Free Brief Lives by Anita Brookner Page B

remembered all too well the air raids and the broken nights and the shattered streets, and the endless dark. I should have been perfectly content to sit by myself all day on the front, or in the little museum garden, doing nothing, perhaps reading a magazine, until the light began to fade and I would decide, reluctantly, to join the others. The palm trees, the dazzle of sun on the chrome of cars, the spiky plants, the crepitating earth would make me forget the house in Gertrude Street with its absurd appurtenances, its engraved wine glasses specially commissioned from an artist friend of Hermione’s, its bed big enough for the birth of royalty, the winsome fresco in the bathroom. All this I would sacrifice for a bottle of cheap mimosa scent from the
herboristerie
or a bunch of blue carnations, magnificently vulgar, from the market. I began to discern depths of superficiality and bad taste in myself which I could see were not wholly regrettable. The sight of a simple plate of sliced tomatoes and olives, with oil and basil dribbled over them, made me think of the conscientious meals I cooked for Owen and his guests with something like contempt. I began to wish that the others would leave me alone so that I could eat pizza slices and sandwiches from street stalls. Instead of which, except for my early clandestine walk with Charlie,I was expected, as a matter of duty, to spend half my time in bars, and after that in restaurants, and only after that by the sea, until it was time to return to the bar again for the evening aperitif, which, to my mind, seemed to start earlier and earlier. Owen’s drinking habits surprised me. He never drank like that when he was at home.
    Next to being by myself I rather desperately wanted to be alone with Owen, although this seemed to be impossible, as Julia always insisted on a quorum wherever we went. It was clear to me that Charlie’s gentle manners could not satisfy her natural avidity, although they were somehow necessary to set limits to her aggression. Sometimes I saw a distant look in his eye as if he too would like to escape, but it would quickly be replaced by one of attentive good humour: no one ever knew what it cost him. He could be called to order by Julia and frequently was; therefore he got into the habit of doing nothing in case he were needed. For such a man an office is a sanctuary, and Charlie was consequently known as an extremely hard worker. He was, I believe, very good at his job. Sometimes he spent Saturday in Hanover Square, ‘going through some urgent papers,’ much to Julia’s annoyance. His phenomenal patience seemed to wear out towards the weekend, especially when he knew that Julia liked her friends to call on Sundays, so that Saturday would really be his holiday, much as sitting alone in the museum garden was mine. He later told me that he would make a lonely and voluptuous cup of tea for himself, using his secretary’s electric kettle. He would switch off the telephone and sit in absolute silence until his conscience told him that such licence must cease. Then, because of that same conscience, he would in fact do some of the work which could have been put aside for Monday, until the fading of the light outside his windows drove himhome. When we came to know each other better we confessed that we were perfectly happy on our own, but that at a certain hour, usually around five o’clock, we would begin to long for company. Now that I have all my time to myself I still feel the same, feel it more poignantly, even though I am no longer young, perhaps because I am no longer young. When the light goes, and the curtains are drawn, it is only natural to turn to one’s companion. And if that companion is no longer there one feels his absence most cruelly.
    Owen was my companion, and as the days drifted past in pointless trivialities—hunting for Julia’s lost glasses, waiting politely with Charlie for the others to join us—I thought despairingly how these minute