Hotel du Lac - Anita Brookner [53]
‘In fact, all that you heard was Alain taking in her breakfast,’ said Edith. ‘It is quite late, you know. You overslept and you woke suddenly. And you’re quite all right now.’
Mrs Pusey poured herself another cup of coffee. ‘Oh, of course, I came back here and pulled myself together, but it’s the shock, Edith, the shock.’ She did indeed seem agitated. ‘And of course when Jennifer sees me upset she gets upset. I’ve told her not to get up,’ she repeated. ‘And I’ve told Mr Huber to put one of the maids on this floor. I’m not having that boy hanging around. I never liked him. His eyes are too small.’
Edith, who had been standing all this time, turned away from Mrs Pusey’s couch and walked to the window. In her mind was a picture of Jennifer, sitting up in bed, her shoulders bare, her nightgown just vestigially slipping down. And then of Alain, breaking into a boy’s ugly tears, and escaping down the corridor. And she remembered – but had she really heard it? – the sound of that door opening and closing. I wonder, she thought. I wonder.
She leaned her head momentarily against the cold glass of the window, leaving Mrs Pusey to finish her coffee. She tried to quell the seed of disapproval, of discomfort, that she felt might grow rather rapidly if not subjected to some control. Mrs Pusey is afraid, she reminded herself. For Mrs Pusey, any alteration in the status quo must inspire fear. She is old and vain and she cannot afford to feel afraid; it is essential for her to deflect her feelings onto someone else. They will all get over it; it will all be forgotten by this evening. But from now on, I think I shall make myself less available to the Puseys. After all, we have nothing in common.
She turned back in time to see Mrs Pusey delicately spooning the remains of the melted sugar from her emptied coffee cup. ‘Perhaps you had better rest,’ said Edith, rather more firmly than before. ‘I should have a quiet day, if I were you. I’m sure all this can be forgotten quite easily.’
‘Of course, he’ll have to go,’ Mrs Pusey went on. ‘I shall speak to Mr Huber. There’ll be no difficulties there, I can assure you. When I think of all the years I’ve been coming here! What my husband would have done I dare not think.’ She breathed heavily, her hand once more to her chest. ‘Yes, you go, dear, if you must. I know you want to go out. Such a walker, just send Mr Huber up to me, would you, when you go downstairs?’
Edith closed the door quietly behind her. There was no one in the corridor, no one on the stairs. Baths were running, vacuum cleaners being plied; the voices of the maids could be heard raised in discussion in one of the bedrooms. Passing the desk on her way out, she could see M. Huber and his son-in-law in intimate conversation, for once on excellent terms, their expressions adult, expert, wry. Nodding slightly, she walked straight past them and out through the revolving door. The cold air, now damp with the mist that was creeping in from the lake, made her shiver; she felt ill-equipped and out of sorts, but also instinctively averse to going back to the hotel for a warmer sweater. Coffee, she thought. And then a very long walk, and if possible lunch somewhere far away. I need not come back until this evening. In fact, it might be better if I kept out of everybody’s way for a while. My patience with this little comedy is wearing a bit thin.
Pacing through the dead leaves, her hands plunged into the pockets of her cardigan, Edith felt eddies of disturbance from the morning’s incident beginning to widen until they encompassed both her present circumstances and her more long-lasting predicament. Although the scene around her remained grey and chill, although the rare faces she encountered were closed against the unpromising weather, cautiously husbanding smiles and greetings until they might be more propitiously offered, with a safer hope of return, the small change of the day, even the impersonal sadness of this late season, seemed to her more