by Weldon, Fay
She stamps and storms at her mystified mother. It is the worst of her times. Oliver has been out with Patrick for the last two nights. Out prowling like any tomcat, bent on nocturnal mysteries. If I love him, Chloe tells herself, I’ll let him do what he wants, and a jealous wife is an abomination; and listening to herself, believes herself. Not for nothing is she her mother’s daughter. When Oliver comes home she’ll smile and make a pot of coffee and tell him who’s phoned and who she’s seen.
It drives him mad. His trousers are stained with semen; he hasn’t even bothered to take them off, then, or else he’s been too drunk. Chloe washes them, patiently, with purest, gentlest soap flakes. He’s trying to provoke her. She will not let herself be provoked. Even going to the doctor for treatment for VD she does not permit herself anger, only distress.
Oliver gives up the effort; he stays home, says hard things about Patrick, doesn’t drink, writes another script. Is this victory, or just postponed defeat? Chloe thinks it’s victory. Oliver stares at her with sombre, furious eyes, and says nothing, and at night drives himself and her into the most elaborate and curious of positions, and still she merely smiles, and obliges, and if in the morning she’s bruised and bitten, isn’t that love and didn’t she enjoy it?
In the meantime she has pushed and prodded her mother to the doctor’s. What you want, mother, is a hysterectomy, says Chloe. Get your womb taken out, removed, cut away. Then you’ll be a person, not a woman, and perhaps you’ll get your spirit back from those sad depths to which it has so pitifully sunk.
‘Cancer,’ says the doctor, investigating, and lo, there it is, everywhere.
‘In my young days,’ says Gwyneth’s friend Marion, who keeps the sweet shop, ‘that word was never spoken, and it was better that way. It’s talking about it makes it happen.’
49
The children are in bed. But only Kevin sleeps. Sleep obliterates Kevin’s day as his head touches the pillow, as a lake might obliterate a candle. The other children lie awake. Stanhope learns League Tables – he hopes one day to win a Brainchild Quiz and impress his mother. Kestrel lies wide-eyed in the dark and tenses and relaxes her calf muscles to strengthen them for a hockey victory. Imogen, precocious, reads the Bible, as once her mother did.
‘Remember now thy creator in the days of thy youth,
When the evil days come not—’
And they don’t. So much Chloe has achieved.
Inigo waits up for midnight dinner. At eighteen his life has already fallen into a kind of quiescence. He has the patience and dignity of an old man. Sixteen was riotous with sexual activity, as he was obliged and blown by a whole tribe of lost girls, aged thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, who had hysterics in lessons, and collapsed at games – dizzy with sleepers, bombers, pot and acid – grasping at sexual straws in a sea of parental anxiety and distress. Now a couple of years later, the girls have grown respectable. They work for their exams, polish their shoes, wear no eye make-up, return to a state of near virginity and instead of passing into other worlds at parties, would waltz and fox-trot if only they could.
Inigo thinks he will go into politics, and bring about the Socialist revolution his parents so patently failed to achieve. Kropotkin and Engels are his heroes. Marx and Lenin he considers rather trashy modern stuff. And Chairman Mao a mere poet.
So much Chloe has achieved.
The boeuf-en-daube is cooked. The rice is drained, the salad tossed. Françoise has laid the table, and arranged a posy of spring flowers as a centre-piece. She has picked crocuses. Chloe has never known anyone to pick crocuses before. She had thought them inseparable from the earth in which they grew, but it seems she was mistaken.
Inigo goes to fetch Oliver. When Oliver is in an uncertain temper, Inigo is commonly sent to fetch him. Oliver is proud of Inigo, flesh of his flesh, love of his love, so socially and sexually competent, and president of the school astronomical society as well. No bar-mitzvahs, no chicken soup, no aie-aieing for him. Presently he’ll go to Oxford, and won’t have to go on a scholarship.
So much Oliver has achieved.
Oliver has had a bad day. He sits and broods and considers his ill-fortune. Thus:
1. A letter from his father demands that the roof over his poor old head be mended. It is leaking. The Rudore family house has long since been condemned, and stands alone and crumbling in a sea of builder’s mud while Mr Rudore’s solicitors (at Oliver’s expense) fight the compulsory purchase order.
2. Two telephone calls from Oliver’s sisters, now cheerful, fertile ladies living next door to each other in the Bishops Avenue – that mecca of all desire – with expensively coiffeured hair, crimson nails, chauffeurs and charge accounts, suggest to him that since their husbands have that week given away all their wealth to an Israel Defence Fund, the least that he, Oliver, can do to compensate (for what they regard as anti-Zionism and he as natural common sense) is not just mend but renew his father’s roof. What’s more, they say, they have been together to see Oliver’s latest little film – showing, without his knowledge, at an Art Cinema in Golders Green – and have found it quite brilliantly funny. Oliver can’t remember there being a single laugh line in it.
3. Chloe has been to London to see her friends. His indifference is faked – anxiety knots his stomach. Is she disloyal? Do they talk about him? Do they laugh? Oliver lives in terror of being laughed at. When he leaves a script-conference it is his habit to lean against the closed door to make sure they’re not laughing at him. Quite often, of course, they are.
4. Oliver has succeeded in reading his last completed chapter to Françoise, having contrived Chloe’s absence without upsetting her – but instead of it bringing gratification and reassurance, as he had hoped, and a literary response as obliging as her sexual one, she has been rancorous and hard to please, and even criticized his grammar. He had thought for a while that Françoise, with her stocky limbs, solid peasant frame and slow smile, was the personification of primitive female wisdom; and, rightly, that her instinctive perceptions would turn out to be only thinly overlaid with academic sophistications: but essential wisdom has turned out to be stupidity, and innocence limitation, and honesty intransigence. Françoise hears only the construction of his sentences, and is deaf to their meaning and the intertwining patterns they make; and does not even possess that natural and kindly grace which at least Chloe, for all her faults, deigns to offer him – that of keeping quiet about what she does not like.
Now he dreads the night, and the punctual returning of Françoise to his bed. A bad day for Oliver.
No doubt he will find ways of recovering from it.
‘You never go to parties these days,’ he accuses Inigo, when his son comes to tell him that dinner is ready. ‘You’re always here.’
‘Parties are a waste of time,’ says Inigo.
‘What isn’t?’ inquires his father, with the cynicism required of age, and Inigo smiles politely.
‘You think I’m a decadent old has-been,’ says Oliver, hopefully.
‘I think you’re a very respectable and responsible person,’ says Inigo, sincerely. He’s not laughing at his father, is he?
‘The roof is mended,’ Inigo goes on, ‘the bills are paid, the household is stable, though not totally orthodox, everyone appears placid. What else can one ask of parents?’
‘I’m glad you can accept Françoise,’ says Oliver, spoiling for the trouble Inigo is so reluctant to provide.
‘I’m glad you can,’ says Inigo. ‘I imagine a young woman must be quite tiring for someone of your age.’
‘Not at all,’ says Oliver. ‘I suppose you have three women at one time?’
‘I have,’ says Inigo, ‘but I don’t think anyone enjoyed it. It was the girls’ idea, not mine. Girls seem to have a great need to be debased, don’t you think? One doesn’t wish to be party to that kind of thing.’
Yes, Inigo is laughing at Oliver.
Oliver sits at the head of the table, and Chloe sits at the foot to serve the food. I
nigo and Françoise face each other. Oliver’s shoulders are hunched forward. His neck muscles twitch. How are we to get through dinner, wonders Chloe? I must hold my tongue and speak only pleasantries, and remember that for Inigo’s sake – and indeed, for Françoise’s – I must appear to be cheerful, sane, and in control of my destiny.
And thus the conversation goes:
Oliver Good day in London, Chloe?
Chloe Yes thank you.
Oliver What it is to be born a woman! Free to roam the streets and buy hats while husbands work their fingers to the bone.
Chloe I didn’t do any shopping, actually. I’m sorry if you missed me.
Oliver I was only joking, Chloe. You’re so serious, aren’t you! And I didn’t miss you. I read to Françoise instead. She’s a very good critic, within limits. Aren’t you, Françoise?
Françoise I say what I think. That is all I can do.
Oliver Few people have the courage, you’d be surprised. We’ll send you off to evening classes, shall we, just to sharpen up your English. Then you won’t have to bother any more, Chloe.
Chloe It isn’t any bother, Oliver, you know it isn’t. If I can help I’m only too glad.
Oliver You’re all right on screenplays, Chloe. In fact, very good. They have a commercial basis which you understand. But novels are different. Françoise has a more literary approach. She does have a degree, after all.
Inigo Mother went to college, didn’t you, mother. What happened? Why didn’t you get your degree?
Chloe doesn’t reply. She finds her voice doesn’t work, and there are tears in her eyes.
Oliver Go on, Chloe. Answer the boy’s question.
Inigo Tell you what. I don’t think I’m going to enjoy this meal. I recognize the symptoms. I’ll take my dinner and eat in front of the telly, if no-one minds.
Oliver There’s nothing on.
Inigo That’s what’s so soothing. Smashing grub, Françoise.
He takes his plate and goes.
Oliver I wish you wouldn’t upset the boy, Chloe. It’s so pointless.
Chloe I didn’t mean to.
Oliver There’s no reason to sound so flat and depressed. You’ll turn into your mother if you’re not careful. Are you jealous? Is that what it is? Jealous of Françoise?
Chloe Of course not.
Oliver I am afraid you are. Very well, I can’t have you upset. If you don’t want me to read to Françoise, I won’t. God knows what I’ll do instead. So. Who did you see in London? Marjorie and Grace, I suppose.
Chloe Yes. I told you.
Oliver And what was their advice?
Chloe What do you mean, their advice?
Oliver I’ll tell you if you like. Marjorie said throw Françoise out and Grace said divorce Oliver for all the alimony you can get.
Françoise Please, I cannot follow. Oliver, you are talking in such a soft voice it is difficult to hear and I think you are saying important things.
Oliver No. You are mistaken. I’m discussing gossip and chit-chat and mischief, and I will speak as I please.
Françoise I am sorry.
Oliver Well, Chloe?
Chloe I didn’t ask for advice. I didn’t mention us at all. They offered it.
Oliver Interfering bitches. Of course if you want to end up like either of them, take the advice they offer. Why not? You could end up living with them. Three dykes together.
Françoise Perhaps you would like to be alone. Perhaps I should join Inigo.
Oliver Stay where you are, Françoise. There, Chloe, now you’re upsetting poor Françoise too. You are a bitch.
Chloe I’m not. You’re upsetting her. This is ridiculous.
Oliver I’ll tell you why you can’t in fact take your friends’ advice, and why you are so tearful and upset. You can’t throw Françoise out, much as you’d like to, because this is my house, my property, I have whom I please here and you have no say. You can’t divorce me because you have condoned her stay here, and you know it and your friends know it, and I have committed no matrimonial offence. Besides, who would look after the children?
Chloe hasn’t eaten a morsel of her food. It congeals on her plate. She tells herself that Oliver does not mean what he is saying, and that tomorrow he will be friendliness and sweetness itself. After such outbursts he usually is. So long as she can hold her tongue all will yet be well.
Chloe I don’t take any notice of what they say, Oliver. You know I don’t.
Oliver Then why bother to go all the way to London to see them? If you must gad about why didn’t you go to a matinee and keep up on your culture like all the other middle-aged mums?
Chloe You didn’t seem to mind me going this morning, Oliver.
No, she should not have said that.
Oliver I’m not your keeper. You do what you want and go where you want. So long as I’m not expected to look after the children. What really upsets me is you coming back from London. Why didn’t you stay away?
Chloe Please. Oliver.
Oliver Oh, listen to you! Grovel, shmovel. I wish you’d find yourself a lover, you mightn’t spread so much gloom and despondency around. You used to be good at that. What’s the matter, isn’t Patrick interested any more?
Chloe I haven’t seen Patrick for nine years.
Oliver No. You can’t achieve any kind of friendship with a man, it seems. You see sex in everything. If you did see him, you couldn’t appreciate him, Chloe, you’d just fall down in front of him and open your legs as you did before and reduce everything about him to the banal and the ridiculous.
Françoise Oliver, I am afraid you are being unkind.
Oliver Shut up.
Chloe He’s mad, Françoise. Take no notice.
Tears of rage and misery flow down her cheeks. He’s smiling.
Oliver No, you’re mad. Sitting here at my table when you’re not even wanted any more. You have no place here. You don’t even do the cooking. You embarrass everyone, hanging on the way you do.
Her hand moves to pick up a knife. She thinks she will kill him. He bangs his hand down on hers so that it hits the table with a thwack.
Oliver You want to kill me now. You murderess. You aborter of my children.
She runs from the room. The pain in her hand is intense.
Oliver (After her) And don’t think you can have Imogen. She’s mine legally, you know.
Inigo turns the television louder. He cannot hear his parents with his ears, but he hears them with his heart. There is a flickering before his eyes – the beginning of a migraine, he fears. He suffers from migraine, taking after his father.
I have heard it all a hundred times before, he thinks. The details are different, but the essence is the same. He looks forward to leaving home, and is glad for Imogen’s sake – he is very fond of Imogen – that she goes to bed early.
50
Chloe lies on her bed and cries.
Chloe refrains from running back into the kitchen and uttering all the retorts, taunts and insults which she could so easily deliver.
Chloe is conscious of a certain sense of victory, having put Oliver so firmly in the wrong. Oliver has behaved badly. There is, for once, no possible doubt about it. Even he must see it. If she had not picked up the knife her conduct would have been perfect. Still, Oliver damaged her hand, thus neutralizing her offence. So long as he sees it like that.
It does not occur to Chloe that perhaps Oliver means what he says. He has said it before, and hasn’t meant it.
Oliver, poor Oliver, has cried wolf too often.
Chloe falls into a half doze. Her misery drifts with her; the house seems to fall in upon her, its beams eaten through with distress.
Grace once ran to Chloe and Oliver in the middle of the night, in such a state as Chloe is now, but with rather more reason.
Picture it. Oliver and Chloe in the front of the car – their first car, a Ford Anglia – reasonably rational and kindly people. A happy and loving couple, though with the pleasure of their days now distur
bed by the distress of their friend, Grace, who huddles in the back of the car, gasping and sobbing with hatred and grief.
They are on their way to Christie’s house in Kensington to retrieve Piers and Petra. Christie took them out of school that afternoon. Stole them.
Christie and Grace are separated. Grace lives with the children in a cheap two-roomed flat (‘cooped up’ Christie claims in Court. ‘A normal home’ Grace maintains, though through a free Legal Aid solicitor, who has not the flair of Christie’s team of legal advisers). The battle over the children wages to and fro: files thicken; writs fly. He doesn’t want the children. Grace maintains. All he wants is her unhappiness. She’s unfit, he maintains. A whore. A criminal lunatic, she says, but who’s going to believe that? He doesn’t love the children, she repeats.
And indeed little Piers and little Petra, rocks in two languages, shrink even further back into themselves when Christie appears, bearing gifts for which he expects to be thanked by formal letter. Christie believes in healthy discipline and a clear organizational framework as the key to successful child rearing. Their little anxious eyes peer out from beneath furrowed brows. Piers sulks and Petra whines. It is as if they have decided that their best defence against their parents’ battles is to present themselves as a prize scarcely worth the winning.
Nevertheless Grace loves them immoderately.
Now he has stolen them. Grace has been to the police station but they will do nothing for her. That afternoon Christie, unbeknownst to her, became their legal guardian. He has already, forestalling her, been to the police and shown them the Court Order, properly signed, properly witnessed, properly come by. Grace can appeal if she wants. Another six months, at least, during which time Christie has care, custody and control.
Oliver, Chloe and Grace reach Christie’s house. It is in a quiet, almost remote avenue in Kensington. Here the rich live, enclosed. The house is, allegedly, burglar proof. It stands on a corner, its windows set in a stuccoed concrete face, its garden enclosed by a high brick wall. It was built at the turn of the century by a dishonest industrialist with a paranoiac fear of thieves. As their car parks outside, guard dogs in the garden begin to bark.
