A Misalliance by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page B

decisions had caused her no furrowing of her smooth brow, had been easy, had been almost fun. But it would be a mistake to judge her on this, she thought, for such decisions have to be made, and who but the strong can make them?
    Seen close to, Elinor’s mother was nearly a beauty. A collection of well-defined, even sharp, features had been harmoniously assembled in a small white face: the eyes, down drooping at the corners, were deeply set, the eyelids a colour between grey and bistre. Both the ears and the nose were shapely and finely cut; the mouth, like the eyes, drooped naturally, as if in fatigue or disdain, giving a hint of boredom to her expression when it was not relieved by her habitual yet undiscriminating smile. The orange hair, heightened in colour, Blanche could see, from its original dark brown, was fashionably disarrayed, so as to give animpression of carelessness, to which the girl added by running her fingers through it, lifting it almost amorously from the nape of her neck. Her strange black cotton clothes hinted at the unfettered body beneath, and made anything more conventional look both stingy and costive. A free-running emotion was mirrored in her appearance, as if she were only to be glimpsed in passing, as she sauntered on some mysterious progress, her motives known only to herself. She had, Blanche thought, a legendary look. Beside her, the child was almost inconspicuous, and in her cheap bright colours, so out of tune with the evident seriousness of her character, pathetic.
    A nurse, coming out through double glass doors, to see if there were anybody left, checked an exclamation as she saw the girl.
    ‘Mrs Beamish! The doctor can’t possibly see you now! You were nearly an hour late for your appointment. You’ll just have to come back next week.’
    All the lines in Mrs Beamish’s face were drawn down suddenly, revealing sharp furrows in her slightly lifted upper lip. She was evidently used to this kind of reproach.
    ‘What does it matter?’ she said, with a hint of haughtiness. ‘I’m always kept waiting when I get here. I think you pack us all in here for the doctor’s convenience anyway. And if he’s still here I don’t see why he can’t see us now. I’m sure you don’t want me to come back next week. And I’m quite sure I don’t want to, so that makes two of us.’
    ‘Not only can he not see you, but you can’t even make another appointment,’ said the nurse, bristling not so much at the girl’s insolence as at her appearance. ‘The receptionist’s gone off duty.’
    ‘What about this lady?’ said the girl, indicating Blanche.
    ‘Mrs Vernon is a volunteer,’ said the nurse, scandalized. ‘And she’s usually on the wards; nothing to do with this section. No, the best thing I can do is suggest that youcome back tomorrow and make another appointment. The doctor’s just leaving,’ she added firmly, seeing the girl rise to her feet with a sudden lifting of the drooped features as the double doors opened once more.
    Blanche could hear laughter and expostulations before the little group – the woman, her child and the subjugated doctor – disappeared back through the double doors. She was left to hear the nurse’s grievances as she lingered, and, unwilling to leave, encouraged her to comment on Mrs Beamish’s character, although it was the child who concerned her. She learned that Mrs Beamish and her daughter put in infrequent and irregular appearances, always with demands that something should be done quickly, although long and patient investigations would have to be undertaken if any kind of reasonable diagnosis were to be arrived at. The little girl had never spoken, but, as she was not deaf, and was apparently in good health, the trouble was obviously psychic; the nurse, her lips pinched, seemed to think the fault lay in a lack of mothering. Chafed by her stiff belt and her heavy shoes, the nurse implied that Mrs Beamish’s fashionable light-heartedness was