The Debut

by Anita Brookner

  Fourteen

  * * *

  “DO you realize,” said George to Mrs. Jacobs, “that if you didn’t feed me, I’d never get anything to eat?”

  They were washing up together in the spotless kitchen after listening to the obligatory Viennese waltz on the record player. Mrs. Jacobs shook her head sadly. George was now nearly a stone overweight. Mrs. Jacobs, on the other hand, was thinner and less happy than she had been. George kept her in in the evenings and she had had to abandon her bridge friends. She loved cooking for him—she even made him a pound of coconut biscuits to keep in the car—but she thought she was a bit ill-used. And he had failed to show compunction over the ruined bedspread. And her nephew Roddy was beginning to hint that she might make him a partner in the shop as he was doing most of the work. All in all, Mrs. Jacobs felt, George ought to marry her. That was the conclusion at which she had arrived in the small hours of that morning. Once they were married, she could go out again. She was thinking in terms of a cruise when George made his significant statement about lack of food.

  They took their lemon tea back into the sitting room. Mrs. Jacobs massaged cream into her hands and slipped her rings back on. George glanced at his watch, belched very softly, and told himself he would not be sorry to get to bed. Leading a double life could prove tiring. Having the happiness of two people in his hands was a responsibility, but he would not flinch, he told himself. He held out his hand to Mrs. Jacobs with a charming impulsive smile; had he but known it, this was how he used to behave with Helen when they had temporarily run out of sex or conversation. Mrs. Jacobs took his hand and smiled too. It was for moments like these that she endured the knowledge that George still lived with his wife, a knowledge that compounded her own loneliness. She often urged him to spend more time in Bayswater, to stroll along on a Sunday morning and stay for an early lunch; but he refused. At least she had got him to telephone her every night. That call was necessary to her. Without it she doubted if she could go on facing the troubled dreams with which she was afflicted and the unnecessary spaces of her large double bed.

  It was time to leave. George took off his bathrobe and slippers and got dressed, Mrs. Jacobs standing beside him like an acolyte. When he had gone she would clean up the bathroom, rub the steam off the mirror, put the wet towel and bath mat in the washing machine. Then she would straighten the sitting room, make herself a last cup of tea, have her own bath and take her place in the bed, waiting for George’s goodnight call. An occasional flash of common sense told her that she would be better off with someone else, as her sister frequently reminded her, the news of her attachment having spread to the family via Roddy. Yet she rather loved George, and they had so much in common. She needed his constant presence as a necessary but safe component in her life. She felt he was too old for her, but in many ways it was an ideal relationship: the pleasure of a man’s company without the responsibility of looking after him. When he called she felt warm and tearful and anxious to prolong the conversation even though she knew that he was crouched in the drawing room with his ear blocked against the noise from the television set; sometimes she got his deaf ear and nothing much ensued. But he always said, “Goodnight, darling, sleep well,” and that kept her going. Well, that is to say, it kept her going until the next time.

  There was one terrible evening when she did not hear from him. She rang the operator to see if her number was in order, then contemplated ringing Oakwood Court, but she knew she must not do that. She arrived at the shop the following morning pale and trembling and had to send Roddy out to renew her prescription for tranquilizers, although George had forbidden her to take them. He liked being masterful in these little ways and she liked it too, although she usually kept an emergency supply handy. At eleven o’clock George turned up, looking no less pale, and sank into a chair with his head in his hands. Fearfully Mrs. Jacobs placed a glass of tea at his elbow.

  “I knew it,” he said finally. “I knew it would come to this.”

  “You mean . . . ?” Mrs. Jacobs’ throat was dry. “You mean, she knows. About us.”

  George raised his head from his hands and looked at her as if he could hardly remember who she was.

  “I mean,” he said, “that my bloody housekeeper is leaving. Getting married, if you please. To a chap in Folkestone. Folkestone!” he repeated bitterly, as if that last detail were the crowning insult.

  Mrs. Jacobs was bewildered. “But you never liked her. You always said she was no good.”

  George sipped his tea grimly. “That’s hardly the point now,” he told her. “She’s been with us for years. Looks after Helen. Knows all her little ways. Nobody else is likely to take her on.”

  “Why ever not?” asked Mrs. Jacobs. She only knew of Helen as charming, spoiled, beautiful, selfish and lazy; she did not know of the long straggling hair, the nightdress stained with coffee, the horny fingernails under the chipped polish. George tried to tell her.

  “But she’s the same age as I am,” cried Mrs. Jacobs in surprise. “You must put your food down. She’s not old and incapable. If you don’t watch out, you’ll have an invalid on your hands.”

  George, who had had just that for several months now—ever since their holiday, in fact, and the last time Helen had been out—said nothing.

  “I’ll find you another housekeeper,” urged Mrs. Jacobs. “I’ll put an advertisement in The Lady. I’ll interview her for you. All I ask is that you don’t interrupt our routine.” She burst into tears. “I can’t go back to the doctor again and that’s what it would do to me.”

  George twisted his hands unhappily. “I don’t want to interrupt anything, darling.” He had visions of himself being tied to the house, doing the cooking, the cleaning, and worst of all, listening to Helen all day.

  “What about your daughter?” said Mrs. Jacobs. “When is she due home?”

  George raised his head and calculated. “What is it now? April? She’s due back in the summer, I believe. At least, that was the original plan. As you know, I was against her going.”

  They looked at each other. “Well,” said Mrs. Jacobs. “I think that’s the answer, don’t you?”

  * * *

  MRS. CUTLER, to her surprise, had not looked forward to telling Helen that she was leaving, so she had told George first. His reaction was one of total amazement and blank outrage.

  “Married?” he echoed. “Married?”

  “I told you I had it in mind when you came back from Brighton,” she said with eyes downcast, like a maiden in one of Helen’s novels. “Just before Ruth went.”

  “But you can’t mean it,” George protested. “We can’t do without you. And anyway you’ve been married once. Why go through it all again? If it’s a question of money . . .” he added.

  Mrs. Cutler recovered her dignity. She had in fact saved one hundred pounds out of the housekeeping and had prudently put it into a post-office savings account. Well, there was precious little housekeeping at Oakwood Court, and nobody seemed to eat much, so she bought less. No point in throwing money down the drain.

  “Mr. Dunlop and I have more than enough,” she replied. “And we shall be taking another post. I am willing to stay until matters are settled. In the meantime you can look around for someone else.” Though, who, she said to herself, is going to put up with this lot I fail to imagine. Still, that’s their worry.

  While George, a vein beating ominously in his forehead, wrenched his car in the direction of Mount Street, Mrs. Cutler made herself a cup of instant coffee and sat down to think things over. The die was cast now, but she felt no enthusiasm. She looked around the big kitchen, not noticing the smell of cheese kept a little too long, or the strands of greasy fluff around the feet of the gas stove, or the calendar, showing Constable’s “Hay Wain,” which had not been changed since February. To exchange this for a bungalow in Folkestone was a gamble. But we shan’t be there, she reminded herself. We shall have our own quarters in a proper house somewhere. I shan’t have to wear a uniform or anyt
hing; in fact I can dress up a bit. Might get myself a couple of those trouser suits. And he’ll be easy enough to manage. He respects me. Margaret, she said to herself, Margaret Dunlop.

  Helen, fully made up but a bit dingy about the neck, was reading. She had got to the part where the governess, maddened by despair at the rakish ne’er-do-well younger son’s forthcoming engagement to the neighboring squire’s daughter, has rushed out into the night and is about to be discovered sobbing on the moor. Helen knew what was coming. Deserting the glittering lights of the ballroom, ne’er-do-well, his black curls streaming in the wind, finds a tiny fragile figure all but spent with exhaustion. Cradling her roughly in his arms, he realizes that she is his own true love. The book jacket showed the deserted fiancée, in vast crinoline, staring in agony through the window, with a dancing couple and a chandelier in the background. Helen had read it before. Only a month before, in fact, but Mrs. Cutler had other things on her mind these days and did not spend too much time at the library.

  As Mrs. Cutler, rakish and defiant, stepped in and started dusting the borders of various surfaces in order to give herself an occupation, Helen sighed unconsciously as the door of the ballroom opened onto the stormy night. Why had nobody ever done as much for her? Well, nobody had had to, really, to be perfectly fair. But if only they had tried. If only they had offered. If only they had made the slightest effort. If only there were something to get up for. She said as much to Mrs. Cutler, who sniffed unsympathetically.

  “These things don’t happen in real life,” she said, thinking of Leslie’s pipe and his cardigan and his darts team. “You should know that by now.”

  She was angry with Helen because in a way she saw her point. But she could not concede it now. It was too late.

  “By the way,” she said, her head averted, “you’ll have to find someone else to look after the place soon. I’m getting married.” She rubbed furiously at the dressing table. She felt absurdly unhappy.

  Helen raised her head from her book, marked a full five-second pause, and put her hand to her head.

  “You can’t be,” she pronounced finally. “The agency couldn’t find anyone suitable. At least that’s what you said.” She laid her book down, for it was of no further use to her. She had been supremely insulted.

  “I met him at the library,” said Mrs. Cutler, hoping to save a little good will. “He’s retiring to Folkestone. He wants me to go with him.”

  “Are you telling me the truth?” asked Helen, her voice gaining its old resonance. “What’s his name?”

  “Arthur Godwin,” replied Mrs. Cutler quickly. She wondered why she had started all this. Shakily Helen lit a cigarette from the stub of her old one and ran a fine grubby hand through her hair. A rich smell of unaired bedclothes, like humus, filled the room. In sudden disgust, Mrs. Cutler shoved open the window.

  Helen, after giving the matter some thought, chose to be dignified. “You are old enough to know what you are doing,” she said, “although for the life of me I cannot see that it is going to work. The idea of a woman of your age . . . But perhaps it is better all around. You cannot stay here now. I believe,” she added, with full conviction, “that you have been underhand.”

  As Mrs. Cutler understood it, she was being dismissed. And she had only come in to give in her notice. She was furious to discover that her eyes were smarting. She didn’t even wish me all the best, she thought, adding to herself those pathetic words, “After all I’ve done for her.” Wait until she asks the next one to cut her toenails or wash her back or dye her hair. And what about him? What does he get up to all day? Why doesn’t he ever want to eat anything in the evenings? There’s a lot going on here I could say something about. But I’ll rise above it. I won’t go down to her level. She banged with unnecessary violence at a cushion and prepared to withdraw.

  “I shan’t need any lunch today,” said Helen, remote. “But I can’t get interested in this book. Perhaps you could find your way to the library this afternoon. Perhaps Mr. Godwin would be kind enough to allow you to find me something to read.”

  Who’s Mr. Godwin? thought Mrs. Cutler. Oh, Christ. She had told George his name was Dunlop. All would be revealed this evening. No good would come of it. She could see Helen working herself up to a tremendous scene. That was still to come. And it’s not my fault, she thought. But it felt like it.

  * * *

  GEORGE and Mrs. Jacobs had taken themselves out to lunch to celebrate the ultimate solution of their problem. With Ruth at home to look after her mother, there was no reason, as far as Mrs. Jacobs could see, why George and she should not get married. George moved a little uneasily. He had not gone quite so far himself. He would prefer a rather longer period of time in which to toy with the possibility.

  They were in a sentimental mood when they got back to Mount Street, and Mrs. Jacobs had to remind George quite forcibly that he should telephone Ruth without allowing any more delay. With some difficulty he found the number at which he used to contact Humphrey Wilcox. Humphrey, disturbed in mid-sentence, was not pleased to hear from him.

  “She’s not here any more,” he said testily. “She’s gone somewhere else.”

  The vein in George’s forehead began to stand out again. Mrs. Jacobs put a hand on his arm. Humphrey was still complaining down the telephone. Once disturbed, he saw no reason why other people shouldn’t be.

  “But where is she?” George broke in.

  “I can’t remember,” said Humphrey, who left these matters to Rhoda. “You’ll have to ring back when Rhoda’s in. Rhoda wrote it down somewhere.” In fact, Ruth’s new telephone number was on the pad by the telephone. But that was not Humphrey’s business.

  After false assurances of cordiality, they rang off. Mrs. Jacobs looked determined.

  “You’ll have to get through again tonight,” she said. “Helen will want you to.”

  Then, since things seemed to be going to pieces all around, they shut up the shop and went back to Bayswater.

  Fifteen

  * * *

  FOR once, Helen was impatient for George to get home. She had brushed her hair, poured herself a drink, and put on her bracelets and her wedding ring. Mrs. Cutler was in voluntary exile in the kitchen. The two women had not spoken since the morning. The cup of tea that Mrs. Cutler had brought in was clouded and untouched.

  George, aware of tensions, sighed inwardly at the prospect of having to sort them out. It had been one of those unsettling spring days that induce bad temper: sudden spurts of rain alternating with ten minutes of hectic sunlight, the whole thing dissolved by rapidly moving dark cloud. He had eaten too much, spent too much, and he wanted to be alone. He was never alone these days. Sometimes he wished he had never sold the shop. He had thought he was keeping up quite well with changing times, but suddenly they seemed to have changed against his will.

  Helen’s voice hailed him as soon as he was inside the door. Wearily he went into the bedroom and beheld his wife, wreathed in smoke, but otherwise restored to some kind of competence.

  “We have been deceived,” said Helen in a resonant voice.

  George nodded. Helen drained her glass.

  “While I thought she was at the library, she was fixing up her future. Planning to get away. Sneaking out to meet someone. Leaving me lying here,” she said, but it didn’t sound right so she abandoned that line.

  “Yes,” said George. “I wonder why we didn’t hear a little earlier about Mr. Dunlop.”

  “No, darling, his name is Godwin. Dunlop was one of the men the agency sent her. I was all in favor of Dunlop.”

  George sighed. “It was a game to you. You should never have encouraged her. And his name is Dunlop. He lives in Folkestone.”

  Helen’s outrage was profound. She poured herself another drink and drained it. After a short pause she uttered a fierce little laugh. “They were right when they said how sharper than a servant’s tooth is man’s ingratitude.”

  “Serpent’s,” corrected George, who was very tired.


  “My version is better,” said Helen. “Well, we had better get Ruth home, I suppose.”

  “That might be difficult. I tried her this afternoon, but she seems to have moved.”

  “Nonsense, let me try.”

  George plugged the telephone in by the bed. He would not be able to telephone Sally tonight, that was clear.

  “Mademoiselle,” Helen was saying to the operator, in a rich French accent assumed for the occasion. “I am trying to get Auteuil 1047. C’est très urgent.”

  There was but a minute’s delay. “Merci,” said Helen, “vous êtes bien aimable. Hello, Rhoda, is that you? What have you done with my naughty girl?”

  She’s enjoying this, thought George. It’s entertainment to her. Any real worrying is left to me. He went into the kitchen to get himself a small snack, although he had eaten at Sally’s, and found Mrs. Cutler sitting miserably at the table with her copy of Woman’s Own unheeded in front of her. This day, more than any other, had convinced her that a woman needs a man. They turn on you the minute they can, she thought, meaning other women. I’ll never put myself in such a position again. She consented to make George a cheese sandwich, glad to have something to do, and added a sprig of parsley to the plate.

  “What about her?” she sniffed, jerking her head in the direction of the bedroom.

  “Better make another one,” George replied. “She’s trying to get hold of Ruth.”

  While they were talking the telephone rang, and it was Leslie Arthur Dunlop to say that they had secured the posts of manager and manageress at the Clarence Nursing Home, just outside Folkestone, to start within the month. A real bit of luck, he said. Nice little flat. Beautiful grounds. And the incontinent were sent to the local geriatric ward, so no trouble there. Mrs. Cutler cheered up. “Goodnight, love,” she said, since Helen was listening to the call with an expression of fury on her face. “Wrap up warm. And ring me tomorrow,” she added, her emancipation complete. After that she went to bed appeased.