A Closed Eye

by Anita Brookner

  In the morning she was out a great deal, mostly in department stores, buying towels, pillowslips, kettles, soap dishes for the basement flat, which she now saw would have to house someone quite specific, someone strong and cheerful and experienced to look after the baby; she felt suddenly unequal to looking after anybody other than herself. Freddie, anxious to restore some semblance of home comforts, the onus of providing which he would willingly have discharged on any half-way competent stranger, drafted an advertisement, and within a week they had interviewed and acquired Dawn Molyneux, a South African girl with dazzling teeth, who was working her way round the world. Just to know that Dawn was in the house made Harriet feel better. The girl had completed two years of medical studies before deciding that she would rather see the world outside Durban, where her father was a fashionable dentist. She had promised him that she would be back within a year, eighteen months at the outside. ‘Eighteen months!’ Harriet had exclaimed. ‘But we hoped you might stay longer.’ ‘Not me,’ said Dawn. ‘I’ve got something lined up in Italy for next year. Of course, if it falls through I’ll let you know. Now, what about a cup of tea?’ It was ten o’clock in the morning, but the nice thing about Dawn was her homeliness. Cups of tea were drunk all day, biscuits were proffered. Harriet soon found her way down to the basement on most mornings, and sometimes in the afternoons, when she had rested and changed. She loved to see Dawn making herself up for her nightly forays into town, where she met up with other girls like herself, or with her boyfriend, Ronnie. On boyfriend evenings circles of colour were applied to eyelids and cheekbones; lipsticks nestled next to the teacups. ‘You’ve got your key?’ Harriet would ask. ‘And enough money? Always keep enough money for a cab.’ She liked to think of the girl having a high-spirited time, knowing that she would hear all about it the following morning. ‘And what about yourself?’ Dawn would ask kindly. ‘You out tonight?’ ‘No, I expect we shall stay in,’ was the usual reply, for now she craved her bed, and silence. She tired swiftly these days, and her sleep was dreamless. Only her waking hours contained dreams.

  She could not remember such a splendid autumn. While the leaves fell in the windless air the sun still shone out of a blue sky. Gradually she regained a little energy, and thought, belatedly, of Tessa, from whom she had not heard. This was not unusual; it was usually she who did the telephoning. She rang the Beaufort Street number and got no reply, walked round there once, only to hear no movement from inside the flat. She was a little surprised not to have been informed of any absence; she was sure that she had sent out change of address cards. When Dawn came up with tea and said, ‘There was a telephone call for you,’ she automatically replied, ‘From Mrs Peckham? What did she say?’ ‘Mrs Collins,’ said Dawn, adding sugar to her own tea and energetically stirring. It took Harriet a minute or two to remember that Mrs Collins was the former Pamela Harkness, whom she had not seen for a couple of years. She tried the number twice before Pamela’s discouragingly brisk voice answered. Make it snappy, it seemed to say. What you are interrupting is far more important than anything you have to impart. One did not telephone Pamela; one was telephoned by her. In the old days Harriet had preferred to find out what Pamela was thinking or doing indirectly; mediated, the news seemed less peremptory, more normal.

  ‘Harriet? Message from Tessa. She’s gone away for a few days. Jack turned up, apparently. I think she said Paris.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Harriet, bewildered. ‘Did she not have my number?’

  ‘No idea. That was what she said to tell you. Of course she dropped everything when he materialized. She rang from the airport, actually.’

  ‘I see. I expect she’ll get in touch when she gets back. How are you?’

  ‘Surviving. I’ll be in London next month, probably see you then. Are you still presentable?’

  ‘Getting rather large. But it will be lovely to see you. Ring me when you get here. Or I expect Tessa will.’

  ‘Okay. Keep well. Bye.’

  So I did send the change of address cards, she thought, as she replaced the receiver. I thought I did. I must have been out when Tessa called. Oh well, never mind. I’ll stay at home for a bit. It will do me no harm.

  ‘Dawn,’ she said. ‘I think we might go out this evening. I don’t feel like cooking.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Dawn cheerfully. ‘I’ll do the ironing, shall I?’

  Such a pleasant girl, thought Harriet. More my own type, was what she really thought. Pamela always had that effect on her.

  ‘You’re looking pretty,’ said Freddie, breaking a roll. In fact she was not; her face was too thin, her eyes too big. He loved her diffidently, although he could never quite say so. Her unhappiness, he thought, was due more to moral than to physical upheaval. All he could do was ease her through it. No doubt she would want to give parties for her friends as soon as she was back to normal. But whereas his own friends always found her delightful, he saw that she would be in some ways inadequate when faced with another kind of hierarchy. Contact with her own friends brought on, or left behind, a complex of feelings which made her look older than her years. He resented anyone or anything that took away her youthfulness, which was to him unique, not to be compared with that of her contemporaries, whom, he thought, she did not resemble. He wished to bestow on her calmness and good order, and sighed inwardly at the thought of all the changes she must undergo, and he with her. At this rate I shan’t be able to retire, he thought, although the idea attracted him. All his travelling had been done when he was in the forces, or away on business. He would have liked to explore different worlds, at his leisure. India appealed to him, Malaysia. Without the child he could have afforded to take things a little more easily. They could have followed the sun: the West Indies in winter, Greece in the spring, and summers in a house they might even have bought in the country, or near the coast. He was a discreetly wealthy man, and none of Harriet’s current expenditure seriously inconvenienced him, but he could see that it was not making her happy. And he had always had a desire to see the autumn leaves in Vermont, or Canada. He sighed again at the prospect before him: unremitting work, and short trips on Concorde.

  ‘Very pretty,’ he said.

  ‘You never speak of Helen,’ said Harriet. She felt on edge, ready to provoke, and at the same time ashamed of herself.

  ‘I never think of her,’ he replied, although he did, remembering her harsh hilarity, her frequent jibes at his cautious manners. The differences between his first wife and his second were so profound, and at the same time so obvious, that he did not see how he could ever explain them to her. Hearing in his mind’s ear Helen’s laughter in the bedroom—and it was always that laughter, or more properly speaking the cruelty of that laughter—he wished to spare them both what to him had been almost constant humiliation. A marvellous hostess, of course; her household was impeccable, her dinner parties brilliant. ‘Without me you’d be nowhere,’ she had flung at him. ‘You’d have no friends at all if I didn’t attract them.’ He thought she was probably right. But he had found the task of living up to her onerous and increasingly uncomfortable. After Helen, Harriet had had the appeal of disembodied kindness, of timidity allied to the desire to please. He had felt himself gently released from the restrictions and the disruptions of his earlier marriage. He knew that he did not make Harriet happy, but tended to disregard this. Happiness was what young people wanted; at his age he knew that comfort was more important. He had made her comfortable, and in that he was prepared to take a grim pride. After all, nobody else had done as much. He had no regrets, no misgivings: at least, he would have said as much a few months ago. Now, of course, it was all in the balance, as it had never been before.

  ‘I believe that Helen is extremely well; at least, I have no reason to suspect otherwise. When last heard of she was living with a woman friend near Newbury. Why do you ask? She can be of no interest to you, particularly now.’

  ‘I sometimes think I don’t make you happy enough,’ confessed Harriet.

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sp; But he knew she was thinking of her own condition, and said gently, ‘I am perfectly happy, you know. We’re both a little overwrought at the moment—you must allow for that. Now, what about some raspberries?’ He put a hand on hers. ‘It will be all right, you know. You’re not frightened, are you?’

  She smiled at him, grateful as always for his kindness. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’m not frightened.’

  They walked back, on a mellow evening not appreciably cooler than the preceding afternoon. The radiant autumn had lasted well into October; the sun at midday was nearly as warm as August. The baby will be born in the winter, she thought, and felt a little cold herself. ‘You should have worn a coat,’ said Freddie. ‘That jacket is too light.’

  ‘But it was so warm this afternoon …’

  ‘And now it is unsettled. The fine spell may be over.’

  How shall I stand the winter, she thought, and at that moment her baby moved imperiously inside her.

  ‘Freddie,’ she said. ‘I’m really very well. Take no notice of my moods. I’m fine, not even tired any more. Would you like to ask anyone to dinner? It’d be no trouble; I’m more or less straight. I haven’t paid you nearly enough attention recently. You’ve been wonderful,’ she said, in all sincerity. It did not occur to her at that moment that any other kind of happiness existed.

  Freddie’s predictions were correct. The following day dawned dull and grey; cobwebs on the rose-bushes in their garden were spangled with opaque misty drops.

  ‘Not much point in going out today,’ said Freddie, departing for the office. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘Nothing much. Finish my book, I think.’ But Little Dorrit was beginning to horrify her, as well as move her to frequent tears. The tenderness, the pity of the girl! And to end up with that wreck of a husband! An impossible woman, she thought, with a slight but definite sorrow. But good, as I always wanted to be good, believing that if one wished it so one could become perfect. Dickens himself wanted it to be true. Maybe it is merely a matter of doing one’s best, all the time. The thought cheered her. I shall behave as if I were a better person, she decided, and that way I might turn out a credit to Freddie. But I must be cheerful! Cheerfulness is what is needed now, and humility. Let nothing you dismay, she thought, walking round the garden, and feeling drops of water on her skirt. In the distance she heard the telephone.

  ‘Mrs Dodd,’ said Dawn, as she came into the house. ‘Left a number for you to ring her back.’

  The number was Tessa’s old number in Cadogan Square. But the caller had been her mother. Had something terrible happened? Why had Tessa not telephoned herself? Are we, awful thought, estranged? Or, worse than all other thoughts, has she seen through my indifference when Jack’s name is mentioned? There was a dangerous conversation once … But there was never any intention on my part … She could not have thought … She blushed, took a deep breath, and picked up the telephone. ‘Mrs Dodd?’ she said. ‘This is Harriet Lytton.’

  ‘Harriet! So good of you to ring back so promptly! Such exciting news! Tessa’s had a little girl, prematurely, but quite all right. They just got back from Paris in time. Wasn’t it lucky?’

  Harriet had forgotten the amount of emphasis and punctuation in Tessa’s mother’s conversational style. A noble and commanding woman, she had always thought her; her voice matched her unusual height and distant kindness. All kinds of public duties could be assumed from the very fashion in which she entered a room.

  ‘A girl!’ she said, sitting down. ‘How wonderful. Was Jack with her?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Dodd, with immense enthusiasm. She did not like Jack, but would have considered it disloyal to admit it. ‘Well, I must get on and let everybody else know. Nice to have made contact again, Harriet. You’re keeping well, I hope?’

  ‘Thank you, yes. I’ll go and see Tessa this afternoon, shall I?’

  ‘Oh … how kind. But you won’t stay long, will you? She’s very tired still. And Jack’s there, anyway. Now, you take care of yourself. Goodbye, my dear.’

  Excitement, long dormant, brought her to life. ‘Dawn,’ she called. ‘I’m going out. Could you leave me a sandwich for later? I don’t know what time I’ll be back.’

  She half ran down the King’s Road in her eagerness, then pulled herself together, reflected that she should have brought an umbrella, smoothed her hair, buttoned her white coat, and walked on sedately. Both she and Tessa were booked into the same private hospital, under the same consultant. She floated up the stairs, disdaining the lift: she knew the rooms, the efficient corridors. Knocking on Tessa’s door, she tried to compose her radiant face, which was what Jack Peckham saw, before once again her hand flew up to her jaw.

  ‘Mrs Lytton,’ he said gravely. ‘Have some champagne.’

  ‘Hattie! How did you get here?’ Tessa was sitting up in bed, her hair washed, a white cotton nightgown slipping from her shoulders. She looked, Harriet thought, almost dishevelled, alert, quizzical, as if she had not bargained on the interruption.

  ‘Your mother telephoned. I’m so happy for you, darling. Where’s the baby?’

  ‘Downstairs, in an incubator. Oh, she’s fine, quite small, but that’s to be expected. Elizabeth, we’re calling her. Elizabeth Charlotte.’

  ‘Elizabeth after my mother,’ said Jack, handing her a glass of champagne.

  Harriet sat down, feeling suddenly tired. Jack’s presence inhibited her from asking the questions she longed to have answered. She drank her champagne, told Tessa how well she looked, and, aware of Jack standing with his back to the door, his arms folded, said, ‘I’ll come back tomorrow, shall I? Oh, I didn’t even bring flowers! I think I must be more excited than you are.’ When is Jack going back? She wanted to ask. When can we have a proper talk?

  ‘Well, actually … I don’t want too many visitors while Jack’s still in London. Of course, it’s always good to see you. Dear Hattie. Have some more champagne.’

  ‘No, I must be going,’ said Harriet, smoothing her fine dark hair back again; her hand, she noticed, was very slightly trembling. ‘Well … let me know when you’ll be coming home. Is there anything you want? Anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing. Now I am a bit tired. Good to see you, Hattie. Thank you for coming.’ She sank down in the bed, apparently torpid, her eye watchful. Jack opened the door with exaggerated courtesy. ‘Good of you to come,’ he said. She detected a faint irony in his elaborately good manners. As the door wheezed slowly behind her, she could just make out, ‘She can be a bit dense, sometimes.’

  She walked slowly home, through what was now a steady drizzle. Dawn had left her watercress sandwiches. Ignoring these, she made some coffee, then sat by the window, looking out on to the silent square. It’s just that one feels a little lonely from time to time, she thought. So stupid. And it will be hours before Freddie gets home. Always I turn back to him, she thought, and almost managed not to think, and usually after disappointments.

  ON FREDDIE’S FACE, unseasonal merriment. ‘A girl!’ she heard him say before she drifted off. When she woke again, the sight of her furiously sleeping baby led to instant possession of herself. There was a certain hilarity in the room; she was thought to have done well. ‘A very easy delivery,’ said Mr Cambridge, looking in. Her father and mother were joking with Freddie; Freddie was joking with the nurse. What larks, thought Harriet, amused. Now they will all take the credit. Nothing could upset her now; she had belatedly come of age. ‘Imogen’, she announced to the room. ‘She is going to be called Imogen.’ Surprised, they acquiesced; what a pretty name, they said. ‘Imogen Claire,’ she added later, after drinking a cup of tea. But when they had all gone away, at last, she bent over the little crib and whispered, ‘Immy. My Immy.’

  There never was such a child, she thought, both then and later. Her beauty was astonishing, even more astonishing in that it proceeded from two such ordinary people: such perfection of feature, such silkiness of hair seemed to them miraculous. In comparison poor little Elizabeth Peckham loo
ked like a waif, spindly, blotchy, her pale blue eyes faintly crossed. ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ said Harriet generously. ‘She’ll grow out of that.’ Her own child gave no trouble, so little that they marvelled at her. There was no thought of disciplining her: she was too unexpected, too undeserved. Although the child slept through the nights her parents did not, alert for possible calls, for possible dangers. Dawn thought them crazy. Freddie, permanently tired, found himself smiling throughout the day.

  Harriet, with magnificent impartiality, allowed others to admire the child. Her own father was restored to euphoria; her mother was pleased but impatient, anxious to dissociate herself from so ageing an event. Nevertheless, exquisite clothes continued to arrive by post. The baby was immaculate, changed several times a day. It seemed a pity not to spoil her, to gratify her. There was never any thought that she might be denied whatever it was she wanted. And they were rewarded, they were quite sure of that. Imogen never cried. On the contrary, she laughed. When Harriet wheeled her out in her pram she laughed at the women who were drawn to her. Sitting up, and able to use her hands more purposefully, she grabbed what was available to her on supermarket shelves. ‘Imogen! Put that back!’ Harriet would say. Imogen laughed. Others might see defiance in that small face. Harriet saw the life force.