A Friend from England

by Anita Brookner

  Dorrie and her sisters turned to her as one. ‘But, darling,’ Dorrie began, only to be interrupted by the aunts. ‘But you always go in the spring, dear,’ and, ‘You love it there. You know you do.’ It was Ann, Sam’s effete wife, who was never quite in tune with the others, who said, ‘Maybe Heather’s got other plans this year.’ This was felt to be something of an intrusion, yet it was clear that no one was to leave the room until the reason for Heather’s curious behaviour had been brought to light. It was again Ann, who always tried so hard and usually so unsuccessfully to keep up with the others, who said, ‘I think Heather’s met someone at last.’

  ‘Yes, I have, actually,’ said Heather indifferently. ‘Any more sherry, Mummy?’

  With a slightly shaking hand, Dorrie poured her daughter a second glass of sherry. Her face expressed both delight and terror. The aunts, on the other hand, were disconcerted. That this should have been accomplished without their intervention did not altogether please them. They thought, I am sure, of those little parties at which Heather had so signally failed to shine and which provided them with secret ammunition against their too successful sister, she who had been so backward in youth that they were accustomed to think of her as in need of their patronage.

  ‘Very nice, dear,’ said Gerald moderately, for he no doubt saw vistas of conversation waiting for him when he got home, spoiling his evening’s television.

  ‘Well, tell us more about him.’ This was Rosemary, Lawrence’s wife, and the more aggressive of the two. Her tone of voice revealed her to be affronted. There was danger in the air, as there always is when mixed motives come to the surface.

  ‘Oh, I dare say you’ll meet him one of these days,’ replied Heather, scoring yet another almost invisible victory. ‘We’d better go, Mummy, if I’m to drop Rachel off.’

  ‘Are you out tonight, dear?’ asked Dorrie. This was still a permitted question, as it was asked every week.

  ‘Yes,’ was all Heather would say.

  And I, who was to be so summarily dropped off, rather than taken home, began to feel a little superfluous. I think I began to see a time when these childish afternoons, the delight of my all too adult life, would no longer include me. There was no reason why they should, after all. I was there by stealth, for by no stretch of the imagination could I now apply to Oscar in any business capacity, although I think he would have been flattered if I had done so. And if I were no longer needed to guide Heather through life, on what pretext could I possibly be expected to accompany her in whatever lay before her? Heather’s future avatars were in no sense dependent on me, as was shown by her performance this afternoon, and the secrecy in which she had matured whatever she had in mind. A part of me – that part of us that never grows up – felt sad, and when I glanced across at Oscar I saw that he felt sad too.

  At first I thought this might be an early recurrence of Oscar’s habitual melancholy, although it rarely came upon him when his family was gathered safely around him and subject to his anxious hospitality. Indeed it was only the sight of those whom he loved, or perhaps, more importantly, of those whom he knew and who knew him, that ever lifted the veil of inwardness from Oscar’s face. That was why he always greeted me so kindly, relieved as he was that someone had arrived to break the spell that seemed to enfold him. And this also explained his mild desire to be of service, even to the extent of going through one’s figures and doing all the boring things that had once claimed his attention all day and every day. It seemed to me that since nobody applied to him in this capacity any longer he might feel more lonely, although he was surrounded by family affection. But now that he was inactive professionally, he may have become more dependent on these ties, as if he felt that only they could sustain him. I do not think that I exaggerate. Oscar was bound to suffer more from the great change that had taken place in his circumstances than Dorrie; chasms may have opened beneath his feet for all I know. I had never thought to ask him such a personal question, assuming the mood to be one of delicate but general rejoicing. Now I was shocked to see his face so drawn, as he looked at his daughter, looked to his wife, and then got up and poured another glass of whisky for Sam, and, exceptionally, another for himself.

  Of course, I knew all about fathers and daughters and what they are supposed to feel for each other. Heather’s lack of ardour in acknowledging the fact that she had met someone may have been inspired by the desire to spare her father embarrassment or discomfort. She was, as I have said, shrewd. Maybe this toneless and passionless announcement was part of her enlightened daughterliness. If so, she was surely to be admired. More than this, she was exemplary, for, by the same token, the aunts had been dealt with and the information made public with commendable lack of excitement. Why then was there not a more general air of happiness? For this great occasion was the fulfilment of everyone’s desires, including, presumably, those of Heather herself. This was what all the anxiety had been about, the little stratagems, the utilization of outside help (myself). I think the prevailing emotion was one of sadness that the status quo had changed, suddenly, without warning, admitting of no participation, and, moreover, that our presence in that house, taken so much for granted, might not be any longer required, for we would soon be dispersed, and another household would claim the attention of Oscar and Dorrie and no doubt their attendance on weekend afternoons.

  It seemed as though after Heather’s announcement all we could do was go home. It had not occurred to me that we should leave so much disappointment behind us. Only Dorrie was happy, the smile on her face eager and without guile. It was she who was the heart of this house, she on whom we all depended. When her attention was withdrawn from us we should all feel bereft. And now she would have much to do, for no one doubted that there would be a marriage. Somehow, in that house, anything less was unthinkable.

  We drove home in relative silence. ‘I’m awfully glad,’ I tried to say, for Heather’s calm and assurance were by now so pronounced that it seemed as if the wedding were imminent. ‘Sweet of you,’ she smiled briefly; the phrase sounded unusually sophisticated for Heather. ‘How did you meet him?’ I pursued. ‘All on my own,’ she said, and grinned suddenly, as if acknowledging that she had always known the plots that were being woven around her. ‘I met him in the travel agent’s when I went to book their tickets to Spain. You’ll meet him next weekend, probably. You won’t mind going down on your own, will you?’

  ‘I shall miss your parents,’ I said, a little timidly. ‘And you too, of course. I have loved knowing you all.’ For I somehow imagined leave-taking to be in order.

  She turned to me with amazement in her face. ‘You mustn’t think of not seeing them,’ she protested. ‘They’re very fond of you. And they’ll want you around more than ever, now that I shan’t be seeing so much of them. And of course I shall want you to come and see me, as soon as I’m settled. You’re part of the family now.’

  I thought that was decent of her. As we drove on I reversed my original estimate of Heather. Perhaps I based my change of heart on the fact that I had never heard her talk so much on one subject before, or so directly. I began to take a mild, comfortably supine interest in a future that would in some measure include myself. In the quiet streets the light had brightened into a weak late sun. A child skipped along in front of us, one foot on the pavement, one in the gutter: Heather sounded her horn to get her out of the way. Somewhere overhead a light plane droned. In the rain-soaked gardens spring had begun in the steady greening of the grass. Already the almond blossom was fading.

  ‘What’s his name?’ I asked.

  ‘Michael,’ she said, and switched on the radio so that we could hear the news from the outside world, paying our dues in that way if in no other.

  THREE

  MY first impression of Michael Sandberg was that he was blessed with, or consumed by, radiant high spirits. My second impression was that a man of such obvious and exemplary charm must be a liar. He broadcast a sort of hilarity which went well with his fair hair and neat
figure: he was the same height as Heather, who remained quiet and restrained in his company, as if to allow him the spotlight which she felt must inevitably fall on him. When I entered the Wimbledon drawing-room the following week I found him in the centre of a group of admiring women, for the aunts succumbed immediately and Dorrie had a look of adoration on her face. Given the chance to examine him for a moment, before I was introduced, I judged him to be playing his part well but with slight exaggerations. He was explaining himself, as I suppose he felt called upon to do, and he managed to field all the questions by answering them before they were asked. Thus all embarrassment was avoided, and this tedious rite de passage was accomplished with a certain amount of charm. What I felt, I think, in that short moment before I was drawn into the circle, was that perhaps too much charm was being displayed, and that the expressions of rapture that played across his extremely mobile features were perhaps a little premature, a little out of place, and a little excessive compared with the calm restraint emitted by Heather herself. To my mind, they looked already like an old married couple; but it was a married couple of a kind that fatigues onlookers or witnesses. In this couple, it seemed, the husband was destined to play the child, the clown, even the criminal, while it was the vocation of his wife to absorb the high spirits, however aberrant they might become, and to remain watchful, indulgent, and wise, an ancestor to her child-husband.

  This impression was the affair of a moment, and over-critical even by my standards. There was something about his expansiveness that made me uneasy, although it was entirely appropriate to the occasion. His very movements were exaggerated: his clothes seemed agitated, as if hard put to contain him. There was a fearful restlessness about him, something florid and opaque, and yet in repose, which he rarely was, he seemed a conventional enough figure. He was a man of middle height, with a thickish body contained in grey flannel trousers, a white shirt, and a blue blazer with gold buttons: he wore an expensive gold watch and a signet ring on the little finger of his left hand. His tie seemed to signify some association or other which I could not hope to understand. His main feature was his hair: conspicuously golden, thick and wavy, hair that is rarely seen on a man once he has passed adolescence. For the rest, his face was an amalgam of undistinguished features, given animation by the ceaseless smile. The eyes, of a rather washed-out blue, were on the small side, but they were fearfully animated. I wondered where the disagreeable impression I had first received when I met his glance had come from. When his smile faded to a reasonable wattage, I could see that he was rather amiable, not too bright, not perhaps very distinguished, not even very grown up, but doing his best in difficult circumstances. He had the air of dreading the spotlight but playing up to it, and he was doing rather well on this occasion. It was not easy for a youngish man (and I should have said he was about thirty) to field the avid questions of a group of middle-aged women, but he was doing his best and managing to please everyone. If he were doing this without much reference to Heather, who sat looking on, with a remote smile on her face, I supposed that this had been agreed between them beforehand.

  He was accompanied by his father: I later learned that his mother was dead. The father had none of the captious brilliance of the son, but in his way looked, to my mind at least, equally unreliable. He was a small neat man, with abundant silver hair, and a look of hard-packed but still active flesh about him. Michael addressed him as ‘Colonel’, and Dorrie, bewildered, did the same, until instructed to call him Teddy. The Colonel acted rather like his son’s manager, instructing him to divulge this or that matter, mostly relating to their family enterprise, which I gathered was something to do with the property or travel business. There was necessarily some confusion over this until it turned out that the father managed a chain of time-share apartments abroad, and that he had done so well at this that he had bought into several travel agencies and was something of an expert and also a monopolist in this field. Apparently he was the man to consult if you wanted to live in Spain or Portugal. As the Livingstones already had their place at Puerto Banus I thought this a happy coincidence, designed to bring them closer together, but it appeared that he was already advising them to sell and go somewhere else. I saw Oscar fielding his advice, with a look on his face as remote and as sphinx-like as Heather’s. At any rate, the Colonel was easy to get along with, and allowed nothing to deflect him. He was a restless man, a cigar-smoker, a fast talker, the kind who goes down better with women than with men. Yet for all his uningratiating habits, when he looked at his son, which he did frequently, his face was rueful and devoted. I trusted that look.

  I could see that Oscar did too, while Dorrie was too excited to calm down into her usual contemplative mode. It seemed to her as if for once she had done the right thing. And her sympathies were engaged by the plight of this couple, who had apparently brought each other up in the absence of a woman to care for them, and whose attachment therefore had a slightly tragic aspect, as if they were now to lose each other to strangers. Indeed, Michael and his father had all the Victorian overtones that should by rights have attached to Heather, for she who had always been so protected was soon to leave the home and the parents who had so protected her. Yet the anxiety of the Colonel and the ardour of his son argued for their greater vulnerability, and this was where Oscar was to play his part, for in the furnishing of those worldly goods which allay anxiety he was by now an expert. I believe there was a great deal of money on the other side as well, but I imagined this being displayed with the sort of lavishness that undermines faith in the seriousness of the commodity, as if it were fool’s gold. Spectacular and unconvincing offers were being made – of properties to be lent for holidays, villas on indefinite loan, private beaches – all of which were wide of the mark because I could see that Oscar had no intention of exchanging his little flat, and that if he did he was quite capable of making his own arrangements, although he would now undoubtedly give offence if he did so. There was something of the pools winner about the Colonel: whereas Oscar could never have been mistaken for one. At the same time, there was a mind running on business, so that he would never let an opportunity slip. ‘Well, we shall know who to come to,’ said either Gerald or Lawrence, rather dazed by this attempt to get them all to move, while either Lawrence or Gerald added, ‘Perhaps you could send us some of the literature.’ I could see that they were resisting this man, out of a sort of distaste for his volubility, his accessibility. They were both pacific, largely wordless. But Sam, Oscar’s brother, was clearly amused by him, and promised to have lunch with him the following week.

  While the Colonel was relocating everyone, his son was talking earnestly and in turn to the aunts, and of course to Dorrie. They looked on him with indulgence, and I could see that he had a special rapport with these simple women, women who loved weddings and babies and cherished these matters over and above all others, simply filling in the time disdainfully until mobilized by another wedding. The married state claimed their strongest loyalties, their finest efforts; already their minds were furiously working on the arrangements, which would be argued out in long telephone calls. They could see that they would meet no opposition to their plans from the motherless Michael, the wifeless Colonel, both of whom seemed to be committed to as rapid a marriage as possible. But perhaps they did everything quickly. That was the impression they gave.

  Michael and his father got on very well together, and there was indeed something affecting about them, if only because they were also slightly childish. They touched each other a great deal, which I thought was a good sign; men who are frightened of touching usually never learn to do it properly. They punched each other on the arm, or even clasped each other’s hands, and I could see that this was how they had been all through Michael’s motherless childhood, and that their closeness was surely a matter for congratulation. By this time, my initial impression had rather worn off, and I was in favour of this match, although I was a little surprised by it. I wondered how much Heather and her future husband had
in common, for she was so quiet, so unexcitable, that I could not see how they were to get on. As far as I could judge, they were not wildly attracted to each other, for the frequent claspings of the hand that went on were between Michael and his father rather than between Michael and Heather. At the same time, Michael had a sort of sunniness about him which seemed to preclude any baffling depths of character: I thought that was probably just as well, for Heather, despite her shrewdness, seemed to have very little curiosity and might not have much patience with a difficult or troublesome man. While I was watching them, and for obvious reasons I could hardly be included in much of the conversation, I saw that what Heather wanted from this faintly unlikely match was the sort of completeness she had always witnessed in her mother. She would glide from virginity to matronhood with no sense of a change in her condition: she would duplicate her mother, succeed her, and no doubt become the centre of the family circle in her own home, with the full approbation of that mother whom she planned so closely to copy. And why not? The curious thing about this almost sexless arrangement was that it would probably work, for unlike Dorrie and her sisters, who had full confidence in the arrangement, I did not fully trust this marriage as a true marriage. It was just that I somehow felt that each needed the other for private purposes.

  Heather, I could see, was already fitting herself for the marital role. As she sat there, motionless and smiling in the midst of this agitated assembly, she looked like the bride in a Breughel painting, as if she were already at her own wedding breakfast. She seemed to have no doubts, any more than Michael did, and this, in view of the rapidity and secrecy of their courtship, seemed surprising. It was her expression that finally convinced us all. Her smile was not luminous or excited, as might have been expected, but replete, turned inwards, almost bored with the ceremony going on around her. When she saw me, she lifted an eyebrow and nodded in my direction, without any sort of alteration in the smile. I came forward then, and kissed Dorrie, who said, ‘Oh, Rachel, isn’t this exciting? Sit down, dear. We’ll have some tea in a moment.’ Everything was out of order. I was introduced to Michael and the Colonel as ‘Heather’s best friend’, which I thought a bit of an exaggeration, but as usual I succumbed to the atmosphere, and smiled and nodded myself as if nothing were amiss. Michael wrung my hand and said, ‘I know how fond of you Heather is,’ which also surprised me, since I didn’t see how Heather would ever have referred to me in this way. Then I realized that he would have said this to anyone who purported to be Heather’s friend, even if he had never heard of her until this moment. I responded in kind, of course, partly out of goodwill and appreciation for his efforts, and partly because I so much liked being part of the scene, and the idea of being Heather’s best friend seemed to guarantee my inclusion in any future festivities. The Colonel gave me a look from which appraisal was not entirely absent. This too surprised me, but there was so much on offer that I responded to all that was going on. I could see that Oscar was notably less transfixed than everyone else; like his daughter, his smile was remote, and perhaps for that reason a little disappointing. Oh, why so sad? Was this merely an effect of his eternal reserve, the fatigue caused by the onslaught of the Colonel’s selling technique, or something else, something he had learned about his future son-in-law? Yes, it must be that, for Michael, it seemed, was not the sort of settled businessman he would have chosen but assistant to his father, for whom he ‘acted’ when the latter’s presence was required elsewhere. I could see that this might result in a rather unsettled existence, if he had to go back and forth to Portugal or Spain, but there was no reason why Heather should not accompany him or even play an active part. She knew the region well, and was a good traveller. And Oscar had given her a little property of her own, near to theirs, so there would never be the fatigue of hotels. I could see her, on her terrace, or on her mother’s, for Dorrie would undoubtedly spend more time abroad if her daughter were to be there, placidly waiting for the hyperactive Michael to return from whatever deal he had just landed. I could almost hear the tea being got ready, in that hot sun, as the virtues of a settled life were once more being restated. I thought it would all work out very well.