The Bay of Angels

by Anita Brookner

  ‘What on earth have you been doing?’ said Adam on opening the door. ‘You look wrecked.’ He was annoyed with me, hated anything less than a favourable appearance.

  ‘Just let me use your bathroom. I shan’t be a minute.’ I made for the stairs.

  ‘Don’t go up there,’ he said quickly, but I had my foot on the first step. I think I had no suspicion, even then, that anything was wrong. In retrospect I still see myself at the foot of the stairs. I got no further, for coming down to meet me was a girl whose tousled hair had obviously made contact with a pillow.

  I stared, as a droplet of water made its way down my neck. Adam gave a laugh that was almost a groan, but recovered more quickly than either this unknown girl or myself.

  ‘Do you know each other?’ he asked smoothly. ‘Zoë Cunningham, Kirstie Fellowes. Kirstie is a physiotherapist,’ he added.

  ‘Oh, yes, I know all the wrinkles,’ said Kirstie Fellowes, whom I observed to be in a state of post-coital triumph. She laughed loudly. Adam looked at her with dawning disfavour.

  I put my bags in the kitchen. I am ashamed to say that I behaved extremely well. When she joined me a few minutes later, brushing her hair vigorously, I simply said, ‘Oh, please, not here.’ My lips felt stuck to my teeth, which made entertaining Adam’s guests, the Johnsons, rather problematic. They in their turn were disconcerted by the presence of Kirstie Fellowes, for we were five at table. ‘Are you staying?’ Adam had asked her as I brought in the avocadoes. ‘Of course I’m staying,’ she laughed. Helen Johnson understood the situation at a glance, and remained as silent as I was. Her husband kept up a determined conversation with Adam, but even that began to falter. Kirstie Fellowes contributed a great deal of enthusiastic laughter. Without her we should have been almost mute. But then without her all would have gone on as before. ‘Coffee?’ I inquired.

  In the kitchen Adam hovered. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Zoë. It’s no big deal. We all know the score.’ I said nothing. ‘I’ll drive you home if you’ll wait a bit.’

  ‘I’ll walk,’ I said.

  The Johnsons were leaving, discomfited. The display of intimacy had offended them. I was able to wish them a pleasant goodnight, and then I left. I walked home, the rain flattening my hair once again, the pathetic fallacy working overtime. In Edith Grove I fell into a black sleep. Sometime during the night I was aware of the telephone ringing, but could not extricate myself from sleep long enough to answer it. In any event I knew who was calling.

  What stayed with me when I surfaced on the following morning was a feeling of acute shame, even horror, at the memory of my dilapidated appearance. I could see myself with my wet hair, and my two bulging plastic carrier bags: I could still feel the droplet of water making its way down my neck. On such details do our fortunes depend. I did not for a moment blame Adam for his defection, for it seemed to me that I had provoked it. Memory should have told me that this was not the case, that I had chanced upon a matter that I had not been meant to witness, that this incident, though clandestine, had been entered into spontaneously on both sides, that I was, if anything, the intruder, unwelcome, and the more unwelcome because I had discovered Adam to be at fault. For this I blamed myself. In addition to my unfortunate appearance I had cast a shadow over two people’s innocent enjoyment. For I could not see it as particularly reprehensible. The ethos of the age had dismissed loyalty, constancy, fidelity as disqualifiers for successful guilt-free relationships. Such old-fashioned beliefs were dismissed as hang-ups, a cute unserious term for what was in effect a reversal of the established order. I myself had known no guilt when exchanging one partner for another during that first summer in Nice, but somehow that was different, affectionate, as if we were all children accustomed to harmless play on whom the shadow of the adult world had yet to fall. The sun, the sun! In London’s perpetual dusk the incident looked clumsy, badly managed, graceless. At the end of a dark day it took on an air of undeserved finality. The only conclusion to be drawn was that I had been defeated by an adversary whom I could not have anticipated, and had almost sealed my fate by appearing in such an unflattering guise, as if to emphasize my unsuitability for any role other than the one I had come unwittingly to fulfil. There was an inevitability about this scenario that absolved the other two protagonists from blame. I alone, with my wet hair and my plastic bags, was deserving of censure.

  The removal men arrived sharply at eight, and I made tea for them. I had thought that the transference of my furniture would take a mere half-hour, but this was not the case. When I emerged onto the pavement the woman who had congratulated me on my youth and warned me of its inevitable demise was standing there with a suitcase.

  ‘I’m off to warmer climes,’ she informed me. ‘Marbella. You’re leaving, then?’

  I was leaving, I confirmed.

  ‘Give my regards to Mrs Cunningham. Mrs Gould, I must remember to call her.’ She laughed, as if my mother’s marriage were a fantasy. ‘Good luck, then. All the best.’ Like many others she meant well.

  This evidence of other lives proceeding normally was a useful indicator that the world had not come to an end. My feeling of shame had given way to a more settled regret, which was compounded by the unkempt and unfinished appearance of my new home. Until that moment the flat, which I thought of as ‘the other flat’, had seemed temporary, unreal. Now as I went into the much smaller kitchen to make more tea for the men I could see my actions mirrored by a figure exactly opposite. The lights were on in nearly all the kitchens so generously exposed to my view across the central well of the building. It was four o’clock in the afternoon and already growing dark. When I shut the front door on the removal men I turned reluctantly to the bedroom, the darkest room of all. Its one advantage was concealment. I was not anxious to be seen. To my decrepitude of the previous evening was now added a layer of dust from the day’s activities. I wished it were later than it was, time to take a bath and go to bed. As it was I telephoned my mother.

  ‘Darling! What a lovely surprise!’ Her voice sharpened with anxiety. ‘Are you all right?’

  It was not our usual day for telephoning. Saturday evening was when we usually caught up with each other’s news. ‘Is she all right?’ I could hear Simon asking in the background.

  ‘I’m fine,’ I said. ‘I just wanted to remind you of the new phone number.’

  ‘As if I needed reminding! Was it a terrible day? Did the men come when they said they would?’

  ‘Everything’s fine,’ I repeated. ‘It’s all done. It seems a bit strange, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ll soon come to terms with it. But moving is always a melancholy business. I expect you’re tired.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re sure you’re all right?’

  This was how our conversations tended to go when we had been separated for any length of time. I’m all right. Are you all right? Are you sure you’re all right? I had never confided in my mother. There were things she did not need to know, nor did she wish to know them. My private life was as guarded as hers was, and we were both obscurely glad of this.

  ‘What did you do yesterday?’ I asked.

  ‘Well, we had an early lunch at Queenie’s. You remember; we took you there once.’

  ‘I know it.’ I had in fact been there many times with my friends but did not remind her of this.

  ‘Then we came back here. Simon had his rest, and I went out for a walk.’

  ‘Where did you go?’

  ‘Oh, round and about. You know I love to walk.’

  I did not know this. She had never gone out much when we lived in Edith Grove. In France, however, she evidently liked to be out of the house, on those mysterious afternoons when others slept. I suspect that she found it difficult to remain at close quarters with a man she still regarded as a miraculous stranger. I also suspected that she was not entirely at home in Simon’s house, though there was nothing to dislike except its unfamiliarity, and perhaps the fact that he had lived in it with his first wife. This fact, once mentioned,
had not been referred to again by either of them.

  ‘Then the Thibaudets came to dinner.’

  ‘What did you cook?’

  ‘Gazpacho. Roast chicken. Lemon sorbet, which we bought in town. Armelle seemed to think it a very light meal, but we had a pleasant evening.’

  ‘What’s the weather like?’

  ‘Mild, a bit damp. What’s it like where you are?’

  ‘Pouring.’ I had no need to look out of the window. I could hear the rain splashing onto the forecourt.

  ‘You’ll be in college tomorrow. You’ll feel better then.’

  I supposed that I would. My work was interesting, my tutor well disposed. He had once asked me to check a footnote for him, and seemed pleased by my ability to do this without asking further questions. I reminded myself that I had yet to unpack my books, which were still lying about in cartons. I felt acutely lonely.

  ‘It won’t be long before you’re back with us. There was a definite feeling of spring in the air this morning.’

  ‘I’ll ring you on Saturday as usual.’

  ‘Is there any food in the house?’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘Then you’d better go out shopping. And make up your bed. I expect you’re longing for it.’

  ‘I am rather.’ I was. ‘Love to you both. Until Saturday.’

  I went out, bought bread, cheese, the makings of a salad, a battery for my radio. I was surprised to see people in the streets, although all seemed cowed. A disconsolate crowd had gathered at the bus stop, though no bus seemed to have passed within living memory. I did not want to go home, was subjected once again to the image of the previous evening. I knew that what had taken place was not very grave on the scale of human misdemeanours, and that I should have to come to terms with imperfection. The shocking encounter now began to fade, although the after-image of those two flushed faces did not. I returned to an awareness of how unequal I must have appeared. I knew that however successful I might be in later life (for now was a time of failure) I would never entirely eradicate the memory of that episode. My own embarrassment had been nothing compared with the embarrassment on Adam’s face; in a mysterious way he was as humiliated by our fall from grace as I was. And my abrupt departure had added to the confusion. Yet any discussion, should there be an opportunity for one, would simply make matters worse.

  Though now burdened with yet another plastic bag I went on walking. I was sorry that I had telephoned my mother, who would now imagine that something was wrong. Nor was I much consoled by the image of her felicity in a different place. She should have been here, with me! Simon should have taken care of me on this dreadful day! Yet I had frequently felt relief that I did not live under their scrutiny. I knew that it made them comfortable to contemplate my life from a distance. They were sentimental and must therefore be shielded from all sorts of unwelcome realizations. I also knew that their happiness was more apparent than real, and that it consoled them to cherish an image of a family that had nothing to do with the truth. They must be protected, for I now saw that theirs was a hazardous enterprise. I thought that friendship should be lifelong, and not cemented on the spur of the moment. In many ways I enhanced their association, or had done during that first summer in Nice, when I behaved so naturally that they were charmed and emboldened to do the same. Subsequent visits had never quite recaptured that feeling of ease. At the time I had been aware that words and smiles had to be ever so slightly exaggerated to convey a conviction of happiness. And my mother’s afternoon escapes from the house that she could not quite consider her own were an indication that loneliness can be felt even in the most ideal of circumstances.

  By the time I got home I knew what I must do. Humiliations, though ineradicable, must be repaired before they take root. I should do my best to allow Adam to consider himself forgiven, so that we could go on as before. We knew each other too well to cancel our friendship. Without unpacking my shopping I went to the telephone. ‘My new number,’ I said. ‘Write it down.’ There was a scratch of a pencil on paper. ‘And do come for a meal. After all, it’s your turn to come to me.’ Profuse thanks. My last remark slightly spoiled the exchange, but on balance some kind of resolution had been achieved, and for this I was absurdly grateful.

  5

  It seemed an endless seamless passage of time, one that embraced the flat, the street, the whole city. I got up early to write my essays, having spent the night which should have been set aside for them with Adam. In the dark mornings, with the light on, I dispatched them as soon as I could, anxious to be out, to see whether new buds had appeared on the trees, or new flowers in the gardens. I was aware that I was not working well, and that examinations were approaching. I was not brilliant, like Adam, who had been promised a great future, not least by himself. I could only aspire to a run-of-the-mill degree, but once again I had proved myself to be a safe pair of hands: Dr Blackburn, my tutor, suggested that I might find work on other people’s manuscripts, checking their grammar, their footnotes. I could do this work at home, or in the libraries with which I was already familiar. I accepted this idea, for I was unwilling to break entirely with a past which had otherwise proved so accommodating. Yet when I sat in the kitchen on those early mornings, when the sky lightened infinitesimally, and so slowly, and my eyes ached after a sleepless night, I wished that some more radiant escape were in sight, one in which I could make my mark and make others proud of me. I had no idea what this future might be. I only knew that it contained Adam Crowhurst, whose favour it was still important for me to seek.

  I asked my mother, in the course of one of our Saturday telephone calls, whether I might bring a friend when I came down at Easter.

  ‘Of course, darling. Who is it? Mary? Verity?’

  These were the friends of my youth.

  ‘Adam Crowhurst. A friend from college.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose so. Though it might be a good idea if you were to write Simon a note first.’

  ‘Why? Is he likely to object?’

  ‘Not really. But he is of another generation. And it is his house.’

  It was indeed his house, the one from which my mother seemed eager to escape. There had been no further talk of their coming back to London, though despite the attractions of the climate and the surroundings there was little for them to do in Nice. This suited Simon, who was relieved to be there, doing nothing. Not so my mother, her duties taken care of by Mme Delgado, her days idle. Simon liked to have her with him at all times, in the same room, if possible. I found this both tiresome and desirable, for no such domesticity was likely to come my way. Adam’s possessiveness was in his own gift, and might at any time be diverted either to myself or to other women who had aroused his interest. I do not know what kept us together. That we were still attached was due mainly to my own assiduity. I studied him with the care I should have given to my books, made allowances which shamed me. Yet in between his lighthearted infidelities he returned to me. I was too fearful to do more than accept this.

  He was like the man in Chekhov’s story ‘The Lady with the Dog’, a cynic who is nevertheless touched by his mistress’s tears and converted into a belated acknowledgement of love. Not that I wept, unlike Chekhov’s heroines, who seemed to weep all the time, from guilt, from ecstasy, from remorse. Another of these stories, ‘The Darling’, should have taught me the dangers of excessive compliance. Olenka, the darling, marries one man after another, simply because they ask her, and grows old in widowhood after they have died or left her. She ends her days looking after the young son of one such man, and this is where the story hurt, for I could see in her devotion to the child something of what I might feel for a child of my own. I was young; there was no need for me to feel such wistfulness. Yet the feeling was present, for I knew that I would be denied any expression of such a wish. That is why stories are so important: they reveal one to oneself, bringing into the forefront of one’s consciousness realizations which have so far been dormant, unexamined.

  There was no pos
sibility that Adam would ever accede to my wishes rather than to his own. There was an aura of success about him, of brilliance, which made no allowance for my docility. I was compliant, like Olenka, and he was Gurov, the cynic who fell in love with the lady with the dog, but reluctantly, and only when his hair was turning grey. I was a feature in Adam’s life, yet his frequent silences left me with far too much time for speculation. Women were easily attracted by his ease, his considerable beauty, attracted too, it must be said, by his fearless bad manners, his unapologetic licence. The conditions for being accepted by him, of being allowed to share his leisure hours, could be met only by total capitulation to his rules. For there were rules: no questions, no reproaches. I had come by this knowledge the hard way, and from time to time it seemed too hard even for me to bear. But, like Chekhov’s darling, I never seemed to learn. Simply, I was unhappy because I could not trust him. That is to say I could trust him when he was with me, but not at all when we were apart. I kept my feelings to myself, in accordance with his rules. I wanted him in my life for ever, whatever the price I had to pay.

  We saw each other as often as he wished, had travelled together, and in small hotels, out of season, becalmed, had got on easily and well. I had been invited to his parents’ house in Dorset for a weekend, and had been impressed. His parents seemed relieved that I was financially independent: this seemed to be something of a ticket of admission to their society. I did not like them, could not entirely come to terms with their indifference towards a guest. I now see that this was because they had had so many guests like myself, with expectation written large in their anxiety to please. I thought them a cynical couple; they automatically assumed that we would want to share a bedroom, which shocked me slightly: I should have preferred a little more hypocrisy. My attempts at carelessness were never entirely convincing. I see that now. At the time I merely resolved to do better, to try harder. That this was not what was expected of me was no impediment. As far as I was concerned it was up to me to change, to become adaptable, even when I could see that such adaptability would have to encompass a large cast of people—Adam’s friends—whom I could never entirely admire. Therefore it seemed imperative to invite him to Nice, which I thought of as my home ground. I thought that contact with two transparently good people, my mother and Simon, might reveal another part of him, even to himself. I think I saw us refashioned as innocents, as I had been with my earlier friends of that first summer. I remembered the children in the garden, my clear conscience in their company.