Family and Friends (14 page)

She is therefore all the more relieved when Alfred’s guests turn out to be known to her after all. The aroma of gardenia stealing up this Kentish lane alerts her to the fact that one of these visitors can be none other than Dolly (Dorothea) who was once so very keen on Frederick and who was only just beaten to the post by Evie. In common with most of Frederick’s former girlfriends, Dolly married shortly after his disappearance and chose from among her many suitors the one who bore the least resemblance to Frederick: Hal is a small dry man who is something important at the Board of Trade. The marriage, Sofka remembers, caused some surprise. Not that Hal is anything but a splendid character; he is certainly that and more. But he is very plain. The marriage, as it were, gave offence on aesthetic grounds. For Dolly is a great beauty, and always was. Dolly is the half-sister of Nettie, the little cousin of whom Alfred was so fond as a child. Nettie also married a plain man, but unlike Dolly she seems quite content. Not that she is very closely in touch these days; she seems to be busy all the time. Although neither sister has any children, and thus, one would think, plenty of opportunity to get in touch with their aunt by marriage.

Dolly, in fact, chose her husband for two reasons. One was his plainness, which sets off her extraordinary colouring. The other was his unobtrusive indulgence. Hal can refuse Dolly nothing, which is fortunate, because she lays claim to a great deal. Not only is she spoilt in the way of material adornment, which is her rightful due, after all, but she is, and this is rather more important, allowed to behave in a petulant and selfish manner which was originally thought to be adorable and which is now perhaps only a more exotic version of Nettie’s high spirits. Dolly is one of those beauties whose beauty is their only justification. Her mahogany-coloured hair sets off her white face, which is a perfect oval, and her green eyes are
rayed with lashes like the petals of a flower. Never mind her petulance and her imperious manners; she has always been like that, and anyway the women of this family seem to have these traits in common. Dolly causes a certain lack of jealousy by being so deliberately a chip off the old block. In a way the family has been proud of Dolly for being so irreducible, for being so majestic and impenitent a version of themselves.

Sofka is fond of Dolly, although she never thought her good enough for Frederick. Sofka appreciates her extravagant good looks, her self-indulgence, her exquisite appearance, and the dense aroma of gardenia with which she always surrounds herself, and which is even now commingling with the odour of roasting meat flowing out into the garden through the open kitchen door. Frederick always referred to Dolly as the Lady of the Gardenias and found her too sharp-tempered for his taste. Well, Dolly is sharp-tempered; there is no doubt of that. She is also liable to give offence, although always claiming that the other person is in the wrong. This is where Hal comes in. The deep complicity of their marriage is due to Hal’s ability to absorb Dolly’s permanent sense of having been wronged. Perhaps this feeling dates from Frederick’s having chosen Evie, whose name Dolly has never ceased to blacken. Whatever the cause, it has made Dolly into a discontented woman who is allowed to express her discontent rather freely. The very real discontent beneath the disparaging manner is Hal’s responsibility and one which he has assumed as part of his love for her. Hal will give his consent to anything as long as it assuages Dolly’s fear that she is not being accorded her due.

Strange that such a beautiful woman can be so uncomfortable a companion! After embracing Sofka, Dolly is invited to join her on the lawn, but she can find
no chair to her liking; they are all horrible, she claims, and a wicker footstool is kicked out of the way in Dolly’s impatience to rearrange the circle to suit herself. Then the chair that Alfred brings out from the house is too low for her, and Hal is dispatched to look for something better. Alerted by this commotion, Mimi emerges from the back door, and is delighted to see her cousin, whom she has always admired. ‘Mimi! What a sight you look,’ says Dolly crossly, for she cannot bear to see another woman looking less than her best. ‘Mimi has not been well,’ Sofka murmurs, a little offended. ‘Come and join us, darling,’ she adds, with the tiniest note of pleading in her voice. ‘I was just helping Muriel,’ Mimi explains, referring to the apron she is wearing. ‘And who is Muriel?’ asks Dolly, although she knows perfectly well. Since Muriel has not been there to greet her, she has decided not to recognize her existence. ‘Muriel takes care of us all,’ says Alfred with some constraint, aware that Muriel is within earshot. ‘I’m delighted to hear it,’ pronounces Dolly. ‘In that case I should like some coffee.’

Matters improve when Alfred takes Hal off for a tour of the estate, and Dolly expresses her blank amazement, her unfettered astonishment, at the mere fact of Muriel’s existence. Dolly’s meticulous grooming has always extended to every facet of her physical life, and the appearance of Muriel, in her blouse and her trousers, has stunned her but has not stunned her into wordlessness. Within minutes Mimi has collapsed into agonized laughter, and her mother is so relieved to see her behaving in this way that she allows herself a small smile of complicity, which flowers from time to time into a little laugh. Thus the three women are united and Dolly has fulfilled the family’s expectations by being the only one brave enough to deplore Muriel’s hegemony and the only one rude enough to criticize her appearance. It should be said at
this point that Dolly is dressed for her day in the country in immaculate cream tussore, with a jade-green silk scarf to match her eyes. Sofka notices with a pang that there is a slight resemblance to her younger daughter Betty: that recessive gene that ordains seductive eyes and a sharp expression has emerged in Betty and in the two half-sisters, Dolly and Nettie, but has altogether missed Mimi and the boys. And Sofka sees that it is this recessive gene that leavens the ordinary good behaviour of this family; it is the enabling factor that points the way to will and to satisfaction.

Unfortunately, there can be little doubt that Alfred is in love with Dolly, a fact which Dolly chooses to exhibit and the rest to ignore. Hal’s face and manner become drier and more impassive by the minute as Dolly teases Alfred; it is a sign of Alfred’s lack of experience with women that he appears to be flattered by this. Sofka sighs, seeing merely that Dolly is living up to her reputation for bad behaviour. She fails to see, perhaps because she does not want to, that her son is involved in this bad behaviour. Mimi is uncomfortable; in fact, she is more than uncomfortable, she is frightened. Dolly’s annexation of Alfred, in full view of her husband, brings to Mimi’s mind unwanted reminiscences of that other annexation so long ago. Time has not eroded the horror of that episode, and Mimi has, rightly or wrongly, faced up to her disgrace ever since. It has made her fearful, apologetic, unable to try again. So that the sight of Dolly, who made her laugh so much before lunch and who is in some ways such an essential member of the family, turning into the sort of cruel and greedy woman of fickle appetites and steadfast self-regard whom Mimi has always feared has induced so much discomfort that she can feel a migraine starting and is forced to lie down. From her bedroom Mimi can hear their laughter: Dolly’s and Alfred’s. She
can also hear the silence of Hal, and of Sofka.

It is wrong to suppose that Mimi does not notice these things. She notices them all too sharply. It is only by practising the strictest discipline on herself that she manages to think well of everyone else. All too often it seems to her that the world is a jungle, filled with humans no less rapacious than the animals. Were she to pursue her suspicions, or even to allow them to surface into consciousness, Mimi would be heartbroken. It is in order to avoid heartbreak that Mimi wills herself into accepting everything at face value. Thus Sofka is to her a mother whose love has never wavered, Alfred the brother whose noble self-sacrifice for his family has never been less than voluntary, Frederick a joy, and Betty an amusement. In this way Mimi arrives at the conclusion that Muriel’s manners may be a little uncouth but that her heart is in the right place. And Dolly, well, Dolly is so beautiful that one can hardly expect her to conform to the rules that govern lesser people. In fact Mimi is well aware of danger in the present situation, and the headache is caused by her instinctive recognition that Alfred is no match for Dolly, that Dolly is paying off an old score, and that Hal will remain silent as this little drama is played out. Mimi feels for Alfred that identification of the victim for the potential victim; her heart grieves for him and also for her mother who seems a little bewildered by the childishness which has overtaken her younger son, he who has given so little evidence of childishness for more years than she cares to remember. By facing the truth, even momentarily, Mimi allows herself to think that, after all, they are grown up now, and with a tired sense of powerlessness she gets up and washes her face, and with some lessening of her symptoms, goes down to tea.

To suppose that those who are sexually inactive are also sexually inarticulate is a grave mistake, but one which
is made with disheartening frequency. It would no doubt surprise Frederick, and also Betty, to know that Alfred has been, for some time now, activated into a sense of high tension by that aroma of gardenia, that he has chronicled every lapse of taste, every undeserved complaint, every show of temper that make up Dolly’s usual style of behaviour, and that by watching them he has come to possess a very accurate knowledge of Dolly’s style in other matters. Because of his former blamelessness, Alfred grants himself this descent, and already, in his mind, he commits acts whose daring would surprise all those who know him. Mimi is aware of all this. But she refuses to allow herself to become aware of the fact that these acts may not have been committed solely in the mind. Dolly is too beautiful and Alfred too handsome to permit her to contemplate them in full innocence. But it is the innocence of family life, under the eye of the matriarch, that Mimi accepts as being the only truth which she can bear to contemplate.

As for Alfred, whose sense of his destiny has begun to elude him, it would be asking of him too much to expect him to repudiate Dolly. What Alfred has been seeking, this long time, has been a badge of affinity between himself and the rest of the world. So much good behaviour has been visited upon him that he has felt himself becoming dull, neuter, destroyed as an independent being. He thought to preserve his ideals throughout his mother’s lifetime; he thought to project them into the discovery or the creation of a mythic domain, where they would rest in amity like creatures in a better world. But the world, in the shape of Dolly, has been too much for him, and that house at the end of a long vista, with the smoke curling out of the chimneys and the golden dogs on the lawn, has been replaced by this duller reality in which Muriel is the reigning spirit, if spirit is not too
discarnate a word. Alfred recognizes that he has reached that point in his life when his appetites will be made either risible or entirely valid. The fact that Hal is present, and a witness, is brushed aside. For once Alfred is determined to have his own way. His ideals have failed him, but his will remains.

To see Dolly and Alfred wandering slowly, side by side, up the lane by the side of Wren House, as Mimi sees them much later from her window, is to see complicity. To be sure, Alfred gestures occasionally at the scenery as if to indicate to any chance passer-by the normality of such wanderings, and no doubt his conversation is entirely factual, for Alfred, being what he is, has acquired more land, and has turned the place into a model farm. His initial investment is already showing a profit. In this placid landscape, Dolly, the Lady of the Gardenias, is monstrously unassimilable. In the drawing-room, Hal glances unobtrusively at his watch, computing some timetable of his own. ‘Yes,’ says Sofka, who has followed his glance. ‘You will be wanting to get back. It is too bad of Alfred to set out on a walk just now. But I think the country is at its best in the early evening.’ Sofka has quite enjoyed her day: she has enjoyed sitting and talking with Hal. In a way they make a compatible couple. It is almost as if Hal were in the same category of indulgent seniority as herself. Sofka gets up and goes to the window. ‘I think I see them,’ she tells Hal. ‘I think I see Dolly’s white dress.’ But the dress disappears again into a clump of trees, and after a while Sofka sits down with Hal, and asks him if he would like more coffee.

When Dolly and Alfred return, their appearance is mildly shocking. Both, of course, are immaculate, undisturbed, but their eyes mirror the darkness of the night which seems to have fallen quite suddenly. Dolly disappears to make ready for the journey home, and in her
absence Alfred is seen to laugh with a carelessness that is unfamiliar. It is as if Alfred has glimpsed a promised land, a land filled not only with Dolly but with the enactment of his own desires. That is what is so shocking about Alfred’s appearance: he has lost his composure, his gravity. In their place there is a curious hilarity; he has never looked so young. He has ceased, almost in an instant, to observe the wishes of other people; he has thrown over all his careful upbringing; he is reconciled with the prospect of behaving in dubious taste. When an aroma of gardenia precedes the reappearance of Dolly, her jade silk scarf wound beautifully around her luminous face, Alfred takes one look at her, then turns to Hal, and says, ‘But you can’t go yet. There’s no point in leaving now. If you wait an hour or two the roads will be absolutely empty.’ Sofka, rather tired at this point, but rejoicing in her son’s new exuberance, murmurs that perhaps Hal, who has a long drive in front of him, would rather leave now than later. ‘Nonsense,’ cries Alfred, who seems unwilling to let his visitors depart. ‘You’ll stay here and have an early dinner. I’ll just tell Muriel.’

The fact that he will tell Muriel rather than ask her is but another sign of Alfred’s emancipation. Needless to say, Muriel is not pleased, since she produced smoked salmon sandwiches at an hour which she thought would obviate the opportunity of dinner for the travellers. ‘I can’t start cooking now,’ she says flatly. ‘You’ll have to have scrambled eggs.’ ‘Leave it to me,’ says Dolly, unwinding her scarf. ‘Hal swears by my scrambled eggs.’ Hal looks at her with the veiled gaze of one who never swears at or by anything but is perhaps too dignified to intervene. Grumbling, Muriel follows Dolly into the kitchen in an attempt to forestall her. ‘Is this where you keep the eggs?’ Dolly can be heard to say. ‘How quaint.’