Dolly (24 page)

I checked out, in the horrible hotel parlance. ‘Checking out already, Madam?’ the clerk enquired, relieved to see at least one of us leave. He ordered a car for me—at least hotels were used to this service, and at the moment it was the only service I required—and we slid silently away into a deserted town, where everyone was at home and would be worn out by lunchtime. At the hotel the carol singers would soon be arriving, to be served up with the mid-morning coffee. And no doubt my shortcomings would be discussed by Dolly and her friends, all of whom would be delighted to have a new and scandalous topic of conversation. The husbands might feel a little sorry for me, but would prudently say nothing. Harry would repeat his opinion as to my real requirements, but here they would laughingly shriek in protest and the atmosphere would be restored to something like normality. I had, if anything, done them all a favour.

My thoughts were so discordant that I hardly noticed the countryside, through which we intermittently passed. Eventually my sadness became qualified by a certain resignation. Dolly’s almost unbelievable crassness I put down to age, and
perhaps something else. What was it? Desperation? A sense of time running out? For although things had gone according to plan—her plan—there was a bitterness about her which surfaced from time to time, in the grimly closed mouth perceived on the journey down, and the force of her anger, which was no longer her more easily recognisable impatience. There was a coarsening there, as if all her instincts had deteriorated. She had not always been so blatant, so complacent in her demands: indeed my father had frequently shaken his head in admiration over her obliquity. Now she had become cynical, like a blackmailer. Yet here perhaps I began to glimpse a deeper reason for her behaviour, for she knew that however silent we remained on the matter, we—my mother, my father, and myself—considered her excessive, and that she was thus destined to remain something of a stranger among us.

For our exclusiveness we were required to pay a penalty. And so uncomfortable were our own feelings in this matter that it never occurred to us to demand something as simple and straightforward as an accounting. If my father had cheerfully sat her down, and said, ‘Now, Dolly, let’s find out exactly how much money you have. Let’s look at your outgoings and see if we can save something.’ Instead of which he had regarded Dolly’s visits as comic interludes, and demanded to be entertained with descriptions of her performance. After all these years nobody knew exactly how much Dolly had to live on, how much rent she paid, what Annie’s wages cost her. She was not in need; that much my mother, and before her my grandmother, had seen to. But they may have felt a fundamental distaste for one who exploited them
so conscientiously, more, for one who put exploitation to work for her as others engage in a profession, and this distaste may have been perceived by Dolly, whose judgements were usually kept hidden but whose instincts were far from misinformed. We had held her at arm’s length and she had made us pay for the privilege. And because I was the last in line I had to be the last victim, for I had inherited not only the money but the moral high ground. For this I would not be forgiven.

Nobody loved Dolly: that was her tragedy. Nobody even liked her very much, and she knew that too. She was accepted as a friend by women inferior to herself because she was vigorous and clever, because she entertained and fed them, because she sorted out their affairs, and listened with every appearance of interest to their feeble gossip. Unnerved and enervated by years of this company she had succumbed to the first man to make a show of virility in her presence, and thus, like any victim, had cast herself under his spell. And he had partly compensated her for many humiliations by allowing her to reassert her right to be a normal woman, with a normal woman’s expectations, love, certainly, even marriage. This far-distant goal had been approached more nearly than at any other time in her long widowhood. Her present coarseness spoke of feelings long held in check by what had in fact been an unwanted chastity. She was a woman of her time and of her age, idle but enterprising, passive but demanding; she would have made an excellent wife. Women of my own generation are expected to accumulate love affairs throughout the years until they are Dolly’s age, although this may be as distasteful to some of them as the
idea of celibacy is supposed to be: they have ‘rights’, usually described as rights over their body, and they are expected to exercise them. But Dolly was in her sixties; she still thought in terms of marriage, and for this reason she was chaste, as her own mother had been in that previous widowhood, and whose shyness and humility she may have cherished as an ideal, in default of any other.

There remained the business of Harry, and his effect on her, all the more dangerous because of her circumstances. She had been encouraged, or had encouraged herself, to think of permanence, whereas what he offered was the most cursory of interludes—even I could see that. To Harry Dolly must have seemed an original personality, the kind which did not normally come his way, but for her age much too impressionable. The temptation to make love to such a woman, and to reduce her to gratitude and passivity, was very real but essentially cruel. Harry offered a ration of lovemaking, to an extent which would cause him no inconvenience. He was even amused by her ardour, which confirmed him in his own high opinion of himself. He had not once in my presence exchanged a gentle word with her, expressed pleasure, or even offered her a conventional greeting. ‘You got here all right, then?’ he had said, looking up from his newspaper, which was not even cast aside. Harry, in short, was the worst kind of man, the kind who fails to recognise his own cruelty. Coarsely attractive he may have been, physically vigorous he undoubtedly was, but he regarded his willingness to make love to lonely women in as professional a manner as others lay claim to an ability to manipulate bad backs. Harry was the sexual equivalent of an
osteopath or a chiropractor: he offered ‘relief’, and gave, as he thought, satisfaction all round.

And in her heart Dolly knew this, just as she knew that he did not love her, that he was the sort of man she would have treated with disdain in former happier times. For Harry did not make Dolly feel safe, and safety was the only condition she now sought. She knew perfectly well that among her friends her status was uncertain, but that all could have been rectified by the presence of a man at her side, or even in the background, provided that his presence was permanent. She may even have reckoned, in her desperation, that if she had a husband, however humdrum, she could afford to be as stupid as Phyllis or Beatrice or Rose, those dear friends by whom she was so profoundly bored. After years of living on her wits she looked on stupidity as a luxury she could not afford, but which she craved, now more than ever, because it held a promise of the peace which had so far been denied her.

So that the coarseness of her own behaviour, towards myself in particular, was in reality the outcome of despair, as if her defences were giving way, her pretences as well, and as if she no longer had the faith in herself necessary to carry out her difficult task. I had seen her at a turning point in her affair with Harry. Despite having spent the night with him (and who knows whether it might not have been the last?) she had been discontented on the following morning, the morning of our argument. She may have sensed that the affair had ended, for Harry would certainly not bother to explain himself, and would have expressed astonishment if she had been unwise enough to challenge him. There had been a tired asperity about her; she had already made the mistake of
wearing that tight trouser suit, which did not become her. Would she commit further imprudences, plant a man’s cap roguishly on her greying head, like the lady in Colette’s story? I was painfully glad that I would not be present to witness this, if indeed it were to take place. At the same time I felt profoundly unhappy for Dolly. Even the matter of the hotel bill upset me. It was then that I had the idea of making her an allowance out of my own money. It was the old equation: she wanted it, I had it. On this silent Christmas afternoon, when Dolly would be tucking in to whatever food the hotel judged appropriate to the occasion and which would no doubt run the gamut down to the very last mince pie (here I became aware that I was hungry), I made a vow to endow Dolly as she would wish to be endowed. There was no doubt in my mind that if I did not do so I should have bad dreams.

It was already getting dark when I reached home. Throughout the journey the driver and I had not exchanged a single word. My thoughts had been so searching and so uncomfortable that I had not noticed this, nor had I noticed the time passing. The sky already had a lightless look, although one could not expect it to get properly dark for a couple of hours. Prince of Wales Drive lay under a silence so profound that it might have been an enchantment: not a car passed in the street, nor were there many lights in the windows. Maybe everyone had gone away, as I was supposed to have done. The sound of my key in the lock was an anomaly, even an indiscretion. I unpacked my bag, made coffee, which I had to drink without milk, and ate an
apple. Then I lay down on my bed, not to sleep, but to reread the last chapter of
David Copperfield
, to give myself encouragement.

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.

I
t 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.