‘These are postcards of Paris, I suppose Sophia must have bought them during the war, funny old sepia photographs. Oh but look, here are the premises of Madame Lanvin. That’s where Sophia bought her famous dresses.’
‘What did you think of Alice, Mum? Did you enjoy talking to her?’
‘I thought she was a clever young woman.’
‘She’s certainly that. What did you think about the exhibition at the Tate?’
‘I haven’t decided. Daddy thinks—’
‘Who cares what Daddy thinks?’
‘Daddy thinks we should not get involved. We should lend, but not comment on Mother’s life.’
‘He’s an old stick.’
‘Don’t speak like that, Pandora.’
‘I don’t believe in that sort of authority.’
‘Nor me.’ She sounds annoyed. ‘Really, you have no understanding of what it was like in Berlin in the 1920s.’
Pandora revives. ‘You’ve never really told me about it. For example, why did your parents come apart, more or less?’
‘I do like gin and tonic, shall we both have one?’
‘You never answer questions, it’s so annoying.’
There is a sharp silence. Dorothea turns and looks her daughter in the eye. ‘Are you wanting to write about Mother, Pandora? Is that why you’re so interested in all this material?’
‘I’ve never said that.’
‘No, you’ve never said that.’ Dorothea stares out of the window. ‘There was a fashion for Victorian sons of famous men to write lives of their fathers. I think in order to succeed, you have to venerate your parent.’
‘Venerate?’
Dorothea looks impatient. ‘Admire, deeply respect, whatever you like. I’m not sure I did feel all that, about Irene.’
Pandora looks at her mother, appraisingly.
‘You don’t need to look at me like that. Yes, I respected her art, and I loved her. But when I was growing up in Berlin, was she a good mother?’ She withdraws from Pandora’s hand the envelope she has taken from the pile. ‘We don’t need to look at that envelope. She cared about her art much more than about us, she’d stay for hours in her studio and visit artists and dealers, and leave me to grow up on my own.’
The telephone rings. Pandora offers to answer it, her mother says she will go, leaves the room. Pandora delves into the box, takes out two envelopes, puts them in her bag before her mother returns.
‘So if you are thinking of writing about your grandmother, remember that her art obsessed her, at least as she grew older. And I don’t even know whether her art will survive.’
‘I think she had a wonderful talent.’
‘I was so surprised when your curator friend said they are now planning a major exhibition.’
‘I hope you were pleased. By the way, I’ve had an article accepted by the New Statesman.’
‘Darling, how marvellous. What is it about?’ Pandora hesitates. ‘About Irene, is it?’
‘No, it’s about being the granddaughter of a famous artist. What effect it has on one, if one tries to be creative oneself. It’s about me, not her.’
‘Did you mention me? I suppose not?’
Pandora blushes. She is very fair, the blush shows all over her face. ‘I thought you would prefer to stay private. But I do mention you and Daddy in passing.’
‘Very suitable, Pandora. That’s what’s we are, transient.’