The Magus - John Fowles [4]
�lt� He was pleasant enough, not in the least snobbish--Etonians very seldom are--but he carried with him, perhaps in spite of himself, an unsloughable air of high caste, of constant contact with the nicest best people, of impeccable upper-class taste in facial exPression, clothes, vocabulary. We went off to an oyster bar; he'd just heard the first Colchesters of the season were in. Alison said very little, but I was embarrassed by her, by her accent, by the difference between her and one or two debs who were sitting near us. She left us for a moment when Billy poured the last of the Muscadet. "Nice girl, dear boy." "Oh..." I shrugged. "You know." "Most attractive." "Cheaper than central heating." "I'm sure." But I knew what he was thinking. Alison was very silent after we left him. We were driving up to Hampstead to see a film. I glanced at her sullen face. "What's wrong?" "Sometimes you sound so mean, you upper-class Poms." "I'm not upper-class. I'm middle-class." "Upper, middle--God, who cares." I drove some way before she spoke again. "You treated me as if I didn't really belong to you." "Don't be silly." "As if I'm a bloody abo." "Rubbish." "In case my pants fell down or something." "It's so difficult to explain." "Not to me, sport. Not to me." One day she said, "I've got to go for my interview tomorrow." "Do you want to go?" "Do you want me to go?" "It doesn't mean anything. You haven't got to make up your mind." "It'll do me good if I get accepted. Just to know I'm accepted." She changed the subject; and I could have refused to change the subject. But I didn't. Then, the very next day, I too had a letter about an interview. Alison's took place--she thought she had done well. Three days later she got a letter saying that she had been accepted for training, to start in October. I had my interview, with a board of urbane culture-organizers. She met me outside and we went and had an awkward meal, like two strangers, in an Italian restaurant. She had a grey, tired face, and her cheeks looked baggy. I asked her what she'd been doing while I was away. "Writing a letter." "To them?" "Yes." "Saying?" "What do you think I said?" "You accepted." There was a difficult pause. I knew what she wanted me to say, but I couldn't say it. I felt as a sleepwalker must feel when he wakes up at the end of the roof parapet. I wasn't ready for marriage, for settling down. I wasn't psychologically close enough to her; something I couldn't define, obscure, monstrous, lay between us, and this obscure monstrous thing emanated from her, not from me. "Some of their flights go via Athens. If you're in Greece we can meet. Maybe you'll be in London. Anyway." We began to plan how we would live if I didn't get the job in Greece. But I did. A letter came, saying my name had been selected to be forwarded to the School Board in Athens. This was "virtually a formality." I should be expected in Greece about the beginning of October. I showed Alison the letter as soon as I had climbed the stairs back to the fiat, and watched her read it. I was looking for regret, but I couldn't see it. She kissed me. "I told you." "I know." "Let's celebrate. Let's go out in the country." I let her carry me away. She wouldn't take it seriously, and I was too much of a coward to stop and think why I was secretly hurt by her refusing to take it seriously. So we went out into the country, and when we came back we went to see a film and later went dancing in Soho; and still she wouldn't take it seriously. But then, late, after love, we couldn't sleep, and we had to take it seriously. "Alison, what am I going to do tomorrow?" "You're going to accept." "Do you want me to accept?" "Not all over again." We were lying on our backs, and I could see her eyes were open. Somewhere down below little leaves in front of a lamppost cast nervous shadows across our ceiling. "If I say what I feel about you, will you..." "I know what you feel." And it was there: an accusing silence. I reached out and touched her bare stomach. She pushed my hand away, but held it. "You feel, I feel, what's the good. It's what we feel. What you feel is what I feel. I'm a woman." I was frightened; and calculated my answer. "Would you marry me if I asked you?" "You can't say it like that." "I'd marry you tomorrow if I thought you really needed me. Or wanted me." "Oh Nicko, Nicko." Rain lashed the windowpanes. She beat my hand on the bed between us. There was a long silence. "I've just got to get out of this country." She didn't answer; more silence, and then she spoke. "Pete's coming back to London next week." "What will he do?" "Don't worry. He knows." "How do you know he knows?" "I wrote to him." "Has he answered?" She breathed out. "No strings." "Do you want to go back to him?" She turned on her elbow and made me turn my head, so that our faces were very close together. "Ask me to marry you." "Will you marry me?" "No." She turned away. "Why did you do that?" "To get it over. I'm going to be an air hostess, and you're going to Greece. You're free." "And you're free." "If it makes you happier--I'm free." The rain came in sudden great swathes across the treetops and hit the windows and the roof; like spring rain, out of season. The bedroom air seemed full of unspoken words, unformulated guilts, a vicious silence, like the moments before a bridge collapses. We lay side by side, untouching, effigies on a bed turned tomb; sickeningly afraid to say what we really thought. In the end she spoke, in a voice that tried to be normal, but sounded harsh. "I don't want to hurt you and the more I... want you, the more I shall. And I don't want you to hurt me and the more you don't want me the more you will." She got out of bed for a moment. When she came back she said, "We've decided?" "I suppose." We said no more. Soon, too soon, I thought, she went to sleep. In the morning she was determinedly gay. I telephoned the Council. I went to receive Miss Spencer-Haigh's congratulations and briefings, and took her out for a second and--I prayed--last lunch.