by Barbara Else
It’s the champagne. Lovely. And the matches.
The waiter is very good: he doesn’t eye her get-up. That’s because she wrapped a couple of bath towels around her before she opened the door. Ruth is stupid sometimes but not that daft, thank you.
Perfume. She dithers between her usual, which Walsh would find familiar, comfortable, or one she’s been given as sample, which might make her seem like a stranger, might make him more excited — or put him off.
She squirts the sample on her torso. Another tap comes on the door.
Don’t be afraid of buttons. There are no buttons. Only the snap fasteners. Ouch.
Jocasta. Don’t be afraid. Why should she be? All she must do is decide a thing or two. Her mother had warned her — her mother turned out to be right. It was Geordie’s responsibility, as her husband, to take better care of little Felix. So: Geordie can see it’s his responsibility now to make sure they have full insurance on the house (look, admire: three bedrooms, separate lounge, dining and kitchen, bathroom upstairs and a garden at the back), and on his life, as well as the new car — yes, they have a better car, one of the first Super Snipes in Hull. It is his responsibility to make sure business booms.
Why should Jocasta be afraid? All she has to do is wait, look pretty, play the part — it’s his name on the cheque account. Getting richer by the month is Geordie Ferral. Mind you, he doles out plenty to his wife, that little thing as delicate as porcelain. A pretty wife, well dressed, is a valuable asset. A pretty wife helps business boom, so she has some say on how the money’s spent even though she can’t touch much of it. A brave wife’s an asset too. People know how she and Geordie were tricked into losing their child. How sorry people are. How they admire her for her bravery and her looks: do you notice, now and then, the glow of sorrow in those eyes? Pale blue, it’s true, but big and almost silvery in some lights. Magically pretty, is Jocasta. Lucky Geordie. And him still captivated by her as the years go by. Look how he refuses to let her off on holiday without him, how he always phones to check on her. As if she keeps him thoroughly seduced. You don’t often see that in a marriage, but he’s very taken with her still. A lovely lass, Jocasta Ferral.
She doesn’t mind how long it takes. It’s not that she is waiting so much as refusing to let go. This tie — Jocasta and her Felix, mother and son — is stronger than a marriage. Goodness, how long did Rapunzel sit up there in the tower? How long for her hair to grow — let’s say four yards? We’ll be generous — suppose it takes four years for every yard. Can Jocasta wait sixteen years before she can — what, wait for a prince to come? Get off the grass. We don’t need princes. She’ll climb down her own hair, thanks, as soon as it’s long enough and strong enough. When there’s enough money in the bank.
When she’s made enquiries of her own about the Smiths. Not with officials. Officials would like to help. There must be many Smiths who left for the lands downunder in the years just following the war. Ah, but how many had only one child? One son? That would narrow it down —
Think again. Those ‘Smiths’ — they could have had other children of their own, as well as other stolen ones. They could have dressed Jocasta’s pretty Felix as a girl.
Their name was definitely not Smith, at any rate.
Oh, officials would like to seek in sundry places and in sundry ways, trolling across lakes of paperwork, searching through the briars of red tape. They are eager to let Jocasta know how they would like to fret for the poor lost child, the anguished pretty mother. How happy they would be to suffer sleepless nights about lost Felix, brave Jocasta, worried Geordie. They would be delighted to wake up grumpy with their wives or husbands and need a strong cup of tea to gather strength to face another day of helping others through the thickets of forms to fill in, the rules and regulations.
But Geordie has asked all the questions already. The case, sad though it is to say, must be called closed.
The place where the wool comes from. Why did Geordie mention that? Was a devil or his conscience prompting him?
Wait. Listen. Trust Jocasta — trust her instinct.
At last, when the Snipe has been changed for another Snipe and then another, and their house — in Beverly now, outside Hull — is furnished with pure wool carpet and velvet drapes, and Jocasta wears a pillbox hat of the sort Jackie Kennedy will make fashionable, and a narrow skirt, stiletto heels, one day at a mayoral reception, the sort of gathering where a pretty woman can flit to and fro and ask little questions, probe and tease an answer out without it seeming obvious, a woman mentions something to Jocasta.
‘Oh, I know Thwaite. My auntie was from there. I remember those folk with the beautiful wee boy. He’ll be twenty years old, with his new life. My auntie mentioned what a generous thing you did, giving them the money to leave England.’
Don’t fly apart in flames. Don’t scare this woman off. Tease out a little more.
Who gave those folk the money to leave England, who? Who said to keep his charity anonymous?
It is time.
Night after night, Geordie Ferral adjusts his trilby in front of the mirror and straightens the sheepskin collar on his car coat. ‘Now, lass, are we ready for off?’ He kisses Jocasta. She twines her arms around his neck, apparently more lovingly than ever. Such a lucky, pampered man. So fond of strawberries.
Jocasta pats her pearl choker, makes sure her pearl and gold earrings are firmly on, and away they go to dinner, another reception, a business function here and there. Jocasta charms all of them more thoroughly each night, clergymen and businessmen, the city councillors, professors from the university. She flits from one to the other under the lights of the reception room, the restaurant, waltzes in a froth of pretty music, circles back to Geordie so everyone can see how much in love they are, even now, after all these busy years rebuilding Hull. Each living thing in Hull agrees they love her most, they want her to be happy. They admire the little sideline she’s developed — herbal cosmetics, delicate creams for pretty faces. It’s a suitable, appealing hobby for a lass whose husband is a most successful local businessman.
There’s a cold wind outside from the North Sea, there’s a flash of lightning, a roll of thunder, but inside, in the reception room, it is warm and brightly lit. Jocasta is a pretty bird, flashing through the warm, the light, the thoroughly enchanted crowd. She has never, ever, looked more radiant.
chapter twenty-one
Walsh rests his briefcase on the hotel dressing table. His air is sheepish. Ruth slips the security chain on the door and closes the curtains. She sticks the silver candles in two water tumblers and lights them. The black scarf slips off her shoulder and through the flame but she flicks it away in time. She turns to Walsh. He’s still standing near his briefcase.
‘Here we are,’ says Walsh.
Ruth hopes he hasn’t already had lunch — and if he has, that it wasn’t a big one.
‘Lie down,’ she says. ‘Take your shoes off.’
He removes his jacket, sits on the edge of the bed and bends to his laces. Just as they do at home, his shoes hit the other side of the room, bump, bump-bump, and end up near her patent-leather sandals. His hand goes to the small of his back and he groans as he stretches out full length. His toes wriggle in his grey socks.
Ruth stands at the end of the bed and waits in the stuttering light from the candles.
‘What’s that?’ He’s looking at the purple teddy.
‘It’s damned uncomfortable,’ she says.
‘You could take it off.’ His face shows so little enthusiasm that she doubles up with laughter. She sits beside his feet and rubs his socks.
‘Oh, Walsh, we don’t have to. You look so tired. Look, have a nibble. I’ll do the champagne.’ She puts the tray on the bed, lifts the silver cover off, and fiddles with the foil and wire around the cork.
Walsh unbuckles his pants, and slides out of them and into bed in his socks, underpants and singlet. He pops an oyster in his mouth. ‘Yum.’ He pops another. His tattoo wriggles on hi
s upper arm.
The cork zooms out of the bottle and knocks into one of the candles. Ruth sets it right and relights it, unsnaps the fasteners on the teddy because they torture her so horribly, ties the shawl around her waist for decency, pours the champagne and clambers into the other side of the bed.
‘Here’s to truth,’ she says.
‘Oh God,’ says Walsh.
‘I’ll go first.’ Ruth swallows an oyster.
‘Why?’ asks Walsh.
‘Because I thought of it, and ruh for Ruth comes before wuh for Walsh in the alphabet. Now: where did you sleep last night?’
‘On my office chair,’ says Walsh.
‘That sounds like murder for your back.’
Walsh shrugs. ‘Better than most airline seats and I’m used to them, more’s the pity.’
‘Your turn,’ says Ruth.
He takes another oyster and chews for longer than seems necessary. ‘All right. Why are we here?’
‘Because you wouldn’t come home and I embarrassed you in front of long-suffering Ruby, the pearl without price. We have things to talk about. And I hope we’re here because we still love each other, or something close to it. Do we?’
‘Mph.’ Walsh takes his fourth oyster. ‘I shouldn’t be having these. I had the cholesterol special for breakfast at Bellamy’s and a big lunch with some policy advisers. Railway station fare. Pastry with pastry, fries on the side.’
‘If you have a heart attack in this hotel room, I shall kill you,’ says Ruth.
‘We’d have a hard job explaining it, I agree. Or you’d have a hard time.’ Walsh takes another oyster, then a piece of cheese. ‘Is it my turn again?’
It’s Ruth’s, strictly speaking, but she nods and nibbles a cracker. She doesn’t mean to take another oyster yet but they are irresistible.
‘Truth.’ Walsh says the word as if it’s something noxious. ‘All right. Where did the condom come from?’
‘I haven’t any idea.’
‘And who is Craig Milford?’
‘That’s two turns, not fair,’ says Ruth.
Walsh begins to climb out of bed.
‘Wait!’ she cries. ‘Craig is tied up with Ms Nausea. He’s the new gofer and a bit of a photographer, I think. He’s thirty-fiveish, and doesn’t seem very smart, and he’s too old to be a gofer so I’ve been much nicer to him that he warrants. Okay?’
‘How nice have you been?’ asks Walsh.
‘Too nice. I’m not going to be nice to him again. Now you’ve had three questions in a row. My turn.’ She takes a deep breath and nearly bursts out of the teddy. It is hell of a tight under her arms. ‘Walsh — have you ever been unfaithful to me?’
‘Truth,’ says Walsh as if the word is nastier than before. ‘Unfaithful. Truth.’ He reaches for another oyster but his hand creeps back to rest upon his singlet-covered chest. ‘Not really.’
Inside Ruth’s head it’s as if someone has swung a hammer. Yes, this is what it feels like, being stunned. But Craig was also a not really, and Walsh is still here with her, and she’s still here with him.
‘That’s all right.’ How odd her voice sounds, as if she’s speaking through one of those tin-can telephones attached with string, the ones kids used to play with before the world of toys became high-tech and virtual. She settles the pillows behind her, folds her hands on her lap over the thin lace shawl. ‘You’ve always travelled a lot; I mean, I never really expected you to have a squeaky clean record. You look impressive in your dress whites, and in a suit as well. Goodness, how do you know you’re truly tempted unless you actually fall?’
‘This isn’t going as I expected,’ says Walsh. ‘I thought you’d be trying to seduce me.’
‘So did I.’ Ruth takes one of the remaining oysters.
‘I thought I’d be trying to find out if you’re the one who’s being having an affair.’
‘I wanted to make sure you didn’t ask that,’ answers Ruth.
‘Ah,’ says Walsh. They’re both quiet for a while. Their hands reach for the oysters at the same time.
‘How many have you had?’ he asks.
‘Are you talking about oysters or lovers?’ asks Ruth. ‘I’ve had many more oysters than lovers, and you can see there are four left and you’ve had plenty, and if lovers were oysters I don’t think they’d be my favourite at all.’
‘I’ve had five. So I’m allowed one more.’ He takes it. ‘You don’t have to count Nicolas,’ he says after a while.
‘I wasn’t.’ Ruth takes another one of hers. ‘I feel sick now. I hope you don’t want to be seduced this afternoon.’
‘It would be too much to ask of any woman.’ Walsh lies back and closes his eyes.
Ruth lies down too. ‘We’ve still got the champagne. We’ll sip it slowly.’
‘This is all because of Barnaby, I suppose,’ says Walsh. ‘He always stirred things up. What a fucked-up mind he had, not telling Bella. Poor Eliot. What a burden.’ They lie in silence for a while. ‘Have you seen Anna since the funeral? I haven’t.’
‘She’s grown up. I shouldn’t fuss but — twenty-one’s not grown up. There’s some sort of problem with work, too. I couldn’t get through. I’m worried, actually. I’m trying not to be.’
‘Well — are we ever going to tell her?’ asks Walsh. ‘We always meant to.’
Ruth sighs, holds Walsh’s arm to make him know he’s loved, he’s best. ‘We should have told her years ago. I don’t think Bella knows much, if anything, either. It’s more difficult than ever now, of course.’
Walsh sits up and rubs his head. ‘Years are funny things,’ he says.
‘Pardon?’
He looks down at her. ‘You’re as beautiful as always. More so. God, any man would be astonished at his luck, in bed with you. That purple thing’s pretty horrible but it still does things to the hormones. Even mine, today, a little.’
‘Thank you.’ Ruth pats his arm.
‘But — years. They go by so easily, I mean. By the time you know you ought to have done something, put things square and —’
‘Ship shape,’ she says.
‘Indeed. It’s so late that it doesn’t seem fair. It would sound stupid.’
‘We were stupid,’ says Ruth. ‘Besides, nobody would believe us and it doesn’t matter now.’
‘Poor Barnaby,’ says Walsh.
‘You never liked him,’ says Ruth.
‘You don’t have to like your friends if you’re a bloke.’
Ruth strokes the convex curve they call his waist. ‘You were married to your ship. Ship is a metaphor. For years and years. The navy is a demanding mistress and the government is a bitch of one.’
Walsh lies down again and puts an arm around her. ‘So,’ he asks, ‘God knows why that condom was on our bedroom floor?’
She tells him how it nosed across the fence into Jocasta’s. They snuggle up. Walsh begins to hum, his song for her. By the end of the first verse he is singing in as loud a voice as possible while supine. It must reverberate down the hotel corridor.
Till a’ the seas gang dry, my dear,
And the rocks melt wi’ the sun:
And I will love thee still, my dear,
While the sands o’ life shall run.
They breathe in each other’s smell, and fall asleep.
chapter twenty-two
It may be true or not that oysters are an aphrodisiac. Be sensible, an oyster on its own will hardly do it. The heart — or ego — must also be involved to some degree. Oysters are low in fat (unless they’re deep-fried: didn’t I say, be sensible?) and high in zinc, which, if we can mention basics, is meant to increase sperm production as well as be a female lubricant. So there you go. Jocasta isn’t talking about love here. Love doesn’t need aphrodisiacs, not true love. Sex might need aphrodisiacs but she isn’t interested in that. Which is why for so long, during those strange periods of time called years, she could put up with Geordie. He was her means to an end. And now it is time to end him.
Geo
rdie enjoys her pottering in her kitchen with a dimity apron on. ‘You’re the best advertisement for your own products, lass,’ he says. In her gentle way she smiles and hides the fury, damps the fire. She has a healthy business of her own. Geordie doesn’t realise how big it is, and wouldn’t believe it, besides. A softening cream for wind-chapped skin, natural rinses for the hair, comely colours for the eyes and cheeks and lips.
Here’s another widow story.
Judith was a wealthy widow, a Jewish patriot as well, lovely — and tough as a boot. Dolled up with jewels and kohl, she visited the camp of the invaders — Assyrians, yes, that’s the ones. Holofernes, the commander, thought, Here’s a tasty number then, and wouldn’t any man? Wine, a spot of dinner, a flagon more of wine, a drunken sleep, then whack with the man’s own sword. The pretty widow stuffed his head into her make-up bag and took it home to gloat. As any woman would.
Thou shalt not murder, except on the occasion when the Good Lord eggs you on.
It depends what you mean by murder, anyway.
Jocasta has her ethics, principles she’s worked out for herself. If authority can’t help you, if you can’t get what you want by normal means, then find a way to get it on your own. Just like with Peter: she’d wanted him, and to her he had come most willingly. When he was clearly going to be a sorry man, he took a way out by himself. All Jocasta did was offer it. You could almost blame the baby for his father’s death — the baby’s being conceived set these events in motion. Jocasta wanted Felix — had him, lost him. Geordie was the cause of that, and he’s finally going to pay.
Because, at last, Jocasta thinks she knows where Felix is. Downunder, where the wool comes from. Some would say it’s not much of a clue, a comment from a woman whose aunt had lived in Thwaite, who half-remembered what her auntie said: Auckland, and a church named after a town in Hertfordshire. Well, after a saint, and the town named after the saint, too. Alban, could it be, the first British martyr? Jocasta has checked her little book of saints. She’s checked an atlas, bought a couple of maps that she conceals from Geordie.
