Providence

by Anita Brookner

  ‘What was her name?’ asked Kitty.

  ‘Lucy. She was called Lucy. I’ve known her all my life. We always loved each other. Our parents were neighbours.’ He broke off, but Kitty sensed that he was now ready to talk.

  ‘Shall I make some more coffee?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, why not?’

  He followed her into the kitchen, as if unwilling to be left alone. His presence, and the words she had just heard, disturbed her, and she spilled a little water from the kettle. Picking up a dishcloth, he wiped the drops from the floor.

  ‘You’re as bad as Lucy,’ he said. ‘She was the most untidy creature I have ever met.’

  ‘Did you love her very much?’ said Kitty, willing her hands to remain still.

  ‘Yes, of course. Enough to last me for the rest of my life. Shall I take that tray?’

  They sat down again, silent. A burst of urgent music from the next flat signified a change of programme. Then Maurice sighed.

  ‘I know that she prays for me,’ he said. ‘As I pray for her. I know that we shall never be closer than we are now.’ He sighed again. ‘I am so bored without her to talk to,’ he said. ‘We always shared everything. I have no one to talk to now.’

  This time she took him in her arms and held him, and as they sat together in the darkening room she felt her whole heart dissolving in sadness and wonder.

  It was Maurice who disengaged himself, and to her surprise he recovered quite quickly. His smile, vague, pleasant, prohibitive of deeper enquiries, was back in place. He drank his cold coffee and held out his cup for more. Kitty, aware that they were passing a momentous evening, yet fearful of all that she had heard, and uncertain how they could proceed after this, went into the kitchen, her hands unusually agitated. He should have told me this before, she thought. I would have understood all that. But I lacked the information. Quite simply, I lacked the information.

  Returning to the sofa, and to Maurice, with more, unwanted, coffee, she said, ‘And are you still on God’s side?’ She was genuinely curious.

  His smile intensified, became ineffable. ‘Don’t you see? God is on my side. He gave me years of happiness and love that can never disappear. I regard myself as married. It is as simple as that.’

  Oh, Maurice, thought Kitty. I shall never know what you feel. The intensity. The purity. I simply want to live with someone so that I can begin my life. I want you, in fact. And you want nobody.

  ‘Maurice,’ she said, taking his hand. ‘I do understand. And please, please, trust me. I am your friend.’

  He kissed her hand. ‘Of course, I trust you. Dear Kitty.’

  They both realized that this was the moment at which he should leave, that there could be no further exchange that night. Yet she had never wanted so much for him to stay.

  ‘Maurice,’ she said, as he searched in his pocket for his car keys. ‘When did all this happen?’

  ‘Three years ago,’ he replied, then, having found his keys, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and was gone.

  Three years ago Marie-Thérèse had died, quickly, quietly, without benefit of clergy, without assurance of eternal comfort, her hands trailing among the walnut shells. They never spoke of her at home, and indeed Kitty herself thought little about the matter. She was aware that the world had grown colder since Marie-Thérèse’s death, that a particular quick artless voice would no longer question her, that a certain shyness and propriety had vanished from her own life, leaving behind something wary, fearful, disbelieving. This corroding residue was apt to interfere with her more generous impulses, and she had to struggle these days to trust her earlier, more primitive assumptions of safety. It was a feeling she only managed to recover among her books. And it had been revealed to her this evening, this momentous evening, that there was a safety beyond anything she had ever known, that the love of one person for another can confer such a charmed life that even the memory of it bestows immunity. She herself was not immune. And if she had one wish, it was to know that immunity, to be loved in such a way that even when parted from the other she would never be alone. She wondered if there were anything in her life, in herself, that could make her lovable in that way, and realized that there was nothing, not even a basis for comparison. Perhaps it was because she lacked faith, as Maurice said, that she was tense, that she could not take life more easily, that she could not take him for granted. For surely, they were dearest friends? Surely, he would not talk as he had talked tonight to anyone else?

  But I want more, she thought, blowing her nose resolutely. I do not want to be trustworthy, and safe, and discreet. I do not want to be the one who understands and sympathizes and soothes. I do not want to be reliable, I do not want to do wonders with Professor Redmile’s group, I do not even care what happens to Larter. I do not want to be good at pleasing everybody. I do not even want to be such a good cook, she thought, turning the tap with full force on to a bowl rusted with the stains of her fresh tomato soup. I want to be totally unreasonable, totally unfair, very demanding, and very beautiful. I want to be part of a real family. I want my father to be there and to shoot things. I do not want my grandmother to tell me what to wear. I want to wear jeans and old sweaters belonging to my brother whom of course I do not have. I do not want to spend my life in this rotten little flat. I want wedding presents. I want to be half of a recognized couple. I want a future away from this place. I want Maurice.

  ‘Caroline,’ she said, striding out of her front door, her cheeks scarlet with emotion. ‘Will you please turn your radio down? I can hear every word of the shipping forecast and I’ve got the tap running.’

  Caroline’s door opened, to reveal Caroline in her usual poule de luxe outfit of pale blue and purple flowered chiffon dressing gown with, yes, marabout at the throat, and very high-heeled mules. Her toenails were painted an iridescent damson colour. Her orange hair was shining, her face fully made-up, as if she were expecting a visitor. If she was, he never came. He had gone long ago, that husband whom she reviled so constantly. Kitty sometimes regretted the impulse that had made them into the semblance of friends. Caroline had called when Kitty had first moved in, and Kitty had been drawn to her as a really well-dressed woman, something she rarely came across in her line of work. They had spent a few evenings together comparing notes on clothes, until Kitty realized, with a feeling of shame, that Caroline was intensely boring. Or perhaps, she thought scrupulously, she was just intensely bored. Caroline lived on her alimony and consulted fortune tellers to see when her luck would change. Caroline spent most of her days, impeccably groomed, wandering around Harrods. Very little seemed to happen to Caroline although she had many stories to tell of her life before she had been abandoned: the parties, the cruises, the weekends at important houses. ‘Why did I marry him?’ she would ask soulfully. Why did he leave you, wondered Kitty, but was too polite to ask. She rather dreaded Caroline’s reminiscences these days and tended to avoid her. She had once seen her coming down Old Church Street, presumably returning from a day at Harrods, and had noted that there was a ladder in her tights and that she was carrying an umbrella and two rather crumpled plastic bags, the very image, Kitty thought, of a woman slipping down from her own high standards. She had felt a shiver of apprehension, and at the moment considered herself the more fortunate of the two. For she had Maurice.

  ‘What is it, Kitty?’ asked Caroline in genuine surprise. ‘You sound really upset. Didn’t you have a nice evening?’

  It had been impossible to keep the sight of Maurice hurtling up the stairs from Caroline, and that was another reason for Kitty to want to avoid her: Caroline was avid for information, and Kitty had no information to give.

  ‘Come in,’ said Caroline, ‘I’ve just made a cup of tea.’ She was desperately lonely.

  At that moment Kitty wanted nothing more than a cup of tea. She wanted it with a passion that she had not felt for food or drink for a very long time. Wiping her hands on her apron, and aware that she must look a mess, she followed Caroline into her fla
t.

  ‘Marvellous tea,’ she acknowledged. ‘But really, Caroline, the noise is too much. And you know you don’t really listen.’

  ‘Oh, darling, I keep it on for company. You know what it’s like here in the evenings. Dead. I might as well be ninety. When I think …’

  ‘All the same,’ said Kitty, holding out her cup for more and forestalling the usual recital, ‘it is a bit much. Oh, I realize you’re lonely. Perhaps if you got a job?’ They had had this conversation before.

  ‘I’d still be alone in the evenings,’ said Caroline. This was unanswerable.

  ‘How was your boyfriend?’ asked Caroline after a pause.

  ‘Oh, fine, fine.’

  ‘You’re upset, Kitty. Oh, men. You don’t have to tell me.’

  You wouldn’t understand if I did, thought Kitty. No one would. Maurice’s story now appeared to her as something she could never tell a living soul. It was, after all, a secret.

  ‘Tell you what, darling,’ said Caroline. ‘Why don’t you come with me to this marvellous clairvoyant I’ve just discovered? No really, Kitty, she’s fantastic. I know you don’t believe in them, but this one is different. She told me all about Paul and how life was so stagnant at the moment, and how I was going to make a new life abroad, and meet a man whose name begins with J. In the entertainment business. Well, that’s not really my line, you know. I’m used to rather better than that. Did I ever tell you about the time we chartered a yacht off Saint-Tropez?’

  She had. Many times.

  But a thought was forming in Kitty’s mind. Supposing she went to this clairvoyant, made a firm declaration of her scepticism, and then waited to hear what she said? She needed a message, desperately. For Maurice had not said when he would see her again. And soon he would be off to the cathedrals of France.

  ‘Where is she?’ she enquired.

  ‘My dear, she’s two minutes from here, just next door to the antique market. And it’s only ten pounds. And she’s marvellous. She told me all about the lease running out.’ (This was another frequent topic of conversation.) ‘And she told me I was looking for another flat but that I didn’t need to bother because I was going to meet this man beginning with J. In the entertainment business.’

  ‘All right,’ said Kitty grimly. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  Caroline’s face lit up. She was easily pleased and just as easily disappointed.

  ‘We’ll go next week,’ she promised. ‘You’ll see. Everything will come out right.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Kitty. The sudden silence informed her that the radio had gone off the air for the night. It must be quite late. She did not have the heart to speak to Caroline again about the noise. She knew it would make no difference anyway.

  Trudging back across the landing to her own flat, she was aware that she was very tired. The evening now appeared to her in retrospect as completely unreal. Had she really heard what she had heard? Could she, she thought disgustedly, compare her visit to a fortune teller with Maurice’s profound convictions? And yet she was disturbed, moved, but moved for herself as well. I must do something, she thought. We cannot go on as we are. If we do I cannot bear it.

  As she lay in bed it occurred to her to turn to Marie-Thérèse’s Bible and to seek out the passage that had originally comforted her. But she felt unworthy, not a believer. Maurice had talked about Providence. She was a determinist, herself. But she would give it a try, she thought wearily. Are You there she wondered, in the silence. And if so, will You let me hear from You?

  SIX

  For the visit to the clairvoyant Caroline wore violet trousers, a blue silk shirt, and several chains round her neck. Dressing the part, thought Kitty, watching her twine a blue trailing scarf round her hair. And she’s not even coming in.

  ‘Isn’t this fun, Kitty?’ enthused Caroline, discarding the blue scarf for a green one, and then discarding that. Kitty sank resignedly into a chair.

  Her mood was uneasy. Part of her was deeply ashamed of what she was doing. Another part of her was aware that this line of enquiry might easily become an addiction, that if she heard good news she would go back to hear more, and that if she heard bad news she would go back to see when her luck would change. And she would not know, actually know as she had been taught to know, anything at all. She was intellectually, as well as morally, uneasy. But it was all fixed now; Caroline had made the appointment, although they had had to wait for nearly two weeks, and had given a false name, for some reason. This too was further cause for shame.

  There were additional rumours of unease. On the telephone, the previous evening, Louise’s breathing had sounded more laboured than usual, and she had given the telephone back to Vadim to finish the conversation.

  ‘What is the matter?’ Kitty had asked him. She was a little tired, he had said: the weather was so unseasonably warm. She has her bad days. But nothing to worry about. He sounded sad, out of character. ‘Papa,’ said Kitty, ‘call the doctor.’ No, no, my darling, everything was all right. He had bought artichokes as a treat. Louisette loved artichokes. And there was a good programme on television. She would be better tomorrow, have no fear. Kitty had not had the heart to tell him that Pauline Bentley had invited her home for the weekend. She would cancel it if necessary.

  There was also the matter of her lecture on the Romantic Tradition, timed for the fourth week of the summer term. She had done no preliminary work for this, yet she was aware that it was something of a test. If she acquitted herself well, it might lead to a proper appointment. As it was, she was a sort of guest in the department, being paid for the seminars she gave, but regarded as a more or less permanent researcher. But if her lecture were to be a success, she could regard her investigation, her apprenticeship, as finished.

  Her seminar the previous week had not gone as smoothly as she had hoped. Miss Fairchild being inexplicably absent, Larter and Mills had argued without restraint, both revealing rather more bad temper than was proper to the occasion. They were tired; it was getting near the end of term, and they had grown pale on cheap food and not enough fresh air. Kitty had decided to cut the afternoon short, for it would not get better, and had called a final class for the following week. This had not been a popular suggestion, and later that day Redmile had asked her how she was getting on. ‘Very well,’ she had said, smiling at him. ‘We are all looking forward to your lecture, Miss Maule.’ This was patently false, so she went on smiling at him. ‘Great stuff. Great stuff.’ He always said this. Then his eyes lit up as his secretary approached with a file. ‘Have you got the latest estimates, Jennifer? Well, I mustn’t keep you, Miss Maule. And I think Jennifer has something to show me. The New Building, you know.’ And he was gone.

  Kitty felt a sort of irritated langour, very different from her usual state of calm if timid determination. Although she looked on Caroline’s activities sternly, she wondered with genuine humility if she could ever be such a woman, delighting in her own appearance, devoting much time and effort to embellishing it, regarding her small outing as a genuine point of reference in the day, fascinated by her ultimate fate and waiting for others to bring it about. Kitty had frequently felt that she lacked some essential feminine quality, that this resided in the folklore passed on by women who possessed a knowledge that she was forced to supplement by reading books. She had sometimes, but with a curious sense of secrecy, scanned the advice columns in the magazines she bought for Louise, even studied the horoscopes. She knew that she had chosen a more severe path of ascertainable information, but she was lured by the stratagems, the reassurances, the promises of that odd sub-consciousness shared greedily by, she supposed, women with a surer touch than herself. There must be ways of getting what she wanted, but she did not know what they were. This visit to the clairvoyant held out the dangerous attraction of such a hidden way, just as Caroline, with her confident and gratuitous self-adornment, represented another mode of being. As if Caroline, regarding herself as a prize, were simply waiting for someone to come and claim her. Whe
reas Kitty usually felt that she was the one who had to prove her worth, her desirability, her merit, her right. As if she lived in a world where moral imperatives obtained. She felt that she was serving an apprenticeship in more ways than one, and that, by analogy, she had to work hard on all fronts. She longed to join that more confident majority that made assumptions, that imposed a sense of superiority whether it had any basis in fact or not. She had been amused but also genuinely impressed by a small incident in the newspaper shop a few days previously. The girl behind the counter, a stringy and exhausted blonde, was selling a packet of cigarettes to a handsome young labourer from a nearby building site. The man had held out a ten-pound note. ‘Oh Christ,’ said the girl, ‘haven’t you got anything smaller? I’ll have to go next door for some change.’ ‘So what?’ he grinned. ‘Aren’t I worth it?’ ‘Dunno,’ said the girl, without a change of expression. ‘Haven’t tried you yet, have I?’ They were both delighted with this exchange. Kitty had joined in the laughter but had felt prim, knowing that she could never achieve such ease of manner, knowing also that on occasions it might be appropriate.

  They were passing this same shop on their way to the clairvoyant. Caroline undulated like a siren, clutching her bag, her scarves, touching her chains, her feet slipping about in ridiculously fragile sandals. From time to time she had to steady herself by hanging on to Kitty who assumed a martyr-like pose of rigid stillness until all the necessary adjustments had been made and they could start off again. She wondered how Caroline ever managed to get to Harrods on her own. She also knew that Caroline could walk as easily as anyone else, and was using her as a convenient foil in the absence of a man. She was thankful that no public transport was needed, for Caroline would expect her to organize their journey, pay their fares, if there were a bus coming, or to step into the road and summon a taxi if there were none. Kitty mused on this. She supposed that it was the equivalent of negative capability, something she had always attributed to certain aspects of behaviour rather than to modes of perception.