by Fay Weldon
Worst understanding: that Ned was no longer alive, for her to put these points to him, for him to put his arms around her, and hers round him, and in the sure warmth of that touch for them both to be reborn, in hope. He was gone forever: she was here alone.
Alexandra turned and walked home to face whatever had to be faced. Diamond was reluctant to go back. He wanted to walk forever.
12
HAMISH, ABBIE AND VILNA were sitting at the kitchen table when she and Diamond got home. Hamish was at the head of it, pouring tea carefully and precisely, unused to such an activity. Tea no doubt was normally something poured for him, in a living room. Hamish was a cup-and-saucer man, not a mug in the kitchen man. But he appeared to like being here, doing this. Hamish seemed to Alexandra to be like a small boy allowed to take the steering wheel of the family car and pretend to be in charge. She wondered to what degree Hamish had envied Ned. And Abbie her friend and Vilna, Abbie’s friend and her own familiar and surely harmless acquaintance, seemed suddenly not quite so trustworthy as she, Alexandra, had thought. They were sitting at her table as of right, but not invited: she felt wary. She wanted them to go, but how could she say so? They were her friends: this was her future family. When men died, or went, the women friends moved in to close the gap: consolatory comfort, female friends. That’s what friends were for.
She didn’t want to talk, she wanted to go to bed, but the brass bed was compromised, even by thought, by the merest contemplation of Jenny Linden’s occupancy of it, of Ned’s arms around Jenny Linden, even temporarily, even by mistake, even under duress, even regretted even as occurring; Jenny Linden’s naked flesh against Ned Ludd’s, forget the violence of his dying: a just penalty, you could see, for the violence of his own act against the heart of the universe. Summon up the Devil the Devil gets you—forget the body lying in the morgue, so much life and passion reduced to a marble penis forever firm against an icy groin—there could be no forgiveness. None. Her bed.
“You look like a ghost,” said Vilna.
“That’s Ned’s province,” said Alexandra, and laughed.
“This always was a house of laughter,” said Hamish. There was silence.
Then Alexandra said to Abbie: “Do you really think Jenny Linden’s mad?”
“No,” said Abbie.
“Do you?” asked Alexandra of Vilna.
“No,” said Vilna. Alexandra was glad they had given up pretending but wondered why they had decided to do so. She felt that some extra betrayal of her, Alexandra, gave them new pleasure. Their secret had given them power over her. Now they chose to exercise that power.
“At least none of you have to pretend any more. I know Jenny Linden was with Ned when he died. They were in the bed together upstairs.” She waited for them to deny it, but no one did. Not even Hamish. Worst Fears realised. Her survival now depended on Best Remembrance.
Hamish said, “I was telling them of the dreadful time you nearly went off with Eric Stenstrom, and how upset Ned was. He really loved you at the time.”
“How do you know about me and Eric Stenstrom?” asked Alexandra, taken off guard. “Only Ned knew that.”
Both Abbie and Vilna took in little sharp breaths, as if they’d been waiting to take them. Confirmation.
“Not that there was anything really to know,” Alexandra amended, quickly. Perhaps rather too quickly. “And what do you mean, Ned loved me ‘at the time’? Really, Hamish!”
There seemed to be shadows of Ned working through Hamish’s face, looking for a home. The eyebrows were the same, the set of the jaw.
The family resemblance seemed stronger now Ned was no longer there in the flesh to deny it. Alexandra realised she had probably in the past seldom been in a room with Hamish in which Ned was not there too.
“As for that time I ‘nearly went off with Eric Stenstrom,’ ” remarked Alexandra, “I certainly know nothing about it, nobody told me, how come you seem to know more than me?”
Why was she having to defend herself in her own home? Who were these people?
“Ned and I exchanged letters from time to time,” said Hamish. “As you know. We didn’t get to see each other much but we were very close. There’s a letter from him to me about you and Eric Stenstrom.”
“He shouldn’t have written about it, and you shouldn’t have spoken about it,” said Alexandra. “These things are private.”
“These are your friends,” said Hamish. “Surely there’s no harm in their knowing? And surely you don’t resent Ned writing to me? His brother? Wives don’t own husbands. And men aren’t without feeling, in spite of what you women like to say. If women claim the right to women’s talk, you can hardly grudge men their men-talk.”
Alexandra perceived again, and clearly, that Hamish simply didn’t like her. She said nothing, but from now on wanted not to confide in him.
She did not think there was any real damage he could do her, but she must think before she spoke.
“Anyway,” said Abbie, in her light, polite tones, “Vilna and I knew about Eric Stenstrom already.”
“Such a good-looking man,” said Vilna, in her most slurred and earthy voice. “I do envy you, darling. It’s the buttocks. I like a Hamlet with good buttocks.”
Eight years back Eric Stenstrom had played Hamlet in a Hollywood movie, dressed in tights more suitable for a ballet dancer on a stage a long way from the audience. He had regretted it but it had not been forgotten.
Hamish, Abbie and Vilna had been drinking wine. They had taken it without asking. It was the Barolo Ned most treasured, the ’86. They had formed a kind of cabal against her.
“Jenny Linden came over this afternoon,” said Abbie, “and told me all about you and Eric Stenstrom. So you really shouldn’t be shocked and surprised if Ned had his own entertainments. It’s hypocritical of you, Alexandra.”
“What could Jenny Linden possibly know about me and Eric Stenstrom?” asked Alexandra.
“What Ned told her,” said Abbie.
“I don’t believe that,” said Alexandra.
“Never trust a man, darling,” said Vilna.
Alexandra said she was tired, and suggested Abbie and Vilna leave. They did. Hamish had the spare room. She no longer wanted to sleep in her own bedroom. She slept again in Sascha’s bed. It occurred to her that perhaps Abbie and Vilna, like Hamish, had their own reasons for being resentful.
No. That way madness lay. Abbie was her friend; Vilna trying to be her friend. She, Alexandra, was exhausted and paranoic, and saw nightmares where none were, and in the morning everything would seem different. But it was a pity Eric Stenstrom’s name had come up.
13
ALEXANDRA WOKE EARLY; BIRDSONG was loud in the dawn. At seven-thirty there was a knock on the front door. Alexandra went down to answer it, in her blue and white silk dressing gown, Ned’s favourite. Presently, she thought, she would have to buy new clothes, so that everything didn’t keep relating back to Ned. She thought it would be the postman, wanting her to sign for a parcel, but it was Jenny Linden. She stood on the threshold, glum but defiant. She’d put on lipstick, though not very well. Her mouth seemed lopsided. She wore a nondescript padded jacket which made her look four-square, and a pleated skirt ten years out of date.
“I’ve come to take Diamond for a walk,” Jenny Linden said. She brushed past Alexandra and went through to the kitchen. She unlocked the utility room door, apparently accustomed to the difficulty with the lock—you had to push before you pulled—and called Diamond. Diamond staggered out, fresh from sleep, and seeing Jenny, leapt up at her, instantly expectant.
“Walkies,” said Jenny Linden.
“Get out of my house,” said Alexandra.
“Please can’t we be friends?” asked Jenny Linden, pathetically. “I hate you being so hostile to me. If I meet aggression I go completely to pieces. We’ve both of us lost Ned. I’m holding on by a thread. Please be nice to me.”
“No,” said Alexandra.
Jenny Linden began to turn nasty. Her voice went even
softer.
“But I made Ned happy,” she said, “in the last days, his last hours, while you were off in London with Eric Stenstrom. But you don’t care about that, you only care about yourself. You don’t know what love is.”
“You’re polluting my house,” said Alexandra. “Get out of it.”
“You’re so self-centred,” said Jenny Linden. “I used to defend you but I see now Ned was quite right. And where’s Sascha? Don’t tell me you’ve just shuffled him off again? Is he with your mother? The Romanoff of the Golf Course? That’s what Ned always called her. Not even him being dead makes a dent in you, does it? The gloss is so hard. You ought to have treatment, Alexandra. You’re not fit to be in charge of that child.”
“I don’t know where you get all this information,” said Alexandra, “but it certainly wasn’t from Ned. It’s all just sleazy gabble, and evil. As for Eric Stenstrom, he’s gay, and everyone knows it.”
“That’s not what Ned said,” positively whispered Jenny Linden. “And why are you so defensive? Are you feeling guilty or something? I’m really sorry for you, Alexandra. You must be feeling ever so bad. I expect what happened is that you were in bed with your Eric when Ned died in my arms.”
“It won’t work,” said Alexandra. “You’re not going to lure me into any kind of discussion about anything. Just go away or I’ll call the police.”
“I’d have a thing or two to tell them,” said Jenny Linden. “Call away.” Alexandra lifted her hand to strike the other woman, but Diamond growled. Diamond growled at Alexandra. Alexandra’s hand fell. “Diamond knows the truth of it,” said Jenny Linden, smiling a smug little smile, her plump bottom in its dreadful skirt wedged against the Ludds’ kitchen table. “Diamond knows what you’re like. Animals always know. When you want to talk to me, Alexandra, in a calm and friendly way, you know where to find me. Ned brought you round to visit me in my studio once. I was rather flustered; I hadn’t expected it. He and I had only been out of bed about twelve hours. Well, twelve hours and twenty minutes. I was still sore. Ned could be quite vigorous, couldn’t he? Perhaps he wasn’t when he was with you: he said I was the only one really turned him on. Don’t believe me if you don’t want to. It’s true.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“We’d had this argument: he said you were so insensitive to atmosphere you’d never even guess: I said I didn’t believe that, you were an actress: he said actresses were as thick between the ears as they were between the legs.”
“Actors,” said Alexandra, automatically.
“So he brought you round to my place, took me by surprise, and he was right, you didn’t notice a thing. Not even when we went out together to look at photographs and you stayed behind and stroked Marmalade and looked bored. He was right about that too. You can do a lot in three minutes if you’re really turned on; if it’s dangerous.”
“My mother had a marmalade cat,” said Alexandra. It seemed her mind could only react to detail.
“Marmalade’s one of her kittens,” said Jenny Linden. “Ned gave him to me. Why did you take my photographs away? Ned liked me to have them. It doesn’t make any difference. I’ve got lots more and they’re there in my heart anyway. Sealed in memory. You can’t take that away from me. And Mrs. Paddle told me: you made copies of my diary, and address book. I was angry at first: not now. It just keeps you closer to me. Connected, like. We’ll be friends in the end. We’re part of each other, through Ned. I think you ought to try and be nice to me. I can make life a whole lot nastier for you if I choose.”
“Piss off” said Alexandra.
Jenny Linden smiled at Alexandra. This time Alexandra hit her: a hard slap on the cheek. Jenny wailed and ran off, a dumpy little thing pottering on too small feet. Alexandra hoped she would overbalance. Then Alexandra would jump on Jenny Linden and kick her to death. But Jenny kept going. Diamond, suspecting a game, leapt and barked around her legs. Then Hamish was standing beside Alexandra, his hand on her arm. He was wearing only pyjama bottoms. His torso was bare, fluffy with blond hair. His shoulders were broader than Ned’s. Perhaps, unlike Ned—at least with Alexandra—Hamish favoured the missionary position, thus strengthening the forearms.
“Just let Jenny go,” said Hamish. “She’s very upset. The whole thing must have been traumatic. And no understanding at all from you, which is what the poor woman needs. You’re behaving very badly towards her: in your situation it’s not wise.”
“What situation and what about what I need?” asked Alexandra.
“It’s hard for women when their married lovers die,” said Hamish, piously. “Rightly or wrongly, the widow has the sympathy of the world: surely you could afford to spare a little for her?”
14
EVERYONE WHO WAS ANYONE called that morning, by phone or in person.
Three people got through from the theatre: one to say Daisy Longriff was wonderful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry; two others to say Daisy Longriff was perfectly dreadful, Alexandra shouldn’t worry. She mustn’t come back to work until she was beginning to mend. They were all thinking of her. There was no matinee on Monday so most would come down to the funeral. But perhaps there’d be a memorial service in London later?
The postman came to the door and wept a little and said he missed Ned’s smiling face. He was a thin young man with cropped red hair and a little red moustache. He usually called before eight and Ned seldom smiled before ten, and least of all did Ned ever smile at the postman, whom he suspected of dropping letters behind hedges if it didn’t suit him to deliver them. But forget that; think the best. Alexandra made the postman a cup of tea. He asked for more sugar than she provided. He said if Ned’s shoes were going spare he could do with them. Alexandra picked a pair out of the cupboard and handed them over. It was true they were expensive shoes and nearly new: but she had to be practical, as did the postman. Not that the postman did much walking: he had a van.
The postman sat in Ned’s chair and took off his own shoes, which were indeed battered, and put on Ned’s. They fitted well. Then he asked Alexandra where the bin was and threw his old shoes in it. He went away in Ned’s shoes, pleased as Punch, having won some kind of final victory. Diamond growled, but did not bite.
The Mail, the Express and the Telegraph called to say they didn’t want to intrude into private grief, at which Alexandra put down the phone.
The Sun called to say they wanted to send flowers to the funeral, when was it? “Such a fine critic, such a loss to the theatrical profession.” Alexandra laughed before she put down the phone.
Dr. Moebius left a message to ask Alexandra to call to see him, and please could she put Mrs. Linden in touch: Mrs. Linden wasn’t answering her phone.
Sheldon Smythe called for Hamish. Hamish took the call in the other room. I’m the wife, thought Alexandra; he’s only the brother. But it seemed men liked to deal with men.
The postman who took Ned’s shoes had left letters: coloured square envelopes, handwritten, instead of the long white ones which usually came. Alexandra glanced through a few of them, letters and cards of condolence. How wonderful Ned was, how charismatic; their hearts went out to Alexandra. They meant it, too. She was grateful, even while beginning to consider their judgements faulty. But then she herself was apparently without judgement and noticed nothing, so what had she to complain about? Insensitive to atmosphere.
The Romanoff of the Golf Course. Ned had never described Irene thus in Alexandra’s hearing. She would have laughed if he had. Would Jenny Linden have the wit to make up such an epithet? It seemed unlikely. But she could have got it from Abbie, or Vilna, or anyone, who got it from Ned. It sounded like Ned. He’d just never said it to her.
“Marmalade”; a gift from Ned? No. Most likely simple chance: lots of orange cats in the world. And Ned, perhaps, on some innocent professional encounter with Jenny Linden, had happened to say, “My wife’s mother has a cat just like that,” thus enabling Jenny Linden to concoct her story.
Oh, clutching at straws!<
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15
THERESA CALLED AND DUSTED round a bit, crying. She didn’t like doing housework, feeling she was employed to look after Sascha, but was always prepared to help out in an emergency.
Hamish came out of the study and asked Theresa to clear out the utility room, and put the dog’s blanket through the machine; so Theresa sulked and told Alexandra she could only stay till midday. Alexandra told Theresa that Hamish was from Scotland and was used to telling people what to do, Theresa was not to take it badly. “He talked to me as if I was a servant,” complained Theresa, but agreed to stay: she could do all the house except the utility room.
Alexandra herself put the blanket through the machine. Hamish was right. The blanket was thick with dog hair, and smelt of warm wet dog even when Diamond wasn’t in his basket. Diamond growled at Alexandra when she took the blanket away. Diamond was becoming more and more disaffected. He missed his routine, he missed Sascha, he missed Ned. Alexandra found herself mistrusting and almost disliking Diamond. The fact was, in going for walks with Jenny Linden, Diamond had betrayed her. Perhaps Alexandra wouldn’t keep Diamond, in spite of the fact that everyone obviously expected her to? Perhaps she would give him away? What sort of guard dog was he, anyway, who wouldn’t bark at a knock at half-past seven in the morning, but sleep until he was called? By Jenny Linden.
In the bottom of Diamond’s basket Alexandra found a chewed plastic bracelet—bright red. Not her own. Diamond cringed and looked guilty. Alexandra lifted the bracelet out and called Theresa and asked if it was hers. Theresa said it wasn’t hers though Alexandra was pretty sure it was. But why should Theresa lie?
Diamond took the bracelet under discussion in his mouth and went upstairs and stood outside the closed door of the master bedroom, and when Alexandra opened it went inside and laid the bracelet on the brass bed and stood with his head bowed in shame. It was Diamond’s habit thus to return chewed objects to the place of taking, when his misdemeanours were found out. Of course Diamond might have got it wrong, this time. Who was to say a dog had a perfect memory? Like humans, presumably they could get muddled.
