Falling Slowly by Anita Brookner

Author:Anita Brookner [Brookner, Anita]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780241965542
Publisher: Penguin Books Ltd
Published: 2012-11-20T05:00:00+00:00

11

Miriam had a terrible dream. She dreamt that she had offended Simon in so naked, so direct, so personal a manner that he would never speak to her again. As proof of this she was presented with a book which opened at a photograph of him looking noble and disapproving. The book was written in praise of his achievements, of which she knew nothing. She supposed that these achievements had to do with his life in Oxford. She was working in some kind of office in which she was markedly unpopular. So unpopular was she that from time to time it was decreed by her fellow workers that she go to France for the day. This she did, choosing not one of the Channel ports but a small town in the centre of France which was unfamiliar to her. Its name, which she saw on a signpost, was Colombier something: Colombier le Neuf, or even Colombier le Vieux. As soon as she was there she had to make the return journey in order to get back to the office, but there were no trains. The area was somehow cordoned off, owing to the presence of national television studios: she could see vast cranes and banks of lights, but no people. She supposed that this was because she had arrived on a Monday, when everything was closed.

She knew that she had to get back because some kind of office party was due to take place in the evening, and for which she was already dressed, in a white rayon suit with a cumbersome skirt. Arriving too early for the party she was met with the usual disapproval. Silently, tight-lipped, one of her colleagues placed the book containing Simon’s photograph in front of her. She spent the rest of the dream, and what seemed like the rest of the night, contemplating his severe handsome face. The face now seemed to radiate a look of disdain, but from time to time someone would sidle up, look over her shoulder, and express admiration. She alone did not know him in this guise. When she woke up she wondered how much she had ever known him, whether he were in fact some sort of hero. This seemed likely. In that case her own status was, and always had been, that of a lowly office worker who would not naturally come into contact with so exalted a being. This impression, together with the dream, of which she remembered every detail, persisted into the following day.

She knew why this was. She had heard nothing from him for three, no, she reminded herself, nearly four weeks. From this she deduced that Mary was seriously ill, was bleeding to death, had cancer, that Simon was devotedly at her bedside, was consoling the children. Perhaps she was already dead – but there had been no notice in The Times, which she scrutinized every day. Death seemed so normal, so routine in those columns, that she lingered over them, fascinated by the children, grandchildren, sisters and brothers the deceased left behind.

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