The Rules of Engagement (34 page)

All this I registered as the taxi proceeded
through a landscape that was unfamiliar to me; once
past Lambeth Palace I had no idea where
I was, or how I should get back. My
unease increased with the knowledge that I should shortly have
to confront a situation even more unpleasant than
my own. And then, in a wide calm street, I
came to the heart of the matter. I knew, without
needing to be told, what was wrong with Betsy,
what those tests would disclose. I knew this, and I
imagined that she did. For I think one always knows
when one is threatened. That she was no stranger to this
feeling, from as far back as she could remember,
might, if she, or nature were benignly
inclined, make acceptance easier. I saw now,
in that blank street, how valiantly she had
opposed her fate, which was essentially that of someone
denied the protection that enables one to confront the
inordinate difficulties that must be confronted if
one is ever to achieve a fugitive maturity.
Without it one is an orphan, as Betsy had
been in reality. I thought back painfully to the
ease with which I had taken this for granted, as a
given: I had parents
—
most people had parents
—
but
she had only her faded aunt with whom she lived
in a house too big for them, a substantial
property which even in those early days was being eyed
by speculators. I remembered the evenings the
two of them had spent at the cinema, and the epics
and extravaganzas they were both perhaps too
innocent fully to understand. I saw her in
Paris, in Mme Lemonnier's awful kitchen,
still making the best of things. I saw the extent of
her love affairs, and their all too obvious
limitations: as far as I knew there had been
only two, both of which had succeeded in denying her
essential nature, that of a loving simple
girl, an all-too-willing victim. The
absurd Daniel de Saint-Jorre, to whose
assumed name she still obstinately clung, had perhaps
done no lasting damage; at least she no longer
mentioned him. Edmund was another matter. He had
become vulnerable to her orphaned state, and though
this had made her happy, or at least
triumphant, it had turned him against himself, against
his own instincts, had created an unwelcome
disturbance in his life, gone to the very roots of his
family. I could see, with dread, that he was ready
to consign her to her fate, and that if ever I were
to see him again we should both know the extent of our
defection, his and mine. Recovery from this situation,
if it ever came about, was less than assured.
One came back to the same conclusion: damage.
This aura was as palpable as whatever the doctors
might uncover. When the taxi drew up I
realized that all three of us knew this. With these
considerations in mind Nigel receded into the
background, dwindled, was almost forgotten.

What united us, Betsy and I, in this
strangest of pairings, was the fact that neither of us
had children, and that we had therefore failed the one
essential test that all women feel obliged
to pass. Even celibates measure their success
or failure by this standard, and those who remain
childless throughout their lives wonder what faculty
has been lacking to bring this about. Yet neither of us
had been maternal in our outlook, although Betsy
gazed fondly on any children she encountered. She
was, perhaps, too busy being her own child, the child she
had to nurture in the absence of anyone else able
or willing to do so. As for myself, I saw any
potential children as an impediment to my freedom,
for at the back of my mind I kept in readiness
a plan of flight from circumstances I could no
longer tolerate. (this I might need
to activate again.) Now I saw our childlessness
as an indictment, a reproach to what had been our
folly. In this assumption I included us both;
we had seen ourselves always as lovers, whereas sensible
persons, or perhaps those with a greater understanding of the world,
make their peace with existing
circumstances, and know joy and pleasure with the sort
of acceptance afforded by a settled state, in which there
is no need of concealment. For that concealment I now
felt an immense distaste. Only very young
romantic girls thrill to the idea of a secret
lover. And we had chosen, she and I, to stay within
the limits of this exalted and fragile condition.
While there might have been a son, a daughter,
at Betsy's bedside, there would now only be
myself, a poor substitute. That agreement between us
never to discuss this matter, or even to think of it, was
yet another indication of our lack of true
progress. Quite simply, we had not grown up;
worse, we had not perhaps known this until now. For
nature is insidious and undeniable, and in the
presence of a threat, as we now were, makes
evident what may have been clear to others, if not
to ourselves.

And yet there was no sense of tragedy discernible
in the hospital, which was light, bright, and
surprisingly quiet, the patients neatly stowed
away behind their private doors. I found
Betsy sitting up in bed, her eyes
expectant.
“
I knew you'd come,
”
she said.
She was noticeably thinner in the face than when
I had last seen her, but otherwise there was little
change, although her elaborate nightdress
registered the beating of her heart against its thin
folds. I realized with some embarrassment that I
had come empty-handed, and resolved in that instant
to do all I could to make her comfortable. Neither of us
had much taste for the roles we had to play; all the
more reason, therefore, to play them to perfection.

“
I didn't bring anything,
”
I said.
“
I
didn't know what you would want.
”

“
Nothing, really. A spare nightdress, if
you have one. It seems I have to be in here longer
than I thought. I'm to have an operation.
”

“
When?
”

“
I don't know. Perhaps you could find out. By the
way, I'm Miss Newton here.
”
She
smiled faintly.
“
Stripped of my title.
”

“
I'll sort it out.
”
There was a brief
silence.
“
When is this operation to take place?
”

“
I don't know. They say they want to feed
me up first. I don't like the sound of that.
”

“
I think it's rather encouraging, their wanting
to build you up.
”

“
Yes.
”
Again a brief pause.

“
What's it like out?
”

“
Well, it was a beautiful morning. Real
summer. Now it's clouding over a bit.
”

“
Is it hot? I feel hot.
”

“
It's warm, certainly. There may be rain
later. I had lunch in Holland Park. It was
pleasant. We'll go there if you like. When you're
better.
”

“
Yes.
”

“
Real summer,
”
I persisted.
“
And still
plenty of it left.
”

She lay back on the pillows.
“
I don't
know why I'm so tired,
”
she said.

“
You have a rest. Sleep if you can. I'll
come back tomorrow. I know the way now. It's no
problem.
”
Her eyelids drooped.
“
I'll
see what I can find out,
”
I said.
“
Leave it
to me.
”

In the corridor I saw the brief flash of a
nurse's uniform as she turned the corner.
“
Excuse me,
”
I called.
“
Could I have
a word? Are you looking after my friend?
”

“
Betsy? That's what she told us to call
her. I'm afraid I can't tell you anything.
To begin with I'm not authorized, and to go on with, I
don't know. If you'd like to ask at the desk they
may be able to tell you.
”

“
She's to have an operation, I gather. Do you
know what it's for?
”

“
You'd have to speak to Mr Harvey. The
surgeon. He won't be in until Friday.
That's when he operates. As I say, if you'd
like to speak to them at the desk, they may be able
to tell you more.
”

I followed her to a sort of waiting area which was
empty. Just as I was resigning myself to one of the
seats a plump dark woman appeared from a
doorway I had not noticed. I knew that I
must ask questions, knew that I did not want to hear
the answers.
“
Wetherall,
”
I said.
“
Elizabeth Wetherall. I'd like to know more about
Betsy Newton. I'm her next of kin.
”

“
You'd have to ask Mr Harvey. She's
scheduled for Friday. Visit whenever you want
to, of course. There are no restrictions.
”

“
You have my telephone number? You can call
me at any time.
”

She scanned a list.
“
Wetherall. Here it
is; I have it. Of course you can ring here. My name
is Purslow. If you ask for me ...
”

“
Yes, thank you. Actually I'll
probably be here every day.
”

“
That's fine. Oh, just one question. To whom should the
account be sent?
”

“
I'll take care of that. You have my
address.
”

“
Thank you. I think that's all for the moment.
If you'd like to check with me? I'm here every
weekday. There'll be somebody else over the
weekend. Just as good.
”
She smiled firmly.
I was dismissed.

As the doors slid closed behind me I felt
a huge relief, almost gratitude. After the
sanitized coolness of the hospital, the murky
air of the street struck me as beautiful. I had
no desire to go home, only to escape. I
walked in the direction of what I thought must be the
centre of town: eventually, after passing buildings
which seemed devoid of people or activity, I found
a bus stop, boarded a bus with an unfamiliar
number, and was eventually carried back
to recognizable surroundings. Only then did I
feel delivered from the threat that had enveloped myself
as well as Betsy. Yet I knew that I should
have to return on the following day, and on the days
after that, to join the nervous visitors with their flowers
and their small treats, although I had not been aware
of any. The hospital seemed to enclose only
Betsy and myself: even the nurse, even Mrs
Purslow, seemed like an actor, a supporting
character, while the shadowy Mr Harvey was merely a
menace on the horizon. Once inside the flat
the feeling of menace increased, became so strong that
I knew that no subterfuge would be possible. The
cheerfulness, even the false cheer that was to be
recommended in these circumstances, would, I
suspected, be beyond me. The irritable sympathy
for Betsy that had accompanied me all my life
had been changed, by a process which it did not
occur to me to question, into a gravity which imposed its
own laws of behaviour.