Authors: Anita Brookner

A Start in Life (17 page)

BOOK: A Start in Life

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She married Roddy almost as a matter of course, since George was so attached to the idea. She married him without a great deal of emotion, but in recognition of the fact that he had paid her the compliment of asking her to be his wife; what his motives were she could never understand. In fact Roddy was lonely, and, hypochondriacal like his aunt, was given to scares about his health and his future. Ruth's calm, her unostentatious energy, seemed like strength. Once she nursed him through a bad bout of 'flu, adding a daily visit to Bayswater to her long list of chores. He was impressed. When he recovered, he rang her up and suggested that they might go to a concert. He fell into the habit of collecting her from the college when he had finished work and driving her home. Sometimes he stayed for a meal, for she had become a very good cook. He felt comfortable in her presence, at ease, relaxed. Eventually he asked her to marry him. In this he showed sense; it is best to marry for purely selfish reasons.

During the six months of their marriage Ruth felt a great sense of security, which, she was assured by Anthea, is what every woman needs. Her colleagues, she was amused to note, were rather more polite to her than they had been when she was merely a daughter. It seemed easier to live at Oakwood Court from every point of view. Although Mrs Jacobs would not have objected to their permanent occupation of the Bayswater
flat, there was an air of uncertainty over her own arrangements. She was always rumoured to be coming back to London, but she never actually came, and one day her sister Phyllis, a managerial woman, took matters in hand and disposed of the flat and its contents in the space of a fortnight. Roddy did not much mind; he had found it hard to keep everything laundered and all the machinery maintained and sometimes he had yearning thoughts about his basement. But he was no good at looking after himself, and he thought that once they had found George a housekeeper he and Ruth could settle down quite comfortably somewhere on their own.

At Oakwood Court things were a little brighter. The mere presence of Roddy cheered George tremendously, and although Roddy still found him tiresome he was quite amicable about watching television with George and brought him home the evening paper and sometimes drove him out in the car at weekends. Ruth was relieved to see them taking care of each other, for George was as anxious about Roddy's health as Roddy was himself. Roddy felt protected. Ruth, her mind sifting through the day's preoccupations, thought that she had been lucky. Roddy, she knew, was an amiable but childish character, but she clung to him in the night when she wakened so inexplicably in terror, with fragments of dream evaporating into the greater unreality of her present life. At these times, she thought in all humility that she was a fortunate woman.

Roddy died, not of an illness as he had feared, but as a result of a motor accident on the Kingston by-pass: they never found out what he was doing there. A policeman brought the news to Oakwood Court. Ruth and George were both quite dazed, and for once in their lives talked openly to each other, turning to each other for a little comfort. They could not believe that such a thing had happened, that they were both, once again, survivors. They wondered how they had been singled
out for such a privilege.

In due course Ruth sold the shop, since there was no prospect of George's taking it over again. The money was very useful and they paid a woman to come in every day and do the cleaning. George got quite attached to her and was rather surprised when she would not consent to live in. Ruth went back to spending two nights a week at Edith Grove. She had kept the rooms on, for, as she explained to Roddy, most of her books were there. Her work on Balzac, after hanging fire for a year or two, eventually picked up again and she was able to plan the second volume.

One Saturday, as Ruth was preparing a
daube
of beef, there was a ring at the doorbell. George shuffled out of the drawing room and stood expectantly in the hall. Their visitor, to their very great surprise, was Mrs Cutler, in a fun fur coat and high-heeled boots, with several carrier bags on the mat at her feet.

âLong time no see,' she said exuberantly, as Ruth murmured a welcome. George, disappointed that it was not Sally, returned to the drawing room. Mrs Cutler followed him.

âWell, that's a nice welcome, I must say,' she bellowed, for she remembered him as being on the deaf side and the poor sod looked years older. âAfter all this time.'

âHave you come back?' asked George.

Mrs Cutler uttered a screech of laughter which ended in a cough. âNot bloody likely,' she said, opening a large handbag and extracting a packet of Senior Service. âLeslie won't let me do a thing in me own place, let alone anybody's else's. No,' she added, inhaling deeply. âI came up for the sales and I thought I'd look in on you and see if there was a cup of tea going. And I wouldn't mind spending a penny,' she conceded. She looked at them as if expecting sounds of appreciation.

After she had returned from the bathroom, leaving the
door open as usual, and after she had drunk a cup of tea and smoked three cigarettes, she regaled them with stories of life at the Clarence Nursing Home. âOf course,' she said, screwing up her eyes against the smoke, âwe've made a lot of improvements there. Colour telly. Fluorescent lighting in all the bedrooms. The old dears think the world of us.' Ruth looked at her in her checked miniskirt, her unventilated royal blue angora jersey, her necklace of vaguely ethnic ceramic platelets. She could not do it. The temptation to put George into a nursing home had never been very strong, although Anthea had introduced her to the idea long ago. But George, thought Ruth, had had style; he could not end up like that. She knew what the Clarence would be like: the television on all day, the residents encouraged to sit outside in the brisk sea wind, the food consisting of mince and mashed potatoes and masses and masses of prunes. And Mrs Cutler or Mrs Dunlop or whatever she was passing among them graciously with a kind word (âNever say die!') and a cigarette somewhere about her person.

George sensed what Ruth was thinking but was too frightened to trust her judgment. His face became flushed and distressed and Ruth put a hand on his arm. Mrs Cutler, who knew danger signs when she saw them, hobbled to her feet, collected her carrier bags, and took her leave. At the door, she whispered to Ruth, âYou've been a good girl,' and added, âbut if I were you â¦ Well, if you ever want a break,' she winked and nudged Ruth in the ribs, âyou know where I am. Keep in touch, anyway. I enjoy a laugh over the old times.' Then she was gone, nippily, down the stairs. Ruth could hear her resounding cough until the doors finally shut behind her.

George stood in the doorway of the drawing room, his face fearful and slightly averted. Ruth took his arm, patted his hand.

âWith a bit of luck we shan't see her again,' she said. âSo
you can take that look off your face.' She kissed him, then went back to the kitchen and her cooking.

Dr Weiss returned her lecture notes to their file, plugged in her electric kettle, and made herself a cup of coffee. When her mind had slowly emptied of her conclusion, which, according to habit, she found herself reviewing more critically than when she had delivered it, she opened her mail. This consisted largely of memoranda beginning, âIt has come to my notice that â¦' or âIt has been brought to my attention that â¦' Then she reached for a sheet of paper. Dear Ned, she wrote, dear Ned, it is so long since we met and I have six more chapters to show you. I am rather pleased with my study of Diane de Maufrigneuse. Will you come to dinner next week or the week after? It will have to be either Wednesday or Thursday as the weekends are eroded at either end by my father. He is very old now and since my mother's death relies on my company rather heavily. And of course you must be busy yourself. Do let me know when we can meet. P.S. The section on EugÃ©nie Grandet has turned out rather longer than expected. Do you think anyone will notice?