IT was after midnight before we got home. The same policeman took us back in his car. Dottie sat in the front with him and I in the back with Henry. I wanted to hold his hand, but mine were too painful to touch, even in the bandages. A doctor had been found who had given me a shot of something against infection and I was feeling pretty woolly and absolutely deadly tired as well. I was scarcely aware of what was going on any more, only of Henry’s steady, comforting presence beside me, and Dottie’s head, kerchiefed and still miraculously erect, silhouetted against the windshield in front of me. She and Henry, with some help from bystanders, had had to shift everything back again into the shop after the danger had passed. Our shop had not caught fire. I didn’t stop to think beyond that. If I had any anxiety it was for David, but this had been nagging at the back of my mind all the time and now that I was heading back for him I already felt easier about it. I fell asleep almost at once from the motion of the car …
I have a dim memory of Henry helping me up the stairs; I seemed to be completely befuddled by that time, but I did go in and make sure of David before dropping my outer clothes on the floor and falling on the bed. I was already asleep again when Dottie woke me.
‘Jane,’ she was saying in a harsh, loud voice, shaking me by the shoulder. ‘Jane! You’ve got to wake up.’ I peered up at her through a haze of sleep and resentment.
‘What is it? I’m dead beat. Won’t it keep till morning?’
‘No, I’ve got to talk to you now, I can’t possibly sleep until I’ve talked to you.’ She sounded like a stranger, her voice rough and violent, scraping on some jagged edge of hysteria. I heaved myself up in bed, wincing at the smart of my hands.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Wrong!’ She gave a shrill laugh which might have sounded theatrical if I hadn’t known her very well. ‘Plenty. You didn’t see the shop, did you? Where the hell were you, anyway?’
‘Saving the Stephens’s cat.’
She hesitated, not sure if I could possibly be serious. ‘Christ,’ she said. ‘A cat! Never mind, it’s too late to go into that now. We managed—Henry and I.’ Her voice softened and relaxed a little at the conjunction of names. I said, ‘I’m sorry, it all sort of overtook me. But the shop’s all right, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ she said, ‘it’s not bloody well all right. It’s not burnt to the ground, and that’s the only all-right thing you can say about it.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘You want it item by item—tonight’s damage?’ Her hands were clutching my eiderdown and kneading it as Mrs. Stephens’ had the cat’s fur. ‘The wall on the fire side is scorched black and four or five shelves fell down with everything on them, most of it breakable. Most of the fabrics are ruined by the soot and smoke. The paint’s black and blistered. Most of the window panes cracked with the heat, and the foam came in and damaged the floor and a lot of other things.’ I stared at her in horror. ‘We’ll have to start more or less from scratch,’ she said.
I couldn’t speak. I had had no idea. It was awful! Worse than anything I’d imagined when the policeman first came to the door. Surely the total destruction of the place in one fell swoop wouldn’t be quite as appalling as this disaster, which obliged us to decide whether to pack it all in or, as Dottie said, start again from scratch. The thought of doing that fairly winded me.
I reached up and switched on the bed-light to see Dottie better. What I saw really frightened me. She looked distracted, half-mad. I don’t think I had fully realised until that very moment what that place meant to her—the shop itself and every piece of work it contained were vital to her, integral, as if she had done every single part of it herself, as in a way she had.
A look at her pale, pinched face, drawn so taut that there were suddenly age-lines all over it, led me to expect her to burst into tears, but she didn’t. Her eyes, wide open and wild, were dry; she showed no signs whatever of breaking, though her body and manner were so taut and tense that she seemed to quiver all over. It was I who cried, because again I had failed her. I put my head into the bandages and sobbed.
‘Stop that, stop it!’ Dottie said fiercely. ‘What does that help? We’ve got to plan, to …’ She stopped abruptly and then went on, her voice slightly altered, ‘Jane, I want your four hundred pounds.’
I stopped crying and looked at her. Her eyes pinioned me, glittering. She had the look of a fanatic and I knew she would never give up.
‘All right,’ I said, not giving myself time to think or bid goodbye to my dream, which had become a stupid and unworthy one anyway.
‘You mean it? You won’t change your mind?’
‘No.’ It was hopeless, the least I could do. I pushed away—temporarily—the sadness, the sense of loss. It was worth it, for the moment of the gesture anyway, just to see her face lose a little of its desperation, her hand unclench on the eider-down, leaving deep creases.
‘Thank you,’ she said, very formally, as if in a bank or a lawyer’s office. She stared at me for a long moment, and then stood up and said, ‘I must get some sleep. It all begins again in the morning, and I suppose you won’t be much help, with those hands. Never mind. We’ll cope somehow.’ She went to the door, her back like a ramrod but her legs so out of control that she stumbled twice. Before she went out she stopped with her back turned to me.
‘You’re sure you mean it about the money? You promise?’
‘Yes,’ I said, trying not to realise that her caution was entirely justified.
‘There’s just one more thing.’ She began to turn towards me, decided not to look at me and stood in profile, staring at the carpet. ‘I noticed Henry looking at you tonight, when we got home. I don’t blame him for anything, ever. I wouldn’t blame him whatever he did. I understand everything about him. But I just want to tell you that if you let him come anywhere near you, I’ll—I won’t bear it. I’ll do something terrible. Don’t say anything,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m only warning you. We’re all three in the same boat—anything could happen between us. Just be careful, be very careful, because—’
She stopped talking and went out of the room, leaving the sentence in mid-air.
I lay there stiff with shock for several minutes after she’d gone. What had she meant, ‘We’re all in the same boat?’ What boat? Perhaps it was her backward-shadow thing again. We were all in the backward shadow of fear of the future. Dottie’s fear was of a spinster’s eternal loneliness. Mine was of insecurity, moral, emotional and material, in the raising of David and my own personal subsistence. Henry’s—death, of course. How very petty ours seemed in comparison with his! Or, on second thoughts, was it not the other way round? Which was worse, to suffer agonies of fear and regret for a year and then be out of it, or to have to face endless years of struggle to keep your identity from flying apart from the lack of a love to hold it together?
That Dottie had so misinterpreted Henry’s look as an intention to make love to me somehow didn’t surprise me after the first shock. Somehow it was inevitable that she would perceive something altered in Henry’s and my relationship, and equally inevitable that she would fail to understand it. This sudden, or no, not too sudden, flowering of love for Henry combined with my horror of the inevitability of losing him, seemed, in some part of my sub-conscious not too far from the surface, to overwhelm all other considerations whatever. But at the back of my mind, in some other place, waiting, was the disappointment, the crushing anti-climax, of the whisking away of my dream trip to the fantasy city of New York. The huge Aladdin’s cave which had been hovering there filled with glittering tinsel and fairy-lights for so long was now black-dark and empty. My £400 was pledged. New York was henceforth no more to me than any other distant unattainable city. And reality—the dog-days of slogging inescapable, problem-choked, discipline-demanding reality—were here again.