The Rules of Engagement

by Anita Brookner

  When Nigel telephoned, as I had expected he would, I knew instinctively that this gravity did not encompass him. That too was a lesson I had learned from these events. Besides, I knew that out of principle, he entertained only robust convictions: one got ill, then one got better. Doctors were there to help. All of this spoke of a man who had never been ill in his life, although I knew that he had a severe regard for his nerves and his digestion. It occurred to me to wonder how I was to balance these two modes, until I realized that I should not need to. My time would be taken up with Betsy and the hospital, and in comparison with this and what it would involve Nigel’s company would of necessity be restricted to the small amount of attention I could spare him. He would do occasional duty as a distraction, rather like a play or a film, an artifice the purpose of which was to disguise those life events which could not otherwise be disguised.

  ‘Do you want me to come over?’ he said.

  ‘No, no. I’ll probably have an early night. I’m rather tired.’

  ‘How did you find your friend?’

  ‘She is rather ill, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m sorry. The important thing in these cases is to be positive. Mind over matter.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Have you got enough food in the house?’

  ‘Food? Oh, yes.’ There was a pause. ‘Thank you for lunch. Forgive me if I ring off. I really am rather tired.’

  ‘I’ll be in touch tomorrow.’

  ‘Goodnight, Nigel.’

  Though the sun was still on the walls of the adjacent buildings I undressed, took a bath, and lay down in the bed which had seemed so damaged and corrupted by my dream of the previous night. The dream had been prophetic, not in its specificity or its details, but in the fact that it had frightened me so. My own life now seemed fragile, subject to the same processes which only a determined opacity entitles one to ignore. I moved my arms and legs tentatively, experimentally, to assure myself that I was still intact. Intact, certainly, but perhaps no longer whole. The work that had begun in the dream—the spoiling—would now continue.

  18

  WE HAVE IT ON THE HIGHEST AUTHORITY THAT THE meek shall inherit the earth. But if the meek don’t want it? Betsy, opened up and then closed again, with a regretful shake of the head by the surgeon, wanted most definitely to remain in situ, though she did not know the extent to which she had been invaded and overtaken. In fact, when I first visited her, fearfully, after the operation, she was quite cheerful. ‘I must be getting better,’ she said. ‘I managed to eat my supper.’ This seemed so unlikely to me that I asked to see her doctor. Mrs Purslow, with whom I had managed to negotiate a fairly confrontational relationship, sighed, as if this were an unusual request. But the young doctor, for whom I was allowed to wait in yet another small empty room, was more explicit.

  ‘There was nothing we could do,’ he said. ‘Why did she leave it so long? She must have known that something was wrong. Who was her GP?’

  I said that I had no idea, that we had not been in touch before this had happened. There was no point in telling him, young and smiling as he was, that women living on their own are obliged to be stoical, or to assume a stoicism that will do duty in unalterable circumstances. How could this young man, who may, for all I knew, have been a husband, even a father, understand the terror that may prevail at night, or the despair in the face of another day? Betsy’s life, as far as I knew, depended on Edmund’s visits, but these could not always be relied upon. He would not, I knew from my own experience, make plans in advance, would simply ring up from his car to say that he was on his way. And I could all too easily imagine her, sitting in her flat, having reserved her evening for his visit, and then slowly coming to terms with the fact that she would have to wait another day, or even several days, before she saw him again.

  And the next day she would resign herself to the same painful routine of waiting, with little to distract her. In fact, distractions were to be avoided, her love affair demanding an exclusivity that anyone not affected by this particular madness could hardly comprehend. Easy enough, therefore, in these circumstances, to ignore any intimations that all was not well. It was essential only that she should appear presentable, the outer envelope untouched, all her resources employed in the task of maintaining an intimacy which took precedence over meaner considerations.

  I did not attempt to explain that Betsy’s illness was of a quite different order of magnitude, that it was in a direct line of descent from those tragic heroines whom she had so admired in a youth now disappearing into the shadows. ‘Que le jour recommence, et que le jour finisse/Sans que jamais Titus puisse voir Bérénice/Sans que de tout le jour . . .’ For she would have overlooked his occasional impatience to be gone, to get home, to rejoin familiar surroundings, perhaps been unaware of his distaste for her flat, to which she clung as the place where he knew how to find her. And perhaps—though this was difficult to imagine—he felt something of her exaltation, recognized the unusual nature of her feeling for him, however exasperating he may have found it, or, quite simply, felt a pity that opened up a part of his character of which he had not previously been aware, and which revealed him to himself as vulnerable, as helpless, as he had managed not to be for all his adult life. ‘I know what has to be done,’ he had said, but whatever had to be done would be tantamount to a decision the gravity of which only he could assess, and which, characteristically, he intended to keep to himself.

  ‘How long must she stay here?’ I asked the doctor. ‘She could come home with me . . .’

  ‘I’m afraid that would be impractical. She will need some nursing. And of course we shall sedate her. I can recommend a hospice, if that is what you would prefer . . .’

  ‘No. How much does she know?’

  ‘We have said nothing. Eventually she will ask. But in many ways it is better if she does not know.’

  ‘Can she stay here?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘How long?’

  ‘I can’t tell you that.’

  I could see that in his way he felt badly, rather on account of his own performance than for any other reason. He had been assigned an impossible task and had done his best to carry it out. Despite myself I felt sorry for him. ‘Don’t worry,’ I heard myself say. ‘We shall manage.’

  Walking along the neon-lit corridor to Betsy’s room my one feeling was a great longing for the outer air, with its pollution, its gases, its microbes, and its other less visible dangers. I was aware, by the fact of its very absence, of the heat of the summer’s day, of the sun which only that morning had shone through my windows, of appetites which could still be satisfied. In this place the line of distinction between sickness and health was sharply drawn, not in any symbolic or minatory way, but in the distant laughter of young nurses contrasted with the heavy closed doors behind which their patients waited. I was not exempt from their necessary feelings of detachment. I dreaded the time I had to spend sitting by Betsy’s bed, all too conscious of the glorious day from which we were both excluded. There was little to say. We were both intent on behaving well, which meant that our conversation was largely meaningless. We instinctively avoided the moment when a painful truth might emerge and alert us to imminent change. Therefore Edmund’s name was never mentioned. Instead we looked to the past to furnish us with subjects for discussion. Do you ever hear from so-and-so? What was the name of that girl whose parents emigrated to Canada, taking her with them? Do you remember how sorry we felt for her, thinking Canada a far cry from swinging London? Do you remember the Sixties? You haven’t changed. You were just as serious then. And just as pretty.

  There was no point in telling Betsy that she had not changed. What was unchanged was her determined cheerfulness: she was valiant. I could not bear to imagine what this cost her, but maybe it was innate, a genuine virtue, one that qualified her to inherit the earth. The same went for her attempts to present a decent appearance, though this was becoming difficult; her hair was now lank and thin,
and the colours she obstinately applied to her face looked harsh and irregular. I dared not deter her from making these efforts, lest she take that as a sign. She had always been so meticulous that her physical envelope represented yet another sign of her stoicism. As my admiration for her grew I found her situation, and I have to say, her company, less and less tolerable. When at last she showed signs of fatigue I got up to leave, and asked her my usual question: ‘Is there anything you want?’

  She turned her eyes away from the window, and I saw how large they had become.

  ‘If you could get a message to the girls?’

  ‘The girls?’

  ‘Edmund’s girls. They will wonder why I haven’t been in touch. They may not know where I am. Could you bear to go round to my flat? The number is on the pad by the phone. I should love to see the girls. And David.’ This last was an exhalation of pure longing.

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Is there anything else you want from the flat?’

  ‘If you could water the plants. And ring the girls. Tell them . . . Don’t tell them anything. Just give them my love.’

  Her face was turned once more to the window. My departure was awkward, as it always was. It was assumed between us that she wanted to sleep, was in fact on the verge of sleep. This tactic averted the need for encouraging words, reassurances, references to the future. For it had been observed between us that such references were out of place: the past was such inasmuch as it was over, whereas too many queries hovered over the present. My departure was an ungainly scramble, or so it seemed to me. Only when I was out in the corridor did it occur to me to wonder if I looked as mad and dishevelled as I felt, but when I consulted my mirror I saw that I was much the same as I had been when I left home, as reluctant then as now, the sun indifferent, but now even more splendid. Again as the doors slid closed behind me I breathed in the normal air as if my life depended on it, as perhaps it did.

  The contrast between the brilliant streets and the darkness of Betsy’s flat was eloquent. I could not see anyone wanting to return to this place. To its habitual air of desolation was now added a film of neglect: dust nestled in the curlicued legs of her nest of tables, while the parchment shade of her over-large lamp looked unequal to the task of filtering light. A faint stale smell of scent I traced to a bottle of room freshener which was abandoned on the side of the sink, together with a cup and saucer which had been washed but not put away. The plants were quite dead. I took a duster and wiped various surfaces, but I was unequal to the task of hoovering. This I would leave for another day. My dusting seemed to have effected no great difference to the place, from which I was anxious to be gone. I dialled the number on the pad by the telephone and was not surprised when it was not answered. I went into the bedroom and took a couple of nightdresses from the bulbous mahogany chest of drawers. Then I threw away the air freshener, which would no longer be needed. My conscience instructed me to try the telephone again. Again there was no answer.

  My own telephone was ringing when I got home, but stopped as I went to pick it up. I thought of making tea, and even got as far as filling the kettle, when the telephone rang again.

  ‘Where have you been?’ said Nigel. ‘I’ve tried you two or three times. I tried you ten minutes ago.’

  ‘I’ve just come in. I was making tea.’

  ‘Tea? It’s six-thirty.’

  ‘As I said, I’ve just come in.’

  ‘Well, never mind that now. There’s something I want to discuss with you. I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  ‘I haven’t done much shopping. Will an omelette be enough for you?’

  I did not want to see him. That was all I knew. I wanted to go out, into the still beautiful air, to walk, to be alone. To go to bed alone.

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Come when you’re ready.’

  He came almost at once, or so it seemed to me. He settled himself in Digby’s chair, watched approvingly as I poured him a glass of wine. I suppressed a sigh. Clearly I was meant to be at his disposal.

  ‘Have you thought about a holiday?’ he said.

  ‘No, no, I haven’t. I rarely take holidays.’

  ‘Well, I think you will this year. My friends in France have invited me for the second half of August. I mentioned that I might bring a friend. They were delighted. Very hospitable people; I’ve known them for years. So what do you say? They couldn’t have been more accommodating. They would be there when we arrived, and again before we left. In between they will be visiting friends in Italy. They don’t like to leave the house empty, so our visit would serve a double purpose.’

  ‘I don’t think I can get away this year.’

  ‘Gordes,’ he went on. ‘Beautiful place. Some excellent walks. An easy journey, and no need to pack much. Needless to say, it was a gracious gesture on their part.’

  Except that they needed someone to look after the house, I thought. That would be my job. Then I saw his face, slightly flushed, expectant. This would be his experiment in domesticity, playing at house, being a couple. More important, this was his initiative, his attempt to arrange my comings and goings in a setting which he knew and to which he would make me welcome. It would be like playing house, perhaps something nearer the real thing. Yet the real thing was unthinkable: he had his occasional place in my flat, but I had no wish for his exclusive company, in a place of his choosing, with no regard to my own independence. And his friends would no doubt be intrigued, approving, having given him up as a lost cause many years ago, perhaps for as long as they had known him. Maybe they had known his wife, and were privy to the same sort of information as I was. Maybe they were his surrogate family, with only his wellbeing at heart. Their encouragement would be tacit, and it would weigh on me, particularly at a time when I should be noticeably distracted, the past and the present uncomfortably close. And he would want me to give a good account of myself, to play my part, to give satisfaction all round. I saw that it could not be done.

  And yet the image of the south, the image that all northerners have, was irresistible. All the clichés came into play: markets, cafés, a more relaxed and indulgent way of life. And the sun, the sun! There was sun outside my window now, but for how much longer? We were in July, late July, and already there was an almost imperceptible alteration in the light, not in the daytime, but at night, a dulling of the atmosphere, a quietness, a sense of endings. Most people were away: the streets were almost empty. It was this emptiness to which I now held; this, I felt vaguely, was appropriate. My purpose was not to escape but to carry out the task which had been assigned to me. I had no right to pretend that it did not exist.

  ‘I don’t think I can leave,’ I said. ‘Not at the moment.’

  He stared. I was not paying due regard to his invitation. I knew this; I was not happy about it. And I knew that he would not easily forgive me for the way in which I dismissed his exceptional offer. He had come to this conclusion as rapidly as I had, and it might well prove to be irreparable. ‘Does your friend—I assume you are thinking of your friend—need you as much as all that? As much as I . . . might?’ The confession had turned his face brick red.

  ‘Yes. I think she does. Let me give you some more wine. Forgive me if I disappear into the kitchen. You must be hungry.’

  He was not a man to take a rebuff lightly. His discomfiture was manifest in the way he took his second glass of wine, without thanking me. Our friendship had been revealed as less than exclusive: while he had introduced a thoroughly worthy audience into this delicate plot, I had merely responded with that less than satisfactory excuse, a sick friend. He saw this friend as an ailing and tiresome impediment to his plans, which he must have elaborated with much excitement. It was, no doubt, a handsome gesture on his part, and it would have cost him something to introduce the subject to a couple whom at last he was managing to amuse, to intrigue. And they too would have played their part, leaving us alone in a house full of provisions, as if we might not want to go out . . . There was, he had told me, a
table in the garden, and most meals were taken there. The light was golden, unfailing. In such a setting one could be happy. His nostalgia for happiness was perhaps simpler than my own. It had to do with an appropriate setting, in which longing could be more easily brought to fruition. He genuinely could not understand my refusal. Nor could I. But I accepted it, with some sadness, not merely for my own sake but for his. His largesse had been spurned, and this was something that few men will overlook. I knew, or rather I apprehended, that the incident had been fatal, and I was sadly aware of the likely consequences.

  We ate in silence. We were both mortified by a crisis which seemed to have arisen from nothing. It was clear that this particular evening would not be prolonged, as was by now our invariable custom. As soon as he had drunk his coffee he got up to leave. ‘Perhaps you’d like to think about it,’ he said. His tone was not entirely friendly. I promised to do so. I could do no less.

  If, I thought, I could provide a substitute for myself at the hospital, if, in fact, I could persuade the girls, as Betsy called them, to take on my duties, then I might be able to free myself for a couple of weeks. I knew this was unlikely, but it was worth a try. I cursed myself for not retaining the telephone number on the pad in Betsy’s flat, but was too tired to go back there. The ploy thus took on the dimensions of a fantasy: I should somehow contact the girls ( Julia and Isabella, as I remembered they were called), who would gladly consent, or could be persuaded, to visit Betsy every day, leaving me free to enjoy the delights of the south of France. That this was unlikely did not bother me, so eager was I to believe it. The added advantage of such a plan was that it would give such pleasure to Betsy, so much more than my inadequate company. I could leave instructions with doctors and nurses before I left, maybe leave a telephone number in France. If I were summoned home I should respond immediately, and so no doubt would Nigel, who would be excellent in a crisis. The more I thought about this the more practicable it began to seem. But first I had to sleep, for I was suddenly mortally tired. In the morning I should make more detailed plans. This now seemed to me the thing to do.