The Sea Change (40 page)

‘Jimmy may not want you to go.’

I said what had it got to do with Jimmy, in my most wilful voice – the only difference was that I heard myself this time. But when Jimmy joined us, I could see that Em was quite right, and
Jimmy did not seem in the least anxious for my company. That was a final slap: I had not thought of myself as so generally tiresome: the sensation of doing something which I found difficult and
having somebody else irritated with me for doing it made it all at once more real, and more unpleasant. I talked Jimmy into agreeing – haven’t I had years of practice at getting my own
way? – and in no time, it seemed we had left them.

I watched Em walking away from us on the quay, and then Jimmy shouted to him to get Alberta a chair, and I thought, Jimmy loves her too, and he’s left her with Em, but then, of course, he
doesn’t know what he is doing. On the boat, we found that we need not have left the island until the afternoon, and this made poor Jimmy desperate, but I was grateful that we hadn’t
known, and I hadn’t had all those hours in which to change my mind. Jimmy left me in a chair and went off by himself, and I had the whole day again with the stark ungratifying pictures of
myself that it presented. There was plenty of time for review; the trouble was that the more ordered I became in it, the more clearly I saw what I was, the less I liked it, and the more inexorably
everything I noted or could remember added up to my standing little or no chance now. It seemed to me that presented with the choice of living with Alberta or with me, nobody in their senses would
hesitate. In the end this made me think of Jimmy. The relief of finding that I could actually do this was extraordinary, and I went to find him. Knowing more than he, I felt a need to relieve him
somehow, if only from the feeling that I would be a deadweight to him in Athens. We had a drink together, and he talked in a guarded, deliberately practical way about her. Did I think that she
would now want to give up doing the play? Did I think that she would just want to go back home and stay there? I said all I could think of – that her father’s profession meant that the
family would no longer be able to live in the vicarage after his death, and that it would also mean that there was far less money so that she might have more incentive than ever for doing the play.
He said it surely was tough on her, but he looked reassured.

When we found ourselves returning to the island, we both went to the side of the ship where we could watch the rowing boats. I knew that they wouldn’t be there, but I felt him hoping, and
when we had both searched the boats and the port for them and found nothing but the Post Office looking absolutely deserted, I had to comfort him. I felt him turn to me, and it seemed another
confirmation of what I was, that when I honestly tried to think of someone else it only made them suspicious. But what could I
do now
about it all? I longed then to go back – to have
another chance at my opportunities – but then, if I went back, I should not know what I know now; I should be the same clutching, hysterical creature – laying waste to chance –
hoarding sensations until they went bad, making my world smaller and smaller in order to keep myself the centre of it . . . I think I was more frightened then than I had ever been; everything else
of that kind that I had felt had been only little gestures towards fear – it was the difference between losing one’s way and there being no way to lose . . .

Jimmy was saying something about finding somewhere sheltered. I followed him. I said something to him about wanting to know what one could do, and as he always does to any general or thoughtless
exclamation, he asked a question of such ruthless simplicity that he made one feel as though one had asked for something which one would not be able to use. But he was there: he was trying to be
patient and kind in spite of his own anxieties. It occurred to me that perhaps even my leaving Em on the island with her had been an entirely selfish idea – designed to tell me where I was,
without the slightest reference to Jimmy, and that what I had thought was self-control in not spilling out my fears to him was just a kind of self-enlightened cowardice. I shut my eyes and tried to
swallow this, but it was too much: I sank into an apathy where thoughts droned and flitted through my mind without my seeming to have anything to do with them, until I suppose even they got tired
of the lack of response, and I must have slept.

When I woke it was twilight, and Jimmy was asleep. I thought of us reaching Piraeus – found I couldn’t think of anything beyond that – looked at Jimmy’s peaceful,
trusting face, and decided not to think about anything excepting the sea – its always moving, always remaining – its continuity and comforting size . . .

When Jimmy woke he suddenly told me that he loved her: he was unmistakable and resolute: he said that everything was different if one knew something –
he
said that. I could not warn
or protect him; I could only cling to the papery intention of keeping silent.

We arrived. Then we had to find a taxi to take us into Athens: the heat of the day was still in the streets. I lay back in the cab with the hot, dusty air blowing on my face in small, sluggish
wafts, thinking, ‘Now we are going to an hotel.’ But we arrived there, got rooms, and were at the door of them, and then there seemed to be no future at all, until Jimmy said that I had
better have a bath while he telephoned the airport and in half an hour we would have dinner. He did not ask me, he simply arranged it, and I fell gratefully upon half an hour with a future of
dinner.

At dinner he told me that he had got two seats on a plane leaving the following evening, and two more for the day after that. ‘I’ll take her back to her family, and you and Em can go
together.’

‘Good,’ I said: I was feeling sick by then. Then he said that he had tried to get through to the island, but had completely failed. I said that of course we were two hours later than
we had told Em that we would be, and I thought the Post Office closed at about eight. He said yes, he’d thought of that too: we would call in the morning, but meanwhile he’d sent a
telegram.

Some time after dinner he said: ‘You look absolutely done in! Don’t you think you’d better get some sleep? We don’t have to hurry in the morning – except I’ve
got to check on those tickets and take them to the place to be filled in.’

But I didn’t want to go to bed. He ordered some brandy for both of us and we had another cigarette. As he was lighting mine, he said: ‘I suppose losing a father is just about as
tough as anything that can happen to a girl, isn’t it?’

‘It depends what kind of relationship they had. I think it is hard on Alberta.’

‘What was it like for you? Or do you mind my asking?’

I shook my head while I was thinking.

‘You see I didn’t just lose a father. I lost both parents at once: they were drowned sailing together. So I lost my home at the same time, and it is really impossible to separate the
losses. It was just that everything I knew came to an end, suddenly, without warning.’

‘That must have been awful.’ He looked really concerned.

‘It’s probably less awful to have had all that and lost it than never to have had it at all. I had a very happy childhood, and I adored our house and its country.’ It was odd
how distant all that seemed now – I heard myself telling it in the voice I used for talking about other people.

He said: ‘It must be a strange feeling: I shall have to think carefully what it is like. You said she will be losing her home too, and her mother died years ago, so it is a little like
you, isn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ I realized that until now I would have said, no, it wasn’t. I was only fourteen when
my
parents had died – I would have competed with Alberta about loss
when it had nothing to do with Jimmy wanting to know how she felt. If there was to be any competition, it was Jimmy who had undoubtedly suffered most, and there he was, thinking about her.

‘I’ve been thinking.’ he said: ‘Do you think it is about time I struck out on my own? I mean, I’ve spent years now just sticking around having things handed me on a
plate. Your asking me whether I could handle the play in New York on my own started me thinking that maybe it’s time I stopped doing just what came easiest; I never thought about the future
– when I think of the
dough
I might have saved!’

I could not help smiling at him. ‘If that is the only thing you regret about your past, you’re not doing so badly. I should think about it, and wait and see.’

‘I wouldn’t just walk out on Emmanuel, if that’s what is worrying you. Unless he wanted me to.’

‘He’d never want that.’ I tried to sound convincing, but I couldn’t look at him.

He said: ‘Oh, you never know – he might want a change; people do sometimes.’

Then he said we must get some sleep.

I was halfway through having another bath, before I remembered that I’d had one before dinner. The rising panic that I had felt when Jimmy said good night to me had resulted in my not
having the least idea what I had been doing: I came to, as it were, lying in warm water, looking at my body and thinking: ‘You washed it all two hours ago!’ and feeling faintly
irritated and ridiculous, but I also found I was looking at my body as though it belonged to someone else. All my life I had been dominated by this body – poor Lillian’s frail and
unpredictable frame – however much care I took of it, it never seemed to be enough, and I discovered then that I had always lived with a picture of somebody called Lillian for whom I would do
anything – make endless allowances, flatter, soothe, commiserate with, and comfort. She was highly strung, sensitive, intelligent, delicate, deeply emotional, and vulnerable – she was
anybody’s sickly-romantic picture of a young girl – perpetually in need of protection and encouragement, guarding her damn feelings so carefully that they never had a chance to operate;
she was demanding, dishonest, and dull . . . I could just imagine reading about her in a short, brilliantly written novel, but any longer or more direct association was really too tedious and
absurd . . . And yet this picture had never left me. Even though my body had changed until it in no way fitted with this picture, I had somehow arranged the split. I had not actually fallen into
the crude trap of continuing to dress as though I was eighteen – had adapted myself externally with ingenious taste and managed all the time to put up with, even to nurture this ageless bore,
who, if she was anyone else but Lillian, I would not have tolerated for a weekend. Now, whoever ‘I’ was, I was faced with living entirely alone with her for the rest of my life. I got
out of the bath, wrapped myself in a towel, went into the bedroom with its twin beds and sat on the one that had already been turned down for me. Supposing I go back to England alone, she will have
to help me find a house and furnish it. It is no good her weeping and wanting everyone to be sorry for her all the time, because nothing will get done like that. I can’t take her back to what
remains of my family in Norfolk, although they would be delighted to hear that she’d parted with Em, because the moment they stopped being sorry for her, she’d become intolerable. If I
found her work, she’d never keep it – she’d be ill, or she’d bore everyone so much that they couldn’t work with her. In spite of her ‘needing affection so
desperately’ she’s incapable of giving it, or even of engendering it in anyone but me. I wouldn’t want her to meet people, she’d let me down so terribly – she simply
isn’t interested in anything but herself, and although she thinks that I’ve led her a ‘hard life’, she hasn’t got any experience at all. She has absolutely no sense of
proportion, so nothing makes her laugh – she’s neurotic to the point of madness, and if we hadn’t turned out to have the same name, nothing would have induced me to have anything
to do with her. I would really rather be alone. Just because she was so kind and understanding to me about Sarah, doesn’t give her the right to drag at me now. And I suddenly realized that if
Sarah had lived, I would have just had to get rid of her because she would have been so bad for Sarah. The possibility of ever having been able to get rid of her was extraordinarily bracing: on the
strength of it, I got into the other bed without a sleeping pill.

It was good to lie down: I felt my weight making its shape in the bed, and shut my eyes. Immediately, as though in some other sense I had opened them, there was a picture of Alberta –
still in her faded pink shirt – thrown into his arms and weeping so bitterly for her father that I longed to comfort her too.

3

ALBERTA

I
F
I write this out – just what has happened – it may get a little clearer, and if it did, I might know how to
bear it. Now that I’ve spoken to Uncle Vin, I at least
know
what has happened – it’s just that I cannot think about it – I cannot think at all: everything looks the
same, life goes on from minute to minute and I go with it, only it all feels quite unreal, and just as it begins to feel ominous and odd that everything should all look the same and yet feel so
unreal, the fact about him suddenly explodes all over again as though I hadn’t known before. He is dead: he was knocked over by a car in the little lane by the church on the corner they were
always going to widen.
The car didn’t stop.
He was on his bicycle – Aunt T. said he’d been to see old Mr Derwent who was ill, and he’d gone after supper: this
happened on his way back – about a quarter to ten, they think, but they don’t know, because they didn’t find him until some time after eleven. He was dead when they found him. I
asked Uncle Vin whether he had been killed at once by the car and Uncle Vin said no, he didn’t think that he had been. So perhaps he had a little time which I know he would have wanted
– without too much pain – oh! that part of it
is difficult
– not knowing that, and I may never know. I cannot write about the driver of the car because I know too well what
Papa would say about that, and now he is dead and will never speak to me or write to me again, I shall have to remember more than ever what he has said. Otherwise there will be nothing left of him
– I shall lose it all.