Visitors

by Anita Brookner

  ‘Kitty, Kitty,’ murmured Austin, crumbling a slice of banana cake with his fork.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Kitty. ‘But Ann, if you eat so much you won’t be able to get into your wedding dress.’

  Ann released a peal of laughter. ‘What wedding dress? Grandma, get real! I’m not going to get dressed up just to get hitched. It’s archaic, anyway.’

  ‘Then why are you doing it?’ demanded Austin.

  ‘We think it’s kinder to the baby,’ said Ann, reaching out to replenish her plate.

  Kitty, Austin, even Mrs May, were for a split second united in carefully dissimulated speculation. Of course this in itself was not unexpected, or was not to be received as such. She felt them all struggling with disapproval, even with disappointment. Nothing, then, was to be salvaged from this wedding except the wedding itself, which must override the brute facts of nature, must be treated as a successful overture to whatever would come next, and that preferably out of sight. The terrible thought occurred to Mrs May that this interlude might be prolonged, might indeed stretch into infinity, until the Levinsons’ fragrant rooms filled with a baby’s paraphernalia, until Austin, in his chair, was reduced to groaning over his vanished quietude, until all thoughts of Kitty’s maternity were displaced by that of her granddaughter, and the memory of Gerald retreated into oblivion. With Kitty and Austin in place, expectant, there was still room for Gerald. With all the rooms occupied, overflowing, in fact, he might never come home again. And what of Steve? It surely could not be that Steve would want to stay? He had, now that she came to think of it, mentioned the possibility. She would simply have to make it clear to him that this was out of the question. Again, she had no idea how this might be brought about.

  At the same time she had to concede that these events exerted a certain fascination, a fascination against which Kitty was completely proof. One more inconvenience was neither here nor there, compared with the onerous task of preparing and organising the wedding. And yet the frown that clouded her still fine features held regret, as well as her habitual exasperation. It was to be hoped that the exasperation would carry her through. Kitty, after all, had a powerful tongue in her head. Kitty would make it clear when her hospitality was no longer available. That they might all be dependent on Kitty to perform this task was undoubtedly unfair, yet the fact remained that only Kitty could see it through. And Kitty’s standards, so often invoked in Mrs May’s hearing, would hold firm, even if it involved bidding a precipitate goodbye to the long lost granddaughter, so lately arrived. Kitty’s standards did not encompass small babies. Voluptuous preparations were one thing, unpleasant surprises quite another. A wedding might just be within Kitty’s sights, but nothing else was to be permitted. Even now Mrs May could feel her resolution hardening. And yet the regret was still there, not to be ignored.

  A sly girl, thought Mrs May, and one who had learned to deride others for qualities which she herself did not possess. In the broad face she could still see the lineaments of the glum child, but now altered into adult awareness. The dark hair, once flat, as if reflecting the child’s depression, was transformed into a frizzled mop, unsuitable for the large, rather imposing figure in her parodic skirt. The mocking smile held them all to ransom, yet there were traces of disquiet in the fine eyes, her best feature. Mrs May could see no resemblance to any of the family, all of whom, in growing older, had seemed to assume a single expression. Ann must resemble her absent mother, rather than her equally absent father. Kitty must have registered this at once; hence her displeasure. Mrs May, who had known neither of them, merely saw something untidy, sensual, unfocused. The girl had no looks to speak of, and yet she gave out an aura of health, hardiness. Above the full throat the mocking smile came and went, occasionally taking soundings from the silence that had greeted her revelation. In her boldness Mrs May sensed the child’s former antagonism come to fruition.

  ‘What I don’t understand …’ Austin began, but was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and closing. Kitty too had been obliged to hand over keys. The two young men, in identical sweatshirts and jeans, presented themselves in the doorway, as if waiting for all to rise.

  ‘Come in,’ said Austin heavily. ‘Sit down. This is Dorothea, Henry’s wife.’

  ‘Hi there,’ said the one who was not Steve. ‘Glad to meet with you, Dorothea. I believe you’ll be coming to share witness with us on the big day?’

  ‘How do you do,’ responded Mrs May. For a moment or two she had shared Austin’s distrust, for no reason that she could honestly entertain. It was the smile that dismayed her, the careful all-purpose smile of the professional well-wisher. It was also the smile of a man who had nothing to hide. It was entirely possible, she thought, that this David was what was commonly understood as a good person. His goodness, however, did not make him attractive. She could not quite understand this, although she could see, in his unvarying smile, directed at each of them in turn, that he had the awful simplicity of one who had managed to turn his back on life’s little illogicalities. Pleasing in appearance—if one liked small heads and neat beards—he was not quite pleasing in manner. This, she thought, had something to do with the fact that he clearly expected to be waited on; in exchange he would offer his goodwill, and his smile. There was nothing about him of the prospective bridegroom; indeed he seemed innocent of sexual impulses. She thought it unlikely that he would have moved out of his unmarried state by choice, but presented with the choice by one whose will was stronger than his own he had judged it prudent to acquiesce. Perhaps he was shocked, and could not countenance shock. Certainty, however unwillingly arrived at, was more comfortable. And he had compensated by exhibiting a kind of hospitable passivity. He was very slightly eery.

  It was possible that these two young people were attached to each other; if so they gave no sign of it. David continued to exude friendliness, while taking his seat at the table, but it was clear that he was devoid of curiosity. He might have been welcoming a congregation, like a vicar at the church door. He received the cup of tea that Kitty offered him with a well-bred smile. One would make an effort with this young man, she reflected, although he seemed equally accessible to all. One would try very hard to extract from him a sign of spontaneity, to dislodge the smile. There was something adamantine about him that gave the lie to his extreme affability. His manner towards Kitty was exaggeratedly deferential. It was clear that he would offer no purchase for her hunger. Poor Kitty. For Kitty was clearly the loser. Ann had managed to frustrate her advances, yet remained a member of Kitty’s family, and thus Kitty’s last hope. Mrs May watched her steadily eating and was forced to conclude that Ann was not pleasing. Like David she was jovial, even jocular, but she did not aim to please. In withholding her co-operation she became paradoxically powerful. Negligent in appearance, she gave notice of a lazy will. The child that Mrs May remembered had seemed to be seeking an outlet for her own way. The woman, for she was more woman than girl, seemed to have found it. Of the two of them, David was the innocent. Steve, in neutral, seemed to have no views on this unlikely partnership. Both Steve and David, in their identical sexless clothing, were like members of a youth club. Ann, by contrast, had something of the leader about her.

  Mrs May judged it prudent to keep any discussion within the bounds of the immediate family. An argument was clearly on the way.

  ‘I’m sorry to make this meeting rather brief,’ she said. ‘Kitty, will you excuse me? I hadn’t realised how late it was.’

  ‘Steve is staying to dinner, if that’s all right, Grandma,’ said David.

  ‘Quite all right,’ said Kitty, defeated. ‘Cold chicken and salads. And apple tart. If you’ll wait a moment I’ll make some more tea.’

  ‘You see what I mean,’ said Austin, accompanying her to the main road. ‘You’re sure you won’t stay, Thea? We see too little of you.’

  ‘No, I won’t stay,’ she said. ‘And yes, I do see what you mean.’

  ‘It’s not just that they’re strangers
. They’re aliens. They have different customs. When Estrella went in to do Ann’s room yesterday she found her still in bed, at half-past ten, reading. She was wearing a T-shirt. Kitty’s answer to that was to take her off to the White House and buy her a trousseau. That’s how she thinks, poor darling. All leave has been cancelled, of course. No Freshwater, no Bordighera. I must say Molly and Harold have been very supportive, although Kitty can’t always talk freely on the telephone.’

  ‘What was she reading? Ann, I mean.’

  ‘I asked her that. I still take an interest.’ Austin had been a publisher of trade journals. ‘A Holistic Tomorrow. The shout line was “Say no to pharmaceuticals!” ’

  ‘If only we could.’

  ‘She’ll find out. They all will. Youth is ignorant. That’s what makes it so special.’

  ‘We mustn’t grudge them their ignorance, Austin.’

  ‘We resent it though, don’t we? Old people aren’t very nice either. I don’t like them myself.’

  They came to a stop silently on the street corner, neither of them anxious to go home.

  ‘You’ll be a great-grandfather,’ she observed.

  ‘Don’t. We’re old enough already.’

  ‘We are rather old, aren’t we? It’s such a comfort to be with someone one’s own age. That’s why I really can’t have Steve in the flat. It’s not fair to either of us. You remember what I said about the hotel?’

  ‘At least we can send them off on honeymoon. I booked it this morning; Paris, the Royal Monceau Hotel. Kitty and I went there. So did Molly and Harold.’

  ‘Will Steve go with them? I hardly think …’

  ‘I booked three air tickets. So you don’t have to worry. I doubt if they’ll move out, the boys, I mean. Ann would certainly object. She seems to like communal living. Like Gerald,’ he added sadly. ‘He can eat his dinners with us. Just leave him something for breakfast.’

  ‘It’s the daytimes I worry about. I’m usually out for lunch …’

  ‘Are you? Good girl. I hope you look after yourself. There’s a taxi.’ He kissed her firmly on both cheeks and told her to keep in touch. ‘It meant a lot to Kitty, your coming all this way I dare say she’ll be on the phone tomorrow. I’ve enjoyed talking to you; I always do. I’d better get back: Molly and Harold said they’d look in. Take care, Thea.’

  The remark was valedictory. Looking out of the taxi’s back window she saw him walk dejectedly away and knew that she could not impose further on his attention. The drive back was less enjoyable than the earlier journey had been, although she had a great deal to think about. They were all in this together: that was her conclusion. They were a family, even if she were only an associate rather than a full member. And how confiding Austin had been! She had never heard him talk so freely, on that subject of all subjects. And Kitty had not been on her high horse, had been quite knocked off it, in fact. This equality was temporary, she knew, but was nevertheless timidly appreciated. She was no longer the nervous young wife whom Henry had first introduced to the cousins, young in experience if not in age. Her present age was in some ways more comfortable, certainly more peaceable than the youth of those young people. She had found them unattractive, and this disheartened and puzzled her. Surely they should strike one of her years as beautiful? Unmarked, and therefore beautiful? But perhaps they were beautiful to each other; perhaps the whole thing was a conspiracy to outwit the old. It was typical of Kitty to be thinking of clothes and food, all the rituals of a conventional wedding; it was perhaps natural of Ann to despise her for doing so. Natural, but again not pleasing. She would leave them saddened, unless they took a different line with her. Perhaps the trick was to make a few, a very few concessions, in her case to treat Steve with studied politeness—she could never manage to be impolite—but as a stranger in her house. In that way he might be encouraged to move on, even to go home. Ann and David would go when they were ready; at present they seemed to show no signs of haste. This would present problems. Then she remembered that they were booked to go to Paris, and took heart. Together they must all devise a plan to prevent them from coming back.

  She gazed wistfully at the home-going crowds as the taxi moved southwards. So might she once have stood at the bus stop, before being elevated to marriage and affluence. She planned to take a bath as soon as she got in, to spend some time quietly. The evening was, mercifully, taken care of. She was tired, her linen suit a little creased. She wanted to get into a dressing gown, a temptation that must be resisted. As she reached Harcourt Terrace she realised that this journey might have to be repeated, and could not repress a very slight feeling of interest. This was surely the stuff of fiction? A strong plot, unusual characters, a threatened outcome: who could ask for worthier diversion? And she was, after all, an observer. There was some virtue in this, though not as much as others made out. One usually had to keep one’s observations to oneself, which halved the pleasure. Not to do so was to court displeasure from all sides.

  Her silent street seemed to take on a prelapsarian calm, an embodiment of the quiet life she had so recently interrupted. She welcomed the contrast; it was as if she were coming home after an evening at the theatre. On the corner the honeysuckle gave out its last sweetness. Steve no longer disturbed her. He would move on eventually, and then it might even be pleasant to have her old life back again. In due time she would revert to being the character they all thought they knew. She understood what it was that made people want to change their identity. Even her own identity was threatened by recent events, and yet she might, she reflected, find the change beneficial. It was to be hoped that the others would as well.

  The spectacle of the life lived in that flat beguiled her. Kitty and Austin were lovers; they were also conspirators, each devoted to the others fusses and heartbreaks, genuine and otherwise. Eagerly they worried, consoled, commiserated. No-one could join in: they were an exclusive, and excluding, concern. Any attempt to reassure was shrugged off as irrelevant, of no value. They needed no friends, for what friend could understand them as they understood each other? In this way her role had been defined for her; she was to be respectful of their intimacy, which was indeed worthy of respect.

  But now their conspiracy had encountered newcomers who did not know the rules, aliens, as Austin had described them, and respect would no longer be the order of the day. Mrs May had felt little sympathy for the young people, seeing them as predators, ignorant of their own intentions. She suspected, as Austin and Kitty no doubt also suspected, that they despised the values so munificently displayed in the Levinsons’ flat, their complacency, their material anxiety, their need for comfort. She herself had always come up against the barriers they erected for themselves against the world, but had seen them for what they were, a defence against fear. David’s expansiveness, Ann’s insouciance notwithstanding, they too were conspirators. And in any contest between age, which is easily bewildered, and youth, which is scornful, the least prepared were the most at risk.

  The real alien, she reflected, was Steve, who had no claim on anyone, unless it were herself. But she was more fortunate than Kitty and Austin, for she had no claim on him. She did not expect him to like her, to be grateful, to be appreciated. His blankness of manner, his lack of affect, made it unlikely that he knew how to pay a compliment. Oddly enough this made him seem vulnerable. Holding him mentally at arm’s length she might deal with him in a satisfactory manner. ‘Don’t get involved’ had been Henry’s invariable maxim when anyone pressed claims too strongly. Steve, to do him justice, pressed no claims, merely landed weightlessly in other people’s lives, expecting to be taken for granted, as a given. She must find a way of dealing with the situation, as speedily as possible. The exercise would be an excellent opportunity to sharpen her wits. I too am old, she thought. But there are times when experience, even assumed, even simulated, counts.

  He was no trouble. She admitted as much to Molly, who telephoned one morning when Steve was taking one of his lengthy baths. In a whispery confident
ial voice Molly expressed concern for her sisters health, and solicited Mrs May’s views on the matter. This was the usual tenor of her conversations. Devoted to her sister, of whom she was in awe, Molly found it restful to dwell on Kitty’s complaints, perhaps because these had no real substance. Of the broken heart she was uneasily aware but did not speak, this being a matter not to be discussed outside the family. What they spoke of in confidence, on one of their stately pilgrimages to Harrods, was also a mystery, though it could perhaps have to do with their husbands, towards whom their innocent yet determined girlhoods had been directed.

  Of the two of them Molly retained some vestiges of that earlier self; her nature was placid, yet an unanswered question could still be detected in her round brown eyes. She, the younger of the two, had married first, and had felt apologetic about doing so, yet Kitty’s had been the real love match. It may have been some memory of the young Kitty’s rage and tears on hearing of that first engagement that had made Molly defer to her ever since. Yet they were close, as close as two sisters ever could be, as close as two girls who had never left home, for the men they had married, and had married for that reason, had never tormented them, had never shocked or challenged them, had acceded with them to married life as if it were merely a superior and agreeable social activity, a stage setting for fine housekeeping and family parties, with access restricted to those similarly endowed. Amiable Austin, amiable Harold, had both chosen and accepted these two handsome sisters, not long back from their Swiss finishing school, and ever since, uncomplainingly, had had their lives prescribed for them. In return for their indulgence they received excellent care, as if they were already in their dotage. There was never a murmur of complaint on either side, or none that reached the outside world.

  Yet in Molly’s case the doubt that could sometimes be seen in her fine eyes betrayed some uncertainty as to the world’s intentions. For this reason she clung to Kitty, knowing her superior strength; indeed it was Kitty’s strength that made it so safe an activity to commiserate with her occasional headache or her more habitual exasperation. Mrs May had once seen them out together, arm in arm, walking slowly, as if they were in a foreign city, whereas in fact they were approaching Selfridges. They had not seen her, and she had not made her presence known to them. She had hurried away from such intimacy, from the spectacle of those two heads so close together, and from a conversation which surely no outsider should interrupt. She had felt oddly vulnerable, although Henry was alive at the time and she was going home to him. She had been reminded that she had never shared secrets with anyone, that no-one, not even Henry, would ever engage her in such a conversation. The image of those two sisters, arm in arm, had stayed with her, stayed with her even now. It was yet another sign of their separateness, or of her own.