Family and Friends (15 page)

It is not a comfortable meal but it is the one that Alfred
enjoys the most since he has presided over his own table. It is not even very speedily produced, for Dolly has rejected the sturdy pottery which Muriel thinks suitable for an impromptu supper, and has insisted on going through the many spacious cupboards in search of something more pleasing. Mimi, who has reappeared in order to see them off, and who still looks slightly blinded by her headache, is set to washing the fine china which Dolly has unearthed, while Muriel is instructed to throw away the tea-towels with which she liberally covers every surface and to go up to the linen cupboard and unpack some new ones. Suddenly the spirit of improvidence descends on the place, and is found to be rather heartening. Even Sofka laughs and takes a tea-towel. ‘These spoons, Alfred. They came from my mother, you know. They need polishing.’ ‘Muriel will do them tomorrow,’ says Alfred fearlessly. Muriel says nothing.

The table at last begins to resemble those virtuous and rewarding tables that Alfred has read about in the works of Charles Dickens. Dolly has even begun to behave like a niece. ‘Sit down, Tanti,’ she instructs Sofka, and Sofka smiles; it is like having Betty at home again. Mimi, with one hand shading her left eye, tries not to see too much with her right eye. And yet the scene is innocent. Even Hal is smiling. Alfred roars with appreciation as Dolly enters with a platter of eggs and toast. Tea is poured from a newly discovered Georgian teapot, which Muriel had placed out of reach on a high shelf because she does not want to polish it. Laughter rings out; family reminiscences are exchanged. And Dolly seems, in some way that none of them cares to examine, to have assumed her rightful place at the head of the table. Never mind Mimi, now trying not to wince at the noise; never mind Sofka, who has in any case always insisted on sitting at the foot; never mind Muriel, who hovers by the door quite mute
with indignation; never mind Hal, who is so good-natured that he will sit anywhere. Never mind anyone, thinks Alfred, looking at Dolly; she is here, and I am here, and we are here in my house.

It is with the conviction that he has reached a watershed that Alfred allows himself to be so joyous. He has the mistaken impression that all those present both understand and forgive his behaviour. This is by no means the case. This air of family unity serves to disguise the unforgivable facts; for it is as a family that they are united and it is as a family that they will be disunited. The connection between Dolly and Alfred must not be examined: the taboos of the old world still obtain. And if Alfred, in his new spirit of liberation, and Dolly, in her old spirit of self-regard, are quite comfortable in this atmosphere, there are those present who are not. Mimi begins to think, quite uncharacteristically, that unless Dolly and Alfred treat Sofka with more deference they are in danger of courting her disapproval. Mimi knows that Sofka, as yet, suspects nothing, but that she will be alert to any dropping of standards. What Hal thinks nobody knows. Sofka is so tired by now that she remembers that Dolly always had a tendency to go too far and lets her mind drift back to the old days when Dolly and Nettie were children, when her children were children. And Muriel, who sees exactly what is happening, and who, moreover, sees what has happened, thinks that in future she might as well make herself pleasant to Dolly, because Dolly is the one who really counts in this place.

It is after supper, and rather late, that things begin to go a bit wrong. Dolly is so enlivened by her success that she fails to relinquish her position as head of the household. Is it by accident that she moves instinctively to Sofka’s chair? Instinctively, Alfred and Mimi indicate another. This displeases Dolly who announces that she
really does not feel like going home yet, and that she would like a brandy. Brandy is produced, and for the sake of good form they are all given a little glass. It is not usual, thinks Sofka; what is different? She is now so tired that she would willingly go up with Mimi and leave them all, but it would not be polite. Yet she feels that Alfred should have noticed the signals and that he should have ensured that the house be quiet at this hour. ‘Which way did you come down?’ she asks Hal. ‘It usually takes two hours when Alfred drives.’ ‘A little more than that,’ says Hal, apparently without emotion. ‘Come on, Dolly. Time we were going.’ ‘I want another brandy,’ says Dolly.

It is at this point, seeing her son’s rapt face, that Sofka gets to her feet. ‘You will excuse me,’ she says. ‘I seem to tire so easily these days.’ And it is true. Suddenly she can hardly climb the stairs. She looks in on Mimi and sees her sitting at the window, already in her nightgown, staring at the dark shape of the hill. This eruption of sexual energy has left Mimi thoughtful and despairing. By common consent, mother and daughter say nothing, but Sofka, despite her tiredness, sits for a while, with her cool dry hand stroking Mimi’s brow. Then she leads her to the bed, and sits with her again, as if Mimi were still a child and the two of them were still in the old nursery. When she judges Mimi to be asleep, she gets stiffly to her feet, goes to her room, and closes the door, unwilling to catch a thread of noise from downstairs. As she lies, apparently composed, in her plain lawn nightgown, she hears Muriel clump up to bed. Then, very late, she hears the car drive off, and the doors being bolted. Finally she hears Alfred, whose steps seem to be furtive, but who is simply trying not to make a noise, going past her and into his room.

Well, thinks Sofka, he is a man now. He is not the boy who longed for my hand on his brow when he had been reading too much, and who whispered to me at the table,
safe by my side. He is a man and he is doing important work; he must have his flirtations like other men. Had it been Frederick, the thought would have given her pleasure; as it is Alfred, she feels pain. I had hoped to keep him with me, my true son, and now my son is turning into his father’s son. And with Dolly! I remember them as children, laughing and over-excited. I never thought he would marry, like the others. I thought he had passed the age of danger.

The hours of the night seem very long and very slow; it is as though the significance of this day cannot easily be relinquished. Sofka does not sleep, but addresses the Almighty, rather as she would address her bank manager, with the assurance of one who has always been solvent. I have loved them, she assures the deity in whom she does not fully believe. I think they have loved me. I am tired now. All I ask is that I should keep them a little longer. There will be time later. If Alfred is to make a fool of himself, at least let him avoid bringing disgrace on the family. You know that I have done my best. I have kept the faith. Please let Alfred settle for an
affaire
rather than insist on a divorce. That is what my husband always did, and everybody seemed to like him for it. I really do not understand these matters. Please let Alfred stay with me. If I am to lose anyone, let it not be Alfred. The best solution would be for Mimi to find a good man and marry him. Alfred would not then leave me alone. You know that I am getting old. I do not know how long I have left. I have not asked for much, but all in all I have been grateful. I only ask for Alfred’s sake. He has always been so good. And it would be a pity if he were to change.

As the house settles down and the night slips into the next day, a cool wind springs up and stirs the curtains. Sofka takes this as a sign that her message has been received, and at last allows herself to sleep.

A
S THE WEATHER
turns cold and the year slips into darkness, fewer weekends are spent at Wren House. There seems to be a tacit agreement about this on both sides. Sofka prefers, or says she prefers, the warmth of the flat in Bryanston Square; Alfred explains that it is not fair to Muriel to expect her to house and feed his guests every weekend. At this, Sofka raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She has no wish to know what happens at Wren House these days. She is more at ease in the dark and familiar confines of her cigar-coloured drawing-room, with its brown velvet curtains shuttered against the night. She has taken to sitting there for most of the day now, paying fewer visits to the girls in the kitchen, no longer interested in the clothes they make for themselves, or the boyfriends they treat so cruelly and with so much laughter. Sometimes she will sit for a long time listening to Mimi’s piano (‘
O doux printemps d’autrefois
…’) and her hand will begin to shake. ‘Mimi,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you sing that song that Betty used to sing?
“Les Filles de Cadiz”
, it was called. Betty sang it so beautifully.’ I shall never see her again, she thinks. She is too far away.

Sometimes, to please her, Mimi sings the song, but it does not sound the same. Mimi’s voice is too veiled, too elegiac, too devoid of Betty’s snap and vivacity. She makes the invitation in the song sound implausible, unconvincing,
in poor taste: a failed attempt. At thirty-five Mimi seems unfledged. As a young girl she had been enchanting; her innocence was then reflected in the candour of her looks. The heavy hair, the smile of greeting, the hesitant walk may not have been conventionally attractive; but, more important, they were disarming. One looked and saw no guile. There is still no guile in Mimi, and Sofka almost wishes that there were. She compares Mimi’s silent presence in the apartment with the girls and their irruptions. ‘Madam, Madam, Mrs Sofka, darling! What do you think? With earrings or without? All right for his family, yes? As if I care!’ And they flounce away, fortified by the courage of their own intentions. These girls are sensible, even wise. They know that when Sofka dies, or sooner, they will have to leave the safety of this house and find another. Therefore they intend to secure husbands, whom they will intrigue and who will provide for them, and provide lavishly. There is no sentiment here. Lili and Ursie have discarded sentiment as a luxury, and one which might prove bad for their looks. How Sofka admires them for this! Her own life has been spent in avoidance of the fatal passion and she has not, she thinks, been wrong. She knows nothing of that voluptuous flight from the contingencies of normal living, that surrender of the will, that rich harvest of inner thought and memory. She knows only what is appropriate, suitable, in order. She knows that possession of a husband confers status on a woman, and if that status is undeserved, what of that? Sofka knows, and she is right, that nothing is worth waiting for, not even the ideal partner, not even if that ideal partner exists. Sofka knows that a woman of thirty-five without a husband is to be pitied, and is indeed pitied by those who ignore her essence and who will almost certainly denigrate her virtues.

This question of Mimi’s future preoccupies Sofka these days, almost to the exclusion of considerations of Alfred’s arrangements. Perhaps she concentrates on Mimi so as not to worry about what is happening at Wren House and indeed at Hyde Park Street, home of Hal and Dolly. The year seems colder to her than previous years and she becomes a little agitated as night comes on. Well, she is no longer young, she reminds herself. It is natural for her to feel anxiety for the children that are left.

Of Mimi’s inner landscape she has little idea, focusing her attention on Mimi’s appearance which does indeed begin to reflect that dereliction of spirit that has overtaken Mimi in recent years. She does not know, for example, of Mimi’s profound despair, which proceeds from a sense of exclusion from the living world. Unlike Alfred, Mimi has been too long disabled to fight her way clear. The enactment of Mimi’s desires is all retrospective, in the mind. Mimi constantly rewrites the script that decreed that she should remain solitary that night in the Hôtel Bedford et West End. It is not Frank for whom she yearns now but for that missing factor in herself that would have brought Frank to her side. She blames herself entirely for this omission, and maybe she is right. Somehow she knows, correctly, that without this false start, this disgrace, this defeat, she could have taken her chance like any other woman. But since that morning when, dry-mouthed and dry-eyed, she got up and dressed herself and left the hotel, she no longer feels a part of her time, of her age: she feels invisible. It is as much as she can do now to avoid pain, simply to avoid pain. Therefore, this nun-like existence with her mother and her brother, these afternoons lying down and nursing a headache, this unalterably serene service at the hospital, enable her to get through the day as quickly and as quietly as possible and prepare the way for the night, which is her own time.
For then she thinks entirely, exclusively, of herself. She does not ask what is to become of her. She knows. She will stay here in this apartment, with Sofka, and intermittently with Alfred, and she will pursue this un-abrasive way of life until death takes her. In this way she will remain true to herself. For passionate souls, it has been truly remarked, do not find friendship easy. And, it might have been added, nor love either, after a certain time.

The days pass, unvariegated. Mother and daughter sit at table. There is very little for either of them to do. The only sounds come from the kitchen, where Lili and Ursie cry less these days and laugh more. Nobody is ill. Nobody is poor. Indeed they are rather rich. Alfred joins them two or three times a week, when business or pleasure can spare him, and they do not enquire of him what he is doing. Pleasing concern for his health is all that is expressed, which is just as well, because Alfred is testy and authoritative these days: his temper is uncertain, and mother and daughter gently suggest that he is working too hard. The polite convention is that it is Alfred’s work that sometimes keeps him away at night. And by common consent, it is the cares and burdens of a man of affairs, a man of property, that they all deplore. Alfred is quite willing to subscribe to this convention, which is not entirely a fiction. He is indeed burdened these days.