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.
6
THE 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.’
Caroline was frowning, ‘Women’s the
atre? … Only actresses?’
‘Some of us wanted to bring in men, at least from time to time. The others wanted to keep it the way it was, pure. That’s what broke us up in the end.’
‘A play with only women? I don’t understand how that could work. I mean, what could happen?’
Mary laughed. ‘Happen?’ she repeated. ‘Happen?’
Caroline was waiting for an explanation. Mary lowered her voice, and spoke with her hand partly covering her mouth as though to erase a smile. ‘Well, you could have a play about two women who have only just met sitting on a balcony talking.’
Caroline brightened. ‘Oh yes. But they’re probably waiting for a man.’ She glanced at her wrist-watch. ‘When he arrives they’ll stop talking and go indoors. Something will happen …’ Caroline was suddenly convulsed by giggles; it would have been laughter if she had not suppressed it so firmly; she steadied herself against the chair, and attempted to keep her mouth closed. Mary nodded seriously and averted her eyes. Then, with a sharp intake of breath, Caroline was still again.
‘Well anyway,’ Mary said, ‘I’m out of a job.’
Caroline was twisting her spine this way and that; all positions seemed to pain her. Mary asked if she could fetch a cushion, but Caroline shook her head curtly, and said, ‘It hurts when I laugh.’ When Mary asked the cause of the trouble, Caroline shook her head and closed her eyes.
Mary returned to her former position, and looked at the stars and the lights of the fishing boats. Caroline inhaled noisily and rapidly through her nose. Then, after several minutes, when she was breathing more easily, Mary said, ‘You’re right in a way, of course. Most of the best parts are written for men, on stage and off. We played men when we needed to. It worked best in cabaret, when we were sending them up. We even did an all-woman Hamlet once. It was quite a success.’
‘Hamlet?’ Caroline said the word as if it were new to her. She glanced over her shoulder. ‘I never read it. I haven’t seen a play since I was at school.’ As she spoke more lights came on in the gallery behind them, and the balcony was suddenly illuminated through the glass doors, and divided by lines of deep shadow. ‘Isn’t it the one with the ghost?’ Mary nodded. She was listening to footsteps which had passed the length of the gallery, and which now stopped abruptly. She did not turn round to look. Caroline was watching her. ‘And someone locked up in a convent?’
Mary shook her head. The footsteps started, and stopped immediately. A chair scraped and there was a succession of metallic sounds such as cutlery makes. ‘There is a ghost,’ she said vaguely. ‘And a convent, but we never see it.’
Caroline was struggling out of her chair. She was just on her feet as Robert stepped neatly before them and made a little bow. Caroline gathered up the tray and edged past him. They exchanged no greetings, and Robert did not step aside for her. He was smiling at Mary, and they both listened to the irregular steps recede across the gallery floor. A door opened and closed and all was silent.
Robert was wearing the clothes they had seen him in the night before, and the same piercing aftershave. A trick of shadow made him seem even squatter. He put his hands behind his back and, taking a couple of paces towards Mary, inquired politely whether she and Colin had slept well. There followed a succession of pleasantries: Mary admired the flat, and the view from the balcony; Robert explained that the whole house had once belonged to his grandfather, and that when he inherited it he had divided it into five luxury flats, and now lived off the income. He pointed to the cemetery island and said that his grandfather and father were buried there, side by side. Then Mary, indicating the cotton nightdress, stood up and said she felt she ought to dress. He handed her through the door, and guided her towards the great dining-room table, insisting that first she drink a glass of champagne with him. Four deep glasses on tall, pink-tinted stems were arranged on a silver tray around the champagne bottle. Just then Colin appeared through the bedroom door at the far end of the gallery, and walked towards them. They stood at the corner of the table and watched as he approached.
Colin was renewed. He had shampooed his hair and shaved. His clothes were cleaned and ironed. His spotless white shirt had received special attention, and fitted him like never before. His black jeans clung to his legs like tights. He walked towards them slowly, with an embarrassed smile, conscious of their attention. His curls were dark and shone under the chandeliers.
‘You look well,’ Robert said when Colin was still several feet away, and added frankly, ‘Like an angel.’
Mary was grinning. From the kitchen came the clatter of plates. She repeated Robert’s sentence softly, stressing each word. ‘You … look … well,’ and took his hand. Colin laughed.
Robert released the cork and as the white foam burst from the bottle’s narrow neck, he turned his head to one side and called Caroline’s name sharply. She appeared immediately at one of the white doors, and took her place at Robert’s side, facing the guests. As they raised their glasses she said quietly, ‘To Colin and Mary’, emptied her glass in rapid gulps, and returned to the kitchen.
Mary excused herself and, as soon as the doors at each end of the gallery had closed, Robert refilled Colin’s glass and steered him gently by the elbow round the furniture to a place where they could walk the gallery’s length unimpeded. Without quite releasing Colin’s elbow, Robert explained various aspects of his father’s and grandfather’s possessions; a famous cabinet-maker had constructed this priceless corner table with its unique inlay – they had stopped in front of it, and Robert ran his hand over its surface – for his grandfather in return for a legal service that had rescued the reputation of the craftsman’s daughter; how the murky paintings on the wall – first collected by his grandfather – were connected with certain famous schools, and how it had been shown by his father that certain brush-strokes were undeniably those of a master, no doubt shaping the course of an acolyte’s work. This – Robert had picked up a small, grey replica of a famous cathedral – was made of lead from a unique mine in Switzerland. Colin had to hold the model in two hands. Robert’s grandfather, he learned, had several shares in the mine, which was soon exhausted but whose lead was unlike any other in the world. The statuette, formed from one of the last pieces to be dug from the mine, had been commissioned by his father. They moved on, Robert’s hand touching, but not quite gripping, Colin’s elbow. This was grandfather’s seal, these were his opera glasses, also used by father, through which both men had witnessed the first nights of, or the memorable performances of – and here Robert listed several operas, sopranos and tenors. Colin nodded and, initially at least, prompted him with interested questions. But it was not necessary. Robert was guiding him towards a small, carved mahogany bookcase. It held father’s and grandfather’s favourite novels. All these books were first editions and bore the mark of a distinguished bookseller. Did Colin know the shop? Colin said he had heard of the place. Robert had brought him to the sideboard against the wall between two windows. Robert set down his glass and let his hands drop to his sides. He stood in silence, head bowed as if in prayer. Respectfully, Colin stood a few feet off and regarded the objects which suggested a memory game played at children’s parties.
Robert cleared his throat and said: ‘These are things my father used every day.’ He paused; Colin watched him anxiously. ‘Small things.’ Once again a silence; Colin combed his hair with his fingers and Robert stared intently at the brushes, pipes and razors.
When at last they moved on Colin said lightly, ‘Your father is very important to you.’ They arrived once more at the dining-table, by the champagne bottle which Robert emptied into their glasses. Then he ushered Colin towards one of the leather armchairs, but he himself remained standing in such a way that Colin had to turn uncomfortably into the light of the chandelier to see his face.
Robert adopted the tone of one who explains the self-obvious to a child. ‘My father and his father understood themselves clearly. They were men, and they were proud of their sex. Women understood
them too.’ Robert emptied his glass and added, ‘There was no confusion.’
‘Women did as they were told,’ Colin said, squinting into the light.
Robert made a small movement of his hand towards Colin. ‘Now men doubt themselves, they hate themselves, even more than they hate each other. Women treat men like children, because they can’t take them seriously.’ Robert sat on the arm of the chair and rested his hand on Colin’s shoulder. His voice dropped. ‘But they love men. Whatever they might say they believe, women love aggression and strength and power in men. It’s deep in their minds. Look at all the women a successful man attracts. If what I’m saying wasn’t true, women would protest at every war. Instead, they love to send their men to fight. The pacifists, the objectors, are mostly men. And even though they hate themselves for it, women long to be ruled by men. It’s deep in their minds. They lie to themselves. They talk of freedom, and dream of captivity.’ Robert was massaging Colin’s shoulder gently as he spoke, Colin sipped his champagne and stared in front of him. Robert’s voice now had something of the quality of recital, like a child at its multiplication tables. ‘It is the world that shapes people’s minds. It is men who have shaped the world. So women’s minds are shaped by men. From earliest childhood, the world they see is made by men. Now the women lie to themselves and there is confusion and unhappiness everywhere. It wasn’t the case in my grandfather’s day. These few things of his remind me of that.’
Colin cleared his throat. ‘Your grandfather’s day had suffragettes. And I don’t understand what bothers you. Men still govern the world.’
Robert laughed indulgently. ‘But badly. They don’t believe in themselves as men.’
The smell of garlic and frying meat was filling the room. From Colin’s gut there came a prolonged and distant sound, like a voice on the telephone. He eased himself forward, out from under Robert’s hand. ‘So,’ he said as he stood up, ‘this is a museum dedicated to the good old days.’ His voice was affable, but strained.