Read Online A Private View by Anita Brookner - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Anita Brookner
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particular occasion she was being treated as a makeweight. At the same time she was as fascinated as was Bland, whom she clearly thought ought to know better, by the girl’s crude charm, and longed to be included in what Katy termed her celebration. If the occasion warranted it—and she still had some doubts about this—she wanted to join in. Bland, watching her, when he could spare some attention from Katy, reflected that the girl possessed an unusual gift: she brought everyone to the brink of bad behaviour, simply by dint of behaving rather badly herself. One vied for her attention; one raised one’s voice; one exaggerated one’s own presence. However much one longed to maintain one’s usual standards, within a few minutes—half an hour at the most—this was mysteriously no longer possible. Mrs Lydiard, he could see, was eager to make amends for her momentary disloyalty, if not quite ready to desert her other convictions, conventional medicine retaining the priority. He himself was feeling imprudent, largely because he haddiscerned that the girl was dissembling. He felt quite kindly towards her, but his judgment, he thought, was intact.
‘How did you come to know Sharon?’ he asked noncommittally, refilling her glass.
‘Sharon?’ She was deeply flushed now, eyes and teeth gleaming. ‘She was Sheila when I first knew her. Sheila Robinson. She changed it to Sharon because she thought it was more distinguished. Whereas anyone could have told her that Sharon is incredibly naff.’
The vowels had narrowed again, the tone had modulated into a distinguished drawl. Even her expression had changed, had become distant, as if contemplating a little-known human folly.
He noted once again that she had not answered his question. He also noted that although she had had a great deal to drink she was not drunk, whereas he himself was feeling a little warm, a little vague. Mrs Lydiard was rearranging her gloves and her handbag, as if impatient for the evening to end. Gloves, he could hear Katy thinking: how incredibly naff. Coffee was served.
He signalled the waiter for the bill, looked at his watch, and saw to his surprise that it was after eleven-thirty.
‘Forgive me for keeping you up so late,’ he apologised to Mrs Lydiard. ‘At least tomorrow’s Sunday.’
She smiled patiently at him, as if every day were Sunday to her. He collected them both by the door; they seemed to have become bulky and voluminous, difficult to manoeuvre. Just as well I don’t have to drive, he thought. Out in the street the clean air staggered him with its purity; he felt grateful for it, humbled by it. Suddenly the evening seemed tawdry, a waste of time and money. He wished that he couldhave remained on distant terms with Mrs Lydiard, and that this cumbersome girl had never entered their quiet lives. His earlier feeling of licensed irreverence was replaced by a sensation of shame. Mrs Lydiard was silent, whether on her dignity, or wearily aware that any young person, even so marginal a one as this (and what in the end did they know about her?) could turn her into someone of no importance. Mrs Lydiard, Bland could see, felt old. As, suddenly, he did himself.
‘Thank you so much, George,’ said Mrs Lydiard distantly. ‘No, don’t come up. I’m quite all right on my own. Why don’t you see Katy to her door? I’m sure we’re all ready for bed. I know I am.’
‘Ready for bed?’ queried Katy, amused, as they made their slightly unsteady way up the stairs. ‘I’m not. I rarely go to bed before one-thirty or two, sometimes later. I’m at my best at night, do my best thinking then. Howard and I often did encounter work around this time …’
‘Encounter work?’ he queried.
‘You know. Question and answer sessions. Transactional analysis. Howard has this marvellous technique for getting people to recognise their hang-ups.’
‘You mean he sees clients, patients, or whatever, in the middle of the night?’
‘Sure. Are you
‘How did you come to know Sharon?’ he asked noncommittally, refilling her glass.
‘Sharon?’ She was deeply flushed now, eyes and teeth gleaming. ‘She was Sheila when I first knew her. Sheila Robinson. She changed it to Sharon because she thought it was more distinguished. Whereas anyone could have told her that Sharon is incredibly naff.’
The vowels had narrowed again, the tone had modulated into a distinguished drawl. Even her expression had changed, had become distant, as if contemplating a little-known human folly.
He noted once again that she had not answered his question. He also noted that although she had had a great deal to drink she was not drunk, whereas he himself was feeling a little warm, a little vague. Mrs Lydiard was rearranging her gloves and her handbag, as if impatient for the evening to end. Gloves, he could hear Katy thinking: how incredibly naff. Coffee was served.
He signalled the waiter for the bill, looked at his watch, and saw to his surprise that it was after eleven-thirty.
‘Forgive me for keeping you up so late,’ he apologised to Mrs Lydiard. ‘At least tomorrow’s Sunday.’
She smiled patiently at him, as if every day were Sunday to her. He collected them both by the door; they seemed to have become bulky and voluminous, difficult to manoeuvre. Just as well I don’t have to drive, he thought. Out in the street the clean air staggered him with its purity; he felt grateful for it, humbled by it. Suddenly the evening seemed tawdry, a waste of time and money. He wished that he couldhave remained on distant terms with Mrs Lydiard, and that this cumbersome girl had never entered their quiet lives. His earlier feeling of licensed irreverence was replaced by a sensation of shame. Mrs Lydiard was silent, whether on her dignity, or wearily aware that any young person, even so marginal a one as this (and what in the end did they know about her?) could turn her into someone of no importance. Mrs Lydiard, Bland could see, felt old. As, suddenly, he did himself.
‘Thank you so much, George,’ said Mrs Lydiard distantly. ‘No, don’t come up. I’m quite all right on my own. Why don’t you see Katy to her door? I’m sure we’re all ready for bed. I know I am.’
‘Ready for bed?’ queried Katy, amused, as they made their slightly unsteady way up the stairs. ‘I’m not. I rarely go to bed before one-thirty or two, sometimes later. I’m at my best at night, do my best thinking then. Howard and I often did encounter work around this time …’
‘Encounter work?’ he queried.
‘You know. Question and answer sessions. Transactional analysis. Howard has this marvellous technique for getting people to recognise their hang-ups.’
‘You mean he sees clients, patients, or whatever, in the middle of the night?’
‘Sure. Are you
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