What the children want is not clear: perhaps they want a formal or even a traditional childhood, the kind they no longer read about in their politically correct story-books or encounter at their politically correct playgroups. Their parents reason with them, and the children know instinctively that they have not yet reached the age of reason. Besides, the reason they are being offered exists somewhere in the region of exasperation, and this they reject absolutely. And are right to do so.
As I stand on the edge of the lake, in the evening mist, urgent words are being poured into my ears to which I must respond. Although I am still young I want to assure my interlocutor that she will not be sexually harassed in perpetuity, that when her hair becomes less abundant and her skin loses its colour and its firmness she will be able to pursue a peaceful career studying something non-sexist like physics, or better still agronomy. I do not do this because I want to remain a polite guest, and also because I do not want to fall into my old position of class enemy. ‘What is that bird?’ I ask, in an effort to divert this so well-meaning young woman. ‘Look! The new moon!’ These observations are regarded as frivolous, for there is work to be done, there are categories to be redefined, laws to be changed. And underneath it all I sense a bewilderment which I in fact share. Will we be loved, will we be saved? And if so, by what or by whom?
Self-sufficient as I am I too feel a longing which I am reluctant to ascribe to the feminine condition alone. I try to steer the conversation towards love and marriage, the substance of my talk. Is it, should it be a quest, I ask, as it is in the story? Or is that a trap, I wonder, designed to keep women passive and expectant? If they take matters into their own hands and emancipate themselves from their ancestral longings will they be disappointed? ‘They will be living in the real world, assuming personhood,’ declares my friend. ‘I consider myself a person, not a wife or mother. Those things are important to me, but I keep them in perspective. Bob and I share everything.’ But her voice is flat, as if she has made this statement many times. A critic might say that it has an obstinate sound, as if in keeping with the agenda. But I am not a critic, although it is becoming extremely difficult to convince these feminists that I am any kind of a woman.
I do not know what credentials I am supposed to present. I earn my own living: that is a point in my favour. I travel, I do creative work, I occasionally teach: good marks for all of these things. But do I have a relationship? This apparently is the one sign of personhood I have so singularly failed to come up with. In the renewed interest they are prepared to show in my unpartnered state, in the faintest hint of commiseration in their voices, they reveal themselves to be women of the most unreconstructed variety. It is not that they would necessarily want me to find love and marriage, in the sense of a happy ending. But if I were sharing household chores with some cheerful fellow in jeans and a shirt ironed by himself they could understand me better. How then to disappoint them by telling them that I prefer the fairy-tale version, and will prefer it until I die, even though I may be destined to die alone? To do so would be to ignore the laws of hospitality, of ordinary courtesy. They are intrigued by me, by my appearance: I am in danger of becoming—for the space of two weeks—a cult figure. And so I have been designated, entirely against my will. It is enough to make me turn my back on the lake, now fitfully gleaming under the new moon, and long for home.
When it is time for me to journey on I pack my bag with a sigh, for I have enjoyed the company of these women and am now not as anxious as I was to regain my solitude. I do not tell them that my views have perhaps been influenced by the most unreconstructed woman I have ever known, for although this is true I now see that Dolly belongs to another epoch, another world, a world in which the support of women could not be taken for granted. Her solitude and mine are totally opposed; that is perhaps why she is so uninterested in my life, which is, at any rate, uninteresting to her. As far as Dolly is concerned I am protected, as she herself has never been protected; she has even leapt to the conclusion that I am protected by John Pickering, whom she regards as a sort of godfather, not only to myself, but to herself as well, for he continues to manage her affairs, and as she is indifferent to him she has decided that he might do very well for me, might even be seen as an advantageous match, and indeed the only reason why his continued presence might be justified. For in her heart she thinks of him as a servant, and therefore doubly appropriate.
A woman of Dolly’s type might marry a man like Pickering for security, but would never deceive herself into thinking that he might be loved. Whereas I try my utmost to love John Pickering as he should be loved, because I see him as lonely and often sad, remembering his absconding wife, and looking wistfully at my relative youth as if it were something forbidden to him to share. Sometimes I succeed in loving him, when I see him at the barrier at Heathrow and he lifts his hand in a contained gesture to greet me, or when he assures me that he has booked a table in my favourite restaurant for my first night at home.
One of these days I shall have to bring him down to my level, if we are to have any sort of life together. Dolly, of course, would have done this long ago, and perhaps rewarded him more than I could ever do. For I mind my manners with John; he is not a person I would ever wish to offend. And perhaps he longs for something more, as I do. The image he has of me suits him, but above all suits his conscience. I would not wish to hustle him into what I must call a relationship, for that, although gratifying, would obscurely disappoint him. Although his presence in my life is important I know that one day I may journey on, yet again: the thought occurs to me as I pack my bag, in this pretty room, with its white coverlet on the bed and the prints of Redouté roses on the walls. And I can see, as if it had already happened, that he will accept this, will approve of it, and might almost prefer it to a situation in which he would be obliged to lose his dignity.
It is a little hard for me to sustain my life without recognising the pull of old dependencies, old passivities. More than once it has occurred to me that it might be pleasant simply to watch the world from my window, the book fallen from my lap, and to note the slow movement of the hours until the darkness falls and the evening begins. This condition is linked in my mind with the idea of service, for at some point in this reverie I rouse myself to welcome others into my house and into my life, children of my own, and eventually their father. But either history or destiny or perhaps biology has forced me in the opposite direction, and I spend my days not at a window but at a desk, reviewing publications which occasionally strike me as exorbitant, but exorbitant in the sense of over-stimulated, suspicious, combative, characteristics sometimes notable in psychological profiles of the insane. Who really benefits from studies in re-reading gender in 1950s melodrama, or women’s revolutionary fiction in Depression America? Is there any chance that a feminist theory of the state will ever be taken seriously? Must we campaign for surrogate motherhood? Or review the legal representation of lesbians in cases of discrimination by employers?
These works pour out from university presses, and are produced by the most excellent of women, many of whom have welcomed me with great cordiality. I appreciate them for their fervour and their courage. And yet a doubt creeps in. I do not want to fight. I want, rather, to explore the world without prejudice, and to be allowed a measure of lenity in my dealings with that world. Sometimes I even long to take the coward’s way out and to live my life without benefit of any sort of agenda, relying simply on the kindness of others, whom I would reward, equally simply, with a more convivial version of myself.
It is at times like these, when I am particularly engrossed in this fantasy, that I hear a voice, somewhere off-stage, encouraging me in my shameful, perhaps even wistful broodings. This voice directs me to the real business of life, and offers advice on how to obtain success in that business. And the advice is the same that I have been hearing for as long as I can remember, and would be anathema to my so gallant American friends. What would they say, what would they think, if I proposed anoth
er model to them, one which I myself have rejected, but which in these enlightened times has all the attractions of archaism and futility, perhaps of something else? That so persistent voice opens doors on to older simpler longings, regrettable, no doubt, even deplorable. The voice is misguided, and yet it never falters, so that one is obliged to take note. Its lesson is deeply subversive, and serves to rally me once more to the side of my American correspondents, but not without a sigh. The burden of progress is taken up once again, with all its necessary paraphernalia, until the ghostly voice dwindles, and all that is left is a simple echo, fervent, but now almost disembodied, gaining in strength when I am at my weakest. Charm, Jane, charm!
When John has collected me from the airport, has taken me back to the flat, and has left me there with the unread letters and the unpacked bags, the telephone will ring, and it will be Dolly. This will not surprise me: she rings all the time now, and has probably continued to do so while I have been away. The details of my life are hazy to her: she claims not to remember why I have been away, but sees my absences as an interruption to the dialogue which we now sustain. ‘Jane, Jane,’ she will say. ‘Are you coming over?’ And when I say that I am rather tired she will not be very disappointed, for she will explain, not without a certain pride, that she is expecting a few of her friends, although she is very anxious for me to meet them.
Her tone will be buoyant, for these days Dolly is almost happy. She loves her new flat, which is warm and light, and she has furnished it with a few well-chosen modern pieces. Like a girl, or like a young bride, she delights in showing it off, and has made herself known to her neighbours, Mrs Foster, Mrs Williamson, and Miss Salter, the ladies whom she once greeted in the no-man’s-land of the street. In due course she will ask them if they play bridge; so far they have only been invited to tea. In due course she will go to the pâtisserie in Swiss Cottage and buy delicacies for a more elaborate entertainment, after which, before leaving, her friends will be offered a thimbleful of the sweet liqueurs she prefers, cherry or apricot brandy. They will think this daringly foreign of her, for she will have given them an appealing version of her life story, her early years in Paris, her life in Brussels, her marriage into a satisfyingly stolid family (here ‘chère Mère’ will be transformed yet again into ‘dear Toni’). A discreet tear might be shed over the tragic disappearance from the scene of Hugo, and the ladies will sympathise, for two of them are widows, and the unmarried Miss Salter is known to approve of worthy sentiments. Of her later years and its stratagems there will be not a word. She will be accepted for what she has become, a blameless woman, perhaps a little eager, perhaps a little given to flattery, but really so touching and interesting, a real addition to their little circle.
She may get tired of this; perhaps she will. Perhaps she will at last be ready for stronger sensations than these so English friends can provide; perhaps she will long for an evening visitor. That visitor will be missing, and his absence will be her one source of pain, and the one element connecting her to the person she once was. But for the time being she is contented, perhaps more contented than it is in her nature to be. She will, if she feels a slight tremor of restlessness or of disappointment, get on the telephone to me, and ask me to come over, or rather not ask but expect, whether it is early in the day or rather late. Sometimes, when I sense that she is on the verge of distress or frustration, I tell her to expect me in half an hour. When she opens the door to me her old look of wistful anticipation—‘Love me! Save me!’—is directed at myself, and I feel unworthy of it.
These days she dresses discreetly, in the sort of garment from John Lewis once worn by my erstwhile colleagues Margaret and Wendy. She takes an odd delight in surveying the viscose racks, and selecting the brightest colours, the boldest patterns. When she greets me wearing one of these dresses I get a slight shock, for they are so out of character. And they seem to change her into something she should not really be, a suburban housewife. But she is genuinely pleased to see me, and does not seem to notice her changed appearance. Sometimes the belt of her dress hangs loose: she does not notice this either.
My feminist friends would not recognise the woman I become in Dolly’s presence, nor could I explain to them the great revelation to which she made me a party, and for which I am indebted. My recent visit to her, just before I left for America, was banal, neither more nor less significant than other visits. But I realised then that love was unpredictable, that it could not be relied upon to find a worthy object, that it might attach itself to someone for whom one has felt distaste, even detestation, that it is possible to experience an ache in the heart because the face that responds to one’s own circumspect smile is eager, trusting. When I turned to go, on that particular evening, the evening of my revelation, Dolly stood at the window and waved to me, continuing to wave until I was nearly out of sight. I knew that she would turn away from the window into an empty room, an empty evening, an empty life. Yet I think she was unaware of the implications of this emptiness. She would simply look forward to the next human contact, perhaps to my next visit. ‘My niece’, she calls me. ‘My niece is coming today’, I heard her tell a neighbour. There is no betraying such innocent assumptions. She will grow old: already she has a look of age, or rather of elderly girlhood. She will grow old, and I will make my way more frequently to her little flat, looking in the cupboards to see whether she has enough food, finally bringing the food myself. I shall not move in with her; I am too selfish for that. But I shall follow the adventure through to the end, I hope with honour, and even after she is gone I shall continue to see her at the window, waving to me ardently, as if I were her best beloved.
BOOKS BY
ANITA BROOKNER
“Anita Brookner works a spell on the reader; being under it is both an education and a delight”
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