The Accidental Woman Part 6

A week pa.s.sed. During this time her initially vague but insistent unease began to a.s.sume a more definite shape. She was soon able to cla.s.sify her objections to the presence of Albert under the following four headings: smell, drink, flatulence, and other. As for the first three, it was quite likely, she realized, that they existed in some relations.h.i.+p of complex interdependence which she was not equipped to understand. Dorothy had of course a.s.sured her that he had forsworn alcohol for the remainder of his natural life, but this a.s.surance seemed to be at odds with various circ.u.mstances, such as the fact that on the second morning of his residence, Maria, in attempting to leave her bedroom at seven thirty, had found herself unable to open the door, the obstruction, it transpired, being Albert's prostrate body, which had fallen there several hours earlier on its way to the bathroom, intending no doubt to relieve itself of the rum with which it had been privately regaling itself all evening. This incident, which Dorothy laughingly brushed off as a 'relapse', turned out to be the first in a series.

Furthermore, Albert did not take easily to everyday domestic life. His attempts to use the vacuum cleaner resulted more often in the breakage of fragile objects, such as small items of china, or chairs, than in any noticeable improvement in the appearance of the carpet. When trying to use the shower he flooded the bathroom. He could not cook. He disliked Maria, or so his terms of reference would seem to imply, for he was heard to describe her as a 'miserable slag'. He very rarely spoke to her directly at all, although this may have been for want of opportunity, since her excursions from her bedroom became increasingly infrequent. On the other hand he appeared to like Dorothy, whom he affectionately called 'Dotty', and he would willingly execute small commissions for her, little tasks which she imposed on him as a manifestation of her trust. For instance, she would give him sixty pounds, and ask him to go to the supermarket and do the week's shopping for the three of them, barely uttering a word of reproach when he returned after half an hour with a loaf of bread, a pork pie, and seven bottles of gin. These were the sorts of minor failings, marginal errors of judgment owing as much to inexperience as to anything else, which Maria cla.s.sified as 'other'.

By the end of the first week, she knew that she was going to have to find somewhere else to live. It crossed her mind more than once, as it has conceivably the reader's, that this was precisely the outcome that Dorothy, mortified by the failure of her recent advances, had intended to provoke, and that no sooner would Maria have packed her bags and gone than Albert himself would be quietly booted out and left to resume his former life. But she realized that to charge Dorothy with this intention would only be to invite further wide-eyed accusations of cruelty and cynicism. So she found herself in a tricky situation, and not for the first time. Weighed down by unhappiness, and bored with always having to keep it to herself, she thought that it might alleviate the problem a little to talk about it with someone, a friend, say, supposing one could be found. Idly she flicked through her address book. There were three entries, under for Bobby, R for Ronny, and S for Sarah. She remembered that it would be no use trying her brother, because he had gone back to visit her parents for the weekend. What about Ronny? She smiled, none too cheerfully, as she recalled another time, nearly eight years ago, when she had surprised herself by choosing to visit him at a moment of crisis. A fat lot of good that had done her. But he had changed since then, and so had Maria, and although he was still as silly as ever about wanting to marry her, she no longer felt uncomfortable with him, in fact quite the reverse, for there was something about the very familiarity, amounting even to predictability, of his behaviour, which inspired in her a real and otherwise unavailable sense of comfort. She decided there and then, with a thrill of pleasure, to phone him. They had not seen each other since the night of the dinner party. How surprised he would be to hear from her!

But there was no answer. So Maria phoned Sarah, and they arranged to meet for dinner that evening. Sarah nominated a restaurant in Hampstead.

She looked slightly more plump and pale than when Maria had last seen her, on the day of her wedding. As usual, they kissed before sitting down together, but it was only Maria who did so with any fervour.

'Well, this is nice,' said Sarah, unnecessarily.

Maria smiled.

'It was nice to hear from you. It was a very nice surprise.'

'I just wanted to see you, that's all.' Maria paused, then asked: 'How do I look, Sarah?'

'You look very nice. And very well,' said Sarah, staring fixedly at her fillet of sole while waiting for the tartare sauce to come.

'No, how do I really look. You weren't looking at me.'

Thus prompted, Sarah examined Maria with some attention.

'Actually you don't look too well. I'd noticed already, but I didn't think it would be polite to say so.'

'I don't want you to be polite. I want you to be my friend.'

'Why, Maria? Is anything the matter?'

'I'm unhappy. I think I'm going to move out of the flat. Only I don't know where to go, or what to do.'

A tear fell from the corner of Maria's eye. Fortunately the waiter, who arrived at that moment with the tartare sauce, had his handkerchief with him and was able to wipe her cheek.

'Thank you,' said Maria, feeling very stupid.

'We must remember to give him an extra tip,' said Sarah, when he had gone, and added earnestly: 'Maria, you must tell me everything. You must tell me all about what's gone wrong. You have my undivided attention. Can I have your lemon if you're not going to use it?'

First of all Maria told her about Dorothy's attempted seduction. Sarah was shocked and a little embarra.s.sed. She blushed.

'That does surprise me,' she said. 'Still, one always finds problems with shared accommodation. Don't misunderstand me, Maria, I enjoyed living with you and Dorothy very much. But it doesn't really bear comparison with having your own home, and sharing it with the man you love. Living with friends, by which I mean girl friends, of course, is all very well while you're still young and you haven't found your place in the word, but it can never really be as nice as married life. I don't want to give you a lecture, Maria, just because I happen to have the benefit of more experience than you, but you can have no notion of how lovely it is to share everything with the man you love, a bed, your food, your money, your home, all your thoughts and experiences, your whole life, in fact.' A thought now struck her, and she laid down her knife and fork. 'But I was forgetting, you've been married already'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry, Maria. How thoughtless I'm being. Of course, it doesn't always work out as well as it has for me. How is little Edward?'

'I never see him. I thought you knew that.'

There was a long and frosty silence. Finally Maria, determined to retrieve something constructive from her friend's sentimental outburst, but feeling, at the same time, less and less sympathetic and interested, asked coldly: 'So you think that marriage is probably the answer to all my problems, and everybody's else's.'

'It's not quite as simple as that, of course, Maria,' Sarah answered, with a sweet smile. '"Marriage has many pains, but celibacy has no pleasures", as somebody once said. I don't want to generalize, because that would mean nothing to you. I can only speak out of my own experience, and over the last few months I've known such happiness...' She paused and reflected. 'It's not enough, you see, Maria, just to be friendly with someone. You'll never get deep into life like that. There must be intimacy, close, personal and physical intimacy. To share a meal with someone, for instance. I mean, here we are, sharing a meal together, at least, we would be 'she looked around angrily in the direction of the kitchens ' if they'd hurry up and bring us the next course. Honestly, I'm ravenous. Anyway, here we are, sharing a meal, but there's no real intimacy in it, do you see what I mean? It's not like sitting down to a meal with your husband, a meal which you've cooked yourself, and watching him eat it, watching him watch you eat, talking all the time with your eyes. Do you see what I mean?'

Maria considered her own recollections of married mealtimes.

'But when you hear the sound of food in his mouth,' she said, 'don't you feel like stabbing him with the carving knife?'

Sarah, thinking that she was joking, smiled.

'Of course not.'

'Is there nothing about him that you find repulsive? What about when you're having s.e.x?'

'Maria!'

'Whenever I saw Martin naked, I always wanted to chop it off. I'd never seen anything so grotesque.'

'Don't be silly. There's nothing ugly about...' here her voice sank very low'...men's privates. You're embittered, Maria, and you forget, because it was all such a long time ago. You've forgotten what it was like.'

This was far from the truth, for Maria had not forgotten, and never would forget, about p.e.n.i.ses. She had had them up the front, round the back, down the hatch, and dangled in front of her nose, and was rather hoping that she would never have to see one again in her life. But she didn't bother to say so to Sarah.

'Did you never love Martin, Maria?'

She shrugged. 'As you say, it was all such a long time ago...'

'Have you ever been in love at all? Ever?'

She laughed. 'You asked me the same question once before. But that was even longer ago.'

'But have you, Maria? Have you ever been in love?'

'No,' she answered, since even heroines tell lies occasionally. And she knew that it was a lie even as she said it, because she was thinking of a day in Oxford, the day of the storm, when she had waited for so long in the dreadful heat, and f.a.n.n.y had told her that a man had rung. The noises of the restaurant died away and for a moment she could only hear the clatter of her feet on the stairs as she ran up to her room to cry.

Then she noticed that Sarah had leant forward and was holding her hand. She withdrew it.

'Anyway,' she said, 'what's the use of talking about marriage if I haven't even got anyone to marry.'

'Well,' said Sarah, 'there's Ronny.'

This actually made Maria laugh. 'Now who's being silly!'

'I'm not being silly. You say you haven't got anyone to marry. But look how often Ronny's asked you.'

'Yes, and look how often I've refused him. I'm very fond of Ronny, you know. Very fond. But that will never happen.'

'Why not?'

'Oh, I don't know.' Maria sighed, and pushed her plate away. 'I've got other plans, I suppose.'

'Oh? Such as?'

'Nothing definite, as yet. I'm tired of London, Sarah. I think I might give up my job, and leave. I know it's not easy to get jobs any more, but I've got to get away from here. I don't know where I'll go, yet. I thought that just to start with I might go back to live at home, with my parents. It's so long since I've seen them properly, I feel I hardly know them any more. Bobby tells me they still keep my old room for me, just as it used to be. It would be nice to go back there for a while.'

'You can't live in the past, Maria.'

'Oh, I know that. My past is nothing to write home about, anyway. But l've gotto start again, from somewhere.'

In fact the idea of returning home had only occurred to Maria that evening. Somehow she had started to feel weak and foolish in front of Sarah, and all she had been trying to do was to put up a feeble pretence of resolve. Having presented herself with this new option, however, she thought carefully about it on the bus back to Hornsey, and came, eventually, to the conclusion that it probably wouldn't do. It was only as a small child that she had ever enjoyed living at home, and there was no reason to suppose now that she and her parents could co-exist happily together. Sarah had been right to be sceptical. The whole evening, it now seemed, had been wasted, for it had not helped her to reach a decision, and had only shown that she and her best friend no longer understood one another. Maria's heart as she unlocked the door of the flat was heavier than ever.

Although it was late, Dorothy was waiting up for her. Maria could tell immediately from her agitation that she had some bad news.

'Your mother phoned,' she said. 'You must phone back at once. She left this number.'

Maria did not recognize the number, but it was her mother who answered. Her voice was breathless and tearful.

'Where are you?' Maria asked. 'Why aren't you at home?'

'I'm next door, at Mrs Chivers'. Oh Maria, there's been a terrible accident. It's all Bobby's fault. He was staying in your room, because you know it's the one we always keep nice, and he came down late to watch the football, and he must have left his cigarette burning, and oh my darling, half of our house is in ruins, it's been burnt down to a cinder.'

Maria found words, at this juncture, to be of no use to her.

'All your bedroom, and all your lovely things, and all your wardrobe, and everything, and your desk with all your old school books, it's all gone, and it spread to the bathroom, and downstairs.'

'Is anyone hurt? Are you all all right?'

'Yes, we're all still here, thank the Lord our G.o.d. We could so easily have been killed, all of us. But everybody escaped. Everybody. Except 'Yes? 'Maria suddenly tightened her grip on the receiver.

'Except Sefton.'

There was a moment of deathly silence, and then Maria dropped the receiver, threw herself onto the sofa, and wept until she was too tired to weep any more.

This time Ronny answered on the second ring. It was Sunday morning, breezy but bright and with every prospect of a fine sunny afternoon. Maria told him what had happened, explained that Bobby was looking after her parents and that there was nothing to be gained from her going home, and asked whether he was free to spend the day with her. Of course, the answer was yes, she had expected no other. Ronny had once told her that he would, if necessary, have cancelled an audience with the Queen if it coincided with an appointment to see Maria, and she remembered this remark, about the funniest he had ever made, believe it or not, with a grateful smile as she watched out of her bedroom window for the sight of his car.

They drove aimlessly out of London, bearing, did they but know it, slightly to the north-east. Neither spoke much, Maria for obvious reasons and Ronny, I suppose, because as usual he had nothing to say, although today Maria fancied that she could sense a deeper reticence, deriving perhaps from his sympathy over all that had lately befallen her. They were a silent, sombre pair, then, by the time they arrived in Broxbourne, where they decided to stop for lunch. They ordered one meal and shared it between them, so small were their appet.i.tes. In the afternoon they walked beside the river. The sun, as promised, was s.h.i.+ning in a half-hearted way, but at four o'clock it abruptly disappeared behind a screen of grey, a breeze began to blow, and Ronny insisted that Maria wear his jacket, which he had been carrying over his shoulder all afternoon. Fearing rain, they took shelter in a roadside cafe and ordered two cups of coffee.

'Have you enjoyed this afternoon?' Maria asked.

'Yes, it's been lovely' said Ronny. 'It's so nice to get away from the city, and to be with you.'

'You've been very quiet,' she said.

'There's a certain sort of silence, Maria,' he answered quietly, 'where no words are necessary, and which signals not the end but the start of understanding.'

Maria stared at him in surprise, trying to recall when she had heard those words before.

'Yes, I suppose there is.'

It was now, she felt, merely a question of waiting. She stirred her coffee, slowly, deliberately, with the plastic spoon provided, and this in spite of the fact that she did not take sugar, thinking to herself with amus.e.m.e.nt meanwhile of all the other times when she had sat in silence with Ronny awaiting, dreading, the inevitable question. Should she have agreed long ago? No, she thought not. What did it matter now, anyway.

'Well, I think we'd better be getting along, don't you?' said Ronny suddenly, looking at bis watch. Then, noticing that Maria seemed shocked: 'I'm sorry, you haven't even finished your drink. Don't let me rush you.'

'It's not that.'

He seemed not to understand.

'It's just that... there's something that you normally do, Ronny, which you haven't done today'

'Oh?'

She could not even bring herself to be exasperated, so excited was she that the moment was about to come, even if it had to be forced.

'You haven't asked me to marry you,' she said.

Ronny gave a good-natured laugh.

'It's not like you to tease me, Maria, but it shows you're feeling better, so I can't be angry with you.'

'But why?' she asked. 'Why haven't you?'

'Because I know you'd say no. Maria, I've been asking you that question for nearly ten years now, and I may be a bit slow, but even I start to realize in the end when I'm fighting a losing battle. You've been very patient with me. I know you've always seen me as a friend, and I've always wanted to be more than that. Well, you've got enough troubles, without me making a nuisance of myself. I see that now. So you don't have to worry, Maria. That's all over.'

'But today,' she said, 'I wanted you to ask me.' She took a last good look at his far from handsome face, his foolish, questioning mouth, his absurd ears, and felt a little quiver of doubt, but she brushed it aside. 'Because I was going to say yes.'

I feel in no position to describe the reaction which this statement produced. Visually, it was complex. It was also absolutely silent.

'Ronny, will you marry me?'

There was a short pause, in which it is impossible to say whether he was hesitating, or deliberating, or recovering from his astonishment, or whatever.

'Yes,' he said. 'Of course. Yes.'

It rained heavily on the day of the wedding. Maria had made all the arrangements. She had wanted it to be done as quickly as possible, and as quietly as possible. She had not wanted her parents to be present, although it proved necessary to take Bobby into her confidence. As soon as he returned to London, she contacted him, told him of her plans, and then moved all her belongings out of the flat and into his spare bedroom, where she was to stay for the next few days. She handed in her resignation at work, and managed to book a time at a London register office for the end of the week 'I don't want anybody to be there except you,' she said. 'I just want the whole thing to be over with, and done. It's just like going to the doctor's or the dentist or something. There's to be no ceremony and no fuss.'

Having heard and agreed to this, Bobby was surprised to enter his sister's bedroom on the morning of the great day and to find her trying on a hat, in front of the mirror. It was a small hat, red and pretty. She seemed embarra.s.sed.

'I don't know,' she said, 'I was walking past the shop yesterday afternoon, and just thought that it looked nice. After all, I thought that I ought to do something a bit special. It's not every day of the week that a girl gets married.'

They took a taxi to the register office, arrived early, and sheltered from the rain in the doorway of an adjacent shop while waiting for Ronny to appear. Maria put on her hat, and admired her own reflection in the shop window against a background of magazines and s.e.x aids.

At five past eleven she looked at her watch and said, 'He's late.'

But Ronny was more than late, and after half an hour the truth of the matter was obvious. The b.a.s.t.a.r.d had stood her up.

Maria and Bobby crossed the road and went into the local fast-food restaurant. They were the only customers. They took a window seat, drank tea, and, between them, tried to decide what she should do next.