The Essence of the Thing Page 6

  Nicola looked down at the rug. It was time it was shampooed again: perhaps she could do that next weekend. Then she remembered; her misery redoubled.

  ‘The thing is, we never—that is, I never—foresaw this situation when we first bought the flat. I mean, how could I? I thought we’d simply go on living here happily ever after, until it got too small.’

  Oh, vain dreams! Marriage, children, a four-bedroomed house in a slightly cheaper part of London: that was the only alteration ever foreseen by Nicola.

  ‘Ye-e-es,’ said Lizzie. ‘Of course.’

  It was difficult to go on. Nicola was too nice for her own good; it was up to her friends to be tough for her.

  ‘I’ll accept that even now you still love the horrid pig, even to the point of trying to oblige him in every whim—up to and including the whim of sending you packing; but I really don’t see why you should put yourself out particularly. It’s very noble and generous of Susannah to offer you a home pro tem, and I can see that it would be stylish, in a way, for you simply to vanish from Jonathan’s deluded sight without further ado: but if I were you I’d stay exactly where you are for just as long as convenient. Of course he may well stick to his guns, but he can’t force you out. If I know anything about it he’d have to take it to court and you can be sure he doesn’t want to do that.’

  None of these considerations had previously entered Nicola’s mind; they altered the whole picture. She stared at the empty grate.

  ‘Court,’ she said wonderingly. ‘Would he really do that?’

  ‘I’ve just told you,’ said Lizzie, ‘not if he can possibly avoid it. So I think you should take all the time you like. If it really does come to separating.’ She took Nicola’s hand. ‘But look—don’t think about that until you really must. And in the meantime, hang in here. Jonathan absolutely does not have the right to order you off the premises in this way, whatever he might wish, and that is a fact. Of course it will be awkward, but that’s his problem. I suppose he’s bunked off to the spare room, has he? Of course. Well I just hope the bed in there is bloody uncomfortable.’

  ‘It is rather hard,’ said Nicola woefully.

  ‘Good!’ said Lizzie. ‘No electric blanket either, I hope?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicola. ‘There is a hot water bottle. But I don’t suppose he’d use it.’

  ‘Oh, but I do like the sound of Jonathan on a hard bed with a hot water bottle for company. It doesn’t leak, by any chance, does it?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ said Nicola.

  ‘Well, that can be fixed,’ said Lizzie. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Oh, no, you mustn’t!’ cried Nicola. Only then did she see that Lizzie was not perfectly serious. ‘Oh, Lizzie,’ she cried. ‘You’re teasing me. You think I’m stupid, don’t you?’

  ‘I know you’re not,’ said Lizzie. ‘But I do think you’re soft.’

  Nicola looked hopeless.

  ‘It will all work out somehow,’ Lizzie now unexpectedly found herself saying. ‘You’ll see; truly it will.’

  Why am I saying this? she asked herself. She felt ashamed for saying something she could not mean.

  ‘But whatever you do,’ she went on, ‘don’t, please, iron any more of those sodding shirts. Promise?’

  Nicola looked wretchedly down at the rug again and then back at Lizzie.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ she said. ‘I’ll try.’

  ‘You’re incorrigible,’ said Lizzie. ‘A hopeless case. Wherever did you come from? A nineteenth-century orphanage?’

  ‘No,’ said Nicola. ‘I haven’t even that excuse.’

  ‘Poor darling,’ said Lizzie. ‘Give me a hug. There. It will all work out somehow, you’ll see.’

  How could she say this? Oh dear.

  ‘And now I really must eff off,’ she said. ‘It’s time I fetched Henrietta from the Carringtons. Do you remember meeting them? She’s been playing with Fergus. They’re cousins, you see; Louisa is Alf’s sister. Anyway, look, I’ll be in touch. But telephone me whenever you want—you’ve got my work number, haven’t you? And please, don’t iron those shirts, I beg you.’

  25

  Nicola was ironing Jonathan’s shirts, and she was thinking: remembering: racking her brains: she was trying as hard as she could to recollect the past and to perceive the truth.

  There had been those moments of lesser dread which might have warned her of a possible greater such moment to come: but she had not been warned; she had dismissed them because they had made no sense. They had been anomalies in the narrative as she understood it: as she had believed (or had assured herself) Jonathan understood it too. Nevertheless, yes, there had been those moments when Jonathan—overtired, she had thought, under strain; for he did work so hard; he was an ambitious lawyer approaching mid-career; he spent most of his waking hours unpicking Gordian knots, and then tying, with infinite concentration, yet others—when Jonathan—yes: would stare at her as if to say: who are you; why are you here? Moments when he seemed not only not to know her, but not to want to know her: moments when the light they had seemed to bask in was suddenly occluded, and their solid world became a sham: moments when she saw for a fact that they were two fearful strangers.

  And she’d get up, go away, do something in another room; pretending that nothing was wrong, nothing at all, but nevertheless, pretend as she might, she was racked with dismay; she was possessed by a black and mysterious dread. And later on—to be sure!—nothing, after all, was wrong, nothing at all: Jonathan would come to her just as he’d used to be: I say, what are you doing in here? Oh, don’t do that now—come and watch Forty Minutes—come for a walk—let’s catch that film at the Electric—Nicola, where are you?

  And Nicola had described none of this to Lizzie or even to Susannah: it was not a phenomenon one could easily describe, even to oneself. And even less could she have described or even mentioned that scene, which might amount to almost nothing after all, of a few months past, that very tiny scene, more of an entr’acte, but nevertheless—this was very superior stagecraft—disturbing, chilling: a scene which had left her more truly, more deeply, in dread, and more strenuously determined to carry on, bravely: for almost surely, after all, nothing was wrong.

  Jonathan had been half sitting up in bed, reading a book, waiting for her: she was still occupied at the dressing table. She was wearing the white satin nightdress: she could remember each detail (you see) quite clearly: another present from Jonathan.

  This was the time of the day—last thing before bed—when she took the pill. She was looking at the packet as she spoke. She said, I’m going to have to stop taking this in about six months’ time. And he’d said, oh really, why? And she’d said, you have to stop after a while and do something else, otherwise there are certain risks. Do you want me to do something, he said; and she said no, after all, there isn’t really anything acceptable that a man can do. What’s the alternative? he asked. That’s where it gets rather tricky, she said; and she explained all the alternatives and why each was tricky. Which only leaves, she finished, the Roman Catholic method. But we’re not Roman Catholics, he had said. She had laughed. And actually, she had said, none of the Roman Catholics I know use that method either. Not unless they actually want to have children. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, we don’t actually want to have children either. So you’d better choose one of the other Roman Catholic methods.’ And he went back to his book.

  She felt as cold as steel when she got into bed; her heart was frozen. He put down the book and switched off the lamp and they lay silent in the darkness. He won’t touch me, she thought. I don’t even want him to. After a while he reached out and very slowly, carefully, began to untie the bows which secured the shoulder straps of the white satin nightdress, and then very slowly, carefully, he began, as if nothing were wrong, to make love to her; and after a while, nothing, for the moment, perhaps at all, was wrong.

  26

  ‘What are you doing in here?’

  ‘I’m just trying to make some ro
om in this cupboard.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘For Nicola. In case she comes to stay for a bit.’

  ‘Oh, Lord. Can’t she leave her things on the floor like everyone else?’

  ‘No of course she can’t. Look, if I take these shelves out, and you put up a rail, she could use this to hang up her clothes.’

  ‘Who says I’m going to put up a rail?’

  ‘God does. I’ll buy one tomorrow and you can put it up when you get back from the poly.’

  ‘The university, you mean. She might not even come. A waste of a good rail and what’s worse my time.’

  ‘No, it’ll be dead handy whatever happens. Now all these things—have we got any more of those wooden boxes we had?’

  ‘You mean those wine crates? There might be a few under the stairs.’

  ‘Could you be a darling and look? Then I can put all this junk in them and we’ll be all set to go.’

  ‘Oh, Lord.’

  ‘You’d be lost for words without the Lord, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Well, we all would; the whole thing you know was His idea in the first place. In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.’

  ‘Isn’t that beautiful.’

  ‘Yes, and since beauty is truth and truth beauty it is therefore also true.’

  ‘So if you could just fetch me those crates. And I’ll just look out some sheets. I’ll have to pinch some of Guy’s.’

  ‘Toil and trouble, toil and trouble. Bubble on.’

  ‘I think I’ll just telephone Nicola now quickly and make sure she’s all right.’

  ‘Are we meant to be getting any supper tonight or are you too busy with Nicola?’

  ‘Yes, there are some bangers in the fridge. Perhaps when you’ve got me those crates you could get them out and put them under the grill. I’ll be there in a minute.’ Susannah picked up the telephone receiver and Geoffrey with a look of helpless resignation left the room.

  Ten minutes later she came into the kitchen.

  ‘Well, that’s all right,’ she said.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘Nicola.’

  ‘Oh, all sorted out again, is she? That’s good. We needn’t bother about that rail.’

  ‘No, she isn’t sorted out. She hasn’t seen him yet, he hasn’t returned from the country yet. But she seems to feel that she should stay put for a few days at least.’

  ‘Of course she should.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t.’

  ‘She hasn’t got your proud and fiery nature. Anyway, just so long as we needn’t bother about that rail.’

  ‘We need. She might change her mind. She probably will. She might suddenly become proud and fiery: I hope in fact that she will.’

  They were interrupted by Guy.

  ‘I’m hungry.’

  ‘Good, I’m just getting supper now.’

  ‘Can we have chips?’

  ‘Look in the freezer and see if there are any.’

  He did; there were; Susannah turned on the oven.

  ‘I wish I could learn to ride,’ said Guy, not for the first time.

  ‘I’ll have to see if we can afford it,’ said Susannah.

  ‘You said that before, but you haven’t.’

  ‘I will. I’ll put it in my diary.’

  ‘We probably can’t,’ said Geoffrey.

  ‘It doesn’t cost very much,’ said Guy in a small voice.

  Susannah more or less made up her mind then that, cost what it might, Guy should learn to ride; and quite right too.

  27

  Jonathan glanced up at the sitting-room windows and saw the light. So she was still there. Steeling himself, he crossed the street and ascended the stairs to the second floor.

  Nicola was on the point of dishing up some tinned soup when she heard Jonathan’s key turning in the lock. She waited— terrified—for his entrance; in a moment, he was before her in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘Hello.’

  Jonathan ever so slightly shrugged. ‘I wasn’t sure you’d still be here,’ he said.

  ‘Where should I be?’

  He shrugged again and turned away.

  ‘Would you like some soup?’

  ‘Is there enough?’

  ‘I’ll just make some more toast.’

  He sat down as if only half willingly and she put the soup in front of him and then sat down herself. He picked up the spoon and idly took an experimental mouthful. Cream of celery.

  Now that he was here, speechlessly drinking soup, Nicola all at once perceived that he was even less able to manage their dreadful new situation than she. Her fear abated and she began to feel a sort of pity.

  After a moment, ‘I was hoping,’ she said carefully, ‘that we might talk.’

  ‘Talk? About what?’

  ‘About what has happened. About this decision you’ve come to. I was hoping that you might be ready to explain yourself.’

  There was a silence, and she dimly saw that the wretchedness within him which had brought about the dreadful announcement of Thursday night had engendered a black fog which obscured all paths to enlightenment: the very fact of his acting and speaking as he had done indicated an incapacity for any other kind of discourse. The black fog seemed to creep through her own pores; soon she would be as incapacitated as he. What in God’s name ailed him?

  ‘I told you: there’s nothing to explain, further to what I’ve said already.’

  She might now have become angry; but perhaps because she was so exhausted, depleted by anguish and fear and interrupted sleep, she could feel only a kind of impatience, and still that ghostly pity. In any case it seemed that nothing she could do or say might touch his recalcitrance.

  ‘It won’t do, Jonathan,’ she said very gravely. ‘Really it won’t.’

  He thought about this. ‘It will have to do,’ he said. ‘It’s all I’ve got.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see, shall we?’ she said. Suddenly her impatience broke its bounds. ‘We’ll see, if it’s all you’ve got. I’ll be here for the rest of the week at least, whether you like it or not, so I dare say we’ll run into each other once in a while if not every single morning and every single evening. You may find you’ve got more to say after all—I hope for your sake that you do. If you truly haven’t then I’m well rid of you, because in that case, it looks as if you’ve had a brain transplant, and I hope it didn’t cost much because if it did then you’ve been ripped off. I should see the Trading Standards Officer if I were you.’

  Oh, if only Susannah had heard her. Or Lizzie. Or best of all, both of them. How they would have cheered! As it was, Nicola was cheering herself. Where had it all come from? Hallelujah!

  Jonathan was stunned. His eyes were full of incredulity and he was speechless. Nicola got up and put the dirty dishes in the sink.

  ‘Could you put all your clothes in the spare room cupboard,’ she said, ‘and any other bits and pieces you need from the bedroom. So that you won’t need to disturb me more than necessary. For the rest of the time that I’m here I’ll stay out of your way as much as I can, without overdoing it, naturally. Perhaps you could see to your clothes now—I want to have an early night.’

  Still speechless, Jonathan stumbled to his feet and awkwardly left the room; Nicola, catching sight of his dazed expression as he did so, would for two pins have run to him and hugged and consoled him. My own love, she might have said, what is wrong? But she sensed that it would have been futile: that the bewilderment on his face was belied by the murderous coldness which still quite evidently gripped his heart. So she turned instead to the sink and began to wash up.

  28

  He was in the doorway again; he made an awkward gesture. It was still difficult to address her.

  ‘I’ve—moved my things,’ he said. ‘The coast is clear.’

  One might have thought that it was she who had asked him to leave.

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ve made some tea, will you have some?’

  He
came in and sat down once more. He was carrying a plastic bag which he put on the table.

  ‘My mother sent you this,’ he said.

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘I believe it’s some marmalade,’ he said. ‘From the latest batch.’

  ‘How kind,’ said Nicola, opening the bag. ‘You haven’t told them, then?’

  ‘Told them what?’

  ‘That we’re no longer in a shared-marmalade situation. That you’ve given me notice. That I’m out of their lives.’

  No need to pile it on, though.

  ‘I thought it best to wait, until—’

  ‘Oh, yes. Until I’ve actually gone. Very circumspect. Meanwhile I’ve got some marmalade. It seems like false pretences, but still. I must remember to take it with me when I go.’

  She looked inside the carrier bag. There was something else there as well, wrapped in damp-looking newspaper. She withdrew it—an awkward, very light cone-shaped parcel.

  ‘What’s this?’ she said.

  ‘I don’t know. She didn’t mention anything else—it all happened at the last minute, as I was leaving.’

  Nicola unwrapped the damp newspaper to discover a small and exquisite posy of early spring flowers—the sort of posy that only a woman with a garden can ever produce, lovelier by far than anything from even the very best florist. She sat down and stared at it for a moment, and then began carefully removing the wet newspaper from around the stems.

  ‘How enchanting,’ she said. ‘What a darling your mother is.’

  Jonathan got up abruptly. ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ he said, ‘I’ve got some papers to look through before tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh, go ahead. Please. And oh, by the way, what time is that agent coming in the morning?’

  ‘Nine o’clock.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it then.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Goodnight.’

  ‘Er—goodnight.’

  She put the flowers in water and went to bed. It had been a long three days, and underneath her defiance she was suffering what she could expect to be a long-enduring and horrifying pain.