Like the palace of Sleeping Beauty, Malcolm's flat had the appearance of being both suddenly abandoned and neglected for a long period of time. In the living room, cigarette ends filled the ashtrays, newspapers were scattered over the sofa and the floor, coffee cups, some half full, stood on the sideboard, and the sink was stacked with dishes. A layer of dust and dirt covered every surface. The other rooms were in a similar condition: a towel hung lopsided on the edge of the bath; the covers on the bed were thrown back.
On the table was a note: “Welcome. Make yourself at
home. Sorry the place is a bit of a shambles. If you have any problems, give me a ring. Cheers, Malcolm.” He had propped the piece of paper against the antiquated black telephone, as if to urge me to act on his suggestion, but when I picked up the receiver the line was dead.
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By morning the sky had cleared and I woke to find the high-ceilinged bedroom filled with light. I lay in bed thinking about Lewis. During the last few weeks he had been unusually considerate, and even though I told myself that this was only because of my imminent departure, I had been seduced into remembering again how much I liked him. He had said Edinburgh was only an hour away by plane; perhaps he would fly up to see me.
Eventually I persuaded myself to get out of bed. The flat looked even worse than it had in the gloom of the previous day. As I sat drinking instant coffee at the living room table, I made a shopping list of the many domestic items I required. There would be plenty of time for cleaning on Sunday. I spread out the map of the city, which Gillian had given me as a parting gift, and tried to decide in which direction I would be most likely to find shops.
On my way out I looked quickly at the two other doors on my landing, and discovered on one side an L. Smith and on the other a Miss Lawson. From behind the door of the latter, there came the sound of shrill barking, followed by a woman's voice raised in remonstration; guiltily I hurried downstairs.
When I came home a few hours later, a tall, white-haired woman, very upright in her blue raincoat, was standing on the pavement outside the house; at her feet a brown and white Pekinese sniffed the base of the lamppost. As I moved towards the front door she said, “Hello. You must be my new neighbour. I'm Miss Lawson, and this is Rollo.”
“I'm Celia,” I said. I explained that I was renting the flat for a year.
Miss Lawson nodded. “Malcolm told me all about it,” she said. “I must say I don't envy you. He's a nice enough young man, but I don't think he's ever heard of housework. Like most men, I suppose.”
“It is a bit dirty. I've just been out buying cleaning supplies.” The handles of the shopping bags were cutting into my palms, but I welcomed this housewifely exchange, my first human contact in the city. I was about to ask where one put the rubbish, when Rollo, having finished with the lamppost, began to strain at the lead and pant.
“Quiet, Rollo. I'm afraid I'm not much good at scrubbing nowadays, but if there's anything you need, let me know. We're going for our constitutional.” She gestured in the direction of the local park, which I knew from my map was called the Meadows. “Why don't you drop in later for a cup of tea?”
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On Sunday night I set my alarm clock with a sense of relief. The anxiety that beginning a new job would normally have aroused was held in check by the thought of having people to talk to and a working telephone. Next morning the sun was shining, and although still cold by London standards, the day was comparatively warm. I decided to walk to work. As I made my way down the hill and across Princes Street, stopping often to consult my map, I appreciated for the first time Bill's commendation of the city. I found Melville Street without difficulty. It was an unusually wide street, lined with terraces of tall, grey stone houses; halfway down was a statue, and at the far end stood a church, so large that I thought it might be a cathedral. The office was only a hundred yards from the corner. I had a few minutes to spare and I strolled down one side of the street and up the other, looking
at the brass nameplates beside the doors: Campbell, Blair, Liddell, McNaughton, Stewart. I was indeed in Scotland.
The offices of Murray and Stern were on the second floor. I turned the corner at the top of the stairs and found myself in a large room with books displayed all round the walls. At the receptionist's desk a stoutish woman was watering a begonia. I introduced myself, and she put down the watering can and offered me a damp handshake.
“I'm Marilyn. Bill isn't in today, but I'll tell Clare you're here.” She pressed a button and sang into the phone, “Miss Gilchrist's here.” There was an indistinct mumble. “She'll be down in a minute. Clare is our managing editor. I think you may have spoken to her on the telephone.”
I said that I had. While I waited, Marilyn asked me about my journey, and whether I was settled into Malcolm's flat. “Moving is a terrible business,” she said. “My husband and I have moved twice in the last five years, and I always swear never again.” She pinched a couple of shrivelled leaves off the begonia. “I've been on holiday for a fortnight, and I don't think the temporary receptionist knew anything about plants.”
A woman dressed in white came round the corner. Unconsciously I had been expecting someone like Virginia, my former supervisor, an untidy woman in her mid-fifties, with whom I had had a pleasant friendship. Clare was my age, perhaps even younger, and her white suit was spotless and ironed almost to the point of rigidity. In her formal phrases of welcome I could not detect even the pretence of warmth.
She showed me round, presented me with my office, and suggested that I might spend the day familiarising myself with the company's books. Bill would be back tomorrow, and there would be time enough then to discuss my duties.
My office had been created by partitioning off one corner of a larger room. The ceiling was tremendously high, and
when I sat down at my desk I felt as if I were at the bottom of a box. Two walls were devoted to bookshelves, now pitifully bare, and on the third wall, beside the door, was a row of battered filing cabinets. A large window provided a view of a brick wall and some rooftops.
I had been staring blankly at a grammar book for half an hour, when a woman appeared in the doorway. She was the antithesis of Clare. Her hennaed hair was tied up with red ribbons, and she wore enormous bright green earrings, a red and white striped T-shirt, and blue trousers. “I'm Suzie, the book designer,” she said. “You must be Celia, our new guru from London. Bill claims you're the best thing since sliced bread. I have the office next door. Come and see.”
Suzie's office was similar to mine in size, but at the threshold bureaucracy and anonymity ended. A mass of plants hung in the window, a mobile was suspended from the light fixture, and there were children's drawings all over one wall. Both the designer's table and the desk were covered with papers. Suzie gestured towards the mess. “I'm struggling with a geography book. I hated geography at school, and now I know why. It's unutterably tedious. Would you like some coffee?”
“Yes, please.”
She picked up a couple of mugs and led the way down the corridor, introducing me to everyone we passed. As soon as they were out of earshot, she described their foibles. “Diana's our office femme fatale. She always dresses like she's on her way to a nightclub.” “You don't want to do business with Elaine after she's been out to lunch.” Back at our offices, she said, “I suppose I'd better try and organise these maps. If there's anything you need, just come and ask. The more interruptions the better, as far as I'm concerned.”
Somehow Suzie's boisterous presence enabled me to begin behaving as if I were at work. I went down the hall and asked Marilyn where I could find stationery. Armed with a
notebook and pencil, I began to skim through the books, making notes as I went. Soon after twelve-thirty Suzie came and asked if I wanted to go for lunch.
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When I had talked to Lynne about being lonely in Edinburgh she had said, “Nonsense. You'll meet colleagues and neighbours. You'll have friends in no time.” But although there were a dozen flats in my tenement, only Deirdre seemed like a possible friend. No one could fail to notice her; her small face was surrounded by a cloud of hair which reminded me of the pictures of princesses in children's books. She almost always wore a leather jacket and jeans, and I was surprised to learn from Miss Lawson that she was a schoolteacher. We had passed each other on the stairs half a dozen times before she stopped to introduce herself. We exchanged pleasantries. I told her I was on my way to the local shop, and she asked if I could get her a loaf of bread.
When I returned, she invited me in. I made some feeble excuse about work. I was afraid that my loneliness, like the mark of Cain, was visible to all, and I did not want to be treated as an object of pity.
“Don't speak to me of work,” said Deirdre, opening the front door wide and ushering me inside. “I have a ton of compositions to correct.”
“Miss Lawson told me you teach English.”
“For my sins. We're doing
Macbeth
for âO' level. Now do you want a cup of tea, or wine? I'm going to have wine.”
“That would be great.” I followed her to the doorway of the narrow kitchen and asked how long she had lived here.
“Ages. Four years. Before that I spent a couple of years in Toronto.”
We settled down in the living room. Deirdre plied me with questions, but it was impossible to pursue any topic at length because of the frequency with which the telephone rang. Each time Deirdre would grimace and apologise, then talk warmly
to the caller. While she was occupied, I wandered around the living room, examining her books and records. I overheard her planning a quick supper, agreeing to go to a film, and volunteering to call other people back to make plans.
She told me she had three sisters living in Edinburgh. “There's always something going on between us. At the moment, we're trying to organise a surprise birthday party for our mother.”
“Do your parents live here too?”
“No, they have a house on the outskirts of Dumfries.”
Before I could ask where Dumfries was, the phone rang again. After she hung up, Deirdre said, “I suppose I ought to get going on
Macbeth
. If I don't finish all the essays I can't give back any of them.”
“Thanks for the wine.”
“I'm glad I got a chance to talk to you,” she said, as she showed me out. “We must go to a film or something soon.”
Whenever I ran into Deirdre she repeated this remark, but if I made a specific suggestion, she was always busy. I blamed her for being insincere; it was easy, however, to recall too many occasions on which I had behaved in similar fashion. In fact perhaps not even as well, for when people from outside London had come to work at Fredericks, I had introduced myself in the hall and not given them a second thought.
At the office I saw Suzie every day, but she was a single parent and had other commitments, and this seemed true of everyone I met. Although there were soon several people to have lunch with at work, even to have a drink with afterwards, these social incidents, isolated and precarious, did little to alleviate my loneliness. During those first months in Edinburgh I devoted myself to my various projects, and the results brought me considerable praise, but as I had once remarked to Lynne, being an editor was like being an accompanist: no matter how great my contribution to a book, I was always overshadowed. Miss Lawson told me that there had
recently been several cases of rape in the Meadows, and when I took Rollo out for her, as I sometimes did last thing at night, I would walk defiantly across the open grass, thinking alternately that I was immune from such dangers and that I did not care what became of me.
For a number of years I had been spending Christmas with Lynne and Greg in preference to either of my parents, and even before I left London, I had arranged to return for the holidays. This plan helped to render my loneliness bearable. As I counted the days, the season took on magical properties that it had not had since I was a child. Lewis had been telephoning with surprising frequency and had even offered to meet my train. It was understood between Lynne and me that I might prove to be an erratic guest.
I caught the train down on the afternoon of the twenty-third. I passed the journey daydreaming and leafing through the various women's magazines which I had impulsively purchased at the station. As soon as the train pulled out of Peterborough I went to the toilet. In the mirror I scrutinised my face; compared to the women in the magazines I looked wan and indistinct. When I had had my hair cut the week before, the hairdresser had told me that I must always wear eye make-up. It was not easy in the swaying compartment to apply eye liner and mascara, but I did my best, and as I walked back to my seat, several men glanced up at me. I was wearing clothes that Lewis had never seen before, a bright blue pullover with a black skirt and black boots.
For once the train was on time, and as I approached the ticket barrier, I glimpsed Lewis's unmistakable red hair. He was leaning against the wall, studying the crowd. When he
caught sight of me, he hurried over, took my bags, put them down, and kissed me. “You look great,” he said.
Outside the station he stopped beside a white car. I exclaimed in surprise.
“I finally had to give in,” he said, almost apologetically. “It had reached the stage with the other one that I was taking it to the garage every week.” He put my luggage in the boot and opened the door for me. The interior smelled sharply of new plastic.
The traffic was bad, and in spite of the punctuality of the train, we arrived to find Lynne and Greg in the last stages of making dinner; Eve was already in bed. While Lewis carried my bags up to the spare room, they both kissed me and exclaimed how well I looked. “You're thinner,” said Lynne. “It suits you.”
We ate in the living room. Greg had lit the fire, and in one corner the Christmas tree, hung with ornaments made by Eve, glittered brightly. The meal passed in a wave of laughter and conversation. The others deferred to me, and I found myself holding forth; my life in Edinburgh became a series of entertaining anecdotes. When Lynne went out to the kitchen to make coffee I followed with a stack of dirty plates. “Did your mother really say that wearing jeans would turn Eve into a lesbian?”
“Not exactly; that would be much too explicit for her. But she did give Eve two dresses for Christmas and attach a note saying that she thought it would be healthier for her to wear these.”
“Amazing.”
Lynne bent over the fridge and got out a pint of milk. “If Lewis wants to stay, it's fine,” she said.
I was at the sink, filling the kettle. The action served to cover my confusion. “Thanks,” I said awkwardly.
As soon as we had finished our coffee, Lynne announced
that she was off to bed. “Are you sure you won't join us for Christmas?” she asked Lewis.
“I'd love to, but duty calls. My parents would expire if I told them that I'd rather spend Christmas with you.”
I saw Lynne tug Greg's arm. They stood up and exchanged kisses and seasonal greetings with Lewis. When they were gone, he came to sit beside me on the sofa. The fire was burning low, and through the uncurtained windows I glimpsed the dark streets of the city. “So how's your love life?” Lewis said, putting his arm round me.
“Not brilliant. How's yours?”
“Better now you're here.” He nuzzled my neck.
“Did you miss me?”
“Of course I missed you.” He kissed me, and I slid my hand inside the collar of his shirt.
“When are you coming back from your parents'?” I asked. “Boxing Day?”
“I'm not coming back,” he said. “Given the logistics, it makes more sense to go directly from their house to the airport.”
His hand was still resting on my breast, the fire was still rustling in the grate. On the telephone Lewis had mentioned that there was some problem with his plans for a skiing holiday, but I had not understood that the new arrangements might encroach upon my visit. Once I had begun to cry, it seemed impossible to stop. Lewis fetched me a glass of water. Then he sat down at the far end of the sofa, safely out of reach, and said, “Don't cry. Tell me what's the matter.”
“I thought we would spend some time together,” I said. I just managed to utter this modest sentence, into which I had compressed all my hopes and fantasies.
“We are spending time together, although not as much as either of us would like.” He stood up. “It's late; I should go. Celia, it's wonderful to see you. Next time we'll be better
organised. Happy Christmas.” He patted my shoulder and left the room almost on tiptoe, like a hospital visitor.
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Although I had known Lynne and Greg for years, I had never before stayed with them, and in small, unexpected ways it proved to be a strain. My efforts to conceal my misery were only partially successful, and they were out of sympathy with my despair. When I told her what had happened, Lynne said, “But, Celia, what did you expect? Some variation of this has happened twenty times.” She spoke with an exasperated sympathy which drove me to silence. In Edinburgh I had thought that there was nothing worse than being alone, but now even solitude began to seem easier than this perpetual pretence of cheerfulness.
At breakfast on New Year's Eve I said that I had been thinking of going back that afternoon; someone at work was giving a party, I claimed. As soon as the words were out I felt like a fool. In vivid detail I visualised my flat and what I would do in it, alone, for the remainder of the holidays. I bent my head over my coffee cup, waiting for Lynne and Greg to protest. I had planned to stay until the third.
The toast popped up. “That sounds fun,” Lynne said. “As you know, we never do anything at New Year because it's impossible to get a baby-sitter.” She buttered a slice of toast and handed it to Eve.
I wanted to say that I would much rather stay, that their company was infinitely preferable to any nonexistent party, that I would not be a burdensome guest. Eve demanded jam, and as I reached to help her, Greg said, “I wish I could come with you. They really know how to celebrate New Year in Scotland.”
“You're welcome to go,” said Lynne, smiling. “You and Celia can bring in Hogmanay together while Eve and I keep the home fires burning.”
“I want to go too,” said Eve. Lynne and Greg laughed. Pleased with her success, she said it again.
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The train was packed, and many of my fellow travellers had already begun to celebrate. Three different men offered to buy me a drink, and the middle-aged woman across the aisle produced a bottle of Scotch from her capacious handbag. We arrived in Edinburgh late in the afternoon. It was fully dark, and a bitter wind blew down the platform. As the taxi turned out of the station I remembered my arrival four months earlier, when I had not known that the hill beside the Castle was named the Mound. The knowledge of what I was returning to only compounded my desolation.
The driver of the taxi, however, was anything but desolate; I was his last fare of the day. “Some of the drivers work Hogmanay and make a killing,” he said, “but if you ask me, it's daft. What's the point of spending the evening with a bunch of drunken strangers? Money isn't everything.”
No answer seemed to be required. Through the window in the partition, he regaled me with a detailed account of the previous New Year, until we reached my flat. Then he switched on the overhead light and turned to address me. “So you'll have great plans for tonight? Are you going first-footing?” He was smiling, but the long vertical creases in his cheeks gave his expression a melancholy quality.
“Isn't it a bit cold to wander around in the middle of the night?” I said, as I searched for my purse.
“Away with you. Nothing that a drop of whiskey can't cure. Here, have a dram, to get the evening off to a good start.”
It seemed churlish to refuse. I took the open bottle he was proffering and under his approving gaze pressed it to my lips and swallowed the smallest possible amount. “Now no more nonsense about staying home. Tonight's the night you'll meet that tall, dark stranger. I feel it in my bones.”
As I climbed the stone stairs I heard Deirdre's voice. “I'll get it,” she said loudly. “I'll get everything. You just concentrate on the balloons.” She was standing in the doorway of her flat. Pulling the door to, she turned around and saw me. “Celia,” she said. “I didn't know you were coming back today. I'm giving a party. Will you come?”
I thought it was the last thing I would do, that by ten o'clock I would be in bed with a book, but I said that I would love to. Perhaps not very convincingly, for Deirdre, continuing down the stairs, called over her shoulder that if there was no sign of me by eleven she would send Big John to fetch me.
During the autumn I had grown accustomed to Malcolm's flat; now the contrast with Lynne and Greg's was unbearable. Even Tobias's rapturous welcome could not make me feel at home. Miss Lawson had been taking care of him during my absence, but he had clearly felt neglected. I put the kettle on and made a mug of tea. I drew the curtains, I went around with a milk bottle, watering the plants, I turned on the radio, I unpacked. Nothing could distract me from the fact that it was New Year's Eve. It was not that I had a history of exuberant celebrationsâperhaps my happiest years had been as a teenager, when I was much in demand as a baby-sitter
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but I had never before faced the turning of the year in such utter solitude.
I puttered around, telling myself that I did not enjoy parties, until eleven o'clock. Then I went into the bedroom and changed my old pullover for a black shirt. As I was brushing my hair I caught sight of the blue leather box in which I kept my amber earrings. I had inherited them at the age of sixteen from my great-aunt Marigold, and they had become a talisman, marking my entry into the adult world. I wore them only on special occasions, to bring me luck; as a small, private gesture of celebration, I put them on.
The door of Deirdre's flat was ajar, and a barrage of music and conversation greeted me. I would stay for half an hour,
then slip away. As I stepped into the hall, a man came out of the bathroom. He smiled with such easy friendliness that for a moment I was sure that I knew him. “You must be one of Deirdre's neighbours,” he said.
“Yes. How did you guess?”
“Because you don't have a coat, and you don't look cold.”
“I only got back from London late this afternoon, and I wasn't planning to come. I didn't even bring anything to drink.”
“There's enough booze here to launch the Armada. I'm Stephen.” He held out his hand. The sleeves of his white shirt were rolled up, almost to the elbow, and I noticed how smooth and well-rounded his forearms were.
I told him my name and asked where the drinks were. Stephen pointed to the kitchen; it was full well beyond overflowing. “No use trying to get in there,” he said. “What do you want? Wine?” When I nodded, he called out, “Hey, John,” several times, until he had the attention of a large man standing next to the table. “Pour us a couple of glasses of wine.” The glasses were passed above the crowd to Stephen's waiting hands. He gave me one. “I should have asked for the bottle,” he said.
I drank some wine and immediately felt slightly giddy. I had had nothing to eat since breakfast. Stephen was standing quietly, smiling. “Shall we go into the living room?” I suggested.
He led the way, and I followed. I waited for him to take me over to a woman and introduce her in a manner that left no doubt as to the nature of their relationship, or to make some excuse to get away, but he guided us without stopping to the corner farthest from the stereo. Then he turned towards me. “Cheers,” he said, raising his glass and clinking it to mine. Near us a woman in a brief red satin dress was dancing wildly.
“How do you know Deirdre?” I asked.
“I teach maths at her school.” He was about to elaborate, but, as if she had heard her name, Deirdre appeared. She put an arm round Stephen and said to me, “You came. I was afraid you wouldn't when I saw your face this afternoon. You looked like you were arriving back at Holloway Prison after your Christmas break.”
“I was worn out from the train,” I said. “It was jammed with drunken Scotsmen.”
Deirdre and Stephen burst out laughing. “I can guarantee you won't find any of those here tonight,” said Deirdre. “I'm pissed as a newt already, but if you want anything, let me know. Right now I'll leave you in the capable hands of my big brother.” She drifted out among the dancers, and reappeared in the arms of a middle-aged man, barely up to her shoulder, who in spite of the music was trying to waltz her round the room.