The Only Story(55)

‘I’m thirty. I’m going abroad for a few years. Work. I’ve handed Susan back.’

‘Like a parcel? It’s a bit fucking late, isn’t it? Taking her back to the shop and asking for a refund?’

‘It’s not like that.’ He realized he might have some difficulty explaining to one drunk woman why he was leaving another.

‘So how exactly is it?’

‘It’s like this. I tried to save her, I failed. I tried to stop her drinking, I failed. I don’t blame her, it’s way beyond that. And I remember what you told me back then – that she was more likely to get hurt than me. But I can’t take it any more. I can’t face another ten days of it, let alone another ten years. So Martha’s going to look after her. Clara refused, which surprised me. I said that … if they needed to put her into a home at some point, I might be able to help. In the future. If I do well and make some money.’

‘You’ve certainly got it all worked out.’

‘It’s self-protection, Joan. I couldn’t take any more.’

‘Girlfriend?’ she asked, lighting another cigarette.

‘I’m not that heartless.’

‘Well, finding another woman can bring an exceptional clarity of mind to a man all of a sudden. Remembering my own distant experiences of cock and cunt.’

‘I’m sorry it didn’t work out for you, Joan.’

‘Your sympathy is about half a century too late, young man.’

‘I mean it,’ he said.

‘And how do you think Martha will cope? Better than you? Worse? About the same?’

‘I’ve no idea. And in a way I don’t care. I don’t care, otherwise I’ll be dragged back into it all.’

‘It’s not a question of getting dragged back. You’re still in it.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘You’re still in it. You’ll always be in it. No, not literally. But in your heart. Nothing ever ends, not if it’s gone that deep. You’ll always be walking wounded. That’s the only choice, after a while. Walking wounded, or dead. Don’t you agree?’

He looked across, but she wasn’t addressing him. She was addressing Sibyl, and patting her soft head. He didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know if he believed her or not.

‘Do you still cheat at the crossword?’

‘You cheeky little bugger. But that’s nothing new, is it?’

He smiled at her. He’d always liked Joan.

‘And shut the door on your way out. I don’t like to get up too many times in the course of a day.’

He knew not to do anything like embrace her, so merely nodded, smiled and started to leave.

‘Send a wreath when the time comes,’ she called after him.

He didn’t know if she meant for her, or for Susan. Maybe even for Sibyl. Did dogs get wreaths? Another thing he didn’t know.

What he didn’t – or couldn’t – tell Joan was his terrifying discovery that love, by some ruthless, almost chemical process, could resolve itself into pity and anger. The anger wasn’t at Susan, but at whatever it was that had obliterated her. But even so, anger. And anger in a man caused him disgust. So now, along with pity and anger, he had self-disgust to deal with as well. And this was part of his shame.

He worked in a number of countries. He was in his thirties, then forties, perfectly presentable (as his mother would have put it), as well as solvent and not obviously mad. This was enough for him to find the sexual companionship, the social life, the daily warmth he needed – until he moved on to the next job, the next country, the next social circle, the next few years of being agreeable to and with new people, some of whom he might see in later years, some not. It was what he wanted; more to the point, it was all he felt able to sustain.

To some, his way of life might have sounded selfish, even parasitical. But he also took thought for others. He tried not to mislead, to exaggerate what was emotionally available. He didn’t linger by jewellers’ windows or go simperingly silent at photos of babies; nor did he claim he was looking to settle down, either with this person or indeed in this country. And – though it was a trait he didn’t immediately identify – he was generally attracted to women who were … how to put it? Sturdy, independent and not obviously fucked-up. Women who had their own lives, who might enjoy his solid but passing presence as much as he did theirs. Women who wouldn’t get too hurt when he moved on, and who wouldn’t inflict too much pain if they were the first to jump.

He thought of this psychological pattern, this emotional strategy, as being honest and considerate, as well as necessary. He neither pretended nor offered more than he could deliver. Though of course, when he laid it all out like this, he saw that some might regard it as pure egotism. He also couldn’t decide if his policy of moving on – from place to place, woman to woman – was courageous in admitting his own limitations, or cowardly in accepting them.

Nor did his new theory of living always work. Some women gave him thoughtful presents – and that scared him. Others, over the years, had called him a typical Englishman, a tightass, a cold fish; also, heartless and manipulative – though he believed his was the least manipulative approach to relationships that he knew. Still, it made some women cross with him. And on the rare occasions when he had tried to explain his life, his pre-history and the long-term state of his heart, the accusations sometimes became more pointed, and he was treated as if he had some infectious disease to which he should have admitted between the first and second dates.