When I told her of my mother’s death—after three whole days had passed—her shock seemed to me entirely genuine, but overlaid with indignation.
‘How could you, Jane? I would have come over at once if I’d known she was so ill. How could you be so unfeeling? After all, you’re all I’ve got.’
She meant, and we both knew it, ‘I’m all you’ve got.’
‘I could come over now,’ she said doubtfully, sniffing and blowing her nose. There’ll be her things to sort out. I dare say I could help you dispose of them, though we weren’t the same size, of course. She’d managed to let herself get very thin.’
The funeral will be on Friday morning,’ I said, with as much calmness as I could muster. ‘But no one is to come.’ To make quite sure of this I refrained from giving her the time, which was eleven o’clock. ‘Only Miss Lawlor and myself will be there. And John Pickering. No one else.’
‘What a strange girl you are, Jane! Not like your mother. Oh, well, if you’ve made up your mind. But of course you must come back here afterwards. You and Mr Pickering.’
‘And Miss Lawlor.’
‘Oh, Miss Lawlor, of course. She can give Annie a hand.’
‘A hand with what?’
‘Really, Jane, don’t be ridiculous. It’s customary to offer refreshments on these occasions, you know. Violet can make herself useful. I dare say she’ll be glad to.’
‘But there will only be four of us. Four of us with Miss Lawlor,’ I said pleasantly. I was very angry.
She gave an elaborate sigh. ‘As you wish, Jane. I’m not going to argue with you.’ She managed to leave me with the impression that nothing would have given her greater pleasure. Then there was another sigh, more tremulous this time. ‘Poor Etty. Poor girl. She didn’t have much of a life, did she?’
‘How can you say that? She was happy. She had my father.’ I managed not to say, she had me, but Dolly gave a forbearing little laugh, as if she had heard the unspoken words.
‘Yes, I dare say she was happy in her own funny way. What will you do with the flat, Jane?’
‘Live in it, I suppose.’
‘But it’s too big for one person. You could get yourself a little studio somewhere. I might be able to take the flat off your hands. Or one of my friends might know someone. Not that it’s very conveniently situated. I always wondered why Etty lived in such an out of the way place. And I don’t think it’s very suitable for someone of your age. You shouldn’t be living alone anyway. Why don’t you move in with a girlfriend?’
‘Miss Lawlor is here with me. I’m not alone.’
‘Oh, Miss Lawlor, Miss Lawlor. I’m hearing a lot about Miss Lawlor today. Anyone would think you cared more for her than you do for me.’
Since this was an accurate observation I said nothing. I did not yet know how to lie. At the other end of the telephone I could almost hear Dolly’s temper rising, but all she said was, ‘I’m very upset, Jane. You might consider my feelings when you’ve got a moment. Very well. I’ll expect the three of you on Friday. I dare say you’ll be quite glad of me then, if at no other time.’
This was said with surprising bitterness and left me thoughtful. As far as I knew I did not need Dolly, although it occurred to me that the gifts my mother had made so discreetly would now have to be made by myself. I had in a sense inherited Dolly from my mother, just as my mother had inherited her from her mother. This did not worry me unduly, but Dolly’s bitterness made me feel somewhat ashamed. She did not care for me, and yet she wished me to care for her, or perhaps to make a show of caring for her. In what abyss of non-feeling did Dolly dwell? She made careful placements of affection, always ready to be withdrawn in a fit of indignation. Her world was loveless, and she craved love as others crave sugar, and for the same reason: to replace a sudden lack, of which she would be abruptly and fearfully aware.
Her needs were primitive, immediate, and therefore pressing; they appeared to her to be entirely natural and justified, so that it was difficult to indicate caution, or wariness, certainly not disbelief or disagreement. Those who were not with her were against her, nor were one’s own feelings of any interest to her. She no doubt saw my news, or rather the announcement of my news, as shocking, and would be swift with accusations of coldheartedness. Of my own situation she remained unaware, and even indignantly unaware. I did not underestimate her own feeling of loss. She knew that my mother had been a true friend to her, and would have registered a sensation of sadness at her disappearance. Yet she had not noticed—had genuinely failed to notice—my mother’s obvious decline, engrossed as she was in delightful speculations of her own. These, naturally, were uppermost in her mind, and I emphasise, as she would have done, had she thought about it, the word naturally. When I had last seen her she was flirtatious, impatient: I had thought her in love, then. Now I see that my reasoning was frivolous, that Dolly’s need for love was more archaic than this, that what she wanted was to be thought of as a loveable person. She wanted to demonstrate that she was worthy of love, of any kind of love, of all kinds. And if she clung to this supposed lover of hers, she was willing to cling no less to myself, grotesque though this may seem. And had been repulsed. I now saw that she had detected my lack of affection with her fine adventuress’s instincts, and was ready to punish me for life.
Because we both considered this telephone call to be disastrous, revealing too much on both sides, our farewells were cold, subdued on my side, unforgiving on hers. To my already great distress was added a feeling of unworthiness; I was not only deficient in family solidarity, I was deficient in feminist solidarity (a far greater crime at that time). Because I had considered Dolly well able to take care of herself I had failed to ask certain questions. ‘What do you need? Whom do you love? Whom do you miss? What do you share? And with whom do you share it?’ Because I needed someone to ask these questions of me I became aware of the questions themselves. ‘What do you lack?’ I thought; that was the most fundamental question of all. Yet how could one ask such a question of others? It would be almost impertinent, as if one were in a position to dispense charity. But if charity meant love, as it did in some translations, should one not dispense it anyway? But what regard should one have for the sensitivities of others? If I had asked such questions, crudely, of Dolly, she would have bridled with indignation, with justifiable outrage. ‘You look after your affairs, and I’ll look after mine, thank you, Jane.’ She might add that she had never asked anything of anyone, and no doubt believe it. To a certain extent this was true. Dolly did not ask; she merely indicated that others were in a position to give. That was quite different from asking. And the burden had already been placed on my shoulders by Dolly, who was in one of her periodic states of lack. I say lack rather than need, for need could be rather more easily dealt with. The burden Dolly placed on me was but a pale reflection of the burden she placed on the world. Love me! Save me! Already I had let her down. But how could I not? This last question, I am sure, she never formulated. She simply knew that I, like many others, had disappointed her, and that she, so gifted for pleasure, so ardent and so apt, must henceforth deal with a sullen girl, who showed no signs, and would never show any signs, of understanding or of sympathy with the life that Dolly so longingly desired.
These reflections made me so uncomfortable that I slept badly that night. The following day I went back to work, although I had been given the week off and was not expected to return until after the funeral. My arrival in the office seemed to cause a certain amount of surprise, as well it might, and was judged to be tactless. In the outer office Mrs Hemmings was on the telephone as usual, and no doubt to her daughter, who seemed to be causing a great deal of trouble. She raised her eyebrows at me in an attempt to express both astonishment and sympathy: as I shut her door behind me I could just hear her say, ‘Daddy was tremendously disappointed …’ and then I was where I longed to be, with Margaret and Wendy, in whose infinite commiseration I had unconsciously placed a good deal of trust. This, however, was no
t forthcoming, at least not to the extent which I had perhaps rashly anticipated.
‘Why, Jane,’ said Margaret. ‘We didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Our deepest sympathy, dear,’ said Wendy, but her heart was not in it.
‘I just couldn’t stand being in the flat any more,’ I said. ‘Have you had your tea? Shall I make it?’
‘That would be kind, dear. Will you have a cup yourself? Were you thinking of staying?’
‘Of course. If that’s all right.’
‘We didn’t think you’d want to, after what had happened to your poor mother, going like that. No, no sugar, dear; I’ve given it up.’
They drank their tea in silence, clearly disapproving. I had come in for so much disapproval of late that I was nearly sunk under the weight of it. Fortunately or unfortunately, I have a good deal of self-control, and although I wanted to cry and sob my eyes were quite dry and my face composed. Besides, I reflected, only my mother and I knew the truth of the matter, and I had only to remember our oddly tranquil last night together, or even our last weeks together, when there had been no panic, no impatience, and, more important, no disapproval, to feel reassured. What sadness I felt had to do with the fact that no one else had shared or witnessed our accord, so that I would be eternally censured for my lack of feeling, when what had happened had involved a plentitude of feeling, of a nature to leave me denuded in the future and almost affectless in the present. I was aware of the coldness and darkness of the day, of the hissing overhead neon light, of the crammed wastepaper baskets. I would find no comfort here.
Margaret and Wendy continued to drink their tea in silence, eating their biscuits with constrained good taste.
‘Is anything wrong?’ I asked. ‘Shall I go home?’
Margaret stirred from her trance.
‘It’s not you, dear. It’s just that we’ve had a bit of a shock.’
‘She dropped a bombshell,’ said Wendy, rolling her eyes towards the outer office. ‘Didn’t even wait until we’d taken off our coats. “Relocating,” she said. ‘The lease is up and I can’t afford a new one.’ Not that it affects her; she could shut up shop entirely, as far as I can see, probably wants to. We all know about her place in the country, taking off on a Friday and not coming in till Monday afternoon, sometimes Tuesday morning, sometimes Tuesday afternoon. She won’t be affected. But what about us?’
Handkerchiefs were brought out; eyes were dabbed.
‘Five years we’ve been here,’ said Margaret. ‘And now I suppose it’s early retirement. Not what we expected. And just to let us know like that! And then she was on the telephone again, straight away. Her precious family: that’s all she ever thinks of.’
‘Just a minute,’ I said. ‘If she said “relocating” that means she’s taken another office somewhere.’
‘Warwick Way, she said, but that’s not convenient. We’re used to catching the 137, door to door. We can’t do a long journey, not at our age.’
‘It’s not that far,’ I said. ‘You could catch the tube from Sloane Square to Victoria, and walk the rest of the way.’
This suggestion was met with a certain amount of scorn. Dissension was in the air, and it was they who wanted sympathy.
‘When do we have to go?’ I asked.
‘She’s shutting down at Christmas, so that’s when we’ll leave. I might think about coming back, but Wendy’s dead against it. She’s got our telephone numbers, if she wants us. I might consider part-time, but I don’t know. It’s just that it’s so quiet at home, with the children gone. Not that you’d know about that.’
‘And nothing to dress up for. I can’t see us getting dressed up to go shopping at Clapham Junction. You’re young, Jane; you can walk it. We can’t.’
I thought this ridiculous but said nothing. I realised that a slight class difference was emerging. As far as I was concerned we all lived in Battersea. Now I was aware that Margaret and Wendy lived in council flats in a part of Battersea I had never visited and was now not likely to, whatever faint hopes I had entertained of being invited for Christmas, a festival I approached with the purest horror. Margaret and Wendy had no doubt observed among themselves that our flat in Prince of Wales Drive had seven rooms and two bathrooms, with an extra cloakroom, for so I had innocently described it in answer to their seemingly casual questions.
‘The money’s not going to be easy either,’ sighed Margaret. This way we always had a bit in hand. Not that we did it for the money. It was the interest of the thing. And going out to work, well, it gives you respect, doesn’t it?’
It had not given me respect, but rather a childish pleasure in being included, an alibi for the daytime, just as sleep was my alibi at night. And I realised that I had not really needed the money, and that Margaret and Wendy knew this and would not forgive me for my relative affluence. It was clear to me that no work would be done that day, for Margaret and Wendy had already downed tools, regarding Mrs Hemming’s bombshell as a calculated insult to which they were responding with hauteur.
‘And what will you do, Jane?’ asked Wendy distantly.
‘I don’t know,’ I answered. ‘I might stay on, if she wants me. I’ve got nothing else to do.’
It occurred to me briefly that I could now go to Cambridge, but I dismissed the idea. I felt too committed to the memory of the past few weeks to give my mind to anything else. I also felt too frightened. It was one thing to read David Copperfield in comfort, in my own bed at night, but quite another to produce a clever essay on withholding in Dickens’s narratives, or the technique of the mise en abîme in Dickens’s later novels (I had seen these subjects, or something like them, in specimen Cambridge entrance papers). Instinctively I rebelled against such investigations, which seemed to me clever and coldhearted. Self-conscious, too. And I should never be able to read again with childlike pleasure. I rejected Cambridge out of hand. I may have had some misty attachment to my domestic background: I may have thought I would be all right if I could go home every evening and sleep in my own bed. What I would do in the daytime was less clear to me. It was obvious that Margaret and Wendy would consider it treachery if I continued without them.
‘Oh, I dare say I shall leave too,’ I said weakly.
They brightened at this, and nodded to each other.
‘We thought you’d say that, Jane. It’s no less than she deserves, after all. Two highly trained workers, and you were coming along quite nicely, dear. Will you tell her, or will you leave it to us?’
‘I’ll write to her,’ I said, after a moment’s hesitation. ‘We’re here until Christmas, you said?’ Christmas was a bare four weeks away.
‘Hardly worth coming in, though, is it? Might as well take our money and go. I’ll work out a few days’ notice, that’s all I can say. You won’t have to do that, Jane. I reckon you can leave as soon as you like. Did the funeral go well, dear?’
‘It’s tomorrow,’ I said, desolate once more.
I left after washing up the teacups, as they expected me to do. I wandered home through the park, with a sense of everything ending. I reflected that our exchange had taken no more than an hour: I could easily have stayed and cut up Country Life (something of a promotion, which Wendy had handed over after some hesitation) but the atmosphere had been silent and uncomfortable, and I had known that I was expected to go so that they could get on with their ruminations undisturbed. I was aware that I had become something of a class enemy, for my financial situation had been accurately assessed; not for me the happy shopping afternoons in Oxford Street which they had so enjoyed. My own shopping would be subtly differentiated from theirs. Awareness of this was almost palpable. I marvelled at the swiftness with which the change in our fortunes had been registered, but was too saddened by this sudden loss of affection to defend myself. In any event no defence was available to me, since there had been no accusation. Indeed, it seemed almost natural to me that I should lose everything, so utterly bereft did my situation appear to me. I was to remember this
situation for some time. In an odd way it served me well, for it rallied my reserves of courage, such as they were. In later life I was to refer to it whenever I needed extra strength to deal with the exigencies of my not very onerous life. My importance in the scheme of things seemed to me minimal, even negligeable, yet a certain obstinacy, of which perhaps others were conscious, though I was not, kept me afloat.
I kissed them both, at which they bridled slightly, for I had committed the sin of not observing my mourning. I had no need to observe it: I was inhabited by it, but it did not seem worth trying to explain this. The outer office was empty, so I was spared the dilemma of whether or not to announce my resignation. In fact I was determined not to resign, for I might eventually want to do the job again, and I decided that I would write to Mrs Hemmings and ask her to let me know whether or not she might need me. I had a cup of coffee in a sandwich bar, envying the workers who had begun to crowd in on their lunchtime break. Then, since there was nothing else to do, I went home.
I walked through Battersea Park, as I had done so many times before. It was misty, and already growing dim, the weather I liked the most. London parks are at their best in this type of weather, and I lingered in the shadows, aware that the only figures I passed were, like myself, thoughtful, or merely unemployed. That way I managed to use up most of the afternoon. When I got back to the flat I found that Miss Lawlor had left. My supper, between two plates, was on a tray in the kitchen, as if I no longer needed or deserved the formality of a table and its proper accoutrements. Under the top plate I found a slice of meat loaf and a tomato salad, a perfunctory meal which increased my feeling of sadness. It was not that Miss Lawlor was neglecting me: I knew that she was given to tears and did not want me to see her crying. Besides, she was as unhappy as I was, and we found it difficult to comfort one another. I had always taken her for granted; it was my mother who was her true friend, although she had the company of the church ladies on Monday evenings. But with my mother she was an equal, and was able to discuss her affairs over the teacups. I dare say my father helped her with her tax returns and scrutinised any bills when she thought she had been overcharged. Now there was only myself, and I could do none of these things. In fact I could do very little, and as well as sorrow I felt an immense perplexity, as if I had no idea how to behave in this new cold world.
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