Fraud

by Anita Brookner

  ‘What about your daughter?’ she heard Halliday say. ‘Couldn’t you go and stay with her for a bit?’

  Well, she could, of course, if Philippa would have her, but there was no reason why Philippa should not have her. She appeared to live contentedly in her little house, and if she wanted company could find it in that art appreciation class she went to once a week. It might be restful, in these fine days, to sit in Philippa’s garden, to have a cup of morning tea brought to her, to get in the car and drive, with Philippa, and the children, if they could spare the time, to Blakeney for the weekend. Or weekends. There was no need for her to hurry back to London. Mrs Duncan was about to leave, and there would be all the bother of finding someone new; hopeless, she thought, before the holiday season. Mrs Duncan had offered to find her a replacement, but she might forget. She made a mental note to remind her. And she must give her a leaving present. Money would be best: she could hand it over and go to Norwich, thus being spared the final farewells. In any event Mrs Duncan’s mind was no longer on her work. As recently as the previous week she had shown up in a very smart brown silk suit, which Mrs Marsh thought seemed vaguely familiar, though hardly practical. She decided to give her a substantial present, thus ensuring her goodwill in the matter of organizing her successor. ‘A friend of mine might help you out,’ she had said. ‘Her husband keeps her very short. Only she won’t be free before September.’ Mrs Marsh placed no faith in this promise, but took the woman’s telephone number. She was rather relieved at the prospect of being out of Mrs Duncan’s way, while she completed her duties. Norwich would thus fit in very well.

  ‘I might go to my daughter for a bit,’ she conceded.

  ‘Good idea,’ said Halliday. And so it was decided.

  She travelled down in her car at a stately pace, arriving, conveniently, she thought, in time for tea. Philippa had no help in the house, but then, thought Mrs Marsh, I do not make much in the way of work. She was not inclined to help, indeed looked forward almost childishly to something of a holiday, since it had been decreed by Halliday that she needed one. She did not see that she would be imposing in any way, for Philippa had expressed readiness to welcome her, and in fact had never been known to express anything else. A good daughter, Mrs Marsh had decided, and a contented sort of person. She was only fleetingly aware that she considered her daughter to be very slightly boring. She had not, in Mrs Marsh’s opinion, done well for herself. Her early marriage had not exactly displeased her parents but had not thrilled them either. They had thought that she was aiming too low: Mark worked in a bank, and despite their obvious fondness for one another, Philippa’s parents had thought she might have waited until someone more suitable had come along. After all, Bill Marsh was a real banker; he could not help regarding the marriage as something of a mésalliance, although Mark was not a humble cashier but a securities officer. But Philippa was his favourite child, and he forced himself to be amiable to Mark Barnard, whose parents, fortunately, lived a long way from London. They had come up from Devon for the wedding, and had appeared ill at ease. Mr and Mrs Marsh saw no reason to keep in touch, although Philippa, dear girl that she was, insisted on visiting them from time to time. And they had got used to Mark, a kindly though rather girlish-looking young man, who seemed devoted to their daughter. They were an odd couple: Philippa so sturdy, with her burning bush of hair and her high colour, and Mark, so slight and so hesitant. They were obviously happy, which was really, they agreed, all that mattered.

  When Mark took up his position in the bank in Norwich Bill had bought them a house, and it was towards this house, where Philippa had remained after Mark’s early death, that Mrs Marsh now directed her thoughts. She had expected Philippa to sell up and move back to London, but Philippa had protested that she could not leave her garden. This garden Mrs Marsh now proposed to enjoy. It was pleasant to leave London behind, and she was ready to concede that Philippa had made a wise decision. But she had always been a sensible girl, and with her help Mark had worked steadily up the ladder and had eventually become manager of his branch. That was when they had bought the cottage at Blakeney, where all holidays were spent when the children were little. Mrs Marsh thought this very dull of them, and marvelled at how provincial Philippa had become after her expensive education, and her three months each in Paris and Florence, but she was told that Mark was a keen bird watcher, and that the children never wanted to go anywhere but Blakeney. The place had charm, and Mark had looked a little more impressive in a waxed jacket, with binoculars round his neck. And then to die so young! An attack of flu, which turned into a particularly virulent form of pneumonia: he was dead at forty-two. Philippa had been stoical, had shed few tears. Only her bright habitually puzzled air had deserted her, to be replaced by a sombre withdrawn expression, which only tightened into a smile when she thought she was being watched.

  She had remained unspoilt, Mrs Marsh believed. The children had grown up without problems, and were now gainfully employed, though not married. Philippa herself had never married again. That had been a cause for some concern, although she never complained, and never exhibited the restlessness which might have beset a woman who had been unpartnered for too long. But then she had had that excellent education, and her breeding was suitably inconspicuous, and all the more attractive in that she was so unselfconscious. Mrs Marsh supposed that she had friends, kept in touch with current events, made quite a decent life for herself. She had even wondered whether there might be a second marriage, some time in the future. Philippa had changed slightly, or perhaps she was simply getting older: it had occurred to her mother that Philippa might have a suitor. There had been one or two evenings at Covent Garden which had not been satisfactorily explained, or rather for which explanations had not been forthcoming. Mrs Marsh thought in terms of someone elderly, retired, who would care for Philippa, and who would, perhaps, be more suitable than poor Mark. She would make a point of getting on good terms with him, for she had no doubt that Philippa would take advantage of her visit to produce the suitor, as she thought of him, for her mother’s approval. There was no hurry, of course. The beauty of a mature courtship was that it could be pursued at leisure.

  Mrs Marsh half hoped that this nebulous courtship might go on in a pleasantly unresolved fashion for some years. Although she sincerely wished for her daughter’s happiness she was not anxious to see too many changes in her lifetime. Besides, she thought, it should be the grandchildren who got married first. Once they were both settled Philippa could do as she pleased. Mrs Marsh knew that Philippa could be relied upon to do the correct thing, and did not think she was being selfish in wanting to keep her daughter as she had always been: cheerful and obedient and unselfish. I never told her that I loved her, she thought, but then there was no need. She had always assumed that love was all around her: that was her greatest gift. That was her gift to her father, her husband; neither had ever had cause to doubt her. Growing older she had gained a dignity which had hitherto escaped her. Mrs Marsh saw her now, at the window, watching out for the car, and marvelled at the seriousness of her expression. A trick of the brilliant light, perhaps, had made her look almost stern, even careworn. My child, thought Mrs Marsh, and hobbled up the path. She had brought her stick with her; she was taking no chances.

  ‘Well, Mother,’ said Philippa, leaning forward to kiss her. ‘Good journey?’

  ‘Excellent, thank you.’ Mrs Marsh looked round the pretty room with satisfaction. Philippa’s taste was entirely conventional: faded chintz and Staffordshire figures, watercolours which she had picked up locally, and a small but rather fine brass fender. Everything gleamed.

  ‘Would you like to wash? Or shall we have tea straight away? The kettle’s boiling.’

  ‘Oh, tea,’ said Mrs Marsh, settling herself in the large wing chair which had been Mark’s. This was better than the flat in London, she thought. These radiant days should be spent in gardens, or near the sea. She thought with pity of her circumscribed days; she was not anxious to go back to
them.

  ‘Can you put up with me for a bit?’ she asked. ‘I’ve had rather a bad winter, on the whole. It was the doctor who suggested that I come down here. If it’s not inconvenient,’ she added.

  ‘Of course, stay as long as you like,’ said Philippa, busying herself with the hot water jug. Mrs Marsh thought her tone preoccupied, and was very slightly offended. Her enthusiastic rediscovery of her daughter’s virtues appeared to have been mistimed. But then she thought that she was being unjust. Philippa had always been so humble! Who was she to blame her if she had at last grown up? She thought that she saw her daughter’s glance steal towards the telephone, but it did not ring. Perhaps she had told the suitor that her mother was coming to stay. Well, I shall be very pleased to meet him, she thought, finishing her tea. I hope I know how to be civil. No-one has ever had cause to complain on that score.

  Scrutinizing Philippa over dinner, she thought that she had lost weight, quite a lot of weight. That was what made her look so serious. At last she looked like a woman, whereas before she had always looked like a girl. She had had her bush of hair tamed, and even wore make-up, which she had always previously disdained. She was now an attractive woman. She had always been a good cook, an excellent housekeeper. And she had her own money. All in all a first-class wife for any man.

  ‘If you want to go up to London,’ she told her, ‘I’m perfectly all right here on my own.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Mother. I don’t want to go to London. You do remember that I’m going to Paris in the autumn, don’t you? With my art group. I told you about it.’

  ‘Good Heavens, I shall be gone by then. I only meant to stay a week or two, perhaps come back in the summer. Would that be all right, dear?’

  ‘Of course, Mother.’ Philippa’s tone was neutral. ‘Stay as long as you like.’

  Mrs Marsh, waking the following morning beneath the plump flowered eiderdown, was as happy as a girl. Philippa had put a tray in her room, and an electric kettle. Mrs Marsh, like many old people, woke early, and frequently made a cup of tea at half-past five. It was good to get out of the brown gloom of her flat. Here she had a garden outside her window, and later she would sit on the little terrace and read The Times. She might go shopping with Philippa; she would certainly take a nap in the afternoon. There was no need to hurry back to London. She must have dozed off after formulating this plan, for the next thing she knew was that Philippa had summoned her to breakfast.

  The days that followed were infinitely pleasant. She sat on the terrace, conscientiously reading her way through Philippa’s small library, and was summoned in to lunch, to tea. After a while she took no notice of Philippa, who was often absent. Of the suitor there was no sign. Twice, when she could no longer avoid doing so, she drove back to London, glanced through her letters, paid any bills, stayed the night, and drove back to Norwich. On these occasions Philippa was able to entertain her lover, Paul Whitaker, and to reassure him that her mother would eventually be gone for good. She hated the deception, but Paul, in his jeans and his open-necked shirt, was not the sort of man to please her mother. He was too young, for one thing. Her mother would be prepared to accept a man of sixty, but not one of fifty, wearing a wedding-ring. He would simply be declared out of order, as Philippa sometimes thought he should be. The whole thing made her sick with worry. Adultery was a grave and terrible matter to her. It enthralled her, excited her, but she sometimes thought she had not really taken to it.

  As the radiant summer turned into autumn Mrs Marsh decided regretfully that the time had come for her to leave. There was the new cleaning woman to be interviewed; there were matters to be settled before the days grew shorter, when the long winter siege would begin. Already the evenings were dark, and the nights colder. She found it difficult to believe that she had been away for so long.

  ‘Goodbye, my dear. Thank you for everything.’

  ‘You’ll telephone me at the usual time?’

  ‘Of course.’

  But when Mrs Marsh telephoned it was to say that the police had been round. Apparently Anna Durrant had disappeared. Halliday had got in touch with them.

  ‘What an extraordinary thing.’

  ‘Of course, it’s all nonsense. She’s probably on holiday somewhere. To tell you the truth I hadn’t given her a thought. I suppose I should have kept in touch. Oh well, I’m sure she’ll turn up. Everything all right at your end? Good. Well, enjoy Paris.’

  As Paul Whitaker was leading his art appreciation group round the Louvre Philippa discovered that she was not paying attention, which seemed to her disloyal. She really only wanted to be alone in a hotel room, knowing that Paul would find her. But she was afraid that this would be difficult: the hotel had been booked by the group some time ago, and although she had managed to get a room to herself, whereas others were having to share, she doubted whether Paul would take risks, the risk of being seen, the risk of being talked about: the risk of the talk reaching his wife, whom Philippa knew. She made a sign to Paul, who had been discoursing on Mantegna, and who now fell back.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said. ‘I’ve had enough. The Flore in half an hour. All right?’

  It was a relief to leave the great oppressive building, to walk over the Pont des Arts and up the rue Bonaparte, a relief to sit down in the blessed blue dusk and order a cup of coffee.

  ‘Hallo, Philippa,’ said a voice.

  She glanced round in surprise, to see a woman in a beautifully cut tan suit, who apparently knew her, at an adjoining table.

  ‘May I join you? You don’t remember me, I see. It’s Anna, Anna Durrant.’

  ‘Anna,’ said Philippa slowly. ‘Does anyone know you’re here? Only I believe you’ve been missed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure that’s an exaggeration,’ said Anna, sitting down.

  ‘It’s true. Someone got in touch with the police, when you hadn’t been seen for a while. I think Mother said it was Halliday.’

  Anna laughed.

  ‘Why are you laughing?’ asked Philippa.

  ‘But I’ve been here all the time,’ said Anna. ‘And I do find it rather odd that people should notice my absence. I made so little impression when I was actually present. Tell them where I am, by all means. Though it’s hardly relevant now.’

  ‘Have you run away? Were you unhappy? Did something upset you?’

  ‘Do you know, Philippa, no-one has ever asked me those questions before. I was thought to be too obscure to need them.’

  ‘I’m sure Mother was very fond of you.’

  ‘No, not really. I was useful to her, and of course I will be again, if she needs me. But let’s be accurate. Inaccuracy is a form of misrepresentation, and I’ve done with that.’

  ‘We thought you were quite happy.’

  ‘Oh, did you? You see, I had become what people wanted me to be, without their ever asking me what I myself would have wanted. I decided not to be that person any more.’

  ‘What a fraud you are, Anna,’ said Philippa uneasily.

  ‘But there are many kinds of fraud, not all of them criminal. I rather think I have stopped being one, a fraud, I mean. Fraud was what was perpetrated on me by the expectations of others. They fashioned me in their own image, according to their needs. Fraud, in that sense, is alarmingly prevalent. And not only between the sexes. In the end I decided to escape.’

  ‘What have you been doing? Since you escaped?’

  ‘I’ve been here. I’ve been living in my friend Marie-France’s flat while she and her father spend the summer at their house in Meaux. They’re in Montpellier at the moment. When they come back I’ll find a place of my own. I rather like the feeling of being temporary. I might live in an hotel until I find what I want.’

  ‘Won’t you come home?’

  ‘Home?’ She laughed again. ‘You mean, go back to London? Yes, of course, eventually. After Christmas, perhaps. At Christmas I shall go south.’

  ‘How will you live?’ asked Philippa gently.

  ‘I’m going into busin
ess. I’m going to design clothes. Women of my age will always want decent clothes. Not everyone wants to be in the fashion, particularly if it looks absurd. That’s what I’ve been doing, designing clothes for Marie-France. She’s getting married; her father has given in. They’ll have to live with him, of course. The power of the parent—don’t you feel it?’

  ‘Yes,’ sighed Philippa, who had her mother in mind.

  ‘Don’t be too obedient,’ said Anna. ‘Don’t be like me. I believed my mother, who told me I’d be happy in due course, that the best things in life are worth waiting for. And I waited. That was the fraud, the confidence trick; that was the original fraud. All the others followed from there. I blame no-one, only myself. I shouldn’t have been so credulous, nourishing my hopes in secret. I went along with it, I suppose. I thought it was the well-behaved thing to do. And one deception prepared me for all the others.’ She paused. ‘You say it was Halliday who contacted the police?’

  ‘Yes. So Mother said.’

  They were both silent.

  ‘I hope you’ll be happy, Philippa. But be happy now; the future is unreliable. There’s a man, isn’t there?’

  Philippa nodded, feeling the sudden tears sting her eyes.

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes. I thought I was happy,’ she burst out. ‘He made me feel happy. But really I can only go on being happy if I’m married. I’ve only ever been married in my life.’

  ‘He should see that, if he’s fond of you. If not, he doesn’t know you at all. Or won’t see. In which case it’s another kind of fraud.’

  Philippa looked at her, perplexed.

  ‘You’re not as I remember you.’

  ‘How was that?’

  ‘You were, well, so self-sufficient.’

  ‘I am now. I’ve grown up at last. Do you know how long it takes some of us? And now I’m free. Free of the old self. Free of expectations.’