‘I still don’t see where I come into it.’
‘I’m afraid Sybil has got it into her head that you engineered the whole thing.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘So I told her. But she said she intended to write you a stiff letter. I know you’ll know how to deal with that; I just thought I ought to warn you. She won’t do anything, of course: in fact she’s always been rather frightened of you. Big men frighten her—she’s that sort of woman. Thankfully few of them survive. It’s interesting how times have changed …’
‘Mother, I’ll deal with it, I promise you. It’s just that I was on my way out …’
‘I’m so sorry, Alan. Of course I’m being a nuisance. When will I see you?’
‘I’ll try and come over on Sunday. It’s just that my evenings are rather taken up at the moment.’
There was a pause. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked finally, a question I usually avoided. I did not want to know about my mother’s life, which I saw as empty, wistful. I had longed for her to remarry, so as to ease the burden of her solitariness onto shoulders other than mine. And there was a claimant, a thoroughly respectable bachelor who lived a floor above her in Cadogan Gate and who continued faithfully to escort her to the theatre even when she had turned down his proposal.
‘But why don’t you accept?’ I protested when she told me. ‘You could have been a wife instead of a widow.’ For I imagined widows indulging in ceaseless sentimental tears, whereas all the widows I know now lead aerobics classes. She had smiled, and said something that terrified me. ‘ “Was it nother position in life to be his mother?” ’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘What are you saying? Of course you’re my mother, but that’s not a
position
…’
‘I was quoting, dear. Lady Mason says that in
Orley Farm
, I love it, as you know.’
‘What are you doing?’ I asked her.
‘Reading.’
‘Not
Orley Farm
again? You must know it off by heart.’
‘
The Claverings.
I’d forgotten how it ended. Just write Sybil a gentle but firm letter, dear. But once she gets hold of an idea … Come to lunch on Sunday if you can. Are you eating?’
‘Of course. I have lunch with Brian or a client most days. And I have breakfast in this coffee bar down the road. I don’t need much in the evenings. Are
you
eating?’
‘Rather too much. Jenny sees to that.’
‘I’ll see you on Sunday, Mother. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Good-night, dear. Until Sunday. And I’m sure you’ll know what to say to Sybil. God bless.’
I walked to the window and looked out. It was a fine evening in late autumn, my favourite season of the year. There are a few pedestrians at my end of Wigmore Street once the office workers and the dental nurses have gone home: the music lovers at the Wigmore Hall do not make themselves felt until much later. At the back of my mind I was aware of overstepping some sort of mark, and I was unsure whether this was professional or moral. As I said, I was unversed in the idea of love, and the theories surrounding it. I think I knew that it was subversive, even at that stage, before I had been completely overtaken. But when I speak about being overtaken is this not simply to exonerate myself, as if I were a passive instrument—not even an agent—at the mercy of powerful and indifferent forces? The one lesson I learnt from the whole affair was that one is responsible notonly for what one does but for what is done to one. But I think I also knew relief that at last I had the ideal pretext for contacting Sarah, instead of waiting for her notional party. There was no reason, apart from the inability to get through to her on the telephone, why I should not simply have invited her to dinner. I did not do this because I was not ready for her. I was still at that stage which I now recognise as adolescent. I wanted to move straight from my imaginings into a full-blooded affair. With an affair I knew I should be on safe ground. I did
‘I’m afraid Sybil has got it into her head that you engineered the whole thing.’
‘But I didn’t.’
‘So I told her. But she said she intended to write you a stiff letter. I know you’ll know how to deal with that; I just thought I ought to warn you. She won’t do anything, of course: in fact she’s always been rather frightened of you. Big men frighten her—she’s that sort of woman. Thankfully few of them survive. It’s interesting how times have changed …’
‘Mother, I’ll deal with it, I promise you. It’s just that I was on my way out …’
‘I’m so sorry, Alan. Of course I’m being a nuisance. When will I see you?’
‘I’ll try and come over on Sunday. It’s just that my evenings are rather taken up at the moment.’
There was a pause. ‘What are you doing?’ I asked finally, a question I usually avoided. I did not want to know about my mother’s life, which I saw as empty, wistful. I had longed for her to remarry, so as to ease the burden of her solitariness onto shoulders other than mine. And there was a claimant, a thoroughly respectable bachelor who lived a floor above her in Cadogan Gate and who continued faithfully to escort her to the theatre even when she had turned down his proposal.
‘But why don’t you accept?’ I protested when she told me. ‘You could have been a wife instead of a widow.’ For I imagined widows indulging in ceaseless sentimental tears, whereas all the widows I know now lead aerobics classes. She had smiled, and said something that terrified me. ‘ “Was it nother position in life to be his mother?” ’ ‘What?’ I said. ‘What are you saying? Of course you’re my mother, but that’s not a
position
…’
‘I was quoting, dear. Lady Mason says that in
Orley Farm
, I love it, as you know.’
‘What are you doing?’ I asked her.
‘Reading.’
‘Not
Orley Farm
again? You must know it off by heart.’
‘
The Claverings.
I’d forgotten how it ended. Just write Sybil a gentle but firm letter, dear. But once she gets hold of an idea … Come to lunch on Sunday if you can. Are you eating?’
‘Of course. I have lunch with Brian or a client most days. And I have breakfast in this coffee bar down the road. I don’t need much in the evenings. Are
you
eating?’
‘Rather too much. Jenny sees to that.’
‘I’ll see you on Sunday, Mother. I’ve got to go now.’
‘Good-night, dear. Until Sunday. And I’m sure you’ll know what to say to Sybil. God bless.’
I walked to the window and looked out. It was a fine evening in late autumn, my favourite season of the year. There are a few pedestrians at my end of Wigmore Street once the office workers and the dental nurses have gone home: the music lovers at the Wigmore Hall do not make themselves felt until much later. At the back of my mind I was aware of overstepping some sort of mark, and I was unsure whether this was professional or moral. As I said, I was unversed in the idea of love, and the theories surrounding it. I think I knew that it was subversive, even at that stage, before I had been completely overtaken. But when I speak about being overtaken is this not simply to exonerate myself, as if I were a passive instrument—not even an agent—at the mercy of powerful and indifferent forces? The one lesson I learnt from the whole affair was that one is responsible notonly for what one does but for what is done to one. But I think I also knew relief that at last I had the ideal pretext for contacting Sarah, instead of waiting for her notional party. There was no reason, apart from the inability to get through to her on the telephone, why I should not simply have invited her to dinner. I did not do this because I was not ready for her. I was still at that stage which I now recognise as adolescent. I wanted to move straight from my imaginings into a full-blooded affair. With an affair I knew I should be on safe ground. I did
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