Lewis Percy

by Anita Brookner

  For Tissy, appreciation of status and possessions constituted happiness, or rather represented it. Not for her the flight or the aspiration: she could not feel safe unless tied to the earth, her feet literally on the ground. How many times she had repudiated him, deflated him! She was at one with her mother there, although she lacked her mother’s generalized hostility, just as she lacked her mother’s vicious prettiness. He realized that his wife considered him to be a specimen of an unfortunate but necessary race, and that, far from there being any personal charge in this, she had absorbed the attitude from her earliest years, environmentally. The shambling doctor had not been cast in a mould heroic enough to break the spell; his failure to do so must be added to his other vices. Tissy had in fact done sterling work in purging herself of cruelty, hatred, and the desire for revenge that such an attitude might have fostered, but in this work of abnegation, of studious refusal to take sides, to accuse or to blame, she had rendered herself inert, colourless, without ardour. Lewis knew that she trusted him because he had never hurt her, had treated her gently, had loved her. For this she was willing to do her best, to play her part. He realized that they might have kept this bargain for life, faithfully but joylessly. It took something as minor as this announcement that he had invited a friend to dinner to shock her out of her lethargy, the lethargy which she found so necessary. When he saw her expression of fear he knew the extent of her malady.

  ‘You must ask your mother to help you,’ he said gently, releasing her. ‘She will tell you what to do. And it will be nice to use those Crown Derby plates for once.’

  On this level she was at one with him, although he knew that she preferred to enjoy their possessions on her own. Passing him a plate of food, she would be visibly waiting for him to hand it back again, so that she could wash it and put it away and close the cupboard door on it. For once she was going to have to share her belongings, and to do so not merely with a good grace but with a good heart. He saw that this might be too much for her, as it was nearly too much for him to have to watch her. Yet he felt that the test was timely; more, that it was crucial. The dinner party was almost lost from sight. He winced with disbelief when he remembered it. As an occasion for pleasure it was already doomed. He began to dread it almost as much as his wife seemed to do.

  Contrary to all reasonable expectations it was his mother-in-law who saved the day. Along with her general implacability and her spoiled expectations, Mrs Harper possessed a certain taste for splendour which her life had refused to gratify. The Belgian convent had left her with a sense of formality with regard to the preparation and presentation of food which Lewis found commendable and impressive. He was always loud and genuine in his praise when he and his wife dined with Mrs Harper, although he suspected that there was something unresolved in her attitude to her own cooking: enormous appetite had to be masked by enormous indifference. Translated, this meant that Mrs Harper would serve them a perfect leg of lamb with flageolet beans, and watch them, smoking, while they ate it, dousing her cigarette only to bring in the salad, the cheese, and the melting almond flan to finish. This effort at self-domination would exhaust her. ‘Tissy, make the coffee,’ she would sigh. ‘But you’ve eaten nothing, Thea,’ Lewis would protest. ‘The cook eats all the time,’ Mrs Harper would tell him with her usual reluctant smile. ‘That’s why she never sits down to dinner. Did you enjoy it?’ Even this query would be ground out of her, an unwilling concession to the male appetite. ‘Superb,’ Lewis would say. ‘I’ve never eaten so well in my life as I do here.’ The smile would be repeated, only to sink away into the usual mask of imperturbability. Another cigarette would be lit and the case would be closed.

  On this occasion Mrs Harper decreed a menu of spinach soufflé, roast poussins, and her almond tart. There would be salad and cheese; Lewis would choose the wine. He considered this excessive, but decided not to interfere. The question of whether Mrs Harper would join them was settled by Mrs Harper herself, who wished her daughter to take credit for the entire performance. Mrs Harper would remain in the kitchen until the chickens were served and then invisibly take her leave. Lewis saw this as generosity, even nobility on her part: his mother-in-law and not his wife would be the heroine of this occasion. On the Saturday afternoon he stood respectfully in the doorway of his kitchen, where Mrs Harper, plump elbows flashing, was already directing operations, emptying cupboards of china and glass, assembling pans and kitchen cloths. Under her mother’s supervision Tissy docilely laid the table, and then went upstairs to have a rest. Lewis, unequal to the task of instructing his wife in her duties, went out, ostensibly to buy the wine, in fact to get away from Tissy. His mother-in-law, he was surprised to note, was, in her present mood, entirely tolerable.

  Nevertheless he breathed the rainy spring air with a sense of relief, feeling the burden of his marriage lighten somewhat in the general lightness of the atmosphere. Narcissi, iris, and tulips stood in buckets outside the greengrocer’s, and he bought lavishly of each of them, inhaling their cool earthy delicacy. He walked a little way, with his armful of flowers, feeling fatalistic, as if any further worrying must be done by somebody else. He had no desire to go home. He was not sure whether he would ever want to go home again. Left to himself he might have slipped away, unnoticed. But so much drew him back, so many possessions, so many accoutrements, and his wife palely presiding over all. Both host and guest in his own house, Lewis no longer felt at home there. He loitered, drifted, strolled in the weak sunshine, nodding to neighbours whom he rarely saw, until consciousness of the tasks ahead returned him to himself. Then, as the light began to fade and the coolness of the day became more noticeable, he sighed and went home to have his bath.

  In another part of London, Pen told his sister, in a moderate tone of voice, ‘Tissy, I believe, is a little nervous.’ ‘Oh Lor’,’ his sister replied. ‘Then I suppose I’d better play the fool.’ Nevertheless she dressed with her usual extravagance in a garment brought home by her from Mexico, with much Mexican turquoise jewellery. Holding the material of her dress away from her body, she tipped her usual half-bottle of mimosa cologne into the well of her bosom. Disdaining a bag, she tucked a handkerchief into her brother’s pocket and urged him to hurry. ‘The sooner we go, the sooner we can come back,’ she said. ‘Be kind, Emmy,’ said Pen. ‘Lewis is my friend.’ ‘Oh, I am always kind,’ she threw out contemptuously, already on her way to the door. Pen said nothing, although he knew that this was not altogether true.

  Pushed forward to receive her guests, Tissy appeared calm, even uninterested, although Lewis knew that under the pink blouse her heart was beating painfully.

  ‘Well, Tissy,’ said Pen, kissing her on both cheeks. ‘This is nice of you. And it’s good to see you again, looking so well, too.’

  Lewis poured champagne for them all into the beautiful glass flutes his wife had found in the attic. While Pen engaged Tissy in gentle conversation, guaranteed not to discompose her, Lewis studied Emmy, admiring her long brown hair, her round face, and the rosy stain of her cheeks.

  ‘I hear you’re looking for a flat,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I’ve found one,’ she replied. ‘Near to Pen. Isn’t that lucky? Tissy,’ she called. ‘You must help me furnish my flat. I’m hopeless at that sort of thing. And you’ve done wonders here. I love this room.’ But she was looking at Lewis as she spoke.

  ‘What is that marvellous scent?’ he asked, inhaling.

  ‘Mimosa.’ She pulled down the front of her dress and took a deep breath. ‘It’s good, isn’t it? A boyfriend brings it for me from Tahiti.’

  A boyfriend, he noted. Not my boyfriend. He filed the information away for future investigation, then went over to his wife and put his arm round her waist. ‘Shall we eat, darling? Bring your champagne,’ he called to Emmy. ‘Will you have some more? There’s only a perfectly ordinary white wine to follow.’

  He stood while she rose, admired her long waist and legs. Beside her Tissy looked like a child. Yet at that moment he felt a pain
ful wave of love for his wife, whose weakness he so clearly felt. He would defend her to the death, he thought, not knowing why he felt her to be under threat. He took her hand, willing her to enjoy herself, but merely registered the extent of her nervousness. Her peculiar gift, he reflected, was to turn pleasure into mere absence of pain. Sometimes this worked. On a domestic level it ensured calm and order. But there was a defensiveness that militated against high emotion. Not that high emotion was called for on this occasion. But Lewis wished that something a little more active than her usual manner could be demonstrated. She had refused champagne, saying that it gave her a headache. He knew that she would refuse the wine as well.

  The perfectly risen soufflé awaited them on the dining-room table, as if by magic. Emmy ate enthusiastically; at one point a large Mexican ear-ring fell with a clatter on to her side plate. She looked at it indifferently, and then removed the other one. ‘This always happens,’ she said. ‘I’ve left ear-rings all over London. Put them in your pocket, Pen, I haven’t got a bag. Evening bags are so goody-goody, aren’t they? Don’t lean back, you’ll crush them to fragments. Have I said something funny?’ she said, surprised, catching Lewis’s grin. ‘Yes, I’d adore some more, if there is any. Gosh, Tissy, you must give me lessons. My cooking is nowhere up to this standard.’

  At this point the figure of Mrs Harper was to be seen crossing the hall. The peculiar showiness of her gait had not diminished since the first time Lewis had seen her stroll out of the library, her daughter on her arm. Age had, if anything, increased it, made it heavier. She was slower now, more elaborate, more declamatory. At some point in her girlhood she must have expected roomfuls to rise at her entrance. There was still something of the proud beauty about her, but spoilt now, diminished, disappointed.

  ‘Oh, look,’ exclaimed Emmy. ‘Your cook’s just leaving. Do stop her. We must tell her how good this is.’

  ‘It’s my mother,’ said Tissy, tonelessly.

  ‘Thea,’ called Lewis. ‘Come and join us. This food is wonderful. My mother-in-law is a brilliant cook,’ he explained to Emmy.

  ‘I’ll say she is,’ said Emmy, ‘Oh, do come in, darling, and tell us how to make this heavenly stuff. Pen is getting so tired of beans on toast.’

  Pen poured Mrs Harper a glass of champagne, which she drank with her normal lack of pleasure. Lewis sensed that she was tempted to stay, and would have done so were it not for her daughter’s honour. Suddenly he felt entirely relaxed. But, ‘Enjoy your meal,’ said Mrs Harper, as soon as her glass was empty.

  ‘If you stay I can walk you home,’ Lewis urged, but she was determined to go. ‘Nice to have met you,’ she said to Pen. ‘We’ve heard a lot about you.’ Pen lifted his glass to her. Emmy blew her a kiss. All the while Tissy sat immobile, a faint pink colouring her cheeks.

  The four roast poussins nestled in a deep bed of parsley-speckled greenish rice. Their arrival was greeted with a cheer. As Tissy lowered the heavy platter on to the table Lewis reached for Emmy’s plate. Between two silver spoons a poussin slipped inexorably downwards, landing on the tablecloth. The platter was abruptly relinquished, a chair pushed back. ‘Look, darling,’ said Emmy busily, wiping a fleck of rice from her cheek, as Tissy burst into tears. ‘I do this all the time. At least it didn’t land on the floor.’ She appeared to think of this as an extenuating circumstance. Lewis took a deep draught of wine. Emmy ladled the chickens untidily on to their plates, went round to Tissy, and put her arms around her. ‘It’s your tiny wrists you ought to blame. Look at mine! Like a navvy’s! Don’t let it get cold, it looks too delicious. There’s a good girl.’ She wiped Tissy’s cheeks, went back to her chair, and ate, again enthusiastically. ‘Nothing is better than food,’ she pronounced beatifically. ‘Not even sex. Well, not all the time.’ Pen groaned and shook his head. ‘I must ring your mother and ask her how she cooked these. You are lucky, Lewis. When I think what we put up with at home.’

  Suddenly Lewis felt reckless. Destiny stared him in the face; he knew it must be resisted, but he thought he might offer himself a few moments of reprieve.

  ‘Dear old thing,’ said Emmy. ‘You’ve done us proud. I shall have to lose weight before I go on camera.’

  ‘I’ve seen you on television,’ offered Tissy.

  ‘You’ll see more of me in the autumn,’ said Emmy. ‘Oh, this tart! Divine!’ Her fork poised in mid-air, she closed her eyes in ecstasy. ‘It’s only a small part but we’re shooting it in France. Near Dijon. More lovely food. Well, lovely everything.’ Her face took on a look of sly reminiscence: she seemed older, greedier. She was not young, Lewis thought; about his own age, thirtyish, a little more. She was not slim, careful, elegant, virginal. She was the opposite of all those things, very much the opposite. He was surprised to find himself evaluating her in this way, and wondered mildly at the brutality of his thoughts. Even his fantasies, it seemed, must always be censored. Besides, he told himself, he did not appreciate this sort of carelessness in a woman. He was, for better or worse, attuned to something in his wife’s mould, even if not always to his wife. He watched Emmy covertly, as her face loosened, coarsened. Then he looked at Tissy, who, under Pen’s gentle tutelage, was now talking prettily and happily.

  ‘Coffee, darling?’ he said, feeling once more well-disposed, benevolent, but also guilty.

  ‘Of course,’ said Tissy. ‘Coffee, everyone? Would you like to go into the other room?’

  It was at this point, hearing his wife utter these appropriately wifely sentences, that Lewis realized that the evening had been a complete success.

  ‘You did very well,’ he said, later in bed, meaning it, but stifling a yawn as he said the words. ‘Did you enjoy it?’

  There was no answer. He knew she was not asleep.

  ‘You like Pen, don’t you?’ A silent nod, in the dark.

  ‘And Emmy? Did you like Emmy?’

  There was a long pause, so long that he wondered if she had gone to sleep. He felt his consciousness drifting. ‘Tissy?’ he said, coming to himself with a jerk. There was another long pause, this time apparently definitive. Suddenly Tissy turned over violently, presenting her back to him. He knew what that meant.

  ‘I thought she was rather rude,’ she said.

  9

  ‘Peace, Lewis,’ said Goldsborough, raising a pontifical hand.

  ‘Good morning,’ Lewis replied.

  This new airy yet solemn version of Goldsborough made him feel staid, impossibly old hat. What was his excuse for not joining in what Goldsborough referred to as the ‘effervescence’? The trouble was that it had reached the library rather late, too late for any sustaining ideology, and Goldsborough, now wearing a flat black leather cap, was forced to preside over empty desks and only rare disruptions. These, however, were enough to rejuvenate him. The new criticism had been cast aside, and the hapless artists and their letters temporarily discarded. It was the sociology of television that now claimed his attention, his devotion, even. He saw a brilliant future for himself at very little capital outlay: when not watching television he could be on it. He had jettisoned dignity as being of little use to him in these exciting times; voluptuously he threw in his lot with the lowest common denominator. And who better to deal with the culture of the masses than the universal man he knew himself to be? Life, to Goldsborough, was infinitely more genial once he had abandoned his hard-won academic solitude. Like a man who has been on a stringent diet for too long he surrendered himself to popular entertainment, popular music, popular food, popular beer. He had found a new use for deconstruction. Best of all, he had rediscovered the simple pleasures of his adolescence, of that time before he had learned to strive and to discriminate. ‘Identifying’ was how he thought of this process, as if he were on an eminence which permitted him to view the world with enormous yet enlightened sympathy. Tucking into a manly meat pie and chips in the canteen, he was assured not only of solidarity, not only of pioneering a new study, but of the satisfaction of appetites he had discarded with his naïve and
hopeful boyhood. He characterized this feeling as ‘relevance’. Sometimes, to distinguish himself from his material, he would smoke an articulated futurist chromium pipe. This he confined to his leisure hours, in the pub. Inside the library he felt he was taking on a new intellectual lustre. At lunchtime he could address himself to the further delights of jam roll and custard with a clear conscience.

  Lewis was aware of the effervescence only in the form of odd-smelling cigarette smoke in the corridors, and on one occasion in the open doorway of the library itself. His own anger, once he had traced the stale vanillic odour to its source, astonished him, as did the vigour with which he seized the offender’s arm in one suddenly giant hand. Manhandling him out into the corridor, he listened grimly to the man’s whining protest.

  ‘Jesus, man, this is 1970.’

  ‘Too late,’ said Lewis, tight-lipped. ‘You missed the bus in 1968. And probably before that too. Nobody smokes near the books. Is that clear? Only barbarians smoke in libraries. The last person to misbehave in a library was Attila the Hun.’

  The power of his feeling was both surprising and puzzling to him, since of recent weeks he had been aware only of a vast and almost terminal calm. He was inclined to shrug mentally at the damping down of his hopes, thinking this to be consonant with maturity, or if not with maturity then with growing older. Yet his dreams told him of his disappointment, and even of his displacement into an alien environment. Lying there in the dark, beside a wife who was no more distant in sleep than she was when she was awake, helpless with the need to protect her and to instruct her, he longed for freedom. On one occasion he dreamed that he had risen up in the bed and flown, hands clasped, out of the window, like a soul escaping from the body, leaving his inert physical envelope next to an undisturbed Tissy. He thought of this on the following day and found it exaggerated. He could not have said that he was unhappy, but equally he could not have said that he was happy. He supposed, mildly, that he would go on as he was, living in the same house, with the same wife, writing his book (which he could not abandon, although he knew it to be finished), but once he had registered this sameness he felt almost faint. He dismissed his reaction as excessive, for his life was comfortable, safe, even pleasant. He arrived at a state of indifference: no harsh words, no protest, no criticism. With this armour he was able to confront and to endure the daily routines of his existence. He sometimes felt in relation to his wife as if he were some honourable but sexless connection – an uncle, a father-in-law – rather than a husband. They made love willingly, but she remained polite, formal. He said nothing, for this was the attitude she preferred. What he preferred he hardly knew any more, so dulled and hazed was he with his self-imposed withdrawal from himself.