Visitors

by Anita Brookner

  She had woken in a panic, reaching for her pills, and then relinquishing them. Tense, in the dark, she strained her ears to listen for Steve, either closing the front door or going into the kitchen. She even persuaded herself that if she were very attentive she might hear the clink of the keys being dropped. But all was silent, and the only sound she could discern was the crepitation of the rain on the leaves outside in the garden beyond her window. She saw that it was just before five o’clock. She had not dared to sleep again, bethought herself briefly of the long lazy mornings she was keeping in reserve, and shortly after seven had eased herself quietly out of bed and gone to make a cup of tea. On the kitchen table the smoked trout and potato salad were untouched. She took an apple for her breakfast—for she would keep out of the kitchen until well into the morning—and went back to her room.

  As usual when there was disagreement in the air she felt at fault. She tried to exculpate herself from what was after all a purely subjective impression, but without success. The early hour, the uncertain light, a natural apprehension with regard to the day’s events, all conspired to produce a sinking feeling of withdrawal. It was impossible to return to bed, and in any case she felt too restless and uncomfortable, distracted by the sound of dripping leaves. This was no weather for a wedding, yet the forecast had only referred to bright periods. After waiting tensely for half an hour she ran her bath; though it was still too early she made up her face and prepared her wedding outfit. She discarded Henry’s dressing gown, retrieved a scarcely worn housecoat from the wardrobe, and sat down until she judged it an appropriate time to enter her own kitchen.

  In the dream she had been frivolous, uncaring, dressed like a character in one of the American films that she and her mother had so enjoyed, films that supplied them with their very small stock of worldly wisdom. Yet both she and her mother had been too grave by nature to profit from the example of those flighty flirtatious girls, all of whom treated life as a series of delightful opportunities; and now age had reinforced that gravity, so that every small trial was a moral test. Somewhere, in another part of the flat, Steve was either preparing to return the car or deciding to keep it. She could hear nothing; perhaps there was nothing to hear. She opened the window wider, inhaled the poignant smell of wet earth. If she had been on her own she would have walked into the garden, broken off a few stems to put in a water glass, just in order to bring the outdoors in with her. The day would have been empty, but she would have been free. Instead she sighed, smoothed down the skirts of her housecoat, and prepared to confront the enemy.

  She had anticipated an unpleasant interview over the breakfast table, but as soon as she came into the room he put the keys down and waited for her to pour his coffee. He was formally, even smartly dressed, and already he seemed a stranger. Seeing his intransigence she felt moved to make amends, although there was nothing for which she need apologise; at least that was what she told herself, remembering the envelope she had placed in his holdall. The uneaten food went into the bin.

  ‘Are you looking forward to going to Paris?’ she asked at last.

  ‘Yeah. Yeah, I am. Might hang around a bit. Establish a few contacts.’

  She recognised this for the bravado that it was. She said nothing, busied herself with the washing up. ‘You sit down,’ she said, ‘since you’re already dressed. I’ve ordered the taxi for eleven-thirty. I’ll get dressed myself, and then we’ll have another cup of coffee. Why not sit in your room, make sure you’ve got everything?’

  For she was suddenly ashamed of herself, of her fussy housecoat, of her tired eyes, of her anxiety to see this day over and done with. Once again the wedding receded in importance: all she knew was that she would be required to stand for a long time in a hot noisy room among strangers before she could come home and be on her own again. And even before that ordeal—for it was an ordeal—she must oversee Steve’s departure, must be vigilant until he was actually beside her in the taxi, his bags finally removed from the spare room. And all through the reception she must keep an eye on him in order to make sure that he left with David and Ann, which meant that she must stay to the very end. And then, when she finally came home, she must sit down and write to Kitty to congratulate her on a marvellous success. She would write because the idea of saying all this on the telephone made her feel quite faint. The telephone call could wait until the weekend, by which time she would hope to have recovered her composure. And even if she did not, as she hoped, recover her composure, at least there would be no witnesses to point out any discrepancies in appearance or behaviour. She would contact the cleaning agency, go back to the Italian café for her solitary lunches. It will all be as before, she told herself, but she knew that this was not true.

  Their departure from the flat took place in silence. In the park the rain was bringing to patchy life the grass left piebald by the summer’s heat. Surreptitiously she felt in her bag for the keys, while pretending to look out of the window. Steve pretended to look out of his.

  ‘Write to me if you think of coming back to London,’ she said, as casually as possible.

  ‘I might,’ he said, after a pause.

  ‘Come, come, Steve, don’t let us part on bad terms. You’ve had a pleasant break and now you’re off to Paris. You said you were looking forward to going.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, then.’

  There was no more to be said. She was in disgrace. At that point a spark of irritation, ignited by his mulish silence, but rather more by the weather and the unsuitability of her thin silk jacket, inspired her to say, ‘I hope you will not be ungracious at Kitty’s. She’s had a lot to put up with this past week. And you’ll remember to thank Molly, of course.’ If she had hoped that he would thank her she hoped in vain. In a way she could appreciate his obstinacy. She was obstinate herself, when there was nobody to object. And it was very tiresome when others impeded one’s will, particularly when one was young and had no others to consult. She saw all this, but was too exasperated to make further concessions. They sat in silence.

  ‘Here we are,’ she said finally.

  Outside the Levinsons’ block of flats several expensive cars and a camper van were drawn up. They joined a rustling throng of highly groomed highly coloured women and acquiescent husbands, looking forward to a chat among themselves. In the hallway, at regular intervals, stood large gilt baskets filled with lilies.

  ‘Kitty pushing the boat out, as usual,’ murmured one lacquered matron to another.

  ‘I wonder the girl’s mother didn’t do all this,’ her friend replied.

  ‘Said she had to stay at home with the younger children. Not married, of course. If you ask me there’s no love lost between her and Kitty.’

  ‘Wasn’t there a divorce?’

  ‘The son. A bad business.’ An electric smile lit up her features. ‘Kitty, darling, how lovely all this is. And how lovely you look. We’ll go through, shall we? I must congratulate the bride. Where is she?’

  Ann was easy to locate: she was the tallest person in the room. She looked not unattractive in her lavender shift, her now neat head bent as she inclined an ear to Molly. David had been appropriated by Harold for a final consultation: dietary instructions, she surmised, were being issued. Both young people looked mystified and bored. Maids darted across the room with trays of champagne and plates of canapés. Mrs May felt her head begin to ache. She had lost Steve and did not know anyone else. For a moment she wondered if she might leave, might creep down the hill in her silk suit and find a taxi—or a bus! A bus filled with ordinary people!—and go home. But Kitty, resplendent in bronze grosgrain, was pushing her way through the crowd towards her, holding on to the arm of a stoutish man with a beard, dressed in an old-fashioned three-piece suit. ‘And of course you know Gerald,’ she was saying, to people who could not conceivably ever have met him. ‘My son.’ For he was her son, and hers only. Her face glowed with a supernatural flush of youth. She was a woman in love.

  Across the room Mrs May
caught a glimpse of Austin dabbing his eyes. ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ he was saying, to no-one in particular. ‘You know my son, do you? Come over, I’ll introduce you.’

  Mrs May moved across to Harold, who also looked much moved.

  ‘How did they do it?’ she enquired, in as low a voice as the buzz of conversation would permit.

  ‘David did it. He had a word with him, man to man. I tell you, Thea, that boy is a marvel. He has unusual powers of persuasion. He just came straight out with it. “Dad,” he said. “I think you should come to the wedding.” I’m going to miss him, Thea. He looks well, doesn’t he? Gerald, I mean.’

  ‘That’s his van outside, I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, he drove himself here. Well, it’s his home, after all. Not that he’ll stay. But he’s made contact, that’s the main thing. And you can see what it’s done for Kitty and Austin.’

  ‘So this was your secret, Harold? Yours and David’s?’

  Harold blushed. ‘I didn’t even tell Molly. Well, if I’d done that I might as well have told Kitty, or rather Molly would have done. Who do you think he looks like?’

  He looked like no-one. He looked like a not very prosperous country cousin, flexing his all but obsolete social muscles. Beside the radiant Kitty he appeared extinguished. This must be difficult for him, she thought; he must be on the defensive, nerving himself to reject his mother all over again. But in fact she could see no signs of psychic upheaval in his pleasant rather nondescript face. He seemed if anything indifferent, stood absently with a glass of champagne in his hand, surrounded by strangers, patiently offering himself to be shown off by Kitty, on whom, from time to time, he shed a puzzled smile. Beside him, clutching his arm, Kitty looked like a temple houri.

  ‘Congratulations, Kitty,’ Mrs May shouted in her ear.

  ‘Oh, Thea, do go and have a word with Bessie Millington. She’s over there, by the fireplace. You’ve met Gerald, haven’t you?’

  ‘How do you do?’

  Gerald gave her an affable if bemused smile. ‘Over here,’ shouted Molly, who had produced a camera. ‘One with Kitty.’

  The bride and groom, overshadowed, stood at the bar, each with a carefully chosen plate of hors d’oeuvres. They appeared at last to be having a conversation with each other, possibly reckoning up the rewards of their activities. No, that was unfair, Mrs May reproached herself. They were simply bored with the whole thing. And Paris would be quite the wrong choice for them. They were naif and strong-willed: they should be in the country, or back home in America, where they belonged. Payment would no doubt have been made: Austin and Harold would have seen to that. So presumably everyone was satisfied. She craned her head, searching for Steve, but he was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘Bessie Millington,’ Kitty instructed her, nodding in the direction of the fireplace before moving off, Gerald in tow. ‘All alone, poor soul. Do have a word.’

  Bessie Millington was a very old lady, so old that Mrs May thought she must have been brought along by a nurse, who would have the task of returning her to whatever retirement home had booked her out that morning. She wore a well-preserved hat of coq feathers, at least forty years out of date, and a dress of printed silk, the bodice of which, tactfully draped, could not quite conceal her completely flat chest. In contrast to her shrivelled body her hands were massive, the knuckles swollen by arthritis. Several fine rings were buried in the interstices. Around her tortoise neck hung a gold lorgnon.

  ‘Good afternoon,’ said Mrs May, raising her voice against the surrounding hubbub. She could not hear herself speak but presumed that she had done so. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’ Wrinkled eyelids were momentarily raised. ‘A glass of champagne?’ she enquired at the top of her voice.

  The ancient lips moved. When the words came out they sounded as if they had issued from a cavern.

  ‘What is on offer?’

  ‘Well, there’s smoked salmon, asparagus rolls, caviare, cheese puffs, oh, and wait, the maids are bringing out some hot savouries.’

  ‘I should like some caviare.’

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ she said, suddenly aware that she was rather hungry herself. Breakfast had been a distracted affair, largely unregarded. She put caviare and crackers onto a plate, added some cheese puffs, and shouldered her way back. She found a small table and arranged it in front of Bessie Millington, then snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray.

  One should not watch the old eating, she thought, should not imagine the mouthfuls travelling down those aged throats. Impervious, crumbs clinging to her withered lips, Bessie Millington seemed neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with her part in the celebrations. She might have been seated in a restaurant, Mrs May thought. Here was one person to whom Gerald’s presence was a matter of complete indifference, if indeed she knew who he was, who any of them were.

  ‘If you’ll excuse me,’ she said. ‘I’d like to have a word with the bride, before she goes to change.’ For surely this cannot last much longer, she thought. They have a plane to catch.

  ‘Who did you say you were?’ asked Bessie Millington, lighting a cigarette with a large trembling hand.

  ‘Thea. Thea May. Shall I take that plate?’

  ‘You married Henry, didn’t you?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘The second wife.’

  ‘Yes, yes, the second wife.’

  ‘I knew the first one,’ said Bessie Millington, taking in a lungful of smoke. ‘Terrible little bitch.’

  ‘Oh, really?’ Mrs May felt a warm surge of appreciation for Bessie Millington. ‘I never met her.’

  ‘Little gold digger.’ She inhaled again, deeply. ‘Men are so cheap,’ she added. ‘I should know. Three husbands, all dead. How old would you say I was?’

  ‘Eighty?’

  ‘Eighty-six,’ she said, disappointed. ‘You seem a sensible woman. He was lucky to find you. Or were you on the lookout too?’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t. We were very happy.’

  Bessie Millington gave a cunning smile. ‘That’s what they all say. But you’re an improvement on the first one, I’ll give you that. Women always spoiled Henry. Is there any coffee?’

  ‘I’ll ask,’ she said. ‘And I’ll just have a word with the bride, if you’ll excuse me. I’ll bring you some coffee, if there is any.’

  If I were at home I could be having a rest, she thought, as she fought her way, smiling, through the crowd. The disturbing dream of the previous night had left her anxious, as if even now she might be forced to undertake some task for which she was unprepared. The Bessie Millingtons of this world were an easy proposition, but she dreaded what was to come: Kitty’s triumph, to which she would never oppose the truth of Gerald’s indifference, of Ann’s antagonism. Again she would be called upon to play her part, but it would be a lowly one; she would despise herself for the appreciation which it would be her duty to offer. But what else were they to do? They were all old, must cling to evidence of affection, even if they had to beg for it. Kitty’s armoured carapace had been pierced by the sight of Gerald, and to judge from his expression Austin’s cynicism had quite deserted him. If they were very careful there need be no damage. If Kitty would let Gerald go, without extracting promises from him, if Austin were to behave in a suitably grandfatherly manner, they might be encouraged to remember this as a happy family occasion. Even Mrs May would be invited to do this; indeed she would be the ideal audience. And Kitty would feel more kindly towards all those friends whom she had mystified with stories of the absent Gerald’s well-being: present, he had justified all her untruths. And she would have witnesses to acknowledge the fact that he existed, as many had begun to doubt. ‘I assumed he was in prison,’ one man was overheard to say, before being silenced by his wife. Gerald was thus doubly successful; he was both son and attribute. But Mrs May had seen his cautious smile dull from time to time, and his glance turn towards the door. She silently urged him to be patient, for it would soon be over for all of them.


  She edged her way into the bedroom, where Ann was athletically divesting herself of her wedding dress. ‘Aren’t you going to take that with you?’ she asked. ‘I could pack it for you if you like.’

  ‘No way. As soon as I get out of that’—she gestured to the pink suit laid out on the bed—‘I’ll be back in my jeans. What a farce. I’ll tell you one thing, Dorothea. If we don’t like Paris we’ll be on the next plane home. We’ve got our return tickets, remember.’

  ‘And Austin has no doubt been generous.’

  ‘Not bad. I still think he’s a mean old sod, though.’

  ‘Oh, do be kind,’ she said. ‘After all we shan’t see you again. Give Kitty a big hug. And thank Austin nicely. Then it will all end happily. They do want you to be happy, you know.’

  ‘They expect us to thank them all the time, don’t they? We’re here, aren’t we? We’ve gone through it all, haven’t we? What more do they want?’

  ‘They want you to love them,’ said Mrs May sadly.

  There was a silence, while Ann zipped her skirt over her substantial hips. ‘You’ve been okay,’ she said finally.

  If it were to end now, it would be all right, she thought. If I could simply walk out of this room, smile my goodbyes and go home, I should be quite happy. But it was the goodbyes, the leaving, that would be the problem, and of course the empty flat. Henry and she had married soberly and gone away unnoticed. Susie Fuller had thrown confetti, and they were embarrassed. In fact they had been embarrassed with each other, with what they had done. It was better when they got to the South of France, but then everything was better in the sun. And she had appreciated male company. But she could not ignore his own difficulty: he was a man recovering from an unhappy love affair. Once she had understood that, she was in a position to care for him, which she had done wholeheartedly. She was seen as Henry’s comforter, rather than as his lover. No-one knew of her lost ardour, of which there was no trace.