Clara Parsonson 

Extract from Dolly, Darling

Some days later, as I was entertaining a group of ladies from the local parish, the butler brought in a folded piece of paper and placed it in front of me. I looked up to see him giving me a sly look from the corner of his eye, clearly intrigued as to who could be contacting me in such an informal way. I had never received such a note before, my correspondence being mostly limited to telegrams and letters detailing appointments or events I would be expected at. I knew who the sender was from when I first saw it, and when I unfolded it, my suspicions were immediately confirmed. At the top was written Florence Ainsworth, in beautiful printed calligraphy and the note below wrote:

Dolly,

How wonderful it is to find a new friend! I have had you in my mind constantly and you should expect me at your door very soon.

I hope Phillip is keeping you entertained, darling.

Yours,

Florence

The women with me asked whom it was that I had received such unconventional correspondence from and I had considered withholding it from them; Florence was, after all according to Doreen, rather infamous around London. However, I was highly intrigued as to how well known she was, outside of her family name amongst my circles and so I told them and watched as a few shrugged unknowingly and two shared a brief glance which told me they had taken notice of the gossip columns in newspapers. I actually recall being particularly surprised at one of these women recognising Florence’s name, for she was very pious and spoke of very little other than her work as the patron of some sort of religious charity, the name of which I have no clue about now. The idea that she found pleasure, or at least a way to pass the time, in reading of the exploits of the young Ainsworth lady really did fill me with glee. Perhaps she was living vicariously through her, and her pious nature was all for show. An unlikely possibility, but a possibility nonetheless.

           This was the first of many notes posted through my letterbox over the year of our acquaintance. I still have them all stored in my little chest, safe underneath my bed. I could not bear to part with them after she was removed from my life, and over the years I have often read the small anecdotes she would share with me after a lunch with her parents or a dinner with her friends. I did not question how it was she discovered my address in London, for she certainly knew many people and the idea that she could find any information she wanted through simple persuasion was highly probable. I also knew well enough that her reasons for posting a note, rather than knocking would likely be revealed to me on our next meeting.

Soon enough, I found Florence in my sitting room after being escorted in the butler. She was dressed, much to his dismay, in a suit which appeared to be tailored for a young boy rather than her frame, for while it fit around her waist and bust well, it hung several inches above her ankles and the sleeves revealed a little more of her arm then the tailor had likely intended. The butler announced her rather more hastily than usual and scurried from the room.

           “Hello, darling,” she said, as soon as he was gone.

           “Was this attire necessary?” I asked, abandoning any usual greeting.

           “No, not really, it's bloody uncomfortable actually, but I predicted your expression and now I feel it is worth it. You should have seen your poor butler’s face when he removed my overcoat, complete shock. He was practically shaking!”

           “Must you always insist on making such a poor first impression?”

           “Well actually Dolly, there's sense behind it. For if one sees it as a poor first impression it leaves me with no inclination to continue any sort of parlay with them, but if someone laughs and finds it interesting or endearing it tells me I have found a new friend and I will continue seeing them afterwards.”

           “I wasn’t particularly impressed on our first meeting but you are now stood in my sitting room in a boy’s suit.”

           “Yes, but you weren’t impressed because you already thought me a terror after the incident in the restaurant, had your first impression been me walking in with Johnny in my hand you would have loved me from the first moment!”

           “I can assure you that would not have been the case.”

           “Perhaps not, but you would have been more interested in talking to me. Anyway, I’m here now and now we are friends so it has all worked out smashingly, has it not?”

           “Yes, why is it you are here exactly?”

           “Well, my friends are having a little party tonight and I’d like you to be in attendance.”

           “Ok, why could you not have invited me in a letter?”

           “I assumed some persuasion would be required.”

           “What on earth would have given you the impression that I would need persuading,” I teased.

           “Well you aren’t exactly—”

She noticed my expression and chose to discontinue whatever insult on my social presence was coming. “Regardless, darling, I’m glad you have decided to accept my invitation. I thought best to do it when Phillip was absent so this is perfect!”

           How she knew Phillip was spending the night away was a question I decided would not be worth asking, and rather I took it to be another one of those things that Florence just knew.

           Her visit was brief, she left immediately, putting her overcoat back on, tying it so tightly that any passers-by would have no idea that underneath was the most untraditional of feminine attire. I knew that suit was for my benefit only. She offered my poor butler a sly wink and sauntered down the street, leaving us both in complete silence, for different reasons, I imagine.

***

Later that day I stood in front of my looking glass, and it occurred to me that outside of the time and address, I had not asked Florence a thing about the party. What I should wear, what I should expect, whether I should eat first. I did not own a telephone at this point. I believe Phillip had one in his study but I personally never used it, often frightened, in fact, by the prospect of a voice coming from an inanimate object. The prospect of conversing with someone without the ability of observing their body language or watching their facial expressions was extremely daunting to me. Words only mean so much on their own. So rather than simply being able to telephone her and ask all these questions which were suddenly weighing on me, like an anchor pressuring me to stay home I was forced to create my own answers. I chose first to wear a semi-formal afternoon dress, blue, I believe, with a white blouse underneath the neckline split down to the belt. With it, I paired darker stockings and a pair of black pumps. I felt the choice could easily be passed off as purposeful – as if I knew what I wanted to wear to the event, and I was not simply a last-minute guest who knew little of what the evening would bring. I ate a bowl of soup with some buttered bread: not too much as to fill me up, but not too little to leave me starved if we were not fed at the party. I realise to you it may seem as though I was worrying far too much about all this, but at the time it was entirely reasonable.

           My worries were misplaced it seemed, for I arrived at the apartment where the party was held and walked in to find a dozen or so men or women dressed in widely contrasting fits. A couple women were dressed alike to myself, while some men wore tuxedos and others were in more casual apparel. I was more surprised by the intimacy of the gathering. I had assumed Florence to be frequently present at more raucous parties packed with people and booze and merriment of the sort which could not be imitated by smaller groups meeting, but the scene was a gentle one, a scene I was able to observe with little difficulty. They were seated in a sitting room around a low coffee table supporting several bottles of champagne and brandy. Florence had met me by the door, so I was not entering alone but I somehow felt more intimidated by the small group then I would have by a large party. It felt intimate and comfortable, like a small family who had grown accustomed to each other’s company, able to be comfortably silent but also comfortably loud, and I was interrupting them, a stranger come to call. She announced me to the room, in the way my butler perhaps should have that morning, “Dorothy Buffett, everyone”, and they welcomed me, with no more or less enthusiasm than necessary. They greeted me, they said hello and made room for me to take a seat and then they returned to chattering to each other. Had I walked into a group of people who believed in the manners I had been taught, they would have stood up and shaken my hand or kissed my cheeks in a French way, and I would have become the subject of questioning about my family and education and whatever other small talk they could have come up with. Not being faced with that was actually quite relieving, the pretence of interest becomes transparent after being faced with it frequently.

The room was slow jazz and smoke, almost every person had a source of tobacco in their fingers, pipes, cigars and cigarettes making the room so busy with smoke that every person I saw was a slightly greyer version of themselves. The ceiling lights were out but glowing columns projected from several lamps placed around the room, and acted as a spotlight on anyone passing through them. Little pieces of conversations reached me as I was taking it in, some talk of a party they’d attended and the vanishing of Agatha Christie. I was even surprised to see a man who I believed to have the reddest lips and rosiest cheeks of any man I had ever seen was discussing the end of martial law in England. I had somehow thought the politics of the country would not reach this little circle.

I watched as the women opposite me popped a sugar cube into a champagne coupe and soaked it in brandy, before topping it up with champagne. “Have this, darling,” she said and passed it over to me. I took a sip and recall actually being quite pleasantly surprised. It’s not hugely to my taste now, I have to say, but these champagne cocktails were all the craze in London at the time and this was my first time trying it. It became my drink of choice through the next couple of years, not because I found it more delicious than any other cocktail, but because it made me feel a certain way. It made me feel like a real participant of the trends of London.

           “I’m Sally,” the women said, extending her hand over to shake mine.

           I took it, “Dorothy, it’s nice to meet you.”

           Florence interrupted the momentary silence which lingered between us, both knowing not what to say next: “Sally is my brother’s wife, that’s him over there,” and she pointed to a tall man with a thick moustache playing around with the gramophone.

           “Oh, I wasn’t aware you had a brother,” I said. She always struck me as a woman with sisters.

           “We’re actually rather close, you know. Although I far prefer Sally.” She spoke the last bit louder, catching her brother’s attention and gesturing to him to join us.

           He came into the lamplight and the glare cast shadows pronouncing the deep cheekbones which carved his face, and the sharp jawline leading into a pointed chin. I saw the similarities between he and Florence clearly now that they shared the same light. He sat by Sally and placed his hand on her thigh, his fingers curving into the gap between her legs. It was such a small movement but I remember being a little taken aback by the open familiarity they shared with one another.

           His name was Richard, Dick to us, Great Uncle Dickie to you, and he and Sally became a constant in my life from that moment onwards. It was he who would write to me when Florence’s communication faltered, telling me how she was, informing me of your mother’s developments. I believe he understood how important Florence was to me, and I have remained grateful for him.

           “How long have you two been married?” I asked them.

           “Around two years now,” Dick said, and Sally nodded in agreement.

           “I suppose you must be thinking of children soon?” I said, somewhat naively, and watched as they looked at each other smirking slightly. I was a little embarrassed for even asking. The idea of having children was not something which appealed to me either, so why I assumed they would be looking to procreate I’m not quite sure.

           “We have no intention of having children at any point soon,” Sally said. “I’m only twenty-three, as is Dick.”

           “We just don’t fuck so it’s really quite easy to avoid,” Dick said, and Sally and Florence and others listening in all laughed. I did not really know how to respond to this, I assumed it to be a joke of course but should one laugh at jokes that they have no part in? I was not sure.

           “They’re having you on, darling,” Florence said, and I chuckled quietly. “Sally has a cervical cap fitted, isn’t that exciting!”

           “A cervical cap? I thought that was more of a, I’m not sure—”

           “A working-class thing?” Sally interjected. “Don’t believe what you hear, plenty of married women have one now.”

           “I’m not allowed one, it’s really quite unfair,” Florence said.

           “Well, you certainly shouldn’t need one,” said Dick.

           “Oh, shut up, you bore,” Florence retorted. “I’m being quite serious, why must I get married to get one. When I’m married, I shan’t want one anymore, for I’ll only marry when I’m ready to have children! Now I have to jump up and down twenty times after, you know, to make sure nothing is left inside!”

           At this Dick got up and walked away, likely uncomfortable at the course the conversation had taken. Part of me wanted to follow him, for I too had little to contribute.

           “What about you?” Sally asked.

           “No, I have no such thing fitted,” I said.

           “I meant do you have children, or plan to have them?”

           When asked this question I would usually respond with a shrug and act coy about it, for Phillip really was quite keen for a child, or a son in particular, not that there was a title for a son to inherit either, for Phillip’s father’s went to his older brother, and my father’s was to go to a second cousin, after my brother was killed, so the only reason for him to be particularly intent on having a son was because he would not know how to talk to or bond with a daughter. God bless any daughter we may have had, for I think Phillip would only have treated her with contempt, or at least disinterest.

           To Sally and Florence, I simply said, “No, I have no plans to have them.”

           “So, you should get a cap fitted, surely?” Florence said.

           “No, I couldn’t possibly, if anyone were to find out they would be sure to tell Phillip. And he would never consent to it in the first place!”

           “We could find a clinic where the husband’s consent is not necessary, surely?” Florence said. “How silly that he would even have to know!”

           “I don’t know the rules on it. I’ve never thought it an option.”

           “Well, we’ll have to research it,” Florence said, taking my hand. “I think it to be the best option for you, if you really don’t want children. There’s no reason why you should have any. If I did not feel that little maternal instinct within me, I would crave the life of an old rich spinster. It looks rather fun I think!”

           “Oh, you would hate to be a spinster!” Sally said, laughing. “Imagine how terribly lonely you would get!”

           “Yes, but I would spend all my time visiting friends. You two would have to reserve a wing for me of course.”

           I thought that the life of a spinster would suit me far more than Florence. Then I could spend all my time reading and sewing and spending time with friends, and I would never have to attend any engagements I did not want to or have the cook’s meal plan dictated by my husband and his poor taste, and even more than that, I could finally get some dogs. Phillip was frightened of them after being bitten as a boy.

           I had become increasingly awkward throughout the conversation. That was not to say that I did not find it enjoyable to partake in, just that it was not of the sort I was generally accustomed to, and so when not speaking I had been drinking, finishing my glass and taking another and another and I became rather drunk. Comparatively, I was likely the most sober in the room but I was feeling very jolly and had settled into the group rather comfortably. The best thing about it, was there was no way to be excluded, for everyone had a seat to go back to when they stood and the room was so large that there was space for everyone. There are some people who were there who I have very little memory of, but I was introduced to a few who would be in attendance at most of the occasions Florence would come to invite me to. Anna, for example, was great fun and an excellent singer who would often entertain us at these more intimate gatherings, scatting and dancing. As you may have guessed, she and Sally were two of the participants of the break-in at the Walpole Club, but Florence did me the great service of not telling them I was one of the women in the restaurant, something I was very grateful for, for I was not sure how I would react to their reaction, whether apology or jest. I also found out the man with the red lips was called Ralph, and he was the very charming heir to a rather large banking fortune. Florence would often joke that, were her parents not so suspicious of great banking families, she would marry him in an instant and together they would have several babies.

           I felt the sense of a great synergy in the room as I stood adrift like an alien observing the individuals that made this party. Alone they were alluring and charismatic, giving the impression of people more cultured than myself, they spoke of novels beyond the thrillers and romances which were usually directed my way, the young men particularly shared stories of their travels beyond Europe. Gossip of people and places entirely unknown to me reached my ears and despite being unfamiliar with the subjects I felt delighted to hear all of it, of the affairs and exploits of their acquaintances, of the customs they had witnessed in Amsterdam or Prague; and rather excitingly, many of them had attended King George and Queen Mary’s unveiling of the new wing of the gallery at Millbank, an occasion I was unable to attend due to Phillip’s commitments elsewhere. United they became a real force, a unity of resolute strength that could become impenetrable to judgement and disrespect from those outsiders who did not recognise the merit of their way of life. At first glance the scene appeared disjointed, like the Starry Night, unreal and unworking, but there was a harmony under the surface where those who took the limelight were balanced by the quieter elements who sank into the background. Some shone like the Stars and the Moon but others were the hills and the sky and together they made a painting of cohesion and vigour. The power in that was potent. Never did I imagine to be part of such a picture, but I wonder if to someone else I became one of the many brushstrokes making the sky, or if I would have been one of the subjects, of the main objects or symbols manning the frontline.

           Florence was Venus, the centre of it all. The one thing clearer to me than anything else was that she was the object of admiration for every person in that room, but somehow more admirably they were the same for her. She did not know everyone a little, she did not have a surface level connection with some and deeper one with others, rather every one she spoke to she seemed to know completely and it appeared then that they seemed to know her. I had thought she thrived from being the luminary in any room but she chose to share the light and she cared for others even if sometimes the execution was not entirely tactful. But the evening also transformed her in my eyes from deity to mortal, whose witticisms were not always well received, whose opinions were occasionally left uncongratulated, and who even had moments of silence where she appeared unable to think of something to contribute.

Later in the evening, or perhaps it was early morning by that point, I stood with Florence on the balcony of the apartment. It faced out onto the street and within touching distance was a great oak tree. I remember this because as we stood, she leant over the railings and reached out to it. I gently pulled her back out of fear, for she was so drunk by this point that it would be an easy possibility for her to lean a little too far and flip over the side. In her mind she was always invincible.

           “Imagine climbing over these railings and making a little nest for ourselves in the trees, Dolly,” she said, fingering the leaves, “We could simply sit and watch the street pass below us, the cars and the pedestrians and the dogs, and we would remain hidden from everything and everyone, except anything that may be above us. We’d be like two little birds, sparrows maybe. And at the end of it all we could simply spread our wings and fly off into the night, then when we found a new tree, we could do it all over again, until we’ve sat and watched every person in London go about their business.”

           I remember watching her speak, her breaths showing in the cold night air, I remember watching her hands curling around the railings, and the way she was swaying ever so slightly like a delicate silver birch in an Autumn wind. It may have seemed to an outside eye that I was the intended audience, that it seemed she was speaking to me, but really the conversation, or rather her soliloquy, was intended for the night, and the night was listening graciously. They felt to me like the musings of some personal diary, not the initiation of a discussion. It was merely a dream which I had the privilege of watching appear, as the moon cast her pearly glow over Florence’s face.