The Bay of Angels by Anita Brookner Page A

the wine was making me sleepy. I was to leave for London in the morning, to visit the bank, then to take another flight back to Nice. It occurred to me that I was the wrong person to be entrusted with such tasks. I was sober, certainly, practical, but deeply uninterested in financial details. I did not even know how much money there was in my account, let alone how much was needed. And there might be a will. Surely Simon had left a will? Without such a document nothing would be possible. Reluctantly I went back into the study, tried the drawers of his desk, all but one of which were locked. The unlocked one contained more sad relics, including a photograph of Simon taken some thirty years previously, to judge from his slimness, and his hair. His disarming smile reminded me why I had once loved him, and why my mother had found him difficult to resist. There was no will: how could there be in that unguarded place? In the waste-paper basket, which Mme Delgado had not emptied, there was an envelope with an English stamp. I removed it, was disappointed to find that it was empty, but for some reason noted the superscription: ‘Redman and Redman, Solicitors’, and an address in Seymour Place. These people knew Simon, knew his address in France, must surely provide the kind of support I was seeking, even if they had no idea who I was. Suddenly everything made a little more sense. They knew me at the bank: there was no problem there. And Redman and Redman could furnish some of the information that was so badly needed. I went to bed with my confusion a little relieved. All I had to do was seek advice. This was what was lacking in all this terrible affair.
    Back in London, and in the flat, I looked round with surprise. I could make no connection with the person who actually lived there. Who had supplied that clock, that kettle? On the table my dictionaries were as I had left them. I allowed myself a brief half-hour before undertaking the business of the day. I felt a vague indignation on my own behalf, for I saw that in the future my loyalties would be divided. I too had felt relief on handing over my mother to Simon. Now she was in my care, for ever, it seemed. Either she would recover completely and live at Les Mouettes, with another version of Mme Delgado, whom she would have to engage, or she would, as I suspected, want to return to London. In which case I should have to find a flat big enough for the two of us. At the moment my own flat seemed highly desirable, probably because I saw that I should have to leave it. I could not see my mother in a flat of her own, alone and unprotected, and no doubt bearing the marks of what had happened to her. For the shock of Simon’s death, which she must have registered, if not consciously, would undeniably affect her for some time. And her subsequent way of life would, except for myself, be unaccompanied and definitively altered.
    There was an old copy of
The Times
on the dresser. I looked at the property advertisements with horror, for there was nothing we could conceivably afford. Surely Simon had left some money in trust? That was what wealthy men did, and there was no doubt that he was wealthy. I picked up my keys and went to the bank. This, I thought, must take priority. Then I must telephone Redman and Redman and make an appointment to see someone conversant with Simon’s affairs. The suspicion that these might be well concealed visited me only briefly.
    I walked to the bank in Sloane Street, glad of the time it took me. It was February again, as it always seemed to be in that area, but the same old ladies were shopping at the supermarket, the same old men walking their dogs. Had my time been my own I should have lingered, bought some milk, another newspaper. But I had to be purposeful, to come to terms with the fact that I had obligations to meet. I turned into the doors of the bank regretfully, thankful that there were other people at the information desk. What was ineluctable was