by Barbara Else
In the aftermath of Barnaby Rivers’ death, complications arise for three beautiful women: Bella, his estranged wife, his dear friend Ruth, and wicked old Jocasta. Their contrasting attitudes to their looks have helped form three very different reactions to life, in particular their attitudes to motherhood and men. Now, suddenly, nothing can go on in the old way. Barbara Else’s latest novel revels in the absurdity of everyday life. The densely layered yet delicately written story ranges from Yorkshire during World War 2 to a Down-under hillside city, from antique dealing to style and fashion, from experiments in witchery and herbalism to the magic of cosmetic surgery. In the world of the three pretty widows, life is weird and laughable, and humour can relieve even the most awful of situations. The darker undertow of the past pulls against the chaotic bumbling of the present generation as the pretty widows — and their attendant menfolk — stumble towards their destiny. Looking down and commenting on it all is Barnaby himself, not sure if he’s an angel or a ghost.
for Chris, with love
Contents
Title Page
Dedication
part one unworthy thoughts
chapter one
chapter two
chapter three
chapter four
chapter five
chapter six
chapter seven
chapter eight
chapter nine
chapter ten
chapter eleven
part two the quick and the dead
chapter twelve
chapter thirteen
chapter fourteen
chapter fifteen
chapter seventeen
part three spotting fakes
chapter eighteen
chapter nineteen
chapter twenty
chapter twenty-one
chapter twenty-two
chapter twenty-three
chapter twenty-four
part four mirror mirror
chapter twenty-five
chapter twenty-six
chapter twenty-seven
chapter twenty-eight
chapter twenty-nine
About the Author
Copyright
part one
unworthy thoughts
chapter one
Whatever you might imagine, whatever story you invent, real people do more foolish things. More wicked, more absurd. Trust me.
My name’s Jocasta. You don’t find that in your standard Names for Babies books. I’m not your usual kind of woman either, though what’s on show seems tame enough: a twist of grey hair on my head, an old t-shirt for gardening. And look, my hillside home is painted cream. Blush-apricot climbing roses tumble in a warm soft wind, and over the fence the neighbours laugh and lead their tangled lives. The breeze has turned the harbour into rumpled satin, and the scatter of houses on the far shore is like a model village made by someone’s grandchild (Oh, Grandma, aren’t I clever! Very nice, dear — bugger off.) Today, the hills beyond seem harmless too: green swell of trees and bush, then layerings of misty blue into the distance, like an oriental painting: silk and air. In other lights the hills are raw, so skinned and new.
In this one place, at different times, I could be anywhere. And oh, the things I’ve done, in other places, other times. Wait. Listen. I’ll appal you.
Now you may have heard this all before, but not the way I’ll tell it. The original Jocasta married Laius, King of Thebes. The Oracle prophesied to Laius that a son he had by her would murder him, and so the king kept well away from her bed. Well, wouldn’t any man? But Queen Jocasta made him drunk enough to blunt his fears if not the rest of him and nine months on a baby boy arrived.
‘I’m having none of that,’ says Laius. He whacks a nail through the infant’s feet and dumps him on a mountain outside Thebes. The baby’s name is Oedipus. It means the swollen foot.
Years later — seventeen? — Laius was murdered by a stranger in what must be the first recorded case of road rage — on a country road, mind you — and that first Jocasta thus became a widow. She soon remarried, though. Her brother bestowed her on a young lad, new to town, who’d saved Thebes from the Sphinx. That’s an ancient way of showing gratitude: if you kill the monster, here’s your prize — a handy royal woman, gift-wrapped in a bridal gown. And what a handsome lad this monster-killer was, as long as you ignored those twisted feet.
So had the first Jocasta heard the prophecy? Did she not know how gods pushed humans round back then? Of course Jocasta’s speeding on for middle age by now, those pretty looks declining, the sand in her hourglass figure sifting hip-wards, as it does. The thickening midriff can lead any woman to take comfort from whatever man turns up. And a brave young lad? There you go.
But let’s be clear on one thing right away. Most folk regard the incest as the crucial thing in that old tale. That’s not what interests me. Incest, with your own son? Unlikely, when you know what teenage boys are like. The issue, to my mind, is how the legend treats the wife, the mother, how it deals with the first Jocasta. What would a real woman think? What would she do? Let’s take it point by point.
So Laius would not sleep with her — presumably he had a nice plump Theban mattress of his own, as well as a choice of women less alarming than his wife to bounce around on it. Would Jocasta be enraged at his lack of interest in her? Just a trifle miffed, maybe? Many women would be dizzy with relief. She was moved, though, to tempt him back to her bed. Was it lust or pique? Was it jealousy? Rage? Revenge? For just suppose she did know of the prophecy. What an excellent way, although drawn out, to rid herself of lubber-guts.
But then the baby came, and Laius hurt its feet and cast it out. What would a real mother think? What would Jocasta do?
Later on, when Laius died, she’d wail and tear her hair in public. Yes, of course: society expects a show of grief. But in the quiet of her room, I’d bet she danced with glee.
Another question: did the first Jocasta learn about her second husband’s secret problem? Once she’d married this delectable boy hero, would they murmur in the royal bed like ordinary husband, normal wife? Would he whisper that he’d bolted from his parents (the parents he supposed were his but who’d adopted him) because of a prophecy he’d kill his dad and marry his own mum? Would they put two and two together, or were Jocasta and her Oedipus both as thick as two short planks?
In one version of the legend, when everything was brought to light at last, Jocasta hung herself. Another says she dashed herself over a cliff. Neither rendering makes a speck of sense to me. Despair’s a weak response to what the gods impose. Get even. It may take years. It may take luck. But I would tell the gods what they could do.
I’m going to tell you stories newer than that ancient one. But I’ve older stories too. About young blood. Fresh blood. Blood spilled (that could be metaphorically), blood running cold and heating up again. Exploding blood, incendiary.
There: that surprised you, didn’t it? I’ll tell you about widowhood. The stealing of a child. The woman and bereavement. Grief and beauty. Black Widow. Merry Widow. The benefits of being patient. Don’t get mad, get even.
The things I’ve done.
The first step towards becoming widowed is to have a wedding day. Now there’s no need to be cynical — weddings still happen, usually between folk who’ve lived together for a while and decide, for whatever reason, to play dress-ups for a day. The long white gown, red cummerbund, outrageously expensive flowers, vows. Then, as my own grandma used to say, Back to old clothes and porridge.
Let’s sit and listen in the still hot air of afternoon. Listen, through the chirp of the cicadas, the hum of bees drunk on the leeks I’ve left to go to seed this year. The flowers have grown too big to get both hands
around — they’re explosions of a thousand tiny florets. Cooked lightly, leeks are delicate and sweet, especially with some parmesan and butter. Anything tastes good with plenty of butter. There doesn’t seem much use for leeks, medicinally. Their stronger relative, the onion, can cause severe anaemia if you eat too much. You’d have to eat a cart load.
Few people are aware of it, but the daffodil bulb can be mistaken for an onion. The daffodil is highly poisonous and can work remarkably fast. It’s possible one bulb will do the trick.
Yes. Listen, through the soft cat-growl of city traffic down the hill. The tap-tap of the keyboard and rhythm of voices, clear and light, float over the fence through the roses. What tiny tragicomedy is in its babyhood next door? What have the gods decided now, and what will people do to let it happen?
A tragedy is always in the making. So is a comedy. All it needs is human nature.
The story as before. All right, I promised you a new one but there’s a chance I lied. That would be my prerogative at my age.
Sorrow in this Century. The working title for Ruth’s column isn’t right but most alternatives to sorrow are absurd. The thesaurus offers her: grief, anguish, pain, remorse, distress, misery, sadness and woe. It’s a pitiful thesaurus because it doesn’t include lamentation.
If in doubt, simplify. It’s a good principle, and Ruth wishes some of her friends would apply it to their daily lives. ‘Grief’s probably better,’ she murmurs. ‘Just “Grief”.’
Anna, sitting on the little filing cabinet, twists one of Ruth’s silk scarves about her head. ‘How much do you know about grief, Mum?’
‘In books, it’s usually finished with after a faint and a couple of paragraphs. In real life it can take longer.’
‘I didn’t see you cry when Ivan died,’ says Anna.
Ruth tries to continue working. Ivan had been ill for days before the vet made that final house call. It still mystifies Ruth that her daughter, who had never petted the cat very often, cried enough to sink a frigate. Ruth had thought it more to the point to dig a hole and bury him. She did so, for Walsh had squeezed into his old dress whites for the occasion and even put on some medals. He was upset too, but sublimated by saluting as she tapped the dirt down. In the following weeks Ruth dreamed about pioneers burying their babies while wind slap-flapped the canvas of their covered wagons and horses snickered to be off.
‘I miss singing to him,’ Ruth admits.
‘That used to be so embarrassing.’
‘Anna, if you haven’t got work this afternoon, go home and do your laundry. There’s a bus in about ten minutes.’
‘All that fuss about me moving out. Now you can’t wait to get rid of me.’ Anna holds the scarf up as a yashmak. ‘That new flatmate’s got a girlfriend. They’re taking turns to have first orgasm, but we’re pretty sure he fakes it.’
Ruth tells the document to print and her PC to shut down. It’s some time since she had even a fake climax. Nor does she expect one in the next little while, true or false. Walsh is sure to have a dodgy back when he returns from the Pacific, then Ruth plans to be away for about five weeks. A snake of nervousness turns in her insides.
‘Anna, those scarves are hand painted,’ she snaps. ‘They’re damned expensive.’
Anna’s face closes up like a lemon. It’s done that since she was two years old and Walsh tried to teach her to say sorry.
It’s the hottest day so far in this burning summer. The study window’s wide. Insects click and buzz like miniature machines. The climbing roses on the fence look tired out. Ruth takes the first page off the printer. The words look fatigued as well. She will have to do better than this:
Grief. When we learn someone is dead, all we want at first is for the news to be repeated. That kind of information can’t be assimilated on a single telling. Be kind to yourself. Take your time.
What happens next can be a kind of mental rummage for the appropriate response. A series of what may seem to be unworthy thoughts can rear out of the experiences one has shared with the deceased. Take time: this bears repeating. Sooner or later your emotions juggle themselves into a fitting memorial. Note, also, that ‘appropriate’ and ‘fitting’ may not be what earlier generations imagined to be right. Don’t worry. Now we can let it all hang out — we’re well into a … new century.
Anna’s trying to read over her shoulder. ‘What are the dots for?’
‘I can’t think of the right adjective.’
‘I suppose it’s better than your piece last week — age and beauty. That was special pleading, Mum. All right, you’re gorgeous but people also know you’ve got a grown-up daughter. Heaps of women are even grandmothers at your age.’
Ruth feels a lemony look on her own face.
‘So,’ Anna says. ‘What are you going to bring me back from London? A trendy little this or that from Harrods would be gratefully accepted.’ She grins. ‘You could stock up on some tasteful baby clothes for me.’
Ruth shoves her chair back and stands up. ‘Stop trying to get my goat. Harrods is the silliest shop I’ve ever been in. I will not go back unless I’m paid for it and paid damn well. I’ll find you something tacky at the Camden Market.’ Where, as it happens, they sell tack identical to tack sold anywhere on earth.
‘It’s all right, I wouldn’t do it to you, Mum. Being a grandmother would definitely kill your goddess image.’
Ruth sweeps out and into the bedroom, pulls off her t-shirt and drops it on the heap of dirty clothes in front of the wardrobe door. She rolls it open and searches for something to make her feel like an Ice Queen instead of an exasperated hack pretending style and modern manners are important when the globe is pockmarked with dictators and ethnic cleansing, and plagued by annoying adult children.
Anna leans in the bedroom doorway. ‘At least you didn’t tell me to get married before I thought about having a kid.’
‘Mother-of-the-bride colours are aqua or cerise. Please don’t get married, Anna.’ Ruth hauls out her Japanese dressing gown and slips it on.
‘No. The best guys are all taken, should I want one. Even the fifty-year-olds. Look at Bella — she’s got two of them obsessed with her.’
Ruth will not let Anna wind her up today. She will not.
‘I know exactly why Bella stormed out, Mum, but Barnaby’s a mess. I am so sorry for him. It’s amazing what men will do, isn’t it? Barnaby …’
‘Of course he is terribly upset. So is everyone, particularly Bella. But it will all settle down, and we’ll be happy again.’
‘And it’s none of our business?’ What a goading little smile that Anna has.
‘For goodness sake. Go and do some study if you don’t have work today.’
‘Don’t remind me,’ Anna groans. ‘That place is a mistake, Mum. It’s badly run, boring and mostly very negative. Urine samples and other grotesque body fluids.’
‘Then come back and live at home.’
‘I’d drive you mad in half a day. Just see what I’ve accomplished in an hour. Now — what would I look like in a preggy dress?’
Anna waves and runs downstairs. Through the window, Ruth glimpses her march across the road and over the little park towards the bus stop.
Ruth really ought to talk to Anna properly sometime, not squeeze her in around deadlines and the mess Anna calls her own life. Anna with a baby — what an awful thought. Ruth as a grandma — she refuses to imagine it. And Walsh as a grandfather — how would he handle that? Ruth has no idea.
A card of pain killers is on her bedside cabinet. Ruth pops one.
She closes the wardrobe. That’s a mistake because she sees her own face in the mirror door. Shit — Walsh, not to mention Ms Nausea down at the office, will expect photos from the trip Ruth’s meant to be taking. She wishes she hadn’t said she was going to Vancouver as well as London this year. It is making things extremely convoluted.
She musses her hair to see if the effect is softening. It makes her look more frazzled. She sinks on to the bed feeling helple
ssness and rage. Growing older used to be just little shocks, like realising she couldn’t drink several glasses of brandy and still hope to be a human being next day. Now she wants to gun down the young and unwrinkled. Anna was right — her column last week had been too strident. One of the advertisers hadn’t liked it, either. But, honestly. Cosmetic surgery during your lunch hour: collagen injections in the frown lines, plastic filler for the lips. By the time you’ve fixed the cracks and gullies, forehead, crows’ feet, you may as well have a whole new face and be done with it. It costs pretty much the same in the long run.
But. Growing older. There have to be advantages, somewhere. The more attractive you are if you are fifty-plus, the more intriguing people find you? Maybe. Because it doesn’t fit. Doesn’t conform to expectations. Not conforming: that is the key to it all, in the revelation according to Saint Ruth — now there could be a column in that. She files the idea in pending and puts on a brave, fake smile. Well, hey, she has her plans —
A wedge of sunlight through the window makes Ruth look thoroughly rinsed out. She heaves off the bed and over to adjust the blind. The climbing rose is drooping more than ever.
The phone buzzes. She considers leaving it but picks it up. It’s Eliot. ‘Eliot, hi. I’m glad you called, I wanted to …’
‘It’s bad news,’ he says. ‘It’s Barnaby.’
‘It’s what?’
‘It’s Barnaby.’ There’s a strange tension in the way he pauses. ‘Ruth — he’s dead.’
She can’t breathe for a moment. ‘What … Barnaby? But …’
Eliot powers on. Deep. And calm. Too calm. The urgent calm of a man she’s rarely heard upset before. ‘His nephew found him yesterday. It was a stroke, they think. He’d been having angina too apparently —’ Eliot takes a gulp of air. ‘It must have been about three days ago.’
