Her Victory (51 page)

The recollection calmed him, and they crossed the road to the square. She didn't want to break into his mind. Each had their privacy, and she was content to guard hers, thinking that her past life would be uninteresting to him. The loss was hers and nobody else's, and there was no one to blame for it but herself. As soon as you cut yourself off from the people who were responsible for your loss, any thought of blame becomes ridiculous. The twenty years that had slipped by so emptily filled her with rage, and she stood for a moment unable to move for fear of being sick. After a day of such loving, the wasted years became a devastation of centuries.

‘We've both mis-spent our lives,' she said when they were in the flat. She envied his having discovered a whole new landscape of the past, but knew there was no hope of her doing the same – so became glad for him instead.

He poured a whisky. ‘I suppose nearly everyone thinks so. But they weren't
useless
lives. Would you like some?'

She would make herself a pot of tea before going to bed.

‘My life was futile,' he said, ‘only in so far as
you
weren't part of it, but we've met now, and I'm able to feel how wonderful it is. It's bad for my self-esteem to worry about having been unlucky or stupid, or a victim of circumstance. It simply wouldn't be true, in any case. Life has been good to us in that everything has led to our meeting. We can enjoy it better. It's more important to think about the future than to worry about having been diminished in any way by the past.'

The fact that neither seemed to know where they were in their lives united them so effectively that the bond was, she felt, doubly painful. She wondered how much he really knew of himself, in spite of what he had discovered about his family. When he'd had time to absorb the information – for what it was finally worth – would they still have anything in common? She wasn't able to bring these nagging queries into the open, which worried her because he, without difficulty, said whatever was in his mind. Warped by years of marriage, she felt deficient in not trusting someone she loved. The emptiness surrounding their encounter would indicate, if it persisted, that life was hardly worth living. She ought not to think, but to act instead, and do things. Wasn't to
say
better than to
think
? Twenty null years had robbed her of the ability to say and to do out of her own will when with a man. Yet she had acted this morning because no other course was possible, a daring and positive approach which was not easily undone.

A lamp illuminated the open book. ‘I've found an alphabet which gives the key to this writing, so it won't be difficult to get the hang of it. I can exercise my brain – like being back at school, but with the lines going from right to left.'

He was as relaxed as a child with a new toy, as if the imbibing of a different script could change him fundamentally. A spark of mystery gave renewal of life, and put light back into his eyes. ‘It's like learning a secret language. There'll be nothing to it when I get a proper start.'

He closed the book. She found it easy to kiss him. ‘Secret from me? I'll learn it as well. But it's time to go to bed, unless you intend studying all night.'

‘You're right.'

She had disturbed him for no reason, when she should have left him peacefully at his task. He had a future, whereas she could see none, having jettisoned hers by leaving George. With George she'd had a perfect future, of calm and predictable days forming a congealed block of years that would go by until disease or old age carried them off hand in hand. Oh yes, there'd been a fine future there right enough. But she had broken free, and now had none at all, which at the moment she felt was the best kind of future to have.

Nor did she want any share of that which Tom might see for himself, preferring to live until a future formed for her – or not, as the case might well be – even if the desolation should become unbearable. And really, who
had
a future? At forty, as Edward once taunted her, ‘you're over the hill'. Only the young had a future, and then not for very long. After forty the shutters began to come down. The string that held them could wear through and snap any moment, leaving you in the dark for ever. At such an age you were lucky to have any life at all. Every day was a gift, every month a victory, but she didn't care, as long as she breathed, and had nerves to her fingertips. She had come back to life by crawling through a tunnel, and was more alive than when she had started the process. ‘Don't go to bed. Stay at your work.'

He stood. ‘I have all the time I need.'

‘Really?'

He smiled. ‘Life seems as if it'll go on for ever.'

She took his kisses. They were meaningless. ‘I don't need to feel that. I hope you do everything you want to do. If so I'll feel good knowing there's at least one person I'm acquainted with whose life is working out according to plan.'

She was alarmed at his optimism. He was scared by her lack of it. There were dangers that could affect them both. She drew her hand away. He wondered why, but she could not explain.

‘We need sleep,' he said. ‘A bit of the old cure-all of oblivion.'

No doubt he was right. She felt sickened and weighed down. ‘I'd like to be in a separate bed, if you don't mind.'

She fought not to mumble words of apology. Her deepest wish was to be alone. He could stay reading into the night. She found his disappointment unbearable because he knew too well how to conceal it.

‘You have the big bed, then,' he said, ‘and I'll use my old room.'

She ached to sleep with him, but it needed too crucial an act to change her mind. It would also break something she did not yet want broken, and extend their intimacy whether he wanted it or not. Things soonest done are never mended.

She fell asleep after the most wracking agony of tears. She was glad he couldn't hear. He did. He lay awake, trying to read, steeling himself against going in to give comfort. She wanted to be on her own, so to disturb her would be pure self-indulgence on his part. The muffled noise of sobbing made him realize that he was no longer alone in the world, and never would be again, so he wondered whether that was the reason for the sound being so precious, and the reason why he did not go in to comfort her and put an end to it. His last thought was that whatever the reasons, weeping was a bleeding of the spirit. People needed it. He understood perfectly, because he had never been able to do it.

5

She had taken a shower and dressed, and made breakfast. One minute she felt as if the flat was her own home, and the next she seemed like a trespasser waiting for the real owner to come back and say that if she didn't get out the police would be called. Such an idea made the morning interesting. The weather forecast promised dry, but cold.

She spread butter on the remaining pieces of bread, and set it with a mug of black coffee on a tray. There'd have to be shopping done, unless they ate out again, which would be more pleasant than staying among boxes spilling papers and dust all over the place.

He turned from his book as she opened the door. She was convinced he saw a strange woman. He had not even known someone else was in the flat. Distant noises came from underneath. Or she'd been hired to get his breakfast and clean up afterwards. If she had slept in his bed she would have been a slave from an agency with sex thrown in. Better to be mistaken for a servant than a
tart
. Wouldn't that be his word? She didn't care what anybody took her for.

‘This is more than I deserve, or expected.'

She kissed him and passed the coffee. ‘It's time you got out of bed and faced the day. There's clearing up to do.'

‘There aren't any trains to catch.'

When he got up to dress she saw that he wore the golden Star of David found in the box of his mother's belongings. Hanging at his chest it made him look like a swimmer about to put on his clothes and set off on an arduous dry-land trek. He treasured it like a talisman that would stop bullets or make wounds vanish. But she wanted to hear why he wore it.

‘As far as I could gather, it was the only wish my grandmother, and then my mother, had for me. I'm happy to wear it for them – which also means, of course, that I feel a need to wear it for myself.'

‘It looks good on you,' she said. ‘I like it.' He seemed less starkly conventional, more human. She thought that making love would bring them together before beginning the day, but he got into his pants and vest, then sat on the bed to eat breakfast.

‘I intended getting up early, but got lost in what I was doing. It's part of a sailor's pride not to turn into the sort of a man who can't look after himself, though I've never known a sailor who said no to being spoiled occasionally.'

‘Well, I'll do my best not to mummy you,' she said.

He looked at her, as if the more he knew her the more mysterious she would become. She decided it must be so, because she often looked at him in that way. She didn't like him ‘weighing her up' so obviously. She did it to him every moment they were together, which he no doubt found equally objectionable. He must smile inwardly at such times. Yet what did two people do if they weren't continually judging one another, and trying to find out what the other thought, or forming opinions which they wouldn't say aloud for fear the other might not like it? The mind raced with words unspoken and unspeakable. More often than not they looked at one another and said nothing, only giving an affectionate smile to signify a truce between their warlike curiosities when they caught each other out but knew they needed to stay friends, which she realized was essential, at any rate for her, while hoping he assumed it was beneficial for him.

The process of his dressing eliminated her thoughts. He put on a white shirt and did up each button beginning from the bottom. Her observation amused him. For order and neatness he took his time. He opened the wardrobe and brought out a pair of grey trousers, held them in both hands, and bent slightly to draw them on, covering the white scar on his lower leg which, he said, had been caused by a piece of shrapnel.

She hadn't seen a man dress for years. George had done so while she lay half asleep, sitting on the edge of the bed to get his trousers over his knees before standing to pull them to his waist.

Tom fastened his belt. ‘You haven't told me whether you're going to give me a hand in sorting out my affairs.' He pulled his socks on while standing up, then took a pair of brown shoes from under the bed. ‘The offer still stands.'

He probably polished them the night before. ‘I seem to be doing the job already.'

He stood at the mirror, and double-knotted his tie. ‘It's stupid of me to want the matter all wrapped up. Old habits are still dying too damned hard.'

‘Maybe if they do die there won't be much left,' she laughed. ‘You want to be careful!'

She felt herself trembling to kneel and tie his shoelaces. The physical check on going forward needed all her effort, and she coloured at the thought that he might have noticed. He glanced, then sat on the bed to fasten them himself.

‘If I'm to act as your secretary, general factotum, or willing runabout, I suggest we get the boxes you want to save back into the small room, and take the others to the dustbins. Don't throw anything away that you'll regret later. You've got plenty of storage space.'

The arrangement, with no definable boundaries, had many uncertainties, but after existing so long under the terms of a too rigid contract, such a state satisfied her. She could be everything to him, or nothing, just as she liked. She would have fled from a firmer liaison. The unknown force of any emotional ties would have to be dealt with sooner or later, but the undeniable fact was that she liked him, whether or not he was also laying down snares for her. As long as everything remained uncertain between them she was not afraid.

6

The weather promised dry. They bought picnic food and got on to a bus which took them beyond all buildings and traffic. She hadn't wanted to be left in the flat while he went to draw cash from his bank, and once in the fresh air he suggested they go on to the Downs and walk.

He held back so that she could come level. The sea was far off when they turned to look, a midday haze over the town. White gulls swooped the woods to their right as if to pounce on food. He liked the sound. They met ships far from land. The noise of gulls from the English coast had a distinctive sound. Their squawk was shriller, more demanding than in other places. They knew their rights, and would see that they got them. English gulls, sure enough – the epitome of the Australians' ‘wingeing Pom'. But they flew more gracefully, performed more subtle aerobatics, and if enough food weren't thrown over the side and sent bobbing around in the wake they shot-up the window of the wheelhouse and made the most unholy mess. That was English gulls for you, he said. They picked up their characters from the land they guarded, and from the air they breathed when reconnoitring Romney Marsh or the Sussex cliffs.

He talked all sorts of nonsense, she thought, glad because it saved her saying much. She felt happy at being with him in the winter landscape. From Ditchling Beacon they looked at sheep stippling the steep banks, and the village of Westmeston tucked at the foot of the hill, smoke coming straight up from cottage chimneys. There was a car parked nearby whose occupants had gone walking along the ridge. Inside another car were people eating so that, Pam said, they might just as well have stayed at home to watch the scenery on television. The tinny noise of a radio came from their metal tomb. She put an arm around him: ‘I'm hungry.'

‘For food?'

‘It's too cold for anything else.'

They ate sandwiches. ‘I haven't walked so far for a long time.'

‘At sea I used to pace the deck, and in empty moments dream of doing twenty miles a day or more with a rucksack, sleeping in inns or farms, going through Switzerland, or trekking from Land's End to John o' Groats. Probably my feet would pack in after a week, but I liked to think of moving under nobody's steam but my own. We must do it together.'