of conscious thought—to be recognisable to Peter for what it was: a complete compatibility of disposition and longing, an example of natural partnership—in other words, a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
It has been told how, on the discharge of his commission, Peter had contemplated returning to Malaya tomarry Veronica. What has not been told is how letter after letter had arrived—all in the childlike cursive handwriting taught by the Sisters of Mercy—how these had been read more and more sketchily until, finally, they had been put away, unopened, in a far recess of the oak bureau. (That these were not among the relics later found by Bridget was because, long before, during his first marriage, Peter had consigned the collection of manila envelopes, addressed in the round hand, to a purpose-built fire in the back garden, and had gone out afterwards to a nightclub in Soho where the ‘waitresses’ were obliging.)
It would be easy to assume that it was that lack of commitment with which women these days so often charge men, which led to Peter’s seeming brutality. Veronica, back in Malaya, was first worried, then hurt, then, finally, angry when, after a few increasingly terse cards, she heard nothing back from the man who had ‘died’ inside her with the most unguarded expressions of ardent adoration. But guarded men do not always care to recall their unguarded moments; it was the memory of that uncollected wash of feeling which was partly responsible for shoving away to the back of Peter’s mind, as well as his desk, the envelopes written by the slender hand which had so often—and so unexpectedly—brought him such exquisite delight.
But just as memory can recede more swiftly than we expect so the opposite is also true: people do not fade away inside us as easily as we sometimes hope. There came moments when, before he had consciously formulated the reason, Peter’s heart would quicken and lurch, as, in the distance—perhaps walking down the street, or at the far end of a carriage on the tube—his eye wasdeceived by the sight of some slender, gold-skinned girl into believing his first, misprized love had returned.
The onset of significant developments in our inner lives is not easy to date: often they drift upon us casually, like snowflakes which do not announce the speed and severity with which they will become a storm. Peter could not have precisely said when it was that, in the act of making love to a woman, there began to come always a moment when she turned into Veronica.
At first he had been disgusted with himself. We know that in his fashion he was faithful, and the idea of super-imposing another on to the body of the woman he was making love to, tarnished his own picture of himself. But no one has ever found a successful counter to the anarchic forces the heart is host to—and, in the end, Peter had to accept that whenever, or however, he made love, and with whatever degree of fervour, there would always be three present: himself, the woman—and Veronica.
Some say this is what is meant by the law of karma, a stepping aside from a moment of possibility only to be for ever haunted by its unrealised spectre. If this is the case it seems hardly fair on those who have had no part in, yet suffer, the consequences of such derelictions. But here too there may be some pattern, and perhaps it is as well that whatever runs the system which is life has not found time to read the Declaration of Human Rights. By the time Peter met Bridget and Frances, both women to whom he longed to give his ardour unconfined, he found, when making love, he was impossibly and inescapably merged with the ephemeral body of a young Malayan girl, who by now if not, conceivably, dead was certainly middle-aged.
Frances was entrusted with the knowledge of her lover’s faith but he never divulged to her his love for Veronica. Nor could she have borne that knowledge. Lying in bed months after her lover’s death, she resolved the
It has been told how, on the discharge of his commission, Peter had contemplated returning to Malaya tomarry Veronica. What has not been told is how letter after letter had arrived—all in the childlike cursive handwriting taught by the Sisters of Mercy—how these had been read more and more sketchily until, finally, they had been put away, unopened, in a far recess of the oak bureau. (That these were not among the relics later found by Bridget was because, long before, during his first marriage, Peter had consigned the collection of manila envelopes, addressed in the round hand, to a purpose-built fire in the back garden, and had gone out afterwards to a nightclub in Soho where the ‘waitresses’ were obliging.)
It would be easy to assume that it was that lack of commitment with which women these days so often charge men, which led to Peter’s seeming brutality. Veronica, back in Malaya, was first worried, then hurt, then, finally, angry when, after a few increasingly terse cards, she heard nothing back from the man who had ‘died’ inside her with the most unguarded expressions of ardent adoration. But guarded men do not always care to recall their unguarded moments; it was the memory of that uncollected wash of feeling which was partly responsible for shoving away to the back of Peter’s mind, as well as his desk, the envelopes written by the slender hand which had so often—and so unexpectedly—brought him such exquisite delight.
But just as memory can recede more swiftly than we expect so the opposite is also true: people do not fade away inside us as easily as we sometimes hope. There came moments when, before he had consciously formulated the reason, Peter’s heart would quicken and lurch, as, in the distance—perhaps walking down the street, or at the far end of a carriage on the tube—his eye wasdeceived by the sight of some slender, gold-skinned girl into believing his first, misprized love had returned.
The onset of significant developments in our inner lives is not easy to date: often they drift upon us casually, like snowflakes which do not announce the speed and severity with which they will become a storm. Peter could not have precisely said when it was that, in the act of making love to a woman, there began to come always a moment when she turned into Veronica.
At first he had been disgusted with himself. We know that in his fashion he was faithful, and the idea of super-imposing another on to the body of the woman he was making love to, tarnished his own picture of himself. But no one has ever found a successful counter to the anarchic forces the heart is host to—and, in the end, Peter had to accept that whenever, or however, he made love, and with whatever degree of fervour, there would always be three present: himself, the woman—and Veronica.
Some say this is what is meant by the law of karma, a stepping aside from a moment of possibility only to be for ever haunted by its unrealised spectre. If this is the case it seems hardly fair on those who have had no part in, yet suffer, the consequences of such derelictions. But here too there may be some pattern, and perhaps it is as well that whatever runs the system which is life has not found time to read the Declaration of Human Rights. By the time Peter met Bridget and Frances, both women to whom he longed to give his ardour unconfined, he found, when making love, he was impossibly and inescapably merged with the ephemeral body of a young Malayan girl, who by now if not, conceivably, dead was certainly middle-aged.
Frances was entrusted with the knowledge of her lover’s faith but he never divulged to her his love for Veronica. Nor could she have borne that knowledge. Lying in bed months after her lover’s death, she resolved the
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