Dolly (19 page)

‘And nothing to dress up for. I can’t see us getting dressed up to go shopping at Clapham Junction. You’re young, Jane; you can walk it. We can’t.’

I thought this ridiculous but said nothing. I realised that a slight class difference was emerging. As far as I was concerned we all lived in Battersea. Now I was aware that Margaret and Wendy lived in council flats in a part of Battersea I had never visited and was now not likely to, whatever faint hopes I had entertained of being invited for Christmas, a festival I approached with the purest horror. Margaret and Wendy had no doubt observed among themselves that our flat in Prince of Wales Drive had seven rooms and two bathrooms, with an extra cloakroom, for so I had innocently described it in answer to their seemingly casual questions.

‘The money’s not going to be easy either,’ sighed Margaret. This way we always had a bit in hand. Not that we did it for the money. It was the interest of the thing. And going out to work, well, it gives you respect, doesn’t it?’

It had not given me respect, but rather a childish pleasure in being included, an alibi for the daytime, just as sleep was my alibi at night. And I realised that I had not really needed the money, and that Margaret and Wendy knew this and would not forgive me for my relative affluence. It was clear to me that no work would be done that day, for Margaret and Wendy had already downed tools, regarding Mrs Hemming’s bombshell as a calculated insult to which they were responding with hauteur.

‘And what will you do, Jane?’ asked Wendy distantly.

‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I might stay on, if she wants me. I’ve got nothing else to do.’

It occurred to me briefly that I could now go to Cambridge, but I dismissed the idea. I felt too committed to the memory of the past few weeks to give my mind to anything else. I also felt too frightened. It was one thing to read
David Copperfield
in comfort, in my own bed at night, but quite another to produce a clever essay on withholding in Dickens’s narratives, or the technique of the
mise en abîme
in Dickens’s later novels (I had seen these subjects, or something like them, in specimen Cambridge entrance papers). Instinctively I rebelled against such investigations, which seemed to me clever and coldhearted. Self-conscious, too. And I should never be able to read again with childlike pleasure. I rejected Cambridge out of hand. I may have had some misty attachment to my domestic background: I may have thought I would be all right if I could go home every evening and sleep in my own bed. What I would do in the daytime was less clear to me. It was obvious that Margaret and Wendy would consider it treachery if I continued without them.

‘Oh, I dare say I shall leave too,’ I said weakly.

They brightened at this, and nodded to each other.

‘We thought you’d say that, Jane. It’s no less than she deserves, after all. Two highly trained workers, and you were coming along quite nicely, dear. Will you tell her, or will you leave it to us?’

‘I’ll write to her,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We’re here until Christmas, you said?’ Christmas was a bare four weeks away.

‘Hardly worth coming in, though, is it? Might as well take our money and go. I’ll work out a few days’ notice, that’s all I can say. You won’t have to do that, Jane. I reckon you can leave as soon as you like. Did the funeral go well, dear?’

‘It’s tomorrow,’ I said, desolate once more.

I left after washing up the teacups, as they expected me to do. I wandered home through the park, with a sense of everything ending. I reflected that our exchange had taken no more than an hour: I could easily have stayed and cut up
Country Life
(something of a promotion, which Wendy had handed over after some hesitation) but the atmosphere had been silent and uncomfortable, and I had known that I was expected to go so that they could get on with their ruminations undisturbed. I was aware that I had become something of a class enemy, for my financial situation had been accurately assessed; not for me the happy shopping afternoons in Oxford Street which they had so enjoyed. My own shopping would be subtly differentiated from theirs. Awareness of this was almost palpable. I marvelled at the swiftness with which the change in our fortunes had been registered, but was too saddened by this sudden loss of affection to defend myself. In any event no defence was available to me, since there had been no accusation. Indeed, it seemed almost natural to me that I should lose everything, so utterly bereft did my situation appear to me. I was to remember this situation for some time. In an odd way it served me well, for it rallied my reserves of courage, such as they were. In later life I was to refer to it whenever I needed extra strength to deal with the exigencies of my not very onerous life. My importance in the scheme of things seemed to me minimal, even negligeable,
yet a certain obstinacy, of which perhaps others were conscious, though I was not, kept me afloat.

I kissed them both, at which they bridled slightly, for I had committed the sin of not observing my mourning. I had no need to observe it: I was inhabited by it, but it did not seem worth trying to explain this. The outer office was empty, so I was spared the dilemma of whether or not to announce my resignation. In fact I was determined not to resign, for I might eventually want to do the job again, and I decided that I would write to Mrs Hemmings and ask her to let me know whether or not she might need me. I had a cup of coffee in a sandwich bar, envying the workers who had begun to crowd in on their lunchtime break. Then, since there was nothing else to do, I went home.

I walked through Battersea Park, as I had done so many times before. It was misty, and already growing dim, the weather I liked the most. London parks are at their best in this type of weather, and I lingered in the shadows, aware that the only figures I passed were, like myself, thoughtful, or merely unemployed. That way I managed to use up most of the afternoon. When I got back to the flat I found that Miss Lawlor had left. My supper, between two plates, was on a tray in the kitchen, as if I no longer needed or deserved the formality of a table and its proper accoutrements. Under the top plate I found a slice of meat loaf and a tomato salad, a perfunctory meal which increased my feeling of sadness. It was not that Miss Lawlor was neglecting me: I knew that she was given to tears and did not want me to see her crying. Besides, she was as unhappy as I was, and we found it difficult to comfort one another. I had always taken her for
granted; it was my mother who was her true friend, although she had the company of the church ladies on Monday evenings. But with my mother she was an equal, and was able to discuss her affairs over the teacups. I dare say my father helped her with her tax returns and scrutinised any bills when she thought she had been overcharged. Now there was only myself, and I could do none of these things. In fact I could do very little, and as well as sorrow I felt an immense perplexity, as if I had no idea how to behave in this new cold world.

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.