The Rules of Engagement

by Anita Brookner

  ‘Hot enough for you?’ was the greeting offered on all sides when I went out, to which the approved response was, ‘We’re not used to it,’ accompanied by a shake of the head. Even so early the sun was an undeniable presence, bringing to mind a dominance which we had no power to evade. I revelled in this, recognizing it as my natural climate, to which the dark days were merely an unavoidable prologue. The idea of prolonging the summer in idyllic surroundings—that table in the garden—was overwhelmingly attractive, and I was already regretting my refusal of Nigel’s invitation. There were two possibilities open to me, as I saw it. The first was to repair the breach with Nigel: this would be a clumsy manoeuvre, but I thought I could manage it. The other was to persuade the girls, and if possible Edmund, to visit Betsy: that was what she wanted, and if I could bring it about, honour would be saved. Confidence in my ability to do this made me careless; it was possible that at that moment, powered by the sun, I did not fully understand the difficulties involved. I resolved to go to the hospital as usual, but only for a brief visit, then return to Betsy’s flat and ring the Fairlie household until I got an answer. Then I realized that this might not be necessary. Edmund had given me his card, which I had thrust into the nearest telephone directory, out of sight, as the hated object that it was. But I was now out on the street and unwilling to return home. I would buy food hastily on my way; Nigel too must be telephoned and invited for a meal—but not perhaps this evening. To act too precipitately was to put myself in the wrong. In any event I decided to postpone this decision; the other now had precedence. I would go straight to the hospital, and then, if possible, return to perfect my plans.

  But as soon as I entered Betsy’s room I saw that a change had taken place. She lay still, her eyes closed. I went out to find a nurse, but the corridor was empty. Mrs Purslow was evidently about her own affairs; in any event she was not there. I returned to the room, sat down quietly by the bed. I was aware of a hot stillness, of a silence I must not break. I took her hand and held it lightly, and then at last she opened her eyes and saw me. ‘Beth,’ she said. It was the name I had had as a child, vouchsafed only to a few chosen friends. Then her eyes closed again. I sat with her for an hour, her hand in mine. Eventually she sighed and said, ‘Thank you.’

  When I saw that she was asleep I tiptoed out, but without the usual feeling of deliverance. Instead I felt anger, even fury. The groaning bus got me only to Piccadilly; from there I took a taxi, but only after what seemed like an interminable wait. In the flat I up-ended the telephone directories, leaving them splayed on the floor. My anger was so great that I knew it could not last, that I must act while it was at its height. But I was halted in my movements by a sudden feeling of faintness, and was obliged to sit on the floor until it passed. There was nothing mysterious about this; I had not eaten much on the previous day, and breakfast had consisted of a cup of coffee.

  Sitting on the floor I examined Edmund’s card, puzzling over it until my head cleared. It gave two addresses, one in Hampshire, one in London. The London address was presumably that of the house which Constance hated and which I had never seen. It was in a small square near the river, which I also did not know. The telephone number, I vaguely thought, was different from the one on Betsy’s pad, but I was not sure of this, and blamed my passing malaise for my poor memory. When my head cleared I dialled the number on the card. There was no reply.

  Almost instinctively I left the flat and made my way in the direction of the river. Never had the district seemed more inimical to me. The blazing sun had emptied the streets; blinds were pulled over the windows of the houses; cars crept by almost noiselessly. I longed for this day to end, yet did not want to face another like it. I felt involved in something that was too difficult for me, perhaps too difficult for anyone. Yet the sadness that this might have invoked was absent, had leaked away, leaving only a numb resolution. I tried to revive the anger I had felt; that too was now in default.

  I found the small square as if I had been directed there. Again it seemed devoid of inhabitants, although two small boys were aimlessly kicking a ball on the corner. Soon they disappeared, no doubt discouraged by the heat. I had no trouble in finding the house. It advertised its presence insistently: there was a sign outside which proclaimed SOLD. The sign had been knocked slightly sideways, which may have indicated that it had been there for some time. This dereliction, into which it was becoming easier by the minute to descry a symbolic message, was now the only presence, though inanimate, in the deserted street. I hastened away from it, as if I had overheard a forbidden conversation, even a conspiracy, which sent an inscrutable message to those unfortunate enough to hear it. ‘I know what has to be done,’ he had said. There would be no need for explanation, for exegesis. All had been enacted, without our knowledge, let alone our consent. The decisiveness with which it had been done was, again, in character. Such decisiveness, such character were beyond my reach. There would be no time to tell the necessary lies. Thus, in a way that was almost acceptable, the matter had been taken care of. Betsy would not know of it; I hoped that she had been able to entertain, perhaps to welcome, an habitual illusion. For myself no illusion would be possible, not now, not ever. I knew the truth of the matter. And the truth of the matter was plain to see: from all our respective viewpoints, mine, Betsy’s, even Edmund’s, the case was closed.

  19

  NOW, MANY YEARS LATER, LONG AFTER BETSY’S DEATH, long after Edmund’s son had come off his motorbike and been killed by an oncoming car, I sit and think of these events as if they had taken place in another life. Strangely, or perhaps not so strangely, I mind David’s death more than anything else, although I had hardly known the boy. But I remember his face, the reluctant smile that was a mirror image of Edmund’s own, and perhaps of that of Constance, who smiled rarely. I am fifty-six, nearly fifty-seven. According to the tabloid which I now read over breakfast, fifty is the new thirty. But this is not true: at thirty, one still has expectations. I had been born a little too soon. I had been given the wrong instructions, by teachers, by novels. Betsy at least had chosen grander models. That was how I thought of her now, as a tragic heroine whose destiny it is to die. This brought a sense of symmetry to her end, and made it slightly easier to accommodate. But in fact everyone I know seems to have been prefigured somewhere, in pages which I do not take the trouble to trace. Even books can let you down.

  I still see Nigel from time to time although the connection has been broken. Sometimes I join him on a walk in the park, which he suggests out of kindness, thinking me lonely. He senses distress of an order which he is not keen to investigate, nor could I explain it. It has something to do with the passing of time, which he does not seem to register, although he is older than I am. He no longer visits me, and I suspect that he has found an alternative arrangement. He is still a good-looking man, though now I must add, for his age.

  Sometimes I walk, as I used to, in the early morning, or after dark. They welcome me kindly at the hospital, where I do voluntary work. I have made new friends there, but women, only women. I have caught Betsy’s habit of gazing into children’s faces: another sign of ageing. The time passes quickly now. There is just that failure of nerve around six o’clock, when I long to be summoned. But I sleep soundly, without dreams. Were I to dream I should find myself in the past again, at home, with my parents, or running to meet them, my face alight with joy, as it must have been, at the beginning of the world.

  Anita Brookner

  THE RULES OF ENGAGEMENT

  Anita Brookner was born in London and, apart from several years spent in Paris, has lived there ever since. She trained as an art historian and taught at the Courtauld Institute of Art until 1988. The Rules of Engagement is her twenty-second novel.

  ALSO BY ANITA BROOKNER

  A Start in Life

  Providence

  Look at Me

  Hotel du Lac

  Family and Friends

  The Misalliance

  A Friend from England<
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  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 Bay of Angels

  Making Things Better

  FIRST VINTAGE CONTEMPORARIES EDITION, FEBRUARY 2005

  Copyright © 2003 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 are the products of the

  author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales,

  or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  The Library of Congress has cataloged the Random House edition as follows:

  Brookner, Anita.

  The rules of engagement: a novel / Anita Brookner.

  p. cm.

  1. Female friendship—Fiction. 2. Choice (Psychology)—Fiction. 3. Man-woman

  relationships—Fiction. 4. Women—England—Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6052.R5816R’.914—dc22. 2003058520

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  www.randomhouse.com

  eISBN: 978-0-307-42929-2

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