Family and Friends (16 page)

‘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?’

Mimi bows her head. ‘It is because I don’t love him,’ she whispers. She has never touched on these matters before and is anxious to avoid them now.

‘Love!’ says Sofka scornfully. ‘It is marriage we are talking about. He does not ask you to love him. He asks you to care for him as he will care for you. You have enjoyed his company, the concerts, the walks. He knows your ways, our ways. That is what matters, believe me. And you are not getting any younger.’

‘Mama,’ begs Mimi. ‘Leave me alone.’

‘Daughter!’ cries Sofka, in a loud voice which startles them both, as does the archaic use of the word. ‘I do not want to die and leave you alone. I do not want you to remain my little child, without your mother to run to. Do you know what they say of such women? Do you know what it is like for a woman to grow old without a man? To be a godmother to other women’s children, useful for presents and otherwise disregarded? Do you know what it is like never to set a family table? Never to celebrate? To sit alone, because it is inconvenient for your friends to invite you? Do you know what it is to be
left out of other people’s plans? To be left out of their conversations, even? Do you want to grow old like this, playing the piano, dreaming like a girl? Do you know the names that other women apply to women like you?’

Mimi lifts her head and stares at her mother in horror.

‘Do they talk about me, then?’ she asks.

‘Yes,’ says Sofka. ‘They talk about you. As if you had some fatal illness, which God forbid. But they will not talk about you after your wedding. Lautner is not undignified. He is a good man. And no one will talk about you in that way when they see your house, when they admire your possessions, when they come to your afternoons. Papa left you a settlement, you know. You will not be poor. And when you have a child of your own, then you will no longer be angry with your mother. Then, my darling, you will rejoice and be proud and be a real woman at last.’

There is silence. ‘Trust me, Mimi,’ says Sofka, smoothing the untidy hair. ‘And show them, show your family, what you are made of. We have all waited a long time.’

‘You
have waited?’ asks Mimi, with a strange laugh. ‘Then I must not keep you waiting any longer.’

When Mimi sits down at the table for dinner, she is bathed, changed, and to all intents and purposes entirely calm. It so happens that Alfred is present that evening, and with the faintest touch of irony Mimi allows her mother to tell him the glad news. Alfred’s response is explosive. ‘You must both be mad,’ he says. ‘Lautner! Of all people! Lautner!’

‘I think you had better practise calling him Joseph,’ says Mimi, unmoved. ‘I should like the wine sauce, if you please, Alfred. It is just by your elbow, as usual.’

Alfred looks stunned at this evidence of insubordination. His sister has always waited on him, deferred to his wishes, kept an anxious watch on his appetite. His
sister has always been like his mother, in this respect. And here is his mother, looking down at her plate, trying to efface a smile, then looking up again with the expression of one contemplating vast and harmonious horizons, as if nothing were amiss.

‘You can’t get married,’ explodes Alfred. ‘You can’t even cook. You don’t know anything about running a house. And where are you going to live, by the way? Not here, I hope?’ The prospect seems to stagger him. The idea of living on equal terms with Lautner makes a mockery of everything that he has worked for, his ruined childhood, his desiccated manhood, the freedom which he has had to renegotiate all the time, always on other people’s terms, it seems to him.

‘Joseph has a place in Kentish Town,’ says Mimi calmly, emptying the jug of wine sauce over the square of batter pudding on her plate. ‘I dare say that it will do until I can look around for something better.’

‘Why not wait until you have found somewhere, darling?’ murmurs Sofka, not really anxious to allow too much delay.

‘Oh, no,’ says Mimi. ‘I should like to get married as soon as possible.’

‘Lautner!’ explodes Alfred once more, as the meal draws to a close. ‘He used to brush my father’s coat.’

‘You may be quite sure that he will not brush yours, Alfred,’ says Mimi, folding her napkin and pushing it through its silver ring. ‘Will you ask for coffee, Mama, or shall I?’