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Authors: Anita Brookner
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friend.’
He kissed her hand. ‘Of course, I trust you. Dear Kitty.’
They both realized that this was the moment at which he should leave, that there could be no further exchange that night. Yet she had never wanted so much for him to stay.
‘Maurice,’ she said, as he searched in his pocket for his car keys. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Three years ago,’ he replied, then, having found his keys, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and was gone.
Three years ago Marie-Thérèse had died, quickly, quietly, without benefit of clergy, without assurance of eternal comfort, her hands trailing among the walnut shells. They never spoke of her at home, and indeed Kitty herself thought little about the matter. She was aware that the world had grown colder since Marie-Thérèse’s death, that a particular quick artless voice would no longer question her, that a certain shyness and propriety had vanished from her own life, leaving behind something wary, fearful, disbelieving. This corrodingresidue was apt to interfere with her more generous impulses, and she had to struggle these days to trust her earlier, more primitive assumptions of safety. It was a feeling she only managed to recover among her books. And it had been revealed to her this evening, this momentous evening, that there was a safety beyond anything she had ever known, that the love of one person for another can confer such a charmed life that even the memory of it bestows immunity. She herself was not immune. And if she had one wish, it was to know that immunity, to be loved in such a way that even when parted from the other she would never be alone. She wondered if there were anything in her life, in herself, that could make her lovable in that way, and realized that there was nothing, not even a basis for comparison. Perhaps it was because she lacked faith, as Maurice said, that she was tense, that she could not take life more easily, that she could not take him for granted. For surely, they were dearest friends? Surely, he would not talk as he had talked tonight to anyone else?
But I want more, she thought, blowing her nose resolutely. I do not want to be trustworthy, and safe, and discreet. I do not want to be the one who understands and sympathizes and soothes. I do not want to be reliable, I do not want to do wonders with Professor Redmile’s group, I do not even care what happens to Larter. I do not want to be good at pleasing everybody. I do not even want to be such a good cook, she thought, turning the tap with full force on to a bowl rusted with the stains of her fresh tomato soup. I want to be totally unreasonable, totally unfair, very demanding, and very beautiful. I want to be part of a real family. I want my father to be there and to shoot things. I do not want my grandmother to tell me what to wear. I want to wear jeans and old sweaters belonging to my brother whom of course I do not have. I do not want to spend my life inthis rotten little flat. I want wedding presents. I want to be half of a recognized couple. I want a future away from this place. I want Maurice.
‘Caroline,’ she said, striding out of her front door, her cheeks scarlet with emotion. ‘Will you please turn your radio down? I can hear every word of the shipping forecast
and
I’ve got the tap running.’
Caroline’s door opened, to reveal Caroline in her usual
poule de luxe
outfit of pale blue and purple flowered chiffon dressing gown with, yes, marabout at the throat, and very high-heeled mules. Her toenails were painted an iridescent damson colour. Her orange hair was shining, her face fully made-up, as if she were expecting a visitor. If she was, he never came. He had gone long ago, that husband whom she reviled so constantly. Kitty sometimes regretted the impulse that had made them into the semblance of friends. Caroline had called when Kitty had first moved in, and Kitty had been drawn to her as a really well-dressed woman, something she rarely came across in
He kissed her hand. ‘Of course, I trust you. Dear Kitty.’
They both realized that this was the moment at which he should leave, that there could be no further exchange that night. Yet she had never wanted so much for him to stay.
‘Maurice,’ she said, as he searched in his pocket for his car keys. ‘When did all this happen?’
‘Three years ago,’ he replied, then, having found his keys, he kissed her lightly on the cheek and was gone.
Three years ago Marie-Thérèse had died, quickly, quietly, without benefit of clergy, without assurance of eternal comfort, her hands trailing among the walnut shells. They never spoke of her at home, and indeed Kitty herself thought little about the matter. She was aware that the world had grown colder since Marie-Thérèse’s death, that a particular quick artless voice would no longer question her, that a certain shyness and propriety had vanished from her own life, leaving behind something wary, fearful, disbelieving. This corrodingresidue was apt to interfere with her more generous impulses, and she had to struggle these days to trust her earlier, more primitive assumptions of safety. It was a feeling she only managed to recover among her books. And it had been revealed to her this evening, this momentous evening, that there was a safety beyond anything she had ever known, that the love of one person for another can confer such a charmed life that even the memory of it bestows immunity. She herself was not immune. And if she had one wish, it was to know that immunity, to be loved in such a way that even when parted from the other she would never be alone. She wondered if there were anything in her life, in herself, that could make her lovable in that way, and realized that there was nothing, not even a basis for comparison. Perhaps it was because she lacked faith, as Maurice said, that she was tense, that she could not take life more easily, that she could not take him for granted. For surely, they were dearest friends? Surely, he would not talk as he had talked tonight to anyone else?
But I want more, she thought, blowing her nose resolutely. I do not want to be trustworthy, and safe, and discreet. I do not want to be the one who understands and sympathizes and soothes. I do not want to be reliable, I do not want to do wonders with Professor Redmile’s group, I do not even care what happens to Larter. I do not want to be good at pleasing everybody. I do not even want to be such a good cook, she thought, turning the tap with full force on to a bowl rusted with the stains of her fresh tomato soup. I want to be totally unreasonable, totally unfair, very demanding, and very beautiful. I want to be part of a real family. I want my father to be there and to shoot things. I do not want my grandmother to tell me what to wear. I want to wear jeans and old sweaters belonging to my brother whom of course I do not have. I do not want to spend my life inthis rotten little flat. I want wedding presents. I want to be half of a recognized couple. I want a future away from this place. I want Maurice.
‘Caroline,’ she said, striding out of her front door, her cheeks scarlet with emotion. ‘Will you please turn your radio down? I can hear every word of the shipping forecast
and
I’ve got the tap running.’
Caroline’s door opened, to reveal Caroline in her usual
poule de luxe
outfit of pale blue and purple flowered chiffon dressing gown with, yes, marabout at the throat, and very high-heeled mules. Her toenails were painted an iridescent damson colour. Her orange hair was shining, her face fully made-up, as if she were expecting a visitor. If she was, he never came. He had gone long ago, that husband whom she reviled so constantly. Kitty sometimes regretted the impulse that had made them into the semblance of friends. Caroline had called when Kitty had first moved in, and Kitty had been drawn to her as a really well-dressed woman, something she rarely came across in
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