Visitors

by Anita Brookner

  Her attachment to the man who had helped her to form what others no doubt saw as her unattractive reticence was not innocent: that was why reticence was in order. The man in question was so unsuitable as to remove any hopes she might have had for a successful outcome. She had met him at a party to which she had been invited by one of the girls at work, for she had already found the secretarial post from which Henry had rescued her. The attraction was immediate, but on her side the attraction had not turned into liking, rather the opposite, and this dichotomy was her first introduction to complex emotion, a radical departure from her earlier expectations. It was a love affair in all but name, for to name it would have been inappropriate. He was ardent, intemperate; she thought him slightly mad, but his madness was to prove contagious. He drank too much, was feckless, was always short of money, though extravagant, was compromised in some way she could not readily identify, but by the time she knew all this it was too late for her to extricate herself. He had a crumbling mansion flat in Down Street; a good address, he maintained, was essential, though the flat was filthy. She disapproved of him, was even frightened of him, yet in his dingy bedroom had felt differently. For all his shortcomings he was an excellent lover, and she in her turn proved a more than adept pupil. She said little, as did he; words, they both knew, would only divide them.

  Their involvement gained an edge from the fact that both knew it to be temporary. It was, she thought at the time, because neither of them had anything to lose: her own folly was surely fatal, and he, Michael, had, ever since their first meeting, maintained that he would die young. This assertion was so much of everything she disliked about him—his neediness, his sentimentality—that she was unprepared for his suicide. The police, it appeared, were interested in his debts, and in certain misappropriations of which she had known nothing. She had read of his death in the evening paper; his family background made this noteworthy. There was nothing to connect her with him; for this reason, and because at heart she despised herself, she was relieved though shocked that it was finished. Shame at her own behaviour crept over her gradually, as if she were implicated in her lover’s disgrace, as of course she was. Since that day she had acquired a reputation for being enigmatic. It was a very small advance, but an advance, none the less, on being thought inexperienced.

  It was different now, she knew. All sorts of liaisons were accepted, single mothers taken for granted; bishops, preaching about family values, merely sounded foolish. The world of Persuasion had been long gone even when she had read it as a girl, believing it to be the norm. Yet Jane Austen had never gone out of fashion; rather the opposite. It was as if those who flouted traditional values longed to be reminded of fine manners, even if they marvelled at them, and made little attempt to emulate them. What marriages were celebrated made news in the papers. In the magazines she picked up at the hairdresser’s the brides, ever more elaborately caparisoned, wore the same look of triumph that her erstwhile friends had harboured when flourishing their engagement rings, perhaps with more justification. Men, she thought, had not changed as much as women had. Predators and freebooters still existed, but they could be outmanoeuvred. Many of them subsided into nostalgia, perfected domestic skills, saved their energies for work and sport, while women, who seemed to age much more slowly than in the past, formed more honest friendships. Few of them would accept privation, or exclusion; there were now recognised channels of complaint. Female disorders were accommodated; no-one need suffer. Patience, acceptance of one’s lot were devalued. Only the old escaped sexual speculation. The young assumed that they alone had access to what they called commitment, and sometimes let their pity show.

  As for herself, she had been marked by her experience, which had been whole-hearted and short-lived. What she had learned about herself had not been welcome. She had shown ruthlessness and deceit, and she was alarmed at her lack of scruple. She had turned away from sex, then, even from affection. No-one had known of her visits to Down Street, but it had taken her several years to delete them from her memory. She had become, in the meantime, an exemplary daughter, an exemplary employee. She went from home to the office, from the office to home. She kept her features impassive. Several times she regretted the fact that her stock of experience was so slender, but did nothing to remedy this state of affairs. Her father died, and then her mother; she bought her flat and moved her belongings and prepared herself for a solitary life. A broken paving stone in St James Street had delivered her, and she discovered that it is sometimes good to awaken envious speculation in others. She considered her own character to be something less than meritorious, but in time she forgot her earlier adventure and became a good wife. She paid for her respectability with her silence, for no-one, not even Henry, certainly not Henry, had known of her past. He had accepted her for what she had become, a quiet, pleasant, rather dull, but infinitely reliable woman who never gave offence. Her new relations saw only the dullness and looked no further.

  And now, in old age, the mask had become the face, so that she was rigorously and genuinely dull. But there remained an awareness of more troubled sensations which she tried to metamorphose into detachment; usually she was successful, but for some reason not at present. She had been unprepared for old age to render her so harmless. It was as if her sins had been wiped away, leaving only concealment in their place. She even wondered whether she had in truth been so very remiss. By today’s standards she had merely been unwise, had acted out of character. Yet she still felt obliged to make amends. Sometimes, in the very early morning, she had an illumination: none of it matters. But this tended to vanish as the light grew stronger, and the cautious habits of recent years reasserted themselves. In the glass she saw a mild placating expression, unaware that her features were normally set in a forbidding frown. Had she known this she would have attributed the frown to a necessary act of self-censorship.

  Nothing had any relevance to the present situation, except that the present was so often chaotic these days, as the power to control it gradually slipped from her loosened grasp. There was no reason why Kitty’s granddaughter’s engagement should awaken echoes and memories of her own poor amorous record, but that was the way of it in old age, the present merely nudging one back to the past, which was as brightly lit, as inflexibly detailed as it had always been. Why not pursue the thought to the end and imagine that she was jealous of Ann, a girl who had secured for herself both marriage and motherhood: no painful apprenticeship for her. Yet she did not think that this was the case; she simply resented the girl for inflicting complications on her own hard-won quietness, the major complication being Steve. If Steve existed now, in her flat, it was because Ann was in some way responsible. Ann had a certain authority, or perhaps it was immovability: it amounted to the same thing. Ann made decisions. Her sly look at her grandmother rested on a decision already made. Mrs May had no doubt that in a year’s time she and David would be back, this time with the baby. ‘Your taste is better than mine, Grandma,’ Ann would say. And, ‘He’s growing so fast I can’t keep up with him.’ And Kitty, shamefaced, would crave the touch of the baby’s hands in hers, when all that was required of her was the use of her credit card in Harrods. Mrs May hoped that Steve might have been eclipsed before all this came to pass, and reflected that Ann might dispense with him quite efficiently when the time came. Her own reclusion—or was it entropy?—would prevent her from performing the task herself.

  On impulse she went to the telephone and dialled the Levinsons’ number. It rang for what seemed a very long time. She was about to give up when Austin answered, sounding distant.

  ‘Austin? It’s Thea.’

  ‘Thea?’

  ‘Yes, Thea. Are you all right?’

  ‘What time is it?’

  She glanced at her watch. ‘Three-thirty.’

  ‘Must have dropped off.’

  ‘Oh, Austin, I’m so sorry. I’ll ring back.’

  ‘I expect it was Kitty you wanted. She’s out with Ann. Wedding garments, I suppose.�
�� He gave an audible yawn. ‘Excuse me. We’re all rather tired. At least I am.’

  ‘I really wanted to make sure that Kitty was all right.’ For she did wonder, with some fascination, whether Kitty’s state of mind were anything like her own.

  ‘Poor darling,’ said Austin. ‘She’s rushed off her feet. I’ve remonstrated with her, Thea.’ As usual his voice warmed into animation as he contemplated his wife’s trials. ‘I told her, a glass of champagne is all that’s needed. Perhaps a few smoked salmon canapés. After all, they’re only coming back here after the register office. But no, she wants a proper buffet. That means caterers, florists, the lot. And first of all she wants the flat redecorated. Well, I put a stop to that, as you can imagine. But she and Estrella have cleaned the place from top to bottom. Nobody’s allowed into the drawing room now. I’m in our bedroom, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘I’m so sorry I woke you, Austin. Just give my love to Kitty.’

  ‘Don’t go away. I’m quite glad of someone to talk to. I seem to be outnumbered in my own home.’

  ‘And yet it must be easier with David out of the way. How is Molly getting on?’

  Austin gave a dry chuckle. ‘You’ll never believe this, but David is greatly appreciated in Highgate.’

  ‘Really? I rather thought that Molly …’

  ‘Oh, not by Molly. By Harold. It seems that David’s got him on this macrobiotic diet of his. They spend the afternoon shopping for kelp and beansprouts. Then they spend the rest of the day in the kitchen messing about with them. Molly is bewildered; Harold has always been so keen on his food. But he says he’s put on weight since he retired—haven’t we all?—and he’ll try anything. I have to hand it to David; he’s managed to convert the heathen. At least he thinks of us as heathen. “I guide my conduct by the Word,” he told me. I said, “So do I, oddly enough.” “The Word of Jesus,” he went on. Suddenly I felt very tired. I shouldn’t have to argue the toss at my time of life. Let Harold do it if he’s so fascinated. Made for each other, those two. I’m quite satisfied with the state of my own beliefs, ruined though they are.’

  ‘How interesting that you should say that, Austin. It sometimes seems to me that at our age all we are left with are fragments, remnants, just when we need all the support we can get. We never needed it when we were young, least of all as children.’

  ‘You might have a word with David on that subject, although I’d hardly recommend it. When I tried he smiled patiently and told me that God needed me as much as I needed Him. I said we hadn’t been in touch recently. “You will be, Grandpa,” he said. He will call me Grandpa. And that smile! He’s such a fool I feel almost sorry for him. Terribly hot, isn’t it?’

  ‘Is it? I hadn’t noticed.’

  ‘Your blood pressure must be better than mine, in that case. Certainly better than Kitty’s. To think of her running around in this heat! I tell you, Thea, I’m seriously worried about her.’

  ‘Kitty’s not ill?’

  ‘Not yet,’ he said cautiously. ‘But I’ll be glad when I can get her away. I expect you’ll be going away yourself?’

  ‘Well, I hadn’t thought …’

  ‘You can, you know. You’ll be rid of that young man by next week. Then you can please yourself.’

  But she knew that it would not be as simple as that. After the excitement of the wedding had died down, and they had exhausted the subject with talk, silence would reclaim her once again, and she would, as she must, make the best of it.

  ‘About Friday, Austin. Do you know if Kitty wants me to bring anything?’

  ‘No, no, Kitty wouldn’t hear of it. It’ll be a scratch meal, I’m afraid: the dining room’s about to be commandeered. Aha! I think I hear the car. You’ll excuse me, Thea. I’ll tell Kitty you rang. More than kind. We’ll see you on Friday. See that that young man wears a tie, if you can. All the best.’

  The connection was cut off, removing her at a stroke from the normal world, or at least the known world. She walked to the window, aware now of the heat as she had not been before. Beyond the terrace the garden was still, the grass dry and bleached. In a dull sky the sun was veiled, milky, presaging change. The year was moving on; already the evenings were shadowed, and the forecast was of low cloud, although so far no cloud could be seen in the undifferentiated white expanse. She was aware of fatigue, even of discouragement. It seemed to her that some fundamental disjunction had taken place, that she had surrendered her life to amiable insincerities, parodies of concern masking a tiny element of real concern, expressions of regret and anxiety which she hardly felt. Her very early life, until the age of twenty, had been one of untouched simplicity, and even as a girl she had been conscious of the fact, even though she may not have known enough to value it. But she valued it now. Perhaps, she thought, one is only authentic when one leaves one’s parents’ house, seeking the new but implicit with the old, the inherited. That was when she had last felt truly herself, unwilling to prepare for those alien influences that would change her irrevocably. Even with Henry she had not felt entirely herself, too alert to his moods, in fear of his displeasure. Even his charm had been puzzling to her, that European side of him, lazy, sunny, and melancholy by turns, always more noticeable when he was with his family. ‘You’ve been good for him,’ Molly had once remarked. ‘Calmed him down. He was in a terrible state when Joy left him.’ Joy: that unknown first wife, of whom he never spoke, and whom she imagined as a sort of minor Kitty, all looks and temperament. That was why she was never entirely at ease with any of them, not even Austin. In her own defence she could produce a newly equable Henry, to whom she had given years of peaceful expectation—or was he merely becalmed? She sighed, wishing once again for some ticket of admission to the life other people seemed to live, tears and protests included. And yet Kitty and Austin, Molly and Harold were good people, she reflected. If she were to fall ill they would be sincerely concerned, and Kitty would undoubtedly organise the baked meats after the funeral. For that consideration, even if a little premature, she must play her part, and must do so with a good grace.

  The sound of the front door opening and shutting brought her out into the corridor, hungry for another presence. Steve, startled, met her head on. ‘All right, Dorothea?’ he said. Always the slight movement of recoil before his defences were in place. We are alike, she thought, mindful of his solitude, and of her own.

  ‘I was just going to make myself some tea,’ she said. ‘Would you like some?’

  ‘I don’t much like tea, actually.’

  ‘No, well, young people seem to prefer coffee these days. You know where it’s kept, Steve. And there’s some raisin bread in the larder. Help yourself.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He disappeared into his room. Later it seemed to her quite natural to take refuge in her own. She listened for him, feeling him listening warily for her. It was not until he went out again, when the colour was already fading from the sky, that she felt able to relax.

  The Levinsons’ scratch meal consisted of cold minted courgette soup, chicken Marengo, and summer pudding. David asked for and received a plate of plain boiled rice. Harold did the same. ‘Don’t be silly, Harold,’ said his wife. By way of compensation David suggested that the following day might be devoted to a fast. ‘I’m sure you approve, Dr Goldmark.’

  ‘What’s that?’ said Monty Goldmark, expert in deflecting requests for medical opinions. Tonight he was deploying his favourite stratagem: an affectation of deafness.

  ‘An occasional fast day is good for the health?’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘This is all quite delicious, Kitty,’ said Mrs May, anxious to maintain and prolong the pleasant welcome they had all received. ‘And such a pretty table.’

  Kitty, surveying her family, nodded her acknowledgement. Effusions and explanations would come later, on the telephone, accompanied by an account of her state of health at every stage of the proceedings. This evening, however, she seemed mollified, as did Austin; an illusion of f
amily solidarity was fostered, with all the formality of another age. For the moment the illusion was all.

  ‘You should have brought one of your girlfriends for Steve,’ said Austin, addressing his granddaughter.

  ‘I’m gay,’ said Steve. ‘And anyway I’m with Dorothea.’

  Her heart swelled with pride at this evidence of gallantry, very little of which came her way in the course of a normal day. She accepted as her due that the Levinsons had not provided a partner for her, unless Monty Goldmark was to be the problematic other, an honour of which he appeared to be unaware; despite her marriage and her honourable widowhood she could tell that she was to be assigned to social oblivion. She bore this stoically, with a composure perfected through a thousand solitary meals in public places. This occasion was not so very different, or would not have been, had it not been for Steve, neat in his tie and linen jacket, eating his way steadily through the meal with a detachment that more than matched her own. They had had their drive through the park, but Mrs May had not enjoyed it as much as she had imagined she would: the air was sultry, filled with traffic fumes, and instead of the submissive home-going crowds with whom she could so readily identify the streets seemed to be full of young people actively preparing for an evening of pleasure. And then she had been absurdly anxious; encountered in the flesh, as opposed to at a respectable distance, Kitty made her feel faded, although she had taken trouble with her appearance, as had Steve. He had requested the use of an ironing board, and seemed to have laundered most of his clothes. This evening his tie was a little too tight, his linen jacket still slightly creased. Again she worried that he might be short of money. She knew that once she was at home and lying quietly in bed she would remember not Kitty’s splendid table but that drive through the park. Though it had proved disappointing—for she had expected a more significant reaction, a flood of recovered memory—there had been that oddly stimulating suggestion of exhausted air, combined with a snatch of music from a passing car, that had made her feel that she was at one with the evening, that she too was prepared for pleasure, though even at the time she knew that that pleasure would only properly be savoured in retrospect, one more modest memory to be added to her stock. Living as she did largely in the past, dealing with old age as it dealt with her, undramatically, she nevertheless welcomed new sense impressions, marvelling that the life of the senses struggled to survive, even in circumstances that brought both pleasure and regret.