Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [32]
That had been four years ago. And the disagreeable memory of David on that evening had been obliterated almost immediately after, when Penelope, who liked to rally her troops, whether they knew that they were hers or not, took Edith off to a sale at Sim-monds’. They had found David with his warehouseman, Stanley: in their shirtsleeves, both were sitting in silent harmony on packing cases, while on a third packing case stood two mugs of tea and a plate of virulently coloured jam tarts. Hauling himself to his feet, David presented a smiling and attentive face, behind which Edith knew he was thinking of something entirely different, to Penelope, who was full of arch reproaches. Edith had watched her flush becomingly but talk too much as his eyes rested on her. ‘Two-thirty, David,’ Stanley had warned. And as Penelope turned to have a benevolent word with Stanley, Edith willed her features into neutral as David, shrugging into his jacket and questing her attention, allowed one eyelid to minimally fall. Thus, wordlessly, was an urgent meeting agreed upon.
When they next saw him, he was all business. Herded into rows of chairs, regressed to the obedience of childhood, they raised their eyes as to a pulpit. On the rostrum, David, gavel in hand, announced, ‘Lot Five. Time Revealing Truth. Attributed to Francesco Furini. What am I bid?’
Edith, in her veal-coloured room in the Hotel du Lac, sat with her hands in her lap, wondering what she was doing there. And then remembered, and trembled. And thought with shame of her small injustices, of her unworthy thoughts towards those excellent women who had befriended her, and to whom she had revealed nothing. I have been too harsh on women, she thought, because I understand them better than I understand men. I know their watchfulness, their patience, their need to advertise themselves as successful. Their need never to admit to a failure. I know all that because I am one of them. I am harsh because I remember Mother and her unkindnesses, and because I am continually on the alert for more. But women are not all like Mother, and it is really stupid of me to imagine that they are. Edith, Father would have said, think a little. You have made a false equation.
She bent her head, overcome by a sense of unworthiness. I have taken the name of Virginia Woolf in vain, she thought.
She sat for a long time, then, humbly, got up, smoothed her hair, picked up her bag, and went down to tea.
The only person taking tea in the salon was Mme de Bonneuil, her old brown hands brushing the crumbs from the front of her dress. Edith smiled at her, and received a nod in return. The hotel had emptied since the weekend. The weather was still fine, but waning in conviction, as if its hold on heat and light were growing weaker. On the terrace, the mild sun had an opaque quality, dwindling into mist as the afternoon, shorter now, slowly disappeared. The warmth was humid, promising showers. Once again, the mountain was beginning to dissolve into the mist.
‘There you are, dear,’ said Mrs Pusey. ‘You’ve been almost a stranger these past few days. Jennifer thought you had quite deserted us. Didn’t you, darling?’
Jennifer raised her face from Mrs Pusey’s abandoned copy of The Sun at Midnight and smiled, her beautiful digestive system momentarily at rest.
‘Quite forgotten us, we thought,’ she confirmed. ‘Mummy was really upset.’
Murmuring disclaimers, Edith sank into her wicker chair, and asked them what they had done that day. And was rewarded by happy expressions, and a great deal of delightfully inconsequential information.
7
‘One hardly notices the proximity of the glaciers,’ said Edith appreciatively.
‘No,’ agreed Mr Neville.