Murdering Americans

by Ruth Edwards

  ‘Just as my mother-in-law-to-be is trying to show she’s not ashamed that Rachel has been involved in a scandal, has abandoned a glittering career, is currently unemployed and is marrying a wastrel with a chequered background and no fixed income.’

  ‘You’re rather industrious for a wastrel, Robert. But anyway, yes, Ellis’s family have gone as over the top as Rachel’s and it gets worse every day as my family get more and more jittery. Ellis has been working almost round-the-clock on a gangland shooting, I’m presenting a TV arts special tomorrow night that still needs a lot of homework, and there are floods of e-mails from Minnesota asking things like will there be hairdryers where they’re staying and should they call Ellis’s dad Your Lordship or Sir even though I’ve told them all to call him Reggie.’

  ‘Not very egalitarian for Americans, are they?’

  ‘You know better than that, Robert. Yanks are thundering snobs. Why else would we look up to rich dynasties like the Bushes and the Kennedys and the Rockefellers? It’s because we love titles that Jack’s being offered such a ridiculous deal to sit on her fanny for a few months at the University of Hicksville, Indiana.’

  ‘Ah yes. Jack. What in hell is all this about?’

  ‘Lust for one thing. I was at St. Martha’s yesterday showing my face in case they forget I’m still a Fellow and helping the new Bursar make sense of things and when I was having a pre-prandial drink in Jack’s room she took a call that made her go all croony. You know the scene.’

  ‘She was either being told an enemy had bitten the dust or was being flattered shamelessly.’

  ‘You got it. This time it was the latter, the ass-kisser being Helen Fortier-Pritchardson, Provost of Freeman University, New Paddington, Indiana, whom, it turned out, Jack had met a couple of days previously at some Cambridge shindig. Helen yakked and yakked seductively, told Jack how much she admired her achievements as a radical reformer and a feminist role model….’

  ‘What! She called Jack a reformer and a feminist and lived?’

  ‘Robert, Jack thinks Helen is hot. That’s not the way she put it, of course. I think she said pulchritudinous. But the point is she fancied her chances with Helen enough to look favourably at her invitation, which seems to involve plenty of attention, very little work, and shitloads of money. So by the end of the call, she’d agreed in principle, subject to her being able to ensure St. Martha’s doesn’t fall apart in her absence. She’s already been promised dedicated conference-call facilities, an unlimited supply of first-class plane tickets to fly her out for crucial meetings and fly others in, and excellent accommodation for her and any guests she wants at the main hotel where she’ll be pitching camp. Oh, and she’s making a big issue about taking Horace: Provost Pritchardson has been put in charge of investigating the rules about importing parrots.’

  ‘But the mid-West, Mary Lou! What’s she going to do at a provincial university in the mid-West? What’s in Indiana, for heaven’s sake?’

  ‘Nothing, really. It’s what you drive through on the way to or from New York and Chicago. But Jack’s off in fantasy land, Robert. She’s never been anywhere in the States except New York and she’s gone tripping down memory lane to the cowboy movies of her youth and happy days when men were men and John Wayne was in his prime. She’s probably hoping she’ll meet someone just like him at Freeman. Helen told her Cole Porter had been born just up the road so she came off the phone in a romantic haze singing ‘Night and Day’ badly and noisily.’

  Amiss winced in recognition.

  ‘Of course I’ve told her the town will be deadly dull, the faculty full of knee-jerk lefties, the students mostly retards, independent thought and speech will be stiffed by political correctness and, even more seriously for her, the food will be hideous.’

  ‘That should have given her pause.’

  ‘Nope. She brushed it aside along with everything else, told me my trouble was I had rotted my brain reading innumerable crap novels for my course on modern American fiction, that I had forgotten how wonderful my country was and that I must stop exaggerating—and then began speculating lubriciously on what the cheerleaders might look like. I made the mistake of describing today’s cheerleaders as sluts, and she said she liked sluts. And when I begged her at least to read Tom Wolfe’s I Am Charlotte Simmons just to get the flavour of a modern American campus, she reminded me that she didn’t voluntarily read books less than forty years old and that she was certainly in no mood to volunteer to do so now.’

  ‘What’s got into her? You’ve described Jack’s idea of hell and she knows perfectly well that you tend to under- rather than over-state.’

  ‘I guess now I’ve left St. Martha’s and the four of us are embarking on something new, she’s in need of an adventure herself. She hasn’t had one since China. And this fell from the skies.’

  ‘How will Myles feel about being deserted?’

  ‘They don’t have much time together at the best of times, Robert, and nothing fazes Myles. And he knows perfectly well that she has dalliances on the side. As he does, I guess. In any case, he’s part of the problem, since he’s abandoning her too as he’s off for a few months to do something undercover in Iraq with some old SAS pals. And from what I’ve picked up, he did that unexpectedly and without qualms. I’ve a feeling Myles thinks Jack takes him for granted.’

  ‘She takes everyone for granted.’

  ‘As she would say, that’s the way she is. Anyway, since St. Martha’s runs itself these days and nothing is particularly engaging her in the Lords, in the absence of any other challenge, trying to get Provost Pritchardson into bed is about as good as it gets. Anyway, you will hardly have forgotten that once Jack has made up her mind, she’s obstinate.’

  ‘Obdurate.’

  ‘Mulish.’

  ‘Pig-headed.’

  ‘So where does messing up Rachel’s and my honeymoon come into it?’

  ‘My fault, I’m afraid. After I repeated some of my scarier warnings over dinner, she took in enough to realise that the Indiana locals might pall, whereupon she hit on the idea of importing good company from the old country. Ellis and I are non-starters because of our jobs, but Rachel’s still resting and you’re freelance so you’re fair game.’

  ‘We are not going to Indiana. Read my lips. That is, metaphorically read my lips. We are not going to Indiana.’

  ‘I told her you wouldn’t, but you know Jack. She always thinks she’ll get her own way.’

  ‘I may sometimes be a pushover, Mary Lou. I admit that in the past I’ve succumbed to wheedling, bullying or blackmail from Jack and indeed Ellis to do absurd and dangerous things. I’ve even on occasion played Watson to Jack’s Holmes, Hastings to her Poirot or Archie Goodwin to her Nero Wolfe, but I’m damned if, after all Rachel and I have been through, I’ll contemplate for one minute messing up our leisurely perambulation around Europe to keep Jack Troutbeck company in the middle of a prairie. This time I’ll be implacable.’

  ‘And even if you crack, I certainly won’t,’ shouted Rachel from the sofa.

  ‘And even if I crack, Rachel certainly won’t,’ added Amiss. ‘Not that I will.’

  ‘Sure, Robert,’ said Mary Lou, in a tone of the utmost sincerity. ‘You’ll be implacable. Of course you will. I don’t doubt it. Not one little bit.’

  Chapter Two

  From: Robert Amiss

  To: Mary Lou Denslow

  Sent: Tue 14/03/2006 11.14

  Subject: Two Weddings and a near-funeral

  Sholem-aleykhem and all that, Mary Lou. (I’ve been throwing myself into my forthcoming role as ‘Jew for a Day’ by learning a bit of Yiddish for schmoozing purposes.)

  Well, now that all the hullabaloo has died down, I think I can justly report that your wedding can be classed as a knockout, in every sense of the word. If you’ve been foolish enough to answer your phones or pick up e-mails in Madrid, you’ve probably already heard about the spectacular dance sequence put on by Jack with your Uncle Lenny after you left. I hadn’t
realised the extent to which Jack fancies herself as a jiver, but what she has never known or else has forgotten in the technique department, she more than made up for in chutzpah and vigour. As indeed, did your Uncle Lenny. For a man of such generous proportions, he covered the ground with real speed. Jack described herself afterwards as having been tripping the light fantastic. “Like Margot Fonteyn?” I suggested. “More like Dumbo the elephant,” she answered with commendable honesty, adding, however, that she liked to be the fastest elephant on the dance floor.

  It was, perhaps, a trifle tactless of her to tell your uncle so loudly at the end that like all blacks he had a natural sense of rhythm, but at least you’d taught her not to say ‘negro.’ Or worse. Uncle Lenny seemed quite pleased, but I wasn’t sure it went down too well with your brother. It was also a touch unfortunate that later in the evening—when they were both suffering from hubris—the klutzes crashed into Ellis’s Great Aunt Lavender and her zimmer.

  If you’ve seen the latest version of ‘The Producers,’ you’ll remember the dance of the old ladies with their walking frames. From my vantage point, for several seconds it looked as if Great Aunt Lavender was auditioning for a part in it, but she was in fact vainly trying to stay upright. Unfortunately, when she fell down, she hit her head on the edge of the table and passed out—but fortunately not away, which might have put a bit of a damper on the rest of the evening. For your Master of Ceremonies it was what I can describe only as what we Yiddishers call an oy vey! moment, but I hope I rose to it competently.

  Apart from that minor drama, Rachel and I thought everything went brilliantly. You looked gorgeous, Ellis spoke with unaccustomed wit and your dad spoke graciously. True, we were not the only people present to blench when in Jack’s entertaining speech she described you as her favourite bit of black pudding, but your merry laughter dissolved the tension. Anyway, if you ask Jack Troutbeck to be your Matron of Honour, you have it coming. After the speech Rachel briefly lost her nerve and wondered if we could cancel her appearance in that capacity at our own matrimonials.

  We thought the Pooley hospitality, as one might expect, was lavish without being vulgar and everyone seemed to enjoy themselves hugely. I bet we can look forward to a fine spread in Country Life which will make you Top Totty, the Toast of the Shires, which will be a rare double in conjunction with being the newest holder of the TV title of Thinking Man’s Crumpet.

  That’s enough racism and sexism for now.

  Our agony continues, but now that there are only ten days or so to go Rachel has ceased kvetching. She’s made a crucial psychological shift by deciding that she should see the wedding as her mother’s big day rather than her own, so she’s now thrown herself into trying to make it perfect for her and they haven’t had a row for ages.

  Jack and I didn’t have much chance to talk at your wedding, but she’s been in touch since, has told me a bit about Indiana, which she assures me Rachel and I would enjoy, but she hasn’t brought out the heavy weaponry as yet, so a firm ‘Forget it’ has so far been all that was required. I did point out that it was her solemn duty to stay in Cambridge while we’re away, since she’d undertaken to look after Plutarch and no one else in the whole world would take on the job, but she insists she’s found a suitable carer, that anyway Plutarch is such an extinct volcano these days that St. Martha’s won’t know she’s there and that if she’s got any grievances, you’ll be available as the London court of appeal. Hmmmmmn!

  We hope you’re both having a wonderful time and look forward very much to seeing you next week. I am afraid it’ll have to be rather brief, since D-Day approaches and we will be in a frenzy of packing and parent-soothing.

  Must schlep off now and get on with things.

  Much love to you both from us both,

  Shalom, Mazel Tov, and all that,

  Robert

  From: Mary Lou Denslow

  To: Robert Amiss

  Sent: Fri 17/03/2006 18.05

  Subject: Two Weddings and a near funeral not to speak of Jack

  Thanks for the news, Robert. Sorry to have been late getting back to you, but we’ve been very busy doing important things like looking at pictures and walking in the sun and having lunch and the Internet cafes usually heave with off-putting lines of backpackers.

  Your speech was really funny and you were a fabulous MC and looked imperturbable, which is the main thing, which made us feel relaxed about disappearing relatively early and leaving our two families and their entourages to it. We’ve called our respective parents who seem very happy with everything and you’ll be pleased to know that Ellis reports Great Aunt Lavender’s injury as minor and her upper lip as stiff. Now if this had been a wedding back home, she’d have sued Jack, Uncle Lenny, Ellis’s dad, and the band. Maybe even the manufacturers of the walker.

  After a few days in London, which they thoroughly enjoyed, the entire Denslow contingent is now back in the old homestead. They still haven’t got over the discovery that Ellis’s ancestors have had that stately pile for more than three hundred years and, they are, of course, disappointed that we won’t end up living there. But my family are good people, and though they think primogeniture is unfair, they would not want Piers to die for the crime of being the elder son, copping the family home and pretty well everything else and stopping me from being a Lady. They’ve developed a taste for titles, though, which they’re beginning to think must be a dime a dozen. All they knew about Ellis for ages was that he was a cop—which to them seems normal and respectable—and then it was revealed that his father was a peer. Then Jack, whom they knew as my St. Martha’s mentor, turned out to be a baroness. Aunt Eliza asked me seriously if I could earn a ladyship and I said that in England anything is possible, which amazed her—because, of course, like most Americans, she thinks she lives in the only land of opportunity ever invented in the history of the universe.

  Oh, by the way, should Jack railroad you into going to Indiana—which of course she won’t—you should know there are connotations to being ‘Jew for a Day.’ In the States some well-meaning sensitivity counsellors who want kids to understand discrimination put yellow stars on half the class on Holocaust Day and ban them from the water cooler. Apparently it always ends in tears. I hope it doesn’t for you. The good news is it beats being ‘Slave for a Day,’ which has been known to include those designated as slaves being chased through the woods by bounty hunters. I love my country, but it can be very strange.

  Apart from a long message on my mobile telling us which pictures to see at the Prado, which other museums to visit, which restaurants to eat at and what dishes to choose, we haven’t heard from Jack. I bet you’ll hear plenty. She won’t abandon her campaign.

  Best of luck with everything. We’re both looking forward to seeing you. Ellis is polishing up his speech.

  Adios and much love from us two to you two,

  ML

  From: Robert Amiss

  To: Mary Lou Denslow

  Sent: Tue 21/03/2006 13.19

  Subject: Jack

  She’s ratcheting it up, Mary Lou. This Helen person is, apparently, prepared to provide bags of gold in order to please Jack by enticing us to Freeman University. Rachel can give some lectures about her time as a diplomat, while I can teach a writing class—which seems pretty ridiculous considering my first book won’t be published for another few months. But I’m being implacable. And, even without Rachel, that’s the way I’m determined to stay.

  Love, Robert

  ***

  ‘How long do you reckon before Robert caves in?’ Mary Lou asked Pooley over dinner that night.

  ‘I can’t see him doing it this time. Usually when he’s dragged into things by his friends it’s because he’s got nothing better to do. Travelling around Europe sounds a lot better than the alternative on offer.’

  ‘So boredom won’t be a motive. Nor will money. But there’s still friendship.’

  ‘If it’s a question of pleasing Rachel or Jack, there won’t be a contest.�
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  ‘True.’ Mary Lou speared another prawn and ate it thoughtfully. ‘Unless Jack gets into trouble, of course. In which case Rachel would want to rally round. She’s become fond of Jack despite herself.’

  ‘Why should she get into trouble?’ asked Pooley absently, as he gazed at Mary Lou’s sparkling eyes and thought how lucky he was.

  ‘I can’t believe you said that, Ellis. She’s going to America, the citadel of political correctness—a universe in which a public official was sacked from his job for using the word “niggardly,” which has as much to do with “nigger” as “patronising” has to do with “Pat.”’

  ‘Sounds like the Met,’ sighed Pooley. ‘The commissioner never shuts up about racism.’

  ‘I know, I know, but America’s much worse. Everyone’s born touchy these days. What’s more, Jack’s heading for American academia, which is now in the iron grip of the thought police. Did you read or did I tell you about the Lawrence Summers affairs?’

  ‘Don’t think so.’

  ‘Summers was President of Harvard. At a private conference convened to discuss how to attract more women to science, he made the gross error of trying to address the question from first principles. Were women in short supply, he asked, because a) they were discriminated against, b) they considered the commitment required for a scientific career incompatible with their family responsibilities, or c) there were innate differences between men and women which made science more a man thing?’

  Pooley looked puzzled. ‘So?’

  ‘A female professor called Nancy something-or-other stormed out claiming to have been made feel physically ill by this outrageous sexism and all hell broke loose with the feminist ballbreakers, causing Summers—who had been imported into Harvard in the first place because he was a tough guy who would kick ass and face down pressure groups—to cave in, beg publicly for forgiveness and throw millions more down a drain called diversity instead of telling Nancy to lie down, sniff some smelling salts, and come to her senses. As that still wasn’t enough to placate his enemies, in the end he resigned.’