By Anita Brookner
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Sample text
Not that her lover ever takes her out for a meal. It is rather that his presence in her life gives her a feeling of being accompanied, and this, however illusory, confers a certain composure. For one dreadful minute in the course of the evening I saw that she felt sorry for me. That was no doubt why she said, ‘This is fun. ’ But the pasta (which, come to think of it, I could have cooked at home) seemed hard to digest, and the noisy restaurant was beginning to give me a headache. I longed to be out in the homegoing streets, alone, though I knew that I was condemned to such occasions for the foreseeable future.
But I prefer the living flesh and its ambiguity. I am in my element there, a hunger artist whose hunger is rarely satisfied. During the few days I spent alone after my mother’s death I was able to observe a slight alteration in my behaviour. These days were worse than I had anticipated. The floorboards echoed as I moved from my bedroom to the sitting-room, and I was reminded of my father’s lumbering progress, and also of the slight feeling of fear I had always experienced at his approach. This fear had always been baseless; my father was not a threatening figure, merely an inconvenient one, but it now occurred to me that he must have been unhappy.
This was a time warp. St John Collier, whose œuvre I was about to disinter, was no more a figure of the past than was his daughter. When Hester arrived that same afternoon, her presence announced by an eager shout from outside the door, which her sister was then obliged to open, I felt immensely at ease. I might also say at home. St John Collier’s writings struck me as entirely worthy, although the added attraction was the piles of obsolete women’s magazines in which most of them were entombed.