‘The gate was locked, and I pressed a bell button, and down the drive came a man who I thought must be the brother you’d told me about. He looked kind, but suspicious, and asked me what I wanted. I said I had come to see Michael, and he said you weren’t at home, that you were in London. This was a big blow, and I was beginning to think that it was a really bad day. “Are you his brother?” I asked. He nodded, and looked at me, hard. He was about ten years older than you, and good-looking, though his eyes were steely, and he had a small ginger moustache. “He told me a lot about you,” I said. He took my case and asked me to come to the house for a cup of tea, said he couldn’t possibly let me go since I had come so far. He apologized for you and said you didn’t often make mistakes like this, and that you ought to be more careful where a young lady was concerned. I said I hoped I wouldn’t disturb his mother, and he said, “Oh, don’t worry about her. I’m afraid she recently died,” and I thought it strange that you hadn’t told me, but I just said how sorry I was.
‘A servant took my case and we went into the house, a big mansion with paintings of dead soldiers on all the staircases, and I thought how lucky Michael is to have a childhood here. Your brother gave me lunch, and he ordered a bottle of wine to be sent up, and then another, and the more I ate and drank the better I felt about my disappointment at not seeing you. Then I felt dizzy, and your brother asked his housekeeper to show me a room where I could rest for half an hour. He then said that afterwards he would drive me to the station. So I followed this old woman into a room that looked over the loveliest green park. I stood by the window to see it all. Then I lay down on the bed, feeling small in the middle of it. I was exhausted from the events of the day that was not much more than half gone, and I fell asleep in no time.
‘When I opened my eyes, your brother (I mean that devil) was standing by the bed and looking down at me. “Is it time to go?” I said. He started to undress, and I ran to the door, but it was locked. “It’s even soundproof,” he laughed at me. “Let me go,” I cried, “I’ll miss my train.” “They run every day,” he said. “I’ll tell Michael,” I said. “Who the devil’s that?” he said, naked but for his shirt. “Your brother,” I told him. “I don’t have a brother. Only a sister, and she’s in South America, I hope.” I ran back to the bed. “Don’t be a silly girl,” he said, pulling his shirt off, “enjoy yourself.”
‘“Who are you?” I cried.
‘“I’m Lady Chatterley’s son.” Somehow he didn’t frighten me any more, and when he kissed me I couldn’t do anything about it. I realized by now that I must have remembered the wrong address, but a few days later Clifford told me that there was no one by your name in the whole county, and he knew all the good families in it. So you are the most terrible liar, and I shall never forgive you, even though I still love you. If I didn’t I wouldn’t be writing this letter.
‘Clifford put me on the train in Nottingham and begged me to visit him again some time. Back in London I went to my husband, thinking that we could be together again. But when he wanted to know who I’d spent my time with I wouldn’t tell him. He’d been to your flat looking for you, to push your face in, he said, but he hadn’t found you. We had lunch together at the house (he already had another housekeeper looking after him) and I thought things were going to be all right, because afterwards we went to bed, but then he asked me to tell him again where I’d been for the last few days, and when I still wouldn’t he said he just had time to smash up the house and get rid of me before going off to Harley Street to see some patients. He threw all the vases into the fireplace, ripped the pictures off the walls, and smashed a window. Then he hit me and kicked me. He is uncivilized and savage, and I thought there’d be no end to it if I stayed with him. He kicked his wife, that’s why she left him. He kicks poor Smog, and he kicked me. I told myself I’d never live with a psychoanalyst again, as I went crying down the path with my suitcase. I’ve got a place to live and a job. My room is in Camden Town, and I work as a shop assistant. I hate it, because I don’t have any freedom, and I’m unhappy because I’ve been phoning you and don’t get any reply. So please, please come to see me, or be in when I phone, because my life is smashed and ruined and I am so unhappy, Michael. I love you and want to go away with you. Even though you betrayed me by your lies, I still want you.’
She went on in this way for a few pages more, but I crumpled the letter up and threw it in the slop bin. What a crazy girl she was, I thought, going up to Nottingham to look for me. How can you trust someone who believes everything you say? As for the stately home she’d ended up in, it must have been the one I’d described so knowingly in my lies, the one I’d cycled by and admired so often as a youth. Some swine had taken advantage of her innocence, and now she was a serving girl behind a shop counter. What a comedown for an au pair girl from milk-and-butter land.
It was already afternoon, the livid sky filled with water, which made me feel even more sorry for her. But I had to go out in it, for the cupboard was empty and the fridge was bare, so with raincoat and umbrella I slipped down the stairs to a little man’s shop on the main road, whose window was filled with orange drinks and tinned peas. I got Splendour Loaf and meatlets, choc-cake, and Tiger-eye frozen fish toes, the fifth-rate grub that dulls the brains of every Englishman. Big drops of rain dragged themselves out of the sky in an effort to wet me on the way back, but I reached the comfort of my flat in safety.
I tried on the phone to get Bill’s mother and tell her the fate of her son, but the hotel manager said she’d gone back to Worksop some days ago — which was one problem less to bother me as I lay down the receiver. Only at this moment did it occur to me that she’d been seen on the train by Bridgitte, though I tried not to be dead certain of it. I put on the kettle again for tea. There was a framed photograph of Bill’s mother on the sideboard, and her look went right into my heart when I took up courage and stared at her. She asked what the hell Bill was doing in London instead of earning an able living in Worksop. Come to that, she asked what I was doing here as well, but I looked at her and said nothing, thinking she ought to stick to Bill and leave me alone. Bill no doubt was guzzling typhoid sherbet in a far-off nick, so he certainly needed worrying about, far more than I did, and that was a fact.
Yet at least he was surrounded by bad breath and flesh-and-blood, whereas if my appendix suddenly burst I’d bleed to death and nobody would be any the wiser. I wasn’t going crazy, but I didn’t like living alone, and Bill’s old mother behind that sheet of glass knew it very well, those features showing a mixture of despair with love just beneath it and trying to break through, and to succeed in seeing her love, you had to look at her with all your spirit, and with tears about to come out of your own eyes. I wanted to turn it to the wall, but didn’t have enough coal in my brain for that. While filling me with remorse it also showed me there was nothing I could do for Bridgitte, that no mad rescue was possible or necessary because who, by the standards of Bill’s mother, could say she was either badly-off or suffering? Certainly not me, as I looked at the tragic photograph that Bill had so lovingly framed with his own hands — and made a somewhat shoddy job of it at that. I thought of doing a rush trip to Worksop to explain the fate of her son but knew that this wasn’t on the cards because I was stuck to the flat on Jack Leningrad’s orders.