Authors: Anita Brookner
For Blanche saw that there was something strangely restricting about the life of eternal freedom, as manifested by Paul and Sally, and that the ageing soul, not to speak of the ageing body, requires and deserves its resting place. She saw too that time misspent in youth is sometimes all the freedom one ever has; that is why the gods are always young. Except for Jupiter, thought Blanche; but his is the example to confound all the others. For the rest, it is enough to become stars, petrified yet luminous, and with the power to guide mariners. It would perhaps be fitting for Paul and Sally to fall away from mortal sight, as they no doubt planned to do in some discreet and untraceable way, and merely leave as a legacy to their daughter an after-image of smiling carelessness. At this prevision of the heedless continuum of certain forms of behaviour, Blanche shivered in the prickly damp heat; somewhere above her left eye she saw the blind fixity of the archaic smile. She waited for a sign of grace, a sign to displace her worst imaginings, but no sign came.
Time passed. It was perhaps an hour since she had left the hotel, perhaps an hour and a half. The yellow sky darkened; very occasionally thick drops of rain fell and then stopped. The heated ground drank up the moisture immediately, but from the park came an occasional breath of damp air. In her strange and almost illuminated state of mind, in the airy insubstantiality sometimes conferred by extreme pain, Blanche rested and let her head sink down upon her railing. No one seemed to find this extraordinary; there was enough madness about to absorb her aberrant appearance and behaviour. The sight of a woman impeccably dressed yet apparently gazing with fascination at the vibrating side of a Number 36 bus and intermittently bowing her head in prayer caused no ripples of consternation. No one paused in concern or hurried by with averted face; no one hurried at all, but merely passed by in a trance of concentration. Freed by this evidence of the existence of other worlds, of the continued dance of the atoms regardless of her own passivity, Blanche rested her exhausted consciousness. When she could bear to open both eyes she saw merely a darkening sky, and on the other side of the great street a racing stream of traffic anxious to flee the storm.
The taxi, when it came, seemed as exhausted as she herself was; shuddering, it drew up at the railing around which she gracelessly sidled. In the aromatic interior of the cab, its overflowing ashtrays vying with a powerful deodorant, her faintness returned, and her hand crept to her throat as she painfully counted the minutes that separated her from the haven of her home. She was unable, now, to turn her head. Darkness filled the air; it was perhaps nine o’clock. The extreme tension of the atmosphere detonated outbreaks of anxiety in the driver; swerving, he muttered to himself and occasionally punched the wheel with his fist. She was lucky, he told her; he was going home to Putney, turning it in for the night. This was no night to be out. All right, are you?
he called back to her. Thought you looked a bit funny. Wouldn’t have stopped otherwise. Get you home soon, he said, leaning on the horn. With an enormous effort Blanche opened her mouth. How kind, she said. Tears coursed from her right eye.
In her quiet street, now quite dark, windows shone a golden yellow. Very slowly, her hand supporting her head, Blanche got out of the cab, proffered notes in a nerveless hand, and turned to negotiate the steps of her building. Heavy drops once more fell, hissing on the pavement; a gritty wind had sprung up. ‘Mrs Vernon?’ said a voice. ‘Mrs Vernon? Are you all right?’ Turning, with infinite caution, Blanche saw Mrs Duff with some kind of whitish signal in her hand. ‘Are you all right? My husband left his newspaper in the car and I came out to get it. I wouldn’t have bothered you but you seemed a little strange. Is anything wrong?’ Mrs Duff peered anxiously into Blanche’s face. ‘Migraine,’ whispered Blanche. A hand came out. ‘Lean on me, dear. Let me find your key. Never mind, dear. Never mind. You’re home now.’
Blanche surrendered to the eternal commiseration of Mrs Duff, whose sure hand guided her into the stifling stillness of her bedroom, guided her to the bed, and then opened a window on to the rising wind and the random scatterings of the rain. She felt her shoes being removed and a cool damp cloth applied to her forehead. Then there was an absence, during which she knew nothing, a little faintness, a little sleep, perhaps. She was next aware of a whispered conversation: Mrs Duff had returned with her husband, the dentist, from whose side she never strayed for long. A dark silk handkerchief – the dentist’s contribution – was placed over the bedside lamp, and somewhere a kettle was being filled. Then, in the greenish glow of her shaded lamp, she saw Mrs Duff’s face, calm and beautiful with concern. A thin fresh herbal smell filled her nostrils, and a cup was lifted
to her lips. ‘Drink this,’ said Mrs Duff. Then, some time later, she said, ‘You’ll sleep now.’ And then, ‘I’ll look in in the morning. I’ll take your key.’ ‘Come, Philly,’ she heard the husband say. ‘She’ll sleep now.’
But she did not sleep. She drifted in and out of consciousness as if she were moving slowly down a dark passage. Past her glided the kouroi with their blind fixed smile. At some point she managed to get up, to undress, and to put on her nightgown. Then she sank back on to the pillows with her hands tightly clasped, as if in prayer. Sometimes she thought she saw lightning, but could not be sure if it were outside the window or in her head. She was aware of the darkness of the garden, its heavy leafage stirred by the wind, tiny rustlings, the bell round the neck of the stalking cat. At some point she found that she could open and close both her eyes. She lay in a trance of gratitude for her recovered sight, and the kouroi dissolved, taking with them their eternal smile. Once again she got up and felt her way to the window; her face met coolness, night sounds, the order of the universe restored. Sleep remained far off but she did not mind. This night had been given her; she cherished and praised every moment. Some time at around dawn, when the sky began to pale to a whitish grey, she relinquished her hold on her consciousness. At about five o’clock she slept.
When she awoke, it was to an instant of brilliant well-being. Then the dull throbbing started, and she knew that she was in the second phase of her headache. But this was now manageable; she had reached safety. She would simply have to last out the day until the second night, when, she knew from experience, she would sleep heavily. Already she mildly regretted her sleepless night, although she was still stirred by the strange insights that had preceded it. She resigned herself to a day in bed, and looked forward, with childlike trust, to Mrs Duff’s morning visit. There were pills
to be taken, ordinary satisfying measures with which to outwit the pain. She thought, like someone who has been ill for a very long time, of the moment of her first bath, of a change of nightgown. The awful evening had left her calm, purged of all imagined obligations. She saw in Mrs Duff’s actions the necessary simplicity of all service, and in her own life of the past few weeks a succession of follies, the origin of which she preferred, for the moment, to leave unexamined.
There was the sound of a key in the lock, cautious steps, the kettle being once more filled. Her door opened slowly, to reveal Mrs Duff, efficient in navy blue, having clothed herself in quasi-medical severity. They smiled at each other. ‘I can never thank you …’ Blanche began. ‘Thank me? Thank me?’ bridled Mrs Duff. ‘If I can’t be a good neighbour, and’, she blushed at this point, ‘a friend, I should like to know what I’m worth.’ ‘A very good friend,’ said Blanche. Mrs Duff beamed with pleasure. ‘Could you drink a cup of tea?’ she asked. ‘And is there anything you should take?’ ‘My pills are on the dressing-table,’ said Blanche. ‘And do come in and have a cup with me.’
This invitation broke Mrs Duff’s hitherto heroic silence, but there is always a price to be paid, as Blanche knew well. During the next hour she heard a great deal about Mrs Duff’s husband’s likes and dislikes, her plans for a winter holiday in the Canary Islands (‘although he does hate to go away; I have to bully him’), her sister in Oxford who had suffered from migraines as a girl but had grown out of them (‘and I never knew what a headache was; aren’t I lucky?’), her plans to redecorate her bedroom (‘of course, I shall do it all myself’), and her life at home with Mother, who had, surprisingly, been a designer of hats and a court milliner. These revelations had the charm of a fairy tale for Blanche, and although her head ached, she gazed with fascination at Mrs Duff’s fine arched brows, her slightly protuberant blue
eyes, and her mobile mouth, the corners of which turned down in unconscious melancholy whenever she stopped talking. Of course, Blanche remembered, there was the little baby who had never come along, no matter how devoted a couple Mrs Duff and her husband were and had always been. This subject was clearly never far from Mrs Duff’s mind. Presently her eyes filled with tears. ‘I saw you with that little girl,’ she said. ‘For one lovely moment I thought all was well again. You know what I mean. You haven’t been very happy, have you?’ She dabbed her eyes. ‘You must forgive me,’ she said. ‘Some things you never get over, do you?’ She sighed. ‘But this won’t do. You’re the one who needs cheering up. Is there anyone you want me to get in touch with?’ ‘No,’ said Blanche, closing her eyes and feeling suddenly tired. ‘Everyone is away.’
Persuading Mrs Duff to leave and go about her normal day’s concerns was no easy task but it was somehow and at length accomplished. Promising to look in again that evening, Mrs Duff pocketed Blanche’s key, picked up her smart straw bag, and left. Alone, Blanche lay back thankfully, but again sleep did not come. It seemed, however, as if Mrs Duff’s reminiscences had banished the antique demons from her interior vision, leaving behind a wistfulness, a desire to have the horizon filled with other figures. A desire also came to her for an impeccable conscience. If I had been a wife like Mrs Duff, she thought, Bertie and I could have lived as one; instead, I sloped off by myself, and through shyness became quaint. I was not a comfortable person to be with, although I may have been an interesting one. Turning her eyes to the window, she saw drifting veils of rain, for the storm had not broken but had merely retired somewhere else. Weeping skies, and the heavy dark foliage of late summer, made the air in the room seem dense, unmoving. Yet the temperature had noticeably dropped; perhaps the season had ended. The darkness that had filled
her vision the night before had perhaps been the true darkness of night falling, rather than the fading vision brought about by her headache.
‘Je redoute l’hiver parce que c’est la saison du confort,’
thought Blanche, and comforted herself with pictures of Mrs Duff as a little girl, playing with her mother’s hats, being cossetted by the girls in the workroom, entranced by the women who came for fittings. For she has that intense femininity that comes from growing up in a woman’s world, thought Blanche: a world of confidences, secrets, remedies shared. And it has kept her innocent. She knows nothing of the suspect side of femininity, its conspiratorial aspects, its politics. I am sure that she has never engaged in the sizing up of another woman’s chances that disfigures so much female thinking; and I am quite sure she has never done that nasty thing, pretended to be sorry for her women friends in the presence of a man. I am sure that she has never needed to mention another woman to her husband, slyly, to gauge his reaction, because, quite clearly, she is the only woman for him. Philly, he called her. Little Philly, trying on the grown-ups’ hats. He probably inherited the name from her mother, and so an unbroken chain of affection has nourished her all through her life. I should like to have been a little girl myself; it might have given me more winning ways. But there was always Mother, waiting for me to grow up and take charge, reminding me of onerous duties. Do it now!
Well, I did it, she thought tiredly, and this is where I am. And my conscience is still not clear.
The rest of the day passed slowly and silently. The rain settled down to a steady drizzle, and she heard it pattering on the leaves. At about five o’clock she got up, her eyes weak and smarting, one hand automatically shielding her head. Cautiously she bathed and changed, then got back, shivering, into bed. She reckoned that this might take another day; then she would accord herself the luxury of a day’s convalescence. She began to look forward to Mrs
Duff’s next visit. Giving Mrs Duff the key had made her feel trustful, like a child who can expect to be cared for. She even looked forward to the dark, to the drawing of the curtains and the lighting of her lamp, still shrouded in Mr Duff’s green silk handkerchief. When the telephone rang, she was quite surprised; she had not expected to hear from anyone. The bubble of illness in which she was enclosed had seemed to preclude conversations with the outside world. Her pain had required her entire concentration. For all practical purposes she was absent.
‘Blanche?’
‘Barbara! When did you get back?’
‘This afternoon. My dear, the weather was so awful that we began to hate every minute of it. And then that terrible storm last night. That started Jack’s foot off again, so we thought we’d get back in case it got any worse. Are you all right? Your voice sounded a bit odd.’
‘A headache. I’ll be all right in a day or two.’
‘Oh dear, I am sorry. You haven’t had one for some time, have you? Since that business with Bertie.’ There was a silence. ‘Perhaps you ought to lie down for a bit. Shall I look in tomorrow. Do you need any shopping?’
‘Actually, I’m in bed. And I haven’t got a spare key. My very kind neighbour took mine. I’ll be perfectly all right in a day or two. It’s lovely to talk to you, but I won’t talk any more just now, if you don’t mind. My voice sounds like a gun to me.’
‘My dear girl! Thank goodness I came back. I’ll ring tomorrow. If there’s anything you need …’
‘Nothing, thank you. So glad you’re back. Love to Jack.’
Lights went on in the corridor; Mrs Duff had returned. She had changed into a striped silk dress; she probably changed every evening, smartening herself up for her husband’s return. She came in, beaming, important, with another cup of tea and some strips of dry toast spread with
bitter marmalade, and stood by while Blanche made an effort to eat. When the telephone rang again, Mrs Duff darted to answer it, listened for a moment, and then said, impressively, ‘Mrs Vernon is unwell. Who shall I say called?’