Dolly (3 page)

Dolly, despite her constrictions, was still a handsome woman. I was aware of this, as I was simultaneously aware of a sense of strain and frustration, for children are alive to these conditions in the adults who are supposed to be superior to them. Dolly made the same impression of blackness and of whiteness as she had made in the course of that visit to Brussels, although the dress she was wearing was of royal blue silk with a pattern of tiny white diamonds. Out of its draped neckline rose a throat that was full at the base and slightly suffused with colour: this must have conveyed to me the impression of frustration which was so at odds with her otherwise impeccable appearance. She was a vivid woman, with a questing ardent expression, as if she could not bear to be wasting time, as she evidently thought she was doing on this occasion. This sharpness of gaze gave her an air of vanity, which I dare say was justified. Her hair and eyes were dark, her skin a beautiful clear olive and flushed over the prominent cheekbones, but her most characteristic feature was her mouth which was long and thin, the lips as smooth as grape skins, the lipstick worn away into an outline by her eager tongue. When the lips were drawn back, into one of her exclamatory laughs, the laughs she lavished on more brilliant assemblies, the teeth appeared, flawless and carnivorous.

As a child I was aware of her bulk, which I thought a trifle
unseemly, or at any rate uncomfortable. She had a squat European figure, with shortish legs and a full bosom, the whole thing reined in and made impregnable by some kind of hidden structure. I was aware too of a sense of heat which came less from her actual body than from the ardour of her desire. Why this should be I had no idea: I simply assumed that she wanted to be elsewhere, as of course she did. With hindsight I now see that she was seriously put out by Hugo’s losses at cards on the previous evening and was impatient to get on with the next game, in which it was to be hoped that he would have better luck. They continued to discuss their temporary condition with my parents who grew bewildered at their insistence on the importance of the game, almost as if it were a profession, as indeed it might have been. When pressed to take it up—and as astonishment was expressed that they did not already play—my mother explained, blushing slightly, that she and my father preferred to read.

‘Oh, read,’ said Dolly. ‘Well, of course, I am a great reader myself, but in our circle one has to mix, otherwise one would know no one.’

‘I suppose you have a great many friends,’ said my mother.

‘Yes, I can certainly say that we are well liked. Not that we mix too much with the expatriate community, except for bridge, of course. Our dear friend Adèle Rougier is the one we see most constantly. Her husband was our ambassador to Zaire, you know. She has a most beautiful house in the Avenue des Arts.
Very
well off, my dear. Now that she’s a widow she seems to lean on me, and of course I do my best to help her. And she adores Hugo.’

‘How did you find Mother?’ This question was asked, in a lowered tone, of Hugo.

‘Grumbling, as usual. I managed to cheer her up, but she really is an old misery. I wonder you don’t go over there more often, Etty, though I can hardly blame you for staying away.’

‘The sad fact is that Mother and I don’t get on. She is too tough for me. She never forgave me for being born just when she thought that part of her life was over. Anyway, she always preferred you, Hugo. She doted on you, still does.’

Hugo laughed complacently. I later read Freud’s remark that the man who has been his mother’s favourite will feel a hero all his life, and although I had known him so little I applied the verdict to Hugo straight away.

‘Oh, Hugo goes down very well with the ladies,’ said Dolly. This was evidently true: he had an easy way with compliments, was adept at putting a woman at her ease with the sort of flattering badinage which means very little. It was as much his stock-in-trade as the bridge games, on which they seemed to have a considerable dependence. If I could see him now, and if he had lived, I would have pictured him at the bridge table, a cigarette smouldering in a glass ashtray at his left hand, his eyes watering with the smoke and the lateness of the hour, the amiable smile still on his lips. I can see him quite clearly, but I cannot see Dolly at his side. I was aware, even at that time, that of the two of them Dolly was the more viable. There was something collapsed and self-indulgent about Hugo, whereas Dolly was made of stronger, more durable material. When she said that Hugo went down very well with the ladies it seemed to me that she
detached herself from this remark, as if she registered its applicability but no longer believed in it herself.

The time, Hugo,’ she reminded him. ‘Don’t forget the time.’ And turning to me. ‘I expect you want to go off and play, don’t you, Jane?’

I recognised this as a ploy to get rid of me but failed to take the hint. At that age I thought myself indispensable to any gathering. In any case I was fascinated by Dolly and her many contradictions. It no longer seemed strange to me that she had no children, for I thought she might have been angry with them, as she was certainly ready to be angry with me. The slightly swollen throat alerted me to hidden reserves of bad temper. Whether my presence inhibited the conversation or not was a matter of indifference to me. I was beguiled by the fat necklace of artificial pearls which clasped that swollen throat. She saw me looking at them, and said, with a glint of humour, They’re not real, Jane. The real ones went a long time ago. Maybe you’ll do better than I have. But they’re pretty, aren’t they?’

That was the only time I saw her face soften. Quite soon after that, and for no reason I could make out, it resumed its mask of irritability. As the afternoon wore on her impatience grew, until finally she heaved herself to the edge of her chair and announced that it was getting late, that the car would soon be returning, that they must not keep their friends waiting, that it would take an age to get to Highgate.

‘Why don’t you move, Etty? North London would be far more suitable. You would be nearer Mother, for a start. And it would be better for Jane later on.’

‘Why would it?’ I asked.

She ignored me.

‘Well, goodbye Etty, Paul. Come and see us again soon, when I have more time to show you round.’

‘Will you ever come home?’ asked my mother.

‘You never know,’ said Hugo. ‘For the time being I can see no change. The job is there, and I seem to be well liked. And of course Dolly is a great success with everyone.’

‘Don’t forget us,’ said my mother, who was aware that the afternoon had been a failure of sorts, although everything had been done correctly. I sensed that she was blaming herself; my father, who was always quick to defend her, sensed this as well and moved to her side. Together they looked less vulnerable. I knew that they were measuring themselves ruefully against the expectations of Dolly and Hugo, that Dolly and Hugo had reminded them uncomfortably of family ties which they had long ago sought to sever, so as to be all in all to each other, that they felt suddenly at a loss, as if they had not done as well as they had thought or anticipated, and that I was there to be brought up by the two of them alone, without the support of brothers or sisters, or, it was clear, uncles or aunts. My uncle had withdrawn from responsibility, while Dolly was already thrusting her hands into her gloves. If anything were to go wrong with our little family there would be no help from that quarter. At this point my father put his arm round my mother’s waist, as if he too shared this realisation. There was nothing to signal hard times to come, but a moment of apprehension had been shared. He was anxious to see the back of Hugo, of whose luxurious and childish nature he could not but disapprove. As far as Dolly was concerned he withheld all comment, both then and later. I
believe he felt for her a certain ironic admiration, while disliking her intensely. Finally he was as eager to see them go as they were to leave. Air was kissed on both sides of my mother’s face; hands were shaken.

‘Give me a kiss, Paul,’ said Dolly. ‘Not frightened of me, are you?’

He laughed, and kissed her.

‘And we thought you’d never get yourself married,’ she said to my mother. ‘But you did rather well for yourself in the end, didn’t you? Clever girl. Goodbye, Jane,’ she added sharply. ‘Don’t forget. Always make a good impression.’ I thought this another indication of her failure to understand children, but by this time I was tired and bored, but not too bored to notice how her spirits rose as she was delivered of this family chore and could look forward to the evening’s entertainment. By the time she reached the front door she had been transformed into a glamorous and pretty woman. And I noticed something more: an excitement, a girlishness, unexpected in that almost matronly figure, as if in the course of that evening, or of the next, or of the one after that, some event might occur, some meeting, some transforming circumstance, that might just change her life for ever.

The next thing we heard was that Hugo had died, suddenly and unexpectedly.

There must have been an influenza epidemic at that time for both my parents were ill and Miss Lawlor moved in to look after us all. It was nearly spring, but it felt like bitter winter: the light was white, hard and unfriendly, the ground like iron. My parents moved round the flat cautiously, as if not too sure of their ability to do so. My father was the more
affected and had to take several days off from the bank, where he worked as an investment analyst; he found being at home in the daytime mildly disturbing, evidence of an unsuspected change in his normally robust health. My mother spent her days on the sofa in our drawing-room, too tired to read.

It was in this melancholy atmosphere that the telephone call came from Brussels, to say that Hugo had died after a bout of flu which had turned to pneumonia of a particularly virulent kind. The call was from a strange woman who spoke English with a pronounced accent and who said that she was looking after Dolly. Dolly, apparently, was too stricken to speak to anyone. All arrangements had been made, said the voice, and abruptly ceased. Attempts to get back to Dolly’s number were unsuccessful: either there was no answer, or the call was answered by strangers. Finally my father got through to Annie, who seemed both alarmed and annoyed.

‘Elle n’est pas là,’
she said. ‘Elle
est chez Mme Rougier.
’

‘Et les funérailles?’
asked my father.

‘Vous voulez dire l’enterrement? Ah, pour ça, Monsieur, je ne suis pas au courant. Il faudrait demander à Mme Rougier. C’est Mme Rougier qui s’en occupe.’

He replaced the receiver and looked at my mother, who had her hand to her mouth. She was pale with shock.

‘I shall have to go over there,’ she said.

‘There is no question of that. If anyone goes it should be me.’

‘I can’t let you go, Paul. You are still quite ill. Besides, you haven’t been out of the house for days.’

‘Perhaps we had better wait until we hear from Dolly,’ he
said. He was anxious to do the right thing, but secretly grateful for the delay. It was manifestly clear that they were both too weakened to travel, or even to get as far as the airport. For the duration of one long silent day they both sat, unspeaking, in the drawing-room, waiting for Dolly’s call. Then, as the light gradually faded, it became clear that they would have to wait another day. Yet those long hours of silence, which would otherwise have been hours of recuperation, accomplished something, some ritual of mourning, so that at the end of that long day they both arose quietly, handkerchiefs put away, as if a natural conclusion had been reached, as if vain agitation would henceforth be irrelevant, as if further speech or action must come from Dolly, who now assumed a tragic and central importance.

‘We must defer to Dolly,’ said my father. ‘If she wants us there she will let us know.’

The following day was equally silent. With the continued silence tension renewed itself. A further telephone call to Brussels failed to elicit any response. The flat seemed to be empty. It was now several days, perhaps as much as a week, since Hugo had died, and there was still no word from Dolly. Two more days were spent in the same entranced silence. Finally, on the morning of the third day, a telegram arrived. ‘Coming home. Going straight to Mother’s. Dolly.’

‘How will she live?’ asked my mother mournfully. ‘I expect she’ll go back to Brussels. After all, her friends are there. But I dare say she will want to stay with Mother for a bit.’

‘It might not be a bad idea if she moved in with your mother permanently. As far as I can see it would suit them both.’

My mother brightened. ‘I’ll suggest it,’ she said. ‘As soon as she gets in touch.’

‘She seems to have worked it out for herself. Why don’t you wait to hear what she has to say?’

My father was careful with my mother, who had been unnaturally calm: he knew that at some point her grief must surface. It surfaced, abruptly and violently, a couple of days later, when Dolly came to see us: the two women fell into each other’s arms, uttering the raucous sobs of uncensored grief, harsh ugly sounds which made my father go pale and pat his mouth with his handkerchief. Although I had been removed by Miss Lawlor I found my way back to my mother’s side and took her hand. It seemed to me essential to protect her.

‘It’s all right, darling,’ she said finally. ‘Only Dolly is rather sad. You see, Hugo is dead.’ She faltered, but recovered herself, perhaps impressed, despite herself, by Dolly’s renewed composure. Dolly, phoenix-like, had pulled herself together and put away her handkerchief.

‘He went just like that,’ she said, snapping her fingers. ‘Annie had just taken in his tisane: he looked at her, closed his eyes, and died. I wasn’t even with him. Of course, I collapsed when I was told. If it hadn’t been for dear Adèle Rougier, who took me home with her, I don’t know what I would have done.’

‘We were expecting to be told about the funeral,’ said my father.

‘Adèle Rougier saw to everything. It was beautifully done. We had a Mass at S. Joseph …’

‘A Mass?’ said my mother, bewildered. ‘But Hugo wasn’t a Catholic.’