by Weldon, Fay
‘Well,’ says Wanda, giving in. ‘Here we all are again, then.’ She feels, surprisingly, happier than she has for years.
‘Except you’ve got that awful boyfriend,’ says Scarlet, ‘and it’s revolting at your age.’
Having got that out, she too feels better. She tells her mother she has taken a job as a living-in maid, in a household where they will take Byzantia too.
Wanda clasps Byzantia and glares at Scarlet. ‘Over my dead body,’ she says.
‘But it’s all arranged,’ says Scarlet. ‘Anyway since when were you such a snob? I’m sure Byzantia doesn’t mind being the maidservant’s child.’
‘You’re mad, says Wanda flatly. ‘We’ll have to get you treatment.’
Wanda rings Edwin and tells him Scarlet has turned up.
‘She is of course mad,’ she says to him.
‘I had been thinking just that,’ says Edwin. ‘I have been sitting here in this lonely house thinking just that. I took her out of the gutter and showed her every kindness. She has behaved wickedly; she has deprived Annabel of a settled home, and a status in life; she has ruined my happiness completely, and for what? Because she is sexually insatiable. It is a kindness to believe that she is mad.’
‘Quite so,’ says Wanda.
‘How thankless as a serpent’s tooth,’ he says, ‘to have so sharp a child.’
‘Quite so,’ says Wanda. ‘Have you been drinking?’
‘I don’t drink,’ he says. ‘It prevents me thinking carefully. I have a terrible, terrible pain. I am in agony and even little Pussy’ (his name for the big Alsatian dog next door) ‘is missing her footsteps in the house. You are quite right. She is mad. I shall come straight over and explain that she is mad.’
‘I shouldn’t do that,’ says Wanda. ‘But what about getting her cured?’
‘Committing her, you mean?’ he asks, with a not unwelcome vision of a screaming Scarlet being carried off in a strait-jacket by while-coated orderlies.
Wanda suggests that Edwin pays his runaway wife ten pounds a week, on condition that she is under psychiatric care. ‘It would be a very kind thing to do,’ she says, and rather to her astonishment, and certainly to Scarlet’s, who has already cast poor suffering Edwin in the villain’s role, he agrees. He says it is for Annabel’s sake, and so it is.
‘Just when I’d decided on a good name for her too,’ he laments, the next time he comes to deliver the money. He brings it in cash, in an envelope marked ‘Scarlet and Annabel’ every Friday evening at 6.30. He brings, in fact, £9’ 17s. 6d., for he is claiming repayment, in easy stages, of the £7 she stole from him. Every Friday Wanda must delay going to the pub in order to receive the money. Every week he asks if Scarlet is nearly cured, for he is certain that when she is, she will want to come back to him. How could she not?
‘He is a nice man, really,’ says Wanda to Scarlet. ‘Or if not nice, good.’
‘Yes, he is a good man,’ agrees Scarlet puzzled. ‘How can anyone be so good and yet so awful?’
‘It must be terrible for him to be without Byzantia,’ says Wanda.
‘You mean Annabel,’ says Scarlet, but with rather less conviction.
‘Oh yes, Annabel,’ says Wanda, remembering. ‘It wouldn’t really do, would it? The most important thing in the world is to be oneself.’
‘Quite,’ says Scarlet.
Scarlet and Byzantia live in a tiny flat round the corner from Wanda. They are glad to be on good terms with each other again. Wanda drinks rather less. The next time her lorry driver, angered by her foul tongue and evil temper, hits her, she asks him to leave and he does.
She stares at her face in the mirror and says, ‘I’m nearly fifty. I reckon that’s really that. With my build and on my form.’
‘Ha bleeding ha,’ says Scarlet.
‘I never thought I’d get that last gentleman,’ says Wanda. ‘What did he see in me? I make a lousy mother.’
‘I know,’ says Scarlet. ‘I wish you weren’t so proud of it.’
‘I wish,’ says Wanda, ‘if we’re talking of wishing, I had led a different life. I should never have left your father.’
‘Oh, I don’t know,’ says Scarlet indulgently, ‘I can’t see you being happy with fitted carpets and six matching dining-room chairs. Not as an ad-man’s wife.’
‘If he’d stayed with me,’ says Wanda, ‘he wouldn’t be the way he is now. He’s done the whole thing to demonstrate just how much he needs me.’
‘But he put you in prison.’
‘I shouldn’t have slashed his paintings.’ Scarlet has never before heard Wanda express regret for something she has done. ‘It was a terrible thing to do. He was very young. So was I. We both were. He thought I was trying to destroy him, but honestly, truthfully, I wasn’t. Only his paintings.’
‘If you’d stayed,’ says Scarlet, ‘he wouldn’t have married Susan, and that would be wishing that infant creep Simeon out of existence.’
‘He hardly exists how,’ says Wanda unkindly. ‘I expect that’s why. Somewhere along the line something went wrong. I don’t believe Simeon was meant.’
‘You’re going to end up an R.C. convert,’ says Scarlet, ‘the way you talk these days.’
‘It’s old age,’ says Wanda. ‘I’m mellowing. I am finished with sex and see wheels within wheels. But I could wish things had been different.’
‘Well,’ says Scarlet, ‘all one can do is act according to one’s nature. It’s not a question of blame or praise.’
‘Yes, it is,’ says Wanda. ‘Don’t be so sloppy. That’s your whole trouble. You behave as if you were some kind of stupid puppet and fate is pulling the strings. You should cut them loose and dance round a bit of your own accord. That’s another thing, I would have liked more children.’
‘What?’ says Scarlet, unbelieving. ‘More like me?’
‘You’re not so bad,’ says Wanda, and means it. Scarlet is pleased, and that evening cuts her hair very short, getting rid of the frizz. She looks boyish, now, and her spots have gone. She becomes quite thin and lively.
All kinds of things please Scarlet now; from spring blossom to Byzantia rushing off to the local school by herself. Scarlet goes to see a psychiatrist once a week. She tells him what she thinks he would be interested to hear. She is waiting for a vacancy with a National Health psycho-analyst, which the psychiatrist, rather to her surprise, has recommended. She does not believe she needs treatment, but feels she owes at least this much to Edwin.
She goes out with Edwin in the car on Sundays. She sits in the front, Byzantia in the back. Edwin picks them up at two, and they drive round the outskirts of London, while he catalogues railway bridges – his latest hobby – until five-thirty.
Now his life has fallen into ritual again he seems quite happy, or at any rate not unhappy. He worries about Byzantia’s school, however.
‘I know it’s very modern,’ he says, ‘but it’s not for Annabel.’
‘Well, that’s all right,’ says Scarlet, ‘because her name’s not Annabel, it’s Byzantia.’
‘That’s what it says on her birth certificate, I know,’ he says, ‘but what sort of birth certificate is it? Certainly not one to be proud of.’
‘If you don’t call her Byzantia,’ says Scarlet, ‘I will never come out with you again on these boring and ridiculous rides.’
‘I never knew you minded,’ he says. ‘I thought it was rather jolly calling her different names. It was like having my own child. You are much younger than me, so I tried to be jolly. But if it pleases you I shall call her Byzantia. When you’re better and we live together again, we’ll discuss the matter once more. In the meantime, I don’t think the school is right for Byzantia.’
‘It’s very free,’ she says, ‘that’s what I like. And Byzantia can’t get there soon enough. She runs all the way, and sometimes I have to run after her with her shoes.’
‘She can’t read yet,’ he says. ‘She’ll be behind when the eleven plus time comes.’
�
�I don’t care about exams,’ says Scarlet.
‘Well,’ he says, ‘that’s very modern of you, and I know it’s the latest theory, and I’m sure it’s the way your mother thinks, but take my word for it, a small child is best sitting at a desk learning, not crawling about on the floor playing with sand and water. As for these rides of ours being ridiculous and boring, you are quite wrong. You would find them very interesting if you would bring yourself to concentrate on patterns of building and subtleties of Victorian brickwork; and besides, it keeps us all in touch with one another, until this tragic patch of our lives is over.’
‘Yes, Edwin,’ says Scarlet.
‘All the same,’ says Edwin, ‘we could go further afield, I suppose. We could go visiting country houses. That would be very educational for Byzantia. I could pick you up at ten in the morning.’
‘No,’ says Scarlet. ‘Really, it’s all right.’ And adds brightly, ‘Our Victorian grandfathers had some wonderful bridge-builders, didn’t they.’
‘I have reason to believe,’ confides Edwin, reassured by her interest, ‘that a remote ancestor of mine designed Tower Bridge.’
In the back Byzantia yawns.
Jocelyn disapproves of Scarlet leaving Edwin.
‘You undertook something when you married him,’ she says. ‘Marriage is a serious matter.’
Jocelyn is having a civilized afternoon affair with a young man. It is known in her circles as ‘having tea at the Ritz’, and though it hardly counts as infidelity, it has both increased Jocelyn’s reverence for the institution of marriage, and her irritation with her husband. She is made angry and anxious at the thought that marriages can and do break up.
She suspects that Philip may be having an affair with his secretary; her only evidence is her consciousness of her own bad behaviour.
Philip, she feels, has failed her. Philip does not take her out to lunch, admire her, hold her hand, tell her she is beautiful, take her to his hotel room and cover her with love bites, reduce her to all orgasm and then politely take her to tea at the Ritz, where she can satiate eccentric desires with cucumber sandwiches and lemon tea; then put her in a taxi and send her home in time to take the dog for a walk and have a bath before supper. This young man does, and has been doing so twice-weekly for months. They are dream afternoons. She can hardly remember the young man’s name. His face is oddly like Philip’s, but his body is singular, leaner, harder, wirier, and shocking through its unfamiliarity. She will wake up in the night and recall its feel so vividly he might almost be there beside her, with Philip lying sleeping, quiet, remote, and polite three feet away. Philip is a peaceful sleeper. You would hardly know he was there. She wonders if he has dream visions of her conduct. There is something mysterious about Philip asleep.
Jocelyn’s mind, brain and intentions seem to have nothing to do with her twice-weekly afternoon behaviour. It is only her body which does the desiring, walks her towards her lover, makes her stand quiet and compliant beside him in the lift, allows her to receive him without argument or doubt. It is nothing to do with her. Her body, moreover, is quite without taste or judgement. Jocelyn suspects that any man would do.
Jocelyn is really shocked.
She is, moreover, three months pregnant. It is, amazingly, her husband’s baby. She has not told her lover. She knows he will think it gentlemanly to conclude the affair. She does not want the affair concluded. She does not want Philip to find out about it. Supposing he doubted the parenthood of his own child?
‘Marriage is a serious matter,’ she says to Scarlet now. ‘And what about Byzantia? She needs a father. If he’s keeping you now he is a good, kind man. And that, after all, is what we all want. There is something very rich and rewarding in just seeing a marriage through its bad patches. He hasn’t done anything bad, has he? He hasn’t been unfaithful, he hasn’t hit you, he supports you. And Byzantia too, don’t forget that. What possible reason have you for leaving him? It’s irresponsible.’
Jocelyn listens to herself talking and is aghast. She hears her mother in every word.
‘Excuse me,’ she says, and goes to her pink and orange bathroom and is violently sick.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asks Scarlet. ‘You never used to be quite as bad as this.’
‘I just don’t know,’ says Jocelyn. ‘Except I’m pregnant, and bloody trapped, and miserable as hell.’
‘That’s better,’ says Scarlet.
Jocelyn regrets her indiscretion, and is thereafter cold and formal with Scarlet. She parts with her lover. Every morning she is sick. Every afternoon she is lonely, and sees her life as something finished, over. She has withered and perished like a leaf on the tree. Oh, Miss Bonny! That was the fate Jocelyn mapped out for you and grieved for you over, as you sang lustily in morning assembly. Yet she never dreamt of it for herself.
The very fertility of Jocelyn’s body now seems something macabre and unwholesome. How can someone so dead as she produce anything that is alive and good?
Jocelyn miscarries, sure enough. She resumes her former life, but without her lover, who has found a new married lady to take to tea at the Ritz. She sees them both one day, walking down Piccadilly. The woman looks like her; it is as if she sees herself approaching, another young woman who dresses, walks, talks like Jocelyn. The man looks like Philip, dresses, walks, talks like Philip. Jocelyn has forgotten the saving graces; the importunate nature of his body; the flurry of orgasm; the communion, not just with another body, but with the whole common pulsing universe of experience. Now she feels only the humiliation, the waste, the passing of good things.
She runs home, crying. ‘We are all alike,’ she says to Philip, who comes home early, for once, and is concerned because her gloss seems to be cracking. ‘We are all just the same people. I can’t bear it. I want to die.’
‘Poor Jocelyn,’ he says. ‘You need a baby. You need something to occupy yourself with,’ and he makes a real effort to provide her with another. She has trouble conceiving. She takes her temperature first thing every morning, and on the nights following the two mornings in the month on which her temperature rises, he attempts to impregnate her. Jocelyn doesn’t really want a baby, though she says she does. She thinks it might look like Philip, or like her lover, or both. Poor lost Jocelyn.
She takes the dog for a walk one day, and throws a stick out into the Round Pond, which is frozen over. The dog, unusually for him, sees fit to chase out after it. He skitters and skates over the ice, which cracks. The dog falls through and is drowned.
Philip buys her a tropical aquarium and asks her to make sure she doesn’t electrocute both the fish and everyone else in the house. She sulks for days after this remark, and refuses him that night, even though it is Ovulation Day. She has never refused him before; never really, of course, having had much opportunity.
(‘Frigid I may be,’ she said to him once, lightly, lying still, stoical and unmoved, ‘but I’m not mean. I can’t stand mean women who use sex as a weapon.’)
Philip, angry at this uncalled for rejection, goes to visit that same original stripper, whom he has called on occasionally through the years. She doesn’t laugh at him now. On the contrary, she seems to admire him, and look forward to his visits. He drives her out to a lay-by outside London in his large shiny car and there in the sinful dark of the back seat he conquers her; and punishes her for that female depravity which he both loves and despises. They could stay peacefully and more comfortably together in her bed, but the very thought of such domesticity causes Philip to become as nervous, limp, and ineffectual as he is with his wife.
Sometimes Philip enquires of Jocelyn after Sylvia; she remains in his mind as a vague, pale, drifting figure. Jocelyn by comparison is strong and vivid, as clearly defined and precise as her table arrangements. He does not regret marrying her – she is all he could want as a wife – but he wonders sometimes what life would have been like had he not called on Sylvia that day and found Jocelyn washing her hair instead.
Philip is hav
ing trouble with his vision. Sometimes, as he stares at letters, research papers, memos, marketing documents, folios of this and folders of that, his eyes blur and he can make no sense of what he sees. At other times, sitting in meetings, elbows on the highly polished board table, flanked by shrewd, talkative men in expensive grey suits, his ears simply seem to stop hearing.
Otherwise, he has no trouble with his work. He does what he has to efficiently and quickly. He makes decisions with no trouble. He does what he can, and does not get ulcers. He is liked and trusted. Sometimes he wonders if it is because he lacks imagination that he survives so well in office life. For he has no fear of what might happen next. He simply deals, with an eye to both past and future, with the exigencies of the present.
Belcher and Watson now have two adjacent ex-town houses in Mayfair. Their receptionists are beautiful. Their accounts include instant coffee, dandruff shampoo, a new soft toilet tissue, and a detergent washing powder. Times are good. There seems no end to progress.
Y’s paintings have become fashionable. Fans from all over the world come tapping at the studio door, and if X answers it, they do not know who he is. X finds it bitter.
X has trouble selling his paintings. He is thirty-three. New young men have arisen, to wield brushes and sprays with a flashy expertise which outdates his, caking paint on paint with meretricious abandon and taking away, with the shallow energy of youth, the acclaim which is rightly his.
‘You mustn’t worry,’ says Y. ‘It is fashion. Acceptance should make no difference to what you do. In fact it’s a very bad sign to be popular, look at me.’ And she laughs nervously.
But she knows, and he knows, that she is working better than ever before, and that he is getting nowhere, nowhere, except older. And that when he shouts at the children they ignore him. And that flesh is gathering around his waist; and that when he and she are in bed together, her success, his failure (for so far as he is concerned, the one implies the other) folds itself like some monstrous filmy french letter between them, and interferes with the very act of love.
