Free Undue Influence by Anita Brookner

down.’
    ‘But she was excited, you could see that. She had made up her face, done her hair. And that white thing she was wearing looked expensive. The sort of thing you wear when you want to make a good impression. She was like a child, wasn’t she?’
    Yet I had been aware of a complicated woman.
    ‘He’ll want us to go again,’ I warned.
    She looked at me. ‘You seem to know him quite well.’
    I let this pass. ‘And we’ll probably go, although we shall feelquite inadequate. She was ungracious—even you can see that—and yet I feel we failed her somehow.’
    ‘I could sketch her,’ said Wiggy thoughtfully. ‘She’d probably like that. She wouldn’t have to talk, or anything.’
    ‘I doubt if she ever stops.’
    ‘Oh, Claire.’
    ‘She wants to show us her wedding photographs.’
    ‘Well, that’s not so terrible. I don’t mind looking at photographs. And her wedding was no doubt the happiest day of her life.’
    I did not particularly want to be involved in a parade of sentimentality. In any event I am allergic to weddings, having attended too many. But Wiggy is a nicer person, more generous, less judgemental. ‘I think the sketch is a better idea,’ I said. ‘Then perhaps we could back out. After all we don’t know her. And she doesn’t know us.’
    ‘I found her rather touching,’ said Wiggy. ‘And we must disappear tactfully. Perhaps we should leave our telephone numbers. That way they can contact us if anything happens.’
    By ‘anything’ she meant death. In which case it would be Martin who kept in touch. Why he should do such a thing was not immediately apparent. But it was true that they were both avid for company. They were friendless: that was what struck one about them. Presumably they had abandoned their former friends (for they must have had some) when illness struck. Or perhaps it was one of those rather terrible relationships in which each fed off the other. Certainly Wiggy and I had been reduced to bit parts. Neither of us had been asked a single question. It was enough that we were there, mute witnesses to Cynthia’s drama. And yet she had accepted our presence as if she had known us for many years. I have observed this phenomenon before: it is a manifestation of overridingself-love. And even so there is something innocent about it. ‘I know you’d be interested in my views,’ seems to be the assumption. One’s own views are thought to be completely subordinate.
    ‘One more visit, then, with your sketch pad,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to get too involved.’
    But I did. There was a certain excitement to be derived from this situation, and it was dangerous. I could not quite define the danger, but it had something to do with Cynthia’s strength and Martin’s weakness. I wanted him to rebel against the role she had chosen for him, to reveal some impatience, some manliness. I felt she had deprived him of that. In an odd way I admired her for it.
    We had a pleasant evening. The strange visit, into which we had been almost conscripted, gave us something to talk about. The time when Wiggy felt she had to be tactful with me seemed to be over. Our friendship was renewed. We both appreciated this, and parted once again the easiest of friends.

Six

    By Monday I had put the Gibsons out of my mind. I had a more immediate concern: I had all but finished with St John Collier, and I had to convey this to Muriel, while expressing my eagerness, which was entirely genuine, to do justice to the rest of his life. There was no point in delaying this: I had no desire to spend days in the basement doing nothing. And the lifestyle of the Fifties was beginning to pall. I envisaged something a little more discursive, a little more challenging.
    ‘There’s his book,’ said Muriel. ‘Or rather the notes for his book. He never finished it. I don’t think he even started it, but he made notes, in proper notebooks. They’re still at the house. If you come home with me this evening you