The poles and pillars of her world had been removed. Guy was dead, Anne was gone, the Count no longer loved her and - she increasingly realized that she could not either go on living this crazy criminal life with Tim, or announce him to the world as her love and her husband. She could not. She wanted things to be somehow as they had been, or as they had never quite been but might have been, or might be if only things were different which could not be different. She wanted to be the old Gertrude, Guy’s Gertrude, the centre of a loving admiring circle, she wanted Anne and the Count - and Tim too and all the love that had come with them out of France. But she could not be an outcast with Tim, a wanderer, a vagabond. She saw him now as a gipsy who would take her away out of her life into his. Only he had no life, he had no place. She asked him about his friends. He had no friends. He had come to her for a life and a place. It was nothing to do with money (that she never thought). But she increasingly saw Tim as a waif. He had no background, no belongings, no world. And she would be a waif too, unless she drew back, unless she somehow solved the absolutely insoluble problem.
‘News, news, Gertrude has taken a lover!’ ‘No! Who is he?’ ‘Tim Reede!’ ‘You mean the little painter chap? You’re joking!’ Did they know? If she stopped it now it would never be more than a vague rumour which would fade away and be forgotten. No one would be certain; after all it was so very improbable. But what was she now thinking? There was so much in the balance against poor Tim. There was Guy and Anne and the Count. And now some hideous mean pride which she hated but which was profoundly a part of her as well. It had seemed so sensible to keep it dark, not to admit so soon to another attachment. Now it was beginning to seem impossibly hard to admit it at all. Yet the idea of parting from Tim, really parting, was unthinkable. Gertrude’s mind dodged this way and that like a poor hunted hare. There seemed only one issue, muddled and temporary, but which left, for the time, all the essentials unharmed. She must ask Tim for a moratorium, an interval, a time for reflection, or rather a sort of non-time when everything stood still.
Gertrude had thought this yet had not thought it. She had run to Tim’s arms away from thought. She had wanted Tim to prove his inevitability. The crucial, the revealing conversation started really by accident. They had finished one of their long festival dinners. How easy they found it to talk, they got on so well together, they talked about anything! This was one of the ever-fresh miracles of their love which Gertrude had noticed with surprise. (Anne had said, ‘He’ll bore you.’ She could not have been more wrong.) Gertrude felt, in her detached separated way which made her like a spy able to divide her mind, calm and loving. They were sitting in the dining-room, in the lamplight, at the strewn table, drinking wine. Gertrude had suddenly said, ‘We can’t go on like this,’ and Tim had said, ‘My God, I know!’ and then they had set off on this disastrous argument. They looked at each other in horror and misery but could not stop saying the things which would divide them forever.
‘Gertrude, this is the truth. You just want it to end. You want it to end before anyone finds out. You want it never to have been at all. You want me to vanish. All right, I’ll vanish.’
‘I don’t want that -’
‘Yes, you do, you want me to be kind and do it myself so that you won’t have to feel afterwards that you did it. You’re right, our love will simply be spoilt if we go on. Better to stop now while it’s still pure. We shall end up hating each other, or rather you’ll hate me, I’ll just be a bloody millstone. Of course it was too good to be true. It’s been wonderful and I’m grateful and I’m not angry or hostile, but oh God I’m so unhappy -’
‘Tim, I’m so unhappy too, I’m wretched and frightened, yet half an hour ago I was happy with you. This is madness. Oh Tim, why can’t we make happiness for each other?’
‘Because you don’t love me enough, my darling. It’s no surprise, no accident, that we’re here.’
‘Where’s here?’
‘The parting of the ways.’
‘No, no, no. Tim, dear, we can’t part. Let’s stop talking, let’s go to bed. We’ve said too much.’
‘OK. You go. I’ll follow. I want to finish the wine.’
Tim rose almost formally as Gertrude got up. She came and leaned against him, clinging to his white flapping shirt. His skin was moist.
‘Go to bed, darling.’
‘All right, Tim. Come soon.’
Gertrude had fallen asleep. She had kicked her shoes off and lain down on the bed. Now she woke, listened. The light in the bedroom had been turned off. She felt sure the flat was empty. She leapt up and ran from room to room calling his name. There was no one there. Then she noticed that his rucksack and his old suitcase which had been in the hall were gone.
Gertrude went into the drawing-room and turned on all the lights. There was a letter on the table.
My darling, you want me to go and I’ve gone. You are right, we should just quietly undo it. I’ve felt, being with you like this, that it’s just not possible. You don’t really want to marry me, and we can’t be together any other way, it’s too serious, and I don’t want to be driven mad. I can’t be a secret lover. Don’t look for me at the studio, I won’t be there, I won’t be anywhere where we might meet. If we see each other it’ll all start again. You must go back into your real world with your real friends. You’ll soon feel happier. You’ll feel relieved. Oh my darling, I’m sorry it didn’t work. My love for you is in so much pain.
T.
Gertrude unbuttoned her dress and tore at it. She grasped her hair and pulled. Her mouth opened in a grin of pain and rage, tears like thunder-drops rained from her eyes. She sat down and remained absolutely still for nearly half an hour.
Then she got up and poured herself some whisky. She wanted Tim so much that her body seemed to be falling apart, moving away into separate pieces. She could scarcely prevent herself from scuttling about like a mad animal. She had never really said to herself, ‘It’s just physical, it’s lust, shock-lust, a flight from grief,’ and she did not say it now. But she felt her physical longing for Tim as something detached and strange, as a sort of emanation, a second body, her longing for his thin red-haired hands and his smooth sweet skin and his kisses that solved all problems and answered all questions.
Gertrude drank the whisky and called upon her reason, with quiet deliberation as one might call a servant. Tim had said ‘it’s no accident’. It was no accident that just that conversation had started, though just when it came seemed random, a matter of chance. It had to come. They had been on the brink of that conversation for days, almost ever since Tim moved to Ebury Street. She felt that they had both rehearsed it, had both had their statements ready. ‘It’s true,’ she said aloud. ‘I can’t marry him.’ She had tried hard to bind Tim into her life, but he was alien tissue and the saving blood would not flow from her being into his. In the end she rejected him. She did not try to think why. There were many many reasons. She ought to have fallen in love with someone else, but she had fallen in love with Tim by mistake. About Tim’s state of mind she endeavoured not to think, and indeed it was obscure to her.
She looked at her watch and was amazed to find that she was wondering if it was too late to ring the Count. Of course it was. It was nearly two o’clock. She got up and pulled back the curtains and looked out into empty silent Ebury Street. There was nothing to conceal now. And just in that gesture of pulling back the curtains she felt relief. The lying, the concealment had poisoned them. Their love had been something amazing and wonderful, but not strong, not sane. I suppose it’s my fault, thought Gertrude, but the idea of fault doesn’t really apply. I must simply recover, people do recover. I’ll see my friends, I’ll gather them about me, that’s how I’ll live from now on forever, with my friends. I’ll bring Anne back here, and tomorrow I’ll see the Count, I’ll have lunch with him and see his happy eyes. That’s the real world. And I’ll have a little party and invite Manfred and Gerald and Victor and Ed and Moses and Janet and Stanley and Mrs Mount. And
I’ll ask Sylvia Wicks round for a drink separately because someone said she was unhappy. And I’ll take Rosalind Openshaw on a jaunt somewhere, to Athens or Rome, and Anne will come too. We’ll have fun, and I’ll be kind to people and find out how they are. And everything will be good and simple and open and innocent again. Tim has been kind to me. He has been wise and brave. It is better to finish like this.
And no one will know, she thought. It will be all sealed away. Even if there was a rumour, no one will believe it if I go about as usual. This will preserve it, in a way, our love. It will stay perfect, safe in the past. It won’t have been spoilt by quarrels and hate and by the stupid vulgarity of people who would despise it. No one could have understood it ever except Tim and me. Now it’s taken away and safe. It’s better so.
There was a pale dawn light over Ebury Street, descending from above over the dim street lamps like a pearly mist. Soon it would be June and midsummer. The houses were still, as if held in a grip of judgement.
Gertrude turned away to go to bed. The courage of the whisky had gone from her. Her head was aching. She undressed and took some aspirins. As she sat down on the bed the great thunder-tears began to roll again. I’m alone, she thought. I hoped I wouldn’t be, but I am. I’ve lost him, my love, my playboy. And o’er his bones when they are bare the wind shall blow forever more.
‘So yer back,’ said Daisy. ‘I thought you’d come slinking back.’
‘Did you?’ said Tim. ‘I didn’t. Give me some of that wine, for Christ’s sake.’
‘There ain’t much. I hope you’ve got money, I haven’t.’
‘Plenty.’
‘So at least you’ve come back with money in your pocket.’
Tim had wondered whether he should send the money back to Gertrude. He decided not to.
Tim sat down on one of the swaying rickety chairs. Sun shone into the stuffy dusty room. Daisy, sitting on the bed, propped with pillows and with her knees up, was dressed to kill today. She had been putting the finishing touches to her make-up when Tim arrived unannounced. Daisy was wearing a black and white striped silky skirt pulled into a black shiny belt, and a black and white sprigged blouse with a floppy collar tied by a black and orange scarf. Her long legs were in black tights, her shoes were black patent leather with big metal buckles and extremely high thin heels. She had a blue and white clown face on.
‘How’s the novel?’
‘Fine. It just raced ahead while you were absent without leave.’
‘Good.’
‘So you ratted on Gertrude?’
‘We ratted mutually. It was a short excursion into total insanity. ’
‘I said so. Did I not say so?’
‘You did. Who are you dolled up for?’
‘You.’
‘You didn’t know I was coming.’
‘I expected you daily.’
‘How touching.’
‘Of course it wasn’t for you. I was just going down the old Prince for lunch.’
‘Have you found someone else in my absence?’
‘No. But it wasn’t for want of trying. I haven’t forgiven you, you know.’
‘But you will.’
‘Well, it doesn’t matter, it’s all states of mind. I missed you! That’s a state of mind too. Did you miss me?’
‘I think so,’ said Tim.
‘I think so! That’s a fine Tim Reedeish remark! So it’s over?’
‘Yes.’
‘It had better be. What was it like? I’m expecting an amusing blow by blow account.’
‘I can’t, Daisy. Let’s forget it. Forgive and forget. It’s gone, it’s undone, like a knot is undone, and the string is straight again.’
‘Very picturesque. I’ve often thought that our life together was like a piece of string, a dirty old piece of string all unravelling at the ends.’
‘You didn’t try to get in touch with me?’ said Tim. He had returned to the studio, but there was no letter. After a day and a night alone at the studio he had run to Daisy. He feared Gertrude’s arrival and he could not stand the solitude. And he suddenly absolutely needed to talk to Daisy.
‘Why the hell should I, fuck you? You cleared off saying you were going to get married. Did you expect me to run after you? Good bloody riddance, thought I.’
‘But you’re glad I’m back?’
‘I suppose so. I’ve been in and out of an alcoholic haze, actually. I’m used to you, dear boy. I can talk to you. I think you’re a mean selfish lying bastard, like most men. I just hate the others more.’
‘Daisy -’
‘Will you get us some more wine, or shall we go to the Prince? Jimmy Roland’s back, by the way.’
‘Oh good -’
‘He says America’s empty, like being inside a clean white cardboard box.’
‘Daisy, do you mind if I stay here just for the moment?’
‘You mean live here, share my bed?’
‘Yes, just not for long -’
‘OK. “And there’s always that,” as you so romantically say when you want to make love. No wonder all the girls are after you. What’s up at the studio?’
‘They’re turning me out.’ This was untrue, but Tim did not want to continue the pain of wondering if Gertrude would come.
‘Really! I wonder if that’s true. Not that it matters much. I have no more curiosity about your truthfulness. You can’t bring your bloody paintings here.’
‘The garage man will store them. Thanks, darling.’
‘You’d better bustle round quick and find a flat. You know how we two get if we’re shut up together like rats. We’d be OK in a palace. Money would do a lot for our characters.’
‘I’ll bustle. Shall I get some wine or shall we go to the Prince of Denmark?’
‘Oh get some wine, and some grub too while you’re about it. I don’t want to go to the Prince, it’s too far at lunch time. Jimmy Roland will be there laughing at his own jokes and I can’t stand that asinine bray, and poor Piglet squeaking. Don’t go yet. Come and sit beside me and make up to me in a humble penitent manner.’
Tim sat beside her and looked into her large dark woody-brown eyes outlined in blue between their spiky black lashes. He touched the little brown mole beside her nose. ‘Old pal.’
‘Don’t do it again, Tim Reede. I mightn’t forgive you next time. Funny, I did think at first that you were doing it for us, to get her money, you’re crazy enough. I was quite touched. I wonder if she’d have put up with it in the long run, you could always tell some fib about seeing your old friends at the Slade, you’re such an expert liar. Did you tell her about me?’
‘No.’
‘Promise? Not a word?’
‘Not a word.’
‘Good. I bet you told her lies about how lonesome you were. I think you smell of her. You’re a disgusting brute.’
‘Take your shoes off,’ said Tim. ‘They’re like bloody spears.’
‘You take them off. I can’t get at them. You’re in the way. Do you love me?’
‘Yes.’
‘You don’t sound very enthusiastic, where’s all that warm bright Irish talk you used to be so famous for? I’ve never seen a man more like a beaten dog. And your hair’s going grey.’
‘Is it?’
‘I’m only kidding. Wait, you’re messing my collar, I’ll take the scarf off. Christ, it’s hot.’
‘Oh Daisy, I’ve been so unhappy, it’s been so awful.’
‘Do you want me to console you because Gertie saw what a little rat you were? Poor little Timmie. Put your head there then. Women are for consolation, they’re always the safe house. You come back to the woman you left and ask her to console you because your caper went wrong. God, we’re fools. I wish I could find a better man.’
‘I wish I was a better man.’
‘Poor Tim, poor sinner. There, put your arms around me. Don’t grieve, you’re safe here.’
Everything began to go wrong, Tim thought afterwards, from the moment of the perfunct
ory love-making in the studio. His excessive anxiety about being disturbed annoyed Gertrude and made her insecure. She was jumpy and uneasy. She resented his inability to protect her. Then the meeting with Anne (his idea) had not been a success, he had been unable to think of anything intelligent to say, and Anne had stared with her cold eyes as if she were reading his thoughts. He felt sure that she had made Gertrude tell her the truth (though Gertrude denied this) and had told Gertrude to stop it! At the first public test, Gertrude had given way. Looking through the eyes of a third party, she had seen the absurdity of her proceeding. It was just as well he had never breathed a word about Daisy. If he had, and Gertrude had then left him, he would have imagined that the cause, and would have had the extra torment of reproaching himself for impudence. He could picture how he would have worked at it, thinking of how, without that fatal revelation, he could have kept his love. As it was, he had at least this consolation: Gertrude had left him, not because of some slip or accident, but because of the deep unworkable structure of the situation. She was ashamed of him, that was what it came to. Tim felt no resentment or surprise. He was ashamed of himself; only under normal conditions this did not matter and he scarcely noticed it.
It had seemed easy enough in France to say, we’ll keep it secret for a while. It had seemed prudent and simple. But the tactics of secrecy had turned out to be intolerable. If Tim had had a secure dwelling it might have been easier, and here indeed the fact of his relation with Daisy was injurious. Anne’s prompt departure (Gertrude must have told her) to visit an old school friend in Hereford (Gertrude was becoming as good a liar as Tim was) opened Ebury Street to them; but Ebury Street was not secure either. Polite well-trained cousins and aunts did not ‘drop in’, but their presence pressed upon the horizon. Gertrude was not independent of these people, though she pretended that she was. There remained the vast pleasure-palace of London and fitfully, wandering there together like people on holiday, they had felt happy. Tim had showed her pictures, objects, places. Gertrude really knew remarkably little about London. They frequented the British Museum. (There was a secluded seat in the Etruscan room where they could kiss each other.) Tim took her to pubs, far removed from the Prince of Denmark and from the Ebury Arms, pubs in Chiswick, and some which he remembered in North London (not Hampstead, which was full of aunts and cousins). They went to a shabby cider house in the Harrow Road, she liked that. They were like student lovers, or a caricature of happy children.