Matricide at St. Martha's

by Ruth Dudley Edwards

Having taken in as much of this as he could, he proceeded to the photographs—all in velvet or gilt frames— which hung on the wall or—along with crocheted coasters and embroidered mats—cluttered up the occasional tables. There was the usual clutch of sepia grannies and grandads and black-and-white mums and dads and a wedding photograph of a stern-faced young Romford, stiffly arm in arm with a pretty little woman with a big trusting smile. Though not immediately identifiable as Mrs. Romford, it was undoubtedly her, for her little pill-box hat had a vast cabbage rose and sprayed veils in all directions, the nipped-in costume was enlivened by cascading ruffs at the neck and at the wrists, there were rosettes at the front of the shoes and the bridal bouquet had an elaborate muslin and lace surround.

  There were three photographs of Romford in uniform, recording his progress from constable through sergeant to inspector, two of christenings of baby Romfords (at which Mrs. Romford had done things with cartwheel hats), the graduation photograph of a stiff youth who took after his father and wedding pictures of both him and what must be his sister; certainly her wedding dress bore all the signs of her mother’s loving hand.

  The only reading material in the room was the current copy of Reader’s Digest, a leatherbound Bible and a copy of a women’s magazine containing advice on making marmalade economically, knitting cuddly toys, making him a waistcoat for that very special occasion and many other explorations into the world of feminine crafts.

  His host and hostess came within earshot. ‘I’m sorry, Mother.’ Romford had that tone of finality he adopted to refuse reasonable requests from subordinates. ‘You just have to remember where your duty lies.’

  When they opened the door they saw Pooley gazing fixedly at a Reader’s Digest article on the Andes.

  ‘Sorry to have left you for so long.’ Romford was affable. ‘Mother and I had a little domestic matter to sort out. Now, can I get you something to drink?’

  Pooley was all too aware of Romford’s views on alcohol to have any false optimism. ‘Orange squash or lemonade?’ urged Romford hospitably.

  ‘I think just a glass of water, thank you.’

  A depressed-looking Mrs. Romford bustled off and Romford and Pooley sat down. ‘Now, Pooley, I should tell you that I don’t bring my work home. There are a lot of things that go on in our job, as you know, that are not fit to talk to women about. Their minds aren’t as strong as ours and they’re easily corrupted. So we’ll keep off all that over tea. Just keep the conversation general.’

  ‘I quite understand, sir. But won’t Mrs. Romford have seen something about St. Martha’s in the newspaper?’

  ‘My wife doesn’t read newspapers. I’m pleased to say she’s far too busy being a homemaker.’

  ***

  Pooley’s culinary taste tended towards the austere and health-giving: though in content traditional, Mrs. Romford’s cuisine looked like everything else about her. There were fairy cakes with cherries on top, iced cakes with multi-coloured decorations, the tomatoes and radishes were sculpted, the hard-boiled eggs were quartered and symmetrically arranged and the tinned salmon was festooned with chopped beetroot.

  ‘Mr. Romford likes his food ordinary,’ she said rather sadly. ‘He’s never been keen on experimenting.’

  ‘There’s enough foreign influences in this country, Pooley, without letting it affect what we eat. What my mother gave me is good enough for me.’ His tone softened and became indulgent. ‘However, I don’t mind if Mother likes to pretty it up a bit the way she does.’

  Mrs. Romford cheered up a little after that accolade and further still when Pooley complimented her on the matching embroidered napkins and tablecloth.

  ‘I like to keep myself busy,’ she said modestly. ‘My job doesn’t take up much time.’ She threw at Romford what looked like a rather mutinous glance.

  ‘Mother has a little job, Pooley. Very suitable for a married woman.’

  ‘And that is?’

  ‘I work part time in a curtain shop.’ Her eyes gleamed. ‘I really enjoy it. Lots of the people that come in, they don’t know what they’re looking for; they just want help. And I know the difference between all the nets and I help them make all those decisions about whether you should have a valance on your soft furnishings, or if it’s curtains, what to do about pelmets and swags, how to arrange the tags and the loops and the ruffles and about the curtain rods and the rails and the automatic closings and which fabrics for direct sunlight and how to keep them clean and…’

  ‘Mother’s quite a little expert.’

  ‘You certainly are,’ said Pooley. ‘I’m very impressed. I hardly know the difference between a curtain and a blind myself.’

  ‘They want me to be the manageress,’ Mrs. Romford blurted out suddenly. ‘They just asked me today.’

  ‘Now, Mother, we won’t talk about that.’

  ‘But I’d have to work full time and Mr. Romford’s against it. What do you think, Ellis?’

  ‘An unmarried lad like that isn’t going to have anything to say about something like this,’ said Romford, much to Pooley’s relief. ‘Although I’d say he’s seen enough to know that no good comes of women moving out of their sacred sphere as guardians of the home.’

  ‘Are you talking about what’s going on at that college, St. Martha’s?’

  ‘What do you know about that?’

  ‘One of the girls told me at work. She knows someone who works there and says there’s been a lot of carry-on, even before this murder.’

  Seeing the expression on Romford’s face, Pooley cut in with, ‘I was admiring your photographs, Mrs. Romford,’ and the rest of tea passed in a welter of harmless maternal boast ing. That very month, it turned out, Mrs. Romford was preparing to welcome the first grandchild with a trunkload of woolly hats, booties and cardies. Pooley expressed so much interest that when they went into the living room, she brought in a christening frock which seemed to be composed of about seventeen layers. Pooley wondered how they would ever find the baby in the middle of it. ‘What beautiful workmanship. Your daughter will be very pleased.’

  ‘Oh, she will. The day she got married I said to her: ‘I made your wedding dress and now I’ll begin on the robe for the first grandchild.” Would you like to see a video of the wedding?’

  Pooley had long ago adopted the line of least resistance. ‘That would be delightful.’

  ‘You’ll be able to hear Dad preaching. It was very powerful what he said.’

  ‘I’m sure it was.’ Pooley prayed the event would be sufficiently awful to be more horrifying than boring.

  Chapter 18

  Amiss was having a far better time. Loneliness had led him to prowl the corridors and the gardens in the hope of meeting someone he could ask out for dinner. In the absence of the Bursar, there were no obvious candidates but he had some vague lingering hope that someone appropriate would turn up. He thought he might even take a risk on Pippa; her record would keep him safely celibate. In the end, having discovered from a passing policeman that the library was now open again, he drifted in and found Mary Lou there alone reading in an out-of-the-way corner. When she saw him, she jumped.

  ‘Hello, Mary Lou. What are you reading?’

  ‘Nothing in particular.’ She closed her book and put it in the middle of a pile where he could not read the title. She waved vaguely at the books on the table. ‘Just browsing.’

  The visible titles were boringly predictable: a compen dium of lesbian and gay short stories and Mary Daly’s Wickedary, which the Bursar had told him was the worst of all the pieces of pretentious crap the sisterhood were trying to force on to the curriculum.

  ‘Mind if I look at this?’ He picked it up. The cover, adorned with mystic signs and cobwebs, set his teeth on edge. Matters were made no better by the promise on the back to free language ‘from the “academic fraternities of Bearded Brother No-it-alls”’, by defining words ‘Naming Elemental Realities, the Inhabitants of the Background, and the fatuous foreground world of patriarchy’. He flicked thro
ugh with increasing irritation. It was a paen of praise to feminist ‘Nag’Gnostic scholars’ who chose the ‘Ecstatic Spinning Process over the accumulation of dead bodies of knowledge’, that caused him to hurl the book so violently on to the table that it shot off the end and crashed against the wall.

  There was a long silence. He walked around the table, picked up the volume between finger and thumb and pre sented it to Mary Lou. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I don’t mean to be offensive, but quite apart from the cosmic New Age blither Ms Daly is spouting, her man-hating is a bit hard for a bloke to take.’

  ‘Even a gay bloke?’

  ‘I don’t think one’s sexuality has much to do with it,’ said Amiss stiffly. ‘Being gay doesn’t mean you’ve lost your marbles. Anyway, are we not men? And if you prick us do we not bleed?’

  ‘Is there an esoteric pun in there somewhere?’

  ‘If there is, it’s accidental.’

  There was another silence. He gazed disconsolately at another couple of Daly’s mad entries. ‘I’m fed up wandering around this dank, depressing building,’ he suddenly said violently. ‘What’s more, I don’t think I’m going to be cheered up by sitting at high table with the mourners. How would you feel about coming out to dinner?’

  Mary Lou smiled. ‘Positive. Are you asking any of the others?’

  ‘I rather thought as the two newest Fellows we might get to know each other first.’

  She raised an eyebrow and then nodded. ‘OK, but I’d rather not advertise it unnecessarily. I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings.’

  Amiss became suddenly decisive. ‘Look, neither of us knows Cambridge but we can find our way to the University Arms on Parker’s Piece. I’ll see you in the bar at seven and I’ll have booked us a restaurant by then.’

  ‘OK,’ she said equably, ‘as long as you don’t expect me to dress.’

  ‘Not at all,’ he said, looking at her boiler suit and trainers. ‘By all means come as you are.’

  ***

  In deference perhaps to the likely paternalistic impulses of the University Arms proprietors, Mary Lou had after all changed and was looking extremely fetching in tight, white high-necked jumper, black trousers and knee-high boots. Amiss had become far too conditioned after only a few days in St. Martha’s to say anything at all about her appearance, but it was certainly hard to repress the decidedly sexist thoughts that were arising in him. ‘Luscious’ was the word that kept running through his head as his eyes flickered towards her body. He remembered the instructions given to academics on American campuses never to look at a woman below the chin lest she feels sexually abused and concentrated instead on Mary Lou’s attractive face.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Yes, please. Bourbon on the rocks.’ She noticed the look of pleased surprise on his face. ‘Well, what did you expect me to say. Carrot juice?’

  ‘Well you are American; I thought you were all health freaks.’

  ‘Haven’t you been warned at St. Martha’s about offensive stereotyping?’

  ‘We haven’t got as far as Americans yet.’

  ‘OK, I’ll see what I can do to help.’

  ***

  By the time they reached the restaurant, Amiss had learned that Mary Lou was twenty-five, that she came from Minneapolis, that she had won a scholarship to a second-rate Boston university where she’d got a first in English in her BA and MA and then a Ph.D, that she’d always wanted to go to Oxford or Cambridge and so had applied for the St. Martha’s Research Fellowship. She had learned that Amiss was twenty-eight, that his father, like hers, was a middle-income, white-collar worker, that he’d got an upper second at Oxford in History, that he was an ex-civil servant and that he was uncertain about his future. By the time they had finished their first bottle of wine, Amiss knew that Minnea polis was the most godforsaken hole in the US, where the locals’ idea of a night life was a hamburger joint with neon lighting where the waitresses went round on roller skates and that her parents were stultifyingly respectable.

  ‘I think they always saw themselves as playing out the role of the idealized black family. You know, Mr. and Mrs. Black Middle America. Mom baked cookies and worked part time as a cashier in the local department store, Dad played golf and on Sundays we went to church, a nice respectable church, not one of those tambourine-playing, dancing, black churches. My older sister became a nurse and got engaged to a doctor.’

  Amiss raised an interrogative eyebrow.

  ‘Yep,’ she said. ‘A white doctor. However, my brother, when he got through accountancy school, married a black, so we’re not racially prejudiced.’

  She chased a piece of meat round her plate with her chop-sticks. ‘Every day of my life I was bored and dreamt of getting away from Minnesota. What could I become but a lesbian-feminist activist? And you?’

  ‘Mr. and Mrs. Middle England. Mum has a part-time job as an office clerk. They play bowls.’

  ‘Is that English for bowling?’

  ‘Sort of, except you do it in the open air.’

  ‘Oh, I know it, I know it. I’ve seen pictures. You mean when they all dress up in white with funny hats and roll balls down a village green?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘God, I didn’t think real people did that. I thought it was only actors. It’s really great.’

  ‘It’s a bit lacking as a spectator sport when you’re a kid.’

  ‘You were bored too, huh?’

  ‘I was bored too. They worried a lot about my getting a proper education so as to go into a really secure profession, so they were as thrilled as I was when I got into Oxford. The idea was for me to become a lawyer or an accountant after university. They weren’t too disappointed about the civil service—job security, good pension and all that. So with that pressure from home what could I do but end up as a drifter taking odd jobs here and there while my beloved scrambles up the career ladder.’ He cursed himself silently for having mentioned Rachel, even so obliquely.

  She looked him straight in the eye. ‘Your beloved is a bloke?’

  ‘Er…’

  ‘I knew damn well you weren’t gay. Why did you pretend to be?’

  ‘To get the job at St. Martha’s.’

  ‘Not very scrupulous.’

  ‘But expedient.’

  She laughed. ‘I’ll buy the next bottle.’

  By the time they finished Mary Lou’s bottle, they had discovered they liked the same writers.

  ‘My God,’ she said. ‘One reason I always had my heart set on England was that I thought I’d get away from all this American radical feminist crap about books. I bought it in Boston in the first year or two, then I realized I’d read more good literature in my bedroom in Minnesota than in a whole year as a freshman at university.’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong. It’s not that there aren’t some great women writers but I’d already read most of them. I knew about Edith Wharton and Jane Austen and George Eliot and I thought Maya Angelou was a good writer, but not because she was a woman and black.’ She knocked back the remains of her glass and held it out to be refilled. ‘What’s more, I became convinced that positive discrimination had done far more harm than good to American blacks. It’s made it possible for racists to argue that no black ever gets any where on his or her own merits.’

  ‘Actually, a black woman is in a very good position to see this gender and ethnic garbage for what it is, because on the one hand you’ve got the women attacking macho values, yet black men are the biggest sexual chauvinists around. How do you simultaneously preach that women are superior to men and black culture superior to white and that any criticism of blacks is racism when you’ve got black rappers saying women are useful for nothing but fucking and breed ing? And how is non-white culture automatically better if it’s got female circumcision? And where’s the logic in saying no literature is better than any other because judgementalism is out but still insisting on banning the DWEMs? I reckon black and female studies is for the self-indulgent wanti
ng an easy ride. Can’t wait for civil war on the campuses between the two.’

  ‘So you’re not a supporter of Bridget Holdness’s proposed centre then?’

  ‘What do you think?’

  ‘What does she think?’

  Mary Lou paused. ‘I’ve drunk too much. I’m being indis creet. But then you know what Americans are like.’

  ‘Well, I’m unlikely to confide any of your secrets to your sisters. Go on.’

  ‘Well, it’s tricky, because I have to admit I’m here under even falser pretences than you.’ She put her elbows on the table, leaned her head on her hands and settled in com fortably. ‘I saw the ad for the St. Martha’s Research Fellowship in a radical women’s studies magazine so I reckoned this particular Cambridge college was going in for a bit of radical chic. I knew that if I was up against competition from Yale or Harvard I wouldn’t stand much of a chance academically, so I took a risk and went for broke. I’d be too embarrassed to show you my letter of application quoting the seminal influences on me of Mary Daly; she’s always very useful cover. When you saw me in the library today I was secretly reading John Donne.’

  ‘But aren’t you tied to studying lesbian-ethnic stuff?’

  ‘I’m just not going to. They can’t make me.’

  Amiss drained his coffee and drank some more wine. ‘Let’s go back a bit. I can see why your application appealed to Sandra and Bridget but how did it get past the Senior Tutor?’

  ‘Sandra explained that to me yesterday. There was a sub committee of three, them and poor old Dr. Twigg, who was desperate to get a Research Fellowship for her protégée.’

  ‘You mean the permanently preoccupied bird the Bursar calls Anglo-Saxon Annie?’

  ‘Yes. She’d got a terrific first apparently and was the best scholar poor old Twigg had had in years, but they said they’d vote her down if I didn’t get the other one. She succumbed, so here I am—Miss Affirmative Action 1994. I should feel a bit ashamed but I don’t, not one bit. I feel I’ve pulled a fast one that they well deserve.’ She took another healthy swig. ‘Mind you, they don’t know any of this yet.’