Brief Lives

by Anita Brookner

  The irony of the situation was that it had been quite foreign to my nature. I was not born to be a mistress; I doubted if I was even born to be a wife. In my own mind I existed as a hopeful adolescent in a tight-waisted cotton frock, practising my scales, or as a young girl, singing all those touching old songs with dedication but without sorrow. Maybe, like Julia, I should never have left my mother. I am aware that no woman of any sense thinks like this today, but, perhaps because of recent experiences, because of the disappointment I was bound to register with my life, I had to confess to feelings of longing for earlier days, days of confidence and high expectation before the realities of life closed in. From those early days I had retained my disastrous simple-mindedness, which guaranteed that I should do the wrong thing, know the wrong people, enter into associations through sheer ignorance, and be forever haunted by the outcome. Women of sixty—nearly sixty-one—are supposed to be experienced, prudent, tough, yet I felt as wistful as I had always done since I had left girlhood. It was this wistfulness that would descend on me in the early evenings, when I stood at the window, my hands idle, and listened for that imagined friendly step. When the street lamp came on, later and later now, it was my signal to turn away in despair, like Mariana in the moated grange. ‘ “He cometh not,” she said.’ Yet there was a measure of relief in the knowledge that no concealment would be necessary. I need never draw my curtains now.

  So peculiarly distressing were these evenings that when Paul and Caroline Langdon invited me to one of their dinner parties in Gertrude Street I accepted without hesitation. They were a pleasant couple, with whom I had remained on distant but friendly terms. They had been generous with invitations, but had taken my refusal to be reclusion after Owen’s death or a general reluctance to visit my old home again. Caroline was a good woman, punctilious with Christmas cards containing family news and signed by all the children, although we were no relation to each other and had so very little in common. I sometimes saw her in the local greengrocer’s, a tall thin woman with an interesting melancholy face, which was quite misleading for she was habitually cheerful. She would be dressed in a ruffle-necked blouse, a long bright skirt and a suede waistcoat: work-worn hands, adorned with two splendid diamond rings, would grasp the six carrier bags containing provisions for the evening’s dinner, for she liked to entertain at home, and managed it all quite effortlessly, as well as teaching deaf children, running a house in the Dordogne, and skiing with her husband every February.

  She was obviously just back from the annual trip to Villars when I met her, for her face and hands were brown and her hair long and lank. The usual amalgamation of shopping bags was grouped around her ankles as her large and bony hands selected oranges and cradled chilly nests of grapes. ‘Please do not touch’, said a notice, but Caroline was tolerated as a particularly splendid type of local womanhood. ‘Hello, Fay,’ she said, flashing her tired smile. ‘Keeping well?’ ‘I’m fine, dear, thank you,’ I replied. ‘And you? Paul and the children?’ ‘Yes, we’re okay, much better now that the two big ones are away at college. Only William at home now. You must come round and see us, Fay. I’ll give you a ring,’ she shouted as she negotiated the door with all her plastic bags. She wore large flat shoes on her stockingless brown feet. I was glad to see her, as I was always glad to see anyone who accepted me at face value in those days, although she made me feel prim and elderly in my blue tweed coat, with the pink scarf at the neck. Even the thought of her busy life gave me pleasure, as I turned with a sigh to buy the pint of milk and the lettuce and half-pound of tomatoes that constituted my own meagre shopping.

  I rarely cooked for myself these days, which was a pity, for I had always enjoyed it. The preparation of food seemed to me to be of worth only if one could provide it for others, which I did, in a sense, but not in any sense of which I could approve. Vinnie picked malevolently at what was on her plate, managing to spoil the food without actually consuming much of it, while Julia deplored whatever I took round to her, although I noticed that it all disappeared. Maybe Maureen ate it. It hardly mattered; its function, for me, was automatically lessened by the mere fact that only an irritable conscience had spurred me into what had originally been a gesture and now seemed to have become an obligation. And so when, contrary to all expectations, Caroline did telephone and invite me to dinner, I astonished her by accepting. To be treated as a guest, and to be out of the flat for the entire evening, suddenly seemed the most desirable thing in the world. I had a long black silk skirt which I had hardly worn, and a white silk blouse with a high neck and full sleeves. I had my hair done, and felt as excited as a girl at the prospect of being treated like a real person, by kind young people who had no reason to denigrate or to distrust me. I believe, in fact, that they remained eternally grateful to me for letting them have the house, into which they all fitted comfortably, as though they had been designed for it, or it for them. When I looked back on my own uneasy days there I could only congratulate myself on having done at least one thing right.

  But I felt nervous just the same, my social muscles all unused. Also unused were my reactions to the pleasantries of men met on such occasions, for I did not doubt that Caroline, who was correct to her very fingertips, would have invited someone suitable as my partner. I felt the lack of such a partner very forcibly as I made my way, in my narrow shoes, through the blue evening to Gertrude Street. I felt something of my original unhappiness—which I now recognized as such—as I approached the house and felt the peculiar quietness of the landlocked street descend on me. Men in pinstriped trousers were locking their cars for the night and going in to the dinner parties that their wives had no doubt arranged, for this was the sort of urban landscape in which dinner parties were a twice-weekly affair. No children played in the street. Basement kitchens were brightly lit; television sets banished to nurseries or master bedrooms. The house looked to me as uncomfortable as it had always done, but now at least it was convincingly populated. I had been wrong for it, inadequate, seeking to fill the house with my own girlhood dreams, whereas what was demanded of me was an altogether adult appreciation of my duties and a perception of the demeanour that a man like my husband would have chosen for his wife. I had given dinner parties but I had not enjoyed them, had thought Owen’s guests either too dull or wholly unsuitable. I had always hoped for much more than those occasions seemed to deliver.

  As I stepped inside the house I noticed with a pang, but a pang of deliverance, that the old harsh colours were still in place. ‘Not that we like them,’ Caroline had said. ‘But those papers will last for ever. She had them specially made, you know, Hermione, I mean. Hideous, but wonderful quality. At least we’ve obliterated all the decoration in our bathroom, all that fake Rex Whistler stuff. You don’t mind, do you Fay?’ ‘My dear,’ I had told her. ‘The house is yours. I said goodbye to it when Owen died. Do whatever you please.’ I had left the furniture there as well, and I think that they were happy with it. As I made my way into the drawing-room I greeted various chairs and tables as if we were old friends at a memorial service.

  To my surprise the man who rose from his chair and held out his hand was the doctor who had treated me for whatever had been wrong with me a few months earlier. ‘Do you know Alan Carter, Fay?’ asked Caroline. ‘Only professionally,’ I said, giving him my hand. ‘And are you better?’ he asked, peering into my face with what seemed a worried look. I had noticed that he appeared excessively worried for a doctor, as if he himself, unlike most doctors, were subject to the ills of the flesh. This reassured me. I thought the ideal doctor should be a bit of a hypochondriac, ready to test his own remedies, or, better still, having already tested them.

  ‘Really better?’ he asked, taking my hand in both of his.

  ‘But you mustn’t ask me that,’ I said. ‘Or rather I mustn’t tell you. If I want to tell you how I am I should make an appointment.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry about that. I can hardly sit down to a meal these days without someone telling me about the
ir back. Headaches are commonplace. “I suppose it’s a virus,” they say. I’ve even had bunions: would I recommend the operation? I was eating smoked salmon at the time, I remember. It tends to ruin one’s dinner.’

  ‘You must be very susceptible. I thought doctors were made of iron. One thinks of riotous medical students.’

  ‘Youth, you know. Not that I ever rioted. And I was ill an awful lot as a child. After that one becomes more wary of it.’

  ‘In that case,’ I said, ‘dealing with illness must be something of a trial for you.’

  ‘It’s got better, actually. Illnesses can be treated, you know. I think I can just about manage it now. I remember you,’ he went on. ‘You were Fay Dodworth, weren’t you?’

  I blushed with pleasure. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Oh, you haven’t changed all that much. I used to listen to you when I was in the army, doing my National Service. We all did. It was a lovely voice, but why were the songs so sad?’

  ‘I didn’t know how sad they were at the time. I was young, you see; nothing had happened to me then. It’s strange how the words come back to me now.’

  ‘Fay, do you know the Finlays?’ Caroline asked. ‘Alison and Richard? And Louisa and Anthony Cope? Fay Langdon, our cousin by marriage.’

  I thought that was nice of her, as it was nice of her to keep the party small and manageable. I exchanged a few remarks with the Copes and the Finlays, and I was glad that I had taken a certain amount of trouble with my appearance, as the wives were resplendently dressed, with pearl chokers and tiny diamond earrings, but my attention was monopolized by Dr Carter, who now had me by the arm, as if he were shepherding me to a safer place. ‘I really am most tremendously hungry,’ he said in a confidential tone of voice. ‘I do hope the pleasantries will not be unduly extended. I like to eat early and then go home and play the piano. It’s the only chance I get.’

  ‘I rarely come out myself in the evenings these days,’ I said. ‘This is quite an adventure for me.’

  ‘Never fear,’ he said. ‘Stand your ground. You may be required to protect me, for unfortunately Mrs Cope is a patient of mine and rather a regular visitor to the surgery. A complicated condition, but far from serious. I won’t tell you about it, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Please don’t,’ I said.

  ‘No, my worry is that she may give me the latest news of it. She believes in keeping me in the picture. So awkward, particularly when I am hungry. That’s why I accept these invitations with misgivings.’

  ‘Do you live alone?’ I asked, slightly rattled by his apparently compulsive desire to tell the truth.

  ‘Completely. A woman comes in every day, but she doesn’t cook. That is why I have to go out to dinner. What you mean is, am I married? I was. My wife divorced me, on the grounds of her adultery and my incompetence.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, as thoughtfully as I could.

  ‘One daughter,’ he went on. ‘Rather a nice woman. Ah, I think we are about to go in.’ He grasped my arm, as if to shield himself from Louisa Cope, who now bore down on him. ‘Alan,’ she said flirtatiously. ‘Those new pills you gave me are hopeless. Quite hopeless. What on earth are they supposed to do? Well, whatever it is they’re not doing it.’

  ‘You seem quite well to me, Louisa,’ he said, his eyes furtive.

  ‘Hopeless, quite hopeless,’ she went on, but she said it with an amorous look on her face, as if she had other plans for him. It occurred to me that to some women he might appear attractive.

  ‘Perhaps you could look in tomorrow morning before surgery,’ she went on, as we moved to the dining-room.

  ‘I’m afraid I shall be running round Battersea Park,’ he said, regretfully but firmly. ‘I always do, you know.’

  I stole a look at him as his head bent reverently over his mozzarella salad. His looks were cadaverous, more suited to a funeral director than to a doctor, I thought, though that might be explained by his evident hunger. He had a long dark mournful face, punctuated by two startlingly blue eyes: hair was strenuously trained over a high and otherwise sparsely furnished head. It seemed to be agreed that no one should speak to him while he was eating. In the interval of the plates being changed he sat back as though exhausted.

  ‘If you are always hungry,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you would like to come for a meal one evening?’

  ‘I should like that very much. Mind you,’ he added, ‘I shall never marry again.’

  ‘No,’ I replied, rather annoyed. ‘Neither shall I. Did you think I was asking you to marry me?’

  ‘I seem to be the target of women,’ he went on, ‘as I expect you are of men. After all, you are attractive, as I am not. Are you on your own?’

  ‘I am a widow,’ I said primly.

  ‘I look upon widows as ordinary women,’ he said. ‘I have your telephone number in my files. I will get in touch.’

  After that he turned heroically to Mrs Cope who was on his other side, and I to Richard Finlay who immediately began to tell me about his latest holiday in the Seychelles. Across the table a long and involved story was going on between Paul and Anthony Cope. It seemed as if the ladies had been paid their quota of attention for the evening. Cautiously I began to relax and enjoy myself. The room still looked hideous to me but was softened by the white candles in Caroline’s Georgian candlesticks. Upstairs I knew that I should find the terrible bed, but the thought no longer disturbed me. I drank my wine and felt comfortable. Lemon mousse succeeded fillet of beef. ‘And of course the car was an absolute write-off,’ said Anthony Cope.

  ‘I will see you home,’ said Dr Carter. ‘You’ll excuse me if I don’t come in. I try to put in my forty minutes at the piano.’

  ‘What do you play?’ I asked, imagining a well-tempered clavichord.

  ‘Oh, all the old music hall songs,’ was the reply. ‘I collect them. A hobby of mine. Do you know one called “Our Clara’s Clicked Again”?’

  ‘My father used to sing it,’ I said wonderingly.

  ‘That’s a particular favourite. A marvellous antidote to what I have to do in the daytime.’

  ‘Doesn’t it wake people up?’

  ‘Not really. At least, no one’s complained.’

  They would hardly do that, I thought. A doctor is still held in high esteem, even in, perhaps undoubtedly in, our secular society. They would tolerate his eccentricity, for the privilege of having him next door, in case they needed him, although with all this running and piano playing and dining out he did not seem to be particularly available. But I remembered that when he had come to me he had looked entirely normal, rather impressive, in fact. I had not known that his anxiety was habitual. I had assumed it was something to do with my condition. I had felt anxious myself, with good reason, it now seemed. All that was now over. For the first time in ages I felt normal, as if I were starting with a clean slate. Charlie disappeared, as though he had never been.

  I took my cue that evening from Dr Carter. If he could be an eccentric bachelor, I could be an eccentric widow. We might have an eccentric partnership. Or not, as the case might be. Caroline had obviously thought he might ‘do’ for me, and although this was ridiculous it was nice to be included in people’s thoughts, after my long exile. For the first time in what seemed like years I felt as though I were among people who approved of me. It even became apparent that Caroline was offering me as a sort of attraction, for after dinner, as we sat in the drawing-room, she encouraged me to tell the others of my early days, and of life at the BBC in the stringent years after the war. None of them remembered me, of course; they were that little bit too young, even though they looked prosperous and substantial enough to be my age, yet women’s liberation and a mistaken nostalgia for the war years had made me an object of some interest. ‘I never thought of myself as a feminist,’ I said, to an enthralled Alison Finlay, ‘but I earned my own money from the age of seventeen and gave some of it to my mother. You see, it was Mother who saw to it that I had a good training, and so I really owed it all to her
. My father would have approved, whatever I did. There was none of that antagonism between the sexes that there seems to be now. Even women don’t get along with each other as well as they might. But we were all friends then, quite shy and trusting by contemporary standards. I never had the slightest difficulty, although I went out into the world so young. Everyone looked after me.’

  ‘How interesting,’ said Louisa Cope. ‘But why did you give it up? It sounds delightful.’

  ‘I married,’ I said. ‘And I thought it right to be a full-time married woman. That’s where my age tells. No woman today would give up her career in that particular way. But I couldn’t have managed both, and I didn’t think it right to try. The thought simply didn’t occur to me.’

  ‘She had a lovely voice,’ said Dr Carter, from what seemed to me a remote part of the room. ‘But the songs were lugubrious.’

  ‘But you see we were far more sentimental in those days, far less inhibited about feeling, although we were shy. We used those songs to do our courting with: they were about longing and loyalty, very big feelings that simple people can’t bring themselves to name. And the war made them that much more important.’

  I felt flushed, confident. No one had ever asked me about my career before, not Owen, not Charlie. To be in the company of someone who had heard me sing was a deep pleasure for me. And Caroline was pleased with me too, for entertaining her guests in this novel way. I was a relic to them, almost a celebrity. It somehow pleased them, I sensed, that I was now an elderly lady and yet still presentable. Caroline kissed me warmly as I left, and said, ‘You must come again soon, Fay. You’ve been a tremendous hit.’ I said, and I meant it, ‘It was one of the nicest evenings I can remember. I’ll telephone you tomorrow, dear. Thank you so much.’