on her own concerns and turned up at Wellington Square looking merry, secretive, rakish, and longing for someone to ask her what on earth she had been up to.
To Harriet this was all derisory, pitiful. More alive to symbols than Tessa ever could be, she saw symptoms of decadence in tiny incidents: the combing of the hair in the mirror in the hall, the removal of a long alien hair from the exaggerated shoulders of the new suit, the hasty brushing down of the skirt, as if she had just emerged from a
maison de passe
, thought Harriet, yet it cannot have been as sordid as that. It was difficult for her to conceal dismay, and also shame, shame not only on Tessa’s behalf but on her own, for in comparison she thought she must appear hopelessly suburban, retarded, almost. She knew that the reunions to which she had formerly so looked forward—Tessa, Pamela, Mary, and herself—were now compromised, for she would never be sought after as a co-conspirator in adventures of this sort, although the former Pamela Harkness might, while the former Mary Grant would have joined in enthusiastically. And of course Harriet saw dereliction where there was simply a certain verve, reasserting itself after a long period of aberration. Harriet suspected that at some point a letter had beenreceived, giving grounds for divorce, and that Tessa had smilingly chosen to ignore it. Always that smile! Always that fiction that the marriage, although awkward, was particularly intriguing and fascinating. Always that slight air of pity for a friend who, while absolutely marvellous, simply didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. But then look who she had married! A man old enough to be her father, and nothing in the way of charm to carry it off. Moneyed, but if that was all she had wanted … Yes, Dawn’s use of the word frivolous was probably justified, decided Harriet, to whom Tessa’s thoughts were perfectly visible.
Dawn was of great value to Harriet, since she incarnated those bourgeois values which Tessa was currently putting to flight. Apparently the circles in which Dawn’s parents moved in Durban were particularly down on that sort of thing. And Dawn felt sorry for Harriet, whom she saw saddened by the knowledge of such behaviour. In any case Dawn was fed up with washing whichever of Lizzie’s two track suits she happened to have dirtied the previous day; it seemed simpler to keep the clean one in Immy’s cupboard, where it scarcely found room among the latter’s many toilettes. ‘At least she can go home looking clean,’ Dawn said to Harriet, who sadly acquiesced. Dawn was seriously thinking of moving on. ‘Don’t go,’ begged Harriet. ‘You know we love having you. And Immy is devoted to you.’ ‘I can’t stay here for ever,’ said Dawn crossly, but she put the kettle on, and added, ‘You ready for a cup, then?’
In the meantime Immy grew, in beauty, in boldness, a boldness which her mother delighted to see, having none of her own. It did not occur to her that this quality should be checked, since its very existence seemed a certificate of viability, a passport to a successful future. It was Immy who brought a smile to Freddie’s harassed face; to be the father of a turbulent two-year-old at fifty-nine was otherwise nolaughing matter. Immaculately presented in the clothes her grandmother sent her, the child apparently had a foreknowledge of all the social graces: how to receive, how to entertain. There was an interval in the evenings when, freshly bathed and dressed, she would greet her father with cries of ‘Daddy!’, and laugh. This laugh indicated pleasure, excitement, though her attention was quickly withdrawn if Freddie turned his face to Harriet. Lizzie, having made one attempt to join the celebrations and been repulsed—‘
My
Daddy!’—would look on, until Harriet, reminded of certain solitary days of her own, bought her a couple of picture books. These concerned the behaviour of an infant of indeterminate
To Harriet this was all derisory, pitiful. More alive to symbols than Tessa ever could be, she saw symptoms of decadence in tiny incidents: the combing of the hair in the mirror in the hall, the removal of a long alien hair from the exaggerated shoulders of the new suit, the hasty brushing down of the skirt, as if she had just emerged from a
maison de passe
, thought Harriet, yet it cannot have been as sordid as that. It was difficult for her to conceal dismay, and also shame, shame not only on Tessa’s behalf but on her own, for in comparison she thought she must appear hopelessly suburban, retarded, almost. She knew that the reunions to which she had formerly so looked forward—Tessa, Pamela, Mary, and herself—were now compromised, for she would never be sought after as a co-conspirator in adventures of this sort, although the former Pamela Harkness might, while the former Mary Grant would have joined in enthusiastically. And of course Harriet saw dereliction where there was simply a certain verve, reasserting itself after a long period of aberration. Harriet suspected that at some point a letter had beenreceived, giving grounds for divorce, and that Tessa had smilingly chosen to ignore it. Always that smile! Always that fiction that the marriage, although awkward, was particularly intriguing and fascinating. Always that slight air of pity for a friend who, while absolutely marvellous, simply didn’t know enough to come in out of the rain. But then look who she had married! A man old enough to be her father, and nothing in the way of charm to carry it off. Moneyed, but if that was all she had wanted … Yes, Dawn’s use of the word frivolous was probably justified, decided Harriet, to whom Tessa’s thoughts were perfectly visible.
Dawn was of great value to Harriet, since she incarnated those bourgeois values which Tessa was currently putting to flight. Apparently the circles in which Dawn’s parents moved in Durban were particularly down on that sort of thing. And Dawn felt sorry for Harriet, whom she saw saddened by the knowledge of such behaviour. In any case Dawn was fed up with washing whichever of Lizzie’s two track suits she happened to have dirtied the previous day; it seemed simpler to keep the clean one in Immy’s cupboard, where it scarcely found room among the latter’s many toilettes. ‘At least she can go home looking clean,’ Dawn said to Harriet, who sadly acquiesced. Dawn was seriously thinking of moving on. ‘Don’t go,’ begged Harriet. ‘You know we love having you. And Immy is devoted to you.’ ‘I can’t stay here for ever,’ said Dawn crossly, but she put the kettle on, and added, ‘You ready for a cup, then?’
In the meantime Immy grew, in beauty, in boldness, a boldness which her mother delighted to see, having none of her own. It did not occur to her that this quality should be checked, since its very existence seemed a certificate of viability, a passport to a successful future. It was Immy who brought a smile to Freddie’s harassed face; to be the father of a turbulent two-year-old at fifty-nine was otherwise nolaughing matter. Immaculately presented in the clothes her grandmother sent her, the child apparently had a foreknowledge of all the social graces: how to receive, how to entertain. There was an interval in the evenings when, freshly bathed and dressed, she would greet her father with cries of ‘Daddy!’, and laugh. This laugh indicated pleasure, excitement, though her attention was quickly withdrawn if Freddie turned his face to Harriet. Lizzie, having made one attempt to join the celebrations and been repulsed—‘
My
Daddy!’—would look on, until Harriet, reminded of certain solitary days of her own, bought her a couple of picture books. These concerned the behaviour of an infant of indeterminate
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