As I closed the door, Rachel turned in the semi-darkness, cigarette alight in her mouth, and led the way down the gaunt staircase to the hall. The hall smelled of boiling cabbage -or, let’s be accurate, it smelled as if someone had eaten six bushels of asparagus, washed them down with as many quarts of Guinness, and pissed over the walls, ceiling and floor.
My tentative plans. A walk along the Embankment, melodious insights on Nanny Rees. Or a showing of Bicycle Thieves at a local Classic, after which I would discourse tellingly on the theme of its all being very well for us. Or an unsmiling taxi-ride back to my place, where we’d churn the sheets in locomotive lust.
I didn’t feel up to any of these. As we left the house, I said, ‘Can we go and have a drink somewhere ?’
‘Fine. Where? I can’t stay too long. Got to be back at nine.’
The Queen’s Elm. It’s the other end of the Fulham Road. It’ll be open by the time we get there.’
The sky was greying now, and the light shower earlier had brought no warmth to the air. Rachel fastened her coat tightly and did a Walt Disney shiver. I was informed by my viscera that now was the time to put an arm round her shoulders. I ignored them.
‘God, it’s freezing,’ she said, as we walked up to the main road. ‘Can we get a taxi ? I’ll go halves.’
I felt reluctant to do this. Taxis now seemed vulgar, in bad taste. Puritan guilt after parting the soiled net curtains to Nanny’s world? Although I couldn’t refuse without seeming mean, I hated my blithe talk on the way about what a marvellous old girl old Nanny was, such resilience and warmth and, well, goodness. Mind you, I realized even at that moment how shaky were my claims to any social concern. Like most people, I feel ambiguous guilt for my inferiors, ambiguous envy for my superiors, and mandatory low-spirits about the system itself. Was this better than Rachel’s obliviousness ? She didn’t use the misery of others to cultivate her own smugness, true, but at least I didn’t go about eating all their food.
‘Shouldn’t we have helped clear up?’
‘Not on your life. She wouldn’t of let us.’
Naturally, I paid for the taxi, even though Rachel made a few token rummages in her bag.
‘Don’t worry,’ I needn’t have bothered to say.
‘Uh, Rachel,’ I said, putting the drinks down on the table (a tomato-juice for her, ergo a shandy for me). I paused worriedly, gearing her for a heavyweight interlude. ‘I’m not trying to be sweaty or anything, but, um — just out of interest – how long have you known DeForest?’
‘About a year. Are we going to talk about him now?’ She was smiling, so I said:
‘Yes. It’s Deforest time. It’s Deforest hour. Where’d you meet him?’
Rachel lit a cigarette. ‘In New York, actually, the end of last summer.’ We fell silent as two persons dressed up as milkmen complained about the meanness/crookedness of the saloon bar fruit-machine. ‘I was on holiday, staying with a friend of Mummy’s. She’s a dress designer. On the West Side. Deforest was staying there too. He was her nephew.’
‘Does he live in America?’ I asked, pleased to hear her refer to Deforest in the imperfect tense.
‘Well, yes. He’s over here studying. He’ll probably be over here for at least four years. He wants to go to Oxford. He’s —’
‘Which college?’
She said. It wasn’t mine.
‘What if he doesn’t make Oxford ?’
‘He will. Anyway London have offered him a place.’
Why did she have so much confidence in him, and why had she planned out everything with him, and why was she so unruffled discussing him with this strange, oddly compelling young man, this Charles Highway ?
I strove for intimacy. ‘Was he coming to England in the first place,’ I whispered, ‘or did that sort of change -‘
‘No. He was coming anyway.’ She puffed on her cigarette, giving nothing away.
This wasn’t going well. Her reticence about Deforest could be connected with her refusal to lie to him, part of some insane principle completely unconnected with how she really felt. Or perhaps she loved him and hated me.