Love, Again

Suddenly Henry accused, 'You didn't telephone.'

'Yes I did. You were out.'

'I was waiting all weekend for you to turn up.'

'But I didn't know where you were.'

'I left the name of the hotel at the theatre.'

'I didn't know. And why didn't you ring me?'

'I did. You were out.'

'I was sitting waiting all weekend… ' But there were the two hours or so with Anne. She said, 'I needed to be encouraged.'

'But you know that — '

'You really have no idea why I needed to be encouraged?'

'But perhaps 7 need to be encouraged.'

'You do.' Her laugh was only for herself. She loved him because he did not know what she meant. Or pretended he didn't.

Then he said, 'And I was relieved you weren't there, as well as being so… drunk.'

'I know. Me too.'

Then he said, unexpectedly, 'I am a very married man, Sarah.'

'So I gathered.'

'You did?' He mocked her and himself. 'And you actually do know that I have a little boy?' And laughed at himself again.

She laughed, while all the Atlantic swirled between them.

'Sarah, I tell you that nothing, nothing ever, has meant as much to me as my little boy.'

'Just what has that got to do with… '

'Everything,' he said miserably.

Across the hall, actors and musicians wrestled, hugged, and generally played the fool, as they must, to release tension.

Sarah bent forward and kissed Henry on the lips — a valedictory kiss, but he could not know this. It told them both what they had missed that weekend.

'My family will be coming to see Julie. In Queen's Gift.'

'I'm sure we will all have a lovely time,' she jested, but he said miserably, 'I don't think so.'

Then, on the same impulse, Sarah and Henry leaned back in their chairs, giving every indication of enjoying all that jolly horseplay. Their bare arms lay side by side, touching from wrist to shoulder.

In the afternoon, Susan came to Sarah to ask if Stephen ('you know, Mr Ellington-Smith?') was coming to rehearsals that week.

'I'll find out for you,' said Sarah, putting on her comfortable aunt manner.

'I do hope he comes,' murmured the girl, with a touch of spoiled-child petulance that went well with her general style, today emphasized by lively bunches of black curls tied on either side of a pale little face.

Sarah telephoned Stephen and said that Julie was missing him.

'Are you relaying a message?'

'I think so.'

'Does she fancy me?'

'Your instincts are supposed to be telling you that.'

'I'll come anyway. I miss you, Sarah.'

On Tuesday Andrew walked into the hall, straight from the airport. He flung down a suitcase, saluted Henry, and then came to Sarah. He sat by her, all focused energy. For six weeks he had been in the hills of southern California, where they were shooting a film about immigrant Mexicans, he being an American small-town cop. He could not look more alien than he did in this soft, shabby, amiable English scene.

'I suppose you are going to thank me nicely for the flowers?'

'I suppose I would have done, at some point.'

He put a sheet of paper in front of her. 'Hôtel. Room number. Telephone number. I'm giving you this now because of course we won't be alone for five minutes. Ring me, Sarah?'

She smiled at him.

'Not that smile, please.' With a salute that he made rakish — it would have done well in Restoration comedy — he was off to join the others. This was the day Act Two would be put into shape.

Stephen came in on Wednesday for the run-through. On Thursday the company were all going up to Queen's Gift. There would be a dress rehearsal on Thursday night, then the traditional day of rest on Friday. The first night would be on Saturday.

The run-through went well, though to see Julie here, in this dull hall, after the colours and variety of the forest in France, was to diminish the piece so much that everyone was acknowledging it could never be anything but second-best away from Julie's own country. And this raised questions about a possible run in London. Every time the subject came up, all kinds of difficulties seemed insuperable, and soon they were already talking of how to improve the production next year in Belles Rivieres.

Stephen and Sarah sat together. At the first opportunity Susan came to sit by him. She chattered about her part and sent him glances that were curious and troubled, for his face was not encouraging. Yet when she was being Julie, Stephen watched her closely. He was sitting, as usual, with his weight evenly distributed, every bit of him knowing its worth, while he gave full attention to each word and move. But it was a heavy attention, giving the effect of a concentration under threat. The girl — everyone thought — could not be more right for Julie. A little-girl quality, something winsome and self-flattering, disappeared the moment she became Julie. She came to Stephen to be approved, and he said she was a wonderful Julie, wonderful, but in a way that left her doubtful.

Then he and Sarah went out and stood on the canal bank in heavy sunlight. Some ducks were energetically propelling themselves out of the way of a passing pleasure boat, but the ripples rocked them about so that they looked like toy ducks in a child's bath. The ripples settled, and so did the ducks. They upended themselves, pink feet dabbling in air. 'Well, Sarah,' said he at last. 'I really don't know. I think I just give up. Really, that's about it.' And with a smile that was all ironic apology, he went off to find a cab to take him to Paddington.

Henry saw her standing alone on the canal bank and came to propose lunch.

'You don't understand about my little boy,' he said.

'Of course I understand. You are giving him everything you didn't get yourself.'

'And that's all it is?'

'All these terrible things we feel, they are usually… that's all it is.'

'Terrible? Terrible?'

'Terrible. What makes us dance.'

'Then at least let's have lunch.'

Bliss encompassed them, like breathing cool fresh air after stale. After lunch he went off, and as she walked to the bus stop she found Andrew beside her.

'You are not even moderately interested to know why I am pursuing you?'

'I suppose one might surmise.'

'One might surmise the aim, but not the reason.'

They had fallen into the pleasant sexual antagonism that goes with this kind of exchange. Sarah felt quite revitalized by it. She was even thinking, Well, why not? But it would have no conviction in it.

'The best experience I ever had was with my stepmother. And I am always trying to repeat it.'

'You being six and she being twenty-six?'

'I being fifteen and she forty.'

'Ah, I see.'

'No, you don't. It went on for ten years.'

'And then she was an old woman and you said thank you and left?'

'She died of cancer,' he said. His voice broke. The hard gaucho face was bleak as an orphan's.

She said, 'Oh, don't… ' and her own voice was uneven.

'Well, Sarah Durham,' he said, exultant. 'Who'd believe it? Yes, do cry, do.'

The bus arrived. She shook her head, meaning she couldn't speak because she would cry if she did, but he took it differently. The look on his face, as he stood there, disappointed, while the bus bore her away, was not one she could easily fit into her view of him, or wanted to.

If the erotic or romantic fantasies one has about a man can tell what he is like, then she had to conclude that with Henry it was the kind of love that, had she been in her thirties and not — well, better not think about that — would have led (to coin a phrase) to an ongoing committed relationship. For better or worse. She sat at her desk, her eyes on the two young men in Cezanne's picture, hardly knowing whether it was her daughter or Henry she saw in the thoughtful clown, and she steadily reviewed past relationships, ongoing or not. The fact is, there are not so many 'real' relationships in a life, few love affairs. That one was fit for a flirt, this for a weekend, another for — but she had not opened the door into perversity, she was glad to say — and yet another for a steamy eroticism. Butconviction? Henry had conviction. (Would have had conviction?) Why did he? All one could know so early in the 'relationship' (which would never be one) was that there were no checks or knots, as there had been with Bill, reversals of feeling like cold water in her face or a bad taste in her mouth. The invisible weavers threw their shuttles, knitting memories and wants, match on match, strand on strand, colour to colour. A month or so ago, she had been 'in love' with Bill (she could not bring herself to leave off the quote marks, dishonest though that was). To the point of- well, yes, the whirlpool. But now she found that improbable and embarrassing, even if she was determined not to hate the poor young man and herself, as was prescribed. She would not find it shameful to have loved Henry when it was all over. A smiling memory? Hardly, with so much anguish in it, but then, the anguish, the grief, had nothing to do with Henry.