Joanna Kavenna - Inglorious

And this time goodnight was absolute, a categorical goodbye, she thought as she undressed and got into bed. She lay there for an hour, listening to his careful motions outside, her stomach making little flutters that stopped her from going to sleep. Rosa — staring at the electronic alarm clock, the pile of books on the bedside table, his and hers, the trappings of their life together — waited while Liam turned the handle of the door. He came quietly into the room. He reached the bed and paused. He was fumbling under the pillow, and she realised he had come in, not to caress her one last time, or to weep for the death of love, but to find his pyjamas. Submerged in bathos, she turned her head to the wall. Liam moved softly to the door, and walked out.

When morning came, she pushed the curtains apart and watched a low mist tumbling along the tops of the houses. She saw it was a tranquil day, beautiful in the soft shifts of light and the tender moan of planes and cars. She drew the curtains again and waited with her head down until Liam went to work. She hid under the covers when he came to get his clothes. She heard him slide the wardrobe open, and feigned sleep while he rustled through his suits. He was stepping quietly, trying not to wake her. The sheets were clammy with her sweat. When Liam had gone, she walked through the flat touching their stuff. She sifted through the shirts hanging in the wardrobe. She handled the photos scattered on the desk, their books, their CDs. She admired their taste in art. In their years together the boundaries between them had become permeable. Their personalities had combined in some things. In others they were distinct and mutually unintelligible. As she walked through the kitchen she thought there was nothing she wanted to complain about. She smiled as she ate breakfast and watched the sunlight flickering on the floor. She wondered if she should take the milk with her. ‘Now your ties are really cut,’ she said. ‘Quite right too.’ I do not fear to be alone , she thought. And I am not afraid to make a mistake, even a great mistake, a lifelong mistake . But that was hardly true. She was afraid, trembling with a sense of foreboding. So she occupied herself with practicalities. She always enjoyed packing. She spent the morning throwing out her papers, superfluous clothes and books, aged detritus. She took a large suitcase and filled it with things. She bundled the rest into boxes and stuck notes on the top. ‘ROSA’S BOX’ they read. Then she called Sandra Whitchurch and asked if she could stay.

Then it was October, four months had passed, and she was really out on a limb. Things had followed a clear course. She was persistent and she stripped herself down. It was amazing how quickly it happened. All those years on the train, rushing in and out of the city, and before long much had changed. Once you cut a thread, the tapestry unravelled. They waved you off — no one minded at all. Sure, they were saying, laughing into their hands, go off and find yourself. Whatever, excavate that navel of yours. Delve deeply into your inner being. Try to grasp the secret of the universe, find a reason for all this perversity and violence and chaos. Oh yes, you take as long as you like! We’re sure you’ll crack it! You were free, of course, free to sink. She had a few fathoms to go; she hadn’t plunged the furthest depths. Still, she had not quite managed to float. Revelations had been withheld, yet she was still ambitious. Meanwhile she had drifted into a state of insolvency, and that had become the most pressing element of her life and a burden on her thoughts.

She was out on the street because she was going to the bank. It was early and she was walking slowly with her hands in her pockets. In the half-light of a misty morning, she saw the concrete buttresses of the Westway and the shining hides of successive cars. Beneath it she saw — at first indeterminate and then coming closer — the shape of Sandra Whitchurch. Whitchurch was walking towards her, blameless in a grey suit. She was walking with her feet turned outwards, it lent a waddle to her motions, and she still had her hunted look. It was strange she was there, on the wrong side of town, clearly late for something. She was moving steadily, looking at her watch as she walked. She looked nervous, it was something in the motion of her head. Rosa had always liked Whitchurch’s nerves. Whitchurch was the sort who trembled when she smiled. She poured you coffee, her hands shaking. If you looked at her too long, preserved a pause, she shivered. At the sight of her, Rosa tried to run. It was poor behaviour, but she couldn’t help it. Certainly it was futile, she got stranded in the middle of the road and knew immediately the game was up. She was preparing an innocent phrase as Whitchurch raised her head and saw her. It crossed her body, a spasm of fear. It was clearly ironic to think about Whitchurch’s nerves when she was trembling at the prospect of a conversation. It was an overreaction. Irrational, of course.

Whitchurch had only been kind to her. After she crept out of her office and crawled out of her flat, she spent some time on the sofa in Whitchurch’s flat, in a sliced-up house in Angel. The sofa was clearly the axis mundi, Rosa realised, as she lay there day after day with her eyes on the ceiling. She found she was nervous and excited, and in the mornings she was so tired she could hardly stand. This made her think she might have something, some explicable disease that could be treated with drugs, but after a few days she felt OK again. Then she tried to sell her possessions, putting adverts in shop windows. No one really wanted used clothes and books and CDs, unless they were antique or collectible. In the area she lived in, people gave things away, offered them out like indulgences, so she did that too, taking stuff in big black bags to Oxfam. She didn’t mind losing some of the clutter she had been dragging around. She had given away all of her books, except Wollstonecraft’s A Vindication of the Rights of Women and the complete works of Shakespeare. When she wasn’t reading these, she sat in the library using the Internet, typing in web addresses. This didn’t do much, but it made her feel industrious. Before it got so cold she had spent the summer sitting in parks, and that had been much better. Really it had been like a holiday; it had lulled her into a false sense of security. She had thought she could do it for ever, passing days in Regent’s Park, watching people pushing prams and rabbits scuffling on the grass and squirrels moving along the branches. She was all for aping Rousseau, marshalling her thoughts in a series of walks. The marshalling hadn’t happened, but she had at least walked. It had been a proper summer Eden, but the autumn cast her out.

It was Whitchurch’s honesty that had done for her. Better had she lied like the others. Poor Whitchurch, blushing and talking very fast, had told her just what Liam and Grace were doing. It was the greatest revelation Rosa had so far experienced, this jangling echo from the life she had left. In August, good kind Whitchurch had spilled it all, supplied some surprising details, and then she had walked with Rosa to Tottenham Court Road asking her if she was going to be OK, apologising so sweetly and sadly for being the one to bring her the news. Liam and Grace were in love. Better still, they were getting married, in a public ceremony. No one had condemned them! Rosa was naturally surprised, and then she was incoherent and eventually silent. She knew that she had been deceived, but she was dull-witted and she couldn’t remember much. She restrained herself in Whitchurch’s presence, and this sterling repression left her spitting choler after Whitchurch had shot her a final look of compassion and gone back to the office. For a week Whitchurch’s compassion was so mighty and terrible that Rosa thought she might be crushed by the weight of it. Then she heard that Jess had a spare room, so she offered Whitchurch thanks, and moved to Kensal Rise.