dull blue satin, was she playing upon the lute or virginals. She was a nun, a middle-aged woman in black and white, bent over her book, who looked up at their approach and smiled calmly. They greeted each other and walked on, Susanna leading them through room after small quiet room, where heavy oak furniture stood against whitewashed walls.

‘It's lovely,' said Marsha. ‘I'd like to live here.'

Susanna put her arm round her. ‘I'm glad you like it.'

‘Now I see why you wanted to become a nun.'

‘Well –' Susanna released her. ‘You want all sorts of things when you're young.'

And when you are older, too, thought Harriet, listening. She turned from the contemplation of a tall white candle set in an alcove beneath a painting of the Ascension. What, or who, do you want now, Susanna?

It was afternoon. Hugh and Harriet walked along the waterfront of the Canal de Charleroi. The air was warm, and the sky was hazy; people were lingering over coffee outside cafés on the boulevard running alongside, sitting on benches on the broad pavement overlooking the water. There were bookstalls, one or two news-stands; a few leaves drifted from the trees and fell. It reminded Harriet a bit of the South Bank, of walks along the Thames after a movie at the National Film Theatre, and she said so.

‘Your London is so different from how mine used to be,' said Hugh. ‘You do interesting things.'

‘You must have visited the NFT.'

‘Perhaps I did.' Hugh stepped out of the way of a cyclist. ‘Mostly I made money: very dull.'

‘I don't think of you as dull. Or as one of Thatcher's children.'

‘No. Even so – that's what I am, I suppose. Enough of one to come here and live as I do.'

‘But with a heart,' said Harriet, thinking of good causes in Bohemia. She put her arm through his. ‘You do have a heart.'

‘Somewhere.' He patted her wrist.

Susanna and Marsha were far behind them: deliberately so.

‘I want to talk to my brother,' Harriet told them, outside the café where they'd had lunch. ‘I want to re-establish our unique relationship: is that okay?'

Everyone laughed, and everyone knew she was serious.

‘Marsha and I will linger outside shop windows,' said Susanna. ‘We might even shop.' A light breeze stirred her hair; she held out her hand. ‘Come on, niece. Let us enjoy the last hours of our own unique relationship.'

They made their arrangements to meet. Tonight, their last night, they were going to the theatre. Then Susanna took Marsha's hand and led her away. And once more Harriet wondered at the manner in which Susanna's inner turbulence was so successfully kept hidden: no one, seeing her and Marsha now, so contented in each other's company, would imagine the solitary weeping, the sudden breaking down in public, the look of desire at a man who was not her husband. Everything, it seemed, was facade.

And Hugh?

‘Tell me about your life,' she said to him, leaning her head on his shoulder. ‘Talk to me.'

He smiled down at her. ‘I have talked.'

‘No, you haven't. Not in the way I mean.' She raised her head and looked at him. On the broad stretch of the canal boats were going by, drawing up at the quay across the water. Pleasure boats, cargo boats, leaving and returning. Gulls wheeled in the hazy air above them.

‘Are you happy?' Harriet asked.

There was a silence. Leaves scrunched beneath their feet.

‘With reservations, yes.' He patted her wrist again; lightly, keeping things light. ‘I've been happy having you two here.'

‘We've loved it, too. It's been wonderful for Marsha.'

‘Does she see – forgive me. We all have our boundaries – I know you don't like talking about it. But does she see her father at all?'

‘Sometimes. She finds it difficult – she doesn't say so, but she does. It's like old-fashioned ideas about visiting children in hospital: they get upset when you leave, so you shouldn't see them. Better to let them settle down and get on with it. I think there's something to be said for all that.'

‘And it's not as if she has childhood memories. Of him being with you both at home, I mean.'

‘No.' There was another silence, in which Harriet revisited some of her own childhood memories. She said: ‘When you were little, I felt that I couldn't get near you.' And then, after a pause, ‘Now we're grown up, I realise how much you mean to me.'

‘What a nice thing to say.'

‘It's true. I've realised it since coming here. Amongst other things.'

‘What things?' He was looking down at her again: she smiled, then withdrew her arm from his. To broach certain subjects needed distance. They walked on, passing other people.

She said: ‘You're right. We all have our boundaries. I don't like to intrude.'

‘Then don't,' said Hugh gently. ‘Some things are better left unsaid. Quite a lot of things, really.'

‘You and Susanna –'

‘Susanna and I are all right.'

Are you sure? thought Harriet, walking slowly. Do I misread everything?

‘We can't have children,' he said, after a while. ‘I expect she's told you.'

‘Yes. I'm so sorry –'

‘She grieves. We both grieve about it. But –' He spread his hands. ‘Some things have to be borne. In time we'll come to terms with it.'

‘That's brave.'

A shrug. ‘There's not much else one can do.'

‘Adopt?' she said cautiously.

‘Susanna doesn't want to – she doesn't feel confident, now, that she'd be a good mother. I suppose she's lost her nerve, or something. She –' He stopped. ‘I think that's enough about it now. And anyway: we have Marsha. Haven't you been clever?'

‘
That's
a nice thing to say. Thank you.'

‘Well. It's true. She's great for all of us, isn't she?'

‘Yes. It was hard when she was little, but now – I suppose we're on a bit of a plateau at the moment. Pretty companionable.'

‘Good.' He looked about him. ‘We seem to have come quite a long way.'

Harriet looked up. A bridge crossed the water ahead of them, broad and carrying traffic. Riverboats hooted – another reminder of London, which felt, at the moment, so distant. And soon they would be in another city. Berlin, she thought, with a shiver of apprehension. No brother there, no spacious apartment. Just she and Marsha, amongst East and West living uneasily together. Berlin – a different and divided city when Karel had been travelling through it, so urgently, so full of anger and fear – could be tough.

They came to a bench; they sat down.

‘So,' said Hugh, in much the same tone as he had greeted Marsha, on their visit to his office. ‘Was there anything else?'

Harriet smiled at the tone, and sat thinking.

Some things are better left unsaid. Quite a lot of things, really
–

It was true.

‘Christopher Pritchard,' she ventured, and he frowned.

‘What about him?'

She took a deep breath. ‘What did he do to you at school? Did he harm you?'

‘No. He did nothing. For all I know he did nothing to anyone else, either – nothing serious, anyway. He just had a reputation.'

‘And –' She was willing herself to get it right, not to disturb calm waters. ‘He didn't –'

‘Didn't what?'

Didn't know Susanna before, she wanted to say. Did not meet her in secret, without your knowledge; does not meet her in secret now.

She shook her head. Much too dangerous.

‘Mmm?'

‘Nothing. Forget it.'

‘What will you do if you run into Pritchard in Prague?'

‘God knows – I hope we shan't. Marsha can't bear him, as you know.'

And what about me? What do I think of this man? I think I'm well shot of him, that's what I think.

‘And when you get there,' Hugh asked her, ‘how are you going to find your Karel chap?'