Leaving Home

by Anita Brookner

  ‘I suppose so. I’ll have to grow up now, shan’t I? You like it, then?’

  ‘I love it. How much do you want for it?’

  She named a sum I thought astronomical and which I automatically accepted. I should have liked to take possession immediately, but that was not possible. She could give me a month, she said. She was now, I saw, reluctant to hand it over, but my offer was too good to turn down. When I saw her begin to waver I reached into my bag for my chequebook and wrote her a cheque for the full amount.

  ‘You are in a hurry,’ she said, disconcerted.

  ‘Well, as I explained, I have to go to France at the end of the week.’ I felt suddenly exhausted.

  ‘What exactly do you do?’

  But I was not going to get into that. ‘When can I have the keys?’

  ‘If you’d like to call into the office when you come back . . . ,’ she said. ‘When will that be?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly. Not long.’

  ‘Right,’ she said, slightly crestfallen now at the prospect. She was more used to the hard sell, less adept at dealing with this sort of pressure. I felt briefly as though I had the upper hand.

  ‘Would you like some coffee?’ I asked, less anxious now to have her as a friend.

  ‘I’d better get back,’ she said. ‘You’re sure about this?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Quite sure.’

  ‘Emma Roberts,’ she said thoughtfully, looking yet again at the cheque.

  ‘It’s quite all right,’ I told her. ‘It won’t bounce.’

  This was so crude that I blushed. ‘Do forgive me. I’m not used to this. And do call me Emma.’

  In the street I was struck by the noise, the activity. It was like waking from a dream, and like waking left me slightly dazed. I thought I should eat something, or at least drink some coffee, and sat down at a café table and ordered a sandwich. This was now my territory, but I could not spare it much attention. What I had to do was make my ownership public, or as public as was possible. What did one do in these circumstances? One wrote letters, one went to the bank, the post office. Instead I got into a taxi and went back to what I now thought of as my mother’s flat, and sat at the kitchen table, perplexed. I should have liked to sleep, but knew that this would be dangerous. I had, for the time being at least, to put matters in train, so that I could consider the episode closed. There was the matter of the hotel room to be decided. I was now of a mind to pay the rent until the end of the year, as a precaution. It was obvious that Françoise might prove a problem, but I was now safe—or safer—in the certainty that I had a home of my own. My residual uneasiness, I found, had slightly diminished, but had not altogether vanished.

  I sat down at my mother’s desk and prepared to write my letters. This was a mistake. In the drawer I saw her pen, her cards, her small packet of tissues. I thought that I could smell her scent, but this was mere illusion. She came most vividly to mind when I knew that I should take nothing away from here. I wanted it to remain hers and now saw the rightness of handing it over to Rob. One day I might come back, might even be glad to do so. But I sensed that that day was a long way off, at the end of my life, perhaps, and could not—should not—be anticipated.

  ‘Dear Rob,’ I wrote. ‘You will not be too surprised to hear that I have bought a small flat and shall be moving into it at the end of the month.’ (Here I gave him the address and the telephone number, which I had memorized.) ‘I find I cannot stay here; my mother’s clothes are still in the wardrobe, her brushes on her dressing table. Perhaps this is why I sleep so badly. I shall be dividing my time between London and Paris, where I still have work to do, and of course will keep in touch. The purpose of this letter is to ask you to move in here, to take possession of a place you know so well, and to which you have as much right as I have. I know you have always thought of it as your proper home: why else would you have kept the keys? This situation has worried me and I should feel easier in my mind knowing where I can reach you at any time. Eventually, I suppose, the flat will revert to me, but that day seems a long way off. I dare say you will disapprove, as you always have done, but on reflection will see this as a sensible move. I shall get in touch as soon as I have settled in. I hope you will be comfortable here. As I say, you will know where to reach me if you want to or need to. Yours, Emma.’ I could not think of a more affectionate way of signing off, and this seemed to me a sorry state of affairs. But it was too late to enter into more intimate terms with this strange relic of a family that was no longer a family, and I left it.

  Quite suddenly my previous exhilaration left me, and I sat stunned by the fact that I had so easily removed myself from what I had always known. If I clung to anyone or anything it was to the girl Alexandra and her equanimity in a similar situation. But then her future was clearly mapped out, whereas mine was a succession of empty days. Sheer displacement activity would be needed to keep me going, and I could see myself inventing further tasks in order to furnish my life with meaning. I could, for instance, start looking for the sort of things one needed in a new home; instead I sat almost motionless, in an access of dread. It was almost the end of the afternoon before I could rouse myself, and then my first instinct was to go out and walk the streets of my childhood, as if I should never see them again.

  As always, walking proved therapeutic, but the relief was only momentary. Back in the flat I wrote more letters: it was important to me that people should know where I was. I wrote again to Françoise, giving her the details and the new telephone number, but telling her that I should see her in Paris before the move took place. She would not be too interested in my movements in London; only those in Paris were of relevance to her. And I knew that she had preoccupations of her own, of which I had had a brief glimpse. It was even possible that she shared my longing for a settled future, though not the one for which her mother destined her. In comparison, Alexandra’s happy, open face struck me as phenomenal. If I wanted anything it was a chance to know something of that ease. I wrote to Michael at the hotel, telling him how sad I was to have missed him, told him that I should be in Paris in the next few days, and that I hoped we could see each other. I had a sense of finality here, as if a great deal of time had elapsed since our last meeting. I wrote to Sarah Cartwright, who had kindly thought to provide me with a partner. And then, greatly daring, I wrote to Philip Hudson, who had also been kind, perhaps more than kind. ‘You mentioned that you sometimes walked home from your hospital in Chelsea,’ I wrote. ‘I am moving shortly to a flat in Jubilee Place: this is my new telephone number. I should like it so much if you would come and have a drink one evening. We could resume our discussion, which I remember as fruitful. I sincerely hope that you will get in touch. Yours ever, Emma Roberts.’

  12

  I ARRIVED IN PARIS TO FIND SEVERAL OF FRANÇOISE’S effects liberally scattered over my room. This disconcerted me: the dull conformity I was used to precluded such speed, such alacrity. I could just understand her need to escape her mother’s formidable will, but I had not foreseen that it would be replicated so faithfully.

  In the wider scheme of things none of this was overwhelmingly important. But one is territorial by nature, and the smell of Françoise’s scent overriding what was left of my own was difficult to tolerate. I wondered how to extract us both from this situation, for I felt the onus was on me to do so. Surely friendship was more significant than possession? Perhaps this is true in an ideal world, but I could not easily dismiss the dismay that was my initial reaction on seeing those familiar black garments flung hastily onto the bed, shoes kicked off in the middle of the room, and an alien hairbrush on the bedside table. Yet I knew that coming to terms with this disorder was the price I would have to pay for any kind of peace. Instinctively I resisted change: I was more affected than I had realized by my impulsive purchase of the flat, although it had seemed reasonable enough at the time. Various sensible solutions presented themselves and were dismissed. It seemed that I had no recourse but to accept what others had decid
ed. I thought with a wince of the sound of Rob’s keys in the door, in comparison with which this dilemma was derisory. Yet there would have to be a discussion in which I should have to lay down certain rules, and here I knew I should be at a disadvantage. It was Françoise, the stronger character, who made the rules, and who was effortlessly, permanently indulgent to what she thought of as my slightly backward desire to behave well, or at least according to the original instructions.

  I went to the desk, and already I could feel the pleading smile spreading across my face. Mme Denise, the owner’s sister, was not delighted to see me. I explained, redundantly, that my friend would be occupying the room until I reclaimed it. When would that be, she demanded. All this was irregular. I pointed out that the room was paid for until September, two months ahead, and in a moment of weakness said that I should like to retain it until the end of the year. At the sight of the cheque she was slightly mollified, but we both knew that I had lost face, that the transaction was wholly to the advantage of others. In the short term, I said cheerfully, I should need another room. It seemed that there were no other rooms, les vacances being offered as an explanation. I had already noticed the unfamiliar presence of predominantly young tourists, many with rucksacks, some with guidebooks, unaware that their presence was barely tolerated when the maids wanted to clean as quickly as possible and to leave while they could still enjoy a few hours of sunshine. The glorious weather was another factor that could not be ignored: I too wanted to be out. It was my sudden access of impatience that won the day; I could even feel a rising tide of annoyance, which must have been reflected in my expression. There is a small room, she said reluctantly, on the top floor. It was the room she normally kept for her son when he wanted to spend a few days, or rather nights, in Paris. She was expecting him at the end of the week, and could therefore let me have it only for a few days. She named a price that was clearly improvised. That will do very well, I said, but when I returned in September I expected to find Mlle Desnoyers in another room, if necessary the one I was now expected to occupy. At this she favoured me with a rare smile. ‘On s’était habitué à vous,’ she said. This accolade—that my presence was tolerated, even appreciated—did something to ease my sense of unfamiliarity. Also I was anxious to get out into the air, to walk, to drink in the sun. There was nothing I could do until the evening, when presumably Françoise would be in evidence. Of Michael I did not allow myself to think. I knew, without having been told, that he was not in Paris, a fact confirmed by Mme Denise, les vacances again being offered by way of explanation. When was he expected to return, I asked. She shrugged. That she could not tell me. But I could, if I wished, leave a note.

  The room to which I was directed was very small and very hot. There was a faint smell of cigarettes, which indicated that the son had used it fairly recently. Most of the space was taken up by the bed; the window looked down into a well from which rose the voices of the hotel servants. There was no possibility of remaining there during the hours of daylight; even nighttime would be curtailed, for one would only return there to snatch a few hours’ sleep. The absence of a view depressed me, and I regretted the friendly windows of Jubilee Place, even more so the green vistas seen from my mother’s flat. Strangely I no longer thought of that flat as home. Indeed I could not attach the concept of home to any of the places I was now obliged to occupy. All appeared random, even makeshift. This seemed to be my fate: to live in ever-smaller rooms at an age when I should have been expanding into wider territory. Yet I had spent, or forfeited, so much money that I was forced to accept this. An argument erupted in the courtyard far below me, and I left the room determined to force someone to recognize my rights, though sadly aware that such a person did not exist.

  But away from the room, outside in the street, I found the world still beautiful. Since I had nothing to do until the evening I took the route all tourists take, into the centre of town, where I should be at one with all the Americans on their regular pilgrimage. I felt like a tourist, a visitor, no longer entitled to claim even a momentary citizenship. I sat for half an hour in the Tuileries, watching the children sail their boats, then I crossed the bridge, walked up the rue de Seine to the Place Saint-Sulpice, where I drank too many cups of coffee. My footsteps led me to the rue de l’Odéon, the Boulevard Saint-Germain, to the rue des Saints Pères. . . . When I was tired I went back to the Place Saint-Sulpice, but this time sat in the vast church, where a scattering of devout women and a silent sacristan were my companions. Their presence reminded me that not all is calculation and false assurances, that somehow it is possible to cling to belief, to proceed in good faith, to cherish the alliances that one has made in earlier life, and above all to feel fortified by one’s observances. This, unfortunately, was not possible for me: I was alone, and most memories were troubled, but I took a certain comfort from being with those women, none of them smart or confident, but serious in a way I could appreciate. It was the seriousness, the silence, far removed from the glitter of the sun, the voices of passersby, the sheer activity of the outside world, that spoke to me. There were perhaps no more than six or seven women in the huge church, each immured in her own thoughts, none giving obvious signs of devotion, but dignified in their isolation. This again was not something to which I could lay claim; my own inheritance was without lustre, an affair of fractured alliances, put together in an uncomplaining, even peaceful way, but a way that bequeathed little in the way of certainty. I felt that mine was an improvised life, doomed to further improvisations, and that any certainties would have to be borrowed from others. Feeling a little fraudulent I lit a candle. Again conformity beckoned, but I had been cursed with independence (which I now saw quite clearly as something of a burden). I must make my way unaided. I smiled at one of the women as we left the church together. She glanced at me, incurious. Her expression told me, more eloquently than any words, that I was not in any way like her, that she had no need of my kind, and that she had placed me as a foreigner, a further step in the process of alienation that had dogged me since I had arrived earlier in the day.

  It was too early to eat, so I sat in the Place and drank more coffee. This was one of the longest days I could remember, the longest and the most inconsequential. There was little comfort to be had from the knowledge that it would soon be over. Faces now expressed tiredness, but also satisfaction that the pilgrimage had done its work. It would be light until nine, or even slightly later, but there was an intimation of the evening to come, a slowing down of pace; even a diminution of noise. The coffee I had drunk all through the day had made me nervous, even a little angry, but I knew that what was needed was an assumption of equanimity, and with that equanimity a determination—quiet, understated if possible—to resolve matters in my favour. None of it really mattered, but I was tired, longing for a bath, longing even to be back in London. The softness of the evening was not for me, try as I might to claim part of it as my own.

  The sound of running taps proclaimed Françoise’s presence ; she was in a sense taking the bath I longed for. I knocked and went in. Françoise emerged from the bathroom drying her hair.

  ‘Emma! Quel bon vent . . .?’

  Her surprise was completely genuine. She embraced me fondly, then sat on the bed, still towelling her hair.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were coming?’ she asked.

  ‘Didn’t you get my letter? Or rather letters?’

  She looked puzzled. ‘About your mother? Of course I did. But we’ve seen each other since then, Emma. You came down. Don’t you remember?’

  ‘I mean my most recent letter, saying I was coming back.’

  ‘I can’t remember. When was this?’

  It seemed too clumsy to spell out the times and dates of my letters. In any event it was clear that she had forgotten all about me.

  ‘I need the room, Françoise. It is mine, after all. And it’s paid for. I can’t afford . . .’

  ‘But, Emma, you said I could borrow it when you weren’t here.’
r />   ‘I’m here now.’ I sounded peevish, obstinate.

  ‘And I’m late for dinner. Can we discuss this later? Or, better still, tomorrow morning? How long are you staying?’

  I had intended to spend at least a week in Paris, possibly longer. But now it seemed that I had little choice but to leave. Again I was aware that I was wasting both time and money.

  ‘How do I look?’ she asked, posing for my benefit. She was wearing her usual black trousers, and a black sweater with a deep neckline that revealed a stretch of taut tanned skin. She looked perfectly adapted to the Parisian evening, and in addition excited, as I had never seen her before. Her dark good looks, too emphatic for mere prettiness, too sardonic for beauty, had gained a new patina. Initially, before I had got to know her, I had been slightly intimidated by the black brows, the strong mouth, the powerful nose; now I saw all these features as winning cards in an ancient game, the game one plays by stealth, and by whatever means one can command. One would not willingly cross Françoise, or even engage her in an argument. That was why and how I had always been uncritical in her company. And now she seemed to have grown in assurance, in authority, as if she had right on her side. With sinking heart I realized that she had won the argument, without the argument even having taken place.

  ‘You remember the café?’ she was saying. ‘The café where we sometimes met for coffee? When you were working in the library.’

  ‘Of course I remember it,’ I said. ‘I haven’t been away that long.’

  ‘It seems ages. Why don’t we meet there tomorrow morning? Not too early, though. You’re not in a hurry, are you?’

  ‘I’ll be there at ten,’ I said.

  A hand went up to her forehead in a pretty gesture. ‘But that is early, Emma. Make it eleven. I’ve got so much to tell you. When are you leaving?’

  I had not said I was leaving. She had decided for me.