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Authors: Anita Brookner
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is our wedding anniversary, Martin’s and mine. That’s why we’re celebrating. We always do.’
‘Show them the photographs,’ said Sue, favouring me with another wink.
‘I will, I will. Now give me a kiss and go. Which boyfriend is it tonight?’
‘The ironing, in fact. See you Monday. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ At this point a spectral Martin appeared in the doorway with a bottle of champagne and several glasses held between the fingers of his left hand, like a bouquet.
‘Give Sue a glass quickly, Martin. She’s in a hurry. Where on earth had you got to? I was beginning to think you’d gone out.’
This was to be the pattern of our entire visit. We sat on either side of the bed, ignored, while various items of what actors call business were performed for our benefit. After Sue had left, it was, ‘Come round to this side where I can see you both,’but in fact either the sight of us did nothing to stimulate her interest or she had forgotten who we were and why we were there. It was difficult to maintain the fiction that my previous visit had so thrilled her that she could not wait to see me again. If anything she was more interested in Wiggy, who wore her usual polite pleasant expression. I was proud of her; I always knew she would not let me down. Cynthia Gibson sensed this and asked Wiggy what she did. Without waiting for an answer she reached out and felt, indeed fingered, the stuff of Wiggy’s skirt. ‘Pretty material,’ she said. ‘I had something like it once. Martin! Where are you?’
By dint of valiant effort and a good deal of social expertise I managed to tell her that Wiggy and I were best friends, that we always met for dinner on a Saturday, that we were delighted to have looked in, in my case to renew acquaintance, in Wiggy’s case to meet someone whom I had described as fascinating (this was true though not quite in the sense she might have expected), that we were sorry to make this such a short visit but that restaurants always got so crowded on a Saturday that we must be on our way … I could see that she was not much interested in this but I felt I had to furnish the silence, or what would have been a silence. Her husband, as before, had retired to a dusky corner of the room. I need not have bothered. I realized that he was there as audience, while Cynthia’s role was to divulge information, about herself, mostly. It was clear that she was used to doing this, had behaved in this manner all her life. If Martin were audience we were little more than props, brought in to express appreciation. It was true that she was unfortunate; what was interesting was the fact that her will was intact. She was entitled to ignore what did not please her, which included anyone whose interest in her was less than her own. The mute husband, unnecessary now that the champagnehad been poured, was witness to what she no doubt thought of as her enormous popularity.
He was, if anything, out of place, a man among women, for the atmosphere surrounding Cynthia Gibson was feminine, conspiratorial. I saw that it was the function of the nurse to provide the repartee that he was too sombre to deliver. Yet how he must have loved her! Even now his eyes never left her face. What must one do to inspire such love? Clearly it had nothing to do with superior qualities. Maybe it was the fascination exerted by sheer selfishness. I had never come across this before. All the people I knew, including the Colliers, father and daughters, were good and I had accepted this as the right true order of things. Now, as Cynthia Gibson held out her glass for more champagne, I began to see that there was a quicker, easier way to secure a man’s attention. Clearly it only worked in the case of a man. Wiggy and I were hardly eligible. ‘Darling,’ he warned. ‘You won’t sleep tonight.’
‘And don’t be such an old fusspot,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I don’t just finish the bottle, since these two girls
‘Show them the photographs,’ said Sue, favouring me with another wink.
‘I will, I will. Now give me a kiss and go. Which boyfriend is it tonight?’
‘The ironing, in fact. See you Monday. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ At this point a spectral Martin appeared in the doorway with a bottle of champagne and several glasses held between the fingers of his left hand, like a bouquet.
‘Give Sue a glass quickly, Martin. She’s in a hurry. Where on earth had you got to? I was beginning to think you’d gone out.’
This was to be the pattern of our entire visit. We sat on either side of the bed, ignored, while various items of what actors call business were performed for our benefit. After Sue had left, it was, ‘Come round to this side where I can see you both,’but in fact either the sight of us did nothing to stimulate her interest or she had forgotten who we were and why we were there. It was difficult to maintain the fiction that my previous visit had so thrilled her that she could not wait to see me again. If anything she was more interested in Wiggy, who wore her usual polite pleasant expression. I was proud of her; I always knew she would not let me down. Cynthia Gibson sensed this and asked Wiggy what she did. Without waiting for an answer she reached out and felt, indeed fingered, the stuff of Wiggy’s skirt. ‘Pretty material,’ she said. ‘I had something like it once. Martin! Where are you?’
By dint of valiant effort and a good deal of social expertise I managed to tell her that Wiggy and I were best friends, that we always met for dinner on a Saturday, that we were delighted to have looked in, in my case to renew acquaintance, in Wiggy’s case to meet someone whom I had described as fascinating (this was true though not quite in the sense she might have expected), that we were sorry to make this such a short visit but that restaurants always got so crowded on a Saturday that we must be on our way … I could see that she was not much interested in this but I felt I had to furnish the silence, or what would have been a silence. Her husband, as before, had retired to a dusky corner of the room. I need not have bothered. I realized that he was there as audience, while Cynthia’s role was to divulge information, about herself, mostly. It was clear that she was used to doing this, had behaved in this manner all her life. If Martin were audience we were little more than props, brought in to express appreciation. It was true that she was unfortunate; what was interesting was the fact that her will was intact. She was entitled to ignore what did not please her, which included anyone whose interest in her was less than her own. The mute husband, unnecessary now that the champagnehad been poured, was witness to what she no doubt thought of as her enormous popularity.
He was, if anything, out of place, a man among women, for the atmosphere surrounding Cynthia Gibson was feminine, conspiratorial. I saw that it was the function of the nurse to provide the repartee that he was too sombre to deliver. Yet how he must have loved her! Even now his eyes never left her face. What must one do to inspire such love? Clearly it had nothing to do with superior qualities. Maybe it was the fascination exerted by sheer selfishness. I had never come across this before. All the people I knew, including the Colliers, father and daughters, were good and I had accepted this as the right true order of things. Now, as Cynthia Gibson held out her glass for more champagne, I began to see that there was a quicker, easier way to secure a man’s attention. Clearly it only worked in the case of a man. Wiggy and I were hardly eligible. ‘Darling,’ he warned. ‘You won’t sleep tonight.’
‘And don’t be such an old fusspot,’ she said. ‘I don’t know why I don’t just finish the bottle, since these two girls
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