After a morning spent circulating with the crowds in the National Gallery and eating a meal in the restaurant there, sharing a table with three lively young women who apparently worked in the same office and to whom I longed to speak, I reflected that this experience had not been too bad, and that I might just repeat it on the following day, when I might look more closely at the Sienese school and perhaps attend one of the lectures, but that it could not be repeated ad infinitum because I would eventually see it for what it was, a pretext. I was no David Copperfield: I did not gather round myself a cast of fascinating characters, nor were there benevolent elders in the background, happy to recognise my gifts and my promise. I came out of the Gallery and leaned over the balustrade, gazing with puzzled eyes at an indifferent Trafalgar Square. It was not yet three o’clock, but already the day was dying; the sun, the colour of a blood orange, was shrinking in the sky, and an expanse of whitish cloud, soon to turn grey, and then to darken, dispensed a more palpable cold than I had noticed in the daytime. That moment of going home was for me always fraught with difficulty. Although self-sufficient by nature I hated the silent evenings, for the television had gone to Miss Lawlor and the radio was already in Dolphin Square. And perhaps I lacked resource; perhaps I simply lacked company. On the evening of which I speak I felt the onset of a deplorable weakness, which was augmented by the prospect of Christmas, as, I have since discovered, is the case with others, even those more fortunately placed than myself.
When the telephone rang I ran to it with the purest gratitude.
‘Dolly here,’ said a brisk voice. ‘I notice you don’t bother to keep in touch these days.’
‘I suppose I was waiting for you,’ I said, immediately regretting the criticism implicit in this remark.
‘What else am I doing, you funny girl?’ Funny, in Dolly’s parlance, was a synonym for selfish, dreary, stupid, and similar terms of disparagement. Since she used it all the time, of everyone, one could not challenge her on it, although her meaning was always perfectly clear. Being funny meant being relegated, as having revealed a sordid disposition. ‘Funny woman,’ she would say wonderingly, after unleashing a diatribe against one of her dearest friends. I took it that I was where I had always been, in the wrong.
‘I was thinking about Christmas,’ Dolly went on. ‘You won’t want to be alone, and I don’t either. Everyone wants me to go to them, but I don’t fancy it, not this year.’
I thought she was referring to my mother’s recent death, and said eagerly, ‘Shall I come over to you?’
‘Good heavens, I’m not staying here. Anyway I couldn’t. Annie’s gone to Ostend, to her daughter. No, I thought of a hotel. Somewhere on the coast. I thought you might like to join me. It would get you out. Of course it’s ridiculously expensive, although not for you.’ She gave her familiar little laugh.
‘I could treat us both,’ I said. I was grateful to her for thinking of me, for including me in her plans.
‘You could, of course. Well, that would be very nice of you, Jane.’
Praise from Dolly! I began to experience a family feeling that I had never, even at my most desolate, connected with Dolly.
‘Had you anywhere in mind?’
‘Bournemouth,’ she said. ‘The Grand. I went there with Mother when we first came to England. It’s where I met your uncle, as a matter of fact. I’ll book, shall I?’
‘And I’ll look up the trains.’
‘What a funny girl you are. We’ll go by car, of course. I hope you’ve got something decent to wear. One is expected to make a bit of an effort. And I dare say there will be dancing.’
‘Do we really need a car?’
‘Well I certainly do, Jane. There’s my luggage, my make-up case, my heated rollers. Good heavens, I certainly need a car. I don’t suppose you’ll take much. You can take a cab over to me—I’ll hire the car. Be here at midday on the twenty-third. We should be there in time for tea.’
My case was packed by the twenty-second. I was timidly delighted. I watched the weather, as if we should be out all day, walking by the sea, although as far as I knew Dolly never walked anywhere. In the evenings there would be dancing, she said. I would not dance, for I doubted whether I should find a partner, but I should be quite content to watch, even though it might mean seeing the equivalent of one of those television programmes my mother so enjoyed coming to life. Coming to life! I was young; I was ready for pleasure. And maybe Dolly and I could use this occasion to become on better terms with each other, for as she had once so nearly remarked, she was all I had.
On the day on which we had agreed, or rather Dolly had agreed, that we should meet, I found her standing in the hallway of her flat, in her fur coat, surrounded by various pieces of luggage. I had time to notice that the flat looked dusty: Dolly, by contrast, was heavily made-up, her face enlivened by various colours which heightened her expression of appetite but looked harsh on this grey day. She seemed morose, as if regretting the necessity for my company. Her manner was equally distant; in fact her disposition seemed sombre, even brooding, as if she desired nothing more than to be left to herself, as if she had urgent calculations to make, as if her normal vivacity, however irritating it occasionally was, had been laid aside in favour of a sudden access of cold reason.
I did not see why she should be so bleak at the outset of what purported to be a holiday, but I noted with relief that I was not the occasion for her strange humour, that I had in effect done nothing to provoke it, that my presence did not even register very strongly, and was in any case irrelevant to Dolly’s mood. This had its origins in circumstances then unknown to me, although I was to approach an understanding of them later on.
I followed her down the stairs, noting how easily she lifted and carried her suitcase, watching her glossy fur back with its obedient muscles, reflecting that she was essentially durable. Yet there was a suspicion of age—the merest suspicion only—in the very slight hunching of the shoulders, the shortening of the neck, half submerged in, and therefore even more drastically shortened by, an expensive silk scarf. When a woman can no longer straighten her neck and throw back her head with ease she had better see that she performs neither action inadvertently. Dolly’s newly coiffed head disappeared down the stairwell in front of me; her footsteps seemed heavier, or merely more determined, as if she were undertaking a mission which might have something perilous about it, but which she was pursuing with her usual courage. For Dolly had courage, had in fact never lacked it.
‘I hope you will be able to amuse yourself, Jane,’ she said, settling herself in the back of the car, which immediately filled with the smell of her scent. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I’m going to close my eyes. I shall need all my energy for this evening.’
She handed me a brochure which showed a Jacobean-style mansion in a sunlit snowy landscape. Inside was another photograph of a log fire in a marble fireplace wreathed with holly. The first thing to register was the price charged for this three-day Christmas break, which struck me as excessive, although this apparently was what people were prepared to pay for the privilege of being taken in at a problematic time of the year. The object seemed to be to create the atmosphere of a cruise, with the accent on food, entertainment, and dancing. There was to be a welcome champagne reception, I read, that evening, with local carol singers, followed by dinner in the French style. A full range of diversions, including cards and a quiz in the television room, would be available. On Christmas Eve, ladies were advised that the hairdressing salon would be open until five o’clock. Another champagne reception would be followed by dinner in the Italian style. There would be dancing until midnight, when hot punch and mince pies would be served. Feeling slightly sick I noted that Christmas Day would be marked by full English breakfast, morning coffee, with a visit from more carol singers, traditional Christmas lunch, followed by tea with Christmas cake. Dinner would consist of a Scandinavian smorgasbord. On Boxing Day one could take brunch in the restaurant, after which one was expected to ma
ke oneself scarce until the evening cocktail party, followed by a grand gala dinner, with dancing and cabaret. On the following day, I noticed, no food other than breakfast was provided; after yet another cocktail party one was expected to depart, while the hotel geared itself up for what was announced as a magnificent New Year’s break.
The grim professionalism of these people astounded me, for surely there could be little pleasure in any of this for the staff. Or even for the patrons, stuffed to the gills with smorgasbord and Christmas cake. But then I reflected that lonely people, widows especially, might wait all the year for the opportunity of meeting others in a festive atmosphere, and for three or four days manage to give an impression of high spirits and fulfillment, overlooking or even forgetting the circumstances in which they lived. In this category I was forced to include Dolly, yet it worried me that she had to descend to this sort of amusement which seemed inferior to me, commercial, if not downright cynical. But people went on cruises, I thought, and sometimes made friends, and although Dolly seemed to have plenty of friends I could see that she might enjoy a holiday from her real life.
I stole a look at her from time to time. Her bluish eyelids were tightly shut, and her thin lips, painted a dark red, were clamped together in a downward line never before witnessed by me. She looked old; she looked ill. She also looked resolute, as if about to undertake a difficult enterprise. She remained asleep, or else communing with herself, for two hours, at the end of which she opened her eyes, relaxed her mouth, looked thoughtful, then enthusiastic, then joyous, in a progression so natural that I wondered how I had ever thought her old. A layer of scented powder was applied, lipstick was renewed, the social persona was refurbished and ready for action. Yet somehow I was left with that impression of determination, as if Dolly were a professional herself. Maybe this was an element of her natural behaviour, faced, as she had been, with many precarious situations.
This glimpse behind the façade of Dolly’s life made me uncomfortable. I did not like her, yet I had no wish to see her humiliated, and I sensed that she was ripe for a humiliation of one kind or another. She had lost her natural sense of festivity, which was in fact her most attractive characteristic. Her spontaneity I had always doubted, since I had become aware of the enormous amount of calculation behind it. Now there was a watchfulness about her; I was seeing an older, more effortful Dolly. Yet when I looked at her again I was surprised by a dazzling if meaningless smile, one of the smiles by which I had first known her, and I determined to afford her as good a time as possible, since that was what she wanted. ‘Singing and dancing, Jane’, I could almost hear her say. It seemed to me something of a defeat that she had been reduced to the manufactured entertainment advertised in the brochure. As for myself, I hoped for nothing from this excursion. The only saving grace was that neither of us would be on our own.
The car approached a looming pile which bore only the faintest resemblance to the illustration in the brochure. The weather, moreover, was mild, grey, and overcast. We entered a ferociously heated lobby which seemed full of people whom Dolly surveyed with an expectant eye. From time to time a voice on a loudspeaker, prefaced by a crackle, announced that tea was now being served in the lounge. ‘Come along, Jane,’ said Dolly, in her normal brisk and emphatic voice. I followed her into a huge room smelling of cigars, where waitresses sped about with silver teapots and plates of pastries. I prepared to chaperone Dolly to the best of my ability, but her eyes were sharper than mine. ‘Why Harry,’ I heard her say, in a delighted and infinitely honeyed tone. Harry rose to his feet from a chair beside a log fire: that at least was genuine. ‘You got here all right, then,’ he said. ‘The others are over there.’ He seated himself again, as if he had fulfilled his social duty, and returned to the newspaper, in which he was checking the racing results. I followed Dolly across the room to where Phyllis, Beatrice, and the other two were seated, with their amiable but unimpressive husbands. All uttered delighted noises of appreciation. ‘Jane, do ask Harry to join us,’ said Dolly, who was now restored to full vivacity. ‘Oh, yes, do,’ said Phyllis, or Rose, or Meriel. ‘A party’s not a party without Harry.’ ‘And order tea,’ added Dolly, whose face had lost any suggestion of age, even less of the bitter reflections which seemed to have assailed her in the car. I was self-conscious as I crossed the floor, although I felt invisible in this middle-aged company. ‘Dolly says, won’t you join them?’ I asked Harry. He gave me a hard look, not altogether well-meaning. I was slightly afraid of him. ‘Ordered tea, have you?’ he said. I recovered a little of my composure. ‘Perhaps you could do that for me,’ I told him, and rejoined the group.
Harry’s presence stimulated the ladies to gales of laughter, at which their husbands permitted themselves an absent-minded and indulgent smile. It was as if Harry were relieving them of a duty which had become onerous. His talk was invariably suggestive, and I felt there was something slightly professional about Harry as well. As the flat-chested Phyllis helped herself to an éclair Harry remarked, ‘Better weigh yourself this evening, darling. I think you’ll find you need a bigger size. I’d offer to do it for you, if Jack weren’t here.’ They loved it. I reflected how easy it is for a man to reduce women of a certain age to imbecility. All he has to do is give an impersonation of desire, or better still, of secret knowledge, for a woman to feel herself a source of power. Dolly, although deploring the concessions Harry was making to her friends, was radiant, succumbing not only to Harry’s presence but to the louche atmosphere. I was too dazed to feel any sense of outrage. I realised that all this had been conjugated without me, that one friend had indicated the hotel as a possibility for Christmas for the others to join in, and for Dolly to be determined not to be left out. ‘Where are you going, Jane?’ called Dolly, as I got up to leave them.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a slight headache.’
‘Don’t forget dinner’s at seven-thirty. Oh, and the champagne reception. Don’t forget that.’
But in fact they were uninterested in my movements. I wandered out into the dusk, and down in the direction of the sea, although the tide was out and the sea was silent. There was no one about. In front of me spread a colourless emptiness; behind me the hotel blazed with all its discordant light and heat. Although it was nearly dark I descended the steps to the sand and walked a long way. I was unaware of distances, forced myself to notice only the chill of the air and the whisper of the waves. I was alone, and less angry than sad, sad to have been duped, sad to have been disappointed, sad even to have been denied the opportunity of befriending, or being befriended by, Dolly, to whom I was now irrelevant, having performed the only service for which she judged me apt. I might have given way to tears, but my native obstinacy reasserted itself, and I walked on, in the growing darkness, and under an empty sky, willing myself back into some sort of composure. I must have walked for well over an hour and a half. In that way I was able to avoid the champagne reception, which took place without me. I only had time for a quick bath and change before joining Dolly and Harry for dinner.
They were both too greedy to flirt at the table. Both ate in an intense and businesslike manner, as if not willing to waste words when there was nourishment to be had. All around me middle-aged and elderly couples devoted themselves to dinner in the French style. ‘We’re paying for it’, their attitude seemed to say, although they tried to be restrained, and often indulged in a little mild conversation with husbands for whom they generally answered as a matter of course. Against this gentility Dolly and Harry, mouths glistening, gave an impression of superior appetite. A clue could be read here to their more intimate behaviour. As an unwelcome guest at their table I was not able to ignore this.
I escaped and went to bed early, my stomach heavy with the unwanted food. Because I hated the room, with its pink lampshade and its cynical minibar, I took one of the sleeping pills the doctor had given my mother after my father’s death. I slept dreamlessly, woke easily, and was the first down to breakfast, which I ate
alone. All around me was evidence that the day had not properly started. Waiters looked pasty, and did not bother to lower their voices as they passed through the swing doors into the kitchen. I was alone in the dining-room, apart from a couple of elderly men eating All-Bran at distant tables. The air smelt of the dinner of the previous evening. On an impulse—and I was thinking more clearly this morning—I decided that I owed Dolly no more than a token presence. I got my coat and left a message at the desk that I would be back for dinner. I would have been absent even for that but could not think of a sufficiently convincing excuse.
It was Christmas Eve, and as I left the hotel the loudspeaker was crackling into play. I retraced my steps of the previous evening and walked in the direction of Sandbanks, or so a notice with an arrow informed me. The day was mild and slightly overcast, a good day for walking, although there were few walkers about. The coastline seemed to me unresolved, neither hilly nor flat but occasionally both, and not brought into focus by the strange tentative misty light which hinted, or seemed to me then to hint, at forlorn destinies, lives lived in silence, desolate villas with gimcrack balconies, gardens filled with mournful laurels, cautious promenades with subservient dogs, widowhood. I felt oppressed by the silence, and even thought kindly of Dolphin Square, wishing I were there already, unpacking my books.
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