A Closed Eye by Anita Brookner Page A

she felt suddenly unequal to looking after anybody other than herself. Freddie, anxious to restore some semblance of home comforts, the onus of providing which he would willingly have discharged on any half-way competent stranger, drafted an advertisement, and within a week they had interviewed and acquired Dawn Molyneux, a South African girl with dazzling teeth, who was working her way round the world. Just to know that Dawn was in the house made Harriet feel better. The girl hadcompleted two years of medical studies before deciding that she would rather see the world outside Durban, where her father was a fashionable dentist. She had promised him that she would be back within a year, eighteen months at the outside. ‘Eighteen months!’ Harriet had exclaimed. ‘But we hoped you might stay longer.’ ‘Not me,’ said Dawn. ‘I’ve got something lined up in Italy for next year. Of course, if it falls through I’ll let you know. Now, what about a cup of tea?’ It was ten o’clock in the morning, but the nice thing about Dawn was her homeliness. Cups of tea were drunk all day, biscuits were proffered. Harriet soon found her way down to the basement on most mornings, and sometimes in the afternoons, when she had rested and changed. She loved to see Dawn making herself up for her nightly forays into town, where she met up with other girls like herself, or with her boyfriend, Ronnie. On boyfriend evenings circles of colour were applied to eyelids and cheekbones; lipsticks nestled next to the teacups. ‘You’ve got your key?’ Harriet would ask. ‘And enough money? Always keep enough money for a cab.’ She liked to think of the girl having a high-spirited time, knowing that she would hear all about it the following morning. ‘And what about yourself?’ Dawn would ask kindly. ‘You out tonight?’ ‘No, I expect we shall stay in,’ was the usual reply, for now she craved her bed, and silence. She tired swiftly these days, and her sleep was dreamless. Only her waking hours contained dreams.
    She could not remember such a splendid autumn. While the leaves fell in the windless air the sun still shone out of a blue sky. Gradually she regained a little energy, and thought, belatedly, of Tessa, from whom she had not heard. This was not unusual; it was usually she who did the telephoning. She rang the Beaufort Street number and got no reply, walked round there once, only to hear no movement from inside the flat. She was a little surprised not to have been informed ofany absence; she was sure that she had sent out change of address cards. When Dawn came up with tea and said, ‘There was a telephone call for you,’ she automatically replied, ‘From Mrs Peckham? What did she say?’ ‘Mrs Collins,’ said Dawn, adding sugar to her own tea and energetically stirring. It took Harriet a minute or two to remember that Mrs Collins was the former Pamela Harkness, whom she had not seen for a couple of years. She tried the number twice before Pamela’s discouragingly brisk voice answered. Make it snappy, it seemed to say. What you are interrupting is far more important than anything you have to impart. One did not telephone Pamela; one was telephoned by her. In the old days Harriet had preferred to find out what Pamela was thinking or doing indirectly; mediated, the news seemed less peremptory, more normal.
    ‘Harriet? Message from Tessa. She’s gone away for a few days. Jack turned up, apparently. I think she said Paris.’
    ‘Oh,’ said Harriet, bewildered. ‘Did she not have my number?’
    ‘No idea. That was what she said to tell you. Of course she dropped everything when he materialized. She rang from the airport, actually.’
    ‘I see. I expect she’ll get in touch when she gets back. How are you?’
    ‘Surviving. I’ll be in London next month, probably see you then. Are you still presentable?’
    ‘Getting rather large. But it will be lovely to see you. Ring me when you get here. Or I expect Tessa