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Nothing had any relevance to the present situation, except that the present was so often chaotic these days, as the power to control it gradually slipped from her loosened grasp. There was no reason why Kitty’s granddaughter’s engagement should awaken echoes and memories of her own poor amorous record, but that was the way of it in old age, the present merely nudging one back to the past, which was as brightly lit, as inflexibly detailed as it had always been. Why not pursue the thought to the end and imagine that she was jealous of Ann, a girl who had secured for herself both marriage and motherhood: no painful apprenticeship for her. Yet she did not think that this was the case; she simply resented the girl for inflicting complications on her own hard-won quietness, the major complication being Steve. If Steve existed now, in her flat, it was because Ann was in some way responsible. Ann had a certain authority, or perhaps it was immovability: it amounted to the same thing. Ann made decisions. Her sly look at her grandmother rested on a decision already made. Mrs May had no doubt that in a year’s time she and David would be back, this time with the baby. ‘Your taste is better than mine, Grandma,’ Ann would say. And, ‘He’s growing so fast I can’t keep up with him.’ And Kitty, shamefaced, would crave the touch of the baby’s hands in hers, when all
that was required of her was the use of her credit card in Harrods. Mrs May hoped that Steve might have been eclipsed before all this came to pass, and reflected that Ann might dispense with him quite efficiently when the time came. Her own reclusion—or was it entropy?—would prevent her from performing the task herself.

On impulse she went to the telephone and dialled the Levinsons’ number. It rang for what seemed a very long time. She was about to give up when Austin answered, sounding distant.

‘Austin? It’s Thea.’

‘Thea?’

‘Yes, Thea. Are you all right?’

‘What time is it?’

She glanced at her watch. ‘Three-thirty.’

‘Must have dropped off.’

‘Oh, Austin, I’m so sorry. I’ll ring back.’

‘I expect it was Kitty you wanted. She’s out with Ann. Wedding garments, I suppose.’ He gave an audible yawn. ‘Excuse me. We’re all rather tired. At least I am.’

‘I really wanted to make sure that Kitty was all right.’ For she did wonder, with some fascination, whether Kitty’s state of mind were anything like her own.

‘Poor darling,’ said Austin. ‘She’s rushed off her feet. I’ve remonstrated with her, Thea.’ As usual his voice warmed into animation as he contemplated his wife’s trials. ‘I told her, a glass of champagne is all that’s needed. Perhaps a few smoked salmon canapés. After all, they’re only coming back here after the register office. But no, she wants a proper buffet. That means caterers, florists, the lot. And first of all she wants the flat redecorated. Well, I put a stop to that, as you can imagine.
But she and Estrella have cleaned the place from top to bottom. Nobody’s allowed into the drawing room now. I’m in our bedroom, as a matter of fact.’

‘I’m so sorry I woke you, Austin. Just give my love to Kitty.’

‘Don’t go away. I’m quite glad of someone to talk to. I seem to be outnumbered in my own home.’

‘And yet it must be easier with David out of the way. How is Molly getting on?’

Austin gave a dry chuckle. ‘You’ll never believe this, but David is greatly appreciated in Highgate.’

‘Really? I rather thought that Molly …’

‘Oh, not by Molly. By Harold. It seems that David’s got him on this macrobiotic diet of his. They spend the afternoon shopping for kelp and beansprouts. Then they spend the rest of the day in the kitchen messing about with them. Molly is bewildered; Harold has always been so keen on his food. But he says he’s put on weight since he retired—haven’t we all?—and he’ll try anything. I have to hand it to David; he’s managed to convert the heathen. At least he thinks of us as heathen. “I guide my conduct by the Word,” he told me. I said, “So do I, oddly enough.” “The Word of Jesus,” he went on. Suddenly I felt very tired. I shouldn’t have to argue the toss at my time of life. Let Harold do it if he’s so fascinated. Made for each other, those two. I’m quite satisfied with the state of my own beliefs, ruined though they are.’

‘How interesting that you should say that, Austin. It sometimes seems to me that at our age all we are left with are fragments, remnants, just when we need all the support we can get. We never needed it when we were young, least of all as children.’

‘You might have a word with David on that subject, although I’d hardly recommend it. When I tried he smiled patiently
and told me that God needed me as much as I needed Him. I said we hadn’t been in touch recently. “You will be, Grandpa,” he said. He will call me Grandpa. And that smile! He’s such a fool I feel almost sorry for him. Terribly hot, isn’t it?’

‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’

‘Your blood pressure must be better than mine, in that case. Certainly better than Kitty’s. To think of her running around in this heat! I tell you, Thea, I’m seriously worried about her.’

‘Kitty’s not ill?’

‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously. ‘But I’ll be glad when I can get her away. I expect you’ll be going away yourself?’

‘Well, I hadn’t thought …’

‘You can, you know. You’ll be rid of that young man by next week. Then you can please yourself.’

But she knew that it would not be as simple as that. After the excitement of the wedding had died down, and they had exhausted the subject with talk, silence would reclaim her once again, and she would, as she must, make the best of it.

‘About Friday, Austin. Do you know if Kitty wants me to bring anything?’

‘No, no, Kitty wouldn’t hear of it. It’ll be a scratch meal, I’m afraid: the dining room’s about to be commandeered. Aha! I think I hear the car. You’ll excuse me, Thea. I’ll tell Kitty you rang. More than kind. We’ll see you on Friday. See that that young man wears a tie, if you can. All the best.’

The connection was cut off, removing her at a stroke from the normal world, or at least the known world. She walked to the window, aware now of the heat as she had not been before. Beyond the terrace the garden was still, the grass dry and bleached. In a dull sky the sun was veiled, milky, presaging change. The year was moving on; already the evenings were
shadowed, and the forecast was of low cloud, although so far no cloud could be seen in the undifferentiated white expanse. She was aware of fatigue, even of discouragement. It seemed to her that some fundamental disjunction had taken place, that she had surrendered her life to amiable insincerities, parodies of concern masking a tiny element of real concern, expressions of regret and anxiety which she hardly felt. Her very early life, until the age of twenty, had been one of untouched simplicity, and even as a girl she had been conscious of the fact, even though she may not have known enough to value it. But she valued it now. Perhaps, she thought, one is only authentic when one leaves one’s parents’ house, seeking the new but implicit with the old, the inherited. That was when she had last felt truly herself, unwilling to prepare for those alien influences that would change her irrevocably. Even with Henry she had not felt entirely herself, too alert to his moods, in fear of his displeasure. Even his charm had been puzzling to her, that European side of him, lazy, sunny, and melancholy by turns, always more noticeable when he was with his family. ‘You’ve been good for him,’ Molly had once remarked. ‘Calmed him down. He was in a terrible state when Joy left him.’ Joy: that unknown first wife, of whom he never spoke, and whom she imagined as a sort of minor Kitty, all looks and temperament. That was why she was never entirely at ease with any of them, not even Austin. In her own defence she could produce a newly equable Henry, to whom she had given years of peaceful expectation—or was he merely becalmed? She sighed, wishing once again for some ticket of admission to the life other people seemed to live, tears and protests included. And yet Kitty and Austin, Molly and Harold were good people, she reflected. If she were to fall ill they would be sincerely concerned, and Kitty would undoubtedly
organise the baked meats after the funeral. For that consideration, even if a little premature, she must play her part, and must do so with a good grace.

The sound of the front door opening and shutting brought her out into the corridor, hungry for another presence. Steve, startled, met her head on. ‘All right, Dorothea?’ he said. Always the slight movement of recoil before his defences were in place. We are alike, she thought, mindful of his solitude, and of her own.

‘I was just going to make myself some tea,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’

‘I don’t much like tea, actually.’

‘No, well, young people seem to prefer coffee these days. You know where it’s kept, Steve. And there’s some raisin bread in the larder. Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

He disappeared into his room. Later it seemed to her quite natural to take refuge in her own. She listened for him, feeling him listening warily for her. It was not until he went out again, when the colour was already fading from the sky, that she felt able to relax.

The Levinsons’ scratch meal consisted of cold minted courgette soup, chicken Marengo, and summer pudding. David asked for and received a plate of plain boiled rice. Harold did the same. ‘Don’t be silly, Harold,’ said his wife. By way of compensation David suggested that the following day might be devoted to a fast. ‘I’m sure you approve, Dr Goldmark.’

‘What’s that?’ said Monty Goldmark, expert in deflecting requests for medical opinions. Tonight he was deploying his favourite stratagem: an affectation of deafness.

‘An occasional fast day is good for the health?’

‘If you say so.’

‘This is all quite delicious, Kitty,’ said Mrs May, anxious to maintain and prolong the pleasant welcome they had all received. ‘And such a pretty table.’

Kitty, surveying her family, nodded her acknowledgement. Effusions and explanations would come later, on the telephone, accompanied by an account of her state of health at every stage of the proceedings. This evening, however, she seemed mollified, as did Austin; an illusion of family solidarity
was fostered, with all the formality of another age. For the moment the illusion was all.

‘You should have brought one of your girlfriends for Steve,’ said Austin, addressing his granddaughter.

‘I’m gay,’ said Steve. ‘And anyway I’m with Dorothea.’

Her heart swelled with pride at this evidence of gallantry, very little of which came her way in the course of a normal day. She accepted as her due that the Levinsons had not provided a partner for her, unless Monty Goldmark was to be the problematic other, an honour of which he appeared to be unaware; despite her marriage and her honourable widowhood she could tell that she was to be assigned to social oblivion. She bore this stoically, with a composure perfected through a thousand solitary meals in public places. This occasion was not so very different, or would not have been, had it not been for Steve, neat in his tie and linen jacket, eating his way steadily through the meal with a detachment that more than matched her own. They had had their drive through the park, but Mrs May had not enjoyed it as much as she had imagined she would: the air was sultry, filled with traffic fumes, and instead of the submissive home-going crowds with whom she could so readily identify the streets seemed to be full of young people actively preparing for an evening of pleasure. And then she had been absurdly anxious; encountered in the flesh, as opposed to at a respectable distance, Kitty made her feel faded, although she had taken trouble with her appearance, as had Steve. He had requested the use of an ironing board, and seemed to have laundered most of his clothes. This evening his tie was a little too tight, his linen jacket still slightly creased. Again she worried that he might be short of money. She knew that once she was at home and lying quietly in bed
she would remember not Kitty’s splendid table but that drive through the park. Though it had proved disappointing—for she had expected a more significant reaction, a flood of recovered memory—there had been that oddly stimulating suggestion of exhausted air, combined with a snatch of music from a passing car, that had made her feel that she was at one with the evening, that she too was prepared for pleasure, though even at the time she knew that that pleasure would only properly be savoured in retrospect, one more modest memory to be added to her stock. Living as she did largely in the past, dealing with old age as it dealt with her, undramatically, she nevertheless welcomed new sense impressions, marvelling that the life of the senses struggled to survive, even in circumstances that brought both pleasure and regret.

If she had any misgivings they had to do with the fact that more of Steve’s belongings, notably a small radio and a guitar, had come to rest in the flat, and that sad chords could occasionally be heard from behind his door. So irritating were these particular harmonies that the more vigorous beat from the radio was almost welcome. She did not feel that she could object to this, since some residual caution had made her explain that the drawing room, and therefore the television, were out of bounds. He had accepted this more or less philosophically: at least, if he were displeased he gave no sign of being so, hiding whatever irritation he may have felt behind an expression that was tolerant rather than polite. Having in this way conveyed to him that he was confined to his room, Mrs May felt that she ought to be confined to hers. She rarely entered the drawing room when Steve was in the flat, feeling obscurely that it was a matter of the most elementary politeness to observe the same rules. The absence of any strong reaction on his part went some way to convincing her that he
was not seriously annoyed. Nevertheless the odd disjunctive sounds of his guitar, just audible through two closed doors, sounded to her guilty ears like a reproach.