Three Pretty Widows

by Barbara Else

  The bath’s still running.

  The nurse comes in with a small tray, discreetly covered. ‘When you’re ready, Ruth,’ she murmurs.

  Ruth puts the phone down, sits on the bed and pulls the covers to her chest.

  A taxi draws up in the courtyard and someone’s getting out.

  The nurse uncovers the tray and picks up the syringe. Diazepam 10mg. She reaches for Ruth’s arm.

  Ruth leaps out of bed and bangs on the window. The passenger sees her and bends down to say something to the driver. Ruth pushes past the nurse, drags her trousers on over the fairy knickers, grabs her wallet and cellphone, and dashes along the corridor, out through reception to the porch.

  The taxi driver seems more amused than alarmed but he indicates that he’s off to another call, and drives away.

  Ruth turns in a circle, turns, turns, ignores the nurse and receptionist now appearing in the doorway, dials the emergency services on her cellphone, and spots an ordinary car approaching. It stops to let out a nurse in uniform. Ruth shoves in.

  ‘Pitt Street, quick!’ Ruth orders. ‘Please,’ she adds. ‘Oh, please!’ Through the gap of her hospital robe, the upholstery sticks to her back.

  She is making an absolute fool of herself.

  ‘Oh. Hullo,’ the driver says. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember when I met you. But how have you been?’ They fly down the dip near Wilton Bush.

  ‘Just get me home!’

  Ruth hangs on to the door handle as the car whizzes and screeches up Blackbridge Road and along and down and swerving up, with Ruth pointing. They’re at the gate; he halts the car.

  ‘Hang around!’ she cries. She hurls herself out and at the front door. She’s inside, up the stairs to the bedroom, shouting for Walsh.

  He’s there in the en-suite. The bath is overflowing. He’s naked on the shagpile bathmat, stomach down, the phone near his limp hand, his face slewed out of shape where it presses on the pile. A snail-trail dribbles out of his mouth. He isn’t breathing. Ruth slumps to her knees and feels for his pulse. There isn’t one.

  The world is muffled, black, thick, shocking. He isn’t moving. Walsh. He’s plump, nearing sixty, a bit vague, but he is hers. And he’s not breathing.

  ‘Come back here!’ she shouts. ‘Now!’ She rolls off her knees on the wet floor and kicks him, thump in his chest, three kicks. She will not be a widow. She kicks again. He gasps.

  The driver of the car is in the bathroom too. He turns the taps off, helps Ruth roll Walsh on to his back and they begin to be sensible, do the rescue thing. It’s very odd to see a strange man perform mouth-to-mouth on her husband. Ruth sorts the phone out and calls the emergency services again to make sure they’re in their way.

  An ambulance arrives after an agonisingly long and astonishingly short five minutes. The medics do things with tubes and needles, oxygen. As the gurney with Walsh lying on it is slid into the ambulance, Ruth grips the strange man’s arm. He holds her steady. She’d prefer to fall down in a faint.

  ‘Thank you,’ says Ruth. ‘You’ve been amazing.’

  He looks self-conscious. ‘I thought I must have met you at a party. But you’ve been on TV. I feel a dork.’

  Ruth shakes her head. ‘Not TV. It’s magazines. Newspapers.’ Pale petals tumble from the climbing rose and lie on the lawn. She’d like to lie there too.

  The ambulance drives off.

  ‘Oi!’ says Ruth.

  ‘I’ll drop you down at Public,’ says the kind Samaritan. ‘Ah — should you change first?’

  Change her clothes? Why bother? But she finds a bra and shirt before she climbs back into the stranger’s car.

  ‘How did you know you had to get home?’ he asks.

  Call it female intuition. She loves Walsh.

  chapter twenty-eight

  ‘You’ve got a kick like a horse,’ Walsh whispers around a nasogastric tube. ‘Thank God.’ His eyes are closed. Ruth holds his hand, loving it, though it’s as limp and damp as — something nasty for which she cannot find a metaphor.

  ‘How do you know this is me?’ she asks.

  He gives a snuffle which she takes to be a laugh.

  ‘I didn’t go to London.’

  His head moves slightly on the pillow, meaning he’d noticed. ‘I knew you weren’t going.’ He coughs in a careful, breathy way: that tube must feel horrible. ‘I thought you were getting tired of me.’

  Even after the purple lace teddy and the oysters? Heavens, Ruth realises, he needs so much reassurance. She presses his horrible limp hand to her cheek. That’s a wifely thing to do. It’s loving. She means it to be loving, too, so that’s a plus.

  ‘Anna,’ he says.

  Indeed. The public hospital doesn’t have phones in every room and Ruth has left her cellphone on the sopping bathroom floor, so they’ll just have to wait till Anna turns up.

  ‘She will turn up,’ says Ruth.

  ‘Mother’s instinct,’ whispers Walsh and falls asleep.

  He is such a nice man. Ruth knows she doesn’t deserve him, but that’s life, taking the smooth with the rough. There’s still plenty of rough to get through too, once Anna does turn up.

  Walsh has had his heart stabilised, his brain and nervous system thoroughly examined, all his other insides completely considered and investigated. He looks disgustingly pale but he’s been allowed home. He’s sitting in an armchair in the sun like a very weak Grand Old Man, a cotton throw over his knees because it’s far too hot for the woollen tartan usual in these circumstances. His court is assembled around him. That’s Ruth. And Eliot and Bella, sitting across the room from each other, playing no lookies as well as no speakies. Silly pair.

  Ruth hands Walsh an inch of whisky in a glass, into which he is allowed to dip his tongue. He isn’t permitted alcohol for a week, but you can’t keep an old dog down — old sea dog who gets sea-sick.

  ‘The police took away Jocasta’s carrot cake,’ says Ruth. ‘They also took samples from everything in the fridge. I’m not a slave to housework but I don’t keep things in the fridge for more than —’ She nearly says two weeks but this is a time for honesty. ‘A couple of months. Usually.’

  ‘The police can’t think your neighbour poisoned him,’ says Bella. ‘Ivan might have been poisoned but not Walsh. Horrible people shoot cats with air rifles too. But Ivan’s could have been a natural death.’

  ‘He was a good shaped target,’ Eliot says. ‘Sorry, Ruth.’

  He seems weary — they all are. But to Ruth, Eliot appears disconsolate — though strong. Despondent — though determined. He wears the look of a man about to go outside the tent in a blizzard in the noble hope the travellers left inside will survive a little longer if he’s not eating his share of the supplies. No wonder Bella’s become so dismal that she’s begun to pack.

  ‘Don’t be a bloody fool,’ says Walsh. So he’s noticed Eliot’s look as well. Ruth’s pleased; it means Walsh is gaining strength each hour.

  The front gate clicks and a slight dark figure trudges up the path. She’s carrying something. Ruth sees the figure as Jocasta, but it’s a transient illusion. It is Anna. It was Jocasta a couple of weeks ago, with the pumpkin casserole. That hadn’t been poisoned; it had been life-savingly delicious.

  Anna doesn’t bother to knock or even call out. She marches in. Ruth doesn’t know whether to rush over and hug her or not. Her hair is combed around her shoulders like a silken veil — slim black pants, bare feet, a nymph-like blouse that ties around her waist. Ruth feels a wash of pride. Though Anna is a plain little creature, she understands style and that’s the main thing. She sits down across from Walsh and neatly holds her package on her lap, a box about three hands high. The top is partly open. Inside is a screw-top receptacle packed around with paper straw. It seems as if it might be faintly steaming.

  ‘Hullo,’ she says.

  ‘Where have you been!’ asks Ruth.

  Anna seems strangely prim. She pats the container. ‘Wondering what to do with this.’


  Eliot, the hero he is, steps verbally into the silence. ‘And?’ he asks: clever man.

  Anna casts her eyes down at the box in a hallowed kind of way. ‘Barnaby.’

  A gasp from Bella. ‘It’s his ashes!’ Eliot jerks as if to rush over the room to support her, then pulls back in self-effacement.

  Anna’s eyes are circles of surprise. ‘Hell, no. Don’t faint, please, Bella, or you, Mum. It’s — um. It’s a sperm sample.’

  Ruth feels perplexed. ‘My housekeeping isn’t that bad.’ Walsh and Eliot wince. ‘It can’t be. It isn’t,’ says Ruth. ‘Anna — you have to be wrong.’

  ‘But it’s labelled,’ Anna says.

  ‘They weren’t labelled,’ protests Ruth. ‘That was the point.’

  Eliot looks incredibly uncomfortable. So does Walsh, who takes a gulp of the whisky. Ruth prises the glass from his hands.

  ‘That’s what you lost — You lost that sample on the bus?’ Bella husks the words out.

  ‘It was packed in dry ice, it was okay. I found it in time, in Lost Property, like that guy said.’

  Bella sits back on the sofa, ghostly white.

  Ruth has so many questions she doesn’t know which to ask. But for once, being a mother must come first. ‘We’ve been trying to find you. Anna, love, are you all right?’

  Anna nods but her eyes are down again. Ruth picks up a chair and swings it next to Anna’s. A mother can tell when her daughter is close to weeping.

  ‘Dear,’ says Ruth. ‘Please explain.’

  ‘It seemed a waste,’ admits Anna at last. ‘It was a struggle with my conscience, of course. You know, professional responsibility, even though I only washed the bottles. But — well, I can read labels.’

  That’s a nice little touch of irony. Ruth starts to feel more easy about Anna. She pats her hand.

  ‘It was simple to find out he’d had a reversal in Sydney,’ continues Anna. ‘I guess he was shy about having it done close to home. I suppose he thought it might get Bella back. Anyway, after eight weeks they have to check what the count is, and they usually save some in case it gets worse and you have to — you know, do things artificially.’

  Bella sits up again slowly. ‘That specimen’s come all the way from Sydney? Barnaby did that? For me?’

  Anna nods again. ‘But he died. So this was like his legacy, just sitting in the fridge at work. And the head technician got fired, and the business went bust like Dad always said it would because there wasn’t room for another in a small city.’ She gives the container a little bob. ‘So I nicked it.’

  A hot breeze flicks through the room. Tears slide down Bella’s cheeks although she doesn’t seem to notice. Walsh eyes Ruth. She eyes both him and Eliot — Eliot’s eyes are shut as if he’s playing hide and seek.

  ‘Two things, Anna,’ says Walsh. Ruth notes Bella’s sudden wisp of smile: the men are so alike sometimes. ‘Since we’re talking about — this —’ He gestures at the container. ‘One, Anna, is I’m not your dad. Well, sorry, Ruth, we’ve talked about it and of course I am your dad, Anna, we read all the counselling books. But I’m not your biological father. As if it matters, really. Hell, any man who lived with your mother while she was pregnant deserves a … Sorry, Ruth. Sorry, sorry. And second — damn, I’ve forgotten. What was second?’

  ‘Second, should be the identity of Anna’s biological father.’ Eliot is slightly green around his jaw line.

  Ruth knows she has to be the one who says it. ‘Barnaby could have been your father, Anna. There’s a fifty percent chance.’

  Anna’s eyes are round and brown as chestnuts.

  ‘Before he had the snipping thing?’ Bella sounds at cracking point. ‘Is that why he decided he would have it? Sorry, Anna, I’m hysterical. Ignore me.’

  ‘It was either Barnaby or Eliot,’ says Ruth.

  Eliot clearly longs for a blizzard to spring up so he can dash into it and disappear. But he stands brave and tall, and speaks. ‘While we’re on the subject, Ruth, I know I’m not.’

  ‘You couldn’t perform?’ asks Ruth. ‘But you …’

  ‘I’m afraid that I decided not to try.’ A rueful grin picks at the corner of his mouth. ‘Call it a form of chastity.’

  ‘But you handed me a specimen.’ Walsh is indignant. ‘Three times. Three months in a row. Eliot, we paid your travel costs!’

  Eliot’s brick-red now. He mumbles. ‘Gelatine.’

  ‘Well,’ Ruth manages to say, ‘it wasn’t the one I used, obviously. Not the third time at any rate.’

  Anna has gone very still, as if tiny wheels and gears click in her head while she absorbs the revelation. Ruth expects the outcome to be fury, horror, or at very least bemusement — but at last Anna smiles at the container.

  ‘This is Shakespearian, Mum. I was so wanted. Everybody wanted me — well, everyone but Eliot.’ She curves a hand through the air, dismissing Eliot entirely. It’s his turn to look aggrieved.

  Ruth gazes at her daughter, drinks her in with her eyes, and smiles too. Anna and Ruth don’t clasp their arms round each other. They’re not that kind of people. But the smiles are good. It’s very good, is Anna’s smile at Ruth.

  ‘Anna’s father — was Barnaby?’ They’ve forgotten Bella, who sounds even more brittle and pissed off. ‘The affair was completely in my head. What an outlandish mind I realise I have.’

  ‘Affair? No, that’s the wrong end of the stick. It was all hands off,’ says Walsh. ‘We were making up for Nicolas, in a way. We didn’t ever want to know which … This is as embarrassing as I’d expected.’ He grabs his glass of whisky off the dresser, inhales it deeply, then dips his tongue into it again. ‘I put both — specimens — in the living room and then went out, Barnaby went and rearranged them, then Eliot did the same, and we all disappeared to the pub while Ruth went in and chose one.’

  ‘Like the cups game. Like magicians. Now you see it, now you don’t. Gifts of the two wise men. One goodie and one dud.’ Bella speaks with a very stiff jaw.

  ‘Who was Nicolas?’ asks Anna.

  So Ruth has her turn at explanation. Anna takes Ruth’s right hand and touches the old, thin wedding ring. ‘I never asked why you wore that.’

  ‘We truly did all want you,’ murmurs Ruth.

  Anna holds the container towards Bella. ‘I don’t really know if this is viable or not, but —’

  Bella shakes her head at once.

  ‘I’ve saved this for nothing then. But he was my father. Help — that must mean Lydia is my aunt!’

  Ruth grabs the package from Anna; Anna leaps up and flings the window back; together they wrestle the container from its nest of shredded paper, unscrew the top and, faces turned aside, shake everything — the dry ice and what seem to be five labelled plastic straws — on to the cornflowers. Ruth will tidy it up later (she will, she will).

  ‘Um,’ says Eliot. ‘What you’ve just done might be illegal. Whatever was there was probably, rightfully, Bella’s.’

  ‘I’m having enough trouble worrying what to do about the ashes,’ mutters Bella, so pale she is almost transparent. ‘I have to say, though, isn’t it odd that both Walsh and Barnaby couldn’t have kids?’

  ‘I could have kids,’ says Walsh.

  ‘He could.’ Ruth’s voice lies over his like hands do, clasping. ‘I produce antibodies to him. I’m allergic to him in a way that doesn’t show.’

  ‘Have I got unknown sisters somewhere, then?’ asks Anna. ‘Have I got a half-brother, Dad, in every port?’

  Walsh shrugs. ‘I doubt it. I don’t know.’

  ‘I do not wish to know either,’ says Ruth firmly.

  Walsh dabs his tongue into the whisky one last time. ‘Gelatine? Good grief. You could have said, Eliot. We wouldn’t have minded. We’d have been bloody annoyed, but in the end we wouldn’t have minded. Did you ever let Barnaby know?’

  ‘Lord, no.’ Eliot shrugs. ‘He was already insufferable enough. Sorry, Bella.’

  ‘I thought my new flatmates were crazy but you o
ld hippie types — jeepers.’ Anna beams, delighted. ‘It’s like I have three fathers. And if you count Nicolas, if I’m a substitute for his kid, then it’s four. A complete number!’ She skims towards the door.

  ‘Where are you living?’ calls Ruth.

  ‘I’ll phone,’ says Anna. ‘I can’t remember the number yet, offhand.’

  ‘You’re doing mathematics!’ shouts Walsh.

  ‘So?’ Anna yells back like a thoroughly normal daughter.

  ‘Numbers are your business,’ roars Walsh, but Anna’s gone. Ruth shushes him: he’s not meant to be over-excited.

  The old woman who lives next door is picking roses.

  Mirror, mirror, on the wall, who is the loveliest of all?

  I am not the loveliest, not me, not Jocasta. It’s time to admit a modest failure. Not, I hope you recall, that anything I’ve done so far has been deliberate in terms of my knowing absolutely what would kill or not. I’ve made mistakes but never had a failure until recently.

  It was Ivan. I am sorry. I liked Ivan. His eyes were as suspicious as my Grandma’s, but if I tickled under his ear they’d close into slits of ecstasy. With Ruth and Walsh away so much, he liked to come into my kitchen, and cats can’t read labels. I tried to make him take the antidote, but he refused. He felt that it was time for him to go.

  It is all winding up. Mirror, mirror.

  Why bother looking into mirrors? Real beauty comes from inner satisfaction. I’ve seen it be created in the space of a few minutes, in the strange young woman who paced in to her parents’ house next door as solemn as an executioner and danced out full of assurance.

  I have something else to admit. In the long years behind me, I sometimes felt defeat — a stranger, uninvited — settle into the wrinkles and bags beneath my eyes. I felt disorientation set up its tents in my hair, its camp in the muscles down my back. Sadness was a dowager’s hump between my shoulder blades. I was old.

  I have been patient for so long.

  He was a perfect baby, perfect boy. When men reach the age of twenty, twenty-five, it’s not unexpected that they’re perfect little sods. I overlooked that, as I managed to overcome the shock of seeing Felix reduplicated as four beautiful young men. The clear blue eyes, blond hair.