The Essence of the Thing Read online

  There was another brief silence.

  ‘Actually,’ said Geoffrey reflectively, ‘I suppose nothing is as serious as love.’

  ‘No, nothing. Nothing whatsoever.’

  ‘Love, eh?’

  ‘Yeah. Love.’

  ‘Listen. Don’t ever tell anyone I said that, will you? About nothing being as serious as love. I’ll never be able to show my face on a squash court again.’

  ‘When did you ever show your face on a squash court?’

  ‘Well, you know what I mean. It’s the principle of the thing.’

  ‘All right. I mean, when all’s said and done, what would I want with a man who had no squash court credibility?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  10

  ‘All the same, I still can’t see how a reasonably intelligent and actually attractive lady like Nicola—’

  ‘Oh, you think she’s intelligent do you?’

  ‘Yes, and attractive, yes; how she can—’

  ‘I didn’t realise you thought she was attractive.’

  ‘Well, isn’t she?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘Right. So I can’t see how she could love a twit like Jonathan.’

  ‘He’s rather tasty.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you like that sort of thing.’

  ‘You can’t be serious.’

  ‘Try me.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘That’s your problem.’

  ‘God. Jonathan. Tasty. God.’

  ‘I think they make quite a good couple, in a way. They look right together.’

  ‘Look right?’

  ‘Yes, you know. They look good together.’

  Geoffrey, still astounded, did his best to consider this proposition. ‘I suppose they do,’ he said. ‘I suppose they do.’

  ‘You can generally tell whether people are basically right for each other by whether they look good together, don’t you think?’ said Susannah.

  ‘The idea never once occurred to me,’ Geoffrey replied. ‘It’s not even occurring to me now. Do we look good together?’

  She laughed. ‘What do you think?’ she said.

  He was still in a state of utter perplexity. She laughed again, and flapped the tea towel in his face.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ she asked.

  ‘I still don’t see how she can love him,’ he said, ‘however good they may or may not look together. Or however tasty he may or may not be. Not that he is.’

  ‘He can do the Times crossword.’

  ‘Oh, God.’

  ‘Shall we go to bed?’

  ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t rather do the Times crossword?’

  ‘We’ve only got a Guardian.’

  ‘Won’t that do instead?’

  ‘For some reason, it doesn’t seem to count the same.’

  ‘I suppose we’ll just have to go to bed then.’

  ‘Oh, by the way, I told Nicola she could come and stay here, if this situation doesn’t get sorted out pronto. If she really has to leave.’

  ‘Well, by the way, I think that was rather unilateral of you.’

  ‘What else could I do?’

  Geoffrey heaved a sigh and looked at her. ‘Let’s just assume,’ he said, ‘that the situation will get sorted out. After all, they’re basically right for each other, as you pointed out. This is just a storm in a teacup.’

  ‘Poor Nicola,’ said Susannah sadly.

  ‘Yes,’ said Geoffrey, quite seriously. ‘One way or another, poor Nicola.’

  ‘And even poorer Jonathan,’ said Susannah.

  ‘Sod Jonathan,’ said Geoffrey. He had had enough.

  ‘Yes, well,’ said Susannah, ‘let’s go to bed, shall we?’

  So they did.

  11

  After all, Nicola told herself, alone under the covers, the fl at silent around her, Jonathan absent in the country: he could not really, not surely, have meant it.

  Of course, yes, he meant it: but only because he was mistaken. The thing that was wrong was a mistake, and she would, as soon as ever she could, discover this mistake and put it right: and then everything Jonathan had said, and meant, would be rescinded. As soon as ever she could!

  He was bound to return on Sunday night, because the house agent was coming at his invitation on Monday morning: so she would see Jonathan again on Sunday night. Everything will be sorted out quite soon, thought Nicola: in just two days from now, this episode will all have become a bad dream, nothing more. Because otherwise, it is too bad to be true.

  She dared now, just, to feel her way towards the contemplation of the scene of the previous night as if it might represent all of the truth, as if it might be an irreducible, however ugly, reality: as if Jonathan had not only meant what he had said, but had known what he meant: as if there were no mistake in the matter but her own—her own blindness to, ignorance of, Jonathan’s true and natural feelings.

  And now she allowed, she admitted, she was entirely bound to admit, that Jonathan might have meant what he said, might have known what he meant, and so wanted, not only truly, but justifiably, and with all his heart, to separate from her: yes, this unspeakable horror really was a logical possibility. Such events may truly occur. Love can grow cold, and become indifference—even dislike—even hatred.

  She saw therefore that, whatever the truth of the matter, whether he meant or did not truly mean what he had said, Jonathan had become an absolute mystery to her. He was no longer the lover, comrade, companion she had known, but a frighteningly unreckonable creature as of faery. There can’t be an awful lot of solicitors who seem like that, she thought; and she almost smiled. Susannah would have been proud of her.

  12

  ‘Is that all you’re having? Just cereal? Don’t you want some eggs and bacon? Goodness! Perhaps you’d like porridge. No? Well, I suppose you know best.’

  ‘Of course he does. Of course he knows best. Truly to God, Sophie, you’d think he was five years old. Croissants, that’s what he wants. That’s what they eat for breakfast up in London. Croissants, French croissants. Should’ve got some in. What?’

  ‘Don’t be silly, Hugo. The very idea. Jonathan doesn’t eat croissants. You don’t eat croissants, do you, Jonathan? No, see, he’s having some toast. Have some of that marmalade, darling, it’s from the last lot I made for the WI stall, a bit runny, but you just have to eat it fast before it drips. Oh, but you used to love marmalade! I remember sending it to you at school. Didn’t I? Well, I gave you some to take back with you. I remember. Marmalade. You used to insist on it.’

  ‘Lot of rubbish.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lot of rubbish. Here. Listen to this.’

  Hugo Finch, JP, began reading from the Telegraph. ‘Senior back-benchers,’ he began, ‘are reported…’ and so it went on: a further chapter in the gruesome, yet frequently hilarious, saga of the island people who had given the planet its common language and virtually all its games. What exactly were they working on now? None could truly say; many were the vain attempts to do so, but the question was beyond the scope of the merely human intelligence. Hugo concluded his reading.

  ‘Splendid stuff,’ said Jonathan, at the end of his tether.

  His father stared. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What did you say?’ He looked apoplectic.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Jonathan. ‘Splendid!’

  ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear what he said?’

  ‘Yes, he’s joking, Hugo. He doesn’t mean it.’

  ‘I’ll tell you what he can do if he does: he can go straight back to London on the next train.’

  ‘I’ve got a car.’

  ‘Then bloody go and get into it and drive away, then! Splendid, he says! Splendid! Wants horsewhipping! Croissants! London! Horsewhipping!’

  Hugo flapped the newspaper straight with a loud crack and barricaded himself behind it. ‘Croissants!’ he muttered.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Jonathan, getting up. He went out into the garden and walke
d about slowly, happily. It had taken years for him to learn that when they wind you up, the thing to do is wind them right back. Croissants—French croissants! Glorious! Splendid!

  13

  The splendour passed; Jonathan was possessed once more by the familiar demon whose dark oppressing wings enfolded his mind. He sat down on a garden seat and leaned back, closing his eyes against the bright spring sunshine, listening to the countryside sounds, trying, failing, to shun thought, recollection, reflection.

  Why this abiding darkness? Wasn’t the worst over and done? Nicola, for all he now knew, might be gone, out of his sight, when he returned to London the following evening; he might even now be effectively free: free of all the terrible demands of that scrutiny, that intimacy, that sharing of the self. Free, and alone: to be alone was to be free.

  Suddenly the weight of a human being fell onto the seat beside him and a voice loudly spoke to him. ‘Ah! Here you are!’ It was his mother, whose approach had been silenced by the lawn across which she had advanced.

  Oh, God. No matter where one was, there was someone, some woman, peering into one’s soul. It was intolerable. He had even (so he fancied) caught his secretary apparently at it. They peered into one’s soul and left one naked and helpless.

  He sat up. ‘I was just thinking of going for a walk,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, but do stay for a moment now I’m here,’ she said. ‘Do tell me how Nicola is getting on. Such a pity she couldn’t come with you, when the weather’s so nice.’

  What a pity you are not married: have no children: aren’t happier to be here: but see how tolerant we are, have always been; how tolerant, how patient. All the younger generation seem to be the same, all living together without benefit of clergy. Of course they settle down in the end. Mostly. When would Jonathan’s end arrive, though? It was taking such a very long time. And why no Nicola this weekend, after all?

  ‘She always enjoys the garden so much, doesn’t she?’ she went on.

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘I suppose she does.’

  ‘So she’s quite well, is she?’ Not quite what we would have liked for Jonathan, ideally, but still, quite a nice girl. Quite a nice girl. Highly educated, of course; as they all are these days—funny, isn’t it?

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘She’s fine.’

  ‘Good,’ said his mother. ‘Well, you must make sure you bring her next time.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jonathan. ‘Sure thing.’

  Oh ho. You bet. Sorry, Ma.

  14

  On Saturday (while Jonathan basked, ate, walked, fumed, bashed croquet balls between hoops, and intermittently gloated) Nicola cleaned out all the kitchen cupboards. She cleaned the gas cooker, especially the oven. She even washed down all the paintwork, including the skirting boards, and she did two loads of washing, back to back. Then she washed her hair.

  Mrs Brick had been in a few days before so there wasn’t a lot to be done to the rest of the flat, but she did what there was, and a little more besides.

  On Sunday morning she polished the mirrors and the insides of the windowpanes and the television screen, and she washed all the china dogs and put them back on the mantelpiece in slightly different positions. After lunching off a tuna sandwich and an orange (Jonathan had overdone roast lamb and apple pie) she settled down to the ironing. She was getting through the time nicely.

  She was just beginning on Jonathan’s shirts (ah! Jonathan’s shirts: God wears the exact same kind) when the telephone rang.

  ‘Nicola? It’s Lizzie.’

  ‘Oh, Lizzie.’

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m well, thanks, Lizzie. Are you?’

  ‘Yes, I’m well too. Listen, darling, about next weekend.’

  Oh God oh God.

  ‘Ye-e-es?’

  ‘Oh, dear, had you forgotten? I know we’ve messed you about so much, but we’ve just decided that we’ll have to make it the weekend following after all. That’s Easter, we thought we’d go down on Saturday and stay till Monday night. Will you be free? We can always defer it again if you’re not but it would be nice if you were.’

  ‘I’m not quite sure, I’ll have to ask Jonathan.’

  ‘Oh, of course. Could you ask him now so that we can settle it?’

  ‘That’s a bit tricky. He isn’t here.’

  ‘Not there? Well, ask him as soon as he comes in and ring me back.’

  ‘I’m not sure…I’m not quite sure when he’s going to be back, he may be rather late.’

  ‘Goodness, has he gone away without you?’

  ‘More or less.’

  ‘Darling, you do sound odd. Is anything wrong?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Darling, you sound as if you might be about to cry. Do tell me what has happened.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  She was about to cry. She had thought her tears were all shed. She had assured herself that once the ironing was done, and the evening had fallen, and Jonathan had returned, and she and he had talked, properly talked, to each other, everything would be normal again. Normal and nice. They would be a normal, nice couple again, and could make amicable arrangements again, and accept amicable invitations, as normal, like this one, from Lizzie and Alfred Ainsworth, to spend a weekend at their cottage (their poky little cottage where Jonathan kept banging his head and their little vixen of a daughter woke them up at five in the morning: but still. The scenery was divine).

  She was on the verge of tears, as long as she tried to speak, because underneath her assurance that everything would (in just a few hours’ time) return to niceness and normality was the black dread that it never would, and never could. No matter how beautifully she might iron Jonathan’s shirts.

  ‘Oh, Nicola, I don’t like the sound of this. Listen, I’m going to come round, I have to fetch Henrietta from Battersea later on anyway. So you stay just where you are, I’m going to go straight out and get into the car and whizz straight round. I’ll be with you before you know it.’ And Lizzie hung up, just like that.

  Nicola flopped down onto the sofa and began to cry. She had a good fifteen minutes to shed her tears and dry them too, because Lizzie was coming all the way from Islington. Lizzie was one of those women who like to be at the scene.

  But her tears did not last so long this time as they had before. If I can manage to finish ironing that shirt that I’d just started, she thought, looking across the room at the ironing board, by the time Lizzie gets here then that will mean that everything is going to be all right: and she went back to the ironing board, and ironed as quickly as she knew how; but it won’t count, she admonished herself, if I don’t do it properly. No skimping. And she was as careful as ever with the sleeves, the really awkward part. She finished a moment before the buzzer sounded, heralding Lizzie. Everything was going to be all right.

  15

  ‘Oh, Lizzie.’

  ‘Oh, Nicola. Now what is all this about?’

  ‘It’s nothing really. You shouldn’t have come.’

  ‘I like that. Shall I go away again then?’

  ‘No, stay and have some tea anyway.’

  ‘All right. Goodness, how clean and tidy it looks here.’

  ‘Well, there’s the ironing—sorry about that, I’d just started—’

  ‘Goodness. Ironing as well. You are a treasure. I hope Jonathan’s grateful. His shirts, I see.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Lucky Jonathan.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Oh, Nicola, do look at your face—oh—oh dear—oh, you are going to cry. Oh, Lord. Here, have you got a hanky? Oh dear. Poor Nicola. Now for heaven’s sake, darling, do tell Lizzie. What is the matter?’

  ‘You’re really the last person I should be telling,’ said Nicola, between sobs. ‘Jonathan would kill me.’

  ‘Oh, would he just. Never mind him for the moment. Just tell me.’

  It was dicey, all right. Susannah and Geoffrey were hers, but Alfred and Lizzie were Jonathan’s. Well, Alfred, at any ra
te: he and Jonathan had known each other since school. On the other hand, Nicola having made their acquaintance had become rather more of an intimate of Lizzie’s than Jonathan was of Alfred’s. But women were like that, as Alfred had remarked to himself—always getting together in corners and bonding: the phenomenon was clearly of evolutionary utility. He was quite content to leave them to it, as long as they weren’t evidently hatching anything significant. Alfred loved women, in their place, and was at all times ready to assert that some of his female colleagues—he being at the bar—were very able indeed: very. Lizzie, of course, was not and never had been a colleague: perish the thought!

  ‘Just let me make this tea first.’

  Nicola went into the kitchen and made the tea and brought it into the sitting room. Lizzie was looking at the china dogs.

  She picked up a pug. ‘Is this Staffordshire?’ she asked.

  ‘Not exactly,’ said Nicola. ‘It’s a proper eighteenth-century one. Derby. Jonathan gave it to me.’

  ‘Don’t cry again.’

  ‘No, I won’t.’

  She poured out the tea.

  ‘Jonathan,’ she said, ‘wants us to split up. He’s offered to buy me out.’

  ‘How long has this been going on?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. None at all. He just announced it, out of the blue, on Thursday night. Then he went to his parents’ for the weekend, straight from work on Friday. So I haven’t had a chance to talk to him properly. I mean, he wouldn’t discuss it on Thursday night. He just made his announcement and then clammed up. I was completely gobsmacked. I still am.’

  ‘So am I.’

  And she was. They each drank some tea and Nicola began to eat a biscuit.

  ‘And you really had no warning—no sign—beforehand?’ asked Lizzie.

  ‘No. Well, for all I know there were signs which I was too thick to see, but—’

  ‘Tell me again exactly what he said and how.’

  Nicola obliged.

  ‘Well,’ said Lizzie, ‘I must say that’s quite the creepiest thing I’ve heard of in a long while. He should be strung up. It’s an absolute outrage. And here you are, ironing his shirts! Nicola! What on earth are you thinking of?’