The Comfort of Strangers (7 page)

Mary leaped in the air and landed with her feet well apart. She stretched her trunk sideways until she could grasp her left ankle in her left hand. Her right was thrust in the air, and she looked along it, up at the ceiling. Colin dropped the nightie on the floor and lay down on his bed. Fifteen minutes passed before Mary retrieved it and put it on, arranged her hair in the bathroom mirror, and, with a wry smile at Colin, left the room.

She was picking her way slowly through a long gallery of treasures, heirlooms, a family museum in which a minimum of living space had been improvised round the exhibits, all ponderously ornate, unused and lovingly cared-for items of dark mahogany, carved and polished, splay-footed, and cushioned in velvet. Two grandfather clocks stood in a recess on her left, like sentinels, and ticked against each other. Even the smaller objects, stuffed birds in glass domes, vases, fruit bowls, lamp stands, inexplicable brass and cut-glass objects, appeared too heavy to lift, pressed into place by the weight of
time and lost histories. A set of three windows along the western wall cast the same orange bars now fading, but here the design was broken by worn patterned rugs. In the centre of the gallery were a large, polished dining-table, with matching high-backed chairs placed around it. At the end of this table were a telephone, a writing pad and a pencil. On the walls hung more than a dozen oil paintings, mostly portraits, a few yellowing landscapes. The portraits were uniformly dark; sombre clothes, muddy backgrounds against which the faces of the subjects glowed like moons. Two landscapes showed leafless trees, barely discernible, towering over dark lakes, on whose shores shadowy figures danced with raised arms.

At the end of the gallery were two doors, one of which they had entered by; they were disproportionately small, unpanelled and painted white, and the impression they gave was of a grand mansion divided into flats. Mary stopped in front of a sideboard which stood against the wall between two of the windows, a monstrosity of reflecting surfaces whose every drawer had a brass knob in the shape of a woman’s head. All the drawers she tried were locked. Carefully arranged on top was a display of personal but ostentatious items: a tray of silver-backed men’s hair- and clothes-brushes, a decorated china shaving-bowl, several cut-throat razors arranged in a fan, a row of pipes in an ebony rack, a riding crop, a fly swat, a gold tinder-box, a watch on a chain. On the wall behind this display were sporting prints, mostly horses racing, their front and back legs splayed, the riders top-hatted.

Mary had wandered the entire length of the gallery – making detours round the larger items, stopping to stare into a gilt-framed mirror – before she was aware of the most prominent feature. Sliding glass doors on the eastern wall gave on to a long balcony. From where she stood the light from the chandeliers made it difficult to see into the semidarkness outside, but a great profusion of flowering plants was just visible, and creepers, small trees in tubs and, Mary held her breath, a small pale face watching her from the shadows, a disembodied face, for the night sky and the room’s reflections in the glass made it impossible to see
clothes or hair. It continued to stare at her, unblinking, a perfectly oval face; then it moved backwards and sideways into the shadows and disappeared. Mary exhaled noisily. The reflected room shook as the glass doors opened. A young woman, her hair tied back severely, stepped a little stiffly into the room and extended her hand. ‘Come outside,’ she said. ‘It’s pleasanter.’

A few stars had already broken through a sky of bruised pastels, and yet it was easy enough to make out the sea, the mooring poles, and even the dark outlines of the cemetery island. Directly below the balcony, forty feet down, was a deserted courtyard. The concentrated mass of potted flowers gave off a penetrating fragrance, almost sickly. The woman lowered herself into a canvas chair with a little gasp of pain.

‘It is beautiful,’ she said, as though Mary had spoken. ‘I spend as much time as possible out here.’ Mary nodded. The balcony extended about half the length of the room. ‘My name is Caroline. Robert’s wife.’

Mary shook her hand, introduced herself and sat down in a chair facing her. A small white table separated them, and on it was a single biscuit on a plate. In the flowering ivy that covered the wall behind them a cricket was singing. Again, Caroline stared at Mary as though she herself could not be seen; her eyes moved steadily from Mary’s hair, to her eyes, to her mouth, and on down to where the table obstructed her view.

‘Is it yours?’ Mary said, fingering the sleeve of the nightdress.

The question appeared to bring Caroline out of a day-dream. She sat up in her chair, folded her hands in her lap and crossed her legs, as though adopting an advised posture for conversation. When she spoke, her tone was forced, pitched a little higher than before. ‘Yes, I made it myself sitting out here. I like embroidery.’

Mary complimented her on her work, and there followed a silence in which Caroline appeared to struggle to find something to say. With a nervous start she registered Mary’s passing glance at the biscuit and immediately she was holding the plate out to her. ‘Please take it.’

‘Thank you.’ Mary tried to eat the biscuit slowly.

Caroline watched her anxiously. ‘You must be hungry. Would you like something to eat?’

‘Yes please.’

But Caroline did not stir immediately. Instead she said, ‘I’m sorry Robert isn’t here. He asked me to apologize. He’s gone to his bar. On business, of course. A new manager starts tonight.’

Mary looked up from the empty plate. ‘His bar?’

With great difficulty Caroline began to rise, speaking through evident pain. She shook her head when Mary offered help. ‘He owns a bar. It’s a kind of hobby, I guess. It’s the place he took you to.’

‘He never mentioned he owned it,’ Mary said.

Caroline picked up the plate and walked to the door. When she got there she had to turn her whole body to look at Mary. She said neutrally, ‘You know more about it than I do, I’ve never been there.’

She returned fifteen minutes later with a small wicker basket heaped with sandwiches, and two glasses of orange juice. She edged on to the balcony and allowed Mary to take the tray from her. Mary remained standing while Caroline eased herself into her chair.

‘Have you hurt your back?’

But Caroline said simply, pleasantly, ‘Eat, and leave some for your friend.’ Then she added rapidly, ‘Are you fond of your friend?’

‘Colin, you mean,’ Mary said.

Caroline spoke cautiously, her face tensed as though she expected at any moment a loud explosion. ‘I hope you don’t mind. There’s something I should tell you. It’s only fair. You see, I came in and looked at you while you were sleeping. I sat on the trunk about half an hour. I hope you’re not angry.’

Mary swallowed and said, uncertainly, ‘No.’

Caroline appeared suddenly younger. She played with her fingers like an embarrassed teenager. ‘I thought it was better to tell you. I don’t want you to feel I was spying on you. You don’t think that, do you?’

Mary shook her head. Caroline’s voice was barely above a
whisper. ‘Colin is very beautiful. Robert said he was. You are too, of course.’

Mary continued to eat sandwiches, one after another, her eyes fixed on Caroline’s hands.

Caroline cleared her throat. ‘I expect you think I’m mad, as well as rude. Are you in love?’

Mary had eaten half the sandwiches and one or two more. ‘Well, yes, I do love him, but perhaps you mean something different by “in love”.’ She looked up. Caroline was waiting for her to go on. ‘I’m not obsessed by him, if that’s what you mean, by his body, the way I was when I first met him. But I trust him. He’s my closest friend.’

Caroline spoke excitedly, more child than teenager. ‘By “in love” I mean that you’d do anything for the other person, and …’ She hesitated. Her eyes were extraordinarily bright. ‘And you’d let them do anything to you.’

Mary relaxed in her chair and cradled her empty glass. ‘Anything’s a rather big word.’

Caroline spoke defiantly. Her small hands were clenched. ‘If you are in love with someone, you would even be prepared to let them kill you, if necessary.’

Mary took yet another sandwich. ‘Necessary?’

Caroline had not heard. ‘That’s what I mean by “in love”,’ she said triumphantly.

Mary pushed the sandwiches out of her own reach. ‘And presumably you’d be prepared to kill the person you’re “in love” with.’

‘Oh yes, if I was the man I would.’

‘The man?’

But Caroline lifted her forefinger theatrically and cocked her head. ‘I heard something,’ she whispered, and began to struggle out of her chair.

The door swung open and Colin stepped rather cautiously on to the balcony, holding a small white hand towel round his waist.

‘This is Caroline, Robert’s wife,’ Mary said. ‘This is Colin.’

When they shook hands, Caroline’s gaze was fixed on Colin the way it had been on Mary. Colin’s was on the remaining sandwiches. ‘Pull up a chair,’ Caroline said,
indicating a folding canvas chair further along the balcony. Colin sat down between them with his back to the sea, and one hand on his waist to keep his towel in place. Watched closely by Caroline, he ate the sandwiches. Mary turned her chair away a little so she could watch the sky. For a while no one spoke. Colin finished his orange juice and tried to catch Mary’s eye. Then Caroline, again self-consciously conversational, asked Colin if he was enjoying his stay. ‘Yes,’ he answered, and smiled at Mary, ‘except we keep getting lost.’

There followed another short silence. Then Caroline made them jump by exclaiming loudly, ‘Of course! Your clothes. I forgot. I washed and dried them. They’re in the locked cupboard in your bathroom.’

Mary did not take her eyes off the multiplying stars. ‘That was very kind of you.’

Caroline smiled at Colin. ‘You know, I thought you’d turn out to be a quiet sort of person.’

Colin tried to rearrange his towel across his lap. ‘You heard of me before then?’

‘Caroline came in and watched us while we were asleep,’ Mary explained, her tone carefully level.

‘Are you an American?’ Colin inquired politely.

‘Canadian, please.’

Colin nodded briskly, as though the difference was significant.

Caroline suppressed a giggle, and held up a small key. ‘Robert is very keen for you to stop and have dinner with us. He told me not to let you have your clothes until you’d agreed.’ Colin laughed politely and Mary stared while Caroline swung the key between her forefinger and thumb. ‘Well, I’m very hungry,’ Colin said, looking at Mary who said to Caroline, ‘I prefer to have my clothes first, and then decide.’

‘That’s exactly what I think, but Robert insisted.’ She became suddenly serious and, leaning forward, placed her hand on Mary’s arm. ‘Please say you’ll stay. We get so few visitors.’ She was pleading with them, her eyes moving between Colin’s face and Mary’s. ‘I’d be so happy if you said yes. We eat very well here, I promise you.’ And then she
added, ‘If you don’t stay Robert will blame me. Please say yes.’

‘Come on, Mary,’ Colin said. ‘Let’s stay.’

‘Please!’ There was ferocity in Caroline’s voice. Mary looked up startled and the two women stared across the table at each other. Mary nodded, and Caroline, exclaiming with delight, tossed the key to her.

T
HE FURTHEST STARS
of the Milky Way were visible, not as a scattering of fine dust, but as distinct points of light which made the brighter constellations appear uncomfortably close. The very darkness was tangible, warm and cloying. Mary clasped her hands behind her head and watched the sky, and Caroline sat forward eagerly, her gaze moving proudly between Mary’s face and the heavens, as though she were personally responsible for their grandeur. ‘I spend hours out here.’ She seemed to wheedle for praise, but Mary did not even blink.

Colin took the key from the table and stood up. ‘I’d feel better’, he said, ‘if I was wearing more than this.’ He gathered up the little towel where it had exposed his thigh.

When he had gone Caroline said, ‘Isn’t it sweet, when men are shy?’

Mary remarked on the clarity of the stars, on how rarely one saw a night sky from a city. Her tone was deliberate and even.

Caroline sat still, appearing to wait for the last echoes of small talk to fade completely before saying, ‘How long have you known Colin?’

‘Seven years,’ Mary said, and without turning towards Caroline, went on to describe how her children, whose sexes, ages and names she explained in rapid parentheses, were both fascinated by stars, how they could name over a dozen constellations while she could name only one, Orion, whose giant form now straddled the sky before them, his sheathed sword as bright as his far-flung limbs.

Caroline glanced briefly at that portion of sky, and placed
her hand on Mary’s wrist and said, ‘You make a very striking pair, if you don’t mind me saying. Both so finely built, almost like twins. Robert says you aren’t married. Do you live together then?’

Mary folded her arms and looked at Caroline at last. ‘No, we don’t.’

Caroline had withdrawn her hand and stared at where it lay in her lap as though it were no longer her own. Her small face, made so geometrically oval by the surrounding darkness and the arrangement of her drawn-back hair, was featureless in its regularity, innocent of expression, without age. Her eyes, nose, mouth, skin, all might have been designed in committee to meet the barest requirements of feasibility. Her mouth, for example, was no more than the word suggested, a moving, lipped slit beneath her nose. She glanced up from her lap and found herself staring into Mary’s eyes; she let her gaze fall instantly to the ground between them and continued her questions as before. ‘And what do you do, for a living I mean.’

‘I used to work in the theatre.’

‘An actress!’ This idea stirred Caroline. She bent awkwardly in her chair, as though it pained her to keep her back straight, or to relax it.

Mary was shaking her head. ‘I was working for a women’s theatre group. We did quite well for three years, and now we’ve broken up. Too many arguments.’