Visitors

by Anita Brookner

  ‘No need to get uptight about it.’

  ‘Your word, Steve.’

  ‘Yeah, okay.’

  ‘I wonder you can stand living in other people’s houses. It would drive me mad.’ For it was another nightmare, somehow connected with the first. She would be a timid lodger in a small dark room, her brutal landlord waiting for her to die so that he could install a new victim. Or she would be a prisoner in her own flat, subject to another’s will. ‘I wonder that you’re not more positive about your life. Don’t you want to go to university, for instance?’

  ‘I’ve been, haven’t I?’

  ‘Oh?’ She was surprised.

  ‘Bristol. Drama.’

  ‘Really? I had no idea. You look so young …’

  ‘I’m twenty-two.’

  ‘Then this year in America—are you looking for work there?’

  ‘I’m not actually looking for anything, Dorothea. I’m passing through.’

  The question of money returned to haunt her. What if he were poor? What, on the other hand, if he were comfortably off, was supplied regularly with funds by his family? He had made no contribution towards household expenses, had not, now that she came to think of it, expressed appreciation for her hospitality, yet she did not hold that against him. Rather, she admired his freedom, his refusal to make concessions, seeing no need for concessions to be made. The three of them, Steve, David, and Ann, were cuckoos in the nest, but of them all Steve had the requisite air of insouciance. He was indeed a free spirit, so free that he would not even pretend to like her. To be fair she had given no evidence of liking for him. On that basis they had got on remarkably well. She might even miss him. Once more she faced the possibility that he might not go. But now she rather thought that in some mysterious way she had gained the upper hand. Never would it have occurred to her that this was a simple procedure. Even one as untrammelled by correct manners as Steve had conceded the victory. More important, there had been no real resentment. That would come later, she knew, when he was obliged to pack his bags, make provision for his guitar, his radio. She rather thought that most of his impedimenta would of necessity be taken care of by David. For she did not doubt that Steve had become rather practised in precisely this situation.

  ‘Are you going to iron those things before you go out for the day?’ she asked. ‘For the day’ struck the right note, she thought.

  ‘I’ll do them tonight. I’ve got to wear them tomorrow, haven’t I?’

  ‘Just for once, Steve, for this last time, I’ll do them for you. They ought to be hung up, anyway.’

  ‘You’re a brick, Dorothea.’ Again the intonation from a wartime film. ‘Darling, tell me I’m forgiven.’ This time the voice was fruity, actorish.

  ‘All right, Steve, that will do.’ But she was smiling. And who would make her smile when he was gone?

  He left, whistling; even the whistling was parodic. In the silence that followed his departure she knew that there would be no telephone calls that day. Kitty would be busy, Molly had no need of her, and already Austin must regret taking her into his confidence, sharing with her information that he had not shared with his wife. This left her almost as she had been before Steve had arrived. She went back into her bedroom, surveyed her empire, hers alone since Henry’s death. He had professed a liking for the flat the first time he had seen it, but had never come near her deep possessive love for the first and only home she had ever owned. It had seemed a natural progression to move from the tall narrow house in the farthest reaches of New Kings Road closer to what was always referred to as the centre of town by her mother, who rarely went there. Armed with the knowledge of money in the bank, she had looked at several flats, as of right, and yet was appalled at her audacity. To be treated as a potential home owner was a new experience for her, and everyone except herself seemed to think that it was in order for her to do so. Gradually her timorousness had given way to pleasure. She had spent more money, for the delight of having a new kitchen, had not really relished possession until Henry moved in. Then, strangely, it became just another flat, no longer hers by right. She had achieved marriage in exchange for sole ownership.

  She had been puzzled by Henry’s alacrity in moving in, until she had met Rose and understood the restrictions of living with her. And he was in a hurry to find a home, one ready to receive him. His funds were constrained by his obligations to his first wife, and continued to be so until she remarried. He had still seemed comfortably off to the new Mrs May. She never enquired into his finances, secretly relieved that the mortgage was paid off (he had insisted on that) and trusting him implicitly with the day-to-day running of their lives. In time the intense pride of ownership had faded, only to return after his death. But that too did not last. She had been unprepared for inactivity, for silence. When she thought of Henry it was of someone in another room, laughing, talking on the telephone: she could almost smell the fragrant smoke of his cigar. Although he was so gregarious and she so solitary they had been good friends. Perhaps it was easier for her to make adjustments, concessions: she was of an obedient disposition.

  She had coped quite well with bereavement. What else was she to do? Yet sometimes she confessed to herself that the days were too long and the nights all too short. And if she were not very vigilant she might seek to extend those nights until there were less and less of the days to manage. She thought that she had behaved with a certain courage at critical moments in her life. But it was the sort of courage that was not visible to outsiders, scarcely detectable to herself until some great fatigue signalled the discharge of a duty, a task completed. She did not invite sympathy and received none. To outsiders she was a typical English widow, dignified, uncomplaining, comfortable in her mind, no longer visited by unseemly thoughts. She did not languish: that was the characteristic by which she was recognised. To do so would be to entertain various forbidden possibilities, to remember her early licence, and the man to whom she no longer gave a name. That humiliation had taught her caution, impassivity, but also shame, a cold distaste that was a regrettable after-image of the whole affair. Her amorous history was not flattering; had it not been for Henry it would have been disastrous. And imperceptibly she had grown into someone who needed to keep her own counsel, so that any enquiry seemed like a violation.

  And yet, she thought wonderingly, she had tolerated Steve about the place. Even more remarkably, she had found the courage to tell him to leave. This cheered her somewhat, until she reflected that she had always made a good job of endings. Since that afternoon in the hotel in Rottingdean, when she had gone up to their room and contemplated her mother sleeping with a kind of greediness, a desperation that could be read in her grimacing features, she had known that she must rise to whatever terrible occasion was in store, and in so doing would pass some test that not all are required to take. She put it down to what she called the sadness gene, a pathogen which had perhaps been there from birth. Nature rather than nurture had given her this disposition, for she had loved her kindly parents and even now commended their values, although she was to outward appearance more fortunately situated than they had ever been. If she missed anyone these days she missed her mother, a fact which struck her as infinitely sad. But she had read of men wounded in battle crying for their mothers, and she assumed that the most unlikely people were similarly affected. Those who loudly bewailed their unhappy childhoods were spared that, at least.

  Her task now was to disguise this uninteresting elderly person as someone agreeable, someone who must prepare for a social occasion, someone who would be called on to display a certain artfulness, in the best of all possible causes. She hated to be unaccompanied at a wedding, one to which Kitty was sure to invite a hundred or so of her closest friends. But art: she was with Kitty on that matter. On went the palimpsest of colour beneath which the naked face was temporarily concealed; after various dabbings, smoothings, and brushings she looked quite creditable, rather better in fact than she had done twenty years ago. Some essential acceptan
ce had taken place; the features had gained in definition. The docile appearance had taken on a certain decisiveness. This was not easy, but she had learned from others that it could be managed, had seen that brief flicker of respect in unknown passers-by. She thought that this was on account of her straight back, her upright head, unaware of the fixity of her expression. And yes, she had dealt with that young man quite satisfactorily. Nevertheless she would buy him something nice for his supper. For it was important that her hospitality was not seen to be at fault.

  In her dreams the Intruder came, and took up residence: she merely smiled politely and left home, taking enough money to enable her to start again elsewhere. Except that she never did, or rather that this part of the dream was quite unclear to her. What was clear was that she never put up a fight, because it was quite impossible that she could ever win. And this morning, in her own kitchen, she had come as near as possible to the worst happening, the endgame, and the surprising thing was that she had not given in, had stood her ground, had stated her requirements calmly and without a fuss. She could not remember this ever having happened before. Of course her relief might prove illusory: the keys might not appear on the table, as prescribed. But the fact that for the first time in her life she had managed to convince herself of her rights might embolden her to assert her wishes again. She saw only one occasion on which this might happen, a further confrontation with Steve, but she had also perceived a certain weakness in her opponent, a certain frivolousness. It would not amuse him to persecute her if there were other distractions to be exploited. She rather thought that it might be David who would have to confront the continuing dilemma of Steve as a perpetual houseguest. Or perhaps it flattered David to have Steve as page to his squire. Even David could not be without some vestige of human vanity. On the other hand, if matters were to turn unpleasant, David would have the spiritual resources for a contest of wills, could indeed invoke higher powers, though she suspected that Steve, if he had a mind to, could mount a quite sophisticated defence. That, however, would be nothing to do with her. Her own involvement would be ended; all that was required now was to draw a neat line under the whole episode.

  The memory of her victory, and the sight of her disguised face in the mirror, momentarily cheered her. She decided to go out, although it was too early for her hair appointment. She needed air: the flat had too recently been a battleground. She would shop for Steve, hang up his clothes, and perhaps put some money in an envelope and leave it in one of his nylon bags. That way at least he could enjoy a little temporary independence, although she thought it was rather dependence that he preferred. He is not charming enough, she thought cruelly; if he were he would have far less trouble getting his own way. For people of her own generation charm was a considerable attribute; a woman got nowhere without charm. Yet Ann yesterday, Steve today, David presumably always, were completely untouched by it, saw no need to cultivate it, found it suspect, akin to dishonesty. Yet their raw charmlessness was an impediment to their desires, could they but see it; they scorned, as inauthentic, the delicate manipulations of which a woman like Kitty was such a mistress. Not that Kitty was delicate, but she knew how to handle a man. She could, on occasion, be endearing, and she always got her own way. Women were rather good at getting their own way in those far-off days before sexual equality. But the young would hardly understand their largely innocent ploys. Their values were no doubt exemplary, but their methods were dishearteningly crude.

  After a night of rain the weather in the streets was cool, with a promise of more rain to come. The smell from the saturated gardens was welcome, invigorating. The brilliant and exceptional summer had justified her inactivity; now the darker days would begin, confining everyone to home. She thought that she would no longer seek a brief distraction in foreign towns, and the knowledge saddened her. She had not enjoyed those solitary holidays but they had added to her brief stock of independence: that was her reason for undertaking them. And then there was always the alibi to offer the neighbours, should they ask her. The question was customary at this season of the year. ‘Good holiday?’ was the greeting acquaintances offered each other, momentarily revived by the presence of familiar faces after sojourn abroad. She had nothing to exchange except the presence of a ‘young friend’, though no-one yet had given her an opportunity to offer him to the general public. Nevertheless he would serve during the long dark months ahead. ‘No, I didn’t go away this year,’ she would say. ‘I had a young friend staying with me,’ and they would be mildly intrigued, having been so used to seeing her careful solitary figure and assuming, correctly, that she had no attachments.

  But perhaps nobody would enquire; she thought that more likely. Only her immediate neighbour, Mrs Baird, might possibly be interested, yet Mrs Baird was a world traveller, given to trekking in Nepal, despite her age. A putative young friend would be of no interest to Mrs Baird, who could even now be seen at the end of the street, her wheeled basket clattering behind her. Mrs May marvelled at the purposeful progress of this rather stout woman, who, under guise of perfect suburban conformity, might even now be contemplating a visit to the temples of South-East Asia. I could have done that, she thought; all it takes is a little courage. But it was the sort of courage she signally lacked. Courage to live alone, yes, and to die alone when the time came; courage to meet the empty day formally dressed and scented; courage to confront long endless Sundays, sustained only by a diet of newspapers and walks round the garden, the latter curtailed in case she was observed by idlers at their windows. What was missing was the courage that would enable her to put long distances between herself and her home, her bed. Even when married to Henry, and genuinely enjoying their excursions, she had been homesick, although at that stage, she remembered, her home was not entirely her own, so that the homesickness was very slightly mitigated. And she had only to feel Henry’s arm in hers, when he was beginning to be ill, to know that her duty was no longer to herself, that home was to be his refuge, no longer hers.

  She bought smoked trout, potatoes and spring onions for a potato salad, blackberries, and Greek yoghourt. She took her shopping bag home, emptied the washing machine, and hung up his clothes to air; she would iron them this afternoon while waiting for the potatoes to boil. There was just time to fit in her hair appointment, although she had almost lost sight of the wedding in the light of the greater drama of her moral struggle with Steve. That was how she continued to think of it, and to marvel at the simplicity of her victory. Of course he could still overturn it, could transform victory into catastrophic defeat. This could still happen. Against this was the ticket to Paris, the return ticket to the States, already paid for. And anyway she bored him. Reduced to her sole company—for Kitty and Molly would prove inhospitable—he would soon want to look farther afield. She hoped that this could be managed without more delay, by the morning of the following day, in fact. All depended on the presence of his keys on the kitchen table. She thought she had it in her to demand them, hand outstretched, if necessary. It was simply a question of confidence, and in this matter she had already proved herself.

  While Jackie tended her hair she saw her polite face wearing an expression of abstracted thought, and realised that despite her resolution it would be difficult for her to resume her normal life. The previous week had brought a certain excitement, a certain amount of company. All this would now vanish, and her part in the proceedings would be overlooked, for after all what had she done? She had allowed herself to be made useful; she had not volunteered for active service, even though circumstances had drafted her into it. In the mirror she saw a woman behind her receiving the attentions of the manicurist, then hanging her little red claws over the arms of her chair to dry. That is all we are good for, she thought: to keep up appearances and thus avoid giving offence. It was the young who must not be offended by the sight of mad old people with wild hair and bad feet. The irony was—and it was a remarkable sign of sophistication on God’s part—that they in turn would give offence and not ent
ertain the slightest idea that they were doing so.

  At home, her chores completed, she sat and proceeded with her daily exercise, which she thought of as the reckoning. This was essential if she were to retain any semblance of self-mastery. Today the results were as good as could be expected: health more or less unchanged, eyes no worse but liable to tire if she read for more than an hour, heart giving its usual warnings. It might be sensible to find a local doctor, in case of emergencies. Monty Goldmark might exceptionally still visit, but this could be inconvenient for both of them. Suddenly she was swept by a great wave of grief. What was she doing here, in this flat which she purported to love, which she did love, completely unoccupied, in the middle of a weekday afternoon, with only the sound of a car passing on a wet road to keep her company? And it would always be like this. Perhaps if Steve were to stay, she thought, I might be spared these moments when my nerve fails. But after she had laid the kitchen table for him, she wrote a note, reluctantly, and with a curious sadness: ‘Steve. Don’t forget to leave me your keys. D.M.’

  ‘Do I look all right?’ she asked him, as they left the flat.

  ‘Very nice,’ he replied, stowing his bags in the front of the taxi.

  He was annoyed with her, but she had expected that. Her blue silk suit was too thin for such a cool day, but she was relieved to see that she was wearing it. The previous night she had dreamed that she had set out for the wedding in a dress of pale yellow crêpe, and a yellow pillbox hat; she was a good half hour late, but seemed indifferent to this aspect of the affair, was in fact bubbling over with high spirits, until the tube train in which she was travelling drew up outside Goodwood race course. By this stage she had acquired an assistant, to whom she was entrusting a rather precious piece of research. The wedding had quite receded from her mind, until she looked at her watch and discovered that it must be over by this time, that the newly married couple had already left, and that Kitty would never forgive her.