by Barbara Else
When Eliot left my house that night, that fucking awful night, ran after my wife, and anyone with half a brain could see they’d end up screwing, I could cheerfully have skewered him through the heart. I had a tangible image of the antique Eskimo hunting knife I keep in a locked case in the gallery. I even felt its hilt gripped in my fist.
But I was never a vengeful man, or not for long, not really.
I was doing my best to put things right with Bella. A man corrects things if it’s possible. But life throws unexpected shit at you — like this, like death. What a piss-off.
So. Here Bella is at last. A bit late but I’m not in a strong position for complaints.
At this point I dare say I should be rather more philosophical. All right: accidents happen. We make wrong choices by omission and commission. I’ll accept, I was misguided now and then. I could have done things differently. But a man only does what he can. What more can you expect of him? I kept a few of the Ten Commandments, didn’t I? That’s something these days, surely.
She’s walking slowly closer to the coffin. Yes, Bella, believe it, that is me.
I know that look. She’s deciding whether or not to start an argument. It has always hacked me off, that look of hers.
Now she is thinking about touching me. Yes, I hope she does. How odd to want things now.
So — her hands are coming slowly over mine — and I cannot feel a thing. I shouldn’t be surprised, but it is a let-down.
I’m glad Bella’s seen the cradle — though she ought not to wrestle it out and —
For all that’s flaming holy. What the devil is the woman doing now?
chapter three
It’s as hot today as yesterday. Too hot to think about widows? No, we’re all allowed our own preoccupations.
There is the Merry Widow waltzing in her full lace skirt amidst a froth of music. Oh yes, I remember the days.
Black Widow — a dismaying notion but it’s no more than a spider, a little bag of poison with eight legs. It waits. It watches. Like me.
There’s Widow Twankey, a man dressed in petticoats, singing doggerel in a silly voice. Men do enjoy their jokes — mock something and it becomes less frightening. But there’s power in an old woman, and it might be just as well if few men realise it.
Indulge me now. How many widows have you come across as heroines in stories? A measly scattering. And in true life, bet your wooden clogs when a widow takes the centre stage she’s tidying up the mess her husband left: Boadicea, for example, strong wife, vengeful mother, savage widow. Responsibility’s a burden, if you feel you have to shoulder it.
Pretty widows, as I said, begin as pretty wives. Bella is extremely pretty, like a china figurine. Her mother died when Bella was in her twenties. Bella could use a mother figure now — Ruth hardly cuts the mustard.
Listen. Once upon a time there was a woman so pretty that her husband kept her in a bubble. Its walls reflected her, showed off the pretty woman to perfection, but the pretty woman knew it was a cage. It shimmered, shook and sometimes seemed about to burst, but the bubble always formed around her again. And, should it break, she feared there’d be another one outside. She might always be surrounded, oh, she might.
The second pretty woman knew how necessary it was that she stay pretty — it’s proven, pretty people get far more attention, they are central to their groups, adored, admired. According to the ancients, the most effective way to keep your looks is to bathe occasionally in asses’ milk. Because this pretty woman lived in the middle of a city, the asses she most commonly met were men in different shapes and various sizes. In stories, it doesn’t matter what men look like. It only matters that they do the job. But, even in a story, the availability of asses is a problem, and a pretty woman inevitably grows older. The third pretty woman? Ah. She’d had her one true love, and a pretty man he was, so very pretty. And then she had a child, a lovely boy. She was extremely practical. She knew exactly what life owed her. She was so beautiful, you see, life owed her everything. It’s as good a way to think as any other.
Bella. Ruth. Jocasta.
It is as hot as yesterday.
If Walsh had been here last night, Ruth would have tidied the strewn magazines, tossed out the two-week-old flowers, shoved away the scattering of footwear. They’d have reminisced about Barnaby, had a few sad laughs about the past. To get their minds off it, she could have told him about Ms Nausea and the new gofer-cum-photographer who seemed so awkward and charming. Though it’s much more likely they’d have sat together as it grew dark and ended up extremely drunk and singing ballads.
She opens the door as soon as Eliot’s car draws up outside the gate. She invites him and Bella in with a gesture, not with words, for there is too much to say. Eliot probably feels the same.
If only Walsh were here.
Eliot and Bella don’t seem to notice the chaos or Ruth’s distraction. Bella drifts to the sofa. Eliot hovers near her for a moment, then trails after Ruth into the kitchen. She shows she is a good hostess, at least. There: glasses and a crystal jug of water on a tray. It already holds a dish of wrinkled black olives, a brie, a wedge of port salut, and crackers that are only slightly stale. Ruth opens a white wine for Bella.
‘I tried to contact Walsh.’ She speaks to Eliot quietly, in case Bella overhears. ‘I had to leave a message on his cellphone. What a horrible thing for him to hear.’
Eliot nods. He picks up the tray and carries it through. Ruth follows and notes the way he hands Bella her glass of wine. For so long he used to take any chance to brush her hand by accident: pitiable, a grizzled man behaving like a teenager in love, forbidden love. But today he keeps his fingers scrupulously away from hers. Bella, on the sofa under the window, seems completely stunned though ramrod straight — she’s disappeared into an inner world. To be expected.
But it must be hard on Eliot. He Who Waits. Everyone’s allowed a period of grief, but Ruth worries that if Bella can’t acknowledge Eliot’s pain and also admit how much she needs him, this lovely man will only back away — he’s been offered a job in Santa Barbara. Well, join the club, c’est la vie, it’s an ill wind: Barnaby is definitely out of the picture now, so as long as Eliot hangs on he might find that the race isn’t always to the swift —
Ruth doesn’t know what she means. She’s been in a peculiar vacuum since yesterday and can’t expect to think sensibly for others. It’s been difficult for Ruth and Walsh these last few months, wanting to support all three of them: Barnaby, Eliot and Bella.
Eliot sits rigid on the sofa too, at the other end from Bella. They’re like a pair of bookends.
Ruth chooses an armchair and lifts her whisky — on the rocks for her today. She ought to make a toast. To Barnaby? Or: Here’s to friends? A harmless and uncomplicated Cheers? Neither Eliot nor Bella raises their glass. Ruth waves hers around a bit and sips her whisky anyway.
Bella has always seemed unconscious of how drawn to her Eliot is. It had been obvious to Ruth and Walsh for ages. Now they’re living together — but to what purpose? Ruth knows they sleep in separate rooms. That might not be unusual, especially if Eliot snores, but neither of them has had that shine of pleasure in their eyes, not after that first night, at any rate. Goodness, the day after that first night both Eliot and Bella had seemed completely blown away. So what is going on? Ruth has tried to have a word with Bella, but nebulous has become Bella’s middle name these days, since she stormed out on Barnaby.
‘Drink up,’ says Ruth. ‘You both look as if you need it. I’ve got some food for later, too. It’s only bread and salad and shaved ham but you must both eat for me. Have a bite now, Bella. Just a nibble.’ She holds out the dish of olives.
Bella shakes her head.
Ruth doesn’t want to eat either but picks up a cracker. It’s broken. The hostess is meant to taste first, to make people feel it’s all right. It probably stems from the olden days, when seeing your host eat showed the food wasn’t likely to be poisoned. Ruth’s pleased she is rememberin
g her manners.
She wants to ask the impossible: what was it like for Bella at the funeral parlour? What did he look like? How did Bella feel? It’s very brave of Bella to have gone. Ruth wouldn’t have thought Bella had it in her.
It is no use sitting saying nothing. Ruth simply has to make it all up from here on — might be counted on to do so, actually; does it in her columns all the time. So:
‘You ought to talk about it. But only if you want,’ says Ruth.
Eliot looks startled. Bella’s eyes turn towards Ruth though she doesn’t seem to focus. With the blush of roses framing her through the bay window, Bella looks particularly fragile. Shock — grief — the devastating combination has cast a kind of immobility over her face. Ruth feels more envious than ever of Bella’s brown eyes, that warm brown that speaks of deep emotion and is so strange a contrast to her silvery blonde hair. She isn’t more than forty yet. She’s elfin, even in those white pants, red shirt. It is sometimes irritating that Bella is such a nice person that Ruth simply cannot hate her.
‘Did you …?’ Ruth indicates Eliot, and whether he’d gone in with Bella.
He shakes his head now: bookends with moving heads like plastic dogs in a car’s back window. Ruth, in a wicked moment she is instantly ashamed of, wants to ask if there had been a queue. Did Barnaby’s ex-wives arrive, wait in line, take tickets? Again she wishes Walsh were home. His diplomatic skills would come in useful.
‘When is the funeral?’ Her voice splinters. ‘Was there an —’ It is too hard to say the word: autopsy. Of course there has been. Eliot said: stroke.
Eliot stands and swivels towards the window. He gulps down half of his whisky. Bella doesn’t move, still sits with her glass on her lap though her eyes have focused on Ruth. Light catches the surface of the wine as it trembles in Bella’s hands: it flickers off the carmine of her t-shirt.
‘Anna?’ asks Eliot without turning.
Ruth has to clear her throat before her voice will sound close to normal. ‘I don’t know if she’s heard or not. I left her a message to call me — I’ve left several. But now we have to concentrate on Bella. There isn’t any protocol for times like this, so I’m going to invent. One: Barnaby’s family are not likely to want either of you at the funeral, though of course they can’t stop you. Two: I’m not sure myself that you should go, Bella; it could be too much for you. I don’t care if I sound bossy because I might be right. Three: for all your seeming frailty you can be stubborn as a boot. You’ll go even if you end up in a state of collapse. Right?’
Bella gives a tiny shrug.
‘Four,’ Ruth says, ‘if you go to Barnaby’s funeral it will piss his bossy sister off in the extreme, especially if all four of us go together, as we will. There’s nothing I’d like better than to piss off Lydia. You have a rightful place there, Bella. It will be an event, after all.’ This is the day of saying terrible things. What an abominable person Ruth can be.
Eliot looks at her. ‘Have you cried yet?’ he asks.
Why should she? Ruth will cry when Bella speaks. Except it will sound childish if she says that, and Bella is the child, not her. Ruth sips more whisky. The silence prickles her skin.
‘Barnaby —’ says Bella. Ruth startles to hear her voice at last, to hear how brittle it is. ‘Barnaby was strange about spiders, did you know? He couldn’t ever bear to kill one.’ Bella lifts her wine in both hands, her head bows over it.
‘Of course we know. We knew Barnaby for years before you came along,’ says Ruth. ‘Oh, hell, that sounded bitchy. Didn’t mean it.’
‘Not even those red speck money ones,’ Bella whispers.
Eliot seems to buckle at the knees: he sits on the arm of the sofa, one hand over his eyes. It’s odd, how long and sculptured his hands are compared to the rest of his bulk.
Bella blinks but doesn’t move to comfort him. She’s lowered her wine again, not had a sip. ‘The day I walked out — the day of the night, that’s to say — someone brought three Pratt jars into the shop. Wanted a hundred dollars each for them. Ridiculous. I wasn’t even sure if they were genuine. Cute things, I suppose, if you like old pickle jars with scenes from Shakespeare on. One needed to be restored, just a touch-up on the paint. I told Barnaby I’d do it if he shook the spiders out. There wasn’t a spider at all. He never did like to be laughed at. But he’d just been a thorough bastard to me. I’d told him I wanted children. I meant it, finally. He knew that, oh, he knew it.’
Tears choke out of Eliot, harsh, reluctant sobs. Someone has to take control, and it still seems it must be Ruth.
‘Barnaby was a best friend, Eliot. Even though you can’t have spoken to him in months, I know he was still a best friend. Of course you have had the most awful struggle with your loyalties, since you enticed Bella out of his clutches. We understand.’
Eliot chokes again.
‘The shittier you were to each other, the better friends you were. I know. I used to listen to it all and pat your knees. Lord, when I think of all the years I was happy to leave you men to your own fun, your singing, the rowdy rivalry and hilarity at the rugby club before you and Walsh at least decided to grow up …’ Not the best topic for today. Ruth rushes to another: ‘It’s only natural you feel the weight of your remorse about Bella at last, when it’s too late to make your peace with Barnaby. But don’t feel guilty, Eliot, you deserve comfort and …’
‘You’re not working on a column now, I hope,’ says Bella. ‘Eliot doesn’t need your newspaper psychology.’
Ruth hears that roaring in her ears again.
‘Don’t frown, Ruth.’ Bella sounds strangled. ‘It doesn’t suit you. That’s what Barnaby used to say to me. He didn’t like to see me frown. I hated him when he said that.’
Ruth can’t figure out where she lost the frail grip she had on what’s passing for conversation. ‘I don’t think any of us know what we’re talking about. Let’s finish our drinks. Take a Valium. Get Prozac, whatever we need, just don’t push each other too far.’ The roaring in Ruth’s ears is worse, and Bella looks as if she’ll faint, she’s gone so pale.
‘I’m sorry.’ Ruth stands up and holds her arms out, surprised at how shaky they are.
‘I’m sorry too,’ Bella whispers. She puts her glass down and stands as well. Her hands cling momentarily to Ruth’s and she nests her head on Ruth’s shoulder. ‘There’s something I should tell you — I don’t know why I …’
‘Bella. I need to get drunk.’ Eliot scrubs his face with a fist. ‘I’d rather go home and do it there.’ He digs in his pants pocket and drags out his car keys. He does look thoroughly ill. Poor Eliot had been such a beautiful young man with that air of being a lost soul, slender, blond, such pearly skin. Ruth’s hand slinks up to her own face: if she’d spent years in the outposts of civilisation as he has, her complexion would be pitted leather too.
Bella seems frozen again for a moment, then moves to Eliot. The top of her silvery-blonde hair just reaches the lobe of his ear; and his head, the grizzled mane, bends over her. For God’s sake, Ruth wants to tell them, just go to bed together. But through the window she glimpses tiny old Jocasta from next door. She’s coming in the gate carrying something covered in a cloth. Behind her, a small green car is drawing up.
Ruth recognises the driver — Craig. The photographer she met with Ms Nausea last night. Nice guy, bad timing. The roaring in her ears returns. The windows are open. So is the door. They’ve been talking very loudly. She can’t pretend that nobody is home.
The doorbell chimes.
‘Hullo!’ Jocasta patters through the entrance way into the living room. Her bright bird glance darts to Eliot and Bella, the vase of faded flowers, three pairs of shoes beneath a chair, the layer of dust on the dresser, and comes to rest on Ruth. ‘I won’t intrude for long. Grief needs to be fed, dear. I’ve brought a casserole. It’s pumpkin.’ She glances at Eliot again: his head is still bowed over Bella.
How kind — Ruth reluctantly admits. Barnaby was a public figure. Art. Loca
l politics, and music. Jocasta will have seen a death notice. Ruth’s been too upset to read the paper.
The old woman walks past Ruth and hands the dish to Bella. Bella’s forearms sink momentarily under the weight. Jocasta lifts the cloth: a heavy blue cast-iron bowl with a black lid. She takes the lid off. A spicy scent fills the room.
‘This recipe’s very good cold,’ Jocasta says. ‘You can heat it if you like, though you might not want a hot meal in this weather. There’s cumin, which is good as an antispasmodic, and coriander too, but that’s only for the taste. Cumin’s often used to cure disease in pigeons: you would not have been aware of that. Make a nice green salad to go with it. Food is a comfort. Though —’ Jocasta smiles at Ruth ‘— more than one widow has been shocked to find herself in bed with another man within hours of her husband dying. It’s natural, you know. No need to feel ashamed, if that’s what happens.’
Ruth tells herself she doesn’t feel disoriented: she has the impression the old woman is fully aware of everything that’s ever happened, as well as everything that will.
Craig, in a rumpled linen jacket, has reached the entrance way. He leans in, grinning hopefully. He has a slim blue travel folder in his hand.
‘Awkward time?’ he asks.
Ruth has to beckon him in. While she explains she only met him last night, he’s been a news photographer but is now attached to the group that’s sending her overseas, he is polite. He shakes Jocasta’s hand, nods at Eliot, is obviously mesmerised by Bella. Everyone is, every time. Even in her state of shock — perhaps especially in her shock — she has that sleeping beauty look. What man wouldn’t like a chance to clamber in the window and wake up Briar Rose?
