Dolly (20 page)

‘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 thoughts, 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.

‘You’d better have a rest, Jane, a sleep if you can manage it. I’ll go out and do some shopping. And then I think I’d better
make a cake for when Mr Pickering comes. He might want something with his coffee.’

We were both too unsophisticated to think that he might prefer a drink. In that sense Miss Lawlor and I were perfectly attuned, although I did not realise until later how deeply shocked she had been by the events at Dolly’s. Nevertheless I suspected her of using the shopping as a pretext for going round to the church to say a prayer for my mother. This I in no sense begrudged her, wishing for her a peace of mind which might be denied to me.

I wandered into my bedroom, lay down on my bed, and watched the light fade outside the window. Sleep eluded me: I was wearily awake. If I were conscious of any wish it was for the energy to take a long walk in the park, but I did not think Miss Lawlor would approve, and so I continued to lie on my bed, where Miss Lawlor expected me to be, and waited for her to call me and tell me that tea was ready. I was aware of a golden smell of cake baking for the visitor, but the visitor was myself. I felt like a visitor in the house which I now supposed to be mine.

I got up, washed, and changed my clothes. Miss Lawlor had made a small additional cake for our tea, which we ate together, both rather silent. Our silence was nevertheless companionable, for we took one another for granted. Miss Lawlor was very slightly agitated by the impending visit of John Pickering, for the details of her legacy now appeared to her to be illusory, and she feared that he would now tell her that he had made a mistake, that there was no money for any of us.

‘Will he want dinner, do you think? If so, I could make a cheese soufflé—I’ve got some eggs.’

‘No, I don’t think so. And anyway you must go home as soon as he leaves. You must be worn out.’

She smiled tremulously. ‘I am, Jane, I will confess. I felt quite breathless this morning. Funerals are no good to the elderly. Well, it’s over, just this one more ordeal to get through, and then I hope we can have a good night’s sleep. You’ll be all right on your own? You won’t be nervous?’

No, I assured her, I would not be nervous. I was less confident than I made myself sound.

This time Mr Pickering came with an official-looking briefcase, so we knew we were in for some sound instruction.

‘As I said, Jane, everything goes to you. There is quite a substantial sum.’ He mentioned a sum so substantial that I was appalled. ‘Most of it comes from the sale of the house in Maresfield Gardens, which your father invested for your mother. Then there were her own endowments from her father, and your father’s pension from the bank, as well as his own small income from his mother. You follow?’