Making Things Better (10 page)

A knock at the door startled him. Hastily he shovelled the photographs into a drawer of his desk, where he imagined they would remain until he decided to dispose of them. He did not think he would look at them again.

‘Laura! How nice. Do come in. A glass of wine?'

Mrs Beddington was not a frequent visitor, not even a particularly welcome one, since she usually asked him to perform some service for her, to regulate the burglar alarm, or to take in and store in his flat a bulky and inconvenient package if the postman called before she had left her home in St John's Wood. Although Herz, like most men, craved a female presence, he would have liked to design that female presence for himself, would have chosen something sweet-natured and indulgent, whereas after an initial meeting he had recognized Mrs Beddington as entirely self-centred. This was borne out by her conversation, which was one-sided. She had many complaints, most of which were directed against people he did not know, but he recognized the tone: anyone who failed to satisfy her demands was demonized. He supposed she had employed this technique against her two husbands, ‘both scoundrels', she had affirmed, though with a reminiscent smile. She was a handsome woman, with a powerful presence. He supposed that she had been even more handsome as a girl. Now her darkly dyed hair added harshness to an expression which was always less than accommodating.

He was normally acquiescent to her demands, having nothing better to do. He was aware that she saw him as something less than a man, but useful for her purposes, which were far-reaching. As far as he knew she was a successful businesswoman, although he had seen few people in the shop, few customers, that is, since her sister seemed to be there every morning, engaging her in leisurely conversation, in the course of which both wore identical expressions of disgust. The absence of customers did not surprise him. This he put down to what was on offer in the window, two or three confections of alarming formality, silk trousers and embroidered tunics in violent shades of turquoise or viridian, unlikely to appeal to any woman under sixty, and designed to ensnare a younger lover, one impressed by the only asset such a woman would have to offer: opulence. He had to concede that the girls in the workroom did a highly professional job with the embellishments, though these tended to glitter in the morning sun and looked somewhat out of place in the mild surroundings of Chiltern Street. He could not imagine any woman of his acquaintance being tempted to make such a purchase. Even trying on one of these outfits would be burdensome.

‘What can I do for you, Laura?' he asked. His hand stole to his breast pocket; the photographs had upset him. At the same time he knew he was not quite ready to throw them away.

‘I've come to warn you, Julius, I'm retiring.'

Though this did not in the least concern him, as she obviously thought it should, he felt a certain unease. He did not welcome change.

‘Retiring? What made you decide? You're hardly of an age . . .'

‘Oh, I know I still look pretty good—you have to in this business. But I'm tired, Julius. I've worked hard all my life, survived two divorces; I deserve a bit of a break. I've sold the shop, by the way, and the workroom. That's already let, to a young woman. So you'll have a new neighbour.'

‘Come to think of it I haven't heard the girls recently. I assumed they were on holiday.'

She laughed. ‘Girls like that don't go on holiday. Most of them are here illegally anyway. They were only too glad to find a job. And I think you'll agree that their working conditions were pleasant.'

‘What will happen to them?'

‘I've no idea. I did what I could for them. Now they're on their own.'

‘And the shop?'

‘Well, that might concern you. I've sold it to an outfit selling radios and televisions. Part of a chain.' She mentioned a series of initials which meant nothing to him. ‘So it might not be as quiet as you've been used to. But there you are; I had the offer and I took it. I'm treating myself to a cruise, treating my sister as well. She's been having a few problems with her marriage, so I'm taking her to the Bahamas. Have you been? No, I suppose not. Just the two of us. We should have a whale of a time.'

‘Will this changeover affect me? Apart from the noise, that is?' He imagined an open street door, different programmes on different television sets, mesmerized assistants indifferent to the building's tenants, principally to himself, and passers-by agglomerating outside the window to watch five minutes of a football match. He fancied he could already hear the roar of the crowd.

‘You've got a lease, haven't you?'

‘It has only three years left to run,' he said, with a feeling of dread. He had been here, he realized, for five peaceful years. The flat had represented a new beginning when he had first seen it. That new beginning had not materialized, or rather it had materialized into an eventless existence which he had had to fashion for himself. This had not been entirely unrewarding, although without the kind of passionate engagement that he found he still desired. Now that it might be threatened he felt his latent attachment to the place ready to burst forth, to proclaim his right to remain in exactly the same circumstances that had appealed to him at the outset of this particular adventure.

‘I expect you can negotiate a new lease. Who's your solicitor?'

‘A friend.'

‘Mind you, it'll cost you something. A new lease is bound to cost more than the old one. I wonder you don't move a bit further out, find somewhere with a bit of a garden.' She picked up her keys and her bag. ‘You'll work something out,' she said vaguely. ‘Life's too short to worry about what might happen in the next few years.'

‘Don't go, Laura. Tell me more about this new tenant. My neighbour.'

‘Young woman. Calls herself a consultant. Rather an offhand manner. Good-looking, if you like that style.' In her eyes bloomed a sudden hatred for any woman younger than herself. It was easy to imagine her on her cruise, getting changed in the evenings into one of the harem outfits that had not made the shop's fortune. She would carry off the lot, and devise a way of life to suit them. He did not quite see what this would be like, but was able to imagine far-flung holidays in ever more exotic surroundings. She would acquire a bronze patina, lighten her hair; her voice would darken, her nails grow longer. She would devote her time to her appearance, yet gradually lose the air of hauteur that she had worn in the shop, would acquire cronies like herself, laugh heartily and scornfully at everyone and everything. She would be on the lookout for a man, would not much care if he drank too much, since she might drink too much herself. Herz sincerely regretted the dignified, even forbidding presence he was used to seeing through the windows of the shop.

Women aged as best they could, he supposed. He had not given the matter much thought. But age was a grievous business for everyone. The only woman he knew who had survived it with indifference was Josie, yet the years of her greatest anxiety were still to come. Fanny he imagined unchanged since girlhood, since her fifteenth year. Even in Nyon, pale and compact, she had retained something of her youth, or that was how he saw her. She was iconic, as some women seemed to be; that was their abiding attraction. It was an uncommon distinction, and one not easily come by, conferred on them by others, by popular approval, so that they need do little to justify it. It was precisely Fanny's unaltered opinion of herself that made her impervious to the opinions of others. It was an enviable capacity, or rather incapacity. What had been in her heart he had never known.

‘A consultant, did you say? A doctor?'

‘No. Some sort of new job they all seem to have these days. Name of Clay. She might advise you. I'm not leaving till the end of the month, so you'll see me around. After that, who knows? Who knows about anything, come to that?'

After he had shown her out he sat once more at his desk, with his head in his hands. There was no way in which he would relinquish this flat, although it no longer gratified him. He supposed that he could find another, which at this stage of his life would probably do as well. But if he decided to stay his peace would be shattered by the noise from the shop and the comings and goings of a stranger. What disturbed him was the prospect of turning once more into a suppliant, a petitioner. And he suspected arrangements over which he might have no control. The new tenant would have a more advantageous lease. The world might once again turn into a conspiracy, as perhaps it always had been. He had three years left to him. The thought that he might die in the meantime was no longer a threat. It now presented itself as a guarantee of his safekeeping.

10

‘I'm glad you phoned,' he said. ‘I should have phoned you anyway sooner or later, booked you for lunch . . .'

‘I didn't want lunch,' she said. ‘I haven't got much time. That's why I suggested we meet here.'

‘Here' was the Bluebird café in the King's Road, less distance for her to come from Wandsworth, and less crowded than their usual restaurant.

‘I didn't bring the car,' she said. ‘I walked.'

‘Walked? It's quite a distance.'

‘I needed time to think. I've got a lot on my mind, Julius.'

She did indeed look newly thoughtful. She had made an effort to smarten up her appearance, wore a tweed suit which might have been fashionable some fifteen years previously. On the lapel of her jacket he was pleased yet somewhat surprised to see the garnet brooch he had given her on their wedding day. This added to a new impression of maturity, as if she had studied how other women looked when they wanted to give an impression of seriousness. Even her hair was disciplined into some kind of order. She gazed beyond him, as if lost in thoughts of her own, ignoring her coffee.

‘Is anything wrong, Josie?'

‘In a way. Changed, certainly. I'm leaving, Julius. I'm leaving London.'

‘Where are you going to?'

‘I'm going home to Maidstone. To my mother. She's not well. She's eighty-six, Julius, and she lives alone. Apart from a neighbour there's no one to look after her. And I'm all she's got. So I'm going home to take care of her.'

‘But your work? Tom?'

She sighed. ‘I'm too old for any of it. I'll miss the work, but I'm probably past my best. In due course I may start up something of my own. But I doubt it somehow.'

‘What does Tom say to all of this?'

‘He'll replace me, of course. Both at home and at work. Tom is still a good-looking man. You knew he was younger than me?'

‘I didn't know that, no.'

‘Seven years. They don't matter at the beginning, but as you get on . . . And I wasn't happy.'

‘I thought . . .'

‘No,' she said fiercely. ‘I wanted what other women had. A home of my own. I wanted children. Did you know that? Not that there was any possibility in your set-up.'

‘I'm sorry.'

‘Oh, it's too late for any of that now. Mother will leave me the house when she dies. At least I'll have that. A woman without assets is in a hopeless position.'

‘I suppose it's always a good idea to be independent. That's what other women seem to want these days. Isn't that the feminist position?'

‘I don't go along with all they say. It makes sense, that's all I know. But there's more to it than that. Women aren't good on their own. It's easier for men.'

‘I don't think it is, you know. Men are vulnerable.'

‘I've seen them at it. They make up their minds pretty quickly when they want something.'

This he knew to be true, and was anxious to change the subject. He would have liked a brief interval in which to contemplate the matter. With the ruthlessness of a man in the grip of a new obsession he would have welcomed an opportunity to discuss his feelings, which were unexplained and almost unwelcome, but enlivening, fascinating. He felt for them as fondly as a parent, knowing that if he were to turn his back on them he would be forgoing something in the nature of a gift. After a lifetime of fidelity he glimpsed the ravishing possibility of abandoning his high standards and surrendering to the spirit of improvidence, of subversion, the spirit which he supposed moved most men and which, he now saw, he had been unwise to ignore.

‘What will you do for money?' he asked.

‘I've made Tom agree to give me an allowance until . . . Well, Mother might have a bit put by.' She paused.

‘If I can help . . .'

‘Thank you, Julius. I knew you'd say that. You were always very good about money. It's just until I find my feet, work out how much I'll have to live on.'

‘Yes, of course. I'll do what I can. Although I should warn you that I may not be able to do this for more than a couple of years. My lease is running out; I shall have to negotiate a new one. If I stay, that is.' But he knew that he would, that there were now compelling reasons for staying.

‘You don't want to move at your age. I don't much want to move myself.'

‘I still like the flat, although I took it in a hurry, didn't much care where I was as long as I was on my own. But it's beginning to change. There's a new business on the ground floor, and it threatens to become noisy. And I have a new neighbour, though I don't know her very well. Sophie Clay,' he said, for the pleasure of pronouncing her name. ‘I'll let you have a new address, of course. You'd better give me yours. When will I see you again? You'll come up to town, I suppose?'

‘I don't know that I will. There comes a time in a woman's life when she no longer wants to make an effort, wants to let her hair go, wear comfortable shoes, stop trying to attract men. And yet there's a sadness in this. You lose a future. I've noticed this in women who give up. Men seem to go on for longer. You see quite old men looking at younger women as if they still had something to offer. The men, I mean.'

‘Women have been known to take advantage of this.'

‘Only the clever ones. Most women want love.'

‘I loved you, Josie.'

‘I know you did. It made me happy at first. But . . .'

‘I know, I know. The past makes me angry too. I'm only glad we can meet like this from time to time. We seem to get on better now. I can't bring myself to think I shan't see you.'

‘I'll miss you too.'

He saw that she would, would miss the status he had once conferred on her, the assurance that she had fulfilled a destiny no less precious for being entirely ordinary, would miss the public advertisement that she had succeeded, when there were times of doubt, of failing nerve, even of loneliness. As a young woman she had seemed determined, practical. Above all, practical. He had thought she had approached their marriage in a spirit of pragmatism, tired as she was of being condemned to the society of women in that small shared flat. Now he saw that although this was undoubtedly the case she was not entirely immune to self-questioning, had pondered the tedious mantras in the women's magazines, had filled in the questionnaires, and had found that she was largely in agreement with the majority view, that it was all a matter of striving, of trying very hard, and sometimes without success, until that day when personal triumph could be confirmed and proclaimed to the world. That this view had probably been shared by his mother, and even by his grandmother, he did not doubt. That disappointment could follow that moment of triumph he also knew. But the moment was essential. Even he could see that.

Men, he thought, married for different reasons, weighed up similar backgrounds, looked for someone suitable, or were driven by the need to establish themselves. Yet he was willing to believe that men fell in love more often, and sometimes more disruptively. His own case, which a lingering sense of decency prevented him from making clear, was evidence of that. He was chivalrous enough to know that he must not discuss it, and had been alone too long not to be aware of the drastic loss of dignity involved were he to do so. Yet other men were no good for this purpose, and the lack of a proper confidant could lead to foolish indiscretions. He was not to be allowed the luxury of displaying his feelings for another woman to the woman who had once been his wife, with all that that signified. There was even a certain self-righteousness in knowing that he had not given way to this particular impulse. At the same time he would have liked to examine his emotional state in a rather more permissive setting than this half-empty café on a bleak mid-morning in weather that was growing colder by the day. This was not easy for either of them, but he thought he had the better part. He would hand Josie all his worldly goods, and think the price worth paying, if in exchange he could enjoy this new perspective without censure. He was sufficiently alert to know that censure would be forthcoming, and not from Josie alone. If that audience he had once craved knew of his disposition the mockery would be unending. He was honour bound to conceal it. Disclosure was not an option.

His most precious secret, and one that he must keep to himself, was that after years of inanition he was able once again to feel desire. He doubted whether any woman could appreciate this fact, this unexpected gift. He understood for the first time that the world was not a well-ordered place in which one was bidden to do one's best, but an arena of anarchy, of impulses that ran counter to the public good, and that men and women were divided into those who shared this knowledge and those who merely failed the test. He looked with distaste at religious precepts designed to impose shackles, to curb freedoms which were an inherent part of the human personality. He marvelled at the fact of being able once more to appreciate physical beauty, so that the face of a stranger would give him pleasure, as if he might partake of that same pleasure with another. That there was as yet no recipient for these new untethered feelings did not greatly disturb him. It was enough to know that there was an agent to reassure him that they were not mere fantasy.

He saw Josie looking at him speculatively. He laughed, blushed, drank his cold coffee. ‘Sorry, was I woolgathering? I've had a lot on my mind. This business of the lease . . .'

‘What's the problem? You can afford it, can't you?'

‘I don't know. That precisely is the problem, as you call it. I get a bit anxious sometimes. I don't want to move, probably shan't. But I'm not proof against changes. No one is. Oh, I daresay I'll manage. But what about you? How will you live?'

‘Well, I'll have a house of my own eventually. I'll probably find some work.'

‘Anything in mind?'

‘Ideally I'd like to start a nursing-home. I am a nurse, after all.'

‘That would take a great deal of money,' he said gently.

‘Oh, don't worry, I'm not looking to you. It's good of you to offer to tide me over.'

‘If anything happens to me get in touch with Bernard Simmonds. He's living in the Hilltop Road flat. Funny how that place never seems to go out of the family. He's my solicitor. He'll know where to find me. If I move, that is.'

There was a silence. Idly he watched waiters laying the tables for lunch. At the back of his mind was a suspicion that he had not done Josie full justice, and that she was aware of this. She had come to their meeting prepared for a serious discussion about money, and had instead met with speedy, even careless acquiescence. Nor could he give her his full attention. He had mislaid his earlier desire to make things better, had done what was required of him, and was prepared to leave it at that. He could see that Josie was not entirely happy with his reactions. He could also see that she was unhappy on a more general level, and that he should endeavour to discover the reason. Her decision to leave had conferred on her a certain dignity. Yet that dignity had more to do with renunciation than with the immediate cause of her mother's failing health.

‘What is it, Josie?' he asked quietly.

She smiled sadly. ‘It never goes away, does it?'

‘I'm sorry?'

‘That longing to be with another person.'

‘Not with me, I take it.'

‘No, no, not with you. Not even with Tom. There's a man who comes into the office. We have a drink from time to time. Married, of course. Yet we get on so well . . .' She broke off. ‘You don't want to hear this.'

‘Why not stand your ground? See what comes of it?'

‘Look at me, Julius. I'm old. I might as well accept it. What surprises me is that I could still feel hope, look forward to seeing him, perhaps no more than that. I couldn't undress for any man now. As I say, I accept it. Mother's illness may have been the jolt I needed. Once the decision was made I realized that it had saved me from a lot of uncertainty. Humiliation, perhaps. I still have my dignity.'

‘I admire you for it. I know how unwelcome one's dignity can be.'

‘So you think I'm right?'

‘Probably. I also know what you mean. Keeping one's dignity is a lonely business. And how one longs to let it go.' This was perhaps unwise. ‘When shall I see you again?'

‘I don't know. I'll give you a ring from time to time, just to make contact.'

‘When will you leave?'

‘Next weekend. And there'll be plenty to do before then.'

She picked up her bag. ‘I won't say goodbye, though that is probably what it is. Take care. Think of me sometimes.'

‘You're part of my life, Josie, always will be.' He knew this to be true, was affected, as she was. They embraced with more warmth than they were accustomed to show. He watched her walk away, saw her bent head, then turned resolutely in the opposite direction.

She was right: dignity was important. But so was the impulse to get rid of it, as he knew from his recent awakening. This fugitive vision of what he thought of as a pagan world was both liberating and disturbing. It had to do with sex, even with the contemplation of sex, and yet he preferred to think of it as love, as pictured in ancient times, or perhaps simply as free will, though will had little enough to do with it. He knew that he was in danger of losing his head, may have already lost it, but submitted to the experience, even welcomed it. He felt newly re-admitted to the world of men, though his position was more properly that of eunuch or palace servant. Ever since the monotony of his days had been miraculously lightened by the advent of Sophie Clay he had been newly made aware of phenomena which he had hitherto taken for granted: movement, sights and sounds, the weather, faces to which he had grown accustomed and into which he read a new friendliness. He told himself that his interest in her was entirely innocent, that he was being given the chance of living life vicariously as a young person. That this young person was a woman did not particularly matter, since it was the power of her youth that beguiled him: the life force, he told himself, still this side of reassurance. Her arrival had been as spectacular as an apparition. A crash on the stairs had sent him out of his flat, thinking that someone had broken in. He had found a heavy bag barring his way, followed by the entrance of two young people, a man and a woman. He had time to notice that both were extremely good-looking and more than a little alike: he put them down as brother and sister, but a brother and sister from some legend or other, vaguely incestuous. He had offered his help, had dragged the bag into the downstairs flat, had straightened himself, trying not to notice his breathlessness, had put out his hand and introduced himself. Julius Herz, he had said; we are neighbours, I believe. Sophie Clay, she had replied. And this is Jamie. Your brother? he had asked. They had both laughed.