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  Well, thinks Sofka, he is a man now. He is not the boy who longed for my hand on his brow when he had been reading too much, and who whispered to me at the table, safe by my side. He is a man and he is doing important work; he must have his flirtations like other men. Had it been Frederick, the thought would have given her pleasure; as it is Alfred, she feels pain. I had hoped to keep him with me, my true son, and now my son is turning into his father’s son. And with Dolly! I remember them as children, laughing and over-excited. I never thought he would marry, like the others. I thought he had passed the age of danger.

  The hours of the night seem very long and very slow; it is as though the significance of this day cannot easily be relinquished. Sofka does not sleep, but addresses the Almighty, rather as she would address her bank manager, with the assurance of one who has always been solvent. I have loved them, she assures the deity in whom she does not fully believe. I think they have loved me. I am tired now. All I ask is that I should keep them a little longer. There will be time later. If Alfred is to make a fool of himself, at least let him avoid bringing disgrace on the family. You know that I have done my best. I have kept the faith. Please let Alfred settle for an affaire rather than insist on a divorce. That is what my husband always did, and everybody seemed to like him for it. I really do not understand these matters. Please let Alfred stay with me. If I am to lose anyone, let it not be Alfred. The best solution would be for Mimi to find a good man and marry him. Alfred would not then leave me alone. You know that I am getting old. I do not know how long I have left. I have not asked for much, but all in all I have been grateful. I only ask for Alfred’s sake. He has always been so good. And it would be a pity if he were to change.

  As the house settles down and the night slips into the next day, a cool wind springs up and stirs the curtains. Sofka takes this as a sign that her message has been received, and at last allows herself to sleep.

  10

  AS THE WEATHER turns cold and the year slips into darkness, fewer weekends are spent at Wren House. There seems to be a tacit agreement about this on both sides. Sofka prefers, or says she prefers, the warmth of the flat in Bryanston Square; Alfred explains that it is not fair to Muriel to expect her to house and feed his guests every weekend. At this, Sofka raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. She has no wish to know what happens at Wren House these days. She is more at ease in the dark and familiar confines of her cigar-coloured drawing-room, with its brown velvet curtains shuttered against the night. She has taken to sitting there for most of the day now, paying fewer visits to the girls in the kitchen, no longer interested in the clothes they make for themselves, or the boyfriends they treat so cruelly and with so much laughter. Sometimes she will sit for a long time listening to Mimi’s piano (‘O doux printemps d’autrefois …’) and her hand will begin to shake. ‘Mimi,’ she says. ‘Why don’t you sing that song that Betty used to sing? “Les Filles de Cadiz”, it was called. Betty sang it so beautifully.’ I shall never see her again, she thinks. She is too far away.

  Sometimes, to please her, Mimi sings the song, but it does not sound the same. Mimi’s voice is too veiled, too elegiac, too devoid of Betty’s snap and vivacity. She makes the invitation in the song sound implausible, unconvincing, in poor taste: a failed attempt. At thirty-five Mimi seems unfledged. As a young girl she had been enchanting; her innocence was then reflected in the candour of her looks. The heavy hair, the smile of greeting, the hesitant walk may not have been conventionally attractive; but, more important, they were disarming. One looked and saw no guile. There is still no guile in Mimi, and Sofka almost wishes that there were. She compares Mimi’s silent presence in the apartment with the girls and their irruptions. ‘Madam, Madam, Mrs Sofka, darling! What do you think? With earrings or without? All right for his family, yes? As if I care!’ And they flounce away, fortified by the courage of their own intentions. These girls are sensible, even wise. They know that when Sofka dies, or sooner, they will have to leave the safety of this house and find another. Therefore they intend to secure husbands, whom they will intrigue and who will provide for them, and provide lavishly. There is no sentiment here. Lili and Ursie have discarded sentiment as a luxury, and one which might prove bad for their looks. How Sofka admires them for this! Her own life has been spent in avoidance of the fatal passion and she has not, she thinks, been wrong. She knows nothing of that voluptuous flight from the contingencies of normal living, that surrender of the will, that rich harvest of inner thought and memory. She knows only what is appropriate, suitable, in order. She knows that possession of a husband confers status on a woman, and if that status is undeserved, what of that? Sofka knows, and she is right, that nothing is worth waiting for, not even the ideal partner, not even if that ideal partner exists. Sofka knows that a woman of thirty-five without a husband is to be pitied, and is indeed pitied by those who ignore her essence and who will almost certainly denigrate her virtues.

  This question of Mimi’s future preoccupies Sofka these days, almost to the exclusion of considerations of Alfred’s arrangements. Perhaps she concentrates on Mimi so as not to worry about what is happening at Wren House and indeed at Hyde Park Street, home of Hal and Dolly. The year seems colder to her than previous years and she becomes a little agitated as night comes on. Well, she is no longer young, she reminds herself. It is natural for her to feel anxiety for the children that are left.

  Of Mimi’s inner landscape she has little idea, focusing her attention on Mimi’s appearance which does indeed begin to reflect that dereliction of spirit that has overtaken Mimi in recent years. She does not know, for example, of Mimi’s profound despair, which proceeds from a sense of exclusion from the living world. Unlike Alfred, Mimi has been too long disabled to fight her way clear. The enactment of Mimi’s desires is all retrospective, in the mind. Mimi constantly rewrites the script that decreed that she should remain solitary that night in the Hôtel Bedford et West End. It is not Frank for whom she yearns now but for that missing factor in herself that would have brought Frank to her side. She blames herself entirely for this omission, and maybe she is right. Somehow she knows, correctly, that without this false start, this disgrace, this defeat, she could have taken her chance like any other woman. But since that morning when, dry-mouthed and dry-eyed, she got up and dressed herself and left the hotel, she no longer feels a part of her time, of her age: she feels invisible. It is as much as she can do now to avoid pain, simply to avoid pain. Therefore, this nun-like existence with her mother and her brother, these afternoons lying down and nursing a headache, this unalterably serene service at the hospital, enable her to get through the day as quickly and as quietly as possible and prepare the way for the night, which is her own time. For then she thinks entirely, exclusively, of herself. She does not ask what is to become of her. She knows. She will stay here in this apartment, with Sofka, and intermittently with Alfred, and she will pursue this un-abrasive way of life until death takes her. In this way she will remain true to herself. For passionate souls, it has been truly remarked, do not find friendship easy. And, it might have been added, nor love either, after a certain time.

  The days pass, unvariegated. Mother and daughter sit at table. There is very little for either of them to do. The only sounds come from the kitchen, where Lili and Ursie cry less these days and laugh more. Nobody is ill. Nobody is poor. Indeed they are rather rich. Alfred joins them two or three times a week, when business or pleasure can spare him, and they do not enquire of him what he is doing. Pleasing concern for his health is all that is expressed, which is just as well, because Alfred is testy and authoritative these days: his temper is uncertain, and mother and daughter gently suggest that he is working too hard. The polite convention is that it is Alfred’s work that sometimes keeps him away at night. And by common consent, it is the cares and burdens of a man of affairs, a man of property, that they all deplore. Alfred is quite willing to subscribe to this convention, which is not entirely a fiction. He is indeed burdened these days.


  ‘Alfred,’ says Sofka. ‘You have hardly touched your dessert.’ It is a vanilla cream, one of his favourites. She puts in front of him the silver bonbonnière filled with almonds and muscatels. He looks at it blankly, then pushes it away. ‘Not hungry, Mama. Tell Lili to bring me some coffee in the study. I have some papers to go through.’ The study is where the telephone is.

  ‘But Alfred,’ protests Sofka gently. ‘Why not let Lautner …?’

  ‘Lautner is useless,’ says Alfred, rather harshly, but he is anxious to be gone.

  How is Lautner these days? He is in fact far from useless: he is indispensable. Not only is he the agent whereby certain monies are paid regularly to Mrs Beck and her kind; not only does he know the work of the factory by heart; not only is he acquainted with the business of the household and its expenses; not only has he made arrangements, as instructed, for dowries for Lili and Ursie; because of all this, because, too, of his dull decency, his unfailing rectitude, Lautner is the repository of the family’s secrets and its link with the past. From his flat in Kentish Town which he has never sought to improve, Lautner still presents himself, on Sundays, to take coffee and marzipan cake, although these days he is mostly served in the kitchen. He has been very kind to the girls, Lili and Ursie, has brought them little bouquets of flowers which they put carelessly into vases. Nevertheless he thinks well of these girls, whose arrival he was instructed to organize, whom he has comforted in their initial distress, and whom he knows to be part of the family, which is the only family he has now. Once Sofka sounded the girls as to what they felt about Lautner, but they simply looked at each other and burst out laughing. And it is true that Lautner, in his old-fashioned suits, and with the watch that he checks against every clock that he encounters, would not be suitable for the girls. ‘He is too old!’ they protest. ‘Mrs Sofka, darling, he is nearly sixty!’ ‘He is fifty-nine,’ Sofka reproves them. ‘And he is the salt of the earth.’ But they remain unconvinced. What is the salt of the earth to them? They do not even understand the expression.

  When Lautner next comes to Bryanston Square, Sofka sends word that he is to join her in the drawing-room. She has dressed herself in her grey silk, as she sometimes does on a Sunday, and she would dearly love a little company, feeling brighter that day and somewhat cheered by the late autumn sunshine.

  ‘Sit down, Joseph,’ she says. ‘It is many Sundays since we had a talk.’ And she indicates a chair on the other side of the coffee-table and prepares to cut the marzipan cake. ‘And it is time I called you Joseph, is it not?’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Dorn, I am only too happy …’

  Lautner is indeed happy at this attention. He has begun to wonder recently how he will fill his days when Alfred suggests that he retire, as he rather suspects that Alfred has a mind to do. Alfred is a hard task-master, unlike Frederick, whose inspired comings and goings enlivened Lautner, made him feel necessary, indulgent, responsible. Oddly enough, Lautner was by no means impervious to the romance of Frederick’s life. Like most men without a family he has espoused the family to which he does not belong with total acceptance and complete devotion. Alfred is more difficult to get along with than his brother ever was. He has a harsher manner. Frederick was more like his father, Lautner reflects. But Alfred is a better businessman, a better financier than Frederick could ever have been. So excellent is Alfred in these respects that Lautner no longer finds himself as necessary as he did previously, and sometimes he has to serve in a quite subordinate capacity.

  ‘What news of the children, Mrs Dorn?’ he asks, after the usual enquiries about her health. For to Lautner, as to Sofka, they are still the children.

  Sofka smiles. ‘Frederick and Evie are coming home for a visit soon,’ she says. ‘Just think! I haven’t seen him since before the war! And he has two children now, twins.’ But privately she does not think much of these twins, of whom she has seen photographs. They are squarish children, the image of their mother, with all their mother’s teeth. They are called Erica and Thomas, uninteresting names. Sofka does not think of shortening these names, for in some way she feels that the twins have nothing to do with the family to which she belongs. And the Frederick she remembers so vividly had nothing of a father about him.

  ‘And Betty is in Hollywood! Just think! Her husband makes films for television, and Betty has her own swimming pool. Alfred has promised to take me to see her one day. But I don’t think I shall go. I am getting old, Joseph.’ She sighs. Lautner is moved; greatly daring, he puts his hand on hers. Sofka smiles. ‘Of course, Betty writes. It is all going so well for them. And sometimes she sends a parcel of clothes for Mimi. But they don’t fit her. And they wouldn’t suit her even if they did. Betty was a gipsy. My gipsy.’ She smiles again.

  ‘And Miss Mimi?’ Lautner asks.

  Sofka sighs. ‘I worry about her,’ she says. And the animation leaves her face.

  When Mimi comes in for coffee, she is surprised to find Lautner still there, for he usually stays only half an hour or so. She wonders what her mother can have found to talk to him about this long time. But she appreciates the way he stands up and arranges her chair and hands over her coffee-cup. She has always liked his careful manners and his respectful devotion to her mother. And she has known him for so long – since she was a child, in fact – that she hardly thinks of him as a man. More of a background, a shade.

  ‘Do you still go to concerts, as you used to, Joseph?’ enquires Sofka.

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Dorn, indeed. I have tickets for a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall this Wednesday. I know that Miss Mimi is fond of the piano. I used to hear her playing, years ago, when I came to the house. I wonder …’ He turns to her. ‘I wonder, Miss Mimi, would you by any chance be free?’

  Mimi hesitates, as she always does when she receives an invitation, searching vainly for an excuse.

  He smiles at her, as if reading her mind.

  ‘It will be for two hours only. I will collect you and bring you back immediately afterwards, and you will have heard a good programme of your beloved Chopin.’

  Mimi assents weakly, rather surprised that her mother will permit this. It has never happened before, and she sees no reason why it should happen now. But as she sees Sofka and Lautner smiling at her with such affection, she supposes that for once it will be only polite not to disappoint them.

  And so it is arranged. Just what is arranged is imprecise but is understood by both Sofka and Lautner. There could be no more delicate suitor than Joseph Lautner. Sometimes a concert, more often a long walk on Sunday afternoon before returning to Bryanston Square and to Sofka. So delicate a suitor is Lautner that Mimi has no idea of his intentions. She is however rather encouraged by his self-effacing company, and when he offers her his arm, during those gentle walks through Regent’s Park, she takes it unhesitatingly, feeling him to be the father, the protector, that she lost too soon. There is no doubt that her headaches have improved and her appearance has benefited from the fresh air, the exercise, and even the company. No longer does she spend disheartening Sundays in her bedroom, trying on the vivid flimsy clothes that Betty sends, and seeing that they make her look sallow, thin, and old. Her good tweed suit and her walking shoes are all that is required of her. And how anxious Lautner is that she should be warm enough! And how carefully he reassures Sofka that they will be back in two hours, two and a half at the most! ‘Joseph, Joseph,’ smiles Sofka. ‘I know that she is safe with you.’ And indeed she is.

  But Mimi, because she feels nothing but a mild reassurance and none of that sense of failed destiny that has dogged her, has indeed ruined her life, has no idea what is going on. For Mimi, these walks, these concerts, are simply, like everything else, ways of passing the time. And these little excursions are never discussed, as, Mimi supposes, more significant encounters are discussed between mother and daughter. And by common consent they are never referred to in front of Alfred who regards Lautner’s attendance with only barely concealed irritation. ‘Are you keeping your swain in good order,
Mimi?’ he demands with a laugh. Yet there is ferocity in the laugh, as if something preposterous is going on and should not be allowed to continue. As if he will disbar Lautner, with a few unmistakable words, should the need arise. Therefore Lautner’s visits are not much discussed at Bryanston Square.

  When Lautner, after a few words to Sofka behind the closed door of the drawing-room, asks Mimi to marry him she immediately retreats to her room with a headache. Strange; she has not had one for some time. And this one is quite severe, complicated as it is by tears of anguish. Destiny, which failed Mimi once, seems about to do so again. For she knows, instinctively, that she was meant to be the wife of a man so inevitably, so truly loved that he would validate her entire existence. And that without such a love she will remain invalid, insignificant, and, worse, disabused. ‘Send him away, Mama,’ she begs, when her mother comes later into her room. ‘I cannot marry him. It is impossible.’

  Sofka enters the room and shuts the door behind her. ‘He has gone,’ she assures Mimi drily. ‘Did you think he was waiting for your answer, cap in hand? He is not a peasant, you know. He is a man.’ The distinction is quite clear to her.

  ‘It is no good, Mama. I don’t love him and I never shall. He is the man who used to wait in the hall, down below, when Betty and I were young.’ And she passes a weary hand over her aching brow. ‘I don’t want to see him again. Tell him not to come back.’

  ‘Mimi,’ says Sofka. ‘You talk like a child. How should I send Lautner away? He has been coming to the house since Papa died. He is almost part of the family. And he has his pride, you know. In fact, he has more than you have. Look at you! Your eyes are red, your hair is untidy. And when you receive a proposal of marriage, you cry like a baby. What kind of behaviour is this?’