Dolly (18 page)

One decision I managed to make quite easily. The funeral was delayed because my mother’s doctor, for some reason, insisted on a post-mortem. He saw no physical justification for her death, apart from an increased weakness of the heart which he had failed to diagnose. Indeed, apart from providing a sedative for my mother on the day of my father’s death, he had not been in attendance, let alone regular attendance. The funeral was therefore delayed for a week until the various certificates could be produced. When John Pickering told me all this on the telephone I listened humbly; when he asked me if I would trust him with the arrangements I thanked him with the sincerest gratitude.

‘Whom do you want me to notify, Jane?’ For he saw that I was inexperienced and wanted to spare me what he correctly thought of as embarrassment.

‘I don’t want anyone at the funeral, John. Just myself and Miss Lawlor. And you, of course.’

‘I should in any case be present,’ he reminded me gently. ‘In my position as executor. And I was very fond of your mother. Paul, of course, was a dear friend. I have known them both for many years.’ He paused. ‘Just the three of us, then? You won’t want a friend to stand by you? It will be quite an ordeal, although it will be over quickly. That is the advantage of a cremation over a burial. Any family?’

‘No,’ I said. ‘No family. Miss Lawlor will see me through.’ For I considered Miss Lawlor to be the last remnant of our
little family, and knew that with my arm through hers I should not falter. I even hoped that I might absorb some of her faith in her Saviour, but there was as yet no sign of this, and when I lay down in my bed at night I stared into the darkness, knowing that it would not be lightened by any supernatural agency, and that what faith I had would be in Miss Lawlor’s prayers rather than in any of my own.

But the mention of family led me to telephone Dolly, who had as yet no knowledge of my mother’s death. This was a shameful omission on my part, which put me in the wrong, from Dolly’s point of view and from my own, for many years. Quite simply, my instinct told me she had no part in this event; she had shown little compassion for my mother, whom she regarded as more fortunate than herself. According to Dolly’s reasoning, my mother’s inheritance had made her fortunate in perpetuity. That she chose not to spend it consigned her to the ranks of the meek, whom Dolly despised. For myself she had not an ounce of feeling, except perhaps for a certain irritable dislike. Nevertheless, she insisted that I make a show of feeling for her own person, that I accord her deference, and concern. A fiction of affection must be maintained; she must be credited with sentiments which she had not previously thought to entertain.

When I told her of my mother’s death—after three whole days had passed—her shock seemed to me entirely genuine, but overlaid with indignation.

‘How could you, Jane? I would have come over at once if I’d known she was so ill. How could you be so unfeeling? After all, you’re all I’ve got.’

She meant, and we both knew it, ‘I’m all you’ve got.’

‘I could come over now,’ she said doubtfully, sniffing and blowing her nose. There’ll be her things to sort out. I dare say I could help you dispose of them, though we weren’t the same size, of course. She’d managed to let herself get very thin.’

The funeral will be on Friday morning,’ I said, with as much calmness as I could muster. ‘But no one is to come.’ To make quite sure of this I refrained from giving her the time, which was eleven o’clock. ‘Only Miss Lawlor and myself will be there. And John Pickering. No one else.’

‘What a strange girl you are, Jane! Not like your mother. Oh, well, if you’ve made up your mind. But of course you must come back here afterwards. You and Mr Pickering.’

‘And Miss Lawlor.’

‘Oh, Miss Lawlor, of course. She can give Annie a hand.’

‘A hand with what?’

‘Really, Jane, don’t be ridiculous. It’s customary to offer refreshments on these occasions, you know. Violet can make herself useful. I dare say she’ll be glad to.’

‘But there will only be four of us. Four of us with Miss Lawlor,’ I said pleasantly. I was very angry.

She gave an elaborate sigh. ‘As you wish, Jane. I’m not going to argue with you.’ She managed to leave me with the impression that nothing would have given her greater pleasure. Then there was another sigh, more tremulous this time. ‘Poor Etty. Poor girl. She didn’t have much of a life, did she?’

‘How can you say that? She was happy. She had my father.’ I managed not to say, she had me, but Dolly gave a forbearing little laugh, as if she had heard the unspoken words.

‘Yes, I dare say she was happy in her own funny way. What will you do with the flat, Jane?’

‘Live in it, I suppose.’

‘But it’s too big for one person. You could get yourself a little studio somewhere. I might be able to take the flat off your hands. Or one of my friends might know someone. Not that it’s very conveniently situated. I always wondered why Etty lived in such an out of the way place. And I don’t think it’s very suitable for someone of your age. You shouldn’t be living alone anyway. Why don’t you move in with a girlfriend?’

‘Miss Lawlor is here with me. I’m not alone.’

‘Oh, Miss Lawlor, Miss Lawlor. I’m hearing a lot about Miss Lawlor today. Anyone would think you cared more for her than you do for me.’

Since this was an accurate observation I said nothing. I did not yet know how to lie. At the other end of the telephone I could almost hear Dolly’s temper rising, but all she said was, ‘I’m very upset, Jane. You might consider my feelings when you’ve got a moment. Very well. I’ll expect the three of you on Friday. I dare say you’ll be quite glad of me then, if at no other time.’

This was said with surprising bitterness and left me thoughtful. As far as I knew I did not need Dolly, although it occurred to me that the gifts my mother had made so discreetly would now have to be made by myself. I had in a sense inherited Dolly from my mother, just as my mother had inherited her from her mother. This did not worry me unduly, but Dolly’s bitterness made me feel somewhat ashamed. She did not care for me, and yet she wished me to
care for her, or perhaps to make a show of caring for her. In what abyss of non-feeling did Dolly dwell? She made careful placements of affection, always ready to be withdrawn in a fit of indignation. Her world was loveless, and she craved love as others crave sugar, and for the same reason: to replace a sudden lack, of which she would be abruptly and fearfully aware.

Her needs were primitive, immediate, and therefore pressing; they appeared to her to be entirely natural and justified, so that it was difficult to indicate caution, or wariness, certainly not disbelief or disagreement. Those who were not with her were against her, nor were one’s own feelings of any interest to her. She no doubt saw my news, or rather the announcement of my news, as shocking, and would be swift with accusations of coldheartedness. Of my own situation she remained unaware, and even indignantly unaware. I did not underestimate her own feeling of loss. She knew that my mother had been a true friend to her, and would have registered a sensation of sadness at her disappearance. Yet she had not noticed—had genuinely failed to notice—my mother’s obvious decline, engrossed as she was in delightful speculations of her own. These, naturally, were uppermost in her mind, and I emphasise, as she would have done, had she thought about it, the word naturally. When I had last seen her she was flirtatious, impatient: I had thought her in love, then. Now I see that my reasoning was frivolous, that Dolly’s need for love was more archaic than this, that what she wanted was to be thought of as a loveable person. She wanted to demonstrate that she was worthy of love, of any kind of love, of all kinds. And if she clung to this supposed
lover of hers, she was willing to cling no less to myself, grotesque though this may seem. And had been repulsed. I now saw that she had detected my lack of affection with her fine adventuress’s instincts, and was ready to punish me for life.

Because we both considered this telephone call to be disastrous, revealing too much on both sides, our farewells were cold, subdued on my side, unforgiving on hers. To my already great distress was added a feeling of unworthiness; I was not only deficient in family solidarity, I was deficient in feminist solidarity (a far greater crime at that time). Because I had considered Dolly well able to take care of herself I had failed to ask certain questions. ‘What do you need? Whom do you love? Whom do you miss? What do you share? And with whom do you share it?’ Because I needed someone to ask these questions of me I became aware of the questions themselves. ‘What do you lack?’ I thought; that was the most fundamental question of all. Yet how could one ask such a question of others? It would be almost impertinent, as if one were in a position to dispense charity. But if charity meant love, as it did in some translations, should one not dispense it anyway? But what regard should one have for the sensitivities of others? If I had asked such questions, crudely, of Dolly, she would have bridled with indignation, with justifiable outrage. ‘You look after your affairs, and I’ll look after mine, thank you, Jane.’ She might add that she had never asked anything of anyone, and no doubt believe it. To a certain extent this was true. Dolly did not ask; she merely indicated that others were in a position to give. That was quite different from asking. And the burden had already been placed on my shoulders by Dolly, who was in one of her periodic states of lack. I say lack
rather than need, for need could be rather more easily dealt with. The burden Dolly placed on me was but a pale reflection of the burden she placed on the world. Love me! Save me! Already I had let her down. But how could I not? This last question, I am sure, she never formulated. She simply knew that I, like many others, had disappointed her, and that she, so gifted for pleasure, so ardent and so apt, must henceforth deal with a sullen girl, who showed no signs, and would never show any signs, of understanding or of sympathy with the life that Dolly so longingly desired.

These reflections made me so uncomfortable that I slept badly that night. The following day I went back to work, although I had been given the week off and was not expected to return until after the funeral. My arrival in the office seemed to cause a certain amount of surprise, as well it might, and was judged to be tactless. In the outer office Mrs Hemmings was on the telephone as usual, and no doubt to her daughter, who seemed to be causing a great deal of trouble. She raised her eyebrows at me in an attempt to express both astonishment and sympathy: as I shut her door behind me I could just hear her say, ‘Daddy was
tremendously
disappointed …’ and then I was where I longed to be, with Margaret and Wendy, in whose infinite commiseration I had unconsciously placed a good deal of trust. This, however, was not forthcoming, at least not to the extent which I had perhaps rashly anticipated.

‘Why, Jane,’ said Margaret. ‘We didn’t expect to see you here.’

‘Our deepest sympathy, dear,’ said Wendy, but her heart was not in it.

‘I just couldn’t stand being in the flat any more,’ I said. ‘Have you had your tea? Shall I make it?’

‘That would be kind, dear. Will you have a cup yourself? Were you thinking of staying?’

‘Of course. If that’s all right.’

‘We didn’t think you’d want to, after what had happened to your poor mother, going like that. No, no sugar, dear; I’ve given it up.’

They drank their tea in silence, clearly disapproving. I had come in for so much disapproval of late that I was nearly sunk under the weight of it. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have a good deal of self-control, and although I wanted to cry and sob my eyes were quite dry and my face composed. Besides, I reflected, only my mother and I knew the truth of the matter, and I had only to remember our oddly tranquil last night together, or even our last weeks together, when there had been no panic, no impatience, and, more important, no disapproval, to feel reassured. What sadness I felt had to do with the fact that no one else had shared or witnessed our accord, so that I would be eternally censured for my lack of feeling, when what had happened had involved a plentitude of feeling, of a nature to leave me denuded in the future and almost affectless in the present. I was aware of the coldness and darkness of the day, of the hissing overhead neon light, of the crammed wastepaper baskets. I would find no comfort here.

Margaret and Wendy continued to drink their tea in silence, eating their biscuits with constrained good taste.

‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked. ‘Shall I go home?’

Margaret stirred from her trance.

‘It’s not you, dear. It’s just that we’ve had a bit of a shock.’

‘She dropped a bombshell,’ said Wendy, rolling her eyes towards the outer office. ‘Didn’t even wait until we’d taken off our coats. “Relocating,” she said. ‘The lease is up and I can’t afford a new one.’ Not that it affects
her;
she could shut up shop entirely, as far as I can see, probably wants to. We all know about her place in the country, taking off on a Friday and not coming in till Monday afternoon, sometimes Tuesday morning, sometimes Tuesday after
noon
. She won’t be affected. But what about us?’

Handkerchiefs were brought out; eyes were dabbed.

‘Five years we’ve been here,’ said Margaret. ‘And now I suppose it’s early retirement. Not what we expected. And just to let us know like that! And then she was on the telephone again, straight away. Her precious family: that’s all she ever thinks of.’

‘Just a minute,’ I said. ‘If she said “relocating” that means she’s taken another office somewhere.’

‘Warwick Way, she said, but that’s not convenient. We’re used to catching the 137, door to door. We can’t do a long journey, not at our age.’

‘It’s not that far,’ I said. ‘You could catch the tube from Sloane Square to Victoria, and walk the rest of the way.’

This suggestion was met with a certain amount of scorn. Dissension was in the air, and it was they who wanted sympathy.

‘When do we have to go?’ I asked.

‘She’s shutting down at Christmas, so that’s when we’ll leave. I might think about coming back, but Wendy’s dead against it. She’s got our telephone numbers, if she wants us. I
might consider part-time, but I don’t know. It’s just that it’s so quiet at home, with the children gone. Not that you’d know about that.’