At the Hairdresser's (Penguin Specials) Read online

  Her graver error was not to have changed, to have remained detached and worldly, with no intimation of the final shipwreck that we both faced. For age had preserved our faults and made them indelible. I was more at fault than Mary for not having seen this earlier. Once again I marvelled at the power of the unconscious mind, propelling to the surface conclusions reached in the hours of darkness, resolving mere discomfort into unwelcome conviction. I was still sufficiently fond of her to hope that she had not been too disappointed in our reunion, but knew that to try to put this right would be a mistake. In any event she would be back in her known world of husband and children, and I once again immured in my charmless basement which, as she had observed, could do with a coat of paint. Fortunately I had no plans for the day, could read or think without interruption. This might prove to be a blessing in disguise, for it would take some ingenuity to dispel Chris’s displeasure, which had been palpable. I reminded myself that I was not entirely responsible for Mary’s bad manners, although he might not see it that way. We had made no appointment, and I hoped that in a few days’ time he might agree to overlook this and return to his usual state of uninflected good humour. I would let a little time elapse before telephoning him, but telephone him I should have to, for I could hardly expect him to make the first move. Our arrangement was sufficiently loose to make this seem natural, and he was young enough to dismiss old ladies and their habits in favour of his own concerns. In his world view Mary and I had less right to exist than anyone of his age. For the time being that would have to do. The robustness of youth would resolve the situation in his favour. I had no quarrel with that.

  When three days had passed I telephoned his mobile, as he had instructed me to do. There was no answer. Indeed the phone seemed to be inactive, or merely switched off. This was problematic: it was Friday and I had better buy something for the weekend. Also it was my day for the hairdresser’s and I was no longer quite so ready to make these journeys, however brief, without reliable company, or indeed any company. I sighed, almost resigned, when the telephone rang. I looked at my watch; it was later than his usual call, almost ten fifteen. I took this as reluctance on his part to collude with me any further.

  ‘Mrs Warner?’ enquired an unfamiliar voice.

  ‘Elizabeth Warner, yes.’

  ‘Brian Maitland here.’

  ‘Mr Maitland? From the bank?’

  ‘Yes. Some rather troubling news, I’m afraid. Quite a substantial sum has gone from your current account. Did you withdraw such a sum?’

  ‘How much?’ I asked, my mouth dry.

  ‘Seven hundred pounds. Of course you still have a healthy balance in your deposit account, but it was unwise to withdraw so much. Had you realized that so much had gone? And so quickly?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did you let anyone see your debit card? Or your pin number?’

  I remembered him standing next to me at the till, his hand under my elbow. His attentiveness. I should miss that.

  ‘Thank you for your call, Mr Maitland. There is no need to take this any further. Cancel the card, of course. Perhaps you would transfer some money from my deposit account. In fact why not transfer the lot?’

  ‘I can hardly advise…’

  ‘Only I might be leaving,’ I said. ‘I will of course let you know. I’ll look in some time next week.’

  Somehow I was not surprised. Nor was I particularly angry. In fact my principal reaction was one of admiration. He had taken his revenge on Mary’s high-handedness, in which I was implicated, and devised his own strategy, his own advancement. If I felt anything it was remorse for my having taken him for granted. There was a wound there that I had not taken seriously enough. We had both been deluded into thinking ourselves better than we were.

  Out of curiosity I tried his number once more. Once more there was no answer.

  Outside the weather, from what I could see from my dusky basement, was improving. The sky was lightening, and I had a strong desire to be out. Or to be gone. A curious lightness, no doubt a reaction to the changing season, relieved me of my habitual anxiety to do the right thing, to give no offence, to abide by strict rules. I looked around the flat, saw, as if for the first time, the low ceilings, the shadowy corners, caught sight of the man opposite bending over his crossword. I also saw that this place, and the life it contained, was intolerable. I sat down again, obedient to the spirit of the place, aware that if I were not careful this would be my doom.

  I could move. This had in fact been at the back of my mind for some time, but only as a mirage, something that a more reasonable person would propose. Now it began to take shape. No more foreign travels, that was for sure. That part of my life was over. But I could do something a little more inventive with the time remaining to me. I could go to the coast, within sight of the sea, revisit those little towns where my parents had taken me on holiday as a child. Dorset, Devon, even Kent. All I really needed was a bed- sitter and a bathroom. This would suit me well enough: I was not cut out to be a householder. And in coastal towns, holiday places, there were boarding houses which could provide such resting places. I was done with permanence, and also with nostalgia. I wanted to sit in the sun, to watch different people, to rely on my own concerns to guide me through the rest of my days. That was my epic discovery: pure selfishness as an infinite resource. I smiled. I was indebted to him, now more than ever. He handled the matter efficiently, if not well. But he had taught me an invaluable lesson.

  When I eventually went out it was into streets enlivened by a pale sun. At the hairdresser’s I said to Gaby, ‘I may not see you for a while.’

  ‘Going on holiday?’ she asked indifferently.

  ‘Yes. Could you trim it for me?’

  ‘No problem.’

  While the scissors crept round my neck I registered the fact that even here my time was up. I handed over a larger tip than usual and wished her luck. She gave her usual abstracted smile. She had never been more than half-attentive.

  At the desk I paid with my credit card, feeling no superstitious warning of what might happen, or of what had happened. I knew who was to blame and I included myself in that knowledge. With a residual sadness came an altogether new sense of freedom.

  ‘Chris taking you home?’ asked Sally, at reception.

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Was he okay? Only he can be a bit…’

  ‘He was fine,’ I said. ‘In fact he did me a great favour.’

  She looked surprised. I could not tell her that he had restored my liberty. She would not have believed me, and for the moment neither could I. But when I went out into the sunlit street I knew it to be true. The season had changed, and through some mysterious agency I had too.

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  First published 2011

  Text copyright © Anita Brookner, 2011

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

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bsp; ISBN: 978-0-241-96191-9

  ANITA BROOKNER

  STRANGERS

  ‘He was haunted by a feeling of invisibility, as if he were a mere spectator of his own life, with no one to identify him in the barren circumstances of the here and now.’

  Paul Sturgis is a retired bank manager who lives alone in a dark little flat. He walks alone and dines alone, seeking out and taking pleasure in small exchanges with strangers: the cheerful Australian girl who cuts his hair, the lady at the dry cleaners. His only relative, and only acquaintance, is a widowed cousin by marriage – herself a virtual stranger – to whom he pays ritualistic visits on a Sunday afternoon. Trying to make sense of his current solitary state, and fearing that his destiny may be to die among strangers, Sturgis trawls through memories of his failed relationships and finds himself longing for companionship, or at the very least a conversation.

  But then a chance encounter with a stranger – a recently divorced and demanding younger woman – shakes up his routine, and when an old girlfriend appears on the scene, Sturgis is forced to make a decision about how (and with whom) he wants to spend the rest of his days…

  ‘Nothing less than brilliant, often highly amusing and, ultimately life affirming’ Sunday Telegraph

  ‘An enjoyable and rigorously unsentimental comedy’ Sunday Times

  ‘A novel of great stylistic beauty and psychological truth. As great a reflection on fear and regret as Philip Larkin or Beckett’ Mark Lawson, Guardian

  www.penguin.com

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