Making Things Better

by Anita Brookner

  Here were his mother’s parents, the grim couple who put their faith in every religious prohibition and who observed even more rules than were theirs by inheritance. They had an appearance of worthiness which was fallacious, a photographer’s compliment, the formally dressed man standing respectfully behind his wife’s chair, and that wife, monumental in black, staring forward without the trace of a smile, never once, in the lifetime that Herz dimly remembered, ever showing an instinctive affection towards any member of her family, yet undoubtedly mourning the defection of one daughter while grappling the other to her side. It had somehow been decreed that this remaining daughter should never leave home. Had his grandfather not taken pity on her and introduced the so appropriate young man into his household she would have remained unmarried for the rest of her days. Herz examined the two rebarbative faces, acknowledged the repugnance he felt, yet was grateful that they had died naturally, in their own home, a fate denied to so many of their kind. Looking at them from this distance he could discern what had made them so disagreeable: they had never known pleasure. Under those stiff formal clothes were stiff formal bodies, which had learned to keep their distance from one another, coming together only for certain regimented purposes, and resuming their forbidding demeanour immediately afterwards, and no doubt with relief.

  Here was the Baden-Baden photograph, the most precious of all, and here at last was one of himself as a child, in short check trousers, with his hand to his heart, as it so often was these days, but in the photograph without a hint of weakness. He too was solemn, but with a wide mouth that was prone to move into a smile, even then. That smile had become one of protection, as his family’s destiny unfolded, of propitiation too. It had never left him, although his own destiny was obscure by any standards. The feeling that he had escaped still puzzled him. In Herz’s particular cosmology there were no lucky escapes; all good fortune had to be elaborately justified, and above all nothing taken for granted. To be sitting in his own flat, with no obligations, seemed to him more precarious than it might appear. He knew that it was luck that had brought him to this pass, and he distrusted luck as fervently as his devout grandparents might have done. Maybe it was from that unlovely couple that he had inherited his conviction of God’s irritability, and with it the likelihood that undeserved good fortune might incur the strictest of penalties.

  Their later lives were not recorded, apart from a photograph of a deserted Hilltop Road which he had taken with his own camera, somehow brought intact from Germany, and one of Freddy in shabby grinning retirement, all traces of his mother’s ambition eliminated, as if by will alone. Taken by someone unknown, it showed him sitting on Brighton beach, his trousers rolled above his ankles, shirt sleeves protruding from an ancient pullover, wearing a smile that Herz thought unlike his own in that it implied an absence of memory that was also deliberate. Freddy was happy! Herz had only to contrast this photograph with one of Freddy in full concert-platform fig to understand what a burden his former life had been to him, and to sympathize. He had somehow escaped blame: the move to England had effaced his nascent reputation, after which he had lapsed into an illness that was sufficiently unspecific to allow him a breathing space. He had also escaped his parents’ disappointment, since they were so anxious to believe him on the verge of a miraculous cure, a new maturity that would raise them all to eminence, would wipe away their tears. It was in order to nurture this illusion that they visited him so little, delegating the task to their younger son, who saw, early on, that there would be no renaissance of their former way of life, and none at all of Freddy. The illusion was shared only by his parents, a folie à deux, in which the husband was implicated largely by fear of his wife. That later photograph of Freddy, looking like a day-tripper, was all that remained of his life as a man. So improbable was it that Herz gazed at it in wonder before reluctantly laying it aside.

  The other photographs were of lesser interest, mainly postcards of his travels, souvenirs from which the original attraction had faded, and reproductions of favourite paintings, only some of which he had seen: a bird from the catacomb of Priscilla in Rome; a portrait of an English lady wearing a large hat, from the Jacquemart-André Collection in Paris, bought because of the hilarious yet touching contrast between her clumsy appearance and the elegant surroundings of the museum; a stylish back view of a woman by Manet, barely sketched in and evocative of further nudity; an almost illegible sculpture frieze from Parma Cathedral; an arresting image from the National Portrait Gallery of a dressmaker pinning the skirt of an impassive client who resembled Fanny Bauer (black hair, dark eyes, prominent crimson mouth, and bad-tempered expression); and a Fayum portrait head which he cherished because Josie had sent it to him and which he could imagine her choosing carefully in an effort to adapt to him. That postcard had moved him unbearably. He had read into it a desire to please which she was normally determined not to show, and perhaps a glimpse of a response to beauty that he had longed to cherish. It had been in the early days of their relationship; he had taken her to the Wallace Collection, he remembered she had been bored; the visit was not a success. But two days later she had enclosed the Fayum reproduction in a note thanking him for a pleasant afternoon. He had thought it a charming gesture, a tribute of sorts to something she did not share but which she acknowledged as being part of his dreaming mind, and which, puzzled, she respected.

  As a record of a life it lacked consistency, hinting at grandeur, hinting at tragedy, but subsiding at the end into that grinning figure on Brighton beach. And it was a record from which Herz himself was virtually absent, his life after boyhood unwitnessed. There was a prehistory that had vanished, schooldays, holidays completely absent. There must have been other photographs that had been left behind, only these few selected to present a picture of family life that was intended flatteringly to obscure the banal existence that his mother deplored. It was she, he saw, who had made this selection, ruthlessly excluding those aspects of life with which she was impatient. At least she had left some kind of representation which she might produce for public consumption. For she too had required an audience. As she had turned so gracefully at the piano she too had imagined some sort of public. He had inherited this from her, only in his case the public was reduced to those who might serve as fascinated observers, or as the friends he no longer had, or as an impossible lover whose only interest was himself. This had never come about, which was why there were no further photographs. No one had said, ‘Over here! Smile!’; he was as absent from other lives as he was from his own. What he was looking at was what had been laid down for him: a life of patient attendance and no less patient study. He had inherited his father’s sadness, as that father had made his dutiful way to work every day, returning every evening to his myth-making wife. Yet he, Herz, had schooled himself into pragmatism, and in so doing had acceded to a condition which was not quite enviable though no doubt necessary. The absence of photographs of himself had made him appear and feel invisible, and so, he supposed, he truly was as he went about his self-appointed business of staying alive, diverting himself as best he could, showing only a licensed eagerness, a permitted receptivity, yet knowing that at any moment desire might resurface, might prompt him into making a rash move, such as he had not made when it might have been possible to do so. The boy in the check trousers, with his hand held so poetically to his heart, foreshadowed the ardent lover he was willing to become, foreshadowed Nyon and his absurd adventure. These days his hand went to his heart for other reasons, to make sure that his pills were still in his breast pocket. To date he had never used them. They were there as protection against the rash move that even now might undo him, precipitate him into a condition from which there might be no recovery, the next big thing to which Ostrovski had alluded. In due course that mystery might be solved. Or not, as he supposed.

  A knock at the door startled him. Hastily he shovelled the photographs into a drawer of his desk, where he imagined they would remain until he decided to dispose of them. He did
not think he would look at them again.

  ‘Laura! How nice. Do come in. A glass of wine?’

  Mrs Beddington was not a frequent visitor, not even a particularly welcome one, since she usually asked him to perform some service for her, to regulate the burglar alarm, or to take in and store in his flat a bulky and inconvenient package if the postman called before she had left her home in St John’s Wood. Although Herz, like most men, craved a female presence, he would have liked to design that female presence for himself, would have chosen something sweet-natured and indulgent, whereas after an initial meeting he had recognized Mrs Beddington as entirely self-centred. This was borne out by her conversation, which was one-sided. She had many complaints, most of which were directed against people he did not know, but he recognized the tone: anyone who failed to satisfy her demands was demonized. He supposed she had employed this technique against her two husbands, ‘both scoundrels’, she had affirmed, though with a reminiscent smile. She was a handsome woman, with a powerful presence. He supposed that she had been even more handsome as a girl. Now her darkly dyed hair added harshness to an expression which was always less than accommodating.

  He was normally acquiescent to her demands, having nothing better to do. He was aware that she saw him as something less than a man, but useful for her purposes, which were far-reaching. As far as he knew she was a successful businesswoman, although he had seen few people in the shop, few customers, that is, since her sister seemed to be there every morning, engaging her in leisurely conversation, in the course of which both wore identical expressions of disgust. The absence of customers did not surprise him. This he put down to what was on offer in the window, two or three confections of alarming formality, silk trousers and embroidered tunics in violent shades of turquoise or viridian, unlikely to appeal to any woman under sixty, and designed to ensnare a younger lover, one impressed by the only asset such a woman would have to offer: opulence. He had to concede that the girls in the workroom did a highly professional job with the embellishments, though these tended to glitter in the morning sun and looked somewhat out of place in the mild surroundings of Chiltern Street. He could not imagine any woman of his acquaintance being tempted to make such a purchase. Even trying on one of these outfits would be burdensome.

  ‘What can I do for you, Laura?’ he asked. His hand stole to his breast pocket; the photographs had upset him. At the same time he knew he was not quite ready to throw them away.

  ‘I’ve come to warn you, Julius, I’m retiring.’

  Though this did not in the least concern him, as she obviously thought it should, he felt a certain unease. He did not welcome change.

  ‘Retiring? What made you decide? You’re hardly of an age . . .’

  ‘Oh, I know I still look pretty good—you have to in this business. But I’m tired, Julius. I’ve worked hard all my life, survived two divorces; I deserve a bit of a break. I’ve sold the shop, by the way, and the workroom. That’s already let, to a young woman. So you’ll have a new neighbour.’

  ‘Come to think of it I haven’t heard the girls recently. I assumed they were on holiday.’

  She laughed. ‘Girls like that don’t go on holiday. Most of them are here illegally anyway. They were only too glad to find a job. And I think you’ll agree that their working conditions were pleasant.’

  ‘What will happen to them?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. I did what I could for them. Now they’re on their own.’

  ‘And the shop?’

  ‘Well, that might concern you. I’ve sold it to an outfit selling radios and televisions. Part of a chain.’ She mentioned a series of initials which meant nothing to him. ‘So it might not be as quiet as you’ve been used to. But there you are; I had the offer and I took it. I’m treating myself to a cruise, treating my sister as well. She’s been having a few problems with her marriage, so I’m taking her to the Bahamas. Have you been? No, I suppose not. Just the two of us. We should have a whale of a time.’

  ‘Will this changeover affect me? Apart from the noise, that is?’ He imagined an open street door, different programmes on different television sets, mesmerized assistants indifferent to the building’s tenants, principally to himself, and passers-by agglomerating outside the window to watch five minutes of a football match. He fancied he could already hear the roar of the crowd.

  ‘You’ve got a lease, haven’t you?’

  ‘It has only three years left to run,’ he said, with a feeling of dread. He had been here, he realized, for five peaceful years. The flat had represented a new beginning when he had first seen it. That new beginning had not materialized, or rather it had materialized into an eventless existence which he had had to fashion for himself. This had not been entirely unrewarding, although without the kind of passionate engagement that he found he still desired. Now that it might be threatened he felt his latent attachment to the place ready to burst forth, to proclaim his right to remain in exactly the same circumstances that had appealed to him at the outset of this particular adventure.

  ‘I expect you can negotiate a new lease. Who’s your solicitor?’

  ‘A friend.’

  ‘Mind you, it’ll cost you something. A new lease is bound to cost more than the old one. I wonder you don’t move a bit further out, find somewhere with a bit of a garden.’ She picked up her keys and her bag. ‘You’ll work something out,’ she said vaguely. ‘Life’s too short to worry about what might happen in the next few years.’

  ‘Don’t go, Laura. Tell me more about this new tenant. My neighbour.’

  ‘Young woman. Calls herself a consultant. Rather an offhand manner. Good-looking, if you like that style.’ In her eyes bloomed a sudden hatred for any woman younger than herself. It was easy to imagine her on her cruise, getting changed in the evenings into one of the harem outfits that had not made the shop’s fortune. She would carry off the lot, and devise a way of life to suit them. He did not quite see what this would be like, but was able to imagine far-flung holidays in ever more exotic surroundings. She would acquire a bronze patina, lighten her hair; her voice would darken, her nails grow longer. She would devote her time to her appearance, yet gradually lose the air of hauteur that she had worn in the shop, would acquire cronies like herself, laugh heartily and scornfully at everyone and everything. She would be on the lookout for a man, would not much care if he drank too much, since she might drink too much herself. Herz sincerely regretted the dignified, even forbidding presence he was used to seeing through the windows of the shop.

  Women aged as best they could, he supposed. He had not given the matter much thought. But age was a grievous business for everyone. The only woman he knew who had survived it with indifference was Josie, yet the years of her greatest anxiety were still to come. Fanny he imagined unchanged since girlhood, since her fifteenth year. Even in Nyon, pale and compact, she had retained something of her youth, or that was how he saw her. She was iconic, as some women seemed to be; that was their abiding attraction. It was an uncommon distinction, and one not easily come by, conferred on them by others, by popular approval, so that they need do little to justify it. It was precisely Fanny’s unaltered opinion of herself that made her impervious to the opinions of others. It was an enviable capacity, or rather incapacity. What had been in her heart he had never known.

  ‘A consultant, did you say? A doctor?’

  ‘No. Some sort of new job they all seem to have these days. Name of Clay. She might advise you. I’m not leaving till the end of the month, so you’ll see me around. After that, who knows? Who knows about anything, come to that?’

  After he had shown her out he sat once more at his desk, with his head in his hands. There was no way in which he would relinquish this flat, although it no longer gratified him. He supposed that he could find another, which at this stage of his life would probably do as well. But if he decided to stay his peace would be shattered by the noise from the shop and the comings and goings of a stranger. What disturbed him was the prospect of
turning once more into a suppliant, a petitioner. And he suspected arrangements over which he might have no control. The new tenant would have a more advantageous lease. The world might once again turn into a conspiracy, as perhaps it always had been. He had three years left to him. The thought that he might die in the meantime was no longer a threat. It now presented itself as a guarantee of his safekeeping.

  10

  ‘I’m glad you phoned,’ he said. ‘I should have phoned you anyway sooner or later, booked you for lunch . . .’

  ‘I didn’t want lunch,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got much time. That’s why I suggested we meet here.’

  ‘Here’ was the Bluebird café in the King’s Road, less distance for her to come from Wandsworth, and less crowded than their usual restaurant.

  ‘I didn’t bring the car,’ she said. ‘I walked.’

  ‘Walked? It’s quite a distance.’

  ‘I needed time to think. I’ve got a lot on my mind, Julius.’

  She did indeed look newly thoughtful. She had made an effort to smarten up her appearance, wore a tweed suit which might have been fashionable some fifteen years previously. On the lapel of her jacket he was pleased yet somewhat surprised to see the garnet brooch he had given her on their wedding day. This added to a new impression of maturity, as if she had studied how other women looked when they wanted to give an impression of seriousness. Even her hair was disciplined into some kind of order. She gazed beyond him, as if lost in thoughts of her own, ignoring her coffee.

  ‘Is anything wrong, Josie?’

  ‘In a way. Changed, certainly. I’m leaving, Julius. I’m leaving London.’