A Start in Life by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Anita Brookner
be alone with these feelings, when, in ideal circumstances, she might be motivated to share them.
On an impulse she telephoned her mother. Helen was having one of her better days. ‘Just a minute, darling, while I drink this coffee that Maggie’s just brought me.’ Ruth waited while she drank the coffee, hearing it, seeing it, knowing that her mother would expect a respectful pause while this bit of business was given its full importance. Helen always had an audience, if only in her mind’s eye. ‘Now, my darling, why aren’t you at a lecture or something?’
‘I’m having this friend to dinner tonight. I thought there’d be a lot to do.’
‘Well, if you’ve got time, darling heart, there’s plenty to do here. Daddy’s gone to Mount Street and Maggie’s got a shopping list as long as your arm.’
‘I thought Daddy had sold the shop.’
‘He has, but that silly woman can’t manage on her own, it seems. She pays him some sort of retainer to advise her.’
(This was quite untrue. Calling in one day out of sheer boredom, George had found Mrs Jacobs in the back room of the shop, sitting down to a simple meal of rye bread and liver sausage, with a dill pickle on the side, and a glass of lemon tea. ‘
Mahlzeit
,’ he said automatically. He had not used the word for years. Her face brightened. ‘I’ve brought far too much,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t eat a lot these days. Won’t you join me?’ So he did and took to dropping in at the shop quite regularly after that. ‘Call me Sally,’ said Mrs Jacobs. ‘I was named Sarah, of course. After my mother.’ They became Sally and George quite easily. Miss Moss handed in her resignation.)
While George, waited upon once again, sipped his lemon tea in Mount Street, Ruth and her mother and Mrs Cutler sat down to tinned tomato soup, cheese on toast, and instant coffee at Oakwood Court. The aromatic plates were slipped casually into a brimming washing-up bowl by Mrs Cutler and left there to soak. The two women lit cigarettes with an air of exhaustion. Ruth felt a sudden surge of affection for them, Helen in her caftan and bracelets, Mrs Cutler in her dress uniform of elephant-coloured trousers, nylon blouse, and remedial footwear. They managed to be so busy doing the little they had to do. They carried their packets of cigarettes around with them like talismans; they called for cups of coffee; Helen refurbished her make-up with severe and practised strokes; even when they took a rest in the afternoon they made it sound like an assignment to be fitted into a busy day. And then there would be tea – they both groaned for it – and then George would be home, more cheerful than of late, bearing something expensive to eat, and then they would all spruce themselves up for drinks at six. At eight o’clock they would start groaning again, exhausted by their day; Maggie would make a few sandwiches and take them in on a tray; they would swallow a last drink, take their sleeping pills and retire to bed.
Mrs Cutler would change into her slippers and dressing gown and watch television until it closed down for the night.
Ruth, in her neatness, admired the agreeable air of lavishness and laissez-faire that reigned at Oakwood Court. It was as if they had all come down in the world and were determined to let everyone know it. They must spend as much on drink as on food, thought Ruth, but they seem to flourish on it. My mother always seems clean and scented, although slightly dusty, somehow. She doesn’t go out enough, of course. But really, when you come to think of it, they aren’t having too bad a time. There was no need to worry about them. And they seemed to keep themselves amused.
‘How’s the writing?’ she asked.
Helen, clenching and unclenching her jaw muscles to keep them firm, could not reply.
‘I think I might try a short story,’ she said eventually. ‘The television people would have it. I have this knack for dramatic situations, and I might even
On an impulse she telephoned her mother. Helen was having one of her better days. ‘Just a minute, darling, while I drink this coffee that Maggie’s just brought me.’ Ruth waited while she drank the coffee, hearing it, seeing it, knowing that her mother would expect a respectful pause while this bit of business was given its full importance. Helen always had an audience, if only in her mind’s eye. ‘Now, my darling, why aren’t you at a lecture or something?’
‘I’m having this friend to dinner tonight. I thought there’d be a lot to do.’
‘Well, if you’ve got time, darling heart, there’s plenty to do here. Daddy’s gone to Mount Street and Maggie’s got a shopping list as long as your arm.’
‘I thought Daddy had sold the shop.’
‘He has, but that silly woman can’t manage on her own, it seems. She pays him some sort of retainer to advise her.’
(This was quite untrue. Calling in one day out of sheer boredom, George had found Mrs Jacobs in the back room of the shop, sitting down to a simple meal of rye bread and liver sausage, with a dill pickle on the side, and a glass of lemon tea. ‘
Mahlzeit
,’ he said automatically. He had not used the word for years. Her face brightened. ‘I’ve brought far too much,’ she confessed. ‘I don’t eat a lot these days. Won’t you join me?’ So he did and took to dropping in at the shop quite regularly after that. ‘Call me Sally,’ said Mrs Jacobs. ‘I was named Sarah, of course. After my mother.’ They became Sally and George quite easily. Miss Moss handed in her resignation.)
While George, waited upon once again, sipped his lemon tea in Mount Street, Ruth and her mother and Mrs Cutler sat down to tinned tomato soup, cheese on toast, and instant coffee at Oakwood Court. The aromatic plates were slipped casually into a brimming washing-up bowl by Mrs Cutler and left there to soak. The two women lit cigarettes with an air of exhaustion. Ruth felt a sudden surge of affection for them, Helen in her caftan and bracelets, Mrs Cutler in her dress uniform of elephant-coloured trousers, nylon blouse, and remedial footwear. They managed to be so busy doing the little they had to do. They carried their packets of cigarettes around with them like talismans; they called for cups of coffee; Helen refurbished her make-up with severe and practised strokes; even when they took a rest in the afternoon they made it sound like an assignment to be fitted into a busy day. And then there would be tea – they both groaned for it – and then George would be home, more cheerful than of late, bearing something expensive to eat, and then they would all spruce themselves up for drinks at six. At eight o’clock they would start groaning again, exhausted by their day; Maggie would make a few sandwiches and take them in on a tray; they would swallow a last drink, take their sleeping pills and retire to bed.
Mrs Cutler would change into her slippers and dressing gown and watch television until it closed down for the night.
Ruth, in her neatness, admired the agreeable air of lavishness and laissez-faire that reigned at Oakwood Court. It was as if they had all come down in the world and were determined to let everyone know it. They must spend as much on drink as on food, thought Ruth, but they seem to flourish on it. My mother always seems clean and scented, although slightly dusty, somehow. She doesn’t go out enough, of course. But really, when you come to think of it, they aren’t having too bad a time. There was no need to worry about them. And they seemed to keep themselves amused.
‘How’s the writing?’ she asked.
Helen, clenching and unclenching her jaw muscles to keep them firm, could not reply.
‘I think I might try a short story,’ she said eventually. ‘The television people would have it. I have this knack for dramatic situations, and I might even