Making Things Better

by Anita Brookner

  ‘Where are you going to?’

  ‘I’m going home to Maidstone. To my mother. She’s not well. She’s eighty-six, Julius, and she lives alone. Apart from a neighbour there’s no one to look after her. And I’m all she’s got. So I’m going home to take care of her.’

  ‘But your work? Tom?’

  She sighed. ‘I’m too old for any of it. I’ll miss the work, but I’m probably past my best. In due course I may start up something of my own. But I doubt it somehow.’

  ‘What does Tom say to all of this?’

  ‘He’ll replace me, of course. Both at home and at work. Tom is still a good-looking man. You knew he was younger than me?’

  ‘I didn’t know that, no.’

  ‘Seven years. They don’t matter at the beginning, but as you get on . . . And I wasn’t happy.’

  ‘I thought . . .’

  ‘No,’ she said fiercely. ‘I wanted what other women had. A home of my own. I wanted children. Did you know that? Not that there was any possibility in your set-up.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Oh, it’s too late for any of that now. Mother will leave me the house when she dies. At least I’ll have that. A woman without assets is in a hopeless position.’

  ‘I suppose it’s always a good idea to be independent. That’s what other women seem to want these days. Isn’t that the feminist position?’

  ‘I don’t go along with all they say. It makes sense, that’s all I know. But there’s more to it than that. Women aren’t good on their own. It’s easier for men.’

  ‘I don’t think it is, you know. Men are vulnerable.’

  ‘I’ve seen them at it. They make up their minds pretty quickly when they want something.’

  This he knew to be true, and was anxious to change the subject. He would have liked a brief interval in which to contemplate the matter. With the ruthlessness of a man in the grip of a new obsession he would have welcomed an opportunity to discuss his feelings, which were unexplained and almost unwelcome, but enlivening, fascinating. He felt for them as fondly as a parent, knowing that if he were to turn his back on them he would be forgoing something in the nature of a gift. After a lifetime of fidelity he glimpsed the ravishing possibility of abandoning his high standards and surrendering to the spirit of improvidence, of subversion, the spirit which he supposed moved most men and which, he now saw, he had been unwise to ignore.

  ‘What will you do for money?’ he asked.

  ‘I’ve made Tom agree to give me an allowance until . . . Well, Mother might have a bit put by.’ She paused.

  ‘If I can help . . .’

  ‘Thank you, Julius. I knew you’d say that. You were always very good about money. It’s just until I find my feet, work out how much I’ll have to live on.’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’ll do what I can. Although I should warn you that I may not be able to do this for more than a couple of years. My lease is running out; I shall have to negotiate a new one. If I stay, that is.’ But he knew that he would, that there were now compelling reasons for staying.

  ‘You don’t want to move at your age. I don’t much want to move myself.’

  ‘I still like the flat, although I took it in a hurry, didn’t much care where I was as long as I was on my own. But it’s beginning to change. There’s a new business on the ground floor, and it threatens to become noisy. And I have a new neighbour, though I don’t know her very well. Sophie Clay,’ he said, for the pleasure of pronouncing her name. ‘I’ll let you have a new address, of course. You’d better give me yours. When will I see you again? You’ll come up to town, I suppose?’

  ‘I don’t know that I will. There comes a time in a woman’s life when she no longer wants to make an effort, wants to let her hair go, wear comfortable shoes, stop trying to attract men. And yet there’s a sadness in this. You lose a future. I’ve noticed this in women who give up. Men seem to go on for longer. You see quite old men looking at younger women as if they still had something to offer. The men, I mean.’

  ‘Women have been known to take advantage of this.’

  ‘Only the clever ones. Most women want love.’

  ‘I loved you, Josie.’

  ‘I know you did. It made me happy at first. But . . .’

  ‘I know, I know. The past makes me angry too. I’m only glad we can meet like this from time to time. We seem to get on better now. I can’t bring myself to think I shan’t see you.’

  ‘I’ll miss you too.’

  He saw that she would, would miss the status he had once conferred on her, the assurance that she had fulfilled a destiny no less precious for being entirely ordinary, would miss the public advertisement that she had succeeded, when there were times of doubt, of failing nerve, even of loneliness. As a young woman she had seemed determined, practical. Above all, practical. He had thought she had approached their marriage in a spirit of pragmatism, tired as she was of being condemned to the society of women in that small shared flat. Now he saw that although this was undoubtedly the case she was not entirely immune to self-questioning, had pondered the tedious mantras in the women’s magazines, had filled in the questionnaires, and had found that she was largely in agreement with the majority view, that it was all a matter of striving, of trying very hard, and sometimes without success, until that day when personal triumph could be confirmed and proclaimed to the world. That this view had probably been shared by his mother, and even by his grandmother, he did not doubt. That disappointment could follow that moment of triumph he also knew. But the moment was essential. Even he could see that.

  Men, he thought, married for different reasons, weighed up similar backgrounds, looked for someone suitable, or were driven by the need to establish themselves. Yet he was willing to believe that men fell in love more often, and sometimes more disruptively. His own case, which a lingering sense of decency prevented him from making clear, was evidence of that. He was chivalrous enough to know that he must not discuss it, and had been alone too long not to be aware of the drastic loss of dignity involved were he to do so. Yet other men were no good for this purpose, and the lack of a proper confidant could lead to foolish indiscretions. He was not to be allowed the luxury of displaying his feelings for another woman to the woman who had once been his wife, with all that that signified. There was even a certain self-righteousness in knowing that he had not given way to this particular impulse. At the same time he would have liked to examine his emotional state in a rather more permissive setting than this half-empty café on a bleak mid-morning in weather that was growing colder by the day. This was not easy for either of them, but he thought he had the better part. He would hand Josie all his worldly goods, and think the price worth paying, if in exchange he could enjoy this new perspective without censure. He was sufficiently alert to know that censure would be forthcoming, and not from Josie alone. If that audience he had once craved knew of his disposition the mockery would be unending. He was honour bound to conceal it. Disclosure was not an option.

  His most precious secret, and one that he must keep to himself, was that after years of inanition he was able once again to feel desire. He doubted whether any woman could appreciate this fact, this unexpected gift. He understood for the first time that the world was not a well-ordered place in which one was bidden to do one’s best, but an arena of anarchy, of impulses that ran counter to the public good, and that men and women were divided into those who shared this knowledge and those who merely failed the test. He looked with distaste at religious precepts designed to impose shackles, to curb freedoms which were an inherent part of the human personality. He marvelled at the fact of being able once more to appreciate physical beauty, so that the face of a stranger would give him pleasure, as if he might partake of that same pleasure with another. That there was as yet no recipient for these new untethered feelings did not greatly disturb him. It was enough to know that there was an agent to reassure him that they were not mere fantasy.

  He saw Josie looking at him speculativ
ely. He laughed, blushed, drank his cold coffee. ‘Sorry, was I woolgathering? I’ve had a lot on my mind. This business of the lease . . .’

  ‘What’s the problem? You can afford it, can’t you?’

  ‘I don’t know. That precisely is the problem, as you call it. I get a bit anxious sometimes. I don’t want to move, probably shan’t. But I’m not proof against changes. No one is. Oh, I daresay I’ll manage. But what about you? How will you live?’

  ‘Well, I’ll have a house of my own eventually. I’ll probably find some work.’

  ‘Anything in mind?’

  ‘Ideally I’d like to start a nursing-home. I am a nurse, after all.’

  ‘That would take a great deal of money,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, I’m not looking to you. It’s good of you to offer to tide me over.’

  ‘If anything happens to me get in touch with Bernard Simmonds. He’s living in the Hilltop Road flat. Funny how that place never seems to go out of the family. He’s my solicitor. He’ll know where to find me. If I move, that is.’

  There was a silence. Idly he watched waiters laying the tables for lunch. At the back of his mind was a suspicion that he had not done Josie full justice, and that she was aware of this. She had come to their meeting prepared for a serious discussion about money, and had instead met with speedy, even careless acquiescence. Nor could he give her his full attention. He had mislaid his earlier desire to make things better, had done what was required of him, and was prepared to leave it at that. He could see that Josie was not entirely happy with his reactions. He could also see that she was unhappy on a more general level, and that he should endeavour to discover the reason. Her decision to leave had conferred on her a certain dignity. Yet that dignity had more to do with renunciation than with the immediate cause of her mother’s failing health.

  ‘What is it, Josie?’ he asked quietly.

  She smiled sadly. ‘It never goes away, does it?’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That longing to be with another person.’

  ‘Not with me, I take it.’

  ‘No, no, not with you. Not even with Tom. There’s a man who comes into the office. We have a drink from time to time. Married, of course. Yet we get on so well . . .’ She broke off. ‘You don’t want to hear this.’

  ‘Why not stand your ground? See what comes of it?’

  ‘Look at me, Julius. I’m old. I might as well accept it. What surprises me is that I could still feel hope, look forward to seeing him, perhaps no more than that. I couldn’t undress for any man now. As I say, I accept it. Mother’s illness may have been the jolt I needed. Once the decision was made I realized that it had saved me from a lot of uncertainty. Humiliation, perhaps. I still have my dignity.’

  ‘I admire you for it. I know how unwelcome one’s dignity can be.’

  ‘So you think I’m right?’

  ‘Probably. I also know what you mean. Keeping one’s dignity is a lonely business. And how one longs to let it go.’ This was perhaps unwise. ‘When shall I see you again?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ll give you a ring from time to time, just to make contact.’

  ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘Next weekend. And there’ll be plenty to do before then.’

  She picked up her bag. ‘I won’t say goodbye, though that is probably what it is. Take care. Think of me sometimes.’

  ‘You’re part of my life, Josie, always will be.’ He knew this to be true, was affected, as she was. They embraced with more warmth than they were accustomed to show. He watched her walk away, saw her bent head, then turned resolutely in the opposite direction.

  She was right: dignity was important. But so was the impulse to get rid of it, as he knew from his recent awakening. This fugitive vision of what he thought of as a pagan world was both liberating and disturbing. It had to do with sex, even with the contemplation of sex, and yet he preferred to think of it as love, as pictured in ancient times, or perhaps simply as free will, though will had little enough to do with it. He knew that he was in danger of losing his head, may have already lost it, but submitted to the experience, even welcomed it. He felt newly re-admitted to the world of men, though his position was more properly that of eunuch or palace servant. Ever since the monotony of his days had been miraculously lightened by the advent of Sophie Clay he had been newly made aware of phenomena which he had hitherto taken for granted: movement, sights and sounds, the weather, faces to which he had grown accustomed and into which he read a new friendliness. He told himself that his interest in her was entirely innocent, that he was being given the chance of living life vicariously as a young person. That this young person was a woman did not particularly matter, since it was the power of her youth that beguiled him: the life force, he told himself, still this side of reassurance. Her arrival had been as spectacular as an apparition. A crash on the stairs had sent him out of his flat, thinking that someone had broken in. He had found a heavy bag barring his way, followed by the entrance of two young people, a man and a woman. He had time to notice that both were extremely good-looking and more than a little alike: he put them down as brother and sister, but a brother and sister from some legend or other, vaguely incestuous. He had offered his help, had dragged the bag into the downstairs flat, had straightened himself, trying not to notice his breathlessness, had put out his hand and introduced himself. Julius Herz, he had said; we are neighbours, I believe. Sophie Clay, she had replied. And this is Jamie. Your brother? he had asked. They had both laughed.

  Well, he had said, in some confusion, I’ll leave you time to get settled. If you would like some coffee I’m just above you. Coffee would be great, said Sophie Clay. He had time to notice that her flat contained very little in the way of furniture apart from a large bed and an oversized television. We ought to get acquainted, he had said, as we’re living at such close quarters. She had looked up, surprised. I don’t suppose I’ll be here much, she said, but thanks, I will have that coffee. I’ll expect you both then. Not Jamie, she said; Jamie’s got to get to work. She had kissed the young man passionately before sending him out of the door. Nice to have met you, said Herz politely to the departing figure, whose heavy tread sounded all the way down to the street. Moments later he heard a car door slam, and then a car drive off. He noticed that more bags had been added to the one he had already taken in, and manhandled these as best he could. Normally after such exertions he would have sat down quietly until his heart returned to its regular rhythm. Instead, with only slightly shaking hands, he went into his kitchen to prepare coffee. On a tray he thoughtfully placed a plate of biscuits, hoping for no more than what he thought of as an agreeable diversion. He could buy his newspaper later in the morning.

  When they were seated, with the tray and the untouched biscuits between them, he had time to notice that she was beautiful, in a severe and unadorned way that he immediately found attractive. He told himself that any man would have had the same intense admiration for her pale regular features and scraped-back hair. She looked as if she had just got up, and would go through the day in just such a negligent manner, which was quite different from that of the women he had known, all of whom had seemed anxious to present themselves in a favourable light. Even Josie, in the early days of their marriage, had spent time in front of her mirror, had brushed her unruly hair, applied lipstick. It was this girl’s pale lips that he found particularly beguiling, especially when they parted to reveal faultless teeth. She had introduced herself, had handed him a card which read, ‘Sophie Clay. Independent Financial Consultant’. Oh, he had said, how very opportune; you may be able to advise me. She had looked up at him unsmiling, said that she worked in the City, for companies, on a freelance basis; she did not do private work. Oh, how disappointing, he had said, wondering at the note of joviality in his voice; I should have enjoyed consulting you. She had lifted one eyebrow. Since you are so near at hand, he had added, feeling foolish. As for the arrangements here, do feel free to call on m
e. I am usually at home in the evenings, and of course in the early mornings.

  He liked to think of her, in her black trouser suit, moving among the sort of men who worked in financial institutions and who would look up from their desks to appraise her slight neat figure before returning to their calculations. He liked to think of her setting out each morning with her briefcase and returning in the evenings to their common home. He did not quite time his outings to coincide with hers but was pleased when they did. In addition he was glad to be of service, to take care of her spare keys, to sign for a registered letter, to pay Ted Bishop. Her severe demeanour, which was her most attractive feature, broke down somewhat in the late evenings, and, regrettably, at night, when he supposed Jamie to be in residence. This he found much more annoying than the laughter and conversation on the patio, which was now furnished with a table and chairs, and sometimes a radio tuned to a foreign station. He did not really object to the friends she invited back for the evening and whose shouts of laughter were clearly audible. They did not seem to feel the cold; sometimes they were still there after he had gone to bed. This he found quite acceptable, welcoming the sounds of life into what had for so long been sadly lifeless. Rather less acceptable were the disturbances from the bedroom directly below his. Yet in the morning she would appear businesslike, even repressive, as she went off to work with her briefcase and her copy of the Financial Times. He could hear her heels, surprisingly loud, on the pavement before they faded away into the distance.

  He told himself that his interest in her was paternal, although he was alive to her beauty, as any man would be. He had no children, no grandchildren, and this girl, in her late twenties or early thirties, might have been a grandchild. This reflection aroused others: regret for his past blamelessness, together with a fierce desire for some sort of reward before it was too late. What this could be he had no idea, nor was he foolish enough to fantasize. He felt as if for the first time a longing for love such as he knew should only be felt by the young. He shied away from the evidence of his own physical decline, his tall sparse body, his large red hands, the thick veins that marked his dry sapless arms. The presence of a young creature, so nearly under his roof, kept his thoughts chaste, yet when he went out into the street he was amused to find himself entertaining notions that were almost lubricious. These were not confined to the person of Sophie Clay: he saw women everywhere who offered some almost forgotten possibility of pleasure. This was a welcome reaction; this was when he most felt like a man. He raised a hand in greeting to the woman behind the counter at the dry-cleaners, and was gratified to see her smile and nod, as if responding to an entirely welcome invitation. The same went for the girls in the supermarket, whom he now felt inclined to tease. All this was new and delightful. Only occasionally did he become aware of the absurdity of the situation. It was then that he lambasted himself: an old man trying to be flirtatious was as ridiculous as the cuckold in the cruel dramas he had studied at school and which he remembered with uncomfortable vividness. It was then that melancholy made surreptitious inroads. He welcomed it back as a familiar, while making determined efforts to remain urbane, detached, even diverted by his own condition. He would turn himself into an object of study, and spend not entirely fruitless evenings dissecting his own behaviour. This restored his objectivity, but did not quite remove an awareness of potential damage.