There were sounds of bewilderment, of hesitation. I persisted. I feel she should not be alone until Françoise arrives, I said. Clearly, as a mere visitor, I could not care for her. In any case she would be happy to see a member of her family; this was, after all, a family matter. It was only for a brief hour or so, I went on. I should not want to have it on my conscience. . . . Or on hers, I implied. And it was imperative that I catch my train. Urgent family business. I was sure she understood. And the taxi was an absolute necessity. Was there a firm in Sucy-en-Brie that she knew of?
Oh, yes. She used them all the time, not being a driver herself.
‘I will settle the bill in Paris,’ I said.
‘You will have to pay for the return journey, you know. Are you sure that you can do that?’
‘Of course. I shall expect you very shortly. I’m sure they will be very grateful. As, of course, I am.’
I replaced the receiver firmly and went next door to pay my last—my last ever—visit to Mme Desnoyers. She was sleeping almost naturally, and it occurred to me again that the sedatives Françoise had administered were, or had been, extremely strong. This was a matter I decided to leave undisturbed. If Mme Mercier was worried she would call a doctor. Humble people tend to be faithful: it is their great, their undervalued virtue. I smoothed the sheet, opened the window a little way to let in some air, and left as silently as I had entered. I knew I should not come back.
I went out to the drive to greet Mme Mercier, who emerged from the taxi looking uncertain. I smiled steadily and ushered her into the house. Before she could interrogate me, as she was entitled to do, I picked up my small bag and escaped to the haven of the taxi. There had been no explanation of my movements that would sound even halfway convincing. As the taxi moved off I realized that I was shaking. ‘Paris,’ I managed to say. ‘Vous connaissez la rue Delambre?’ ‘Oui, oui.’ He was a Parisian who had moved to Sucy to be near his daughter and son-in-law, but he missed the old place. He embarked on a cheerful monologue, to which I made a few responses. As we moved on to the main road I could see Françoise’s car coming from the opposite direction. As it passed me I waved briefly, but made no other move. My days as a compliant accomplice were at an end.
18
WE HAD FAILED EACH OTHER; THAT MUCH WAS CLEAR. But, interestingly, this was never referred to. Friendship sometimes demands less than full disclosure, and it may be more comfortable to abstain from an accountability which may leave one open to criticism. When I got back to the hotel I found that my old room had been cleared of Françoise’s belongings, and took this as a sign that the incident was closed. I did not expect to hear from her, nor did I until six months had elapsed, when I received an invitation to her wedding to Jean-Charles. I did not go, although I sent my very best wishes. But I did go when their baby was born, and have visited fairly regularly since. They invite me to spend part of my summer holiday there, which is thoughtful of them, and we have found a way of being friendly without the intimacy that formerly obtained between Françoise and myself. This is a code to which we can all conform, all three of us, and I have become a seasoned visitor, as they are now seasoned hosts.
They are the most devoted of parents, united perhaps by the rush of primal feeling that overwhelmed them when Jean-Marie was born. It is possible that neither of them had ever experienced anything so spontaneous, so instinctive before this event: it has made them dependent on each other in a way that could never have been predicted. They gaze at him wonderingly; he stares back with the lordly indifference to which his beauty entitles him. He occasionally consents to hold my hand, and then there are three rapt faces bending over him. He was five months old at my last visit and has succeeded in imposing his will on his attendants. There is no doubt who will be master here.
Mme Desnoyers has never seen her grandson. She made a partial recovery from her second stroke, but her speech and mobility remained affected, and it was thought best to install her in a nursing home run by nuns on the far side of Sucy, where Françoise visits her faithfully every Sunday. The expense is considerable, but there no longer seems to be any shortage of money. My sympathy appears to be wasted; Françoise assures me that Mme Desnoyers is perfectly happy there. This I doubt. I recognize it, though, as part of her duty to her husband, who always detested Mme Desnoyers, and while exhibiting every kind of concern is more than happy to have her out of the way.
Her old room is now given over to Mme de Lairac, who pays a stately visit from time to time. I take good care never to coincide with these visits, for there is no love lost between us. She considers me an inconvenient witness to Françoise’s former behaviour, although this is now a feature of a time long past. She still manages to imply that without her resources, which are considerable, the whole enterprise would have foundered. Although I assume that Jean-Charles earns more than enough to maintain his house and his family, it is understood that more money will become available on Mme de Lairac’s demise. This keeps everyone on their best behaviour.
The house is much more comfortable now. Fernand and Mariette never returned, not even to claim the month’s wages that were due to them. They have been replaced by Nicole and Delphine, two ladies from Mauritius. They are polite and dignified, and provide excellent service. Their days off alternate, so that there is always someone in the house to look after Jean-Marie. He in his turn adores them, nestles happily into their arms, and when he does so I see a flicker of sadness in Françoise’s expression, as if this is the first intimation that she may eventually lose her son to other women. But she is extremely disciplined, and never refers to her feelings, having perhaps learned that it is imprudent to do so, or that such feelings should be evaluated in a steady and sober manner, something she was not always willing to do.
My former love of the house has been similarly evaluated. I see its beauty now in classical terms, complete with reference to its inhabitants, who conform, as if in a play, to the components of classical design. I am allowed a freedom there which I am careful not to exploit. Mostly I sit on the terrace with a book, or wander through the surrounding countryside. My favourite view of the house is from the long approach, towards the façade, my favourite time the early evening, when its outlines are slightly blurred, and its whiteness dimmed. That is when it appears at its most magical, and although the proportions remain resolutely, squarely, classical, its appeal is softer, more romantic, as if more than one life might be contained there. Of this, however, there is no sign, for all are more than content with the parts that have been allotted to them, and may even be genuinely happy.
After such visits I am newly reconciled to my small flat. When my tenure at the hotel expired I did not renew it. I work from home now, and do not much enjoy my brief visits to Paris now that old friends are no longer there. In London I can count on Philip, whose attempted reconciliation with his wife did not, as they say, work out. This poor little phrase, which was all that he offered in the way of explanation, signified his reentry into my life. We are careful with each other: no more intemperate outbursts on my part, no more self-interested reserve on his. We have discovered an affinity that may not have been there before, and for the time being are content with this. I am fully aware that changes may yet take place, that I may reflect on these matters, and decide, quite suddenly, that I desire something more, something ardent and unrealistic, rather as if I were Françoise, prepared, all that time ago, to seek her fortune elsewhere. But then I know that both she and I have passed the age, and the stage of life, that permits such fantasies, and realize, perhaps a little bleakly, that both of us have done quite well, and that it would be pure folly to go in search of more.
My book is finished. It will go to the typist, and then to the editor, and then I must face a future without it. Philip has suggested that I do a further degree, possibly in design, and then set up as an independent consultant in landscape gardening. But I know the kind of gardens that English people favour and do not appreciate them much. In any case I prefer my gardens d
eserted, on misty mornings, at unpopular times of the year, compelling in their silence and their secrecy. I do not sympathize with extraneous ornaments, still less with barbecues and teak chairs and tables. In this I recognize that France has left its mark on me, and I am thankful for this. My task now is to come to terms with irreconcilables, to try to harmonize the formality of the one with the cheerfulness of the other. This may not be easy. But then I shall have time to bring it into line or to abandon it altogether. Maybe others will take a hand, as they did long ago, before nature asserted itself. And then nature will take over, revealing what was merely adumbrated in the first place. I am more or less comfortable, more or less contented. Not everyone is born to fulfil an heroic role. The only realistic ambition is to live in the present. And sometimes, quite often in fact, this is more than enough to keep one busy. Time, which was once squandered, must now be given over to the actual, the possible, and perhaps to that evanescent hope of a good outcome which never deserts one, and which should never be abandoned.
Anita Brookner
LEAVING HOME
Anita Brookner was born in London and, apart from several years in Paris, has lived there ever since. She trained as an art historian and taught at the Courtauld Institute of Art until 1988. Leaving Home is her twenty-third novel.
ALSO BY ANITA BROOKNER
The Rules of Engagement
Making Things Better
The Bay of Angels
Providence
Look at Me
Hotel du Lac
Family and Friends
A Misalliance
A Friend from England
Latecomers
Lewis Percy
Brief Lives
A Closed Eye
Fraud
Dolly
A Private View
Incidents in the Rue Laugier
Altered States
Visitors
Falling Slowly
Undue Influence
The Debut
FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, FEBRUARY 2007
Copyright © 2005 by Anita Brookner
Vintage and colophon are registered trademarks and Vintage Contemporaries is a
trademark of Random House, Inc.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of
the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or
dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The Library of Congress has cataloged the Random House edition as follows:
Brookner, Anita.
Leaving home: a novel / Anita Brookner.
p. cm.
1. Young women—Fiction. 2. Mothers and daughters—Fiction.
3. Female friendship—Fiction. 4. British—France—Fiction. 5. Mothers—Death—Fiction.
6. London (England)—Fiction. 7. Women scholars—Fiction. 8. France—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6052.R5816L43 2006
822’.914—dc22
2005048957
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www.randomhouse.com
eISBN: 978-0-307-43136-3
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