Undue Influence

by Anita Brookner

  The last page of the last notebook had been stuck down to the inside of the back cover, with dots of old-fashioned glue which had hardened. With my new-found assiduity I decided to see whether there was anything on the other side. I applied the steam of the kettle and the page came away quite easily. In tiny writing, on the ultimate page, was written the words, ‘I cannot go on’, and a name, Agnes. If there was anything else it had been obliterated by moisture (that is the trouble with this method). Since the kettle had boiled I made coffee and took a cup up to Muriel. ‘What was your mother’s name?’ I asked casually.

  ‘Ida,’ she said. ‘I hardly remember her. Hester knew her better than I did.’

  I was grateful that Muriel had not made this particular discovery. At what point, I asked myself, had Agnes come on the scene? Evidently she lived in Kensington; the walk in the park would have been a mere pretext, the rest of the afternoon, or even the whole of it, spent in Agnes’s company. Was this an affair of the flesh? I rather hoped not, but ‘I cannot go on’ hinted at amorous despair, even desperation. Much as I would have wished Agnes to be a lady, living in genteel retirement off Gloucester Road, she might equally well have been a woman of lesser repute. This I dismissed; St John Collier would not have understood a woman of lesser repute, a professional. I could, however, imagine him succumbing to a pretty, plaintive widow who would be content with very little. And that would have been the end of it; he had the girls to consider. And Marchmont Street would have no attractions for someone used to the amenities of Kensington. I imagined a dewy-eyed woman with a palpitating throat, living her own idea of romance after long years. It was not the impossibility of having more that tormented him; it was the impossibility of wanting more. He was a man of honour; he had schooled himself in fine feelings. By a cruel trick of the beneficent fate which he had invoked with such confidence he had been trapped by the most subversive of instincts: untimely desire. And heroically he had suppressed the only instrument of pleasure that he knew: his ability to frame sentences. It was a stoic act of renunciation. He was not a young man; he had his dignity to think of. ‘I cannot go on.’ And all the while the widow or whatever she was would have been waiting for some sort of resolution. But there was no resolution, maybe not even a declaration. How could there be? There were no words left.

  I stuck the page down again, and put the notebook at the bottom of the pile of others. In due course I would hand them back to Muriel and tell her that I had not found any new material in them. It was essential to save Muriel’s belief in her father. Besides, I wanted to spare her unhappiness. The name would have haunted her, leading to futile speculation of an unwelcome kind. I wanted this family to remain as it always had been: spartan, upright, unquestioning. I felt far better equipped to deal with dubious behaviour than Muriel Collier. She was a protected species, whereas I was out in the world. Even I distrusted the world; that was why the Colliers had such a timeless appeal. Even if I was wrong in failing to give them credit for much intelligence I also knew that they were rare spirits, unique in my experience. I tested the page: stuck fast. I would suggest that the notebooks be kept in the safe. That way nobody would ever read them and capture their broken message. And Muriel would think this appropriate. ‘Oh, yes, I still have his notebooks,’ she would assure a purchaser, if one could ever be found. ‘I keep them in the safe. One day, who knows? …’ And she would be delighted by her part in the affair, perhaps discover that playing any sort of part, in any sort of affair, can be an enlivening experience. The only trouble was that I should not be around to witness this. I am ashamed to say that this affected me rather more than St John’s putative affair. I half wished that he had got it together with Agnes and left some sort of record, which reflects badly on my character. Normally I make no apology for my bad character, but I do feel that others should be spared the sight of it.

  The second unfortunate thing that happened was that Hester, making her enthusiastic way along Gower Street that same week, tripped and fell and landed heavily on her right wrist. A young man helped her up and brought her into the shop, to which I was summoned by a cry of ‘Claire! Claire!’ from Muriel. We put her into the chair which Muriel dragged from behind her desk, and she sat there, cradling her right wrist in the crook of her left arm like a new-born baby.

  ‘She ought to go to hospital,’ said the young man. ‘I’ve got the bike outside, if that’s any help.’ He indicated a huge throbbing machine tilted against the kerb.

  ‘Oh, how kind,’ murmured Hester, then slumped back in the chair, her face ashen.

  ‘An ambulance,’ I said. ‘I’ll phone …’

  ‘Oh, we don’t want an ambulance,’ Muriel protested, as much for her own sake as for Hester’s. ‘The hospital is just down the road. If you could find a taxi …’

  Hester’s eyes opened. ‘A taxi, yes. So kind,’ she gasped. Her good manners had not deserted her. The young man shot off, and I was left alone with her while Muriel went to get the black coat which she wore winter and summer. I tried to get Hester to sip a little tea, remembering vaguely that tea is good for shock. I put my arm round her, and steadied the cup, but the tea ran down her chin on to the triangle of withered chest revealed by her still-pretty print dress. I removed the cup, but kept my arm round her. ‘So kind,’ she said again, and winced. The wrist was now twice the size. A difficult elderly tear fell from one eye.

  ‘You’ll be fine once they’ve bound it up,’ I assured her, though I could see that it was broken. ‘Nothing to it these days,’ I added. Old bones crack without warning, and Hester was truly old, as was Muriel. It occurred to me that they were older than their father had been when he died; they had outlived him. They were bound together for life. What would happen if one of them were left alone? This clearly had not been envisaged. I think my shock was as great as theirs. I was relieved when the young man returned in a taxi. That was good of him, I thought. Few would have bothered.

  Muriel thrust a bunch of keys into my hand. ‘You’ll have to lock up tonight, Claire. And perhaps open up in the morning. Do you think you can manage for a day or two on your own? Of course it may not be necessary.’ We both knew that it would be.

  ‘Don’t worry about a thing,’ I said. ‘Go straight home with her after the hospital. I’ll look in this evening, if that’s all right. Just to reassure you.’ And myself, actually. I had not liked the expression on Hester’s face. The pain I could discount, but in addition, and overriding the shock from which she was clearly suffering, there had been a look of bewildered acquiescence that boded no good. That was out of character, an alteration in which it was possible to decipher an abandonment of her usual style. Hester, despite her age, had always struck me as the most viable of the Colliers. Now I wondered if her long life was beginning to weigh on her, whether the idea of total renunciation did not have a greater appeal. The thought had not yet communicated itself to Muriel, who still managed to live in the day-to-day present. Even now she was fussing over Hester as if this were merely a minor accident, which she in her austere competence was bound to put right. If she was worried about anything it was about entrusting me with the keys. She had never done such a thing before; she saw it as a delegation of authority, and this was upsetting, not only because she did not entirely trust me—I was of another age, I could not possibly have the Collier enterprise at heart—but symbolically, as if she too had momentarily seen the dangers of renunciation, for herself as well as for her sister. Though she must have been aware that they were both old she obviously thought that living was simply a matter of willpower, and so it had proved until now. Particularly unwelcome must have been the thought that willpower is not the deciding factor in one’s continuation, that the wretched random accident might prove to be crucial, that the classical mythology of which she was so fond provided many examples of the fickleness of the powers that rule our lives. None of this was apparent in her controlled expression (but her lips were pale); I knew however that these reflections would come later, probably during
the course of the first night she spent at home with an invalid, whose sleep might be broken, whose utterances might be discordant. Then I told myself that Hester probably harboured no such suspicions; she was the sunnier, the more cheerful of the two. Except that now she looked like a very old woman, collapsed, with a new look of preoccupation on her face, as if factors had entered her life from the outside, and as if another sort of predictability had become apparent. Her valiant daily routine had been broken into. There would be no more cakes. As if to verify this fact she looked searchingly at her fingers, which were now blue. She leaned back against my arm and shut her eyes.

  The young man who had been overseeing this operation helped her to her feet and told her to take it easy. The three of us manoeuvered her into the waiting taxi. I stood on the pavement, absurdly waving, until they were out of sight. When the young man returned he said his name was Bob and that he wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, so I made one. It was then that I noticed the absence of the cakes. I went out again, and saw the bag in the gutter. That too seemed symbolic.

  The rest of the day was quiet. I put the chair back behind Muriel’s desk and sat in it. To my surprise, at about half past five, a customer came in; to my even greater surprise I sold him the volume on Chinese and Japanese cloisonné enamels which he (fortunately) greatly appreciated. At six I locked the drawer containing the day’s takings, turned off the lights, and closed up. I went round the corner to the Greek café and had a cup of coffee, thinking it only right to give Muriel and Hester time to compose themselves. When I judged that enough had elapsed I bought some peaches and a large bunch of grapes from a barrow and made my way to Marchmont Street. It was a beautiful evening, yet the day’s events had cast a shadow. I myself felt older as if awkward facts had intruded into my own life. I was somehow unwilling to enter the Collier household. I preferred it to remain in my imagination, where I could contemplate the family as not subject to change. I feared that I would come upon a scene of dereliction, or worse, Dickensian pathos: a house that had never known a man’s presence apart from that of the father to whom they gave such exaggerated respect. They were virtuous women; they were also ignorant. Yet at this critical turn in their affairs even they must have spared a thought for the young men they must have known in their own youth, and wondered exactly why these young men had not stayed long enough to help them. They would not have imputed blame. But they may have thought, with puzzlement rather than with anger, that their lives should have taken a different direction, that they had ignored certain promptings which should have been addressed, and that the piety of their home rested on shaky foundations, that their father might have been responsible for their celibacy, that such bewildering ideas no longer had any justification, but that they had been brought to the forefront of their minds by the prospect of a long night, and perhaps even longer days to follow, in which they would no longer be two devoted sisters but an invalid and her nurse.

  In fact the house in Marchmont Street was not as careworn as I had feared. It was dark, certainly, but comfortable; the room into which I was ushered seemed to contain armchairs and cushions and even a television. Hester was seated against several of the cushions in the largest of the chairs.

  ‘Shouldn’t you be in bed?’ I asked.

  ‘She says she feels easier sitting up,’ said Muriel. ‘But there’s the matter of undressing her. We haven’t thought that through yet.’

  ‘I shall sleep in the chair tonight,’ said Hester. ‘In any event I shall be better in the morning. They gave me a pill. I think it may have made me a little drowsy.’

  She looked as though she were passing from one life to the next, but at least she had not been kept in the hospital. I could now see that this would have broken her spirit, although I had cravenly wished it earlier.

  ‘Claire has brought some fruit,’ said Muriel, clearing her throat. ‘Do you think you could eat a peach?’

  ‘Don’t worry about the shop,’ I told her. ‘I know what to do. And I sold a book this afternoon …’

  ‘Which one?’

  ‘Chinese enamels?’

  ‘Oh, good. It was rather expensive. And I was hoping to look through it. Well done, Claire. You’ll be there tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Of course I will. You’ve no need to worry.’ Glancing at Hester I saw that she had every need. ‘And I can do your shopping for you. You’ll have to eat. I’ll come round in the evenings, shall I? Then you can tell me what you need for the following day.’

  ‘It was Hester who looked after that side of things,’ said Muriel. ‘I’m not sure how we’ll manage.’

  ‘Marks and Spencers.’

  ‘Too extravagant, Claire. And we eat very simply.’ I ignored this, as perhaps she intended me to.

  I could see that Hester was keeping her eyes open only with an effort, so, after some hesitation, I kissed her and followed Muriel out of the room. Now the real discussion would take place.

  ‘You see what this means, Claire?’ said Muriel.

  ‘It means you can’t leave her alone for a week or two,’ I supplied.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘You could get a nurse,’ I suggested. ‘Yellow Pages …’

  ‘Oh, no, I shall look after her myself. We have always been together, you see. I could not leave her in the hands of a stranger.’

  ‘It won’t be for long,’ I lied. ‘And I’ll come round in the evenings to let you know how things are going.’

  ‘You mentioned Marks and Spencers …’

  ‘I’ll see to that too. Now I suggest you both settle down for the evening. It’s been a worrying day.’

  I heard my new robust voice with some surprise. So did Muriel, who smiled faintly. I realized that I had been presuming, both on my own age and on Muriel’s seniority, and stopped in some confusion. Muriel was more forbearing, and thanked me for my help. Yet when the door closed behind me I felt embarrassed.

  I have to say that the following few days were delightful. I had been reprieved from unemployment. I sold a complete set of Batsford volumes, complete with dust jackets, and marked down all the review copies to half price. This was reckless and unprincipled but as they sold quickly I reckoned the enterprise had paid off. I was quite happy. The Colliers dined on poached salmon and haddock Mornay, and I sometimes ate with them. I felt competent, able to manage life. I was not at all surprised when one morning Martin Gibson appeared in the doorway. ‘Give it a push,’ I mimed. Then I sat him down, and made coffee, and concentrated on his well-being. And on mine, of course. But I can always be trusted to do that.

  Ten

  The summer, which had started so late and so uncertainly, became uncertain all over again, after a few misleadingly fine days. The glorious light dimmed; rain sprinkled down every afternoon, or so it seemed. When I walked home in the evenings there was a smell of damp, mingled with the scent of buddleia, which flourished even in the centre of town. Yet it was still summer, though it seemed as though autumn were only a few days away. The nights were more convincing than the days. It got dark very late, so that I was reluctant to go to bed, although I was tired after a day in the shop. And when I woke, at three or at the most four, there was a stealthy secretive light in the bedroom, as if night had never truly fallen. The light broadened into a brief spell of sunshine, so that I ate breakfast in the promise of a fine day. When I left for the shop the sun was already obscured by the sort of generalized cloud that never truly dispersed. It was only at night that I was reminded that the invisible sun was at its zenith. The fact that I could not see it made it seem paradoxically more powerful, as if it knew its timetable, irrespective of what was demanded of it.

  I was happy in the shop. When the door opened I looked up to see whether it was Martin who entered or just another customer, usually the latter. I could count his visits on the fingers of one hand: there had been precisely two, yet during those two visits he had made no pretence of looking for a book. He was there, he would have said, to express an entirely useless gratitude, thoug
h I had done nothing and now looked back impatiently to those curious visits. In fact he was there to talk about Cynthia—one subject leading quite naturally to the other—and it struck me most forcibly that he was talking to himself. I listened, of course, with every expression of interest. In fact I was interested in a way, although it was not a subject on which I thought he should dwell. But it was one he could not seem to leave alone, as though it was his sole reason for talking at all. It troubled him; that was obvious. It was as though he sought to banish the reluctance of those latter days, when his wife had been so restricted, with memories of a happier time. Yet I, listening carefully, could discern only the ruefulness, and an effort to retrieve memories which, though faithful, seemed to disturb him. His life had taken a wrong turning, and poor Cynthia was the cause of this.

  ‘She was so beautiful,’ he would say repeatedly, and I would concur: yes, she was beautiful.

  ‘But you didn’t see her at her best,’ he would protest. ‘When I met her I thought I had never really looked at a woman before. She was so feminine, had such an awareness of me!’

  This I could see had been the attraction for a shy and no doubt inhibited man: the luxuriant promise of care. He would not have seen the entirely innocent calculation behind such a display. Living alone, and working hard, he would have been impressed by the delighted exclamations that greeted him, would have succumbed gratefully to the lavish welcome of the parents, whose plans were already laid. They had been the astute ones. They were prepared to annexe him, knowing him to be inexperienced, and determined to give their daughter yet another present. And he would have seemed a suitable gift, his noble blond looks an invitation to some sort of takeover. He had probably never eaten so well as he did at that parental table, had never known such vigilance with regard to his tastes, his appreciation. Had he been another sort of man he would have been aware that what he had found was not a wife but a family, the complete antithesis of the only family he had ever known: lavish, sentimental, indulgent… That was how Cynthia would have made her mark, promising more of the same, for life.