‘Goodbye.’ Ilona was gone.
Edward thought, she’s afraid Ricardo might see us together in the street and not believe I was her brother! And he might be right! How this will torment me too — it will torment me, why did she say it! I want her so much as a sister and now — He tried to recall Max Point but could see only a red face and a bald head. Ought he to go and see him again? Ought he to have told Ilona about him? It was all wild fantasy anyway. And Ilona was likely to have enough troubles.
Edward had sat down in one of the armchairs. He began to think about gentle Ricardo with his terrible Manchester childhood. He ought to have asked her how old Ricardo was. Twenty, fifty? Which would be worse? Edward became aware that he was facing the television set which was looking at him with its big blank hypnotic eye. He leapt up and scudded across the room. He saw the card of Ilona’s strip club upon the table and pocketed it. He stood still and listened. The traffic was audible but there was other noise too. The flat was murmuring to itself with faint sibillant sounds as of slightly moving textiles and creaking furniture and falling dust. The flat was lonely, mourning, empty. Or was it empty? Was it not extremely likely that Mrs Quaid was still around somewhere?
Edward left the room, turned out the light in the corridor, closed the door of the flat behind him, and ran down the stairs and out into the street. He began to walk again toward the pub where he was to have met Brownie. He stayed there till closing time but of course she did not come.
She had seen it again in dreams, that beautiful terrible sexless stare. She thought a lot about death and was comforted by a sense of its nearness, its possibility which quietly and reassuringly nudged her. She checked her sleeping pills, poured them out into her hand. Thomas had given them to her. Perhaps, it occurred to her to wonder, that meant they were strictly non-lethal? Thomas would not have feared her suicide, but he probably gave her whatever he gave his patients. If so they must be compounded not to kill. She put the pills away. She had not intended to take them anyway.
After going to Stuart’s lodging and finding him gone Midge had given up searching for him, or rather could not at the moment think of any way of finding him. She was sure however that she would see him before long, she waited for him. She wanted very much to be in his presence, to have him look at her and speak to her, and to talk to him about her ‘better life’, to explain what it would be like and hear from him some, even the smallest, word of acknowledgement of her intent which would confer reality upon it. From others she could expect nothing but scorn, but he would be able to discern the grain of truth in her confused and darkened ‘new being’. Out of the collapse of her double life, a life so customary, so well adjusted, as to seem,real and almost dutiful, she fled to her new vision as to the only exit; one which Stuart, in destroying her world by his existence and his knowledge, had at once also provided. She wanted to talk to him about how it would be, in that happy simple future time. It all depended on him, and when he understood he could not fail.
Meanwhile, comforting herself with pain, she went over and over the details of the catastrophe, convincing herself of its horror and completeness and of her guilt with which she could do nothing except somehow leave it behind. It was as if there was nothing left in her life up to now with which she could either rest or work. The guilt, the disloyalty, the lies, the hurt and harm done to others, must be seen as real. But Midge, in attempting so to see it, did not consider it as a place where there were for her any stepping stones, any possibility of reconstruction, renovation, explanation, acts of healing. The collapse was, she reckoned, too complete for that. She could not do good, and only stain her hands further, by going back, however well intentioned, into that mess. Better, as well as easier, to leave it all behind like a house fallen down, destroyed utterly in a conflagration, wrecked by a bomb. This also meant that she need not, at present, think in any awful detail about the future. Thomas could not morally or legally take Meredith from her, so Meredith would be with her too in that better future. Meredith was away now at his new school. He had, with an amazing and disconcerting calm, organised his own departure, obeying Thomas’s written commands. He had left a list of books and clothes to be sent on after him which Midge had not yet had the strength to look at. She had had no ‘talk’ with him and he had tacitly made it clear he wanted none. There was no prolonged emotional farewell. She cried a lot after he was gone, but was relieved that he was out of the house.
A more immediate and agonising torment, one which confused the reckoning up of her sins and which had led her to shake and pour out the bottle of sleeping pills, was the notion, indeed the knowledge, that she had only to send the briefest word, give the slightest signal, to Harry to reinstate the whole splendour of their love in a new situation of freedom. Was it not now, as Harry indeed had said, exactly what they had wanted, had they not been given by chance what had seemed, to her at least, so impossibly difficult to achieve? Thomas knew and had gone away ‘leaving her free to decide’. Perhaps he really, as Harry had speculated, did not mind, felt relief. The old barriers which had seemed so strong had suddenly vanished. Nothing now prevented Midge from running to the house in Bloomsbury. She did not now have to look at her watch, to calculate, to lie. All was known, lies were over. She had only to speak, to utter one soft word, for it all to rise up like a magical palace, a city, full of trees and flowers and singing birds and marble steps leading upwards in the sun.
She had asked Harry not to try to see her again for a little while. He persisted in treating her as temporarily ‘ill’, and feigned the gentle bracing cheerfulness of one humouring an invalid. Only Midge could see the terrible fear in his eyes. Putting a calm face on it he said he might have to be away in any case but would certainly come and see her at once on his return and hope to find her ‘better’. Midge had not said to him, do not come again. When this possibility, which she still kept at a distance, came too close she would suddenly ask herself, so am I never to see him any more, never, as we once were? She had felt a curious relief, almost pleasure, in talking to him about her feelings for Stuart, as if Harry had already become an old friend or confidant. But such meetings were possible only on his assumption, only endurable for her because of a double-think whereby Harry was not yet lost. Sometimes when her mind came out into the open and darted to and fro before returning to its refuge with Stuart, she wondered if she were really mad not to want more than anything in the world to see Harry and to make his happiness. Perhaps her illness was just a total annihilation of the sexual urge, something which might come about unexpectedly through a chemical change. The electrical force which had, for two years, bound her in all her thoughts, in all the lively predatory impulses of her feelings, all the vibrations of her physical being, to this one man, had been switched off. But no, sexual desire had not vanished, it had only changed. Midge yearned for Stuart’s presence, his face was constantly before her, usurping the place so long occupied by Harry’s; and Midge depended from it as from a floating vision which alone saved her from a fall to death. She continually pictured, treasured, cosseted, brooded over that saving image, seeing the pale unsmiling face and the yellow-amber eyes which were changing as she looked from coldness to oh such gentleness. She caressed that face with her thoughts but never in fantasy touched it with her lips or hand; only sometimes she did imagine herself kissing the sleeve or shoulder of his jacket, and this was exquisite. In spite of such indulgences there was something abstract in her desire, and this too, half apprehending it, she treasured. She wanted, panting and thirsting for it, his presence, for him to look at her, to speak to her, him as himself with all his commanding being, his authority, his separateness, his inaccessibility, his unconnectedness with other people, the sense in which he would never be connected, and yet could, without connection, yet be, for her, not just for her, yet totally for her.
Of course Thomas was also ‘in her mind’ all the time but obscured by a dark cloud. She often reminded herself of the coldness of his departure. ‘Do you call this
anger? I wish you well.’ She had said some cruel things to him but could not now remember what they were. She had appealed to him, but could not imagine how she could do so now; nor could she imagine his wanting to see her again except to arrange a separation. She was conscious of a great deal of ‘stuff’ , perhaps just an accumulation of time, her past, her marriage, which lay aside, with Thomas, and would at some point have to be ‘dealt with’; but this too was in shadow. He retained, and would probably use, when that reckoning came, a vast capacity to hurt her, and when she thought of this she trembled. She dreaded seeing him again and avoided picturing that scene.
Edward was sitting in the dark. He was at the ‘Maison Carrée’. The tiny auditorium, entirely filled with men, was entirely quiet. Their intentness was unruffled by the slight restlessness of ordinary spectators, nor did it resemble the spellbound silence which attends great ‘moments of theatre’. It was as if they were all avidly, motionlessly, hurriedly eating what they saw. The pale expressionless faces, dimly visible in the light from the stage, stared privately forwards and, in their determination to remain, while ravenously concentrated, anonymous, seemed to resemble each other, composing an audience of clones. Furtive, shrunk into themselves, no gesture, no slightest twitch, proclaimed an individual. Blasphemously simulating the selfless contemplation of the mysteries of art or religion, they sat tensely still, while inside each head a small machine of secret repetitive fantasy noiselessly whirred.
Edward, detached at first, was already becoming part of this silent community. He too sat, incapable of shifting or turning his head, his blank face strained forward, his mouth pouting a little with attention. He had found a seat at the back. He was very anxious that Ilona should not see him. She had suggested that he should come, but he could not conceive that she had meant it, she wanted only to demonstrate that she was not ashamed. Suppose, on seeing him, she were to forget her ‘act’, cry out, burst into tears? It was a vile place; yet quickly he allowed himself to become interested in the predictable routines of the girls, not all of them very young, with their bright false smiles and jerky provocations. The music, sometimes dreamy, sometimes noisy, streamed through his head, and it was as if a part of his being had fallen fast asleep while another part was intensely, meticulously alert. He almost forgot why he was there, and began comparing the girls with each other. None of them could dance; only one or two who evidently enjoyed undressing sent a tiny whiff of simple reality out into the breathless stench of the auditorium. But Ilona, how would it be when she appeared, what would happen to the audience when they saw a real dancer, the triumph of grace over gravity? Would they not wake up, turn to each other in amazement, cry out, weep and confess their sins?
Now a grinning girl in a silver top hat and a sequin shift was jiggling and wriggling to and fro, awkwardly manipulating a black silk shawl with simulated coyness, then dropping it and jauntily kicking it aside with black high-heeled shoes which beat a noisy rhythmless tattoo upon the boards. The sequins fell to the ground revealing a thin little body covered by three stars. As the girl flourished the top hat and tossed it away, then hopped around to reveal her back and discard the stars, Edward suddenly realised that this was Ilona. Was she shamming? No. She could not dance. He lowered his head. When he looked again she was jumping about naked, smiling a strained stretched smile out into the dark. Her nakedness was pitiful, touching like that of a child, pallid, clammy, bare, the human form revealed in all its contingent absurdity. It was shameful and tragic. What in the other girls had seemed simply ugly and vulgar, here shone out as something sublimely obscene, like an exhibition of a deformity, which at the same time was little, pathetic, soiled and childish. He began to stare at her, to inspect her body, her long thin neck, her bony legs, her small pointed quaking breasts. He closed his eyes. The music indicated the end of the act, the stage was empty. Edward got up quickly and went out into the street.
‘Edward, I’m glad you’ve come,’ said Midge. ‘I so much wanted to see you.’ She had not particularly thought of Edward or imagined she would be able to talk to him, but now that he was here she felt relief, as if he were unique, the only person she could talk to easily.
‘Midge, I’m sorry,’ said Edward. ‘I meant to come — ’ He did not say he had been told to come. ‘I’ve just had a lot of troubles — And I thought, you know, Ursula would be with you — ’
‘Why Ursula?’ said Midge. ‘Men always think women flock together at such times. No one has been near me, it’s like having scarlet fever. Anyway Ursula is at a conference in Sweden.’ Midge owed this information to a long very carefully worded letter she had received from Willy Brightwalton, in which he made a point of indicating that he was alone. Willy did not say either that he would gladly leave his wife to run to her side, or that were he free to do so he would at once offer her his hand. He said however, tactfully, eloquently, everything else about how deeply he cared for her, grieved for her, sympathised with her, desired, in any way she could oblige him by mentioning, to serve her. He asked her to let him know at once if she wished to see him. He signed himself ‘your Willy’. Midge had not replied to his letter and he had not, at any rate yet, appeared at the door uninvited. Willy was a timid man and was not only, like many people, afraid of Thomas, he was also afraid of Harry. A similar tactful paralysis evidently affected Midge’s various old lunchtime acquaintances. She had received no other letters. The telephone occasionally rang but she did not answer it in case it was Thomas. She was shunned in a way which augmented her resentment and her shame without affording her the energy of defiance. She was glad to see Edward.
Midge in her desolation looked, Edward noticed, as meticulously casual as ever. Her straight navy blue linen dress which might have been the uniform of an expensive school was changed by some indefinable air of its wearer, together with a light blue cravat, into the head-turning outfit of a smartly dressed woman. She seemed to have lost weight. Her face, as if touched by the sun, bloomed and glowed, and seemed to owe its translucent smoothness to no art at all but merely to youth and summer weather. With her skirt tucked up and her dark-stockinged legs crossed she faced Edward and patted her hair into an affecting disarray. She might, with her calm words and suave looks, have seemed almost composed had it not been for the hard line of her drooping mouth, and her frightened eyes which signalled so clearly to Edward ‘Oh help me, help me, care for me.’
‘Did Thomas ask you to come?’
‘No.’
‘Did Harry?’
‘No.’
‘I can’t believe anybody now,’ she said. ‘Well, whose fault is that?’
‘I haven’t come as an ambassador,’ said Edward, ‘if that’s what you mean.’
‘You know Jesse Baltram’s dead? Of course you do, it’s in all the papers.’
‘Yes.’ No account of Jesse’s death made any mention of Edward. In a way he felt wounded. That was Mother May’s doing, to keep him henceforth out of the picture. He felt jealous, as if some right of possession had been violated. But on reflection he was relieved. It would have been terrible to have to talk about that to police, to journalists. He would never cease to recall what had happened, but he did not want to have to speculate about it in any ordinary way. Later on perhaps he might tell Thomas.
‘Are you sorry, does it matter to you?’
‘Yes, I’m sorry,’ said Edward.
‘But of course you didn’t know him, except you saw him as a small child.’
‘I saw quite a lot of him at Seegard.’
‘But you were never at Seegard.’
‘Yes, I was, I was there for a short while, I was there when you and Harry came that night — ’
‘Were you?’ said Midge. ‘I must be going crazy. Yes, I remember now. I just blotted you out!’
Yes, thought Edward, it’s all blotted out, no one will know that I came to Jesse and loved him and that he loved me. It will be as if it had never been. Perhaps I shall stop believing it myself.
‘It was a shoc
k,’ Midge went on. ‘One doesn’t expect people to die. And somehow I thought I’d see him again. But in an odd way too I was pleased, it took me out of my own troubles for a moment. I suppose it’s an old trace of jealousy, I was jealous of Chloe because that man loved her. Now they’re both dead. Doesn’t that sound callous? Jealousy lasts forever.’
‘Does it?’ said Edward.
‘Yes. Bad news for the young. Would you like a drink? No? I’ve stopped drinking. I imagine you’ve heard about me and Stuart?’
‘You mean about you and Harry? When you turned up together at Seegard I assumed — ’
‘No, I’m talking about Stuart, that I’ve fallen in love with him.’
‘Look, Midge, I’m a bit out of touch, I’ve been entirely on my own, I thought you and Harry — ’
‘Yes, I was having an affair with Harry, but suddenly, that time at Seegard, I fell in love with Stuart, Thomas knows about it all now, he’s gone away, I don’t want to see Harry, Stuart won’t see me — I feel everyone must know, but perhaps they don’t.’
‘Wait a minute — ’
‘Harry wanted me to leave Thomas, then when Stuart saw us together with all those pathetic lies about Mr and Mrs Bentley he killed something in me simply by looking — ’
‘You loved Harry, and now you love Stuart? But surely you don’t love him just because he killed something — ?’
‘Yes, I do, exactly. I think I’ll have a drink after all, will you? It’s just that I suddenly saw how sort of dead it all was, as if death were looking at me and making things dead — ’
‘But did it all happen in an instant?’ said Edward, accepting sherry.
‘Not quite. It began in an instant and it went on in the car driving back. I could feel Stuart sitting behind me like a block of ice. Everything I’d wanted just became worthless, as if I didn’t want anything any more. And then when I got back I realised that what I wanted was Stuart. I mean as if he had made a great void and nothing could fill it except him. This meant I had to go to see him and talk to him — I offered myself to him, not just as sex — ’