Making Things Better Read Free

those weekend visits would, he thought, be with him beyond the grave. All the deaths were natural, yet all had an aura of horror. It was their lives rather than their deaths that were regrettable, and all the frustrated love that had failed to sweeten their end.
    Even at his age he still felt the hurts of childhood, the ever-present anxiety represented by the family which was in his charge. For he had been the only viable member of that small unit, mismatched, divided, uncertain. His father’s life had been one of unsought duties, of which pacifying his disappointed wife had been uppermost. He had left for his humble employment as a shop assistant with the relief of a man let out of prison, leaving Julius to take charge of his diminished household, until another vacancy in the shop offered Julius the same reprieve from domestic sorrow. And the shop had been his eventually, when the owner, Ostrovski, a fellow German despite his name, retired to southern Spain. Ostrovski had been his first and last benefactor, had befriended him, had taken him to the Czech club to meet others in the same boat. Exiles, Herz had had time to reflect, were the original networkers. At the time he had not recognized the generosity of feeling this represented; he was reading his way through
Palgrave’s
Golden Treasury
and exiles had no place in his new English life.
    Now, retired himself, he almost wished he still had the shop to go to, so that he could take his place in the early-morning streets with fellow workers. Instead he would go out to buy his newspaper, would read it carefully over breakfast, and then go out again to buy something for his lunch. He was no cook; there was nothing to prevent him eating out, but he felt conspicuous on his own and preferred to return home until he could think of a further excursion to occupy the afternoon. A gallery would do, a bookshop in the centre of town. It was a laborious life, lived with caution. He no longer had the heart for those solitary holidays, his suitcases relegated to the storeroom in the basement. He welcomed the night hours, even though he slept badly. His parents had gone to bed soon after their evening meal. By eight-thirty their meagre flat was silent. Now that silence was being replicated. He too went to bed early, recognizing the despair that had prompted those parents to do so. At moments like these his habitual smile faltered, as it had done all those years ago. Dreams were his only reward, his only birthright.
    Bathed and shaved he felt more confident, applied the pomade and the cologne that did little for his appearance but conformed with some gentlemanly ritual that must also have been a family characteristic, belonging to more spacious times before their translation to reduced circumstances. In this way he could confront the day, would repeat the grooming process with the brushing of his coat and shoes, with the final smoothing of his hair. The street beckoned, with its illusion of life, of company. At moments like this he envied no one, indeed he knew of few people to envy. Solitude had bred a stoicism which he hoped would see him through. He patted his breast pocket to assure himself that his pills were in a safe place. He did not consider these pills to be serious, but at his age, he supposed, everyone took pills. And the young man who was now his doctor had looked at him so trustingly, rather as if his own health depended on Herz’s obedience. And it was not raining for once. He thought he might telephone his former wife at some point and suggest lunch or dinner. Although they had parted without regret he still looked forward to seeing her, and thought she felt the same. The divorce had been amicable. He thought of it as the one good thing he had managed to bring off. So did his ex-wife. The memory brought a certain grim amusement. Strangely there was no bitterness. When he thought of her, which was not often, the smile found its place once more. Lunch, he thought,