A Friend from England

by Anita Brookner

  ‘Well, she looks quite comfortable,’ said Janet sadly, when they at last joined me. Rosemary, her mouth drawn down at the corners, looked unlike her normally contentious self.

  ‘I think you’re both more worried than Dorrie is,’ I rallied them. ‘And I’m going to take you out and find you a hot cup of coffee. I think we all need one.’

  They brightened at this, and we spent quite a pleasant half-hour in a café in Marylebone High Street. I gave a sturdy performance, in which I did not quite believe. When I saw them to their car, Rosemary kissed my cheek, and pressed the damp parcel of smoked salmon into my hand. ‘So nice to see you, Rachel,’ said Janet. ‘Will we see you again?’

  ‘Oh, I dare say I’ll look in tomorrow,’ I replied. ‘If we’re not too busy at the shop.’ I waved casually and left them there in the dark street. It was difficult to imagine how they would spend the rest of the evening.

  The following days saw us all in attendance. The operation was delayed for some reason; nothing seemed to be happening, and gradually the atmosphere relaxed. Sometimes, sitting in that room, I could have persuaded myself that we were back in the drawing-room in Wimbledon, particularly when the husbands joined us, or when Oscar’s brother, Sam, looked in, bringing with him the cold air of the street and a faint smell of cigars. Oscar said very little, but sat there, smiling faintly, as if in the enforced seclusion of these strange days he and Dorrie had been returned to their original love dream. And when he gave an almost imperceptible nod to his brother, we all obediently stood up to leave, bidding each other goodbye and promising to meet there the following day. But just when it seemed as if this might go on for ever, we heard that the operation was scheduled for the morning of the next day but one. Anxieties sharpened. Dorrie, her hand in Oscar’s, looked trusting enough, but I noticed that she had spilled a little tea or coffee: there was a small pale brown stain on her pink bed-jacket. This told another story from her warm but tired smile. When I kissed her goodnight, promising to see her the following day, she raised herself in the bed and put her arms round me.

  ‘Dear little Rachel,’ she said. ‘Get home safely.’

  All of this put somewhat of a strain on my nerves. Although I fell almost restfully into those trance-like but convivial gatherings round the bedside, I began to wonder how well I would stand the pace if they were prolonged indefinitely. I particularly began to wonder how long it would be before Heather came home. By my calculations her weekend should be over by now, although of course she knew of no reason for hurrying back. It just seemed more and more incongruous that she had not been told, and that I was there in her place. I felt like the reserve in some key football match, accepted as a necessity, but with regret. I have to say that the others expressed no regret: I think they were genuinely pleased that I was there. Strangely enough, Heather’s name was not mentioned, but this was out of tact. I gathered that there had been some disagreement over the reasons for her absence. Janet, or Rosemary, probably Rosemary, had expressed strong disapproval that she should not be there, and Dorrie, of course, had defended her daughter. I imagined her becoming quite upset over Rosemary’s remonstrances: I imagined agitation, tears coming into her eyes, Oscar intervening, Rosemary in retreat. Thereafter Heather’s name was not mentioned, although whatever sadness was in the air was to do with her, her remoteness, physical in this case as well as mental, her unknowingness. Oscar’s burdens must have been heavy at this time, knowing what he knew, yet not once did I hear him even sigh, courteous even in his preoccupation. There did seem to be a curious sort of dispensation hovering over the two of them, as they held hands like lovers, like children, so deeply attuned to each other that they even breathed in unison. With Oscar there, Dorrie would eat, and not just to please him either; Oscar was the first to notice that she was tired, even before she had realized it herself; Oscar gave us the signal to leave. But although it was clear that they had never been closer, I felt that Heather should have been there.

  There was another reason for my longing for her return. Oscar and Dorrie had an air about them of fated lovers, and their passion was too naked for one of my sceptical persuasion. I felt that it should be kept within the family, although I trembled to think of its effect on Heather’s benighted expectations. I also felt that the pronounced absence of Michael would inevitably come to public notice, and, knowing what I did, I did not want to be put in the position of having to divert enquiries or spread a smokescreen of polite ignorance whenever the subject was raised. In the event I found out that he was not expected to reappear; when his name was mentioned, Janet and Rosemary shared an identical moue of distaste, while Sam surprised me by saying, ‘How could you? I mean, how could you ever have taken him seriously?’ The news had leaked out, or rather a sanitized version of it had been released; it was not that everybody knew everything, but that everybody knew something. Poor Michael, too readily accepted by his new relatives as a sort of part-timer, was now thought to be expendable. Indeed, their original affability had turned quite suddenly to a sort of tired impatience: it was as if they had bought an article which they thought they needed, had found it to be faulty, and could not wait to return it to the shop. Michael, I could see, would be returned to the custody of his father.

  When I discovered that this attitude had been agreed upon, and was indeed shared, I was rather shocked. After all, it was one thing to marry an idiot, quite another to discard him after so short a term of trial. I judged this behaviour characteristic of the rich, and surprisingly cynical. I would not have expected it of them. But on reflection I saw that it had been urged upon them by fear. The fact of Dorrie’s little illness had reminded them that Heather’s place was with her mother. Indeed, the renewed, or perhaps perpetual, flowering of the love that Oscar and Dorrie had for one another seemed to call her home, as if any lesser emotion, any simulacrum, had no place in their scheme of things. I knew that beneath the placidity that each urged upon the other in those days at the Clinic they yearned for her. And if the end were approaching for them, then they had to have her back: her marriage, always an affair of convenience, had now become inconvenient, and must be cancelled as quickly as possible. It was a solution of sorts, I saw, and perhaps a clever move. For what Oscar and I knew – and I was sure that we were the only persons in that room who really knew what was wrong – could in fact never be made public. Not one of them could have stood it.

  I spared a thought for Michael and his effervescent father, but even I thought it better that we should be denied the opportunity of getting to know them further. I saw them endlessly drifting across the Spanish plains, or rather testing out the appurtenances of time-share apartments, bouncing on cheap mattresses, settling down in partly furnished rooms, calling irritably for mulish Spanish servants, banging down the telephone, their bonhomie resumed as soon as an acquaintance came into view. I believe they were immensely successful at what they did: at least money would be no problem. But their high-octane accessibility would surely decrease, giving way to the tired smiles of a pair of professional comedians. Or rather the father would assume this attitude: the son would be indulged, as if he really were a little retarded, whereas he was in fact seeking revenge for his spoilt childhood and would continue to exact forfeits. And the father would find his anxiety still intact, when he had thought to pass it on to others: he would become rueful, cynical, while obtaining his own pleasures when and where he could. His ladies would turn loud with annoyance as he habitually scuttled home to be with his son: they would profess amazement at the closeness of the bond, provide the names of psychiatrists, finally put up with it all – for he would choose women to whom not much more was likely to happen. The fact that we all disliked him seemed to me, if anything, to heighten his rather threadbare appeal. He was the real victim of this unfortunate affair, and it was hardly likely that he would seek the same solution on another occasion. He was, in effect, a doomed man.

  But perhaps we were all doomed. The day before Dorrie was due to have her operation found u
s grouped around the bed, running out of blandishments, suddenly short of things to say. The tension was becoming acute, and Oscar and Dorrie mutely held hands for comfort. There was a sadness in the room, and also an impatience, a desire to yawn, fidget, talk in a loud voice, even to eat. The air was getting stale, still redolent of Dorrie’s honeysuckle scent, but used up now, and mingled with the odour of her lunch, and the perpetual bedclothes. I found it intolerable. ‘Dorrie,’ I said. ‘Wouldn’t you like to take a turn in the corridor? I’m sure it’s bad for you to be in bed all the time.’ She turned her head to face me (surely the eyes were larger, the sockets a little more pronounced?) and over my shoulder looked towards the door, which at that moment opened to admit Heather.

  The great smile that burst upon Dorrie’s face told me what had happened before I confronted the cause for it. There was a general murmur of congratulation, as if the curtain had just gone up on an amazing spectacle. Oh, well done, I thought, perhaps a little sourly: the prodigal returns.

  ‘Hello, Mummy,’ she said. ‘What have you been getting up to? Gosh, it’s hot in here.’ And she moved over and opened a window, something that none of us had dared to do.

  In contrast to the rest of us, who were by now a little sickly, she looked marvellously well. She was wearing her chestnut suit and had a small purse on a long strap, obviously Italian, over her chest like a bandolier. She was different, somehow, or maybe it was the effect of coming into this room from the wider world. She was assured and businesslike, not a bit perturbed by the spectacle of us all sitting like mutes: either that, or she was putting on a good show.

  ‘Darling, darling,’ said Dorrie, holding out her arms. ‘Are you all right? Aren’t you cold? How could you, darling, coming out without a coat?’

  ‘Of course I’m all right,’ Heather replied in her usual monotone, but pitched a little more heartily, which gave her a certain curatorial authority. ‘And you’re all right, too. At least you will be after tomorrow.’

  ‘Yes, dear, of course I’m all right.’ She looked it. She looked as if health had returned to her quite suddenly. ‘Oh, I can’t wait to get this over and to be at home. Ring the bell, Oscar. Let’s have some tea.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother, Daddy. I’ll find someone.’ She nodded to me almost imperceptibly, and I followed her to the door.

  ‘That’s right, dear,’ said Dorrie. ‘You two girls have a nice talk. Oh, I feel so much better now. I knew she’d come.’

  As the door swung to behind me I could hear the others reassuring themselves that, of course, they knew she’d come. She had timed it beautifully. I followed her along the corridor, saw her summon a nurse out of thin air, and order tea as if she were in charge of the whole party.

  ‘Terrific,’ I said. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Daddy rang me at the Gritti. By the way, you can always get hold of me there. Or leave a message. I call in most days.’

  ‘But why should I want to get hold of you there?’ I asked, in some surprise. ‘You’re home now.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m going back. As soon as this is over. As soon as she’s out of here.’

  We were standing in a long grey corridor, with unhelpful strip lighting. From the far end came a rattle of wheels, as a maid appeared with a trolley of chattering tea cups.

  ‘Going back?’ I said. ‘But you can’t go back. Surely your place is here.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘The fact is, I’ve met someone. Come on. They’ll wonder what’s keeping us.’

  I contemplated her stylish back in stupefaction. My indignation was rising rapidly to the surface, although I knew that the polite fictions had to be sustained for as long as this little adventure had to run its course.

  ‘Just a minute,’ I said, catching up with her outside the door. ‘What about Michael?’ I found myself whispering furiously.

  ‘Oh, he’s gone,’ she replied in her normal voice. ‘I told him I was leaving him and he didn’t seem surprised. Just packed his clothes and left. I’m putting the flat on the market.’

  Heather’s entrance, en coup de vent, had had a galvanizing effect on the assembly. She was complimented on her appearance and congratulated, as if she were a royal visitor, bestowing benefits by her magic presence. Her clothes were remarked upon, and she was invited to tell them what was being worn in Italy that season. Once again she claimed the attention, as she had during those far-off days when she had admitted, without any inflection of voice or behaviour, that her life had taken a decisive turn. I saw now that it was she who had done all the deciding, and I wondered whether the same phenomenon was being re-enacted. I saw, as in some paralysing dream, that I might have to stay here for ever, leaving Heather to pursue her plans in Italy. Apart from the fact that I had no wish to sacrifice myself in this matter, I had no more reason to trust her judgement on this occasion than I had previously, when events had proved her to be so stunningly wrong. I was inclined to see the present object of her attention as equally unworthy: not a gondolier, exactly – she was too stately and immovable for so vulgar an attachment – but certainly no one she could possibly bring home. The thought occurred to me that she might wish to enact this liaison far from the eyes of her family circle, and that thought should have alerted me to the possible seriousness of the affair, as should her new assurance. Silence, exile, and cunning, James Joyce’s desiderata for an artist’s life, seemed to have been discovered by Heather with the rapidity and the inevitability of one who led a charmed existence.

  I must confess to feeling furious with her. In addition to the sheer inconvenience of it all, I felt that Heather had usurped my independence and was in effect using my time to enjoy the equivalent of my habitual adventures. And, I thought, once she realized that such adventures were preferable to more complex and burdensome attachments, who knew what path she might not follow? But over and above my fury I felt a pang of pity for this slow-moving girl, with her prudish good manners, and her awakening in the arms of a knowing Italian, the word passed round behind her unsuspecting back. Gradually she would assume a puzzled and preoccupied air, although her inward thoughts would take on a darker colouring. What happens to women is that they never entirely lose the faith that it will all come out right in the end, that the next man, or the next, will be the answer to their original expectations of stability and order, will resolve the difficult equation of innocence and experience. She was not made for my sort of life. She did not have the mental equipment, the reserves of temperament, the cynicism, the taste for danger. I saw her in years to come, living out her obedient life with her parents, and escaping to her adventures abroad, a child at home, a schemer, a pragmatist, far from loving eyes. She would become one of those efficient women in the rag trade, disaffectedly reviewing fashions, looked on for tips to current trends. Time and age would happen to her, bulking out her already sturdy figure, fading her hair, and the vision still far off, waiting to be sought. I could see her in her parents’ drawing-room in years to come, a little untidy round the hips, a little weary, still polite, still private, as she tended their now wistful expectations, parrying their questions, giving no hint. It was no life for a decent woman, and yet it is the life that many women have had to lead. And it is the lot of such women to be despised, as if they had failed some essential test, the test that more fortunate women have had the wit to pass. No sign of love would appear to change that changeless expression, and eventually she would find herself indispensable to her friends, as reflector, as recipient of confidences, as baby-sitter, as flavour enhancer of safer and more recognized conditions. No amount of transient lovers would redeem her status. She would be referred to as ‘poor Heather’. And women of a more conventional stripe would feel gloriously sorry for her.

  Nevertheless, she had no business to adopt this career at this inconvenient moment, ill-equipped as she was, and with the blundering goodwill that characterized her. She should give it up, I felt, recognize her limitations, stay within her boundaries. She had money, she had the status of
a married woman – still important, even in these liberated days – and she had a career of sorts. And she had a home to which she could always return. The true adventuress knows that she can never go home again. That was the essential difference between us. I felt that Heather was making the most enormous miscalculation and that she was making it at other people’s expense. Yet even now I had to give her credit for her performance. Not for Heather the dropped hint, the larky raised eyebrows, that would signify to the world at large that something of an amorous nature was afoot. She had at least learned the first lesson; she had learned to keep her own counsel. She answered all the questions readily, but with no show of enthusiasm. Yes, she had bought one or two things; yes, it had been tiring; yes, she and Chiara had been glad to get to the Gritti; yes, she had known Chiara for some time, had met her mother, and her brother, Marco. They apparently lived in a rather modest way, and Chiara had been delighted with Oscar’s offer of a luxurious weekend. By the end of her recital, her parents and her aunts were almost ready to adopt Chiara and her family as old friends, much as they had swum unsuspectingly into the open arms of Colonel Sandberg. No, said Heather, Chiara was not thinking of visiting London: she was too busy with her own little shop. But they kept in touch. What a pity, they all said: we should have so liked to meet her.