Brookner died on 10 March 2016, ‘peacefully in her
sleep’, according to the death notice in The Times. One thinks of Mrs
March in Fraud, daily scanning the columns. The piece continues less conventionally.
At Anita’s request, we learn, there would be no funeral. Donations should be
addressed to Médecins sans Frontières.
(It is disappointing to find ‘Médecins’ spelt ‘Medicins’.)
No funeral? This was subject to some comment at the time.
It was becoming fashionable – a green alternative to the expense and waste of a
traditional ceremony.
One senses in Brookner other motives. Feelings of dread
and shame. The thought of all those gushing tributes, perhaps from people who
were little more than strangers. The absence or near absence of family. The shame?
Peacefully in her sleep? But we know Anita Brookner’s
death was far from benign, that her flat was on fire, and she had had to be
dragged from it, that she survived for a time afterwards in hospital, but that adequate
rehabilitation wasn’t perhaps at hand. Again and again I think about those
circumstances. She had money enough to afford private care, but probably there
was no one to speak for her. One needs spokespeople, advocates. How conscious
was she? How lucid? Dying among strangers, what were her thoughts? Did
anyone know who she was? Did anyone care?
(In 2009, in her last interview, she had spoken of the
inspiration for what was to be her final novel Strangers. She had had,
two years back, a spell in hospital. She had never been in hospital before. She
had been, she said, literally dying among strangers. Yes, she said, she was
frightened.
But she recovered. God’s little joke, she said.)
Emma Roberts, heroine of Leaving Home, Brookner’s
penultimate novel, is one of her most dejected. Young, she maintains a
relationship with an older doctor, stoical Philip Hudson, who has a son.
Earlier in the novel Emma witnessed the son sleeping, experienced a coup de
foudre. But she didn’t act, and Brookner, perversely, doesn’t explain why.
And of course she doesn’t need to.
It is the son’s intention, we discover, to join Médecins sans
Frontières. It is, Philip Hudson says, what he would have done at the son’s
age. Henry James is recruited. Live all you can! says Dr Hudson.
Will we ever know what private memories or experiences
prompted Brookner to choose MSF as her chosen charity after death?
Comments