When it got properly dark I went to bed, regardless of the time. I slept immediately and profoundly. I dreamt not of my mother but of my father, who appeared before me, dressed as if to leave for the bank, but with tears running down his face. I woke after that, aware that the night had turned colder. Then I slept again, and when the morning finally came I got out of bed and went to the window to see mist, a mist that might lighten into sunlight later in the day, and a hard white frost. Now the last leaves that fell made a tiny clatter, and it was bitterly cold.
I dressed in the sad dark colours of mourning, and waited in my bedroom for the day to start. When I could wait no longer I went into the drawing-room: it must have been ten o’clock, and Miss Lawlor and John Pickering were already there. Both seemed unnaturally grave; in comparison I felt as weightless as a leaf. We greeted each other with great politeness and muted concern. Then they stood up with a sigh and came towards me. One arm firmly clasped in each of theirs I went down to the waiting car. Of the actual ceremony I registered little; I kept my eyes cast down and was only aware of the supporting arms. At the noise of the closing doors Miss Lawlor sobbed; I did not raise my eyes. Outside, in the day which had become sunny, John Pickering wiped his mouth with his handkerchief, while Miss Lawlor wandered off and pretended to look at the terrible flowers. Then she recovered herself and came resolutely back, putting away a handkerchief smelling of lavender water. I cannot now smell lavender water without thinking of that day.
‘Come, Jane,’ said Mr Pickering. ‘Mrs Ferber is expecting us. I’m sure she will understand if I leave rather sharply. I have to get back to the bank. But I shall call on you this evening, and perhaps Miss Lawlor would be kind enough to stay with you until I arrive? It will be about six o’clock.’
‘Certainly,’ said Miss Lawlor. ‘I shouldn’t dream of leaving her.’
Then we had better go and drink the coffee Mrs Ferber is so kindly preparing for us. Are you ready, Jane?’
‘Quite ready,’ I said.
I felt a sudden shameful hunger, and I needed that cup of coffee. What I did not need was Dolly, an impression confirmed when Annie opened the door on to a hum of conversation. Dolly’s drawing-room, when we entered it, seemed to be full of people I had never seen before, highly scented women of a certain age, all tremendously dressed up. These women were introduced as, ‘My dear friend, Rose. Dear Meriel, who didn’t want me to be alone on such a sad day. Dear Phyllis, who insisted on coming to comfort me. And Beatrice, who is goodness itself, and who flew to my side.’ I shook hands dazedly with these people. Beatrice, who had flown to Dolly’s side, was a tall distracted-looking woman, possibly a latter-day avatar of dear Adèle Rougier. She held out a long cold hand: I wondered if I was expected to kiss it. ‘Such a beastly day,’ she said vaguely. ‘Have you come far?’
I was aware of a shadow rising to its feet somewhere behind me. ‘And this is Harry,’ said Dolly, ‘who looks after us all.’ She gave a little laugh, as if to imply that the others need not necessarily feel themselves included. A man, the only man in the room apart from John Pickering, crossed the carpet on silent expensive shoes, shook my hand, and then sat down again. Harry: so he existed. I took him in, glad of something on which I could concentrate.
He was a coarse, sly, attractive man, and he was clearly at home. He wore a dark suit and a silver tie, which he caressed from time to time. The expression on a face which I registered as excessively tanned, as from a sunbed, was amused, aware of the farcical elements of the situation. A surprisingly small hand occasionally wandered to his sleek silver hair, which he smoothed, before returning to his tie. He looked like a dance band leader of the Thirties, jovial, expansive, and very slightly testy. He lounged in his chair, revealing an expanse of silk shirt, one leg crossed over the other, his foot wagging rhythmically, as if to music. At no time after he had greeted us did he rise to his feet. When Annie came in with the trolley—the Porthault cups, I noticed—he remained firmly seated, allowing Dolly to wait on him. Almost immediately his plate held a careful selection of petits fours. This was all right, as the ladies protested that they were on a diet. In due course they relented, although it was Annie who was allowed to serve them, I noticed. Dolly, while taking the opportunity to return a few outstanding invitations, was not inclined to let the occasion slip away from her, as was evident from her oddly festive expression. John Pickering was also allowed a certain amount of attention, but the hierarchies were clearly to be observed.
I contributed nothing to the conversation, but merely sat with Miss Lawlor, drinking coffee. After a while Miss Lawlor got up and collected the empty cups. Dolly made sympathetic comments to John Pickering, as if he were the chief mourner. I was the only one out of place. Harry, to do him justice, noticed this, and cocked his head at me. ‘All right?’ he queried, and without waiting for an answer, said, That’s the ticket. Don’t let it get you down.’ ‘That’s the way,’ said Dolly ardently. ‘One must never give in. Heaven knows what this has done to me. But I sing and dance, and I won’t let anyone feel sorry for me.’ Harry favoured her with a glance. I realised that he was no fool. I also realised that he was some years younger than Dolly, although to me he looked old. He was probably fifty-seven or eight, on the right side of sixty, at any rate, whereas Dolly was on the wrong side. I revised my estimate of her age: she must have been sixty-three or even sixty-four. But she looked well, was flushed, and obviously exhilarated. Maybe she was always like this when her friends were around her. But I thought that the exhilaration was due to Harry’s presence, and so did the others, for they had realised that they were there as spectators, a role which they did not fully accept or appreciate.
“I’m afraid I must be getting back,’ said John Pickering. ‘I hope you will excuse me. This has been most kind of you. Jane …’
‘One moment, Mr Pickering,’ said Dolly. ‘As we are all among friends I’m sure you wouldn’t mind putting our minds at rest about Jane’s future. I believe you are the executor? The will,’ she added delicately. ‘Poor Etty’s will.’
‘I’m afraid I couldn’t possibly …’
‘But it would put my mind at rest, Mr Pickering. May I call you John? I do so worry about Jane. And I am her nearest relation.’
He hesitated, clearly embarrassed. ‘Well, if Jane has no objection …’
‘None,’ I said.
‘One moment, dear. Annie, just take the trolley out.’
She seated herself in a wing chair, next to Harry, who was seated in a slightly lower chair. They looked like the Queen and the Duke of Edinburgh at the State Opening of Parliament.
‘This is most irregular,’ fretted John Pickering. ‘And of course I don’t have the document with me.’
‘Just the outline,’ said Dolly. Her tone was tranquil, agreeable.
‘Everything goes to Jane, of course. There is quite a substantial amount. I will give you the details this evening, Jane. That is what I intended to do anyway. But you will be comfortably off, I might even say very comfortably. There is no need for you to worry about her, Mrs Ferber.’ Dolly smiled.
‘There were two other bequests,’ he went on. ‘One of five thousand pounds to Violet Lawlor, “in consideration of our long friendship”. Those were the exact words. And a gift of one thousand pounds to yourself, Mrs Ferber.’ He seemed embarrassed at this, as well he might. We were all embarrassed. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the smile frozen on Dolly’s face. I saw Harry give her an ironic but not unsympathetic glance. I saw one or two of Dolly’s friends exchange the briefest of looks, and then consult the interior of their handbags. Miss Lawlor was flushed and evidently ill at ease. Most faces were flushed, as if after an indiscretion. Dolly, when I could bear to look at her, was the most flushed of all, still smiling, but obviously boiling with rage, and, I thought, looking rather magnificent. Despite her setback this was perhaps Dolly’s finest hour. Hastily regrouping her forces she stretched out loving hands to Miss Lawlor and myself.
‘Dear Jane,’
she said. ‘I’m so glad for you. Could you ask Annie to make some more coffee, dear? I’m sure we could all do with some. And there are some smoked salmon sandwiches, and one of Annie’s fruit tarts. Just put it all on the trolley, dear, and bring it in. Lucky girl,’ she added winsomely. ‘But I am so relieved. I do worry, you know.’
I escaped from the uncomfortable atmosphere in the drawing-room and wandered off in search of the kitchen. As I did so I reflected that this flat was quite large and must be rather expensive. I remembered Dolly telling my mother she had taken it on a short lease ‘for a song’, and supposed that the money obtained from the sale of the flat in Brussels, supplemented by my grandmother’s allowance, was enough to cover it. But if this flat were only rented, as I knew it to be, then Dolly must be nearly at the end of her resources. And the money seemed to flow out, on bridge parties, and Annie’s exquisite refreshments, and a wardrobe which seemed static but must have been renewed from time to time, and the recent refurbishments to her appearance … This last I could understand. It was painfully important to Dolly to make a show of affluence to her friends, one or two of whom may actually have obliged her with a loan but had then taken fright and had never renewed their one offer of help. I could imagine the scene: Dolly sighing over some luxury which she could not afford, or standing in a trance of admiration in front of one of her friends’ possessions. ‘And I’ve seen one just like it!’ she would say. ‘I’ve gone back a dozen times to look at it, and it’s still there. But my allowance doesn’t come through until next month. Oh, I don’t know what to do.’ At which point Rose or Phyllis might, rather reluctantly, take out a cheque-book, reflecting that Dolly seemed to make enough out of her bridge games to buy the pretty object for herself. And the money would be paid back, of course, but after some delay, and an occasional reminder. ‘Dear Rose’ (or Phyllis), Dolly would muse to Beatrice or to Meriel. ‘She does look after her money, doesn’t she? Elle est assez près de ses sous.’ For a French phrase or two went down rather well in the company she was now obliged to keep.
There was also the crucial business of Harry, who might turn out to be Dolly’s last chance. Apart from his creditworthiness—the expensive clothes, the expensive lizard face—Harry had another function, which was to stir Dolly’s heart, which was in danger of becoming atrophied, and to revive her desire. To judge from her demeanour she may have been genuinely in love with him, overlooking her age, which her friends shared and which they had decided should be given over to dignity and respectable pastimes. Dolly’s friends were shocked at her behaviour, and here she may have been imprudent, for she could not resist her moment of glory. For Dolly now possessed a woman’s prime asset: a man. Never mind the fact that all knew that this was a last throw of the dice, that Dolly might not bring it off, that it might end in tears. Never mind the fact that Harry was socially not quite what they were used to (an East End background? they queried, looking concerned for their friend). None of this mattered, as Dolly knew. For Harry had his attractions. His lazy body, lazily at ease in Dolly’s drawing-room, had purpose. It was not of the same order of laziness as, for example, Rose’s husband’s, or Beatrice’s: inert, the chest sunken into the stomach, the trousers riding high. No, Harry looked at women keenly, and if he did not look at Dolly it was because he had already seen what there was to see. A survey had been carried out, and had been found to be satisfactory. And although he might occasionally bestir himself for the other women and convey them in person from door to door, it was obvious from his attitude towards them that he found them of no conceivable interest. The occasional sexual innuendo might fall from his lips, but would be properly noncommittal. ‘Be a good girl now,’ he might call out, as he started up the car again. ‘Behave yourself.’ With Dolly he did not bother. Therefore all were given to believe that Dolly and Harry behaved like grown-ups and did what grown-ups usually did. Further explanations would be superfluous.
I sincerely hoped that Harry would marry Dolly, for she was in many ways an old-fashioned woman, apt to hang on a man’s words, brought up in any case to flatter, to placate, to cajole, as if this were a profession in itself, as it must have been before women worked and earned their own money. And although the money—Harry’s money—would be a consideration, it was the prestige of the thing that mattered. Not only was it of prime importance to a woman like Dolly to have a man of her own, but that same man, if he were willing (Barkis again), would, in marrying her, confer on her a status which she had not enjoyed for many years. And by her own standards she had been very gallant, for I have no doubt that she disliked the company of women, with whom she had no choice but to consort, and not only to consort but to entertain, to ply with Annie’s exquisite delicacies. Her mind was sharper than theirs: she found them stupid and confused, unable to give an account of their own money. ‘Dolly, look at this for me, would you?’ they would say, pulling a sheaf of papers—sometimes a bank statement—from their crowded handbags. No doubt she performed little services for them; no doubt she despised them utterly. Therefore the arrival of a man in her life was an epochal event, for thus she would repair her damaged reputation, and at the same time take her revenge.
When I went back into the drawing-room she was holding court, her cheeks still flushed, but her hand occasionally straying to Harry’s arm. Thus she signified that the paucity of her legacy was but a temporary setback. I had to admire her. I only hope that if ever I suffer what amounts to a public humiliation I react as magnificently as Dolly did on that day. I realised, soberly, that she was enabled so to do by the presence of a man at her side, and was forced to revise certain feminist tenets and articles of belief. At the same time I also realised that I had inherited Dolly’s financial problems—for I doubted that Harry was of an impressionable nature—and that I must work out the best way of tiding her over, as I should no doubt be shortly called upon to do, for our roles were now clearly defined. Then I reflected that she had a thousand pounds, which might give me a brief respite; as far as I was concerned, never having had so much money, a thousand pounds could last a long time. And now I was rich, I thought, and I had never wanted to be. What I wanted was to go out to work, and I somehow thought that my presence at ABC Enterprises would no longer be welcome, for were not wills published in the newspaper? Who, in future, would want to employ me?
I now understand that what I wanted to be was not independent, but its very opposite: dependent. I now understand—but of course did not at the time—that Dolly and I had something in common, an age-old ache that may have been no more and no less than a longing to be taken in, to be appropriated, to be endowed with someone’s worldly goods whosoever they might be, for in that extremity of longing it might hardly matter. But I was young then, and unfeeling, as they all thought, and so, although I was not shocked by Dolly’s behaviour I was sincerely disapproving. She knew this, of course. ‘Dear little thing,’ she mused, laying her hand fondly on my cheek, before whirling away to see to her guests.
‘I really must be going,’ said John Pickering. ‘I will take you both home, if you are ready. The car is still downstairs.’
‘How much is he charging you?’ called Harry.
Mr Pickering ignored this. ‘Must you go?’ said Dolly. ‘The girls are staying.’ Indeed the atmosphere was relaxed. Crumbs were being brushed away, make-up repaired. I did not doubt that there would be a game of cards, and a little mild gambling, later on. None of this was anything to do with me. ‘If you’re sure,’ said Dolly, marshalling us quite smartly to the door. ‘You’ve been so kind, John. I’m sure you won’t mind if I consult you on the best way to invest my legacy, tiny as it is. Goodbye, Jane. I’ll be in touch.’ To Miss Lawlor she said nothing. That was the only sign of her displeasure. When the door shut behind us we avoided each other’s eyes. The coldness of the weather in the street made us gasp.
Oddly enough I was grateful to Dolly for lightening the gloom of that grim day. I reflected that she could always be relied upon to provide a diversion from one’s own tho
ughts, the only things that could rightly be called one’s own. By the same token she would separate one from those thoughts, so that in Dolly’s company one was eternally dispossessed, forced to concentrate on her needs of the moment, as if these were paramount in a world of conflicting claims. On that journey back to Prince of Wales Drive I therefore felt empty of thought, and even of sadness, yet as we approached the flat I was overtaken by a terrible reluctance, even a superstitious horror, of what was awaiting me. I think Miss Lawlor felt the same, for her pale lips moved silently as if she were praying for strength. We stood on the pavement for an unnecessary moment, bidding farewell to John Pickering.
‘I will see you both later,’ he assured us. ‘You’re all right, Jane? You bore up very well.’
Then he got back in the car and was driven to the bank. The funeral must have been hard on him, I reflected. He was a lonely man, or seemed to be. After his wife’s desertion he had sold his house in Chelsea and moved into a bachelor flat, determined never to marry again, although my parents had gently urged him to change his mind. He was a man of deep feeling and the utmost reserve. Unfortunately the reserve did not advertise the feeling, and he was looked upon as a cold fish. He had made a virtue of necessity and fashioned a solitary life for himself, observing a strict and unrelenting routine: the bank, a little rudimentary housekeeping, lunch at his club, and dinner at a local restaurant. On Sundays he had sometimes joined my father for a long walk, but as time went on he seemed more and more determined to endure his own company and set off on his own. Very occasionally he would join us for tea, looking as pale and unemotional in his weekend tweed jacket as he did in his formal suit for the bank. My father had admired him greatly; he in his turn had been fond of my father and indulgent towards my mother. He was very slightly awkward with myself, for he had no children of his own and was uncertain about the variations of childhood or adolescence he might be called upon to observe. He viewed the fact that I was eighteen with relief, for technically I had become an adult and could be treated as one. I was extremely grateful to him for his precision and his coldness, which precluded the possibility of tears or despair in his presence. Nevertheless both Miss Lawlor and I felt the resurgence of both as we turned into the dusky hallway. The afternoon would, we felt, present a problem. Lunch was out of the question; neither of us could have eaten anything.
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