Dorothea and Pandora sit in the drawing room. No boxes have been taken out of the cupboard, no papers laid out on the table. It is late afternoon, Pandora has been there for an hour or more, making conversation.
‘Have we seen all the boxes, Mum? Or is that all you’re going to show me?’
‘There is more material, yes, but it’s less interesting, it’s mostly about Irene’s career as an artist – reviews, catalogues, that sort of thing.’
‘I’d love to see it. . .’
Her mother does not look at her. ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘one of these days. Not today.’ And she shifts around, as though they should be moving on to something else.
‘Honestly, Mum, it’s as though you’ve decided that all this material is your personal property, only to be shared when you feel so inclined.’
Her mother looks away, hesitates. ‘Darling, I want to tell you something. Your friend at the Tate, she’s asked me to write an essay for Irene’s catalogue.’
‘She’s what?’ Pandora slides away along the sofa. ‘She’s what?’
‘She said I had memories that no one else could have. She wants me to write about my memories of the 1920s in Berlin. Isn’t that nice?’
‘But you’ve not written anything for years and years, have you? Not since I was born, or at least that’s what you’ve always told me.’
Dorothea frowns. ‘How d’you know? I know you see me as a stupid, limited woman who has spent her life as a wife and mother, but how do you know I’ve not been writing? I don’t tell you everything. I showed her a reminiscence I’d written about Irene, she liked it very much.’
‘I’m sorry, I–’
‘I’m looking forward to it. I have a great deal of material, not just in these boxes but my memories too. She wants eight thousand words. And when it’s finished, perhaps I will write a life of Irene. What d’you think of that?’
‘If it’s what you want to do. . .’
‘Unless, of course, you’re planning to do it yourself? In that case, of course I must give way, since after all you have been published in the Chelsea Voice.’
‘You don’t need to be sarcastic.’
Dorothea strokes the large sleek cat sitting on her lap. ‘I’m not as stupid as you think.’
They stare at each other angrily.