Free Visitors by Anita Brookner Page A

had been, although she had a great deal to think about. They were all in this together: that was her conclusion. They were a family, even if she were only an associate rather than a full member. And how confiding Austin had been! She had never heard him talk so freely, on that subject of all subjects. And Kitty had not been on her high horse, had been quite knocked off it, in fact. This equality was temporary, she knew, but was nevertheless timidly appreciated. She was no longer the nervous young wife whom Henry had first introduced to the cousins, young in experience if not in age. Her present age was in some ways more comfortable, certainly more peaceable than the youth of those young people. She had found them unattractive, and this disheartened and puzzled her. Surely they should strike one of her years as beautiful? Unmarked, and therefore beautiful? But perhaps they were beautiful to each other; perhaps the whole thing was a conspiracy to outwit the old. It was typical of Kitty to be thinking of clothes and food, all the rituals of a conventional wedding; it was perhaps natural of Ann to despiseher for doing so. Natural, but again not pleasing. She would leave them saddened, unless they took a different line with her. Perhaps the trick was to make a few, a very few concessions, in her case to treat Steve with studied politeness—she could never manage to be impolite—but as a stranger in her house. In that way he might be encouraged to move on, even to go home. Ann and David would go when they were ready; at present they seemed to show no signs of haste. This would present problems. Then she remembered that they were booked to go to Paris, and took heart. Together they must all devise a plan to prevent them from coming back.
    She gazed wistfully at the home-going crowds as the taxi moved southwards. So might she once have stood at the bus stop, before being elevated to marriage and affluence. She planned to take a bath as soon as she got in, to spend some time quietly. The evening was, mercifully, taken care of. She was tired, her linen suit a little creased. She wanted to get into a dressing gown, a temptation that must be resisted. As she reached Harcourt Terrace she realised that this journey might have to be repeated, and could not repress a very slight feeling of interest. This was surely the stuff of fiction? A strong plot, unusual characters, a threatened outcome: who could ask for worthier diversion? And she was, after all, an observer. There was some virtue in this, though not as much as others made out. One usually had to keep one’s observations to oneself, which halved the pleasure. Not to do so was to court displeasure from all sides.
    Her silent street seemed to take on a prelapsarian calm, an embodiment of the quiet life she had so recently interrupted. She welcomed the contrast; it was as if she were coming home after an evening at the theatre. On the corner the honeysuckle gave out its last sweetness. Steve no longer disturbed her. Hewould move on eventually, and then it might even be pleasant to have her old life back again. In due time she would revert to being the character they all thought they knew. She understood what it was that made people want to change their identity. Even her own identity was threatened by recent events, and yet she might, she reflected, find the change beneficial. It was to be hoped that the others would as well.
    The spectacle of the life lived in that flat beguiled her. Kitty and Austin were lovers; they were also conspirators, each devoted to the others fusses and heartbreaks, genuine and otherwise. Eagerly they worried, consoled, commiserated. No-one could join in: they were an exclusive, and excluding, concern. Any attempt to reassure was shrugged off as irrelevant, of no value. They needed no friends, for what friend could understand them as they understood each other? In this way her role had been defined for her; she was to be respectful of their intimacy, which