Free Altered States by Anita Brookner Page B

that they were unfortunate or benighted, but I found myself looking for and finding signs of impending old age in their heightened colour, the satisfaction with which Aubrey plied his fork, their savouring of the sweetness of the lemon tart and the last mouthful of wine. After the coffee I knew that Aubrey would go upstairs to his own flat and pass out. I always left soon after lunch so as to let Mother have a rest. I had no wish to see her asleep, thinking it would detract from her dignity. Also my restlessness would not permit me to stay silent until she woke up. The terrible stillness of Sunday afternoons, the impression I had of sleep settling on elderly people everywhere in this corner of London, combined with the habitual dead calm of the streets, afflicted me with a melancholy which I was ill-equipped to bear, made me feel uncared for, as if those who should be caring for me had abdicated their responsibilities, leaving me alone and without resource. On the afternoon of this particular day, of course, I intended to go straight to Paddington Street, a fact which must be kept from my mother at all costs. In fact it was she who introduced Sarah’s name, as she straightened the collar of my jacket and brushed my sleeve.
    ‘You wrote to Sybil dear?’ she said. ‘And you managed to have a word with Sarah?’
    ‘As a matter of fact I thought I might go round there this afternoon,’ I replied, and with those words felt an onrush ofthe fiery joy with which Sarah’s name was now associated. There was also a certain amount of sweetness in the fact that I had been open with my mother, who at that stage certainly did not suspect my involvement. I never liked to lie to my mother, though I considered certain aspects of my behaviour too likely to shock her. The fact of this partial confession—that I intended to call on this particular woman—alerted me to the possibility that in ideal circumstances Sarah and my mother might be contained in the same thought, that Sarah’s name might be introduced quite naturally into any conversation I might be having with my mother, as if she were a bona fide relation, or as if she were my wife. I did not see why I should not marry her, although I could see why she would not marry me. There was the question of getting her to concentrate for a sufficient length of time on myself, my history, my attributes, all of which appeared to be of no interest to her. Her engagement with me was confined to the physical, and for the moment I found this so exciting that I preferred to think of myself as a lover pure and simple, that illusory family framework fragmenting even before I had time to reflect on the possible benefits of squaring the circle, never far from my conventional mind. I had no desire to marry, nor was there any pressure on me to do so. My mother, I knew, secretly valued the fact that I was unattached. I had wanted to make her feel included in my secret life, but there was an impropriety in this. I had probably left the condition in which it was natural for me to confide in my mother far behind, with my school-days and my first holidays away from home.
    Now I must be tactful, for I had naturally entered an area of concealment. Nevertheless I felt an odd pang of regret for that spontaneous openness that had once been mine and which I was conscious of laying to rest on that particular Sunday, as I looked at the two gallantly wakeful elderly facessurveying me with carefully concealed indulgence. Mother’s face, when she kissed me, was warm: she hated me to see her looking less than her best. Aubrey shook my hand, as he always did. I waited until he had turned the corner of the staircase back to his own flat. Their relief when both of their doors shut was almost palpable.
    I marched briskly across the park to Marble Arch, through Old Quebec Street to Portman Square and up Baker Street to Paddington Street. There was no reply from Sarah’s flat. This did not greatly discompose me; I had not