by Weldon, Fay
‘I love you,’ I said. ‘I need you. Please don’t abandon us.’
‘Love!’ he sneered. ‘You don’t even know the meaning of the word. I expect you used it often enough to Alec – and took him in for a time.’
‘You can’t just throw away a marriage like this!’
‘It’s you who’ve thrown it away.’ And how could I deny it? I had spoiled everything good and valuable between us. ‘But this is our home – you can’t sell it!’
The marital home (as it came to be known) was a farmhouse; warm, untidy, cosy. I’d made the garden beautiful. I hadn’t had time to do much to the interior.
‘I can do what I like,’ he said. ‘And will. As for calling it a home – it’s a mess. You’re a slut as well as a whore.’
Well, he was angry, and very upset, and right to be. I had done wrong.
‘I have three children under five and it’s exhausting,’ I defended myself.
‘Not so exhausting you can’t sneak out to your lover,’ he said. ‘You’re filthy: like an animal! I wonder how many of those children are mine?’
There seemed no explaining to him how weak the sexual charge was between me and Alec: how that was not what it was about at all. An affair that went on three long summer months – and we only went to bed (well, not bed, actually in the back of the car) four times, and then it seemed accidental, even rather embarrassing, what did that amount to? We preferred holding hands and sighing; he wanted to know what was going on in my head, and that seemed to me totally entrancing: and he no doubt just enjoyed the romantic intensity of it all. Life is so short, isn’t it? I didn’t register my behaviour as infidelity at the time; though in retrospect I can see how I hurt and humiliated Stephen. Anyway, the more I wept and pleaded and cut my wrists, the more determined he was to leave.
Of course, it did later transpire (after the divorce, after the selling of the home, after he somehow managed to be living very comfortably at the other end of the country, and with one of my girlfriends, what’s more – and I was stuck up at 19 Wendover, Boxover, living with the kids on social security – he having argued in court that they weren’t his) that he’d been having affairs throughout the course of the marriage. He’d decided, long before the arrival of Alec, that he wanted out, and had waited for the excuse to come along whereby we could be divorced, and I would take the moral blame. And of course I took it; I lapped it up. Ever heard a man say ‘It was my fault the marriage broke up’? No. Those are women’s lines. They’ll stare at you with their black eyes and broken noses and say, ‘My fault! I provoked him.’ Sometimes I despair. And I’m no better than anyone. Looking back over these pages, I see I’ve been apologizing for having hurt and humiliated a man who pretended love, felt none, and did me a great deal of damage.
I wonder if my shrink (sorry, psychiatrist) was a woman not a man I’d be in a better or a worse state, after three months in this place? Probably better, but I wouldn’t be having so nervy and enjoyable a time, would I?
I pleaded insane at my trial, though I didn’t think at the time that I actually was. Now I’m not so sure. Perhaps the first step to sanity is knowing you’re insane? Round and round we go, though the monsters do seem to have taken up positions quite far back inside my head. They still stare with baleful eyes, but at least they’re not clawing or rending. Enough.
Now where did we leave Natalie? Ah yes. Sitting on the bench in the grounds of the ruined Glastonbury Abbey, having joined the ranks of the supplicants and dispossessed, and wearing quite the wrong shoes for it: they had peep-toes and high heels, as worn by those who think life is for the enjoying, not the mere getting through. Jax sat at her side; but he twitched rather, and looked haunted, as if he too were wondering where his next meal was coming from.
Now two people came walking towards her. One was the groundsman, Peter Ferris by name, the other a Japanese tourist who was engaging him in conversation. Peter had a beard and Jesus-eyes, and was referred to by the local children as a hippie. But then they’d call anyone a hippie who, if a woman, wore skirts longer than mid-calf, and, if a man, wore an earring. Peter Ferris was explaining to the Japanese tourist, a small, elegant man in a smart grey suit, who looked as if he believed the world was real, not an illusion, about the Glastonbury Thorn. How Jesus had come to Glastonbury in the year AD 11 with his uncle Joseph of Aramathea, a tin trader. Glastonbury at that time was an island. Jesus had blessed the thorn tree, which had bloomed on Christmas Day ever since.
‘You’ve seen it bloom on Christmas Day?’
‘I have,’ said Peter, failing to add that this particular type of thorn is winter flowering, that is to say between November and January, a sad, battered bloom or so appears. If you ask me, Jesus didn’t bless it at all, he cursed it as he did the fig tree (I have felt protective towards that fig tree, poor barren thing, ever since I was sterilized). Christianity really is a man’s religion: there’s not much in it for women except docility, obedience, who-sweeps-a-room-as-for-thy-cause, downcast eyes and death in childbirth. For the men it’s better: all power and money and fine robes, the burning of heretics – fun, fun, fun! – and the Inquisition fulminating from the pulpit.
The Japanese tourist went away to explore the Monks’ Kitchen and Peter the groundsman sat down next to Natalie and Jax. He carried a pointed stick, the better to spear and dispose of the litter the tourists left.
‘You know you’re not supposed to have dogs up here?’ he asked.
She hadn’t known. He said he didn’t suppose it mattered much.
‘Fine beast,’ he said.
‘He’s upset,’ she said.
‘Why’s that?’
‘His master’s gone away.’
‘Bad luck,’ said Peter.
‘What is more,’ she said, ‘he’s hungry.’
‘Then feed him.’
‘I haven’t any money.’
‘Then give him away,’ said Peter, grandly, as if amiable recipients of large dogs littered every corner of his grounds. And so of course they did, in essence. Prick, with Peter’s pointed stick at a piece of rubbish: pick it up and prick again, and lo, all is tidiness and order, and there’s another canine housed, and the can of dog food whirring happily round in an electric can-opener, and the hungry looking up, and being fed. All things are possible.
‘How? Where?’ she asked. These were the questions she had been asking all day, but no one seemed to answer. ‘Why?’ she was leaving till later.
‘Go where the food is,’ he said, and stood up – or unfolded, for he was remarkably tall and thin – and smiled. ‘The general rule is, if you have to live off crumbs, make sure they fall from a rich man’s table. They’re more plentiful.’ And of course he was right: the poor man in Frankfurt is better off than the poor man in Addis Ababa. The problem is finding the air fare from one place to another.
Where the food is, at least locally, was of course The Tessen, the delicatessen where Gerard gloomed and Pauline tried to cheer him up.
‘Cash flow,’ Gerard mourned, putting out trays of preservative-free sausages – always a problem. After three days they smelt high and the customers started complaining, and after four days those unsold simply had to be thrown out. ‘You could live a whole life in the old days and never ever hear about cash flow. We used to call it bloody debt. We should never have been conned into starting this mad enterprise. It goes against every principle I ever had. But you insisted, and now look!’
‘It takes time for new businesses to break even,’ said Pauline. Four whole years, they said, at the New Business Studies Course she attended, and she could see it might well be true, if Gerard insisted on buying and throwing out preservative-free sausages. She knew of a new brand of excellent, reasonably priced, spicy sausages which the customers would appreciate, containing only the least harmful of available preservatives, with a high profit margin and a good shelf life, but Gerard would not hear of it. He would do things the hard and honourable way, and the shop would stay half empty, and such cus
tomers as there were would feel nervous at spending their money on luxuries, as Gerard sliced the salmon with socialist reluctance. (Don’t get me wrong, Sonia is a socialist through and through. It’s just some socialists are on the dour side when it comes to spending money.)
‘I suppose you learned that in adult education.’ Gerard had declined to attend the course. He said business was a matter of common sense.
‘I did.’
‘Small businesses!’ he mourned. This is a shop, not a small business. This Government is trying to turn us into a Far Eastern nation, with everyone living off everyone else’s scraps.’
Sonia knows that, Pauline knows that, everyone knows that; why does Gerard have to go on about it all the time? You may have got the notion that Sonia doesn’t much care for Gerard. Too right she doesn’t. Poncey little creep. But the shrink doesn’t like to hear that kind of talk. For poncey little creep read modern-day Samuel Smiles. Gerard had been going on all morning about the way Pauline had failed to collect a cheque from Natalie, and Pauline, after the manner of wives, instead of telling him to go fuck himself, was saying, sorry, sorry, sorry.
‘Talk of the devil,’ he said, and there was Natalie looking in the window of The Tessen, hesitant. Jax, on a lead, was with her.
‘She’d better not bring that dog in here,’ said Gerard. ‘We try to keep this place hygienic.’
‘She might be coming in with a cheque,’ offered Pauline, but she didn’t really think so. Tales of the collapse of Harrix and the Harris’ marriage had come to her from all sides. She hadn’t liked to pass the news on to Gerard or no doubt he’d be crosser than ever about the way she, Pauline, had let Natalie ran up the account. Natalie pushed open the door and came in with Jax. Pauline thought she’d better get in before Gerard did.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘no dogs in the shop.’
But Jax was already in, staring up at Gerard as he cut chunks of Brie and caper, pre-wrapped to meet the rush (what rush?) and all cut at 6 ounces, that is to say, too small for the generously minded, and too large for the economical. Just wrong. Gerard stopped wrapping and stared back at Jax. It was love at first sight. These things happen. Jax, not to put too fine a point on it, smiled back. Some dogs can, and do.
‘What I wondered was,’ said Natalie, ‘if you would take the dog in payment of my account. He is valuable. He’s got a pedigree.’ It seemed, to Natalie, a fair exchange. Dog owners always overrate the value of their pet to others, and Natalie was no exception.
Pauline waited for Gerard to speak, and Gerard for Pauline to speak, so Natalie spoke again, into the silence.
‘I can’t afford to feed him,’ said Natalie. ‘It’s silly to go on trying.’
Gerard said, surprisingly, ‘Your children won’t like it. Children think, if you can give dogs away, you can give them away.’
Pauline said, ‘How do you know a thing like that, Gerard? We’ve never had any children.’
Gerard said, ‘But I was a child myself. You forget that.’
‘It’s years since we had a dog,’ said Pauline, who couldn’t remember her own childhood and so could scarcely be expected to remember his.
‘He’s a splendid animal,’ said Gerard.
They were hooked. They were giving up the expected years of freedom: throwing away all they had gained by the non-having of children – look – suddenly – a pet! Madness!
‘He’ll eat up all the profit,’ said Pauline.
‘He eats anything,’ said Natalie.
‘Dogs shouldn’t eat just anything,’ said Gerard, severely. ‘They should eat a properly balanced diet.’
‘He could eat what we throw out,’ said Pauline. ‘Such as sausages, old quiche.’
‘He certainly can’t,’ said Gerard. ‘Far too much fat in sausages.’
‘So you’ll have him?’ asked Natalie.
‘Of course we’ll have him,’ said Gerard. ‘Tell the children he’s on loan. They can come and see him when they want. How much do you think he’s worth?’
‘A hundred and fifty,’ said Natalie, vaguely.
‘Your account is a hundred and forty-five,’ said Gerard, ‘approximately.’
He took five pounds from the till and handed it to Natalie. Pauline gaped. Natalie did not refuse it, and left without Jax, feeling some predestined event had been properly and ritually accomplished. She found she did not miss Jax any more than she missed Harry, and concluded that missing people and animals was a luxury that could perhaps be afforded later, but not now.
The Tessen filled up with customers as soon as Natalie had gone: the till pinged merrily. Even the 6 oz packets of Brie with capers sold, and Gerard got rid of three whole rounds for someone’s impromptu office party. Pauline patted Jax and Gerard said:
‘Do remember hygiene! Always wash your hands after handling an animal.’ But he said it amiably and even smiled at a customer and Pauline had the feeling that the shop would do better henceforth. She extracted the additive-free sausages, already rather high, from the cold shelf, and fed them secretly to Jax, who ate heartily and gratefully. She was glad to know he was not fussy.
Peter told Natalie to go where the food was, and she did, and it just happened to work out all right. Or so Natalie says. I, Sonia, think it was more than that. It took courage on Natalie’s part to walk down Debtor’s Row and into the shop, and outface her own humiliation. She did it for Jax’s sake, not her own. Of course it turned out well. Unlike virtue, courage is not its own reward. It has results.
Justifications
I had better tell you more about the Bridgewater carnival. For one week every year, around the time of Guy Fawkes Day (that is to say at the beginning of November, when the pagans traditionally held their fire-and-rebirth ceremonies, and committed their grudge burnings and their human sacrifices) the carnival clubs, which have been secretly active all year, unveil their floats, and parade them in procession down the misty streets of small West Country towns, lights flaring and music blaring. They come a hundred strong, and each float can be as many feet long, and every one has perhaps ten, twenty, fifty souls on board, dressed as the theme of the float suggests, whether it be ‘Winter Wonderland’ (ice crystals), ‘Revenge of the Khan’ (warlords) or ‘Denizens of the Deep’ (Father Neptune’s slaves) or such. These glittery creatures parade or dance beneath the hot light-bulbed roofs, or pose, if a tableau is required, in frozen immobility in the icy November wind. Each float is pulled by a tractor (or two or three if it’s what you might call a major entry) and followed up by a generator (or two or three). Crowds fill the roads, charity boxes rattle, children skitter between hot-dog stands and the vendors of strange flat silvery balloons and translucent Force-Be-With-You wands, and the elderly pull their hats over their ears against the cold. Marshals push back the spectators as the first police cars appear, and the ambulance, and the noise of the leading girls’ band drifts in the wind and the first great unwieldy, noisy, brilliant box of delights eases round the corner and the carnival is here! There are no cheers from the crowd as it passes, dancing or singing, or other demonstrations of good cheer: this is not a participation show. No. It is a religious ceremony: applause when it comes is scattered and reverential. Those who live in the heart of the country are not swift or noisy in their enthusiasm. Feelings, nevertheless, run high, don’t think they don’t! Fights break out, strong words are spoken, a strange still drink is consumed – the local cider. It rots the brain cells quicker than any other form of alcohol, they say, and only 20p the pint.
It is against the carnival rules for commercial firms to enter floats, but of course they do. How can you not let the local tractor dealer have an advertising float, when you’re using his entire range of second-hand tractors to pull the collecting floats? For all this, allegedly, is in aid of charity. People throw money: even the meanest. People can’t just enjoy themselves, can they! They have to have an excuse.
Why am I describing all this? Because last year someone burned to death on the WAEADA float, an
d I it was (well, and Ros) who set the float on fire, and I am trying to feel remorse in order to get out of here. So I have to set up the background properly. ‘Here’ is the Eddon Hill Psychiatric Hospital. My psychiatrist’s name is Bill Mempton, Dr Bill Mempton, and at the moment I have a positive transference towards him which means that if he doesn’t shave I think he looks rather good, and if he’s late I worry in case he’s done himself in. This latter is not an insane worry: quite a few psychiatrists at this hospital have killed themselves by what has become known as the Eddon Method: that is to say, in the home garage, engine running, hose pipe from the exhaust to the window crack, to be found by the spouse and/or children. They have even managed to out-suicide their own patients. Since there are 30 psychiatrists and 1,200 patients, and the latter are watched in case they do escape this jolly old world, I think that is a pretty appalling statistic. Something like 10 per cent of psychiatrists committing felo de se to only .005 per cent of patients. Who needs watching most? I ask myself. Since the patients are insane and the psychiatrists are sane (I am not arguing this point: few of the latter bark like dogs or chew their underlips away altogether) I think what the dead are trying to tell us is that to stay alive is insane when death is available.
Bill (how cosy! how almost intimate we have become) gets furious when I make this point, talks about the low wages, high stress, falling status, family difficulties and so forth endured by medics in the psychiatric branch of the profession. All I reply is if you can’t stand the patients, stay out of the ward! You do them no good by knocking yourself off in this way. What sort of example etc., etc.
You see? I can heap coals of fire on psychiatrists’ heads, but not do the reverse: can’t allow them to heap coals on mine. Murder of the self seems to be reprehensible and disgraceful; the man – or woman – slaughter of another as the high point of a carnival quite another matter – merely the final event of an ancient ritual, consciously or unconsciously consented to by the victim.
