Free Lewis Percy by Anita Brookner

is a sad day for the library, Mr Percy. We’ve known your mother for ages. Always so kind. Always took an interest. I had noticed she was looking a bit tired, mark you. But I never dreamed …’
    ‘It was her heart,’ said Lewis miserably, feeling once again the full weight of his misfortune.
    ‘And then, of course, she missed you,’ Miss Clarke went on inexorably. ‘She once said to me, “I’m counting the days, Madeleine”. But she didn’t want you to know that.’
    And now I do, thought Lewis. In order not to prolong the conversation he went over to the shelves to try to find a book that his mother might have liked, hoping to maintain contact in that way if in no other. He found a couple of Edith Whartons, and, feeling lonely and self-conscious, took them to the desk. The pale girl came forward, two spots of red in her cheeks.
    ‘She was awfully proud of you, Mr Percy,’ the girl said. ‘And she was quite all right on her own, you know. Not weak, or anything. She never complained, never said there was anything wrong. Please don’t blame yourself.’ She ducked her head in embarrassment at having said so much and busied herself with the date stamp.
    ‘Thank you,’ said Lewis.
    ‘I was very fond of your mother,’ said the girl. Lewis saw that despite her pallor, or because of it, she had an air of delicacy, or narrowness, that pleased him. Her clothes were asexual: a pale blue sweater and a grey flannel skirt, schoolgirl’s clothes, which made her seem younger than her age. He reckoned she was about twenty-five. What he noticed mostly were her long unmarked slightly upcurling fingers, white as if they had never been engaged in a common or unseemly task. The face, momentarily enlivened by her emotion and the forwardness she obviously thought she was exhibiting, was equally long and pale, and could, he thought, look mournful. The face was framed by thick hair, in a colour midway between blonde and beige, and held back by a black velvet band. Susan had had one of those, he remembered: they must be the fashion. She had large, rather beautiful dark blue eyes, shadowed by long colourless lashes. The skin was fine, the teeth unexpectedly strong, slightly protruding. The chin, he noticed, was a little weak. He wondered why she was not pretty. His mother would have known why the face was so withdrawn, so unmarked. That pose of the head, held slightly on one side, as if listening to an inner voice, those narrow, slightly hunched shoulders, those prayerful hands, set him thinking of pale virgins in stone, the kind he had seenin the Victoria and Albert Museum. Perhaps all virgins had something in common, he thought, revising her age slightly upward. And yet, outside the V and A, he had never seen one so spectacularly virginal. Everything about her looked untouched. Beneath the pale blue jersey the breasts were scarcely noticeable. He felt drawn to her on account of her little speech, which, he supposed, given her shyness, must have cost her an effort. He was grateful to her for telling him what he had wanted to be told. She was the agent of his deliverance.
    ‘Tissy, your mother’s here,’ called Miss Clarke.
    ‘Tissy?’ said Lewis quickly, intrigued by this name, which he had never heard.
    ‘My name’s Patricia, really. Patricia Harper. When I was little I couldn’t say Patricia, so I called myself Tissy, and the name’s stuck. I get called it all the time now. Would you excuse me, Mr Percy? My mother’s come to take me out to lunch. I just want you to know I was fond of Mrs Percy, and I’m sorry for your trouble.’
    Again she blushed, seemed almost weakened by the effort of speaking. In the face of her alarming fragility he held out his hand, partly in gratitude, partly to reassure himself that she was all right. She clasped his hand lightly with very cold fingers, then turned and disappeared.
    ‘A tragedy, that girl,’ said Miss Clarke, leaning her bosom on the counter. Mr Baker, looking up, put his