The Bay of Angels by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online Page A

streets, although all seemed cowed. A disconsolate crowd had gathered at the bus stop, though no bus seemed to have passed within living memory. I did not want to go home, was subjected once again to the image of the previous evening. I knew that what had taken place was not very grave on the scale of human misdemeanours, and that I should have to come to terms with imperfection. The shocking encounter now began to fade, although the after-image of those two flushed faces did not. I returned to an awareness of how unequal I must have appeared. I knew that however successful I might be in later life (for now was a time of failure) I would never entirely eradicate the memory of that episode. My own embarrassment had been nothing compared with the embarrassment on Adam’s face; in a mysterious way he was as humiliated by our fall from grace as I was. And my abrupt departure had added to the confusion. Yet any discussion, should there be an opportunity for one, would simply make matters worse.
    Though now burdened with yet another plastic bag I went on walking. I was sorry that I had telephoned my mother, who would now imagine that something was wrong. Nor was I much consoled by the image of her felicity in a different place. She should have been here, with me! Simon should have taken care of me on this dreadful day! Yet I had frequently felt relief that I did not live under their scrutiny. I knew that it made them comfortable to contemplate my life from a distance. They were sentimental and must therefore be shielded from all sorts of unwelcome realizations. I also knew that their happiness was more apparent than real, and that it consoled them to cherish an image of a family that had nothing to do with the truth. They must be protected, for I now saw that theirs was a hazardous enterprise. I thought that friendship should be lifelong, and not cemented on the spur of the moment. In many ways I enhanced their association, or had done during that first summer in Nice, when I behaved so naturally that they were charmed and emboldened to do the same. Subsequent visits had never quite recaptured that feeling of ease. At the time I had been aware that words and smiles had to be ever so slightly exaggerated to convey a conviction of happiness. And my mother’s afternoon escapes from the house that she could not quite consider her own were an indication that loneliness can be felt even in the most ideal of circumstances.
    By the time I got home I knew what I must do. Humiliations, though ineradicable, must be repaired before they take root. I should do my best to allow Adam to consider himself forgiven, so that we could go on as before. We knew each other too well to cancel our friendship. Without unpacking my shopping I went to the telephone. ‘My new number,’ I said. ‘Write it down.’ There was a scratch of a pencil on paper. ‘And do come for a meal. After all, it’s your turn to come to me.’ Profuse thanks. My last remark slightly spoiled the exchange, but on balance some kind of resolution had been achieved, and for this I was absurdly grateful.
    5
    It seemed an endless seamless passage of time, one that embraced the flat, the street, the whole city. I got up early to write my essays, having spent the night which should have been set aside for them with Adam. In the dark mornings, with the light on, I dispatched them as soon as I could, anxious to be out, to see whether new buds had appeared on the trees, or new flowers in the gardens. I was aware that I was not working well, and that examinations were approaching. I was not brilliant, like Adam, who had been promised a great future, not least by himself. I could only aspire to a run-of-the-mill degree, but once again I had proved myself to be a safe pair of hands: Dr Blackburn, my tutor, suggested that I might find work on other people’s manuscripts, checking their grammar, their footnotes. I could do this work at home, or in the libraries with which I was already