Strangers

by Anita Brookner

  ‘It’s my husband who’s the problem, you see. I’m perfectly willing to remain on good terms but I need some sort of settlement if I’m to find somewhere to live. I think I’m entitled to that, at the very least.’

  This was obviously a sore point. He could sense anger mounting, see colour rising in her cheeks.

  ‘Before we go into details I’ll just see to our main course…’

  ‘Oh, this is more than enough. Don’t cook anything for me. I’m on a diet anyway.’

  ‘Some fruit, perhaps?’

  ‘Lovely. The thing is I may have to take him to court.’

  ‘Oh, I shouldn’t do that. A court case could cost you a lot of money.’

  ‘Not if I win.’

  ‘And if you lost?’

  Her bravado was unshaken by this observation.

  ‘I’m entitled to compensation,’ she protested.

  ‘You said you were divorced. By mutual consent, I think you said.’

  ‘Well, yes, in a manner of speaking. We’re both strong characters. That’s how it goes, doesn’t it? We didn’t always see eye to eye.’

  ‘But compensation…’

  ‘He hurt my feelings,’ she said primly. ‘Women no longer have to put up with that. That’s what I mean by compensation.’

  ‘Would money really compensate you? I can see that the wounds are still quite raw…’

  He had come up against entitlements once again, these apparently being the property of women alone, women exerting their right to life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. It was entirely possible that this was a moral problem for which there was no solution. He felt a return of his old sadness at the thought that connections could be sundered in this way. He liked to think of friendships continuing unaltered throughout life. His own parents, ill-matched and uncommunicative, had observed this kind of loyalty, their covert unhappiness breeding in him a fierce desire for something finer, greater, an improvement on their flawed example, a success to alleviate their failure, and this had been his desire in all his love affairs; he could not understand how others could fail to feel the same. That this was an ideal did not disconcert him, rather the opposite. That this way forward in love was something higher than was natural selection was a conviction that had never left him, even if it contravened other interests – those famous entitlements, of which he had heard so much – and had made him, as a lover, more courtly, more chivalrous than was necessary. He had been made to learn that sex, once satisfied, was of little consequence, almost of little relevance to one’s true instincts, that not everyone took the long view. This woman sitting opposite him now, in her smart black accoutrements, could refer easily to other involvements, as if the transaction were understood to be temporary, as if everyone knew this to be the case. He felt humbled by his lack of understanding of these truths. For they must be truths, since so many people lived by them. It was a Darwinian process, he decided: will, energy, desire were all part of the same system, to be ignored at one’s peril. He saw now what a dull lover he must have been, and in doing so, identified a shame to which he had never put a name.

  ‘I’ll make some coffee,’ he said. ‘This needs further thought.’ He left the room, then turned back and added, ‘Do smoke if you want to; I’ll just remove these plates.’ He could hear the fussiness in his voice, and was anxious to spare them both the evidence of this. He took longer than was strictly necessary in the kitchen, feeling sorrow not only on his own account – that was habitual – but on hers as well.

  It was a blessing that he did not find her attractive for more than a few minutes at a time: he would, he knew, tire quickly of her assurance, her randomness. She was intriguing only as human company, as a momentary survivor of that same Christmas malaise as himself. And yet they had come together in that same random fashion he was inclined to deplore, and their odd encounters had made Venice appear less spectral, less disconcerting than it might have done. Back in London some of that feeling was lost: London, his London, was a place of solid, even ancestral attachments, few of which existed in the present. For a fleeting moment he remembered Helena, and their unsought companionship on winter Sunday afternoons. He winced with contempt for these routines, which he had found himself unable to break. He had left a telephone message of good wishes for her, and told himself that there was no need to implement these in person. Better by far to learn new lessons from his odd visitor, who seemed disinclined to let their acquaintance lapse. This, of course, was flattering, not really within the repertoire of his arrangements. Although he had been found attractive enough by women, he knew he had little to offer beyond his own conformity. But this stranger, who had sought his advice, seemed to regard him as a normal human being. Granted, she had paid little attention to him, remained engrossed in her own drama. This was as it should be, he conceded: she had a risky edge to her which precluded much enquiry on his part, although he could see that she might entrust her problems into his keeping. Fortunately he was hardly in a position to help her. She seemed prosperous enough, her rootlessness habitual and no longer a disadvantage. He added some chocolate truffles to the coffee tray, carried it through, and was entirely rewarded by the abstracted gourmandise with which she ate one after the other. This was how women gave themselves away, he thought. Most played with the notion of self-indulgence, whereas she ruthlessly made no excuses.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘How will you celebrate the New Year? I’m sure it calls for some sort of celebration, though I’m never sure…’

  ‘I might go to New York,’ she said. ‘When my friend comes back. Exchange flats with her. Seems as good an idea as any.’

  ‘And work?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got things to settle before then. The money situation. I might take advice when I’m in New York. I know a couple of lawyers there. They’re probably used to the situation.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  So she would be gone as quickly as that. He felt a little disappointed. It was probably for the best, he thought: she had sized him up and found him not to her way of thinking. It was merely their circumstances that had brought them together. Now their circumstances would detach them from one another. And yet the city outside his windows was still and damp, much as Venice had been. They might have felt more intimate had they found themselves out of doors, in the silent street. Suddenly he could no longer tolerate his warm flat, longed to be in an unfamiliar landscape, with only strangers for company – that old illusion.

  ‘I dread Sundays,’ he heard her say.

  ‘I believe most people do. I don’t like them myself. I usually try to get out a bit…’

  She was not listening. ‘What I’d like, you know, would be a proper walk. Round the park, along the river, something like that. But it’s so boring on one’s own. Especially when you’re used to company.’

  He regretted that his company was not the sort she was used to, but made a valiant decision.

  ‘Why don’t we take a walk together?’ he said cheerfully. ‘That would take care of Sunday afternoon. And we could find a decent hotel for tea.’

  The words sounded absurd, ridiculous. But he was rewarded by the sudden brightening of her expression.

  ‘I’d like that,’ she said. ‘Then we could have a really good talk. I’d be so grateful.’

  She checked her earrings, smoothed back her hair, glanced at her watch. ‘I’ll check in on Sunday, shall I? No, don’t get up. I know my way by now.’

  9

  The weather was disconcerting: still mild, but with a lurid sun sinking low in the sky. At four o’clock it would be dark. Left to himself he might have wandered down to the river, crossed the bridge to Battersea, contemplated all the closed windows, and cautiously taken the long way back. Or he might have simply stayed in and read the papers. Sooner or later a sense of discipline would have driven him out into the silent streets, but when he peered out they seemed, as ever on a Sunday, particularly unaccommodating. He felt little enthusiasm for this excursion, but drew some comfort from t
he thought that she might not turn up. It was, after all, a dark day, and most people would take the opportunity to rest, even to sleep. He imagined Mrs Gardner’s sleep to be deep and untroubled, as befitted her robust constitution which could withstand disruption of all sorts, displacements, changes of direction, temporary derailments… Unlike his own which, after that ritual of reminiscence, was heavy, too heavy, so that when he woke it was with a feeling of alarm, that he had been absent too long, had missed a set of vital clues which might have guided his steps into the new day. No dreams: dreams were for the active, the creative. Hence his slight feeling of dread, every night, when he switched off his bedside lamp, only to be palliated by those memories of a time when he was equally at a loss, but not alone.

  Mrs Gardner had almost entertained the same feeling of reluctance as his own, to judge from her rather set expression and her brief smile, which did little to convey acceptance.

  ‘We don’t have to go out,’ he heard himself say. ‘If you’re tired,’ he added.

  ‘I’m not tired,’ she said. ‘What I want is air. I want a change of surroundings. I don’t mind walking. I can walk for hours. It’s just Sunday, you know? It always gets me down.’

  ‘It might be different if one had some sort of faith. Any faith,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, I have faith. I have faith that someone is looking after me. That’s why I never get fussed, you know? I feel that everything’s going to turn out well, whatever I do.’

  He did not have the heart to tell her that that sort of faith was entirely misplaced, that matters could change for the worse in a second. Only a few days previously, in the street, he had heard a woman murmur, ‘I’m going to fall,’ and she had in fact fallen, had lain prone, until concerned spectators had rescued her, until a waiter from a nearby café had brought a chair, into which she had settled with an air of bewilderment. He had continued on his way, but with a heavily beating heart, as if her fate were contagious.

  ‘I hope you’re right,’ he said now. ‘I envy you your confidence. Shall we set out?’

  ‘If I could just leave this bag,’ she said. ‘It’s much too warm out.’

  ‘Yes, of course, leave it in the bedroom.’ He wondered what was in the bag, but assumed that she was in the process of transporting her belongings from one temporary home to another. But it added to his feeling that she had not envisaged their walk as an end in itself, but had accepted the suggestion as a way of filling a dull afternoon. He wondered how enthusiastic her friends were to take care of her possessions, to give her house room when it was required, even to hear her story, not for the first time. He said nothing, anxious now to leave the flat, to have done with this encounter. His own discipline, he knew, was not a commodity that could be shared: he would have set out anyway, but her own tastes must be wildly different. Yet she tightened the belt of her raincoat with every appearance of alacrity, and flashed him a dazzling smile which held a hint of annoyance. This was so conclusive that he almost lost heart.

  ‘Right,’ he said. ‘A decent walk, and then, I think, tea…’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘I thought along the river, through the park, and then we could make our way into town, if that’s all right with you. Just tell me if you get tired.’

  ‘I’m never tired.’ The reply, or rebuttal, was almost automatic. It formed part of her readiness, her disposability, her openness to another’s plans. He admired her for that quality, so abysmally lacking in himself. It made him anxious to give her pleasure. The Ritz, he thought, or Brown’s. She might like that.

  They set out doggedly into the still silent streets, each regretting this exercise, which now appeared pointless. He would have preferred his own silence to the silence they seemed doomed to share. She too appeared recalcitrant, as if he were responsible for whatever disappointment she seemed to be experiencing. Instinctively he guided her in the direction of the river, dull and undisturbed in the afternoon light.

  ‘Henry James lived there,’ he said, indicating an anonymous red brick building.

  She gave Henry James a passing glance, then relapsed into what he could only assume was a private conflict, one which excluded him and which he was in no way authorized to investigate.

  ‘This must seem very boring to you, after your various travels,’ he said. ‘Where were you happiest?’

  ‘South America,’ was the unhesitating reply. ‘I made my way there as soon as I could. I stayed five years, or maybe six.’

  ‘How did you live?’

  ‘Oh, you can pick up jobs easily. And I made a lot of friends. That’s never been a problem. I’m closer to my friends than I ever was to my family.’

  ‘I’ve heard other people say the same thing. Maybe that’s rather a fortunate state of affairs. Other people guide you through life in a way your parents might not have been able to.’

  ‘And that’s where I met my husband. In Buenos Aires. We travelled together for a bit. Then he went home and I carried on. I was quite happy. But after a bit I missed him. So I decided to follow him back to England – he’d given me his address – and eventually we met up again.’

  ‘And married.’

  ‘Well, yes, that was his idea. I thought we’d go back and carry on where we’d left off. But he turned out to be quite conventional. So I gave in.’

  ‘And lived in Shoreham?’

  She made a face. ‘That was a mistake. I was out of my element, nothing to do all day. That’s when I got in touch with my old contacts. Did odd jobs, much as I had over there. But it wasn’t the same. Eventually I got into doing publicity for various outfits, spent more and more time in London, which didn’t go down too well…’

  ‘What did your husband do?’

  ‘Worked in the family business. Property development. Well, there was nothing there for me…’

  ‘I take it he was well off?’

  ‘Oh, very. But I was bored. I was supposed to spend time with his family, his sisters mainly. But I’ve spent so little time with my own family that I wasn’t going to take on somebody else’s. As I say, he was very conventional. That’s when I knew I’d made a mistake. So I suppose I went my own way, got a bit careless. We more or less split up after a year. I went to New York for a bit, came back, went off again. In the meantime he got together with an old girlfriend. Who I knew. That did it. I wanted a divorce and I got one. Mutual consent.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’

  ‘I miss the house, oddly enough. And yes, I do miss him. He was my husband, after all, the man I know best. Maybe the only one I’ve ever known well.’

  He suspected what she called ‘carelessness’, on her own part. She would not have taken this seriously. But he sensed a wistfulness, something of the wistfulness he often felt when he saw a man and a woman walking in front of him, heads together, deep in conversation. He believed her when he sensed that moment of longing, though it could be nothing as entrenched as his own. She was relatively young – but how young was she? – whereas his own solitude was lifelong.

  They had walked along the river almost as far as the Tate, where he usually came to rest. Instinctively he raised his arm, summoned a passing taxi, and told the driver to go to Brown’s Hotel. ‘I’ve made you tired,’ he apologized. ‘But it was an interesting story. I hope I didn’t ask too many questions. It’s a fault of mine.’

  She flashed him a brief smile. In the gloom of the taxi she suddenly appeared older. But he put this down to the bad light. He supposed she was an attractive woman, though not one whose looks he particularly appreciated. Not my type, he once again quoted to himself, and felt for her a certain pity.

  The hotel, at least, was one of his better ideas. Soon they were seated comfortably in the warmth and the light, surrounded by the babble of voices, mostly American, and succumbing to the basic, almost infantile pleasure of eating food supplied by others. Once again he admired her unhesitating, almost abstract appropriation of sandwiches and cakes, noted enviously her unfaltering appetite. The sight
of the food, and her almost disdainful pleasure, deprived him of any desire to eat much on his own account. Carefully he poured the tea. That, it seemed, was his role, just as it had been to listen to her narrative. Left to himself, he realized, he might have eaten more. He recognized the subsidiary nature of his own presence. Yet here was one of those strangers whose company he had tried to value: tried, but not quite succeeded in doing so. And she was pleasant, and interesting enough… As for him, this interlude was surely an improvement on time spent sitting in Helena’s flat, asking the same sort of questions, or standing alone at the bus stop, hearing the echo of the door closing on him, the locks excluding him. Yet, for all that she had told him, he was as succinctly excluded from this woman’s intimacy as he was from all the rest. He had supplied a moment of comfort, merely that. Yet he was pleased to see the colour returned to her face, a certain animation to her features, whereas before she had been shut off, almost mournful. He signalled for the bill. ‘I’ll take you home,’ he said gently. He felt sorry for them both. They were glad to settle into the taxi.