Incidents in the Rue Laugier

by Anita Brookner

  By the time he had accompanied them back to Denbigh Street he had fixed the amount that Cook was to be paid, indicated a printer who might give them a discount on their stationery order, given them the name of a reliable shop-fitter, and told Harrison to buy a car (‘You can’t collect books by public transport’). He declined a further cup of coffee, and strolled off in the direction of Victoria, watched by Harrison and Cook as they stood on the threshold of the shop, unwilling to see him go but impatient now to put their own plans into execution.

  ‘Will he come back, do you think?’ asked Cook.

  ‘Yes, I think so. He’ll come back to see if we’re doing what he told us to do. Do you want to get off and look at office supplies? Only don’t spend too much. We’re about to get through a lot of money. And I’ve got to buy a flat.’ Indeed the thought of the future seemed suddenly so foreign, so remote, that he wondered if it had been an illusion from the start.

  ‘I’ll get off then. What are you going to do?’

  ‘I’m going to get married,’ he heard himself say, and the doors to the future clanged shut in his face.

  Again he experienced the doomed sensation of one who commits himself to a course of action utterly foreign to his nature and to which he has been led by either altruism or willpower. How much easier it would be to linger in contemplation of the day’s events (surely unexpected) or to give a little uninterrupted time to a study of his equally unexpected associate Tom Cook. This gracile and accommodating youth, who, for some reason he could not hope to understand, had chosen to work for him, to espouse his interests, even to further them; yet he had been acquired effortlessly, and thus bore witness to the virtues of effortlessness as a strategy, or rather as a lack of strategy. Harrison knew that his happiest sensations, and even those rare decisions he had been forced to make, had come about by a process of almost magical passivity, which was in some way allied to the process of dreaming. Anything that involved hard adult ratiocination led invariably to a feeling of disappointment, as if he were being forced to act against his best interests, or even against nature. To be borne along on some wave of providence was his dearest wish, to be left in a state of reverie his most constant desire. He could even recapture his pleasure in surrendering his will to Tyler in those far off days of summer, which were in reality only six weeks distant. And the efficacy of this agreeable state was proved by the ease with which he had acquired Cook, simply by dint of not trying to acquire him, of choosing and accepting him almost absent mindedly, when his thoughts were fixed on some other matter, when he was impatient to buy his ticket to France and begin his journey in the wider world.

  The irony was that, of that whole episode, only Cook remained. His illusion of escape had ended in greater imprisonment. He supposed he should count himself fortunate that he had not wasted more time on this fantasy, that it had only consumed a few weeks instead of a few years of his life. Yet how cold it was to come down to earth so young, before the world had been experienced! He knew himself now to be unalterably bound to home, to circumstances which until very recently had struck him as unbearably humdrum, to this shop which he had instinctively rejected, along with the enigmatic but surely home-haunting ghost of his benefactor. In a little while he would shut the shop and walk back to his rented flat, though that, he realised, would soon have to be relinquished, if he were to set himself the surely rather urgent task of finding a permanent home. A rented flat was only suitable for someone of an unpredictable way of life, suitable in fact for that traveller he could no longer emulate. Now he had to reconcile himself to a stay-at-home existence, the sort of existence he would never have contemplated during his years at university, when large and romantic ambitions were the norm. The view from his barred window did nothing to lighten his mood: through the smeared glass he saw patches of waste ground, a collection of builders’ materials, and a pile of rubbish sacks. In the background he could hear the sound of suburban trains easing themselves into Victoria, stopping for twenty minutes or so, and then easing themselves out again.

  Unbidden, there came into his mind the image of Tyler, as he had left him in the rue Laugier. The flat had seemed dark and unfriendly, filled with his own hostility, which had had time to mount while he was walking with the silent weeping Maud in the grey Tuileries. He could still see her raincoated back and her bent head as she contemplated the gravel of the path. He contrasted this with Tyler’s sudden powerful reappearance, his even darker tan, his air of remoteness, of disengagement. It was a measure of his dominance that he had not responded to the insults rather hysterically offered to him but had appeared to think them over, to test them for veracity, to ask himself if they were justified, and finally to accept them, not ruefully, not apologetically, but in a spirit of some amusement. Of course, thought Harrison belatedly, I gave him the ideal opportunity to free himself from the encumbrance of Maud, from the encumbrance, rather, of his responsibility for Maud’s condition. Here he thought with some irritation of Maud herself. In fact in those last moments in the rue Laugier Maud had compared unfavourably with Tyler, although it was quite clear to anyone with any moral sense which one of them was to blame. But that was the painful fact of the matter, thought Harrison: effortlessness was always more attractive than guilt, even if it were attached to a line of conduct quite devoid of conscience. For this reason alone he would have found himself admiring Tyler, and indeed had done so during that tense last interview. That, after all, was why he had offered him his hand. If Tyler had chanced to walk in the door of the shop even now he would offer him his hand again. They were Steerforth and David Copperfield, he realised, with that poor girl between them. And there was no doubt in his mind that David had loved Steerforth, as Dickens had done, as the reader does, so great is the regenerative power of that unregenerate character, so profound the appeal of beauty and carelessness, and that somewhat unearthly aura of seduction.

  Compared with Tyler, whom he could see possessed some of the characteristics of an older and more remorseless order, Maud, in her damp raincoat, had seemed to incarnate a sad Christian morality, in which destiny is dependent on some kind of Fall, whether personal or universal. Harrison’s mind, which was free of any kind of religious conviction, as he suspected hers was, rejected this morality as distasteful, but because of his distaste felt or rather acknowledged her fears. It was as if a senseless superstition had suddenly been proved valid, and with it all the sad consequences of a fate once ridiculed. There was no difficulty in perceiving that Maud was in a fallen state, however little he wanted to see this. What then was the surge of feeling that prompted him to take care of her? Was it merely conscience, a sort of moral chivalry? Or was it more a fellow feeling, a sense of pathos, the quality that separated him from Tyler and his kind? He had fallen in love with her too precipitately, and that love was conditioned by the fact that she belonged to Tyler: he had felt passion for her when he made love to her, yet beyond his desire he had felt her loneliness calling forth some loneliness of his own. And during that sleepless night in the hotel, when they had both fearfully listened to each other’s breathing, he had felt this sense of vulnerability connecting them and had felt it to be stronger than his own passion, stronger even than any desire he might feel for her again, in whatever life they were to manage together.

  He had marvelled, when he made love to her, that Tyler had left no imprint on her body, as he had, again superstitiously, almost anticipated. Her beauty had surprised him, had inspired him to think and to act instinctively. She had not been passive, but he could sense that her thoughts were distant, not attentive to his. In the moments that followed had come the strong desire to attach her to himself, to make her love him, and there was even, if he were honest, a very slight antagonism in this impulse. But there was also ardour, mixed with disappointment, his own need to be loved, and that same sadness that united them both. He regretted being part of that fallen world, he regretted his awareness of duty and necessity, but there was nothing he could do to change matters. He coul
d now hardly remember why he had offered to marry Maud, beyond the immediate cause. But perhaps he had been wiser than he knew. Perhaps there had been a moment of recognition, for him, if not for her. So that there was as little foundation in him for Tyler’s moral freedom as there was for a life of unbridled adventure. For better or worse it was his fate to be obedient, to bow to necessity. Small wonder, then, that he yearned to be irresponsible.

  On impulse he went up the stairs to Cook’s flat, to see if he had managed to make himself comfortable. Although without curtains, the little living-room looked welcoming. There was a large and resplendent gas fire, installed by Mr Sheed for some previous tenant, or maybe for his own moments of withdrawal, and a capacious leather armchair, no doubt imported from some anterior home. Sheed himself, he remembered, had lived latterly at his club. Cook on the other hand showed signs of wanting to put down roots. He had rented a television set, ranged his paperbacks on the shelves. Harrison was touched to see that he had borrowed a couple of books from the shop: there an Angela Thirkell beside the narrow bed, and an Edgar Wallace on the arm of the leather chair. In terms of decoration Cook’s taste seemed to veer to the rococo: a complete tea-set in flowered gold-rimmed china—he recognised the cups from Max Kroll’s coffee break—occupied the whole of one small kitchen cupboard, together with several glass plates of various sizes, suitable for the serving of grateaux. Harrison felt himself smile at this evidence of home-making, but he was also touched. When he caught sight of Cook’s brand new wastepaper bin, complete with hunting scenes, he felt that if he stayed he would burst into tears.

  Suddenly he could no longer bear the thought of his flat. The image of his mother’s perfect domestic economy rose before his eyes, and he seized his bag and made for the station. In the train he fell into a doze which lasted until Polegate; he had just time to gather his wits about him, and decide to present the fact of his marriage as a delightful surprise, the kind of decision an impulsive young man might make, one at which his parents might marvel but could not question. It was late, later than he thought, no longer dusk but dark. He took the bus to Meads, alighted almost from memory, saw the house with lights shining from the downstairs windows, as if waiting for his return. In an instant he remembered the perfection of his mother’s reign, and its material reflection in the sparkling windows, the glossy white paint, the smell of lavender polish, the promptly renewed cakes of scented soap in the bathrooms. In the garden, at this time of year, his father would be staking drowsy Michaelmas daisies, his cardigan worn, the seat of his corduroy trousers baggy, from use, or from age. His parents’ ages: he preferred not to think about that. He rang the bell rather than use his key: he wanted to experience once again their lovely welcome. That was the essence of home to him: that sense of permanent joy at his return.

  They crowded into the hall one after the other, laughing, embracing him. ‘Give him something to eat, Polly,’ said his father, trying imperfectly to control his broad smile. ‘Come in, come in, but be quiet for ten minutes, there’s a good fellow; we just want to see the end of this film.’ Soon he was in a chair opposite the television set, a tray on his knees, an omelette and a sizeable piece of cold gooseberry pie in front of him, Bibi on her knees by his side, willing him to eat quickly and get on with telling them his news. But, ‘That’s that,’ said his father, switching off the set. ‘Rather an anticlimax, I thought. Now what’s all this about getting married?’

  He looked at them, saw himself reflected in three pairs of eager eyes, resolved not to disappoint them. ‘Well, I told you. She’s called Maud, and it was all very sudden …’

  ‘How did you meet her?’ asked Bibi.

  ‘Through friends,’ he said. That was true enough, anyway.

  ‘And when do we get to meet her, dear?’ That was his mother, eyes shining, tears not far away.

  ‘I suppose she’d better come for the weekend, sometime before the wedding,’ he said. This did now seem to be inevitable.

  ‘And her mother too?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ The rejection was instinctive. ‘You’ll meet her mother at the wedding.’

  When the two women carried off the tray to the kitchen, his father said, very quietly, ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Almost.’ He tried to make a joke of it.

  ‘Only I don’t want your mother upset.’

  ‘She won’t be. But what about you, Dad? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m always all right. A spot of indigestion, nothing to worry about.’

  ‘I tell him he eats too quickly,’ said his mother, coming back into the room. ‘But he takes no notice. Here you are, dear, give this to your Maud.’ She handed him a small faded box. This time there was no mistake: a tear was hastily wiped away.

  He opened the box and found a heavy gold ring, set with a band of sapphires and diamonds, the sort of ring that might have been worn by a confident Edwardian matriarch. He smiled at the incongruity of this, bent forward and kissed his mother.

  ‘Where did it come from?’ he asked.

  ‘A great-aunt on my mother’s side. I’ve never worn it—well, a diamond always seemed more appropriate when girls of my age got engaged. But this old-fashioned stuff is coming back, so they tell me. But if she doesn’t like it …’

  ‘She’ll love it,’ he assured her. ‘Mother, Dad, do you mind if I go to bed? I’m suddenly awfully tired.’

  ‘Aren’t you going to speak to Maud?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘And you’ll invite her over?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Somehow he got himself upstairs. But even here he was beset. Bibi lingered in the doorway of his bedroom. ‘Is she beautiful?’ she asked. He thought she was very slightly jealous.

  ‘Yes, she is rather beautiful.’ He longed to get rid of his beloved sister, though she dawdled in his room as unselfconsciously as she had always done. ‘Fair,’ he said, making an effort. ‘More of a dark gold. About your height.’ He was suddenly dropping with fatigue. ‘I shall need your help,’ he forced himself to say. ‘I’ll need to find a flat. Will you come to London and help me?’ He saw her face brighten. He decided he was too tired to take a bath. ‘Goodnight,’ he thought he said, and heard her switch off his light.

  In the blissful dark he registered only the fact that he was home, and that he would soon have to leave. Strange how his thoughts were more direct at night than in the daytime, as if the hours of darkness were more authentic than the others. It was true that revelations came in sleep, and these always seemed more startling than those acquired laboriously through everyday experience. What he hoped for now was not a revelation, but some sort of confirmation or sanction that he was proceeding honourably. He was aware of fear, of shadows that seemed to body forth from the darkness. And suddenly of desire, so that he turned over abruptly in the bed. He could count on that, at least. But could he count on her? And what of the baby, of whom so little had been thought? But in the darkness, in the peace of his own room, the idea of the baby—of any baby—seemed too fantastical, so that even in the brief interval before sleep overcame him he contrived to think the poor baby entirely out of the way.

  ELEVEN

  AFTER THE VIRTUAL DEFECTION OF HER MOTHER, FOLLOWING so soon after what she dared not think of as the treachery of Tyler (for to do so would have deprived the world of its last vestige of morality), Maud resigned herself to a life of serious effort and genteel conformity. Her first taste of both of these endeavours came to her during her visit to Harrison’s parents in Eastbourne during a sunny weekend in October. She had succeeded in getting her mother to postpone the wedding until the beginning of November. This had not been as difficult as she thought, for her mother, who spent much of her days now on the telephone, had succeeded in activating a circle of acquaintances, women who had hitherto found her both formidable and rather dull, but who were willing to appreciate her in this new mood of effervescence. And as the marriage of a daughter disarms most women, Nadine found herself invited out to tea rather more often
than had been her lot in recent years. There was so much to discuss, so many addresses to be exchanged. She had the sense to ask advice, to seek her new friends’ opinions; sometimes she brought sketches in her bag, samples of fabric. This was thought quite endearing, if mildly amusing. Something of the admiration previously felt for Nadine, whether sincerely or not, was now passed on to Maud, for her youth, her looks, and for the great feat of having secured a husband when she was barely out of school, filling in her time at the university, where, they assured her mother, her studies would have prepared her for her position as the wife of a man with an important bookshop in the heart of London.

  Maud during this time detached herself as much as possible from her mother’s new febrile condition, having won a reprieve in the matter of the wedding. This interval was important to her, not because she mistook it for liberty, which it was not, but because she needed to appreciate what she had so far taken for granted, the last of her youth. She had learnt all the lessons she was supposed to have learnt, knew that girls were no longer to be addressed as girls but as women, and thought briefly what a pity it was that in this new incarnation there was no opportunity to be inexperienced. Given the choice she would have welcomed a period of several years in which to discover what her tastes were, or whether she welcomed or rejected the feelings which came to her unbidden, even in the state of latency, almost of somnambulism, which accompanied her last days in Dijon. So unreal did these days seem that she almost welcomed Polly Harrison’s invitation, placing more faith in the restorative possibilities of a holiday by the sea than in any more vital contact. Briefly she looked to Edward to provide the impetus, to introduce her, even to sponsor her, to plead her cause, something she felt unable to do for herself. This faintheartedness was due in part to the fact that she felt slightly unwell, and had done so ever since her return from Paris. Her mother, preoccupied, noticed nothing. There seemed no possibility of visiting a doctor. Besides, what could she tell a doctor, or a doctor tell her? She knew the answer: her body had undergone a change, and she herself was changed with it.