Providence (7 page)

Kitty’s pleasure dimmed a little. Professional success seemed to her of little importance compared with the risks she took in trying to please him. And anyway, teaching was something she could do on her own, with no reference to Maurice, and no need for his help, either. But with an inward sigh she took her cue from him; it was what he wanted, and he was here, after all. That was what mattered.

‘They’re very easy to get along with,’ she said, piling their empty plates on to a tray. ‘Larter you know, of course.’ Everyone knew Larter, who had been cautioned for loitering outside the bicycle factory and who was capable of many embarrassing misdemeanours. ‘Larter
is, quite simply, brilliant. Mills will go back to his college and never be heard of again. But he’s very nice. The one that worries me is Miss Fairchild. I can’t seem to get any sense out of her. Shall we have our coffee by the window?’

Maurice took Kitty’s cigarette out of her mouth, put it into his own, and passed it back to her.

‘Jane Fairchild?’ he asked. ‘My mother thinks she’s rather bright.’

‘Your mother?’ said Kitty in astonishment, receiving the cigarette back.

‘She lives quite near us, in Gloucestershire. Her parents are friends of mine.’

‘She’s very beautiful,’ said Kitty, digesting this news.

‘Quite a pretty girl, yes.’ He moved over to the sofa, stretched out his long legs, and crossing his hands behind his head, slid down until he was nearly horizontal. Kitty’s eyes lingered lovingly on the crumpled cushions, displaced by his weight; they were always pristine when he was not here, and she hated them that way.

After a minute he turned to her and smiled. ‘Where’s that coffee?’ he said.

Kitty made the coffee and served him. They drank in silence. After a minute, she asked him about his trip to France. ‘More or less fixed,’ he said, and patted the seat next to him for her to sit down. She waited to hear more but the subject appeared to be closed. He murmured something about the car needing to be taken into the garage the following week.

‘And so you’re off? When exactly?’

‘Oh, three or four weeks’ time. As soon as term is over. Actually, I might sneak off a bit early. And I’ll stay there till the last minute. I’m not just inspecting these cathedrals, you know. They mean more to me than that.’

Kitty looked at him. His face, without its perpetual
smile was stern, sad. She had never seen him like this before.

‘What is it, darling? Are you depressed?’

‘No, my dear. I’m never depressed.’

Darling. My dear. Kitty registered this, their usual exchange of endearments. She registered it every time.

‘Never depressed?’ she asked, her voice a little false in her effort to keep her balance. ‘I very much doubt if anyone else can say that. I’m depressed most of the time, I think.’

Maurice turned his head towards her and resumed his smile.

‘Kitty,’ he said. ‘Kitty. You are absolutely without faith, aren’t you?’

‘Why, yes,’ she said. ‘How did you know?’

He smiled even more fully, at the look on her face. ‘If you’ve got faith, you can always spot the ones without it. You, dearest Kitty, live in a world of unbelief. It makes you tense. I can’t tell you how simple life is when you know that you are being looked after. How you can survive one blow after another.’

‘Does God organize the blows?’ asked Kitty, somewhat tartly.

‘Who knows?’

‘Then what exactly do you believe in?’ asked Kitty.

Maurice took his arms from behind his neck and sat forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

‘I believe in Providence,’ he said.

Kitty was alarmed. He seemed strange this evening, locked up even more securely into his private world, allowing her no access. And she was aware, for the first time, that he was an adult, a man, not just a phenomenon, an unexpected visitor to her own life, but a human being whom experience had marked, who was beginning to show these marks, whose graceful body held its own inevitable diminutions.

She laid a hand on his arm. ‘Maurice,’ she said gently. ‘You don’t sound very happy when you talk of Providence. What is wrong?’

He took a long time answering. Then, locking his hands together between his knees, he stared at the floor, as if some image had suddenly materialized there, as if it held a fascination bordering on enchantment.

‘What is wrong,’ he said, ‘is that I am without the one I love.’

Kitty sat very still. Her distress for him was almost as great as her distress for herself. The street lamp outside her window blurred for a moment; then, resolutely, she stared at it until it became clear again. ‘That’s all, folks,’ cried an ebullient voice from the radio in Caroline’s flat, followed by an injunction to the audience to take care of itself and be at the same place, same time, next week.

She turned her head to look at him.

‘Won’t you tell me about it?’ she asked, and her voice was just the same as it always was.

He still sat staring at the floor, his hands knotted, his expression bleak. After a long pause he turned to her and looked at her as if she were a stranger. When he began to speak, it was as if his voice were coming from a long distance, from far back in his skull, as if it were travelling over territories of experience which Kitty had never even glimpsed.

‘Tell?’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

‘Oh, Maurice,’ said Kitty sadly. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

He smiled at her briefly, then returned his gaze to the floor.

‘No, really,’ he said. ‘There’s nothing to tell. I never talk about it. I was in love with this girl and we were looking forward to getting married but she discovered that she had a vocation. She’s working with Mother Teresa in Calcutta. That’s all.’

‘What was her name?’ asked Kitty.

‘Lucy. She was called Lucy. I’ve known her all my life. We always loved each other. Our parents were neighbours.’ He broke off, but Kitty sensed that he was now ready to talk.

‘Shall I make some more coffee?’ she asked.

‘Yes, why not?’

He followed her into the kitchen, as if unwilling to be left alone. His presence, and the words she had just heard, disturbed her, and she spilled a little water from the kettle. Picking up a dishcloth, he wiped the drops from the floor.

‘You’re as bad as Lucy,’ he said. ‘She was the most untidy creature I have ever met.’

‘Did you love her very much?’ said Kitty, willing her hands to remain still.

‘Yes, of course. Enough to last me for the rest of my life. Shall I take that tray?’

They sat down again, silent. A burst of urgent music from the next flat signified a change of programme. Then Maurice sighed.

‘I know that she prays for me,’ he said. ‘As I pray for her. I know that we shall never be closer than we are now.’ He sighed again. ‘I am so bored without her to talk to,’ he said. ‘We always shared everything. I have no one to talk to now.’

This time she took him in her arms and held him, and as they sat together in the darkening room she felt her whole heart dissolving in sadness and wonder.

It was Maurice who disengaged himself, and to her surprise he recovered quite quickly. His smile, vague, pleasant, prohibitive of deeper enquiries, was back in place. He drank his cold coffee and held out his cup for more. Kitty, aware that they were passing a momentous evening, yet fearful of all that she had heard, and uncertain how they could proceed after this, went into the kitchen, her hands unusually agitated. He should
have told me this before, she thought. I would have understood all that. But I lacked the information. Quite simply, I lacked the information.

Returning to the sofa, and to Maurice, with more, unwanted, coffee, she said, ‘And are you still on God’s side?’ She was genuinely curious.

His smile intensified, became ineffable. ‘Don’t you see? God is on
my
side. He gave me years of happiness and love that can never disappear. I regard myself as married. It is as simple as that.’

Oh, Maurice, thought Kitty. I shall never know what you feel. The intensity. The purity. I simply want to live with someone so that I can begin my life. I want you, in fact. And you want nobody.

‘Maurice,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I do understand. And please, please, trust me. I am your friend.’

He kissed her hand. ‘Of course, I trust you. Dear Kitty.’

They both realized that this was the moment at which he should leave, that there could be no further exchange that night. Yet she had never wanted so much for him to stay.

‘Maurice,’ she said, as he searched in his pocket for his car keys. ‘When did all this happen?’

‘Three years ago,’ he replied, then, having found his keys, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and was gone.

Three years ago Marie-Thérèse had died, quickly, quietly, without benefit of clergy, without assurance of eternal comfort, her hands trailing among the walnut shells. They never spoke of her at home, and indeed Kitty herself thought little about the matter. She was aware that the world had grown colder since Marie-Thérèse’s death, that a particular quick artless voice would no longer question her, that a certain shyness and propriety had vanished from her own life, leaving behind something wary, fearful, disbelieving. This corroding
residue was apt to interfere with her more generous impulses, and she had to struggle these days to trust her earlier, more primitive assumptions of safety. It was a feeling she only managed to recover among her books. And it had been revealed to her this evening, this momentous evening, that there was a safety beyond anything she had ever known, that the love of one person for another can confer such a charmed life that even the memory of it bestows immunity. She herself was not immune. And if she had one wish, it was to know that immunity, to be loved in such a way that even when parted from the other she would never be alone. She wondered if there were anything in her life, in herself, that could make her lovable in that way, and realized that there was nothing, not even a basis for comparison. Perhaps it was because she lacked faith, as Maurice said, that she was tense, that she could not take life more easily, that she could not take him for granted. For surely, they were dearest friends? Surely, he would not talk as he had talked tonight to anyone else?

But I want more, she thought, blowing her nose resolutely. I do not want to be trustworthy, and safe, and discreet. I do not want to be the one who understands and sympathizes and soothes. I do not want to be reliable, I do not want to do wonders with Professor Redmile’s group, I do not even care what happens to Larter. I do not want to be good at pleasing everybody. I do not even want to be such a good cook, she thought, turning the tap with full force on to a bowl rusted with the stains of her fresh tomato soup. I want to be totally unreasonable, totally unfair, very demanding, and very beautiful. I want to be part of a real family. I want my father to be there and to shoot things. I do not want my grandmother to tell me what to wear. I want to wear jeans and old sweaters belonging to my brother whom of course I do not have. I do not want to spend my life in
this rotten little flat. I want wedding presents. I want to be half of a recognized couple. I want a future away from this place. I want Maurice.

‘Caroline,’ she said, striding out of her front door, her cheeks scarlet with emotion. ‘Will you please turn your radio down? I can hear every word of the shipping forecast
and
I’ve got the tap running.’

Caroline’s door opened, to reveal Caroline in her usual
poule de luxe
outfit of pale blue and purple flowered chiffon dressing gown with, yes, marabout at the throat, and very high-heeled mules. Her toenails were painted an iridescent damson colour. Her orange hair was shining, her face fully made-up, as if she were expecting a visitor. If she was, he never came. He had gone long ago, that husband whom she reviled so constantly. Kitty sometimes regretted the impulse that had made them into the semblance of friends. Caroline had called when Kitty had first moved in, and Kitty had been drawn to her as a really well-dressed woman, something she rarely came across in her line of work. They had spent a few evenings together comparing notes on clothes, until Kitty realized, with a feeling of shame, that Caroline was intensely boring. Or perhaps, she thought scrupulously, she was just intensely bored. Caroline lived on her alimony and consulted fortune tellers to see when her luck would change. Caroline spent most of her days, impeccably groomed, wandering around Harrods. Very little seemed to happen to Caroline although she had many stories to tell of her life before she had been abandoned: the parties, the cruises, the weekends at important houses. ‘Why did I marry him?’ she would ask soulfully. Why did he leave you, wondered Kitty, but was too polite to ask. She rather dreaded Caroline’s reminiscences these days and tended to avoid her. She had once seen her coming down Old Church Street, presumably returning from a day at
Harrods, and had noted that there was a ladder in her tights and that she was carrying an umbrella and two rather crumpled plastic bags, the very image, Kitty thought, of a woman slipping down from her own high standards. She had felt a shiver of apprehension, and at the moment considered herself the more fortunate of the two. For she had Maurice.

‘What is it, Kitty?’ asked Caroline in genuine surprise. ‘You sound really upset. Didn’t you have a nice evening?’

It had been impossible to keep the sight of Maurice hurtling up the stairs from Caroline, and that was another reason for Kitty to want to avoid her: Caroline was avid for information, and Kitty had no information to give.

‘Come in,’ said Caroline, ‘I’ve just made a cup of tea.’ She was desperately lonely.

At that moment Kitty wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. She wanted it with a passion that she had not felt for food or drink for a very long time. Wiping her hands on her apron, and aware that she must look a mess, she followed Caroline into her flat.

‘Marvellous tea,’ she acknowledged. ‘But really, Caroline, the noise is too much. And you know you don’t really listen.’

‘Oh, darling, I keep it on for company. You know what it’s like here in the evenings. Dead. I might as well be ninety. When I think …’