Making Things Better

by Anita Brookner

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point,’ he had said. ‘No point in keeping you in suspense. The fact of the matter is that I’ve sold the business. The whole property, in fact. Had a very good offer and accepted it.’

  ‘But why? It was doing so well. At least I thought so.’

  ‘Make no mistake, you’ve done wonders with it. No, it’s nothing to do with you.’ He shrugged off his coat. ‘Look at me, Julius. How old would you say I was?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘Eighty-one.’ He waited for some rebuttal. When none came he dropped his uneasy manner and looked uncharacteristically sombre. ‘I’m getting out,’ he said bleakly. ‘I’ve had enough. All these years I’ve been wheeling and dealing I’ve never been happy. I always wondered why. And now I know. I’m not well, Julius.’ He laid a tentative hand below his rib cage. ‘Tried to overlook it, as one does, but there’s no doubt about it now. I’m looking at the end. The next big thing.’

  ‘The next big thing?’ Julius had echoed.

  Ostrovski ignored him. ‘I’ve got a place in Spain, as you know. Marbella. Might as well spend my days in the sun as in this perishing climate. I’m getting out, liquidating my assets. So you’ll be on your own, dear boy, free, for the first time in your life. You’ve been a good son, I’ve never doubted that, too good, perhaps. Sorry your marriage broke down, but that was all part of it, wasn’t it? Now you’ve got a chance to be your own man. I’ve seen to that.’

  ‘You mean you’ll give me a reference,’ he had said, his tone carefully neutral.

  ‘I mean I’m giving you what I paid for this outfit in the first place. Of course prices have gone up since then. I’ve taken this into account.’ He mentioned a sum that sounded unreal. ‘You can look for a flat of your own. Take what you want from here, not that you’ll want any of it. Truth to tell I always had a bit of a bad conscience about you. They favoured that brother of yours, didn’t they? Well, now you can make up for lost time.’

  ‘I can’t take this. All this money.’

  ‘You can and you will. It’ll buy you something small but comfortable. And there’ll be a bit left over. Wisely invested it should take care of you for the rest of your life. Ask my nephew about that. Name of Simmonds, Bernard Simmonds. He’s a solicitor, perfectly straight sort of guy, though bloody uninteresting. He’ll advise you. I should get in touch with him as soon as possible. He’ll have the flat in Hilltop Road, by the way.’

  ‘I can’t take this money,’ he had repeated.

  ‘It’s all perfectly legal, if that’s what you’re worried about. And why not have it now, instead of waiting till I’m dead?’ He grimaced. ‘Why wait?’ he said. ‘Simmonds had the same reaction, couldn’t believe I was doing the decent thing. But I always wanted to do the decent thing. The times were against it; that was the beginning and the end of it. I had to claw my way up, and I don’t say I didn’t enjoy some of it. Only it ends badly, Julius, remember that. You end up looking on, reduced to less than half of what you were. I dare say I shall do as well as I can, out in Marbella. In the sun there’s less need to think. And I want to get rid of the past, just live in the present, or what remains of it.’

  ‘Are you sure? You might be lonely.’

  ‘Of course I’ll be lonely. But there’s a loneliness that comes with age anyway. There’s nothing I can do about that. And there’s a sort of club there, all ex-pats, all on their last legs, all making quite a good job of it. It’ll be like going back to school. Absurd!’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Anyway I’ve put you in the picture. You’ve got about a month to sort yourself out. The new owner will dispose of the stock; I’ve given him a few contacts. Wants to open a hairdressing salon, I believe. I didn’t want to go into his plans; I’ve lost interest anyway. I just want my place in the sun, for as long as I’ve got. As I say, take anything you want from here. The two armchairs are quite good. And that little table. Belonged to my mother.’ Tears filled his eyes. ‘Don’t let me down, Julius. Do as I wish. That way it won’t all have been in vain.’

  ‘I don’t know how to thank you,’ he had said wonderingly.

  ‘No need. I can’t take it with me, can I?’ He wiped his eyes. ‘I suppose this is our last meeting. Get in touch with Simmonds if you need anything. Now get me a cab, there’s a good fellow. Got some packing to do.’

  On the pavement he seemed frail, unlike his former self. The transformation was already under way. ‘Hilltop Road,’ they both told the taxi driver. Then it seemed natural to embrace, as they had never done in the old days, natural for Julius to stand waving, until the cab and Ostrovski were out of sight.

  The suddenness of Ostrovski’s announcement seemed to have obliterated any response. Julius went to his small desk and scrutinized the invoices and accounts, the contents of which he knew by heart. But it was no good; he could make sense of none of it. His working life, it seemed, was over. Not quite what I expected, he had admitted to himself in the course of the afternoon. Yet he had expected nothing, and had been endowed with freedom, a freedom for which he was entirely unprepared. And he was relatively well off, though he would have to check with this Simmonds person that the gift was perfectly regular. He seized the telephone and dialled the familiar Hilltop Road number. The call went unanswered. The next thing to do was to find out the address of Simmonds’s office, and make an appointment to see him. Then he would have to find somewhere to live. The prospect posed even more difficulties; he had never exercised his own wishes in this respect. From Berlin to Hilltop Road to Edgware Road all his homes had been chosen for him. And home was such an emotive concept that he doubted whether he would be able to live up to it, to make a place for himself in a world where people exercised choices. On an impulse he hung the CLOSED sign on the door and went up to the flat. He had grown used to it, in a resigned, almost philosophical sort of way: he had not looked this particular gift horse in the mouth, although it had brought about unwelcome changes. He had been told to take anything he wanted, but he wanted nothing. He noticed a shabbiness he might otherwise have overlooked. The wallpaper had faded; the windows needed cleaning. He would take the two armchairs, and the little table that had belonged to Ostrovski’s mother, more in the interests of Ostrovski than himself. In that sense there would be some continuity. The rest he would have to buy. The prospect of a new bed, unslept in by anyone before him, filled him with a timid pleasure. Ostrovski had said something about a month. In that time he would have to find somewhere to live. Even more difficult, he would have to school himself into new habits, work out how to spend the rest of his life. He was after all at an age when most men retired, and no doubt they were all faced with the same daunting prospect. So much time! How on earth was it to be filled?

  At eight o’clock that evening he telephoned Hilltop Road again and was answered by Bernard Simmonds. So he actually existed; this was a good sign. And Simmonds was encouraging. There was no doubt about the money: it was properly gifted, and there were legal declarations to prove it. ‘Unusually generous, I agree, and almost unheard of these days. But he was better off than any of us suspected. I’m talking serious money here. I know, I know; it takes a bit of getting used to. If I were you I’d look for a property before the prices go up again. Don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if you need advice. We’re in the same boat, you know. I’d been paying rent here; now I own the lease. Incredible.’

  ‘Where is the money?’ he remembered asking helplessly, a memory at which he blushed for several days when forced to think of it.

  ‘In your bank. It’s all there, don’t worry. Now you’ll want to put it to good use. Between ourselves I think it would be better if you found something as soon as possible. Things will not be too comfortable at Edgware Road. New owner, and so on.’

  ‘But the business. The accounts. The stock.’

  ‘The new chap has appointed a firm of accountants to take care of all that. Liquidators, I suppose. But it’s all fair and square. In fact you’re free to leave.’

 
But he did not feel free. He felt bereft. As the evening darkened and the shadows gathered in the small sitting-room that had been home he felt somehow deprived of a birthright, the right to work. He felt newly alone in the world, wished for a family, an imaginary family, more like an audience, composed of people who would applaud and endorse all his actions. He had never known such people, half-knew that this was a fantasy left over from adolescence, or further back, from childhood. He went to bed, slept fitfully, would have welcomed a dream, however unpleasant. He got up before five, anxious now to be out of the place, out in the air. He would have breakfast at the all-night café on the corner, then try to work out some plan of action. In the early-morning light the familiar street looked strange, uninhabited, although there were muted signs of activity, as shopkeepers opened their doors to take in supplies. The coffee had a valedictory taste; he was in no mood to eat. As the sun rose slowly on what might prove to be a beautiful day, he paid, exchanged a few abstracted words with the café’s owner, and turned back to what was no longer his home. Raising his eyes from the pavement which he had apparently been studying, he saw with a pang that a van had drawn up outside the shop, that the door was already open, and that inside men were engaged in some sort of activity, one of them apparently going through his desk.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a hearty man who seemed to be in charge. ‘Thought we’d make an early start. Don’t mind us. I’m afraid you’ve ceased trading. We should be gone by this evening. But we’d like to take possession in, say, ten days’ time. That should give you time to make your arrangements, if you haven’t already done so, that is. Now, if you’ll excuse us . . .’ He turned briskly away. The interview was at an end.

  Herz had gone out again, drunk more coffee, and waited for the nearest estate agent’s doors to open. The girl who seemed to be some sort of secretary still had her coat on, and was obviously preparing to make herself a cup of tea. He took no notice. ‘I need a flat,’ he said tersely, more tersely than he thought he had it in him to say. ‘Two rooms, kitchen and bathroom. Independent central heating. Balcony. As soon as possible. Today in fact.’

  She looked at him in surprise. ‘You’re in a hurry,’ she observed. ‘Tea? I can’t get going without it. Take a seat.’

  He took a seat. Outside the windows the day was now fully fledged, young men with briefcases striding along with an air of purpose. He was no longer that sort of man, not that he ever had been. He had taken only what had been ordained for him, and would go on doing so. This act of buying a flat seemed to him a monstrous aberration, but presumably people did this every day of the week. Buying and selling, getting and spending were the order of the day.

  ‘I’m Melanie,’ said the girl. ‘My card. I can show you two properties this very morning, if you’re free. I’ve got Clarence Court and Chiltern Street. Both very central, both in good repair.’

  ‘I don’t like the sound of Clarence Court,’ he said, recovering some composure. ‘It sounds too dainty. I’d like to see Chiltern Street, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Sure. It’s a lovely flat. The last owner put a lot of work into it.’

  ‘Why did he leave?’

  ‘She. Got work in the States, left in something of a rush. It’s only been empty for a couple of weeks. We’re handling the sale: she left everything in our hands. So if you like it it’s all quite straightforward. Shall we go?’

  As soon as he saw the flat all his doubts were resolved. It was on the second floor of a narrow building which had been well maintained. The ground floor was occupied by a dress shop, the first by what he supposed was a workroom, from which he could hear a chatter of voices. The flat itself was small, admittedly, but light and calm. Someone, the previous owner, no doubt, had laid a hardwood floor and installed a miniature kitchen. The windows looked out onto Chiltern Street at the front and onto a small patio at the back; as he peered out he could see two girls install themselves with coffee cups. This gave an illusion of company which might be welcome. There was little room for additional furniture: he would need only a bed, and perhaps two more chairs. The bed was a priority; the rest could wait.

  ‘I want it,’ he said simply.

  ‘Great. If you’ll come back with me to the office my boss should be in by now. I told you about the lease, didn’t I?’

  ‘The lease?’

  ‘Rather short, I’m afraid. Eight years.’

  He calculated. With a bit of luck he would be dead before the lease ran out. ‘I’ll take it,’ he said, with an air of finality that convinced them both.

  He hired a van, packed his clothes, and prepared to leave, though the actual leaving might take some time. Edgware Road now belonged to the past. He could hear men moving about downstairs in the shop, but they no longer disturbed him. He was in a hurry to be gone. If necessary he would sleep in one of the chairs until the bed arrived. All this had happened rather more quickly than he had anticipated, as if under some kind of enchantment. The afternoon of the following day was spent on purchases which gave him a thrill of ownership. ‘Household Requisites’, he read at the entrance to one of the departments of a large Oxford Street store. He was a Householder! He was entitled to Requisites! He felt the same thrill in the supermarket, where he had shopped for years with massive indifference. ‘Traditional Afternoon Tea’ and ‘Breakfast Coffee’ convinced him that he was at last part of the community, with breakfast and tea adequately recorded. Without compunction he went back to Edgware Road, and removed sheets, towels and cups, piling them into plastic bags. After a last look round he placed his keys on his denuded desk and stood impatiently on the kerb, waiting for a taxi. In the new flat he threw open the windows and surveyed Chiltern Street, which seemed agreeably well-behaved after the clamour of Edgware Road. Again he heard sounds of life from the patio, which he supposed was one of the amenities reserved for the seamstresses. Their conversation, which was in a language he did not recognize, was the only sign that he was not entirely alone.

  By the end of the week Ostrovski’s mother’s table and two chairs looked well against the sunlit wall of the sitting-room. Flushed with success, he went to John Lewis and bought two more chairs, a television, a bedside cabinet, and three lamps. At home, as he now thought of it, he made up the bed which he had bullied the shop into removing from the window, and hung his clothes in the small cupboard. As far as he could see he needed nothing more. He was almost disappointed that the process had been so speedily accomplished. He telephoned Bernard Simmonds to give him his new address, got no answer, and sat down to write to him. This meant that he would have to acquire some sort of desk. It was a reprieve. Happily he set out again for another day of purchases. Again he was lucky. Apparently everything was available to those with time and money. This was a new dimension for him, one formerly unsuspected, or, if suspected, not for his participation. Now this had changed: entitlement again. The time for deference was over. He spared a thought for Ostrovski, promised himself that he would keep in touch. Then he cancelled the past, marvelling at how easily this was done, wondering why the past had kept him in its grasp for so long. In his euphoria he felt new-born, looked forward unrealistically to new friends. Already the landscape was familiar. It would be up to him to make the next move. What that might be he had no idea, but felt confident that it would present itself.

  But melancholia, once given house room, is difficult to dislodge. After a couple of months, after having dined with Bernard Simmonds and greeted Mrs Beddington, the owner of the dress shop, after shyly smiling at the seamstresses, only to hear them giggle as he walked on, he found himself once more enveloped in dream and memory, as if they alone could furnish him with information. Though he did not exactly miss his former routine, he regretted that he had so little to do. His days were composed of artificial outings: a newspaper and the supermarket in the morning, and in the afternoon a bookshop or a gallery. He told himself that many were in the same boat, but pitied them, thought wistfully of families, of ideal families, with gardens to occupy them
and grandchildren to cherish. Even the Claudes and Turners which he had so loved began to let him down, evoking only a half-remembered response. This seemed uncannily reminiscent of Freddy’s evolution, and, beyond that, of the apathy of his parents, whom he now loved and deplored in equal measure. He lived like a recluse, for that was how he thought he must, as if his destiny had reclaimed him. As time wore on the future seemed less accommodating, continuity not to be taken for granted. He revised his expectations, resigned himself to living in an uneasy present. The past took on a new refulgence, became momentarily precious. He was grateful for any additional information that his mind could supply, half-aware that he was now involved in a process that was almost certainly restricted, and caring less and less, as day followed day, that this might be so.

  6

  Custom decreed that Herz should take a holiday. At least he supposed it was so, since snatches of conversation in the supermarket and the café where he had taken to drinking his morning coffee revealed an unknown world of villas, apartments, gîtes, boats, and families overseas, and proved that the city was emptying, a fact which he had observed for himself in his modest perambulations. Even Mrs Beddington, the owner of the dress shop, had come up to inform him that she was joining her sister and brother-in-law in the south of France and to warn him about the burglar alarm, of which he now seemed to be in charge. The chatter from the workroom had diminished in volume and he supposed that some of the girls had gone home, to homes he had difficulty in imagining. He himself felt isolated in the middle of all these plans, elaborated over a cold winter and an even colder spring. Without holidays, it seemed, he had no currency to offer, no travellers’ tales, no amusing mishaps, no suntanned face to be presented to his usual constituency of casual acquaintances, and was reduced to questioning others about their plans. These plans seemed to him exhausting, yet they served to galvanize the year’s activities into purposefulness. Having no plans of his own to offer in exchange, he accepted that his role was to be a useful audience. His smile dutifully in place, he played his part, but began to weary of it.