Dolly

by Anita Brookner

  Yet I must have slept, for when I awoke it was properly dark and the phone was ringing. For a brief wild moment (and how enriching that moment was) I thought it must be Dolly, apologising, even wishing me well. It was of course Miss Lawlor.

  ‘Jane? Are you coming over for a slice of my Christmas cake? You know how you always enjoy it. And Fluffy and I would be very glad to see you.’

  So I went round to Parkgate Road, through streets which were now black and silent, and sat in Miss Lawlor’s bright little sitting-room, where the Christmas cards were draped on strings over the fireplace, and there was even a small tree, decked with presents for the cat, ‘and for you, dear,’ said Miss Lawlor, handing over something soft, which turned out to be handkerchiefs. Fortunately I had given her a silk square before departing on my great Christmas adventure. I ate slice after slice of cake, at which Miss Lawlor looked on approvingly.

  ‘I telephoned you earlier,’ she said. ‘But there was no reply. Then I realised you must be with Marigold.’

  ‘Marigold’s on duty today.’

  ‘On duty?’

  ‘She’s a student nurse now, Miss Lawlor. She’s on duty at the hospital.’

  ‘Good heavens. She’s still a little girl to me. As you are, Jane. Have you given some thought to the future?’

  ‘I’ll probably go to college,’ I said. ‘In London, so I’ll still be here if you need me. And I can work part-time.’

  ‘That’s nice, dear.’ She frowned. ‘But if you weren’t with Marigold where were you?’

  ‘I was invited out,’ I told her. Nothing could have been further from the truth, but her face cleared. ‘And what about you?’ I said quickly, for I wanted her peaceful images to replace my own discordant ones.

  ‘A lovely day, dear. After church I went on to Mrs Cronin’s and had lunch with her. Then we watched the Queen, and then I came back here and had a rest. I do that now.’ She smiled. ‘I’ve got old all of a sudden, Jane. Maybe it’s retirement. I feel it won’t be long now before I won’t want to go out. But I’m quite happy, dear, so don’t worry about me. I’ve got the ladies from the church, and they’ll look in on me. Not yet, of course; that day is still some way off. And I’ll see you from time to time, not that I want you running over here every five minutes. You see, dear, I’ll be all right because I’ve got my faith. If only you could believe, Jane! It’s like a whole new life being given to you. When I put my light out at night I feel perfectly safe. Do you think you might like to come to church with me one Sunday?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said, for I did not want to offend her.

  ‘Just read a psalm occasionally, Jane. You were always a good girl. I’m sure you’ll come to the light one day.’

  As this was profoundly embarrassing to me I said that it was getting late and that I must go. Then when I was at home and had unpacked all the small parcels of foodstuffs Miss Lawlor had put into a bag for me I did what people without faith do, and made practical arrangements. I drafted a letter to the bank, asking for a certain sum to be paid monthly to Dolly. I may have over-estimated; I could have waited and consulted Pickering, but I wanted this to remain unknown, a secret, so that Dolly would not have to pretend to me (I was after all less impressionable than my mother), and that when she taxed me with being cold, and lacking in charm, as she almost certainly would, my conscience would be almost clear.

  8

  It pleased Dolly to be displeased with me, in order to camouflage her bad behaviour. She never forgave those who criticised her, and my criticism, although not stated, had been implicit. I telephoned her several times, only to be told by Annie that she was out. I accepted that she no longer wished to be in contact, posted my letter to the bank, and when I received no acknowledgement from her came slowly to the conclusion that our relationship was at an end. This caused me disappointment, as well as a degree of relief. I was young, and unwilling to suffer an injustice which I had done little to merit. As time went on it no longer became possible for me to think of Dolly as other than backlit by the lurid illuminations of the hotel ballroom, locked in connivance with the awful Harry, and deaf to all the calls of decency and reason. I hoped that she was happy: I was sure that she was defiant. I saw no way of breaking the deadlock. Therefore, after those unavailing telephone calls, to which there was no response, I did nothing.

  Two years passed, during which I was not entirely inactive. I enrolled at Birkbeck, and was allowed to sit in on lectures until the beginning of the following academic year. I chose to study German, largely because of my interest in the Brothers Grimm, although they were not in the syllabus. I returned to the fairy stories I had read in my youth and found them frightening, as I had not done when I was a child. They have to do with ordeals, and an ordeal is less frightening to a child than unfairness, an arbitrary decision rather than a trial undergone. The reverse is true for adults, of course. I did not see how these stories could be bettered, and I got to know them almost by heart. By virtue of some unconscious process I was familiarising myself once more with the world of children, with whom, in my unguarded moments, I still identified. It seemed to me that one could perform a service to children by gently exploring their interior life: in that way one could neutralise their fears before they developed. I had not yet begun to write, but it seemed as if the task of writing was waiting for me, biding its time until I felt myself to be ready.

  I was thus rather busy, for the days were spent at James Hemmings Enterprises, where I had graduated to the Financial Times and similar economic forecasts, by virtue of being the oldest inhabitant. I spent my time cutting out in the company of Carol and Lynda, two women in their forties, rather sharp, rather knowing, and markedly less convivial than Margaret and Wendy. Although married, they seemed to have a healthy contempt for men, and advertised their availability in a way which bordered on the burlesque. This was their way of winning the war between the sexes, by treating men as victims, or rather by treating them as they thought men treated women. I was rather frightened of Carol and Lynda, who in any case had no time for the likes of me. I annoyed them in ways I could not altogether change: they branded me as a snob, simply by virtue of the fact that I was rather silent, whereas they were given to gales of reminiscent laughter, and the kind of teasing—of each other, fortunately—which made me uncomfortable.

  Again I was perceived as a class enemy, taking the job away from someone who needed it. They were not entirely wrong: unemployment was a new feature of working life. I was not invited to accompany them to the pub at lunchtime, while at the end of the day I left sharply to have a quick bite to eat before going on to Birkbeck. Nevertheless, although I tend to be impervious to hostility, their unfriendly behaviour made me feel lonely. Their conversation ceased abruptly when I entered the office, and they exchanged looks when I remarked that we should need to hurry if we intended to catch the post. I no longer enjoyed the work and would leave the office with relief. Naturally, the fact that I was at college antagonised them even further. Their intimacy with the printed word during office hours did not predispose them to read for either pleasure or profit when they were off duty. They worked mechanically, exchanging remarks from which I was excluded. This began to depress me, and I thought at several points that I might give in my notice, but refrained from doing so from inertia, a certain loyalty, and a mild but persistent fear of the future.

  I was saved from this necessity by J.H., as he liked us to call him, who sat in the outer office with his friends Roger and Gavin, former university friends whom he had co-opted as fellow directors. What they did was a mystery, although we had a growing list of subscribers. J.H. sat behind a computer, stylishly dressed, and ostentatiously engaged in work. I think he was terrified that his mother might come back to see what he was doing. He was not doing very much. The computer was used for compiling lists, which could have taken half an hour out of his working day, if that, since the lists were constantly updated by either Roger or Gavin, whose workload was only marginally more impressive. They appear
ed to think that they were in advertising, an infinitely more glamorous calling, and talked about campaigns and concepts; letters were referred to as mailshots. They had learned the jargon ahead of the expertise, but as the business ran itself, and as they had a hazy idea of what it was supposed to do, there was little opportunity for a difference of opinion. I was regarded as possessing experience and was therefore treated warily by J.H., who was a harmless youth only a few years older than myself. He avoided my eye whenever we met, unlike the other two, who were to be found leaning back in their chairs, their hands clasped behind their heads, discussing the previous night’s party. J.H. was aware of being less astute than either of them. I believe he thought himself less astute than I was. That may have been the case. He did, however, produce one master-stroke, for which I was forced to salute him.

  ‘Jane?’ he said, putting his head round the door to the inner office. ‘Could I have a word?’ I followed him through to his own office, where he seated himself behind his desk. He was deeply flushed, for some reason. The other two silently got up and left.

  ‘I don’t know how to put this, Jane. You’ve been with us for so long.’ I had worked for James Hemmings Enterprises for nearly two years, an unimaginable length of time for J.H. The fact is, we’re restructuring.’ He sat back, relieved to have made himself clear.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I said.

  ‘A merger,’ he went on. ‘Well, actually, not quite. I’ve sold the business, Jane.’ He mentioned a larger and more active concern which had been interested in our lists for some time.

  ‘Does that mean you want me to leave?’ I asked.

  He flushed even more deeply. They’ll want to bring in their own people, I suppose. In fact they’ll eventually shut us down and move us over to their offices in Hammersmith.’

  ‘So we’ve all got to go?’ I asked, reflecting that the press cutting business was proving more volatile than I had previously suspected.

  ‘I’m afraid so. They’ve taken me on: they’re offering short-term contracts to Roger and Gavin to transfer the lists and generally monitor the take-over.’ It had become a take-over, I reflected. ‘I’m sorry, Jane. I know you’ve been happy here.’ I had not, particularly, not since leaving Holbein Place. ‘Perhaps you could tell the girls?’

  ‘I think it would look better coming from you. When do you want me to go?’

  He looked even more unhappy. ‘Perhaps a week or so?’

  The next day was a Friday. ‘Would you mind terribly if I left tomorrow? The girls can stay on until the last minute. They’d prefer it if I left first.’

  ‘What will you do, Jane?’

  ‘I’ll get my degree, I suppose. And then I don’t know. I’ve got a little time to decide.’

  ‘Perhaps I can see you again, Jane? Perhaps we could have dinner?’

  ‘You’ve got my number,’ I told him.

  I doubted whether I should ever see him again. In this I was wrong. We had dinner several times, on the evenings when I had no lectures. When I saw the burning flush increase, and when his glance became unmistakably intense, I would make an excuse that I was very caught up in my work and would not be free until I had finished my degree. Oddly enough this was not an excuse, although it sounded like one. J.H., or James, as he had now become, was hurt, but sufficiently good-mannered to behave rather well. He dropped my hand, which he had been clasping, and signalled to the waiter for the bill. We went home in silence. Outside my flat, which I did not invite him to enter, he offered me his cheek to kiss. The gesture was so completely dismissive that I knew it for what it was, the gesture that indicated the end of the affair.

  I wanted no one. Short of a man’s faithful friendship I wanted nothing. I had had brief liaisons with men I had met at the college and they had left me dissatisfied. I came to the conclusion that I was destined to remain alone, for I was not good at dwindling affection or growing estrangement. I preferred to be precise. The word went round that I was cold—that old accusation—and I accepted it, for that was how I seemed to be. When I came home at night and stepped into the silent warmth of my flat I was grateful that no voice would be raised from the bedroom, reminding me that I was not alone. I resolved then that no one would ever again take up residence, as one or two had tried to do: the word had also gone round that I was well-off. I was a cold rich pretty girl with whom it was difficult to become intimate, which of course encouraged many more to try. I was perhaps unconsciously influenced by Pickering, who was courtesy itself, and who seemed to offer that gravitas which was so lacking in my contemporaries. My contemporaries I saw as children, like myself. For all my coldness I ached when I saw their childish necks, their long bony wrists. Had I been the Brothers Grimm I would have sent them off on a hazardous journey, which they would undertake, bright-eyed, and all unknowing. And I would bring them home again, no wiser. And then the story would be ended. My women friends still sought to appropriate men, in the old manner. I preferred my single state, and the silence of my little room.

  At weekends John Pickering would invite me out to dinner. I would accept one invitation in three, for I knew that he valued his solitude as much as I valued mine. I enjoyed his company, while for his part he found me increasingly sensible. ‘Sensible’ was his highest term of praise. He was in his late forties at this time, and had decided that he was too old for me. That was his sensible decision, never openly referred to, but understood by us both. Neither of us suffered. His affection for me was moderate, like everything else about him; I was permitted to feel moderately in return. In this way I passed my youth almost in statu pupillari, for he still devoted himself to my affairs and to my income, which to my despair seemed to increase. Sometimes I felt like the sorcerer’s apprentice, when my bank statement showed an even more rounded figure. I began to think that I had not made ample enough provision for Dolly, from whom I still had not heard, and mentioned this to John, who was horrified.

  ‘It is more than generous,’ he said. ‘In fact it is excessive. If you had consulted me I should have advised against it. But you acted on your own. That was not sensible, Jane.’

  ‘What worries me is the fact that I haven’t heard from her.’

  ‘She is well,’ he said, with a wry smile. ‘She bombards me with letters, you know. She seems to think of me as her confidential clerk, or her man of affairs. She mentioned buying the lease of her flat, but that is out of the question: it would mean a substantial loan, which I could not authorise. You need not worry about Mrs Ferber. She invites me to her bridge parties when she can’t persuade me any other way. I never go, of course. We have very little in common.’

  Which was his moderate way of letting me know that he disapproved of her, and had done ever since the day he had been forced to disclose the contents of the will.

  ‘There is no need for you to worry,’ he repeated, but I was annoyed that Dolly was in touch with Pickering rather than myself. At the same time I did not want to have to deal with the recriminations I suspected would be forthcoming. Why else would she ignore me, and in so obvious a manner? I had probably been drafted into the ranks of those dear friends in whom she had discovered some unforgiveable fault. I had become ‘funny’. Dolly’s ‘funny’ was at opposite poles to John Pickering’s ‘sensible’. Neither of them chose to be explicit, or to make themselves known. Therefore, I reckoned, they could deal with each other; it would do them both good. In due course I should make another approach, but it would be a final one. I did not care to be put in the wrong: I was a prig who needed a clear conscience, but sometimes I felt tired and in need of family affection, and although I had never received any of this from Dolly I somehow occasionally expected it. I had thought that Dolly might have enquired after my welfare. This she had signally failed to do. Given my relative youth I would be expected to make the first move. But if that move were met with accusations of heartless behaviour I would be as heartless as she had decided that I was in reality. I was cold, as she had always accused me of being; I was fastidio
us; but I was not heartless. Whereas Dolly’s heartlessness was manifest, and I realised that she had never spared much feelings for others. I may have entertained some puerile notion of not being the first to give in. ‘Bon débarras’, she had said. Maybe she had meant it. I contrived not to feel hurt by this.

  ‘I believe she went to Nice,’ said Pickering, spearing a last leaf of salad. ‘I understand her mother died. At a great age,’ he added approvingly. This was obviously a sensible thing to do.

  ‘Then I may hear from her when she comes back,’ I said. And for a time I managed to believe this, and put Dolly quite out of my mind.

  Apart from Pickering my world was emptying, and this suited me well enough. Marigold became engaged to a young houseman who intended to go into general practice; when they both qualified they would get married, and eventually she would work with him in his practice. I liked Alan, a cheerful red-headed youth, or so he seemed to me. I was invited to the engagement party, which was a rather smart affair in a Chelsea restaurant, and I was immensely gratified to see her great-aunts in attendance. They were dressed with solemn magnificence in black, as if to mourn the passing of Marigold’s independence and her forthcoming enslavement to a man, but the black was enlivened with a fair distribution of gold chains and enamel brooches, of the sort one sees for sale at high prices in the Portobello Road. They looked both festive and restrained, as if representing an older way of doing things, before London restaurants were considered as suitable venues for family occasions. They seemed mildly melancholy at being removed from their usual setting and their usual activities, but their manners were, as always, impeccable.