the knowledge that such problems would in future accompany me throughout life. Until . . . But this could not be envisaged.
I explained to the girl behind the desk that I wished to close my account. She expressed disappointment, that of a parent with a disobedient child. I asked her humbly how much money I possessed; she mentioned a sum which seemed respectable but inadequate to meet further costs. I then said I should like to close my mother’s account. That would not be possible, I was told; her permission would be needed. Or power of attorney, she added. In any event she thought it unwise. Wearily I explained the situation. After some discussion we agreed that it would be better not to disturb my mother’s account. My own money would have to suffice for current expenditure. In time, when my mother was recovered, she would no doubt want to take charge of her own affairs. I agreed to this, because I already had an uncomfortable amount of money in my bag. With this I should have to pay bills at the clinic and buy my ticket back to Nice.
Redman and Redman, in Seymour Place, sounded remote, until I explained that I was acting for my stepfather, Simon Gould, who had sadly died. The voice at the other end of the telephone softened slightly: oh, yes, Mr Gould had been a client, and they had been very sorry to read of his death in
The Times
. Mr Clifford Redman would certainly see me, but unfortunately he had no free time before the following Friday morning. I made an appointment for the Friday morning, wondering why everyone I needed to see was so busy. I remembered my day spent waiting in the corridor of the clinic, and the pure gratitude I had felt at the sound of approaching footsteps.
In the interstices of a crisis there is nothing much to do. I telephoned Nice for news (there was no change) and told Marie-Caroline that I should be back shortly. The French voice induced a pang of nostalgia, not for Nice or the clinic but for the days of easy exchange, a long time ago. In a strange way I was imprinted by that first visit, just as I was imprinted by Adam, and our days in Paris. A peculiar innocence was gone for ever. By innocence I really meant ignorance of the world’s demands. I had been blessed, I now understood, and my present situation was the common consequence of unsought responsibilities. Though I was not yet old I felt old, for I was now to be my mother’s guardian, a parent to my own parent. Later I came to understand that this too is the common lot. And yet I longed for my freedom. Deliverance was no longer possible. Even envisaging my mother’s total recovery required an effort I could no longer make. And my own recovery? That, I feared, would have to be postponed indefinitely. It would be safer, and wiser, to assume an endless vigilance. The motionless figure in the hospital bed was now all my future.
8
Mr Redman impressed me favourably. A large mild man with a soft voice, I identified him with the brothers Cheeryble, those benevolent men of affairs who disposed of a cottage at Bow to house the helpless Mrs Nickleby and her daughter, Kate. I hoped he might do the same for me, until I remembered that such felicity occurs only in Dickens.
Even more reassuring was the interesting decrepitude of his establishment. In the outer office a lady in advanced middle years was working at an upright Royal typewriter which I instantly coveted. There was a smell of coffee and a sense of order which only initiates could understand. Seymour Place had alarmed me: it had seemed severe, metropolitan. The office, such as it was, breathed a kind of dusty informality which formed a sharp contrast to the silence and efficiency of Dr Balbi’s clinic. Apart from the noise of the typewriter this place too was silent. I wondered if Mr Redman had any clients at all, apart from Simon. It was possible that men of immense wealth preferred to entrust their affairs to this diffident affable man, but I was not convinced that he would be
I explained to the girl behind the desk that I wished to close my account. She expressed disappointment, that of a parent with a disobedient child. I asked her humbly how much money I possessed; she mentioned a sum which seemed respectable but inadequate to meet further costs. I then said I should like to close my mother’s account. That would not be possible, I was told; her permission would be needed. Or power of attorney, she added. In any event she thought it unwise. Wearily I explained the situation. After some discussion we agreed that it would be better not to disturb my mother’s account. My own money would have to suffice for current expenditure. In time, when my mother was recovered, she would no doubt want to take charge of her own affairs. I agreed to this, because I already had an uncomfortable amount of money in my bag. With this I should have to pay bills at the clinic and buy my ticket back to Nice.
Redman and Redman, in Seymour Place, sounded remote, until I explained that I was acting for my stepfather, Simon Gould, who had sadly died. The voice at the other end of the telephone softened slightly: oh, yes, Mr Gould had been a client, and they had been very sorry to read of his death in
The Times
. Mr Clifford Redman would certainly see me, but unfortunately he had no free time before the following Friday morning. I made an appointment for the Friday morning, wondering why everyone I needed to see was so busy. I remembered my day spent waiting in the corridor of the clinic, and the pure gratitude I had felt at the sound of approaching footsteps.
In the interstices of a crisis there is nothing much to do. I telephoned Nice for news (there was no change) and told Marie-Caroline that I should be back shortly. The French voice induced a pang of nostalgia, not for Nice or the clinic but for the days of easy exchange, a long time ago. In a strange way I was imprinted by that first visit, just as I was imprinted by Adam, and our days in Paris. A peculiar innocence was gone for ever. By innocence I really meant ignorance of the world’s demands. I had been blessed, I now understood, and my present situation was the common consequence of unsought responsibilities. Though I was not yet old I felt old, for I was now to be my mother’s guardian, a parent to my own parent. Later I came to understand that this too is the common lot. And yet I longed for my freedom. Deliverance was no longer possible. Even envisaging my mother’s total recovery required an effort I could no longer make. And my own recovery? That, I feared, would have to be postponed indefinitely. It would be safer, and wiser, to assume an endless vigilance. The motionless figure in the hospital bed was now all my future.
8
Mr Redman impressed me favourably. A large mild man with a soft voice, I identified him with the brothers Cheeryble, those benevolent men of affairs who disposed of a cottage at Bow to house the helpless Mrs Nickleby and her daughter, Kate. I hoped he might do the same for me, until I remembered that such felicity occurs only in Dickens.
Even more reassuring was the interesting decrepitude of his establishment. In the outer office a lady in advanced middle years was working at an upright Royal typewriter which I instantly coveted. There was a smell of coffee and a sense of order which only initiates could understand. Seymour Place had alarmed me: it had seemed severe, metropolitan. The office, such as it was, breathed a kind of dusty informality which formed a sharp contrast to the silence and efficiency of Dr Balbi’s clinic. Apart from the noise of the typewriter this place too was silent. I wondered if Mr Redman had any clients at all, apart from Simon. It was possible that men of immense wealth preferred to entrust their affairs to this diffident affable man, but I was not convinced that he would be
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