and age. And she is not always treated kindly, particularly when she is no longer young. I look in the mirror these mornings and I am shocked. And to think that I was once admired for my looks! And I notice little things about myself that tell methat I’m getting older. I dread the winter, dark nights, wet leaves on the pavement. I could so easily fall, or Jenny could, pulling me down with her.’
I sensed a new regard for self, where previously there had been only selflessness. I took her in my arms and comforted her, until her renewed sobs had subsided. I longed for her as she had always been, and was to be no longer.
‘So perhaps you’d give Aubrey a ring this evening, when you get home, darling, to offer your congratulations? And there’ll be a few people for drinks on Sunday, just to avoid the awkwardness of writing to everyone. Not that there are too many of our old friends left.’ She meant, I knew, the friends that she had had when she was married to my father.
‘Jenny will miss you,’ I said. I felt in that instant for everyone who would miss my mother, for I did not doubt that she would quickly become absorbed in her new life. ‘I suppose you’ll be travelling more,’ I went on. ‘Aubrey’s always off somewhere, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve told him that he must go on his own, that it will be good for us to take occasional breaks from each other. Then you and I will be just as we’ve always been, darling.’
‘Until he comes back,’ I said.
‘Oh, Alan. Be kind, dear. After all, one day you’ll marry and leave me on my own …’
‘I should never do that.’
‘Oh, yes. And perhaps sooner than you know. And I don’t want to be alone any more than you do. And it will be good for you to know that you don’t have to worry about me. Aubrey will do that.’
‘Are you fond of him, then?’ I asked.
‘I am, yes. And he is fond of me. That’s always a comforting thing to remember. I think we shall be very happy once these awful announcements are behind us. You won’t forgetto ring him, will you, dear? And Sunday for drinks, twelve noon.’
Only the empty park, I thought, was wide enough to contain my thoughts, which were of rage and loneliness, as if I were an infant. Yet gradually I calmed down and began to see matters more objectively. There was no point in not being glad for Mother. Everything she had said made sense. I knew and liked Aubrey, to whom I must this very evening offer congratulations, as if I were a hearty senior in a club frequented by old buffers. What made me sad was a comparison of Mother’s situation with my own. I had no one. At that moment the thought struck me that Sarah’s absence might be permanent, that she might never come home, that if she did she would continue to be as elusive and as uncommitted as she had always been. A new notion was making its insidious way into my consciousness: that this was unworthy behaviour, that one did not wander affectless through life, ignorant of or indifferent to one’s influence on others. I thought that I deserved better, or perhaps needed more than an occasional casual recognition of my enslavement. For she can have been in no doubt, despite my plucky offhandedness. And I had thought that I was sure of her response, of that light so persistently hidden under a bushel. Strange how the Biblical phrase came back to me, I who had been devoutly secular all my life. I wanted my reward on earth, now more than ever. I was aware of spiralling self-doubt, like physical nausea, threatening to overwhelm me. The force of my distress made me feel literally queasy. I could not wait to get back to the safety of my flat.
It did not occur to me to wonder at the discrepancy between my equable public persona and the private turmoil that assailed me whenever I was engulfed in my own thoughts. Never having encountered this turmoil before Ichose to believe that it was customary in the circumstances, and that others had been similarly assailed before.
I sensed a new regard for self, where previously there had been only selflessness. I took her in my arms and comforted her, until her renewed sobs had subsided. I longed for her as she had always been, and was to be no longer.
‘So perhaps you’d give Aubrey a ring this evening, when you get home, darling, to offer your congratulations? And there’ll be a few people for drinks on Sunday, just to avoid the awkwardness of writing to everyone. Not that there are too many of our old friends left.’ She meant, I knew, the friends that she had had when she was married to my father.
‘Jenny will miss you,’ I said. I felt in that instant for everyone who would miss my mother, for I did not doubt that she would quickly become absorbed in her new life. ‘I suppose you’ll be travelling more,’ I went on. ‘Aubrey’s always off somewhere, isn’t he?’
‘I’ve told him that he must go on his own, that it will be good for us to take occasional breaks from each other. Then you and I will be just as we’ve always been, darling.’
‘Until he comes back,’ I said.
‘Oh, Alan. Be kind, dear. After all, one day you’ll marry and leave me on my own …’
‘I should never do that.’
‘Oh, yes. And perhaps sooner than you know. And I don’t want to be alone any more than you do. And it will be good for you to know that you don’t have to worry about me. Aubrey will do that.’
‘Are you fond of him, then?’ I asked.
‘I am, yes. And he is fond of me. That’s always a comforting thing to remember. I think we shall be very happy once these awful announcements are behind us. You won’t forgetto ring him, will you, dear? And Sunday for drinks, twelve noon.’
Only the empty park, I thought, was wide enough to contain my thoughts, which were of rage and loneliness, as if I were an infant. Yet gradually I calmed down and began to see matters more objectively. There was no point in not being glad for Mother. Everything she had said made sense. I knew and liked Aubrey, to whom I must this very evening offer congratulations, as if I were a hearty senior in a club frequented by old buffers. What made me sad was a comparison of Mother’s situation with my own. I had no one. At that moment the thought struck me that Sarah’s absence might be permanent, that she might never come home, that if she did she would continue to be as elusive and as uncommitted as she had always been. A new notion was making its insidious way into my consciousness: that this was unworthy behaviour, that one did not wander affectless through life, ignorant of or indifferent to one’s influence on others. I thought that I deserved better, or perhaps needed more than an occasional casual recognition of my enslavement. For she can have been in no doubt, despite my plucky offhandedness. And I had thought that I was sure of her response, of that light so persistently hidden under a bushel. Strange how the Biblical phrase came back to me, I who had been devoutly secular all my life. I wanted my reward on earth, now more than ever. I was aware of spiralling self-doubt, like physical nausea, threatening to overwhelm me. The force of my distress made me feel literally queasy. I could not wait to get back to the safety of my flat.
It did not occur to me to wonder at the discrepancy between my equable public persona and the private turmoil that assailed me whenever I was engulfed in my own thoughts. Never having encountered this turmoil before Ichose to believe that it was customary in the circumstances, and that others had been similarly assailed before.
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