Lewis Percy

by Anita Brookner

  When he did, however, when he happened to be at the door as she was going out, she was breezily nice to him, as she might have been to a stranger. Yet there was a distance in the niceness which proclaimed: I have made my decision, I shall never go back on it. The other life that I lived with you was so benighted that you cannot expect me to admit it to my newly raised consciousness except to laugh at my folly. Of course, I serve as an example to the group. Remember how I couldn’t go out alone? Shackled, you see, by false expectations. And look at me now. I earn my living, I’ve got friends, I’m involved. And I don’t have to bother with men any more. That’s what’s so wonderful. We have a very good social life, the three of us; we go to exhibitions, see the new films, have plenty to talk about. Mother looks after Jess. It’s given her a new lease of life; she was getting so low before. Now that she’s got something to occupy her mind she’s a different person. The baby’s fine. She doesn’t miss me. And later on, when she’s older, she’ll have me as a role model. That’s extremely important for a girl. When I think how backward I used to be I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Fortunately, that’s all behind me now.

  She did not, of course, say any of this. He marvelled at her but was forced to come to terms with the fact that he hardly knew her in this radiant new guise. To begin with she looked different. She had never lost the weight she had put on when the baby was born, but what had previously been flaccid was now tough, hard-packed into a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. These garments were clean but not noticeably attractive. Nevertheless, they gave her an air of being ready for action, ready to get her hands dirty in the course of some honest job: dismantling a car, for example, or working a petrol pump. Her colour was high, higher than it had ever been, and she laughed frequently, revealing her rather large teeth. Her hair was the same, though, limp, and held back by a velvet band.

  Lewis could now define what had originally attracted him to her in the very absence of those qualities of delicacy, hesitancy, timidity, which had been laid aside for ever. These same qualities were now vested in his little girl. He would have preferred the child to be bold, even wicked, but it seemed as if she would have to go through the whole evolutionary process on her own, although, to judge by Tissy’s present state, this was now redundant. Every time he saw her his determination to rescue her increased. But she must grow up first: he could not uproot a child with such a pronounced leaning towards what he could only assume was introspection. She must mature and harden a little before she was ready for him, just as he must be firm and decisive if he were ever to be a reasonable father to so fragile a creature. Yet, thinking of her mother, who had turned out to be unexpectedly resourceful, he wondered if she might not eventually be just as determined. For this reason he cherished her childishness, and was not anxious for her to grow up. He would have liked, merely, to figure a little in her world, without interfering or creating conflicts in her infant mind. He brought her books, which he was sometimes allowed to read to her.

  She was his whole life. When he was not with her he was thinking about her. He called round most evenings on his way home, and if he were lucky he would see her before she went to sleep. The Sunday morning excursions were not a success: there was always the little reaction of retreat when she first saw him, and she tired easily. He thought that she would never get used to him, and despaired of making her love him, but decided to be tactful, self-effacing, as he was now, without knowing it, most of the time. The idea of demanding love sickened him, particularly of one so easily frightened. Besides, love … He had been twice defeated. He no longer expected anyone to love him, although he himself had not grown cynical. In many ways he was still ready to love, was, in certain moments, abounding in love, but no longer to a painful or even a nervous extent. Everyone now seemed to him to be worthy of love, even the stranger he passed in the street. The highest good, he perceived, was to love and be loved. But somehow, unconsciously, he dealt himself out of the whole affair. He could love but not be loved. He was only one half of the equation.

  So, delicately, fearfully – with a fear and a delicacy to match her own – he loved his daughter, forcing himself to be content to care for her at a distance, never bringing a note of disagreement into Mrs Harper’s house, even when he saw or heard something that pained him, always calm with the child, never letting his disappointment show when she failed to run into his arms as he held them out to her.

  Because of her he was valiant. Living alone, which had initially caused him such despair, became a daily battle against inertia, lethargy, carelessness. Without knowing it he assumed the steady hopeful smile that had characterized him as a very young man as he got out of bed, had his bath, prepared his breakfast, always determined to put a good face on things, to create a discipline for himself, to maintain decent standards, so that his daughter need never be ashamed of him. For her susceptibility, he knew, was extreme, and would increase rather than diminish as she grew older and began to take the world’s measure. Still smiling, he would leave for the library, breathing the morning air conscientiously, greeting the postman, the milkman, noticing the passers-by, all of whom seemed to him worthy of love. He knew a brief, very brief, failure of energy after accomplishing this exercise and before beginning the day’s work, but a cup of coffee in the sandwich bar near the college gave him a moment’s respite from his determination to win his victory over the day, and after that he was able to resume the smile, the mask, the endeavour. The day passed smoothly and in silence. Sometimes he would look up from his desk in a panic. Supposing this were to be taken away from him! How would he exist with a whole day to fill? How did other people manage? For there must be other people like him, virtually alone in the world? But this did not bear thinking about, and with only a very little reluctance he was able to turn his attention once more to his eternal index cards, thankful that the engine of the day was now fully engaged, and that it could run on to its close without further efforts on his part.

  The end of the afternoon was more difficult, as indeed it is for most people. Melancholy overcame him for a while at the approach of six o’clock; his movements slowed down as he bent to pick up his briefcase and straightened up to say goodnight. At this point fear dictated his thoughts. These people, these other people, of whom he was so anxious to think well, were no doubt going home to wives, to children, to comfort, to reassurance, to life! And these young secretaries and their boyfriends, busy selecting a film to see, and these ladies joining their husbands in town for a visit to the theatre: how enviable they all seemed! In the early days of his solitary new life he had gone with Pen to the opera, but had had to give it up: it upset him too much. The nobility of the gestures and the sentiments filled him with despair, and when anybody died he could not bear it. He had to concede that Pen and even George Cheveley had behaved impeccably when he had broken down in the middle of Manon. They had thought it would appeal to him, since he loved the novel, but instead it had brought forth tears which he was unable to suppress. ‘Adieu, notre petite table,’ Manon had sung, and he was done for. They had taken him home like an invalid at the end of the evening, had insisted that he drink a little whisky, and had only left when he pronounced himself ready for bed.

  ‘Funny how that should have set him off,’ said George to Pen on the way home.

  ‘Oh, well, any kind of loss, you know. It doesn’t really matter who feels it. Or for whom.’

  So he no longer went to the opera, but saw Pen, and occasionally George, on a Sunday afternoon, after his run in the park. He was forced to acknowledge that he had misjudged George, whose taciturn presence he now found unexpectedly soothing.

  His evenings consisted, in essence, of his long walk home and his visit to his daughter. In time he managed to think the others out of the way: they were servants, handmaidens, liegemen, surrounding the child and guaranteeing her safety. The discordant personalities of Mrs Harper and the doctor, the new-found insolence of his wife, failed to move him. Their importance was reduced to the sole funct
ion of looking after his daughter. He would find her in her nightdress and slippers, ready for bed. She always ran to the door when she heard his ring, but looked doubtful as soon as she saw him. He wondered whether she felt the same fear of everyone. Unlike most children she enjoyed going to bed. He had always done so himself, and was gratified to see evidence of this inherited trait. If she were not too sleepy he would read to her from one of the books he had brought with him. ‘When I was one, I was just begun,’ he read. ‘When I was two, I was nearly new.’ She would gaze at him with eyes as serious but as abstracted as her mother’s had been. He read on, cherishing every moment; therefore he was doubly disappointed when he called and found that she had been put to bed early and was already asleep. On these evenings he barely stopped to exchange a few words with Mrs Harper, who was no longer reluctant to talk to him, and had on more than one occasion invited him to stay and share their meal. But he never did. He would have nothing to do with a false domesticity, a pretence at normality, acceptance of the status quo. Besides, only his daughter interested him. He accepted the others as inevitable, but did not choose to remain in their company.

  Then began his ordeal, repeated every evening, when he returned to his empty house and became aware of his loneliness. But he was still determined to sustain the effort of the day. He laid his table, ate carefully, even elaborately, and washed up after himself. What he ate was not interesting to him; it was only the ceremony that counted. And then that frightening hour before he could go thankfully to bed. Music was dangerous. Sometimes television could be relied on, although his attention wandered. More often than not he switched on the radio and took it from room to room with him as he tidied up. He had become meticulous in the upkeep of his house. Mrs Joliffe came only intermittently now. He left the same money for her, but she put in only a brief half-hour now and then, on various days of the week – sometimes twice, sometimes not at all – as if she too knew that he was no longer a real householder. Her obligations to him were dwindling away. She no longer saw any reason to take him seriously.

  Sleep, therefore, was not only a valuable commodity but an essential one, the consolation after the effort of the day, with its endless exercise of goodwill. Once safely in bed, it was easy to feel generous again. The smile returned as he thought, quite prayerfully, of his good friends, his pleasant house, his interesting work, and above all his daughter. This was what people meant by counting one’s blessings, he supposed, and it was easy to do so in these moments of respite, when all was quiet and easeful, and the darkness was kind. After all, he reminded himself, he was in good health. That was what counted, wasn’t it? And he had a little money put aside: his daughter would want for nothing. The only thing that wearied him was that it seemed such a long time to wait for her to come and join him. Sometimes the waiting seemed intolerable. Sleep usually delivered him from thoughts like these, and in the morning, with just that little necessary effort, he was ready, once more, to face another day. Of good and evil he thought little. He apportioned no blame, not to Tissy, not to himself. Or, rather, no longer to himself. All that mattered was to think of life as an experience which he, like everyone else, was in the process of undergoing. There were to be no excuses, no heavenly alibis. One day he would be old. And it would be important then to have no unfinished business with which to torment himself. He did not want to be a burden to anyone. To whom, in any case, could he be a burden? Certainly not to his daughter, who would be as free as she wanted to be. He saw that freedom might be difficult for her, but he also saw that she must learn the discipline for herself. He knew, somehow, that when she was grown up he would be far away. He would leave the house for her, and leave her in it, perhaps to work, perhaps to marry. This part of her future was unclear to him. He only knew that he himself would not be on hand to witness it. For he would have gone, although he did not yet know where he would have gone, or why, or even how. All he could look forward to, before this happened, was a few years alone with her, teaching her, guiding her, endowing her, before he left her, perhaps for ever.

  Of course there were bad days, days when he noticed the grey hairs coming through, when his daughter was already asleep on the evenings of his visits, when all his resources failed him. Then it was even more important to pretend that everything was all right, or at least going according to plan. But it was not easy. And without a woman to comfort him he found life very painful. Yet he knew that he could never again enter the great game. Once, when calling on Pen early one Sunday evening, he had found Emmy there. His heart had given a great knock. She had looked no different, unlike himself. She lay rather than sat in a chair, her full skirts looping down to her ankles, her hand idly fingering her long strings of beads. He saw that she was not as put out by the encounter as he was, having no doubt heard all about his situation from Pen, and from this he deduced that she too had discarded him. Conversation was derisory; she was much too sophisticated to start asking searching questions. Only her eyes were speculative. Pen’s presence ensured that only the most general, the most anodyne of matters were discussed, but Lewis was conscious of all that was not being said. He found it a strain, and announced that he had to be getting back, although he was only going home to an empty evening. ‘I’ll walk with you a little way,’ said Emmy, and he was not as pleased as he might have been a year, two years ago.

  ‘What are you doing with yourself these days, Lewis?’ she asked. The afternoon was mild, windless; people in the streets looked aimless, distracted by Sunday melancholy.

  ‘Oh, much the same as usual,’ he answered. ‘You know how dull I am.’

  ‘I know what I know,’ she said. ‘Although you may be right.’

  ‘And you?’ he ventured.

  ‘Madly busy,’ she replied promptly. ‘And I may be getting married. Did Pen tell you?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No, he didn’t.’

  ‘Well, it’s about time somebody made an honest woman of me. And I do rather like the idea of being a rich lady. I think I’d look rather good, don’t you?’

  ‘Very good,’ he said. ‘And do you love him, whoever he is?’

  ‘Not particularly.’ She sounded surprised. ‘I like him all right – I’ve known him for ages. But after all, marriage is a job like any other, isn’t it? I mean, you have to work at it. Or so they tell me. I’d rather let someone else do all the work, actually. You see,’ she said lightly, ‘I always wanted to be married. I told you, didn’t I?’

  His heart turned in him, but mostly with pity for her childish obstinacy.

  ‘You were daft, Lewis.’

  ‘You knew my situation,’ he said, still patient. Somehow he could not be angry with her, although he felt tired out, almost old. ‘I find it hard to believe that you wanted me as much as you said you did. I always wanted to believe you did. But now I don’t want you to tell me. I’ve lost you anyway. I lost you a long time ago. Do you know that every day I look in The Times, on the weddings page, to see if your name’s there? I’ve thought of you every day since I last saw you. And now I’ve seen you again, and soon I shall see the announcement, presumably. And that’s the end, I suppose.’

  ‘What a fool you were to go and spoil it, Lewis. You could have had me. Others did. I didn’t hear them making such a fuss as you’re making now.’

  ‘Perhaps I didn’t want to be like the others. You didn’t seem to like them very much.’

  ‘Oh, Lewis, nothing lasts. Don’t you know that?’

  They walked on in silence. She seemed suddenly to make up her mind about something.

  ‘Well, take care of yourself,’ she said, stopping abruptly. ‘You can always find me through Pen. That’s about all I can say, isn’t it?’ And she turned away. When he looked back at her, striding along in her long skirts, she raised her hand and waved, without turning round, as if she knew he was looking at her. Then she seemed to melt into the shadows of the fast growing dusk.

  ‘Emmy,’ he called after her. She turned. He moved slowly towards her, as if under wa
ter, while she stood still and watched him.

  ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I loved you that first evening, at my house. But what could I expect? From you, I mean. I didn’t want you to go on having what you tell me you hate, another married lover. Is that what you want?’

  ‘What a carry on,’ she said lightly. She was still angry, he could tell, and still unrepentant. But not unfair. She was not – never had been – unfair. ‘I simply wanted you to choose me. Does that sound frivolous? It isn’t. I wanted that … enactment. Not promises, not consolations – I’ve had those. I wanted to start again, with somebody straightforward.’ She hesitated. ‘Did you ever consider me at all?’

  ‘I’ve never stopped thinking about you.’

  ‘No, I dare say you haven’t. It didn’t take you very far, did it?’

  ‘Come home with me now.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ she said. ‘Even if I wanted to I wouldn’t.’

  ‘Did you want me?’

  ‘You know I did. I liked you. We’re not talking about love, now. I doubt if I can love – that’s my trouble. You’re stupid, but you’re kind. You’re kind to women – too kind, perhaps. Anyone else would have buggered off long ago. And I can tell you the truth and not be blamed for it. That’s almost enough in itself. It’s what I’ve never had.’

  ‘Would you marry me?’ he asked.

  ‘If you were free, you mean? I’ve had proposals like that before. I might, that’s all I can say. It’s become serious, you see. Maybe it always was. If you’d slept with me it might not have done. You could have saved yourself all this bother.’

  ‘Emmy, you’re relentless. You tell me what you don’t want and ask for it at the same time.’

  ‘I’m not asking for it now, am I? This time I want more. Goodbye.’

  She turned on her heel and left him. He ran after her.