Family and Friends (23 page)

What happened to the ludic impulse that was once so strong in Frederick and in Betty? Although it seems that Mimi, with awful dignity, has at last and finally acknowledged that her life is to be lived without it, how can it be that Frederick is content to spend his days as an ageing hotelier, in a resort that none but the retired are now prone to visit, with only the minute distraction of his afternoons at the Ruhl to compensate him? Why does Betty, so fiery and so fearless in her early days, sit like a child, in her childlike clothes, eating concoctions that might have been devised for a child’s party? Can it be that their youthful habits pertained only to their youth, and that middle age has left them stranded, without guidelines,
and curiously and noticeably devoid of impetus? Can it be that the presence of a partner, who can be said, in both cases, to be the ideal partner, has somehow subsumed the essence of those who once appeared so strong, so self-aware? Who could have foretold the ultimate passivity of Frederick and of Betty, subsiding into the permanence of what was originally a temporary arrangement, with a backward glance only to the mythic elements of their own lives? How have these artists in self-referral managed to edit themselves into a version so static, and yet so emblematic, that those at home, who have not seen them for many years, have no difficulty at all in picturing them, Frederick in his linen jacket and his panama hat and his pale shoes, smiling and strolling and savouring his pleasures, the boulevardier of his mother’s imagination, and Betty, cross-grained and vivid in her flimsy clothes, eternally toying with something coloured in a long glass, and glancing down critically at her painted toenails? Can it be that the ludic impulse, once so strong, has vanished, or has transmuted, or transferred, leaving those early celebrants adrift, becalmed, yet somehow legendary?

These thoughts frequently occur to Mimi, who has always pondered more deeply than any of the others. She reflects on the pluses and minuses of life to a quite considerable extent these days, and the thinking has hollowed her cheeks, made her stately, rather handsome, yet not too communicative. Mimi has acquired depth, a depth not of her own choosing. She is mildly matriarchal, given to sober pursuits, an excellent housewife. She is at ease with Lautner and his elderly ways, no longer seeking diversion. They still take their afternoon walks, for Lautner, now retired, is tireless in his self-appointed task of supervising Mimi’s health and comfort. They talk little of those matters which they both still have at heart,
managing to convert their memories into a pleasant concern for each other’s welfare, and relying on the habits of a lifetime to see them through certain dark moments. In this they are successful. They are to be found in the drawing-room, with a silver tray of coffee-cups in front of them, entertaining visitors, family and friends. They drive out with Alfred to see those various properties which he has not so far decided to buy, but which he surely will some day, one day. And it is Mimi the matriarch and Alfred the man of property that Frederick and Betty idly or resentfully envisage when they turn their thoughts to home from their sunlit exile.

But what Frederick and Betty signally fail to envisage is the transmutation of their own early singularity, of that wild card that, in their hands, was to take them so far away, and then to leave them, stranded. Nobody knows what has happened to that wild card. Nobody talks about it. But nobody thinks of it as being entirely absent, or unable to recur.

To all intents and purposes life changes very little in Bryanston Square. Alfred is still there, although he has his eye on a house on the Suffolk coast. One of these days he will run Mimi down to see it. Until then, or until he thinks of another house, somewhere else, the time passes without their noticing it very much. On most evenings they have visitors. Dolly and Hal come, although Dolly is so discontented these days that she needs a great deal of cajoling; in the middle of a conversation she is apt to announce, ‘I want another brandy.’ Hal purses his lips. This is becoming a problem, although he supposes that he can deal with it. Lili and Benjie bring their two enchanting children, Laurie (Laura) and Charlie (Charles, but in reality Karl, after Lili’s dead father). Mrs Beck, who has remained in touch with both Mimi and the girls, still enters the room with a faintly admonitory air but gets on
very well with Lautner who is now quite old. They have much in common, these two. Lautner introduced young George Beck into the firm of Dorn and Co. and is always delighted to know how he is getting on. It has long been hoped that George would marry Ursie, who has been a little bit short-tempered since her sister left. But she is a good girl, though no longer quite so pretty; she has always liked George, and, more important, Mrs Beck, and now it seems certain that she will settle down. They are all so pleased. Will and Nettie come, with their little daughter, for the unexpected happened, just when it seemed to be almost too late: a child, after all these years. It seemed like a miracle, and perhaps it was. Mimi smiles, serves coffee, serves marzipan cake.

Here they all are, family and friends, in the wedding photograph. It is the last one in the album. George and Ursie stand, politely smiling, between Lili and Mrs Beck. Dolly, slightly out of focus, as she was in reality on that day, appears to lean heavily on Hal. Will smiles, plump, good-natured, unquestioning as ever. Mimi, upright, in pale lace, with a rather imposing hat, looks very like her mother. Lautner, although greatly diminished, still turns to her fondly. Here is Alfred, tall, stiff, still a handsome man. Here is Nettie, very close to Alfred, leaving Will almost unattached, unpaired. And in the front row, the three children: Laurie, Charlie, and Nettie’s child Vicky (Victoria). See that look on Vicky’s face, that imperious stare, so unlike a child, so like Sofka. See Alfred’s hand proudly clasping her little shoulder. See the resemblance. Wait for the dancing to begin.