Latecomers

by Anita Brookner

  ‘What would you recommend?’ he asked.

  12

  Toto, leaving Oxford with a poor degree and a large following, had given much thought to his future. The details were vague in his mind but the outline was bold: he simply knew that he would be prodigious. In an exemplary way – exemplary in the sense of accurate foreknowledge – he knew that he was born to be a prodigy, for the word had suggested itself to him when he was still a young boy, fretting at the confines of his bourgeois home. ‘Je suis un enfant prodigue,’ he had said to himself; he was in his Baudelaire phase at the time and longed to have a stepfather whom he could hate, instead of Fibich who forgave him everything. The path he was to take was unclear to him, but he was convinced that it led to stardom. He idly contemplated notions of couture, or modelling; however, acting was his métier, he felt, not the old fustian stuff of drama school and years spent in provincial repertory, but instant fame on the small screen, springing into a million homes, knocking the inhabitants flat with the sheer lustre of his personality. In the meantime, until the day of his discovery, he had little to do, for it was simply a question of waiting until somebody noticed him. That someone, he saw, would be a woman, one of the new hard-pressed breed, working frantically for a television company, but taken off guard and becalmed into wistfulness by his unusual good looks, his splendid body: he would present his profile to her, then turn full-face and look her brazenly in the eye, and the next thing he knew she would have secured him a part in her next production. Anything would do: he would accept a serial to begin with. But what he had in mind was one of those masterly fictional exposés of the condition of England, in which corrupt schoolboys prefigure the handsome damaged adults who habitually compete for eminence in the inflated world of espionage. In this he was prescient. He could look both young and unfledged and adult and knowing: sometimes the two sets of impressions merged, and then he was mystifying to those of his entourage who thought they had him taped.

  He was something of an enigma to his friends, especially to his women friends, who suspected or liked to think in terms of a tortured sensibility beneath the expressions that passed across his face like ripples on a pond. In fact Toto never submitted himself to torture of any kind. He had the true actor’s make-up: he was both ruthless and narcissistic. Having thought for years in terms of the effect he had on others, he simply decided to make this effect his career. The conviction that this would inevitably come about was so strong in him that he disdained the idea of any form of work. He was content to wait until fate delivered him into the hands of those who would finally set the seal on his life.

  In the meantime he had to consider the appurtenances of living. He had to invent a suitable setting for himself. A flat in London was the first necessity. His friends at Oxford, Archie and Isabel, suggested joining forces with him for a couple of years. Toto, who could not cook and who hated being alone, agreed, although he dimly perceived that Isabel, who was in love with him, might eventually prove tiresome. But she had taken some excellent photographs of him in the college gardens which would come in useful and he owed her something in return. In any case Archie and Isabel were brother and sister and could be trusted to keep an eye on each other. In that way he would be responsible for neither of them, a position which suited him perfectly. They were a well-connected couple, the son and daughter of a Scottish peer, but they had no money, which also suited Toto. He intended the flat to be in his name, so that he could turf the others out as soon as he saw signs of coming into his kingdom. In the meantime they might make themselves useful. Both were doing post-graduate work, which would keep them on a fairly tight budget. He would take care of the money side of things. That suited him too. He was prepared to be generous for an indefinite period. He was, in his limited way, fond of them both. But he knew, with his curiously far-seeing instinct, that they had little part to play in his future.

  First the flat had to be found. Archie and Isabel thought in terms of Notting Hill Gate, where their grandmother lived and which they knew well: Toto favoured something more central. For the time being he was living with his parents, a condition which they all found less uncomfortable than they had expected. Indeed Toto, lulled by his mother’s food and his father’s indulgence, and fuelled by his endless belief in himself, had begun to make himself agreeable, and to her astonishment Christine found him to be good company. The trick, she decided, was to suspend all judgment, to abandon any hope of mutuality, with this curious son of hers: the trick was simply to treat him as a phenomenon. She therefore turned over her kitchen to the planning committee poring over house agents’ leaflets, and her drawing-room to the telephone conversations that ensued; she became used to three hands reaching out for the apple cake which she silently put before Toto and his friends, to accompany the relays of coffee that they seemed to need, and she began to cherish the company of the three young people who had taken up residence in her hitherto undisturbed home while actively planning to move on collectively, like a flight of birds, when the season changed, for they were not too desperate, she thought, to be alone together without the nurturing that she provided. They rarely went out to look at any property, the whole thing having the air of a theoretical exercise. It was a source of wonder to her that she could please them so easily.

  ‘Marvellous cake, Mrs Fibich,’ said Isabel, her cross pretty face humanized by a crumb at the corner of her mouth. ‘We haven’t had this before, have we? Is it difficult?’

  ‘Why, no, Isabel. I’ll show you how to make it. It’s very simple. You simply drop fresh cherries or plums into your cake mixture. Remember to stone them first. It’s a little trouble, but it makes all the difference.’

  She must remember to buy another dozen eggs, she reminded herself.

  ‘It’s not an English cake, though, is it? At least I’ve never had it before.’

  ‘It was my Aunt Jessop’s recipe. She had it from her German mother. There is cold chicken in the fridge, Toto. And potato salad. And perhaps Isabel would like to mix a nice green salad. There is plenty there for all of you. I shall be with Yvette, if you want me, dear. And I shall be back to give you your tea.’

  She sailed out of the flat, feeling cautiously happy. At last, it seemed, she was being an adequate mother to her son. It had required no ruse, no duplicity in order to achieve this, just submission to his will, simple subjection, of a not entirely different order from that experienced by poor Isabel. But in her case expecting no return, having learnt by experience, throughout Toto’s childhood, the outlines of his imperious self-sufficiency. He would never need her, she now recognized, any more than he would ever value the love and fidelity of any woman, but if she could please him, spoil him, feed him, and of course praise him, he would tolerate all these offerings, and in return confer upon her his bemused and graceful acceptance. And to think she had tried to conquer him, to chastise him, to awaken in him a more rigorous sense of life’s expectations! That was not the way of it at all with Toto. One loved him and looked for nothing in return. Many women would love him proportionately more because of receiving so little; they would be the importunate ones, the ones who would bring a grimace of well-bred distaste to his lips. Christine saw that she must never again fall into this plaintive category. To remain in her son’s graces she must avoid behaving like the sort of woman he most held in disfavour.

  She was fond, too, of Isabel, despite her knitted brows and her rather high petulant voice. A darkly pretty girl, Christine could see in her something of the torment which her difficult position was causing her to undergo. Was she to be sister or concubine? Christine mentally shook her head with pity that the young should have to suffer so, for to her they were all children. Yet Isabel, despite the modish clothes that outlined her fine figure, wore her hair drawn back into a modest bow, and her physical restlessness – the twining of her legs and feet, the sudden expansive yawns – were undercut by a wistfulness of expression, as if she were wondering what she could be doing in this so comfortable flat, and whethe
r she would ever get out of it. And if she did, what then? There was no way, Christine could see, of making it easier for her, of ensuring her maturity without pain. She would be brought to a dreadful humility if she continued to love Toto, and continued to make it so clear. He liked her for her very crossness, which intrigued him, and which he thought protected them both. And for her glossy black looks, the raven’s wing hair and eyebrows, which gave him a detached aesthetic pleasure. He had decided some time ago that she was worthy of him. Christine, knowing her son, could see that this was only a temporary arrangement. And Isabel, although she did not yet understand why this should be so, felt it in the air between them. It was Isabel who kept them to the task of finding a flat. Archie, her brother, had long ago abandoned the whole idea and simply brought his law books to these consultations. With his fingers in his ears to shut out his sister’s scolding voice, he got quite a lot of work done. Not having to go out for meals helped. He said very little, but always smiled at Christine and held the door open for her when she left the kitchen. Christine liked Archie too.

  All in all, she thought, Toto had made nice friends, although she knew that he would eventually dispense with them. In the meantime she enjoyed this respite from conflict. She even looked forward to their daily taking up residence in her kitchen, although it did occur to her to wonder how long they intended to be there. ‘My young people,’ she described them proudly to Yvette, who was vaguely annoyed at this erosion of her sovereignty. ‘My young people are downstairs,’ Christine would say. ‘Can I take you out to lunch? There doesn’t seem to be any room for me.’ Thus she became, briefly, the leader of those little expeditions to stores and restaurants to which she had previously submitted without much enthusiasm. Yvette found her more animated these days. And Fibich, returning home to a depleted supper of cold chicken and the remnants of an apple cake, was delighted with her. After greeting his father, Toto would sail out for the evening, although he rarely said where he was going. ‘Leave him alone,’ Christine would say severely. ‘It’s only natural that he should want to be with his friends.’ Thus she repossessed Toto from his father’s anxiety, and in so doing decreed a measure of calm for them both.

  When the dazzle of this new activity momentarily subsided it would occur to her to wonder, yet again, where this exorbitant son had come from. She could see in him no trace of either Fibich or herself, which she supposed was a measure of congratulation all round. Yet once, when she had come upon him in the drawing-room, asleep in a chair, with his legs flung out, she had had a disturbing memory of her graceless father in his most characteristic position. Surely not, she wondered. Mr Hardy had been so very horrible, and anyway he had been short and stout. And Toto was so tall and graceful. Yet there had been something in the totality of his repose that took her back to those ominously silent afternoons in St James’s Mansions. So disagreeable was this impression that she mentioned it to Fibich. ‘Surely not,’ he protested in his turn. He had never known Mr Hardy, but he disavowed him just the same. ‘He must surely take after my father.’ ‘You don’t remember him,’ she said. ‘I don’t remember anything about him,’ he corrected her. ‘But I remember him as looking tall and distinguished.’ The memory for once did not upset him. He saw in his son a kind of worldliness that must have come from somewhere, and it pleased him to think that the paternal genes had been passed on. A modest man, he could not see that he himself was tall and distinguished looking. And indeed his habitual mildness of expression militated against an imposing physical presence. Yet as they grew older both he and Christine began to improve in looks. Awkward when they were young, they had remained slender, and although Christine’s hair was now white Yvette had persuaded her to have it cut short, and with the addition of a subtle rouge on her cheeks, also Yvette’s suggestion, she looked not unlike an eighteenth-century pastel, with a suggestion of veiled wit about her that made her look, paradoxically, quite ageless. The eyes were still splendid. And Fibich too had an absent-minded and harmless air about him, which, allied to the correctness of his bearing, produced a favourable impression. Toto appreciated their fastidiousness, which he had entirely inherited. These days he did not mind them at all.

  After six months in the kitchen (the happiest six months of her life, she often thought), Christine found them one day drooping in discouragement. Her table was covered with Archie’s books and papers, and the elaborate and discarded lists which Isabel made each day and forgot to take home with her. She noticed that her now completely beloved son was growing sleek and lazy on apple cake. ‘Toto,’ she was moved to say, for she prized his looks almost as much as he did himself. ‘It is time you made a decision. No, don’t put more sugar in your coffee. You are putting on weight.’ These words electrified them, as if a doom had been pronounced. Isabel blushed deeply. Archie, aware of their changed expressions, removed his fingers from his ears. ‘It’s all right, Mrs Fibich,’ he said. ‘We’ve decided on Fulham Road.’ ‘Have we?’ said Isabel, startled.

  ‘It’s there in front of you,’ he said, pointing to one of her pieces of paper. ‘Ground floor, three bedrooms, west-facing garden. Handy access to excellent public transport.’

  Toto laughed. ‘Just like that,’ he marvelled. ‘And he wasn’t even listening.’

  Christine felt a pang, but simultaneously became aware that she was rather tired.

  ‘I suggest we go and have a look at it,’ said Toto. ‘Coming, Ma?’

  Sun flashed briefly on the raindrop-spattered windscreen of the car as they inched their way down the Kings Road.

  ‘You see?’ said Archie, expansive. ‘All this and the Royal Court too.’

  Isabel was silent, knowing that Toto’s father was putting up the money. She wondered, for she was quite hard-headed in her more enlightened moments, how long she would be allowed to stay. She reasoned that as long as she stuck it out, Toto would be unable to move another woman in. Suddenly she was anxious for them to be installed. Her own thesis had been hanging fire too long: she was receiving enquiries from her tutor. Christine’s kitchen had been so much more attractive than the British Library. But now, they all realized, the time had come. Toto was thoughtful.

  ‘Have I really put on weight?’ he asked, at random.

  Christine consoled him. ‘You will soon take it off. Just be careful what you eat.’

  ‘You have fed us too well, Mrs Fibich,’ said Archie, who was naturally gracious. ‘We are terribly grateful.’

  It sounded final, and Christine felt another pang. Well, it must be done, she told herself, and determined to like the flat, whatever its drawbacks. If it were terrible, as she suspected it might be, he could always come home again. And if it were not, then perhaps she and Fibich might, one day, be welcome there. For at the prospect of this parting of the ways her timidity had reasserted itself, like an unwelcome visitor from the past.

  The flat was not terrible: it was large, and light, and had the extremely empty air of a recent conversion. Dusty French windows, with an ironwork grille in front of them, opened, finally, on to a rain-drenched garden in which sun flashed tormentedly on to unkempt grass. Grey clouds bowled in from the west, darkening the high-ceilinged rooms. But it was quite a solid conversion, Christine noticed, and the kitchen and bathroom were newly installed, which would save considerably on the outlay. It had been painted magnolia, which took on a shadowy aspect under the rapidly changing sky.

  ‘I’ll have this room dark green,’ said Toto.

  ‘You like it then?’ she asked.

  ‘Yep,’ he said, and sat down on a packing-case full of electrical wiring that had been left in what she supposed to be the drawing-room.

  ‘What about the others?’ asked Christine.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be fine,’ said Toto, pulling the New Yorker from his pocket and turning to the listings.

  ‘Of course, Daddy will want to see it,’ murmured Christine, but she knew that it was decided. She wandered through the empty rooms, felt the radiators. ‘Do you like it, Isabel?’ she
asked. ‘Archie?’

  ‘Seems fine,’ said Archie cheerfully.

  Isabel, Christine could see, was frantically enthusiastic, her cheeks, burning, holding her breath in case it should prove too expensive.

  ‘We’ll pay rent, of course,’ she assured Christine.

  ‘It seems to be settled then,’ smiled Christine. ‘I’ll bring my husband to see it this evening. You had better leave the key with me, dear.’

  ‘So he’s leaving home?’ said Hartmann, surprised that Fibich was taking it so calmly. But Fibich was so proud of having behaved like a grown-up parent, so pleased that his wife was similarly proud, that he merely sighed and smiled.