Unbearable Lightness of Scones

96. A Scorched-Earth Wardrobe

Elspeth Harmony sat at the kitchen table in the flat in India Street and contemplated her situation. It was not one of those stock-takings that follows upon a personal crisis, it was, rather, a leisurely dwelling on where she was and how she had got there. Unlike Dante, she did not find herself in the middle of a dark wood; such woods might lie ahead, but she was not yet old enough to feel them pressing in on her. Nor did she feel that she had lost Dante’s straight path, even if she had, within the space of a few months, sold her flat, left her job and married Matthew. Even her name had changed – for some purposes at least – although she still thought of herself as Elspeth Harmony, and would use that name for professional purposes. But what professional purposes? she asked herself. She was no longer a teacher, and that she missed.

My life, thought Elspeth Harmony, has been totally transformed. How many months ago was it that I said goodbye to the children at the Steiner School? Five? Six? That had not been easy, as she had gone back specially to see them after her suspension – for pinching Olive, under severe provocation – had been rescinded. The children had been puzzled by her sudden replacement by a new teacher. One afternoon Miss Harmony had been there, and then the next morning they had Mr. Bing welcoming them into the classroom, with no sign of Miss Harmony.

There had been speculation in the playground, of course. “She’s been kidnapped,” announced Tofu. “You just wait. There’ll be a note from the kidnappers asking for ransom. And we’ll all have to give up our pocket money for months, just to get her back.”

Bertie did not think that this was a very credible theory, but said nothing. He thought that Miss Harmony would be back; she would not leave them like that; she would not desert them. And a few days later he was overjoyed when she did come back, not permanently, but at least to say goodbye properly. “I’m getting married,” she said. “I’m very happy, but I shall miss all of you so much.”

“Even Tofu?” asked Olive. “Will you even miss him, Miss Harmony?”

If Miss Harmony hesitated, it was only for the briefest of moments before she replied. “But of course I’ll miss Tofu, Olive! I shall miss all of you.”

Olive looked doubtful.

“Will you have children yourself, Miss Harmony?” asked Skye, and added, “Are you already pregnant?”

“Goodness no,” said Miss Harmony. “I mean, I’m not expecting a baby just yet, but I would certainly like one.”

“Does your husband know how to make you pregnant, Miss Harmony?” Skye persisted. “Will you be able to teach him?”

Miss Harmony blushed, and laughed. “Let’s not talk about me,” she said. “Let’s talk about what fun you’re going to have with Mr. Bing as your new teacher.”

And then, after that conversation, there had been the leave-taking. Many of the children had cried, and Elspeth Harmony had found herself weeping too, and had been obliged to stop her car in Spylaw Road and compose herself before she could drive on. It had been a good school in which to teach, and she had loved the children, for all their little ways. Love: the quality in a schoolteacher which no training can instil; it must be there, in the heart, ready to be discovered, poured out.

Now love would find a different focus in her life. She had a husband, and a home to make out of this rather austere bachelor establishment into which she had moved. Of course that required tact; Matthew was proud of his flat and of the things it contained. He had shown her his British aviation prints in the bathroom and his framed batik from Bali. Neither of these, she felt, had a long-term future in the flat, but she had refrained from saying anything just yet. And as for the kitchen, the only possible approach, she felt, was a scorched-earth one. She had seen pictures of Clive Christian kitchens and she thought one of those would fit very well in India Street; it was not the sort of street to have Clive Christian kitchens at present, but all that could change.

Then there was the question of Matthew’s wardrobe. On the second day after their return from their honeymoon, while Matthew had gone off to the gallery, Elspeth, still clad in the silk dressing gown she had bought in Singapore, had looked through Matthew’s wardrobe and bedroom cupboard, examining his clothes. It had felt a bit strange at first, to be looking through the clothing of another like that, but she had reminded herself that they were married now and married people had no secrets from one another, or should have no secrets. And surely the most obvious place to start in this policy of sharing was the wardrobe.

She started with his sock drawer. There were no surprises there – in that few of the socks seemed to match. She smiled: that was a universal problem, connected in some way with the Bermuda Triangle which most washing machines seemed to possess and which swallowed socks, flushing them away to some unknown destination somewhere. She had the solution to that, though – those small rubber rings through which socks could be threaded in pairs, thus keeping them together in the wash, like swimmers sharing the same lifebelt.

She opened the drawer below that, and closed it again quickly. She was not ready for underpants. Not yet. After years of marriage perhaps, but not now. So she moved on: a sweater in a curious beige colour – Matthew’s distressed oatmeal sweater, as it happened. That would have to go. And folded underneath it a pair of crushed strawberry corduroy trousers. She took these out and examined them. Here and there the corduroy was worn; surely they could be thrown out now. She put them on the floor. Now for the jackets.

But by the end of her survey, Elspeth had made a large pile of Matthew’s clothes in the middle of the floor. The distressed oatmeal sweater; the crushed strawberry trousers; four jackets which looked as if they had lost all shape and will to live; three pairs of shoes in which the leather was wrinkled and cracked.

She went into the hall and looked up a number in the local directory. Deceased houses respectfully cleared, said the advertisement. Well, this was not a deceased house, but these were obviously people who would know how to get rid of old clothes. She dialled the number and was answered by a man who spoke respectfully, almost in sepulchral tones. Yes, they could come that morning, and yes, they could take anything.

She went into the kitchen and made herself a cup of coffee. It was a very satisfying thing, she felt, this looking after a man. Men were so vulnerable, she thought; they need us so badly, poor dears. And think what they would look like without us. Just think.