Free Making Things Better by Anita Brookner Page A

looked this particular gift horse in the mouth, although it had brought about unwelcome changes. He had been told to take anything he wanted, but he wanted nothing. He noticed a shabbiness he might otherwise have overlooked. The wallpaper had faded; the windows needed cleaning. He would take the two armchairs, and the little table that had belonged to Ostrovski’s mother, more in the interests of Ostrovski than himself. In that sense there would be some continuity. The rest he would have to buy. The prospect of a new bed, unslept in by anyone before him, filled him with a timid pleasure. Ostrovski had said something about a month. In that time he would have to find somewhere to live. Even more difficult, he would have to school himself into new habits, work out how to spend the rest of his life. He was after all at an age when most men retired, and no doubt they were all faced with the same daunting prospect. So much time! How on earth was it to be filled?
    At eight o’clock that evening he telephoned Hilltop Road again and was answered by Bernard Simmonds. So he actually existed; this was a good sign. And Simmonds was encouraging. There was no doubt about the money: it was properly gifted, and there were legal declarations to prove it. ‘Unusually generous, I agree, and almost unheard of these days. But he was better off than any of us suspected. I’m talking serious money here. I know, I know; it takes a bit of getting used to. If I were you I’d look for a property before the prices go up again. Don’t hesitate to get in touch with me if you need advice. We’re in the same boat, you know. I’d been paying rent here; now I own the lease. Incredible.’
    â€˜Where is the money?’ he remembered asking helplessly, a memory at which he blushed for several days when forced to think of it.
    â€˜In your bank. It’s all there, don’t worry. Now you’ll want to put it to good use. Between ourselves I think it would be better if you found something as soon as possible. Things will not be too comfortable at Edgware Road. New owner, and so on.’
    â€˜But the business. The accounts. The stock.’
    â€˜The new chap has appointed a firm of accountants to take care of all that. Liquidators, I suppose. But it’s all fair and square. In fact you’re free to leave.’
    But he did not feel free. He felt bereft. As the evening darkened and the shadows gathered in the small sitting-room that had been home he felt somehow deprived of a birthright, the right to work. He felt newly alone in the world, wished for a family, an imaginary family, more like an audience, composed of people who would applaud and endorse all his actions. He had never known such people, half-knew that this was a fantasy left over from adolescence, or further back, from childhood. He went to bed, slept fitfully, would have welcomed a dream, however unpleasant. He got up before five, anxious now to be out of the place, out in the air. He would have breakfast at the all-night café on the corner, then try to work out some plan of action. In the early-morning light the familiar street looked strange, uninhabited, although there were muted signs of activity, as shopkeepers opened their doors to take in supplies. The coffee had a valedictory taste; he was in no mood to eat. As the sun rose slowly on what might prove to be a beautiful day, he paid, exchanged a few abstracted words with the café’s owner, and turned back to what was no longer his home. Raising his eyes from the pavement which he had apparently been studying, he saw with a pang that a van had drawn up outside the shop, that the door was already open, and that inside men were engaged in some sort of activity, one of them apparently going through his desk.
    â€˜Good morning,’ said a hearty man who seemed to be in charge. ‘Thought we’d make an early start. Don’t mind us. I’m afraid you’ve ceased trading.