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Authors: Anita Brookner
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aren’t interested. Where did you say you were going for dinner?’
‘Charlotte Street,’ I said firmly. In fact we were going to an Italian restaurant in Tottenham Court Road.
‘I used to eat out a great deal before I was married,’ she said. ‘In those days I was terribly in demand. The Caprice, it used to be. That was my favourite. Now, of course, I don’t go out at all.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Wiggy. I knew she was entirely sincere.
Cynthia gave a brief bitter smile. ‘Off you go, then. Leave me to Martin’s tender mercies.’ As if on cue he approached the bed noiselessly, removed her champagne glass, and smoothed her brow. The look she gave us was not entirely innocent. Even a trophy husband is better than none, she seemed to imply.There are always errands to be run, services to be performed. And there are gratifications even now that you may not suspect.
We stood up awkwardly. ‘It’s been so nice,’ she said. ‘You’ll come again, won’t you? And next time I’ll show you those photographs. The wedding photographs,’ she reminded us. ‘It was such a pretty day.’
I did not like this but there was nothing I could do about it. And besides I had seen her head fall back in the gesture which was now curiously familiar. I knew that gesture, the sudden vulnerability of the exposed throat. My mother, who had so recently left me, had fallen back in exactly the same way, during her last days in hospital. And my mother had no devoted husband to monitor her every movement, only my poor self. I felt pity for Cynthia Gibson, but also a measure of contempt. I felt she could manage better if she tried. These feelings I now extended to Martin who was ready to usher us out of the door. I realized that apart from making welcoming noises he had not uttered a reasonable sentence all the time we had been there. Wiggy and I had wasted our sweetness on the desert air. And yet there was no doubt that in some fashion we had been necessary.
The dear street! How good it was to breathe a saner air. Even in this adamantine part of town, with all the doctors and the dentists present in spirit if not in the flesh, the evening smelled sweet. Only the shop selling surgical appliances was there to remind one, or rather to remind others, of decrepitude, mortality. We walked along in silence, aware of the fine weather. It was the first real summer evening, an evening for sitting in gardens or outside some café, as I had so frequently done in France. We were still imprinted with the scene we had so recently witnessed. Another’s illness does that to one, makes oneaware of one’s own strengths, intact, ready to be used. I loved life, even my life, even Wiggy’s. By the flower stall in Tottenham Court Road men were thinking that it might be in order to buy a peace offering before going out again to the pub. Overnight, it seemed, tulips had given way to peonies, their tight flower-balls an un-English shade of fuchsia. Only that morning I had seen a pouter pigeon strutting across Baker Street, thinner nimbler relations scattering tactfully ahead.
‘Poor thing,’ said Wiggy finally.
‘Terrible,’ I agreed. ‘Yet not a very nice woman,’ I added.
‘Oh, Claire, how can you say that? Just think of her days trapped in that room, with only the nurse for company.’
‘And the husband,’ I reminded her.
‘Yes. He was rather attractive, I thought.’
We both pictured the undoubtedly handsome but rather lifeless figure sitting silently in attendance on a fragile chair in a symbolically dusky corner of the room, as if his place were destined to be in the shadows, lit only by his wife’s exigencies. How he had darted to his feet when she showed signs that tiredness was beginning to overtake her! Yet he had hardly said a word to us when we left.
‘I’m not quite sure why we were there,’ Wiggy went on.
‘Neither am I. I told you how it came about. But I think we were a bit of a disappointment. I think she felt let
‘Charlotte Street,’ I said firmly. In fact we were going to an Italian restaurant in Tottenham Court Road.
‘I used to eat out a great deal before I was married,’ she said. ‘In those days I was terribly in demand. The Caprice, it used to be. That was my favourite. Now, of course, I don’t go out at all.’
‘I’m so sorry,’ said Wiggy. I knew she was entirely sincere.
Cynthia gave a brief bitter smile. ‘Off you go, then. Leave me to Martin’s tender mercies.’ As if on cue he approached the bed noiselessly, removed her champagne glass, and smoothed her brow. The look she gave us was not entirely innocent. Even a trophy husband is better than none, she seemed to imply.There are always errands to be run, services to be performed. And there are gratifications even now that you may not suspect.
We stood up awkwardly. ‘It’s been so nice,’ she said. ‘You’ll come again, won’t you? And next time I’ll show you those photographs. The wedding photographs,’ she reminded us. ‘It was such a pretty day.’
I did not like this but there was nothing I could do about it. And besides I had seen her head fall back in the gesture which was now curiously familiar. I knew that gesture, the sudden vulnerability of the exposed throat. My mother, who had so recently left me, had fallen back in exactly the same way, during her last days in hospital. And my mother had no devoted husband to monitor her every movement, only my poor self. I felt pity for Cynthia Gibson, but also a measure of contempt. I felt she could manage better if she tried. These feelings I now extended to Martin who was ready to usher us out of the door. I realized that apart from making welcoming noises he had not uttered a reasonable sentence all the time we had been there. Wiggy and I had wasted our sweetness on the desert air. And yet there was no doubt that in some fashion we had been necessary.
The dear street! How good it was to breathe a saner air. Even in this adamantine part of town, with all the doctors and the dentists present in spirit if not in the flesh, the evening smelled sweet. Only the shop selling surgical appliances was there to remind one, or rather to remind others, of decrepitude, mortality. We walked along in silence, aware of the fine weather. It was the first real summer evening, an evening for sitting in gardens or outside some café, as I had so frequently done in France. We were still imprinted with the scene we had so recently witnessed. Another’s illness does that to one, makes oneaware of one’s own strengths, intact, ready to be used. I loved life, even my life, even Wiggy’s. By the flower stall in Tottenham Court Road men were thinking that it might be in order to buy a peace offering before going out again to the pub. Overnight, it seemed, tulips had given way to peonies, their tight flower-balls an un-English shade of fuchsia. Only that morning I had seen a pouter pigeon strutting across Baker Street, thinner nimbler relations scattering tactfully ahead.
‘Poor thing,’ said Wiggy finally.
‘Terrible,’ I agreed. ‘Yet not a very nice woman,’ I added.
‘Oh, Claire, how can you say that? Just think of her days trapped in that room, with only the nurse for company.’
‘And the husband,’ I reminded her.
‘Yes. He was rather attractive, I thought.’
We both pictured the undoubtedly handsome but rather lifeless figure sitting silently in attendance on a fragile chair in a symbolically dusky corner of the room, as if his place were destined to be in the shadows, lit only by his wife’s exigencies. How he had darted to his feet when she showed signs that tiredness was beginning to overtake her! Yet he had hardly said a word to us when we left.
‘I’m not quite sure why we were there,’ Wiggy went on.
‘Neither am I. I told you how it came about. But I think we were a bit of a disappointment. I think she felt let
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