A Stairway to Paradise Read online

  11

  ‘Oh, by the way,’ he said as he was leaving the next morning for work, ‘don’t worry about my supper tonight, not that you should do anyway, but I’ll be back late—Friday night I usually meet people and so on. The kids know the routine, don’t you, kids. No dinosaur tonight. See you both in the morning. Be good or I’ll have you for breakfast tomorrow morning, okay?’ He bent and kissed them both and straightened up.

  Their eyes met for an instant.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ he said. ‘If you’re still up—leave all the lights on if you go up before I get in. Right, off we go—oh! one thing— this is one of Mrs Brick’s days, isn’t it? Could you make sure she does some ironing, I’m down to my last shirt.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara, ‘I’ll make sure.’

  ‘Jolly good,’ he said. ‘Thanks. Bye now.’ And he was gone.

  Barbara felt strangely, unaccountably, deserted.

  ‘If you could find time to iron Mr Rochester’s shirts,’ she said to Mrs Brick, ‘it would be such a help.’

  ‘Mr Rochester?’ said Mrs Brick.

  ‘Oh, God,’ said Barbara. ‘I must be dreaming. Sorry. I mean Mr Maclise of course. Goodness!’

  ‘It’s those kiddies addling your brains,’ said Mrs Brick. ‘Kiddies do that to you. You wait until you have your own. Mr Rochester’s the least of it.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so,’ said Barbara weakly. ‘So if you’ll be all right here for the time being, Mrs Brick, I think I’ll go for a walk.’

  She covered the whole of Highbury, thinking of Mr Rochester, thinking of Mr Maclise. Alex. And I am not sloshed now, she thought. Nor was I last night. Alex.

  Alex let himself in. The house was silent, shining. He knew he should not find her in the sitting-room: it was too much to hope for. No: silent, bare. He turned and went up the stairs.

  One thing about these splendid doors, with their original handles, was that they had shrunk ever so slightly from their frames: a filament of bright light could just be discerned along the edges of the door to the spare room. He knocked very gently and entered.

  Barbara looked up, astonished. She was sitting hunched up on the bed, fully clothed, reading.

  ‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Do you mind—I just wanted to see you for a moment. I’ve brought you something.’

  She put down the book and sat up, astounded and speechless, and he handed her a smallish carrier bag.

  ‘It’s just a present,’ he said. ‘To thank you for looking after the brats.’

  ‘Oh, but you shouldn’t have done that,’ she said. ‘There really was no need.’ She was deeply taken aback; she was almost alarmed.

  He shrugged. ‘It’s nothing much,’ he said. ‘Open it and see.’

  He sat down: he was weak at the knees, almost trembling. ‘Do you mind if I sit down,’ he muttered.

  She edged slightly further away from him. ‘No, please,’ she said.

  She looked dazedly into the carrier bag and withdrew a flat parcel which she unwrapped, breaking a gold foil seal in order to do so. ‘What a lovely parcel,’ she said. ‘It’s a pity to open it.’ The paper was thick and shiny, with tiny gold stars on an ivory-coloured ground. Inside the wrapping was a flat wooden box with French writing in a rococo copperplate hand on its lid, which she at last opened. There lay revealed twelve marrons glacés. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. She stared at the spectacle, bewitched.

  ‘I hope I didn’t make a mistake,’ he said. ‘I thought and thought. But chocolates seemed so banal, in comparison. Of course, if you don’t like marrons glacés, well—well, it’s a pretty good joke!’ He laughed.

  ‘I’m sorry to spoil a joke,’ she said, ‘but I’m bound to say that I simply adore them.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘Thank you so much,’ she said.

  She was still astounded to find him in here, amazed by what he had done, and still, at the end of this whole day, bewildered and also appalled by the sensations he had begun to arouse in her: so bewildered, so appalled, that she had not seen the poetic inevitability of this development. Suddenly she saw it now. What an idiot I am, she thought: of course I must by this have begun to care for Mr Rochester. Her heart began terribly to beat: whatever had possessed her last night possessed her now completely.

  ‘Won’t you have one?’ she asked him, offering the box.

  ‘Will you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied, ‘of course.’

  ‘Then I will too,’ he said, and he took one.

  They were much closer to each other than ever heretofore, he on the edge of the bed—it was the daybed, this daybed, it was rather hard—she leaning up against the wall, the lamplight behind her.

  ‘Luscious,’ she said, eating.

  ‘This bed is really rather hard, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘I hope you haven’t been sleeping badly.’

  ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘It’s fine.’

  She looked at him; their eyes met. He was lost; willingly lost. It was all wrong, but it was the only right, the only possible, thing in all the universe.

  ‘I’ve fallen in love with you,’ he said. ‘I want you so badly I can’t think straight.’

  Tears sprang into her eyes. She was overwhelmed: ‘You know it’s no good,’ she said. ‘Claire.’

  ‘Oh, Claire,’ he said. ‘Don’t you know about me and Claire?’

  She didn’t say anything; he looked at her and saw the tears in her eyes.

  ‘We don’t sleep together,’ he said. ‘If you’ll allow the euphemism. Not since Percy was a toddler. We’ve been finished for years, Claire and I. We just have a modus operandi.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  He looked at her again. ‘Forget about that,’ he said.

  He took her hand and kissed the palm, then the wrist, then her mouth; they lay down together on the daybed, this daybed: it was rather hard: he started to kiss her again—he was still holding her hand: and it all began. It took aeons upon aeons, vast tracts of spangled time: worlds were born and died, planets described their courses around indescribable stars; they drifted and soared through another, occult universe contingent on this one (or is this one on that?)—having by grace escaped, or been freed, from the tyranny of language.

  12

  ‘I’ll see to the kids in the morning,’ he murmured as he left her. The morning was breaking as he spoke. He kissed her damp hair. ‘Sleep as late as you want.’

  She came down just after nine o’clock: Alex was in the garden with the children playing shuttlecock. He saw her through the window and came inside.

  ‘I usually take them to Victoria Park on Saturday mornings,’ he said. ‘And then I give them lunch in a caff. Will you come with us?’

  She almost quailed before the intensity of his gaze. ‘No—I’ll stay here,’ she said; ‘I’ll ice the cake.’

  He looked out of the window. The children were playing frantically against each other now instead of together against him. He watched them as he spoke. ‘Claire should get here around three,’ he said. ‘As soon as you like after that I’ll take you home. Just say when you’re ready.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘What don’t I understand?’

  He almost wanted to hit her. He took her hand and held it very tightly. ‘I’m not doing you a favour,’ he said. ‘Nothing now that I can ever do for you, or with you, or to you, or—any preposition you like—could be a favour. You must never say thank you to me, never again, never.’

  Tears came into her eyes.

  ‘Don’t cry,’ he said, ‘don’t.’

  She bit her lips. ‘I’m going to make some coffee,’ she said; he let go her hand and she went to fetch the kettle. ‘Do you want some?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s time we went.’

  He opened the window and called the children and sent them upstairs for their jackets. ‘We’ll be back here sometime after
lunch, then,’ he said. ‘Two-ish, I suppose. Is there anything you want brought back from the shops, or anything?’

  She shook her head.

  The children were at the front door, waiting for him. They began to call. ‘Daddy! Daddy! Alex! A-a-le-ex!’ He turned and went.

  She stood at the kitchen doorway and waved them all goodbye, and then she sat down at the kitchen table, waiting for the coffee to finish filtering. She crossed her arms on the table and leaned her head on them, succumbing to the state of ecstasy into which she had been cast, as into an abyss.

  13

  She wrapped the box of marrons glacés in its original paper once more; she wrapped the carrier bag around the reconstituted package and placed the whole parcel at the bottom of her travelling bag. Then she packed all her clothes on top, and squashed down the sides all the incidentals, thinking carefully, forgetting nothing. She saw to the used linen: to everything: that there should be no trace of her occupation of this room, with its square window overlooking a hawthorn tree. She would never, she knew, enter it again, and she stood silent for several minutes, wishing it farewell. She ached to be gone from this house.

  ‘The children have something for you,’ said Alex.

  They were looking hugely self-conscious and self-important, and Percy had charge of a large awkward parcel, which he handed to her.

  ‘For me? How lovely. But why?’

  ‘It’s to thank you,’ said Marguerite, with almost adult fluency, ‘for looking after us.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Percy, ‘it’s to thank you. To thank you.’

  ‘How very sweet of you,’ she said. She wanted to cry again: she saw, with anguish, how much she would miss them.

  She began to open the parcel, which for its size was disconcertingly light, and found a very large natural sponge, about the size of a football. She exclaimed with genuine delight: it was a thing she had long coveted. ‘It’s perfect,’ she said. She turned it around in her hands, looking at all its beautiful irregular surfaces.

  ‘I chose it!’ cried Percy.

  ‘Clever Percy,’ said Barbara. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ said Percy.

  Alex was standing behind the children, watching her.

  ‘I chose you something too,’ said Marguerite in a smallish voice.

  ‘But it’s not the main thing,’ said Percy. ‘The sponge is the main thing. This is only something extra.’

  Barbara glanced quickly at his sister and they exchanged a brief and knowing look, and Marguerite handed her a very small package. ‘It’s to go with the sponge,’ she explained.

  Barbara opened it: a cake of pink soap in the shape of a rabbit. ‘It’s adorable,’ she said.

  ‘Smell it,’ said Marguerite. ‘It smells of roses.’

  It did, too.

  ‘You’re beautiful,’ said Barbara. ‘Both of you. Come and let me kiss you.’ She hugged them to her, one each side, and then quickly let them go. ‘Now who wants to decorate the cake,’ she said.

  She put it, lavishly covered in chocolate icing, on the table and set them to placing a quantity of coloured sugar flowers over its surface as they would, and went upstairs to fetch her bag. Claire must soon return; she must then linger as long as politeness required and then, at last—then—outside a taxi was heard; the slamming of its door; the front door opening, and a cry: Claire.

  She waited until the noise of the children’s reunion with their mother had subsided a little and then she came downstairs, and the charade began. It involved tea, cake, stories, news, jokes, commendations, reminders, protestations of gratitude and of pleasure, and promises of an early meeting, but it was done at last, Alex hovering terribly in the background.

  Barbara glanced at him: ‘Ready?’ he said.

  Claire looked up at them.

  ‘I’ll just run Barbara home,’ he said.

  As they were leaving the room he turned back for a moment. ‘I might just call in on Giles on the way back,’ he said, ‘unless you need me here for anything?’

  ‘No,’ said Claire, ‘call in on Giles by all means. I don’t need you.’

  She turned back to the children and Alex and Barbara left the house.

  14

  ‘I don’t even know where you live,’ said Alex. She told him and he turned on the ignition. He had not touched her. They might have been virtual strangers: they might be. They drove westwards in silence.

  At the top of the house, she unlocked a door and they entered her room. It was the smaller, back, room of the two on this floor; she crossed it and opened the window. He followed her and stood behind her, looking out at the Camden Town roof-scape. ‘I’ll just make sure the plants are all right,’ she said. In one corner there was an unaccountable butler’s sink, full of pot plants. She examined them and turned around. ‘They’re all right,’ she said. ‘They haven’t dried out. I left them plenty of water, I hoped they’d be all right. Would you like some tea?’

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘Leave all that alone.’

  He looked around quickly, judging the distance to the bed, which was in the opposite corner, adjacent to the window; he seized her by the hand and pulled her towards him. He kissed her mouth for a moment and then he pushed her on to the bed and flung himself down upon her: now I know what hell is like, he said: what do you mean, she said: the whole afternoon, he said, seeing you and not having you: the whole afternoon, until now.

  But he didn’t know precisely what he was talking about: he had not been in hell, only in one of its more salubrious suburbs. He was nonetheless in a place he might call heaven now; as was she: heaven, or one of its more salubrious suburbs.

  ‘Claire usually takes the children down to Surrey on Sundays,’ said Alex. ‘To see her parents.’

  ‘I see,’ said Barbara.

  ‘So—’ said Alex. He turned his head and looked at her. ‘Shall I come back tomorrow, then,’ he said. ‘Or shall I shoot myself?’

  ‘Come back here first, at any rate,’ said Barbara.

  ‘All right,’ said Alex. ‘About midday.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Barbara.

  He made love to her again (falling, flying) and then he left.

  15

  She led the way up the uncarpeted stairs (the windows on the landings had panes of coloured glass around their margins) and they entered the room once more. He seized her around the waist and began to kiss her: they had exchanged barely a word. He went on kissing her, as if he had been starving. He had, indeed, been starving. They lay down, and it all began again. Alex had been starving for years, years, years. ‘It’s nice like this,’ he whispered to her once; ‘it’s so nice like this.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Everything with you is nice.’

  All that time later, he said, ‘Are you hungry? Shall we go somewhere and have some lunch?’

  They found a Middle Eastern place, almost empty because it was so long past lunch time, and ate some little pies filled with cream cheese and spinach. They had pistachio ices and coffee and smoked beedies.

  ‘I got these on the way,’ said Alex, looking pleased with himself. ‘I wanted to bring you some flowers,’ he said, ‘but there were none of the right kind. I drove around for ages looking for some but all I saw were frightful carnations and chrysanthemums and so I had to give it up. I feel mortified.’ He laughed. ‘When I think of all the wonderful flower shops I’ve passed,’ he said, ‘when there was no one to buy them for.’

  ‘It’s Sunday after all,’ Barbara said.

  ‘Yes,’ said Alex. ‘If this were France, now. Shall we go there?’

  ‘Alex,’ she said; it was still strange saying his name, now: his sacred, sacred name; he looked at her. ‘Alex,’ she said, looking at him seriously, ‘what are we going to do?’

  ‘Go back to your place, don’t you think?’ he said. He was looking at her as seriously as she at him. She said nothing and he stroked her thigh under the table. ‘Let’s go,’ he murmured. He leaned over and whispered something in her ea
r, and she smiled and pushed back her chair and got up. He rose and looked at the bill and put some notes with it on the table and they left.

  He held her hand very tightly all the way home. ‘I’m afraid you’ll fly away,’ he said, ‘and I’ll never get you back. Like a helium balloon.’ She laughed. He went on holding her hand all the way up the stairs and as they entered the room; he leaned against the door and pulled her towards him, still holding her hand.

  ‘Take off your clothes,’ he said.

  ‘I can’t with one hand,’ she protested.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘just do it.’

  She began to unbutton her blouse with one hand. He started to help her undress, with his free hand. It all took quite a long time: ‘I hope you’re enjoying this,’ he said, kissing her mouth, ‘as much as I am.’ Then he began to undress. She lay on the bed, watching him. It all took a long, long time.

  ‘I know what it means, now,’ he said, almost wonderingly, almost to himself— ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘With my body I thee worship,’ he said.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘Is it from a poem?’

  ‘No,’ he said, slowly. ‘It’s from the marriage service. “The Solemnization of Matrimony”. In the Book of Common Prayer.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘The old prayer book.’

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘The old prayer book. The Prayer Book. I suppose you’re too young to have known it.’

  ‘I didn’t know you went in for that sort of thing,’ she said. ‘God, and so on.’

  ‘I don’t,’ he said. ‘But with my body I thee worship. I know what it means, now.’ He half sat up; he wanted to go on. ‘I know what it means. Do you see? It’s the most astounding thing. Just think about it. I mean, I thought—you know, at school we used to read the Prayer Book, the Book of Common Prayer, surreptitiously during sermons.’ He laughed. ‘One got to know it pretty well, God knows how they get through the time now. I suppose they have to listen to the sermons, poor blighters. With my body I thee worship. I suppose I was about fourteen when I first came across that. I wondered how it could be true. I thought it was just some sort of metaphor. And now I know what it means. After almost twenty-five years.’ He laughed again. ‘To think,’ he said, ‘that the best, the truest, most literal description of sex that we have in the language is from the hand of some Tudor clergyman. Cranmer, I suppose. Well, who better, after all. But still.’