The End of the Affair

  I had just put the letter on the hall table on top of the afternoon’s post when I heard a key in the door. I snatched it up again, I don’t know why, and then Henry came in. He looked ill and harassed. He said, ‘Oh, you’re here?’ and walked straight by me and into his study. I waited a moment and then I followed. I thought, I’ll have to give him the letter now: it’s going to need more courage. When I opened the door I saw him sitting in his chair by the fire he hadn’t bothered to light, and he was crying.

  ‘What is it Henry?’ I asked him. He said, ‘Nothing I’ve got a bad headache, that’s all.’

  I lit the fire for him. I said, ‘I’ll get you some venganin.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ he said. ‘It’s better already.’

  ‘What sort of day have you had?’

  ‘Oh, much the same as usual. A bit tiresome.’

  ‘Who was your lunch date?’

  ‘Bendrix.’

  ‘Bendrix?’ I said.

  ‘Why not Bendrix? He gave me lunch at his club. A horrible lunch.’

  I came behind him and put my hand on his forehead. It was an odd thing to be doing just before leaving him for ever. He used to do that to me when we were first married and I had terrible nervous headaches because nothing was going right. I forgot for a moment that I would only pretend to be cured that way. He put up his own hand and pressed mine harder against his forehead. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘Do you know that?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. I could have hated him for saying it: it was like a claim. If you really loved me, I thought, you’d behave like any other injured husband. You’d get angry and your anger would set me free.

  ‘I can’t do without you,’ he said. Oh yes, you can, I wanted to protest. It will be inconvenient, but you can. You changed your newspaper once and you soon got used to it. These are words, conventional words of a conventional husband, and they don’t mean anything at all: then I looked up at his face in the mirror and he was crying still.

  ‘Henry,’ I said, ‘what’s wrong?’

  ‘Nothing. I told you.’

  ‘I don’t believe you. Has something happened at the office?’

  He said with unfamiliar bitterness, ‘What could happen there?’

  ‘Did Bendrix upset you in some way?’

  ‘Of course not. How could he?’

  I wanted to take away his hand, but he held it there. I was afraid of what he’d say next: of the unbearable burdens he was laying on my conscience. Maurice would be home by now: if Henry hadn’t come in, I would have been with him in five minutes. I would have seen happiness instead of misery. If you don’t see misery you don’t believe in it. You can give anyone pain from a distance. Henry said, ‘My dear, I haven’t been much of a husband.’

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ I said.

  ‘I’m dull for you. My friends are dull. We no longer—you know—do anything together.’

  ‘It has to stop sometime,’ I said, ‘in any marriage. We are good friends.’ That was to be my escape line. When he agreed I would give him the letter, I would tell him what I was going to do, I would walk out of the house. But he missed his cue, and I’m still here, and the door has closed again against Maurice. Only I can’t put the blame on God this time. I closed the door myself. Henry said, ‘I can never think of you as a friend. You can do without a friend,’ and he looked back at me from the mirror and he said, ‘Don’t leave me, Sarah. Stick it a few more years. I’ll try … ‘but he couldn’t think himself what he’d try. Oh, it would have been better for both of us if I’d left him years ago, but I can’t hit him when he’s there and now he’ll always be there because I’ve seen what his misery looks like.

  I said, ‘I won’t leave you. I promise.’ Another promise to keep, and when I had made it I couldn’t bear to be with him any more. He’d won and Maurice had lost, and I hated him for his victory. Would I have hated Maurice for his? I went upstairs and tore up the letter so small nobody could put it together again, and I kicked the suitcase under the bed because I was too tired to start unpacking, and I started writing this down. Maurice’s pain goes into his writing: you can hear the nerves twitch through his sentences. Well, if pain can make a writer, I’m learning, Maurice, too. I wish I could talk to you just once. I can’t talk to Henry. I can’t talk to anyone. Dear God, let me talk.

  Yesterday I bought a crucifix, a cheap ugly one because I had to do it quickly. I blushed when I asked for it. Somebody might have seen me in the shop. They ought to have opaque glass in their doors like rubber-goods shops. When I lock the door of my room, I can take it out from the bottom of my jewel-case. I wish I knew a prayer that wasn’t me, me, me. Help me. Let me be happier. Let me die soon. Me, me, me.

  Let me think of those awful spots on Richard’s cheek. Let me see Henry’s face with the tears falling. Let me forget me. Dear God, I’ve tried to love and I’ve made such a hash of it. If I could love you, I’d know how to love them. I believe the legend. I believe you were born. I believe you died for us. I believe you are God. Teach me to love. I don’t mind my pain. It’s their pain I can’t stand. Let my pain go on and on, but stop theirs. Dear God, if only you could come down from your Cross for a while and let me get up there instead. If I could suffer like you, I could heal like you.

  4 February 1946.

  Henry took a day off work. I don’t know why. He gave me lunch and we went to the National Gallery and we had an early dinner and went to the theatre. He was like a parent coming down to the school and taking the child out. But he’s the child.

  5 February 1946.

  Henry’s planning a holiday abroad for us in the spring. He can’t make up his mind between the châteaux of the Loire or Germany where he could make a report on the morale of the Germans under bombing. I never want the spring to come. There I go again. I want. I don’t want. If I could love You, I could love Henry. God was made man. He was Henry with his astigmatism, Richard with his spots, not only Maurice. If I could love a leper’s sores, couldn’t I love the boringness of Henry? But I’d turn from the leper if he were here, I suppose, as I shut myself away from Henry. I want the dramatic always. I imagine I’m ready for the pain of your nails, and I can’t stand twenty-four hours of maps and Michelin guides. Dear God, I’m no use. I’m still the same bitch and fake. Clear me out of the way.

  6 February 1946.

  Today I had a terrible scene with Richard. He was telling me of the contradictions in the Christian churches, and I was trying to listen, but I wasn’t succeeding very well, and he noticed it. He said to me suddenly, ‘What do you come here for?’ and before I could catch myself, I said, ‘To see you.’

  ‘I thought you came to learn,’ he said, and I told him that’s what I meant.

  I knew he didn’t believe me, and I thought his pride would be hurt, and he’d be angry, but he wasn’t angry at all. He got up from his chintzy chair and came and sat with me on the chintzy sofa on the side where his cheek wouldn’t show. He said, ‘It’s meant a lot to me, seeing you every week,’ and then I knew that he was going to make love to me. He put his hand on my wrist and asked, ‘Do you like me?’

  ‘Yes, Richard, of course,’ I said, ‘or I wouldn’t be here.’

  ‘Will you marry me?’ he asked, and his pride made him ask it as though he were asking whether I’d take another cup of tea.

  ‘Henry might object,’ I said, trying to laugh it off.

  ‘Nothing will make you leave Henry?’ and I thought angrily, if I haven’t left him for Maurice, why the hell should I be expected to leave him for you?

  ‘I’m married.’

  ‘That doesn’t mean anything to me or you.’

  ‘Oh yes, it does,’ I said. I had to tell him some time. ‘I believe in God,’ I said, ‘and all the rest. You’ve taught me to. You and Maurice.’

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You’ve always said the priests taught you to disbelieve. Well, it can work the other way too.’

  He looked at his beautiful hands—h
e had those left. He said very slowly, ‘I don’t care what you believe. You can believe the whole silly bag of tricks for all I care. I love you, Sarah.’

  ‘I'm sorry,’ I said.

  ‘I love you more than I hate all that. If I had children by you, I’d let you pervert them.’

  ‘You shouldn’t say that.’

  ‘I’m not a rich man. It’s the only bribe I can offer, giving up my faith.’

  ‘I’m in love with somebody else, Richard.’

  ‘You can’t love him much if you feel bound by that silly vow.’

  I said drearily, ‘I’ve done my best to break it, but it didn’t work.’

  ‘Do you think me a fool?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘To expect you to love a man with this.’ He turned his bad cheek towards me. ‘You believe in God,’ he said. ‘That’s easy. You are beautiful. You have no complaint, but why should I love a God who gave a child this?’

  ‘Dear Richard,’ I said, ‘there’s nothing so very bad …’ I shut my eyes and put my mouth against the cheek. I felt sick for a moment because I fear deformity, and he sat quiet and let me kiss him, and I thought I am kissing pain and pain belongs to You as happiness never does. I love You in Your pain. I could almost taste metal and salt in the skin, and I thought, How good You are. You might have killed us with happiness, but You let us be with You in pain.

  I felt him move abruptly away and I opened my eyes. He said, ‘Good-bye.’

  ‘Good-bye, Richard.’

  ‘Don’t come back,’ he said, ‘I can’t bear your pity.’

  ‘It’s not pity.’

  ‘I’ve made a fool of myself.’

  I went away. It wasn’t any good staying. I couldn’t tell him I envied him, carrying the mark of pain around with him like that, seeing You in the glass every day instead of this dull human thing we call beauty.

  10 February 1946.

  I have no need to write to You or talk to You, that’s how I began a letter to You a little time ago, and I was ashamed of myself and I tore it up because it seemed such a silly thing to write a letter to You who know everything before it comes into my mind. Did I ever love Maurice as much before I loved You? Or was it really You I loved all the time? Did I touch You when I touched him? Could I have touched You if I hadn’t touched him first, touched him as I never touched Henry, anybody? And he loved me and touched me as he never did any other woman. But was it me he loved, or You? For he hated in me the things You hate. He was on Your side all the time without knowing it. You willed our separation, but he willed it too. He worked for it with his anger and his jealousy, and he worked for it with his love. For he gave me so much love, and I gave him so much love that soon there wasn’t anything left, when we’d finished, but You. For either of us. I might have taken a lifetime spending a little love at a time, eking it out here and there, on this man and that. But even the first time, in the hotel near Paddington, we spent all we had. You were there, teaching us to squander, like You taught the rich man, so that one day we might have nothing left except this love of You. But You are too good to me. When I ask You for pain, You give me peace. Give it him too. Give him my peace—he needs it more.

  12 February 1946.

  Two days ago I had such a sense of peace and quiet and love. Life was going to be happy again, but last night I dreamed I was walking up a long staircase to meet Maurice at the top. I was still happy because when I reached the top of the staircase we were going to make love. I called to him that I was coming, but it wasn’t Maurice’s voice that answered; it was a stranger’s that boomed like a fog-horn warning lost ships, and scared me. I thought, he’s let his flat and gone away and I don’t know where he is, and going down the stairs again the water rose beyond my waist and the hall was thick with mist. Then I woke up. I’m not at peace any more. I just want him like I used to in the old days. I want to be eating sandwiches with him. I want to be drinking with him in a bar. I’m tired and I don’t want any more pain. I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love. Dear God, you know I want to want Your pain, but I don’t want it now. Take it away for a while and give it me another time.

  BOOK FOUR

  I

  I couldn’t read any more. Over and over again I had skipped when a passage hurt me too much. I had wanted to discover about Dunstan, though I hadn’t wanted to discover that much, but now I had read on, it slipped far back in time, like a dull date in history. It wasn’t of present importance. The entry I was left with was an entry only one week old. ‘I want Maurice. I want ordinary corrupt human love.’

  It’s all I can give you, I thought. I don’t know about any other kind of love, but if you think I’ve squandered all of that you’re wrong. There’s enough left for our two lives, and I thought of that day when she had packed her suitcase and I sat working here, not knowing that happiness was so close, I was glad that I hadn’t known and I was glad that I knew. I could act now. Dunstan didn’t matter. The air-raid warden didn’t matter. I went to the telephone and dialled her number.

  The maid answered. I said, ‘This is Mr Bendrix. I want to speak to Mrs Miles.’ She told me to hold on. I felt breathless as though I were at the end of a long race as I waited for Sarah’s voice, but the voice that came was the maid’s telling me that Mrs Miles was out. I don’t know why I didn’t believe her. I waited five minutes and then with my handkerchief stretched tight over the mouthpiece I rang again.

  ‘Is Mr Miles in?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘Could I speak to Mrs Miles then? This is Sir William Mallock.’

  There was only a very short pause before Sarah replied. ‘Good evening. This is Mrs Miles.’

  ‘I know,’ I said, ‘I know your voice, Sarah.’

  ‘You … I thought…’

  ‘Sarah,’ I said, ‘I’m coming to see you.’

  ‘No, please no. Listen, Maurice. I’m in bed. I’m speaking from there now.’

  ‘All the better.’

  ‘Don’t be a fool, Maurice. I mean I’m ill.’

  ‘Then you’ll have to see me. What’s the matter, Sarah?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. A bad cold. Listen, Maurice.’ She spaced her words slowly like a governess and it angered me. ‘Please don’t come. I can’t see you.’

  ‘I love you, Sarah, and I’m coming.’

  ‘I won’t be here. I’ll get up.’ I thought, If I run, it will only take me four minutes across the Common; she can’t dress in that time. ‘I’ll tell the maid not to let anybody in.’

  ‘She’s not got the build of a chucker-out. And I’d have to be chucked out, Sarah.’

  ‘Please, Maurice … I’m asking you. I haven’t asked anything of you for a long time.’

  ‘Except one lunch.’

  ‘Maurice, I’m not awfully fit. I just can’t see you today. Next week …’

  ‘There’ve been a terrible lot of weeks. I want to see you now. This evening.’

  ‘Why, Maurice?’

  ‘You love me.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Never mind. I want to ask you to come away with me.’

  ‘But, Maurice, I can answer you on the phone just as well. The answer’s no.’

  ‘I can’t touch you by telephone, Sarah.’

  ‘Maurice, my dear, please. Promise you won’t come.’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  ‘Listen, Maurice. I’m feeling awfully sick. And the pain’s bad tonight. I don’t want to get up.’

  ‘You don’t have to.’

  ‘I swear I’ll get up and dress and leave the house, unless you promise …’

  ‘This is more important to both of us, Sarah, than a cold.’

  ‘Please, Maurice, please. Henry will be home soon.’

  ‘Let him be.’ I rang off.

  It was a worse night than the one when I met Henry a month before. This time it was sleet instead of rain: it was half-way to snow and the edged drops seemed to slash their way in through the buttonholes of one’s raincoat: t
hey obscured the lamps on the Common, so that it was impossible to run, and I can’t run fast anyway because of my leg. I wished I had brought my war-time torch with me, for it must have taken eight minutes for me to reach the house on north side. I was just stepping off the pavement to cross when the door opened and Sarah came out. I thought with happiness, I have her now. I knew with absolute certainty that before the night was out we should have slept together again. And once that had been renewed, anything might happen. I had never known her before and I had never loved her so much. The more we know the more we love, I thought. I was back in the territory of trust.

  She was in too much of a hurry to see me across the wide roadway through the sleet. She turned to the left and walked rapidly away. I thought, she will need somewhere to sit down and then I have her trapped. I followed twenty yards behind, but she never looked back. She skirted the Common, past the pond and the bombed bookshop, as though she were making for the tube. Well, if it were necessary, I was prepared to talk to her even in a crowded train. She went down the tube-stairs and up to the booking-office, but she had no bag with her and when she felt in her pockets no loose money either—not even the three halfpence that would have enabled her to travel up and down till midnight. Up the stairs again, and across the road where the trams run. One earth had been stopped, but another had obviously come to mind. I was triumphant. She was afraid, but she wasn’t afraid of me, she was afraid of herself and what was going to happen when we met. I felt I had won the game already, and I could afford to feel a certain pity for my victim. I wanted to say to her, Don’t worry, there’s nothing to fear, we’ll both be happy soon, the nightmare’s nearly over.

  And then I lost her. I had been too confident and I had allowed her too big a start. She had crossed the road twenty yards ahead of me (I was delayed again by my bad leg coming up the stairs), a tram ran between, and she was gone. She might have turned left down the High Street or gone straight ahead down Park Road, but I couldn’t see her. I wasn’t very worried—if I didn’t find her today, I would the next. Now I knew the whole absurd story of the vow, now I was certain of her love, I was assured of her. If two people loved, they slept together; it was a mathematical formula, tested and proved by human experience.