Family and Friends (3 page)

The exiled woman has been heard to remark that if Frederick behaves in this manner it is because his mother has encouraged him, that it was in fact Frederick’s mother who first gave him licence to misbehave at all. Frederick’s mother would, if she had ever heard it, react to this opinion with genuine amazement. Is it her fault, she might ask this hypothetical critic, if her elder son has inherited his father’s legendary way with women? This is a clever but uncalculated statement, in the way of all Sofka’s statements. In the first place it establishes the legend of a heroic line of charming and handsome men, the sort of men who make women conscious for the first time of their powerlessness. In the second place it establishes the superior power of Sofka herself, able to finesse this potent charmer into marriage. None of this is entirely true, of course; the commerce between the sexes is rarely so simple or so just. But the function of such an argument is to annul the criticism of the disappointed, the rancorous, the deceived. Sofka implies that there is little that women can do about such men. A look of distaste crosses her face as she contemplates the possibility of effort, of stratagem, of reproach. Sofka is such a lady, and such a mother. Her husband, the reprobate, almost vanished into thin air after he married her. Fortunately,
his reputation was still there to sustain him. In the same way, his reputation now sustains Sofka. And if she looks with an indulgent eye on Frederick, it is because she sees in him his father’s disgraceful charm. And a mother is more susceptible to this sort of charm than a wife or a lover can ever be.

When the telephone rings, and Frederick fears an importunate voice, he signals to his mother, and she gets up from her chair with the most extraordinary expression of girlish glee on her face. ‘I’m afraid Frederick is out,’ she will say in her soft grave voice, one hand to her mouth to subdue her smile. The voice continues in her ear, becoming plangent, and clearly audible to Frederick on the other side of the room, one hand wearily marking time to the reproaches. Sometimes, when Sofka is unable to terminate the conversation as briefly as decency tells her is necessary, Frederick sets his metronome going and his mother is obliged to bring her handkerchief up to her mouth to stifle a little laugh. Sofka loves this teasing relationship with her son and sees no reason why she should forgo it. It brings a little light-heartedness into her serious grown-up life. It makes her feel like a girl again. And no harm is meant by it. Harm may be done, but it is never meant.

Sometimes Sofka will wait up for Frederick when he has been out in the evening. She will prepare a jug of iced lemonade and wait for him in the morning-room, sitting peacefully in the light of one shaded lamp. She looks very charming in repose. To Frederick she is an oasis of sanity in a world peopled by increasingly difficult women. He sighs thankfully when he reaches this haven, and after kissing his mother flings himself into a chair and allows Sofka to pour him a glass of lemonade. Sofka will often have a little embroidery to hand on these occasions: she somehow judges it necessary not to look at Frederick in
order to facilitate his confidences. Frederick is rueful, Sofka is smiling. It is the smile of a woman who understands men. Sofka does not know that women who understand men are unreliable allies. Her only allegiance is to her family, so the question does not arise. Sofka can see that something is wrong; her probing is almost imperceptible. Yes, says Frederick, he is rather tired. The evening had not been guaranteed to relax him. Why do women make fusses? In this way he rationalizes his delayed arrival, his straying attention, his glad recognition, across the space of the restaurant, of another girl. Tears, of course, in the taxi. Sofka smiles into her embroidery. ‘I can’t face her again tomorrow,’ says Frederick, assuming an expression of great nobility and weariness. ‘There’s only so much I can do for her. I can’t be expected to deal with her problems. I doubt if anyone could.’ Sofka agrees. When the girl telephones in the morning, Sofka will say that Frederick is out and that she does not know when to expect him back. This patent untruth will sometimes bring a girl to the house, in tears. ‘My dear,’ sighs Sofka. ‘I wanted to spare you.’ So delicate is Sofka’s treatment on these occasions that the girl is quite puzzled to realize that she feels no resentment.

Frederick’s deportment, in love and business, is extremely aristocratic. Somehow, out of the unpromising debris of a European family, Sofka has bred an English aristocrat. This is perhaps her most triumphant achievement. Frederick’s looks, his smiling dismissal of his small but genuine musical gift, and his ability to treat work as play confirm his unassailable lack of effortfulness. At the factory, which is largely run by the works manager, a hard-headed and devoted German who knew Sofka’s husband in the old days and who was in fact previously employed by him as a major-domo, Frederick charms everyone, employees, clients, secretaries, machine minders.

They never know when he is coming in, and so they work harder: the uncertainty, and the desire to earn one of his winning smiles, makes them all very conscientious. There are as yet no partners but a place is being kept for Alfred, who will start there – at the bottom, of course – as soon as his schooling is finished. Never mind the studies and the books and the growing obsession that Alfred has with distant places: he must work first and earn the right to play afterwards. But Frederick seems to play all the time; he is the original
homo ludens
. He will often arrive in his office in the early afternoon, having let the whole morning go to waste. Sometimes he will be carrying golf clubs, a tennis racquet, for one of the delightful things about Frederick is his imperturbability. A weak man might invent excuses but Frederick, with the knowledge that he is the family’s pride and joy and an object of scandal and desire, will not bother to be anything but himself. Perhaps a client has been waiting for him for some time and is getting restive; clients, after all, are not necessarily under Frederick’s spell. But Frederick will wave such a person into his office, make a comic face behind his back to his secretary, and in his charming way, which the client considers extremely European, offer him coffee and iced water and cigars. For brief periods Frederick can manage to be an enthusiast, and it is this lightning enthusiasm, apt to fade very fast, that tends to attract investment. Besides, Frederick’s very outrageousness is entertaining. Here too his reputation has preceded him. It seems quite an achievement to have gained his attention for as long as half an hour.

With the astonishing luck that is somehow coaxed out of circumstances by impudent behaviour, Frederick has managed to put the factory on its feet. This is the reputation that Frederick is allowed to have, although the steady work is done by Lautner, the ex-major-domo,
who, having only a cramped and unattractive flat to go home to, is there at all hours. Lautner sometimes sleeps at the factory if he has been working late on an order, or going through the figures. He is not above brushing Frederick’s lapels before he leaves the office. With Lautner there nothing is left to chance, and he is so devoted to the family and his days and nights are so devoid of entertainment that the factory is his life. Lautner, in fact, should be a partner, but it would be unkind to demote him when Alfred finally makes it to the top. Although Alfred is only sixteen, his rise to managerial importance is discussed as if it will come about in a matter of months. When these discussions take place Alfred hangs his head so that his mother should not see the dark expression which he has never been able to hide; in due course he invariably slips out of the room and goes back to
The Conquest of Peru
. Frederick is quite understanding about this and cuffs him affectionately round the head, but there is no question of Alfred’s course in life being changed. Home is such an agreeable place, and Sofka so delicate a mother. And the money is beginning to return and life is easier and very pleasant. There is Elizabeth in the kitchen and Winnie who comes in every day to do the rough work, and the dressmaker and the hairdresser now come to the house again. The chauffeur is paid two pounds a week. Sofka is able to indulge her little weakness again: beautiful monogrammed linen. The children are encouraged to give her fine white embroidered lawn handkerchiefs as presents, but dashing Frederick will turn up with a bouquet of flowers and Sofka will forget the other little tributes. Sometimes Frederick will present his mother with one red rose. There are roses in the garden, of course, but they are the province of the gardeners. Frederick’s rose will be placed in a vase and taken up to Sofka’s bed-table. As she lies back on the square pillows that her mother
gave her when she married, Sofka will look at the rose and smile.

In this world of weddings and marriages Frederick is the dark horse, the enigma. He is also the trump card. Who will win Frederick? The contestants are many, and their fight for the conquest of his hand has begun to contain elements of panic and disappointment. Sofka has always encouraged her children to bring their friends to the house, but only Frederick avails himself of this offer. He loves his friends to meet his mother and they are encouraged to come to tea on Sunday afternoons. In this way more than one aspirant has found herself face to face with someone rumoured to be a rival, for rumour thrives on this sort of confrontation. Frederick and his mother see nothing shaky in this arrangement; indeed, Sofka thinks it redounds to Frederick’s credit that he openly shows his hand. The sheer good manners demanded by the pleasant worldliness of these occasions subdue sharp reactions, and looks of dismay are turned into agreeable and sophisticated smiles. Sofka, who loves Sunday afternoons, puts herself out to entertain the girls. They are shown the garden, rather slowly, and asked if they would like to sit out there for a little while. Frederick, who remains in the drawing-room, allows his mother to do the honours. Then there is tea, with Frederick’s favourite marzipan cake. ‘Freddy, you’ll get fat,’ shriek the girls, half-hoping that he will. ‘Freddy?’ smiles Sofka. ‘Is that what you call him?’ She implies a very slight lowering of standards here, which would not be tolerated in her own family. The girls attempt to salvage something from what is already perceived as a missed chance by being extraordinarily nice to Mimi and Betty. Mimi is so charming, so like her mother: why do the girls prefer Mimi? If she is like her mother, she is also unlike her mother, but it is difficult to tell how, and there is so much more to
think about than this little matter. The struggle for control becomes more arduous. No sooner does one of the girls decide to make a positive move by asking Frederick to take her home and thus, at last, getting him on his own, than Sofka says, ‘We always enjoy a little music on Sunday afternoons,’ and bids Frederick take up his violin. With Mimi at the piano, there follows an interminable arrangement of something or other which entails rapt attention and minimal movement. When Frederick at last lowers his violin and Mimi strikes her final chord, the girls are so relieved that their applause is genuinely enthusiastic. Mimi flushes becomingly but Betty seems already to be completely aware of what is going on. When the girls get up to leave, there being no other ploy available, Sofka shakes their hands kindly. ‘I’m so glad you enjoyed our little concert. You must come again some time,’ she says. ‘I want to meet all Frederick’s friends.’ She implies that their number is legion and that they are all female. Both implications are correct.

Having disheartened so many women, Frederick can hardly complain if they marry the nearest man to hand, as indeed they tend to do. He views these weddings, which he enjoys, with an indulgent eye, sizing up the bridegroom with a sense of genuine camaraderie. As he dances, in his white tie and tails, only slightly fuller in the face and figure than he was at that earlier wedding in the photograph, he feels renewed affection for the bride. Soon he will take to calling on these married women, with whom he maintains a teasing relationship, and is amazed to find them so tart of tongue. ‘Has marriage made you cynical?’ he murmurs, looking into their eyes with his famous smile. And, ‘I feel I’m really getting to know you for the very first time,’ he says, reluctantly relinquishing a hand. It is his best exit line. Is he aware that he is becoming rather well known for it? He shrugs.
What of it? Frederick has always worn his misdemeanours on his sleeve. It has served to make him unassailable. And what is really touching is that so many of these young matrons have learnt to make marzipan cake, creating for Frederick little homes away from home. This suits Frederick, that favourite son, very well indeed. Sometimes he finds himself automatically flirting with his mother. But then he always has.

Husbands view him with something like condescension. He is the
Hausfreund
, the wife’s companion, the husband’s ally; he can be trusted. He is now too lazy and too spoilt to do much more than make intimate conversation. Sometimes he feels a twist of boredom, pats down a yawn. But most of all he feels that he has done well, both for himself and for his family. By family he means his mother. He has not abandoned her for another woman. He has maintained the household on its course. The girls will be well provided for, and Alfred, though silent on the matter, has acknowledged that he will enter the factory after the summer holidays. This suits Frederick very well, because business is beginning to bore him too. He leaves so much to Lautner that he rarely needs to be in his office. And Lautner is so serious and so dedicated that he sometimes calls round on a Sunday evening to discuss the coming week’s affairs with Frederick, so as to spare him undue attendance. Sofka is very pleasant to Lautner, whose punctilious good manners she appreciates. He kisses Sofka’s hand, is bidden to sit down, and is given hot coffee and any marzipan cake that happens to be left over. ‘Well, Mr Lautner, I will leave you with my son,’ she murmurs, when he is halfway through his coffee. Lautner remains standing, his little linen napkin in his hand, until Sofka has left the room. Lautner can no longer bear to think of Sunday without his coffee and cake in Sofka’s drawing-room. He
would walk there and back if he had to. He is, as Frederick and Sofka both know, devoted to the family. They hope that Alfred will soon shake off that rather surly expression and buckle down to work. Once he is under Lautner’s eye, they all think, he is bound to do well. The girls peer over the stairwell. ‘Good-night, Mr Lautner,’ they call. He looks up, startled and delighted. Betty immediately retreats with a giggle, but Mimi, blushing for her sister, forces herself to remain, and waves a hand in compensation.