Leaving Home

by Anita Brookner

  ‘I think I might go to London this weekend,’ I said. I should be doing this at her behest, but also at my own. ‘I’ll see if we can work something out.’

  ‘There’s a small hotel in the rue Delambre, where a friend of mine stayed for a few months. And you can eat out. No more canteen food. Pouah!’ Her nose wrinkled in genuine disgust.

  And yet I knew that she lived on coffee and baguettes, was incapable of cooking a meal, relied on invitations to supply her with nutrients. And then, I supposed, there would be ample provision at the weekends. There was a cook, she had told me, one half of a couple, so that she need never worry that her mother was uncared for. That, I saw, was the cardinal difference between us: I would, however reluctantly, be drawn back by the fact of another’s loneliness, though that loneliness frightened and repelled me. Even the thought of going home, even for a weekend, made me hesitate. I needed Françoise’s determination, rather than my own, to put plans into motion. That was why her company was so good for me. That was why I did my assiduous best to meet her expectations, even though those expectations were so low that she derived a visible pleasure when contemplating the distance between us.

  I thought it tactful to let this line of thought lie dormant. That too was part of my role, never to insist, merely to suggest, humbly, that I was grateful for her attention. It was always indicated that I respect the effort she was making on my behalf. I drank the last of my coffee and prepared to leave.

  The man who had (perhaps) been looking at me glanced in our direction, picked up his briefcase, and made as if to move.

  ‘I’ll see you later,’ said Françoise impassively.

  It was my cue to get up. It occurred to me that she would not follow. I went out into the street. It was a matter of honour not to look back.

  4

  LONDON SEEMED SO ALIEN, SOMNOLESCENT IN THE HALF-LIGHT, as if the sun would never rise again. The contrast between the anonymous streets, the uncertain perspectives, and my rigorous ghostly gardens could not have been more pronounced. In the few months in which I had been away I had grown accustomed not only to a different landscape but to a different mind-set. Even in my reduced circumstances I was aware of sharper contrasts, bolder exchanges. I should now have to reacquaint myself with a more ruminative way of life. The people I saw through the window of the taxi seemed to walk with averted eyes, wholly possessed by some interior monologue, as if they had never exchanged intimate confidences and were now schooled in the kind of enquiries which made no reference to the emotions. I missed the boldness of greetings, offered to friends and strangers alike, that had been the commerce of my early mornings: even my daily journeys to the library had been enlivened by an emphatic salutation, as if I were a legitimate inhabitant, going about an entirely honourable activity, just like those strangely confident people whom I passed in the streets and to whom I offered an equally confident ‘Bonjour!’

  Here, I knew, I should have to accept a degree of indifference, as if I had not walked these streets all my life, should have to modify eager curiosity—the sort of curiosity surely everyone must feel—into a dutiful consideration of the weather, of the daily alteration in the light as the season changed from winter into spring. There was indeed much to be noted in this muted nature which cast its understated dominance over a population schooled in acceptance rather than revolution. The world was changing, had changed, yet I saw few signs of this change in the comfortable half-empty approaches to my home. Surely there should have been more ebullience, more movement? Only the traffic, moving with monotonous noisy insistence, seemed possessed of any purpose. And yet, when I got out of the taxi and surveyed those so familiar landmarks, I saw something amazing, a camellia bush in full bloom, as if this were the compensation I should find here instead of the excitement, the purely urban excitement, to which I had become accustomed. Nature, bizarrely, would propose advantages if one would only lower one’s expectations, if one could keep one’s eyes fixed on this universal endowment, as opposed to that heartfelt intimacy which was one’s most primitive need. Even friends whom I should contact, and of whom I was in truth very fond, would, I knew, regard me as something of a stranger, since I had not been present to intuit matters which they perhaps guarded from view, and which they preferred to keep to themselves, lest they reveal too much. . . . Circumspection, which I should have to respect, would keep all conversations within bounds. This should suit me, since I had no adventures to recount. Indeed I felt a certain shame that I was not able to impart news of lovers and thus show myself in a more interesting light. I could hardly expect my gardens to stand me in good stead. Yet I was eager for any sort of exchange, any sort of familiarity; part of me longed to be reabsorbed, anxious as I was to exchange those months of solitude and application for something warmer, more receptive, even kindlier, for that peculiar English kindliness which is built on indifference but which reveals itself in a half-smile, an uplifted hand, when two neighbours meet, and from which it is impossible to tell whether they are friends or enemies.

  The flat—my home—seemed to be bathed in the same half-light as the surrounding neighbourhood: I remember how my mother would never take up her book until the daylight won the unequal struggle, how averse she was to harsh illumination. She stood at the open door to greet me, and I was filled with a rush of love as we embraced. She had her coat on: she was going shopping, she said, to get something nice for our lunch. I was to make myself some breakfast and keep all news until she returned. I thought this less than ceremonious; by the same token it was unsurprising, since we took each other for granted. We were each other’s familiars, ghosts, even, and this was no occasion for full-blown expressions of feeling. The anxiety I habitually felt for the remnants of what had never been a family was also familiar. And yet I knew that what was left would have to do duty for what was missing.

  ‘Rob said he would look in later,’ said my mother, as if to confirm this. Rob was her brother, my uncle. I had never loved him, yet even he must be pressed into service in this simulacrum of a homecoming. ‘He has news to tell you,’ she went on. ‘He is thinking of buying a house on the south coast. He’ll keep the flat for when he comes up for a meeting. We shall see less of him, I dare say. However, I’ll let him tell you all about it. Make yourself comfortable, darling. How long are you staying?’

  I had planned to stay for a few days; now I saw my visit as something of an interruption. The great news was of my uncle’s desire to move to a new house; the great event was not my presence but his impending absence. As brother and sister they were extraordinarily close; part of my dislike of him was rooted in my conviction that he bullied my mother into thinking as he did. My mother always extricated herself from his pronouncements, or discussions about finance, about investments, and returned to her book, leaving him with the impression that he had won the day. It was her only feminine stratagem, and I had never approved of it. Yet it had been successful in keeping the peace, and I now had to face the fact that I was about to send him into one of his habitual furies by requesting a modest sum for my own greater comfort. I summoned up Françoise’s scorn, saw her expression harden as if she were there to witness my misgivings. I had not said how long I was staying. For a moment I felt something like nostalgia for my monastic but so far unquestioned way of life. I had not so far been accused of any crime. Now, I thought, I should be laying myself open to charges of selfishness. There was money to be discussed: no good could come of that, particularly as I had no idea of how much or how little we had to live on.

  The flat, in a complex of uniform redbrick buildings, was as discreet as my mother’s quiet temperament demanded. It represented everything in the way of comfort that I so singularly lacked. Large windows looked out on to railings guarding a strip of park. Equally silent were the living room with its lamps and sofas, and our bedrooms, separated from each other by a length of dark-blue carpeted corridor. I unpacked, filled the washing machine, took the first of as many scented baths as I could fit in, and tried in vai
n to relax. My mind was filled with fruitless calculations which I knew were unrealistic: this flat, or one like it, was what I wanted in Paris. With this flat, or one like it, as my setting, I could aspire to friendships of my choosing, parties, love affairs. This exuberance, which would be, and was, completely out of character, would be the transformation so tantalizingly out of reach. There was of course no possibility of my being able to achieve this, just as there was no possibility of radical alteration of my character, or an end to the hermetic self-absorption with which I had almost made my peace. I emerged dripping from the bath, wrapped a towel round myself, and made for my bedroom.

  ‘Emma!’ reproved my mother, who had returned so quietly that I had not heard her. ‘What are you thinking of? Supposing Rob had seen you like that?’

  My nakedness had shocked her, and her reaction to it had shocked me. But when I saw that my bed had been made up with fresh sheets and the covers turned down, my heart melted. This was the unspoken celebration of my return.

  ‘What time is Rob coming?’ I asked my mother as we ate roast chicken.

  ‘I don’t know, darling. He didn’t say.’

  He never did. His visits were random, like government inspections, intended to keep the workforce on its toes. The contrast between my mother and her brother had never ceased to puzzle me, the one so silent and passive, the other so strangely intemperate. It was possible that my mother was the one fixed point in an otherwise lonely life. A tall, almost handsome man, he had never married, though there had been many opportunities for him to do so. He took his obligations as ruler of the family endowment very seriously, too seriously, and yet the role suited him, as did my mother’s reliance on him. He was immensely censorious, beginning each visit with a diatribe against the government of the day. He believed that he, and he alone, stood for traditional values, chief of which was an exaggerated form of family piety. It had often occurred to me to question this; latterly I had come to see it as a condemnation of undue fantasy or aspiration. Naturally my activities came under this heading, and his attitude to my work, or rather ‘work’, took the form of more or less tacit accusation. He thought me an unworthy addition to his arrangements, arrangements which took in my mother, her comfort and security, and not much else. She played her part in this and never challenged his assertions, content merely to absorb them. She knew of his objections to my absence, which must have been discussed on many occasions, though never with me. I believe it suited them both to have me out of the way, thus guaranteeing their original alliance, which must have been disrupted by her marriage and further by my birth. His dislike of me, as my father’s child, was relatively undisguised, but never justified. I in my turn had learned to avoid him, which was not too easy as he tended to turn up unannounced. He considered our flat as an offshoot of his own domain, in no way separate or independent. For as long as I could remember he had decided to buy a house somewhere fairly remote, but nothing ever came of this. He was always threatening to leave, like a temperamental star who has to be cajoled back into line. The threat was paramount, and it was real, for I did not see how either of them would function on their own. But it made me uneasy to know that this would overshadow my own request, and that that request might be ignored in the greater interest of whether the two of them would survive apart, as they strangely did together.

  ‘I expect he’ll look in at teatime,’ said my mother, clearing the table.

  ‘Let me do that.’

  I was already preparing to demonstrate filial concern, as I should be required to do as a token of good behaviour. At the same time I was determined to get away as cleanly as possible, taking with me the afterimage of bourgeois comfort that would remain the legacy of this visit, a comfort I was anxious to claim for myself. The negotiation, as I saw it, was simple, or could be if conducted by reasonable people. I needed a modest allowance, or preferably a lump sum, so that I could budget for the remainder of my stay. How long that stay might be I would not say; indeed I did not know myself. I thought my mother looked thinner, even slightly frail, and this disturbed me anew. I felt that I was obliged to worry on her behalf, and might be expected to continue to do so.

  ‘Nice of you to grace us with your presence, Emma,’ said Rob, sitting himself down and picking up the paper, as he usually did. ‘I see that the prime minister continues to embarrass us.’ There followed the usual criticisms, to which I submitted as to a ritual, like Christmas or Hallowe’en.

  ‘Pour Rob a cup of tea, darling,’ said my mother pacifically. ‘And there are biscuits in the tin, if you wouldn’t mind.’

  He took this offering without thanks. ‘The house fell through,’ he said abruptly, as though we had been discussing this all along.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ said my mother, who had heard this, or something like it, before.

  ‘Money will soon be tight,’ he went on. ‘The way things are going.’

  ‘I wanted to talk about money,’ I broke in. ‘I rather wanted to move to somewhere more comfortable.’

  They both stared at me. Finally, ‘Anyone would think you were planning to stay there,’ said Rob. ‘Are you mad? Your place is here, keeping an eye on your mother. You’ve had your adventure. It’s time to get a job. Settle down. Here.’

  ‘I have only a few weeks to finish what I’m doing. After that . . .’ I did not finish this sentence.

  ‘I could let her have something,’ said my mother, addressing herself to Rob, not to me. ‘I spend very little. It seems a shame not to let her do what she wants.’

  ‘You know what you’re doing,’ shrugged Rob. ‘On your own head be it. I must be off. Emma, come down to the car with me. There are some papers I want your mother to see. And it might be in your interest to familiarize yourself with business matters. Time you had your feet on the ground.’

  He kissed my mother, patted her shoulder, and left. I trailed awkwardly behind him, and was soon standing even more awkwardly on the pavement, my head thrust through the car window as Rob fished in his briefcase. This pretext was soon abandoned.

  ‘Your place is here, Emma,’ he repeated. ‘Your mother is not a strong woman. Inevitably she will need help. I need hardly remind you of your obligations.’

  I assured him of my constancy, loyalty, and everything else, all the easier since I felt a flicker of guilt. At the same time I was determined to leave as soon as possible.

  That night was uncomfortable. I lay wide awake in my soft bed, assailed by conflicting feelings. I hatched out a plan which I thought would suit everyone: my uncle would buy one of those houses which he periodically chose and just as periodically relinquished, and my mother would go and live with him, leaving me on my own to fulfil my destiny without interference. This, I could see, would be an ideal arrangement, symmetrical, orderly, like the plan of a classical garden. I would join them from time to time but physical distance would keep our relationship within decent, and again orderly, bounds. At the same time the archaic part of my nature longed to be reintegrated into a context in which I was known and had no need to explain myself. ‘Un jour nous partons, le cœur plein de flamme,’ says the poet, and goes on to describe the bitter disillusionment we confront at the end of the journey. I was now rootless in two places, and those who had overseen my departure for France—those others in whom I placed my trust—had failed in their duty of support. I would, I knew, finish my dissertation. And then? A humble job, in safety, in London, or a more hazardous life elsewhere? It hardly mattered which. The fact that neither my mother nor my uncle had shown the slightest curiosity about my activities struck me as unnatural. I had failed to take into account the degree of solipsism which identified them both as siblings, and which, to a certain extent, excluded me. That they were unaware of this was their saving grace.

  At breakfast I explained to my mother that I must leave on the following morning. She took the news calmly, but she looked tired, as if she too had passed a bad night. Possibly she had been entertaining the same thoughts as I had, with the same m
ixture of emotions. We passed the slow day together, reading. I was beginning to mirror her habits, her reclusion. When we embraced it was wordlessly, as if we understood each other perfectly. Away from her it seemed as if there were no end to leaving home.

  5

  OBEDIENT TO FRANÇOISE’S INSTRUCTIONS I MOVED INTO a small hotel, and at last began to think of myself as a citizen, though any observer could have told from my excessive compliance, my anxiety not to infringe the rules, that I was nothing of the kind. My room was inexpensive and not very comfortable, but at least I was spared the weak light, the rudimentary appointments, the ringing shouts in the corridor that had pursued me as a student in that custom-made institution which I now saw as superficially hospitable but in fact restricting. Gradually I adjusted to my new home, always on the understanding that it was provisional, that somewhere at the end of this process I would accede to a real home, a home of my own, rather more like the one I had left, and to which I had no desire to return. I took to eating my meals in the café next door, and in time developed a taste for more adventurous food, conscious that I could form new habits, venture farther afield. In this I was helped by the weather, which had become lighter, warmer, and when I went out in the morning it was with genuine pleasure that I noticed the increasing liveliness in the air, the unmistakable signs of regeneration.