Undue Influence

by Anita Brookner

  Yet this may have been unfair of me. Even I had seen that Cynthia had the sort of corrupt exciting appeal that a man might find irresistible. And Martin in those days would have had around him an almost visible aura of innocence. Whatever fantasies had entered his head in adolescence would have been firmly suppressed. He would have shielded himself against the clumsy attentions of his students as if they represented abnormal temptation, a temptation he was bound to resist. Permission no longer to resist would have been Cynthia’s gift to him, in exchange for his gratitude that he need resist no longer. She was cleverer than he was, but her form of intelligence was one he could not hope to understand. And she was furiously attracted. Endearments would have been deployed artlessly, tempting him to reply in kind. This would have been resisted for some time, yet once they were married she became ‘Darling’, rarely addressed by her name, as if ‘Darling’ were her status, as if this endearment, this accolade, which men bestow so carelessly, applied to her alone.

  It was clear from certain expressions that crossed his face when he was purportedly telling me about her illness that he had, in those latter months, found her distasteful. The ardour of their early years (and I had no doubt that this had been authentic, all horrified excitement on his part, all confident boldness on hers) had not survived the change from his dependence on her to her dependence on him. This, in essence, was his tragedy. Although he looked like a man, and an exceptionally graceful man, he was as sensitive as a girl. It was the contrast between his looks and his apparent simplicity that had attracted her in the first place. I myself had had the same reaction. He would have had to revert to a position less of husband than of faithful servant, would have felt clouds of loneliness envelop him once again, as Cynthia, with the imperiousness of a sick woman, and something of the bitterness of a redundant lover, would have treated him with less than respect. And Martin was the sort of man who craved respect, knowing himself to be a timid character, less of a man than his appearance would lead one to expect. Because of that appearance, the tall lean figure, the slightly fatigued but regular features, the fastidiousness of gesture, the immaculate clothes, the dandyishness, it had been mistakenly assumed that he would know how to conduct himself. But I discerned a helplessness there that would have turned to misery once expectations metamorphosed into the sort of suspicions which a woman who had once been welcoming and was now both impotent and censorious had begun to exert.

  He was healthy: his own body had not yet let him down, as Cynthia’s had. In her presence he was faced with the realities of another kind of physical life: what my mother would have called little accidents, the unbearable diminution of control. He would have wondered how this had come about, not quite aware that this is the rule. I had learned it early in life from my father; I too knew that wincing distaste, and the guilt and shame that accompany it. I could and did feel for him as he traversed this unknown territory. And he no longer had the resources of his work to comfort him, for like the clever creature that she was and remained to the end Cynthia would have seen that his work was her enemy. A sensual and slightly hysterical woman would be more demanding than the more temperate company which might have suited him better (but he had not waited): she would have discerned attractions which she could not share. No matter that those attractions were literary, historical; she was thereby excluded. Her fear was that she might not understand what others might, would share as of right. Therefore she had effected a divorce, thinking that afterwards he would belong to her alone. He had done so but may not have been reconciled to this loss. Deprived of this comfort he had felt lonely, felt guilty at his quickly suppressed disappointment, had exchanged the library for the sickroom, for servitude, and had loyally made servitude his reason for living.

  Thus they had both been unhappy, and like most unhappy and basically good people had not discussed their unhappiness. No wonder they relied on interruptions to their restricted way of life. This I could fully understand, although the sympathetic noises I was making were abstracted. I told myself that I knew nothing of his life, that my own construction had entirely taken over from facts which, as a gentleman, or rather just as a man, he would never divulge. It was I who discerned a darker tragedy behind his utterly routine reminiscences, which I did nothing to discourage. While he was telling me about a cruise they had taken round the Greek islands I was alert to the alteration in his voice that would let me know when the truth had broken through. None came. I made coffee, smiled pleasantly as various holidays were described for my benefit, and for his, as the legend was carefully reconstructed. The purpose of this was to negate the inevitable guilt that one feels after a death, and in his case the shame of those divided feelings which had preceded the death for quite some time. In fact for longer than he cared to admit. Again no curiosity was shown about my own life. And every time I tried to steer him back to the present another holiday was invoked, another rich person’s diversion, as if he were guiding me through an album of illustrations to some sunny narrative, which only he was capable of expounding.

  But I had seen the reality, the dark flat, and the gilt clock ticking, the voice from the bedroom. He had no friends; I saw that too. Here again I could sympathize. My own home had been free of visitors, because they had upset my father, as indeed I had. ‘Less enthusiasm, please, Claire,’ he would say as I clattered in from school. I got used to the idea that he was easily upset at a very early age, an age at which children should be joyous, and after his death I felt it would be disloyal to my mother to treat the flat as if it were partly my own: she was so grateful to have it to herself that it would have seemed selfish to have destroyed her peace. No doubt she saw this, which was why she encouraged me to take holidays. No doubt she would have hidden from herself any knowledge of how I spent them. My mother was the least prurient of women. But this hidden life, or rather those private lives, mine and hers, explained why I was so much alone and had remained so, why I made up so much in default of direct contact with others, why I kept my own counsel, which was some compensation for the isolation I sometimes felt.

  My experience of life with an invalid supplemented his, although he was not to know this. I remembered the mournful inquiries: what sort of a day was it outside? Why had The Times not arrived? But I also remembered the querulous complaints, the heavy-breathing naps, the need at all times for his attendants to express concern. It had become impossible to invite my schoolfriends to tea; I knew the embarrassment they would feel. As his illness took hold my father became more and more eccentric, so that in addition to the physical burden to which he (and my mother) were subject there were sudden outbreaks of annoyance, intemperate refusals, disquieting self-pity. I see now that he was not a very nice man or even a very good one, but then I had little knowledge of what had attracted my mother. Indeed I refused to believe that she had ever been attracted, and this too made me impatient. Because my father was such a sad wreck I became more and more convinced that a man must possess a high degree of physical excellence. I told myself that I could deal with any moral imperfections that might become apparent, but in fact I gave them little time to become apparent. I perfected a discreet but unmistakable approach, and also the ability to make a quick departure. I believe that I was simply beguiled by looks and charm, qualities in which my poor father was notably deficient. He too possessed an invalid’s caprices, demanding to know where we were, why we had to go out, jealous of those acquaintances to whom my mother said good morning in the supermarket…

  I knew that the sick and the disabled exert a tyranny, that they nourish a grievance against the healthy and impervious, much as ill-favoured women resent the young and unmarked, thinking themselves justified in issuing verdicts of disapproval, yet at the same time unhappily aware of their own marginality. In an odd and reluctant sense I knew all this, was able to deplore my father’s character and appearance without any thought for the unhappiness he caused, and, I think, intended to cause. I saw him as a prime example of the inequity of nature, or of God, but I a
lso saw him as a mistake. My sympathies were with my mother, hers, I think, with me. Yet we both felt shame at what we perceived as the enormity of our reactions. Martin’s reflections—urbane, wistful—taught me that he too felt this shame.

  Naturally I said none of this. My part was to be careful and neutral, and above all appreciative, respectful, as he deployed his golden legend. I was there to help him to rearrange his story, to expunge the ugly memories, to cancel the inconvenient feelings. I knew about the retreat into fantasy, although for me fantasy is generally an advance, albeit an unreliable one. I was quite willing to play my part, for the moment. What slightly irked me was his continued lack of curiosity. I began to see that Cynthia, who had so sumptuously demonstrated her indifference to Wiggy and to myself, had passed on this virus to her husband, whose closed and secret nature would already have prepared the ground. Indeed when we were not talking about Cynthia there was very little to talk about. Cynthia was what we had in common, though I intended to change that. I excused his behaviour as the awkward stance one has in the world when one is totally constrained at home. I could have reacted differendy. I could have distracted him with stories of St John Collier and the circumstances which accounted for my presence in the shop, but I was unwilling to do this. It would have seemed to me dereliction of a moral duty to deliver St John, who now appeared to me in a relatively noble light, into Martin Gibson’s worried self-absorption. Martin, I could see, was now in the business of editing, much as I had been, but what he was producing was a version of the truth. St John Collier, vulnerable in his simplicity, had seen the truth for what it was, on that ultimate page, but had not thought to rearrange it. I was aware that he was the superior character, but I was not conducting a heavenly assize. St John Collier was without ambiguity, and it was ambiguity that excited me.

  ‘Will you stay in the flat?’ I asked him.

  ‘The flat?’ He looked at me blankly. ‘Oh, yes, I’ll have to stay. All Cynthia’s things are there. Her beautiful things.’

  I have a slight prejudice against beautiful things. ‘You ought to get rid of her clothes, at least. Get someone to help you. The Salvation Army. Oxfam. They usually send someone round.’

  ‘Sue might help. She’s been awfully good, you know. She rings up sometimes to see if I’m all right. She’s working at the Middlesex now. Quite near.’

  ‘There you are then.’ That at least was taken care of.

  St John’s reflections might do rather well, I was thinking. These slim aspirational tracts seemed to sell in millions. I had taken to glancing through Muriel’s copy of the Bookseller, and was developing a new hard-headed attitude to my calling.

  ‘And you’re eating?’ I inquired.

  ‘Oh, yes, I’m doing all that.’ He grinned suddenly. ‘Who do you think did the cooking?’ His face relapsed into mournfulness. ‘Not that I have any appetite. I mustn’t take up any more of your time, Claire. I may call you Claire?’ He seemed unaware that he had been doing so all along. ‘If I talk too much it’s because you’re such a good listener.’

  ‘Talk as much as you like,’ I said. ‘Look in again. The morning’s the best time. The afternoons can get quite busy.’

  ‘Yes, I mustn’t keep you. You’ve been a great help, both to Cynthia and myself. Yes, I’ll look in again, if you’re sure you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course I don’t mind.’

  ‘I’ll say goodbye, then.’

  ‘Goodbye, Martin.’

  Muriel reappeared one afternoon towards the end of the same week.

  ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘Hester’s watching the tennis. I feel better about leaving her now. Only for an hour, of course. How are you getting on?’

  I vacated her desk and prepared to retreat to the basement, though there was nothing for me to do down there.

  ‘No, no, Claire. I shan’t stop. I came to say that there’s no need for you to sacrifice your evenings any more. We can manage quite well. I’ve been to Marks and Spencer. I shall take Hester with me tomorrow. She’ll be very amused.’ She looked round casually, carefully. ‘Fortunately she’s left-handed,’ she said. ‘So you can go straight home now.’

  ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘Quite sure.’

  I accepted this, although my evenings would now be unoccupied. I also accepted the fact that the Colliers were closing ranks once again.

  ‘Will you want a holiday?’ she asked. This inquiry was the purpose of her visit.

  ‘No, no,’ I said. ‘I shan’t want a holiday’

  This was true. I had had enough of my solitary endeavours. I wanted something different now. I wanted someone to invest in me, to express curiosity, to ask me questions. I saw my summer as an affair of waiting for someone to do this. I thought of ‘someone’ with deliberate vagueness; at the same time I knew his face. I would ask him to dinner, I thought. I was no cook, but I could manage something. I was impatient for Muriel to leave, so that I could ruminate at my leisure. ‘Give my love to Hester,’ I said.

  She rearranged a few books on one of the tables. She was homesick for the days when no domestic duties claimed her, when she could think of herself, with every justification, as a professional woman. She must have adopted this stance once earlier hopes had been relinquished. It would have been in order for a spinster, who knew she would remain a spinster, to present this dignified face to the world, to join the ranks of the virtuous pioneers, flying the flag for the liberated woman. They were brave in those days, braver than we are now. Now everything is a short-term contract. Muriel would have known that she had taken on a job for life.

  After she had left, with expressions of thanks for my various contributions to her peace of mind, I was seized with a desire to be out in the street. The rainy weather had cleared, as it so often did in the evening, and the sun shone once more. I was in no hurry to get home. I thought of calling in on Wiggy but decided against it. For the moment I wanted no conversation other than that earlier one. This continued to occupy my mind, so much so that by the time I went to bed I felt as if it were still taking place, progressing indeed, beyond what had already been said.

  Eleven

  When Wiggy called to say that Eileen Bateman had died I confess that my first thought was, Oh, no, not another death, but Wiggy was upset so I put down the receiver and went round there.

  Eileen Bateman was a fairly mysterious woman who occupied the top floor of Wiggy’s building. When the café was closed they were the only two people in the house, a fact which bothered neither of them. Naturally they had got to know each other during the time that they had lived in such close proximity, but Eileen Bateman seemed entirely self-sufficient and had proved herself to be an excellent neighbour, if excellence is demonstrated by an ability to give no trouble, make no noise, receive no visitors, and be absent for most of the day.

  We knew that she was retired, and that she had been a buyer for women’s fashions in a department store. She was unmarried and always had been. Wiggy got to know her better when Eileen Bateman, in the throes of flu, had telephoned and asked apologetically if Wiggy had any aspirin. She added, hoarsely, that she had no belief in patent medicines, but she thought that aspirin might ease her headache. On her recovery she had visited Wiggy, and, with profuse thanks, had presented a bunch of flowers. They had got to know each other better, and Miss Bateman, or Eileen as she became, was, I suspect, the recipient of Wiggy’s confidences with regard to her boyfriend, as I was not. I did not mind this, as I knew that Wiggy liked to maintain a certain tacit pride in the face of my scepticism, but when she mentioned that Eileen had read the tea leaves and promised her a late marriage I drew the line. Wiggy knew my views on this matter and henceforth remained prudent, but I rather thought that several of these sessions took place and that if I was spared the details it was because Wiggy herself was fairly ashamed of them. Thus, by mutual consent, the matter was not discussed.

  Nevertheless Eileen Bateman was a feature of the landscape and a subject of discussion betw
een Wiggy and myself. She impressed us as a woman who knew how to live alone. When she retired from the department store she had reinvented herself by buying a bicycle and continually planning excursions: Shakespeare country, the Gower Peninsula, the Somerset coast. Every summer, after extensive research, she put her bike on the ferry and went to France. Wiggy had in her kitchen a plate inscribed Souvenir de Quimper which Eileen had brought her after a tour of Brittany. Her bicycle was the subject of some altercation since it had to be kept in the passage. The café owners objected to this although they had their own entrance; against their fairly vociferous opposition Eileen won the day. I have noticed that single women sometimes possess these capabilities.

  She was small, grey-haired, unimpressive but disarming, owing to her permanent expression of good will. I could not imagine how she spent her days, but Wiggy said she had once seen her cycling down Southampton Row, so I imagined her in perpetual motion from one place to another. She urged Wiggy to buy a bicycle herself and to emulate her own solitary movements: with singular tact she did not suggest that they team up. She was mindful of the difference in their ages, but evidently thought Wiggy less adventurous than she was herself. This may have been a source of some pride to her. Wiggy was used to brochures being thrust through her letterbox, which she then put into a drawer, not quite willing to throw them away for fear of hurting Eileen’s feelings. And Eileen’s feelings never seemed to be hurt. That was the nice thing about her.