Leaving Home

by Anita Brookner

  ‘You’ve got me.’

  She smiled. ‘Until tomorrow.’

  We were as one, perhaps, in the knowledge that the future had failed us, that life had not proceeded in the straight line on which we had once relied. Such knowledge is not desirable, and is moreover impossible to impart to those untouched by it. ‘Reader, I married him,’ says Jane Eyre, in the most accessible line in English fiction. This should be the end of the journey for everyone: it is accepted as such, even by sceptics. Françoise’s case was more serious than my own, and I could only admire her stoicism. Not a word of complaint passed her lips on the journey down; only her profile showed signs of a fatigue that came from deep inside her. It was in silence that we unpacked the car, took the shopping we had done in Paris into the kitchen, greeted a wary Fernand and Mariette, and went out onto the terrace to prepare for our participation in whatever had been decided for us, or whatever manipulation of circumstances could be contrived.

  My first sight of Mme Desnoyers was not as bad as I had anticipated. It was true that the drooping eyelid obscured her right eye, and that her greeting to me was unclear. ‘Emma,’ she managed to say, before renouncing the attempt to say more. She was seated in the smaller of the two salons, and formally dressed, though without that air of activity that she had always commanded. I pressed her hand, which remained limply in my own. I tactfully left the room, after having mimed my delight at being in her house again, and, naturally, at seeing her looking so well. Françoise followed me out. She too pressed my hand. ‘I’ll stay with her for a while,’ she said. ‘You don’t mind? Have a walk, why don’t you? I’ll see you at lunch.’

  I walked, reluctantly at first, later with relief. Trees dripped steadily with the last of the mist, or the fog: it was hard to make out in the midst of the woods. I wanted to become as tired as possible so as not to think too much, to get through this awkward time without too much speculation. It was with growing reluctance that I turned back to the house. I had managed to kill only an hour and a half.

  Lunch was the quiche we had brought from Paris. There did not appear to be any other food; at least there was none on the table. Mme Desnoyers had been returned to her room, where she spent the rest of the day. I appreciated the effort she had made in greeting me. There was nothing for me to do, after clearing the dishes, but to go out again. Later I sat on the damp terrace, wishing I had brought a book. Françoise did not reappear. My last image of her, when I went in to say good night to Mme Desnoyers, was of a submissive figure, on a low stool, manicuring her mother’s nails. The image, I knew, would stay with me for months, possibly years to come.

  17

  I WOKE LATE, TO THE SOUND OF VOICES RAISED IN ARGUMENT, or protest, coming from downstairs. It seemed tactful to stay in my room, though I was anxious to know how the day was to proceed. I was anxious, above all, to get back to Paris. I could not do this without Françoise, for I had no means of transport. I should, I thought, ask her for the telephone number of a taxi firm, if there was such a thing in this outlying spot. I must do this as casually as possible; it would not do to convey my reluctance to remain here. I could clearly be of no further use, and anyway her own duties, however unappealing, would claim all her attention. She might be glad to be rid of me, grateful that I had made the decision to leave of my own accord. Now that I had seen the situation for myself it was clear that my presence would only be a distraction.

  When the voices were silent I made my way downstairs, wondering if I might ask for a cup of coffee. I found the kitchens, which I had never visited before, but no sign of Fernand, or of Mariette. On a table were the remains of the quiche, still on the original plate. In the scullery a tap dripped. A small radio, which could occasionally be heard in the upstairs rooms, stood silent. As I lingered there, unwilling to call out, Mariette marched through and removed it. She went out, paying me no attention. She then marched back, took a jar of instant coffee from a cupboard, put it on the table in front of me, and went out again. This, I deduced, was the limit of her obligation to me. No words were offered. She nodded as I thanked her, and disappeared, forever, it seemed. Here too I was out of place. I drank the coffee hastily, and went upstairs to wait for Françoise, of whom there was no sign, though hers had been one of the voices. Now there was silence, and no movement discernible anywhere.

  I had more than enough time to notice that the weather had deteriorated. A thin rain was falling, making the house dark. On my last visit the French windows had been open, ready for the sun, which had obediently, if briefly, blazed. Now all was sodden and forbidding. I should have been glad of a sound, of traffic, perhaps, but there was none. Françoise’s car, under a dripping tree, had acquired a few wet leaves plastered to its roof and windscreen. She too would be eager to leave this place, which now seemed deserted. A lost domain, I had thought it, but one which had been stripped of its legendary allure. I noticed that a few drops of rain had penetrated a window embrasure and lay on the sill, reflecting the leaden sky outside. It was only nine o’clock, and yet it seemed as if dusk was already approaching.

  A sudden flurry of footsteps heralded the approach of Françoise, who was wearing a coat, as if preparing to go out. She looked flushed, harassed. ‘You’ve had coffee?’ she enquired. ‘Good. Now listen, Emma, I have to go to Paris. Oh, don’t look so worried. I’ll be back later, this evening at the latest. You can stay the night, can’t you?’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘My friend wants to see me. I telephoned him late last night. This may be the last chance we have to be together. He leaves in a couple of days; the date has been brought forward. This is our last chance to discuss things. I have to go. You do see that, don’t you?’

  ‘Can’t I come with you?’

  ‘Well, no. As I say, I shall be back later. The servants will look after you. Fernand will see to my mother; there is no need for you to do anything. Just look in on her once or twice. I gave her a sleeping pill last night; she will probably sleep for most of the day. And then I’ll take over.’

  ‘I think you should stay,’ I said. ‘I have no experience. . . .’

  ‘It’s only for a few hours. I don’t think it’s too much to ask. As I say, you will be taken care of.’ She glanced out of the window. ‘Not a very nice day for a walk. Perhaps you could get down to some work. Make some notes, or something.’

  ‘Is he really leaving so soon? Couldn’t you prevail on him to stay?’

  ‘That is what I am trying to do. It’s my last chance.’ I was silent. ‘I would do the same for you,’ she said, though there was no possibility of this, as we both knew. In my place she would find the situation intriguing, amusing, would give me every encouragement. There was no way of impeding her urgency, her desire not merely to get away but to be somewhere else at this very moment. It would be like trying to arrest a natural force, or dismantle a process that was almost complete. Even as she reassured me she kept glancing towards the door, as if only I were standing in her way, as if I were squandering her precious time. I felt careful, cautious, clumsy. It was only a few hours, after all. And if the weather cleared up I might venture out, explore the environs. This at least would take up the morning.

  When the sound of the car died away I stood irresolute for a few minutes; clearly I had to reassure everyone that nothing had changed, though I was aware that it had, or that something had. I went up to Mme Desnoyers’s room and knocked on the door. There was no answer. I looked in, but as Françoise had predicted, she was deeply asleep, her head fallen sideways on the pillow, her mouth open. Her breath was steady, steadier than I had ever heard it. I straightened the sheet. I had never performed such services before: my own mother had died without me, in a crowded place, among strangers. These duties were hers by right, or should have been, if she had waited for me. I was an impostor here, not quite an attendant, even less a daughter. And I was so clearly superfluous that my presence was not noticed. But the demands of the helpless are so powerful that I felt constrained to sit by
the bed, in case she woke and wondered what had happened. It was only when Fernand came in and opened the window that I left. He could replace me, as no doubt Françoise had instructed. In the dining room a place had been laid and the quiche reassembled. This was lunch, well ahead of time, obviating the need for further contact.

  It was clear that my presence in the house was unwelcome, and that it was questioned by the servants who seemed not merely indifferent, but hostile. I wandered out again into the woods, now dripping with moisture and silent except for the odd leaf falling onto the bed of leaves already fallen and forming a damp and slippery mat under my feet. I walked until I reached a clearing, where an iron gate marked the limit of the property. I turned back and forked left until I came to a road, which would be dusty in the summer but was now mud. It seemed imperative to find some sort of activity, some sign that this was a normal day in a normal part of the world, but all I could see was some sort of farm building in a distant field. I understood Mme Desnoyers’s desire to relinquish this place, understood too her choice of friends, who were not friends in the normal understanding of the word but merely acquaintances or neighbours, willing to get into their cars and sacrifice an evening, on the understanding that she would do the same in return. I understood, even more clearly, Françoise’s own desire, and the deliverance she sought from the rules which had stifled her throughout her upbringing and which now threatened to imprison her for the rest of her life. I even understood the suburban depths of my own soul, now longing for pavements and streetlights and the windows on to which I looked out from behind my own. This sudden feeling of displacement was radical; my life was circumscribed because I accepted that it should be. Occasional visits from a part-time lover were perhaps all that I could tolerate. Even those distant Sunday excursions with Michael were cherished because they came within safe limits, and those gardens I so faithfully studied were valued because they existed in a finite space and a time that could not be replicated. They would be dealt with, of course, for that was my mission and I should remain faithful to it. As I turned back to retrace my steps along the deserted road I knew that I should not come to this place again, that this particular episode was concluded, and that, if I ever thought of it, it would take on the dimensions of a romantic fantasy, one that I should be careful not to disturb.

  I reckoned that Françoise would be back at about eight o’clock, nine at the latest. Inside the house, which now felt distinctly chilly, I could hear the muted sound of the radio, presumably restored to its place in the kitchen from the private quarters that housed Fernand and his wife. I thought I should signify my return in some way: I went down to the kitchen, where Fernand and Mariette were seated at the table before bowls of soup. They were listening to some sort of phone-in, and I motioned them to continue their meal, which they did, as if I were not there. When the soup bowls were emptied one more was found for me, and filled. ‘Mademoiselle est servie,’ said Fernand ironically. Then the radio was switched off and once again removed. In the ensuing silence I could hear their voices, raised once again, from their distant quarters at the back of the house. Again, some notion of an argument filtered through. I left my soup bowl and went back upstairs. I was determined to leave the next morning, as early as possible, with or without Françoise. Unfortunately I had forgotten to ask her where I could locate a taxi, or even hire a car. Short of this I should have to find a bus, if one existed. Escape was now a priority.

  In Mme Desnoyers’s room Fernand had closed the shutters, signifying that he envisaged no further duties that day. She did not seem to have moved from her original position, but the effect of the sleeping draught may have been wearing off, for she was showing some signs of agitation. Françoise had evidently given her something which had kept her acquiescent; now, inopportunely, she had begun to wake. At one stage her good eye opened and located me, focused, and blazed briefly with hauteur, as if I were an intruder. I assured her that Françoise was on her way, would be home very soon. She continued to stare at me indignantly, until her energy faltered, the eye closed, and she appeared to sleep.

  I stayed with her a while longer, glancing repeatedly at my watch. I went into Françoise’s bedroom, which was adjacent to that of Mme Desnoyers, and where I knew there was a telephone. I had only once been in this room, but remembered it as being as neat as that of a convent girl. Now the cupboard doors were open, and it seemed as if some clothes had been removed. I dialled the number of the hotel and asked to be put through to my old room. I let the telephone ring until I was convinced that she was not there. Then I dialled again and asked for her at the reception desk. No, they had not seen her, the concierge said, but she had been in at midday to collect her things. She had not been seen since then.

  It was clear that she did not wish to be found. She might, almost certainly would, return, if only to set me free, perhaps later tonight. This now seemed unlikely: possible but unlikely. I had only to settle down, in Françoise’s room, near the telephone, in case she called, and everything could be resolved. Even now I was more or less sympathetic to her plight, for when I was gone she would be alone with her mother, her dream of flight dashed, or revealed in all its fragility. It had been a brave attempt, but an unlikely one. At least, that was how my pragmatic nature argued. There remained the problem of her absence, though that might still prove temporary. I lay down on the bed, as tired as if I had tried to escape myself, and been foiled. I may have dozed, though it was too early to sleep. There was complete silence. The only noises I heard were in my head, dreams, or echoes of dreams. At some point, when the room was completely dark, I knew that she was not coming back.

  When the chill rainy light once more managed to penetrate the room I rang the hotel again, and again an hour later. There was no change. I went down to the kitchens, where once more voices were raised, as they would not have been in the presence of the legitimate owners. Now a laxness was perceptible, as if they had abandoned all formality. They had reached the same conclusion as I had, but more speedily. Once again the jar of instant coffee was placed in front of me, the radio removed, and the room vacated. I returned to Françoise’s room and rang the hotel again; now the response sounded frankly testy. I went in to Mme Desnoyers, willing her to be asleep. She was in fact in the process of struggling out of consciousness, but with evident difficulty. I laid my hand on hers and told her that Françoise would soon be back. The sound of the name was enough to agitate her, and she uttered sounds that signified, Françoise! Françoise! I stayed until she was quiet again, then left her, and telephoned the hotel once more. A slight commotion sent me to the window. Two hunched figures, carrying a heavy suitcase between them, were making their way round to the back of the house. It was as I feared: the servants, leaving.

  My problems were now unlimited. I was determined not to spend another night in this place. I was tired and bewildered: I had not taken off my clothes for what seemed like an age but was in fact only one night. There was the overriding problem of how to look after Mme Desnoyers, who had not, as far as I knew, eaten anything for some time. Yet again I went down to the kitchen. On the table I found a bowl of eggs and a packet of biscottes, left by Mariette as a token of good faith. In an enormous pan which I found in the range I scrambled two of the eggs and took the resultant mess upstairs with me. Mme Desnoyers looked at me blankly. I spooned the eggs carefully into her mouth, and watched helplessly as they ran out again, until some reflex reminded her how to eat and she managed to swallow. I helped her to drink a little water, though most of that too escaped, and settled her, I hoped, for a rest. She made no protest, taking me for a nurse, or for a servant whom she did not remember employing. I had lost all sense of time, which may have been providential. This was a day like no other. I took the plate away, ate a couple of dry biscottes, and went back to Françoise’s room, to wait.

  When the telephone rang I took a precious few seconds to rid myself of my mounting indignation, and reached it just in time, a sign no doubt that in some other dimension pr
ovidence was active on my behalf.

  ‘Allo? Françoise? Ici, Aline. Françoise?’

  Aline Mercier, la plus fidèle des amies, as Mme Desnoyers had described her, and the only one to contact her to ask if she might be of service.

  ‘Madame,’ I said. ‘I am Emma Roberts. Do you remember? We met at that delightful lunch party a little while ago.’

  The remembered voice softened. ‘Mais oui, bonjour. Vous passez le weekend au château?’ For it had become a château, and perhaps always had been in her eyes.

  I managed to summon up the requisite pleasantries. Then I explained that Françoise had had to go to Paris, but would be back very shortly. Unfortunately, I went on, I should have to leave myself within the next hour. Could she possibly come over and keep Mme Desnoyers company until Françoise returned? ‘She is not well,’ I added. Clearly this news had been kept from everybody, and I sat as patiently as I could while sympathy was being expressed. Was it this flu she had been reading about in the medical page of Le Figaro ?

  ‘I am not sure,’ I lied. ‘She is in bed. But I don’t think she should be alone. If you could come over I know she would be pleased to see you.’

  This, apparently, was not convenient. She was expecting a friend, though in this weather the friend, who was elderly and not in good health, might prefer not to go out. In fact she herself was feeling rather tired. ‘I don’t complain,’ she said proudly, but it was not easy, living alone. Not that I knew anything about that, but one had to be so careful with one’s health. Naturally . . .

  Extreme tension gives one a certain authority, as I then discovered. ‘Madame,’ I said firmly. ‘I should be obliged if you would take a taxi and come over here as soon as possible. I will then take the taxi on to Paris. When Françoise returns she will drive you home. I am sorry if this is inconvenient, but, as I say, it is a matter of urgency. I have a train to catch, and must be in London tonight.’