BARBARA HAD NOT told Hugh immediately that the buyer she had in mind for her flat was Rupert. When she did eventually reveal this to him, though, he frowned and looked doubtful.
“Why him?” he asked.
“Because he’s wanted it for years,” she explained. “He has this bizarre notion that it’s his by right because his father sold it to my father. He thinks about it all the time and can’t resist any opportunity to bring it up. Snide remarks. References to his flat being too small, and so on. It’s really tedious stuff, and so I thought that I might as well put a stop to it by giving him what he wants.”
Hugh’s frown deepened. “Is there any merit in his claim?”
“None at all. It’s ridiculous. Just because your father owned something doesn’t mean that it should be yours. It’s nonsense …”
“Then don’t do it,” said Hugh. “You haven’t signed anything yet, have you?”
She had not.
“Then you’re in the clear,” Hugh went on. “Remember that when it comes to houses you can say what you like right up until the moment at which contracts are actually exchanged. It all means nothing before that. People agree to sell flats all the time and then change their mind when a better offer comes along, or when they decide they don’t want to move after all.”
“But I told him,” said Barbara.
“Tell him that you’ve changed your mind.”
“But I haven’t.”
“Then you should.”
“Why?”
Hugh’s concern registered in his expression. “It would be a very bad mistake, I think, to sell your flat right now. The market is tricky. If you hold on to it, then you would probably get a much better price a couple of years from now. Everybody’s saying that. Read the papers. They’re all making the same predictions: a recovery in prices won’t happen for quite a few years.”
She was silent. She was not one to change her mind arbitrarily and she certainly was not one to go back on her promises. She told Hugh so, and he listened gravely.
“I know that,” he said. “And I admire you for it. I wouldn’t want to marry somebody who changed her mind about important things, somebody fickle or untrustworthy. No. But this is different.”
“Why?”
He reached out and took her hand. She marvelled at his touch; she still did. “Listen,” he said. “There are promises and promises. Some things we say bind us; others don’t. A solemn promise is binding, but an offer to do something that we don’t really have to do is … Well, there’s a certain amount of discretion there. We can change our minds because it’s understood that there’s flexibility. There’s no moral obligation to do favours to others.”
“Moral obligation?” she said. “Isn’t there a moral obligation not to disappoint others when we’ve said we’ll do something for them?”
“It depends,” said Hugh. “If it’s implicit that we may change our minds because of the nature of the promise, then we can. As I’ve said, a promise to sell a house is always like that. The other person knows you’re entitled to change your mind. That makes a big difference.”
He saw that she was not convinced and tried another tack. “He brought pressure to bear on you, you said? Over the years.”
She nodded. “I suppose you could say that.”
Hugh spoke triumphantly. “Then your position is even stronger! You have absolutely no moral obligation to see this through. It’s a promise extracted under duress. He’s ground you down—taken advantage of you; pushed you into making the offer.”
“Do you really think so?”
He did.
“I don’t know, Hugh. It’s going to be very awkward.”
“Darling, would you like me to do it for you—would you like me to tell him?”
She considered this offer for a moment before rejecting it. “I don’t think so. This strikes me as being dirty work that one should do oneself.”
“Except it’s not dirty,” he objected.
“Really?”
“You’re being taken advantage of by a man who has tried to wear you down over the years. He has behaved badly and frankly he doesn’t deserve what you offered him. Now, on more sober reflection, you’re deciding to withdraw your offer. That’s all.”
She had eventually been persuaded. Hugh, she felt, was right, and she should not have been so impetuous in her original offer. She would tell Rupert, who would be angry, of course, but he had been angry about things before and she had weathered the storm. I do not need to be frightened of him, she said to herself. Rupert is a bully. I shall stand up to him.
Thinking this was strangely liberating. She realised that she had been bullied by men twice in her life—by Oedipus and by Rupert. Now, with Hugh—a good and kind man—at her side she felt so much stronger, so much more capable of dealing with male pressure.
The conversation with Hugh had taken place in Ardnamurchan when Barbara had gone up for a weekend. She decided that she would tell Rupert of her change of mind when she returned to London. But then, on the train down from Fort William, the thought occurred to her: If she withdrew her offer to Rupert, was she not simply repeating the old pattern—doing the bidding of a man? Hugh was her fiancé and she loved and trusted him, and yet here she was, doing what he told her to do. Was this not yet another case of female inauthenticity? And if she did as Hugh told her now, would the rest of her life—her life with him—be characterised by the same behaviour? At their wedding, might she not just as well use those now-abandoned words from the marriage service and promise to love, honour and obey?
The thought was disturbing, and presented her with a real dilemma. If she rejected Hugh’s advice she would implicitly be saying that she wanted to do as she chose. But in so doing, she would end up acting as another man—Rupert—wanted, and that would mean that she had complied with a man’s wishes in any case.
Barbara had plenty of feminist friends—or friends who claimed feminist credentials; perhaps she should ask one of them. The friend would give advice, no doubt, but then if Barbara took it, would that not be a case of her doing the bidding of a woman? And if you were a woman was there any difference—any real difference—between doing what a woman tells you to do and doing what a man tells you to do? There was a distinction, she thought, but she was not quite sure she could put her finger on it. Was it the case that there was a presumption that a man would advise you with an eye to his own interests, whereas a woman would be more likely to take your interests into account? Yes, she thought. But then she wondered: Why should we think that men are inevitably self-interested? Could men not believe in the right of women to autonomous decisions? Of course they could.
She made up her mind: I shall tell Rupert it’s off—and I don’t care what he does. My decision. Made by me. Authentic. Autonomous. And within her a small voice added: Disastrous.