Visitors by Anita Brookner Read Free Book Online

and therefore of no value. She viewed herself as this young man might view her, as something worthless. Hewould be in favour of social justice, as all the young were, would think her an example of undeserving privilege. Therefore she must be prudent, less authoritative than she would like to be. She might, however distasteful the prospect, be required to win him over. Therefore a certain welcome must be prepared. She would meet him as she would wish to be met, smiling, composed. She opened the wardrobe, saw that there were plenty of hangers, then bundled up the Indian bedspread and took it through to the dustbin.
    Glancing once more at the impassive street, she decided that movement, activity, were what she needed. She was hungry for faces, crowds; she had been immured at home for far too long. She left the flat, locking the door impatiently behind her. But the street, which she knew so well, seemed unfamiliar, alien. She felt the first creeping inroads of anxiety and put a warning hand to her fluttering heart, slowing her pace. In her head she felt an impatience that her steps could not match. At some level it was clear to her that this excursion was unnecessary, that she could turn back at any moment, and probably should. Yet it was with something like eagerness that she took her place at the bus stop, gazing at passing cars as if any one of them might carry her off to a better life. She knew that for her there was no better life, was even on the whole contented, yet had she been able to see herself she would have been astonished at her ardent gaze and her unseeing stare. It was only after climbing onto the bus that she remembered her stiffness, her unhandiness. She composed her expression, embarrassed that she had entertained thoughts of flight.
    It was hot, very hot. In Oxford Street the crowds seemed to saunter luxuriously, as if they were on a promenade, an esplanade.They wore garish holiday clothes, walked three or four abreast, seemed, to her unaccustomed eye, overweight. She was carried along like a dry stick on a stream, wincing as she was struck by a gesticulating arm, apologising as she made her way through the loitering crowd. She began to think more kindly of home, understood what it was that kept her there. The shop was reached with some difficulty, and once inside the doors she felt that the crowds had followed her, were stepping on her heels. The same or similar fat women, absorbed in conversation with their companions, blocked the aisles, turned suddenly when least expected, and as far as she could see made no purchases. As she found her way to the bedding department her heart gave a premonitory lurch; she felt in her bag for her pills. They were not there. She could see them quite distinctly on her bedside table, where they were wont to remain. The small bottle in her bag was empty. She had meant to fill it, but now she remembered with alarm that she had put off this task for another day. The sight of so many duvets and pillows, wantonly plump and pale, made her feel faint, as if they had absorbed whatever air was still circulating. The potential urgency of the situation directed her to pick up a cream cotton bedspread and make her way, as if swimming through a heavy current, to the till. ‘Nice, aren’t they?’ said the assistant. ‘Portuguese.’ Haggard now, she paid with her credit card and was handed a large and pneumatic plastic bag, as inimical to her breathing as the pillows had been. There is no need to panic, she told herself. I shall walk out of here, find a taxi, and soon be home. It was foolish not to have eaten; she could not now remember why she had been in such a hurry to get out. It had been something to do with the sun, with the play of light on the windows across the street, with the suddenhatefulness of the untenanted room. With the grateful assumption of a duty, even one as negligible as this.
    Now, the plastic bag sticky against her leg, she was obliged once more to push her way