Fay Weldon Omnibus: Collected Works of Fay Weldon

by Weldon, Fay

  Oh, my beloved Miss Sumpter: your delicate fingers, plucking and pulling at my heart! If only you and I had been written into the same script; if only we had shared the same decades. I know you can feel my spirit, pressing in on yours, as I feel yours upon mine: we have been divided by time, by the error of the GSWITS or, more like it, of the Divine Typist who sitteth at His right side. Error, simple error, which by a malign fate dogs the footsteps of the GSWITS, and so dogs the course of all our lives! I would have made you happy, Gabriella – you would have borne my children… No! Stop – it must stop. Since my sessions here in the British Museum with the Sumpter Tapes I have been brusque and unkind to dear Honor. Not her fault she is so solid and practical, compared to the divine translucence of Gabriella Sumpter, re-wound, re-called, re-played. I must not forget that Honor is the mother of my children, and mothers perforce must end up as sensible people. They have no choice. How can I wish children upon Gabriella? Instead, I send curses on the Tovey maidservant, who dared to spoil my Gabriella’s muslin nightdress.

  10

  ‘You are working too hard, my dear,’ said Honor to me, on the sixth evening of my working on the Sumpter tapes.

  ‘What makes you say such a foolish thing?’ I snorted.

  ‘Because of your tone of voice when you speak to me, my dear,’ and she set a plate of lentils and grated low fat vegetarian food in front of me. I pushed it aside. ‘Dearest,’ she said, ‘You must eat! Remember how easily you become thin.’

  ‘Good lord,’ I said, ‘what are you, a woman or a nurse?’ She bit her lip and cleared the food, and presently suggested we go jogging.

  ‘It is such a lovely evening,’ she said, ‘and it might clear our heads.’

  ‘You always betray your age, my dear, when you refer to the weather. Do try not to.’

  Now that the weather is under global control only the elderly refer to it, out of habit. Of course it was a lovely evening. For six days out of seven the sun shines from a clear blue sky. On the seventh day it rains, all day. There is no point in talking about it.

  Honor opened her mouth to speak and I interjected:

  ‘And don’t talk to me about tax. In its passion for social engineering this government has gone too far.’

  Honor sighed and I took up a book. Presently, she said:

  ‘My dear, if you want to talk about Miss Sumpter, please do.’

  ‘But you told me only last night you never wanted to hear her name mentioned again.’

  ‘I think, my dear, it might be better if you did.’

  ‘How changeable you are!’ I said. ‘But I have thought about it and understand your reluctance. She is hardly your kind of woman.’

  ‘No, that is certainly true. But nevertheless her story is fascinating. She seems to belong to so many centuries.’

  ‘I hope that is not intended as a criticism. As I say, the pulp priests’ art is interpretative; I can only do my best.’

  ‘I think your best is wonderful,’ said my wife, and I began at last to relax and apologised for my ill humour, and after some small persuasion agreed to answer her questions about Gabriella’s life with Dr Aldred.

  ‘I must say,’ said Honor, ‘she certainly fell on her feet, meeting him! And so they were married…?’

  ‘Well, no. It appears he was married already. An unfortunate marriage, contracted when he was only eighteen. The laws of the land at the time did not allow for divorce by the desire of only one of the partners, or else, of course, he would have married her at once.’

  ‘What time exactly are we speaking of?’ asked Honor.

  ‘It is difficult to pin-point,’ I said.

  ‘Inasmuch, I suppose, as to you, Gabriella Sumpter is timeless.’

  ‘There may be some truth in such a view of it.’ I longed to confide in Honor, but conscience, and indeed prudence, forbade it. All I could do, to relieve the burden on my soul, was hint.

  ‘But he bought her a wedding ring, I expect,’ said Honor.

  ‘Indeed he did, and she wore it with pride. And the village in its kindness and goodwill, forebore to ask the young couple too many questions.’

  ‘Goodness! Country folk must have been very different then than they are today. No Retribution Vigilantes in those days!’

  ‘Apparently not,’ I said, a little stiffly. ‘Or perhaps it was the power of Gabriella’s charm to melt suspicion and prejudice whenever she encountered it.’

  ‘I daresay,’ said Honor. ‘And what was young Aldred’s work? Was he perhaps doing some kind of important medical research?’

  ‘Indeed he was. He was working on the epidemiology of infantile meningitis, a disease which plagued the neighbourhood at the time. He would work late into the night, and Gabriella would sit by him when he worked, her young, almost childlike, face glowing in the lamplight. They were very happy.’

  ‘It is always pleasant when a wife takes an interest in her husband’s work.’

  ‘Indeed it is. Though I must remind you they were not married. Even so!’

  ‘I suppose he would stop work from time to time.’

  ‘Yes. As Miss Sumpter observed today, the sexual act is a great stimulant to the intellect.’

  ‘Did she indeed! What else did she say to you, along those lines?’

  ‘Some things I would rather not discuss, my dear. It would only upset you. Let me just say that as the result of their joint labours the local epidemic was stopped, a national epidemic prevented, and the young doctor became famous.’

  ‘And all thanks to Gabriella!’ observed Honor.

  ‘When a man has the right woman beside him,’ I said, ‘all things are possible.’ And then, to cheer Honor up, or perhaps to clear my mind of thoughts of Gabriella’s young face glowing in the lamplight, I agreed to go jogging. It was indeed a beautiful evening, though I did not, of course, refer to it. Tomorrow’s rain made the horizon for once a little misty: the air was soft. Parrots fluttered in the oak trees – flashes of brilliant colour amongst deep green – and did not squawk but sang like nightingales – some new experiment, I supposed. Ah, it was good to be alive. What could there be, in the next life, to compare to this? We rested frequently, for Honor’s sake.

  11

  ‘Another of the rules’, Gabriella observed, her voice firm and strong the next morning, ‘is that virtue is its own reward. No one becomes rich by doing good. Aldred gave up his country practice and he and I moved to London where he could the better continue his research. Aldred’s mother bought us a mean little flat in Hackney, within walking distance of the Mile End Research Institute. The beds were damp. Aldred’s mother was both a Catholic and a militant socialist, and did not, frankly, like me: no doubt she thought Aldred should have stayed with his boring wife and children and been a humble country doctor for ever. But people must, of course, aspire: there is no stopping them, no preventing them, if that is in their nature. Aldred’s mother should have saved her breath to cool her porridge. He was her only child. She wished to make him in her own image: a Christ amongst the sufferers. She could see in me, I expect – apart from the sheer youth and erotic energy which had, or so she thought, seduced her son away from the stony path she had laid out for him – that nature, so contrary to her own, which despises sufferers, which believes the halt, the lame and the old are better put out of their misery quickly, leaving the world to those who best inherit it. No wonder the beds she provided were damp!

  ‘According to my grandmother’s book there are few things more dangerous than damp beds. No bed should ever be allowed to become so. The moist air of a damp bed carries away the natural heat of a body with the most dangerous rapidity. The body becomes chilled; disease, and often death, ensue. Sit up all night rather than sleep in a damp bed, my grandmother advised. Or, if you are only suspicious of dampness and wish for a night’s rest, wrap yourself in a blanket and cover yourself with all the clothes you can find, so as to allow no escape of heat. After I had spent several nights so covered up, Aldred agreed that we should move to a
house more suitable to my tastes, with rooms of a decent size, and a staff flat, so the servants could keep themselves to themselves, and not intrude on our bliss. I found just such a house in Orme Square, tucked in behind Hyde Park and Queensway. Wisteria hung its purple fronds over low windows; there was a little iron gate: I knew we would be happy there.

  ‘Aldred was worried about the general expense and the distance from his work, so I contrived to find him a post in Harley Street, which was only just around the corner, as assistant to Mr Clive Cunningham, the famous cosmetic surgeon. Everyone, I think, must take shifts at virtue. Aldred had saved the country from the scourge of meningitis: now he deserved to have some comfort, and some fun. The ailments of the rich, I always think, are easier to accept than the illnesses of the poor. And, the rich being more sensitive, the relief of their suffering is just as gratifying to the doctor. What’s more, the financial rewards are better! To sit up night after night as young lovers in a country cottage is one thing; to sit up in a damp-bedded Hackney slum quite another. It simply could not be. I would go up to Mr Cunningham’s rooms after surgery hours. He was a man of great charm and persuasion – though if my dear Aldred was twice my age he was as old again.

  ‘Such interesting and well-paid employment as Aldred had been fortunate enough to acquire did not then and does not now come easily, and I had made certain promises to Mr Cunningham, and kept them – I must say perhaps with a little more enthusiasm than was strictly necessary. The fact was that as Aldred advanced in his profession, as he became more prosperous, he became duller. The fiery, dedicated young man who rescued me from distress and destitution made a far better and more romantic lover than the young surgeon who charmed matrons into facelifts! And, do remember, I was not married to Aldred; he had put the house in my name, in recompense, but what are the obligations of gratitude compared to the obligations of marriage? Oh, very few! And that, perhaps, is why I never chose to marry.

  ‘I was still fond of Aldred. How sad it is, that we turn those we love into what we want, and then find that what we want we do not love! Easier to love a house, I think, than a person. And what a charming house this was; with its little walled back garden, and its pear tree; and walks across the park to the shops, and riding in Rotten Row, and glasses of wine with theatrical people – I loved the theatre – and, for work, the supervision of the servants, or, for excitement, a visit to Mr Cunningham, perhaps even unannounced.

  ‘His nurse knew, of course, and there was always a danger she might tell Aldred. She had to go. Poor woman. It was not, I suppose, her fault; Mr Cunningham claimed she was efficient, and that may be so, but she had a perpetual cold in the nose, and would obviously have been better employed in the public nursing sector, not the private. She reminded me of Nanny McGorrah. To have a head cold, of course, is to weep with the nose instead of with the eyes: it is a mere displacement of grief. The cure is not in aspirin but in self-discovery. Oh, how wearisome life is…’

  Here her voice breaks again. Poor woman. What is the point of disturbing her? We cannot help what we are: we cannot any of us go back into the past and undo what we have done –

  ‘This place I am in now’, says Miss Sumpter, and it seemed to me that at this point her voice began to age alarmingly, ‘is a strange kind of paradise indeed. The corridor between life and death is free of guilt, filled only with the marvel of simply being; but here we must try to understand what we are, and why we are: oh, it is all sub-text, it is so difficult…’

  I do suspect the pinner priests of putting words into Miss Sumpter’s head. She was not herself a member of the GNFR: concepts such as ‘sub-text’ must be strange to her. Unless, indeed – and this I find truly exciting – we have it even righter than we know, and the blinding truth of our worldly existence has been revealed to Miss Sumpter after death and through her confirmation and reassurance given back to us. In which case praise be the GSWITS, praise be! Forgive Thou my unbelief!

  ‘Aldred discovered us,’ my Gabriella continues, when she had regained her strength. ‘I would not have had that happen for the world. I did not want to hurt him. It was just that the danger of being discovered added so greatly to our pleasure: the sound of his calm, wise voice in the next room as Clive’s fingers found my nipples, his mouth the parting between my legs, made the action what it was. It dared the God Eros, compelling him to show his presence – but of course one day Aldred opened the door, which Clive had forgotten to lock –

  ‘“I say, Cunningham, old fellow –”

  ‘And then Aldred saw what he saw. He did not hit his rival but he did hit me. A man seldom hits his superior – whom he sees as having greater status, who earns more than he, and is more attractive than he, having lured his woman away. No, such a man merely bows his head and slinks away, defeated and humiliated. It is the woman he hits, for in their hearts all men despise women, as the cock despises the hen who serves him, as I despise the servants who serve me. Aldred fortunately did not hit me very hard, just enough to perforate an ear-drum and make himself feel guilty. Mr Cunningham departed quickly on an urgent case, leaving Aldred to help me to my feet, to wrap a lace tablecloth – a not very interesting, machine-made piece of lace, and rather grubby – around my naked body.

  ‘“You are a bully and a ruffian,” I sobbed. “You will not even marry me; all you do is neglect me! Do you think you have all this” – and I indicated the sombre splendour of the room – “for nothing? No, it is thanks to me! And see how you show your gratitude! By hitting me! What sort of love is that? You may apologise, but I will not be able to hear you, because you have made me deaf!”

  ‘It never does to apologise to men, even when in the wrong. All they remember then is your error. It seals into their minds the fact that you have done something to be sorry for. They will never forget it, and will reproach you to the end of your days. Better by far to move the blame from you to them. And when discovered in flagrante delicto, the rule is, never apologise, always justify.’

  Here the voice paused, and this time when it resumed it had become fluttery and desperate: it reminded me of the sound of the wings of a moth trapped near too bright a lamp. ‘What are they saying to me? That I am wrong? That the rules of expediency are not the rules of life? What do they mean? Someone, help me! There are blackberry stains – I will never get them out. I have tried chloride of soda, essence of lemon and Dab-it-off and nothing helps. Oh hurry, hurry, before the words fade! Perhaps I have not much time. Perhaps when I am healed I will have nothing to say, or the means to say it?’

  But after a short, frightening silence in which I thought the lamp had altogether burned her up, my beloved’s voice resumed, young and bright again, as if these frights and warnings had been nothing, were mere passing afflictions.

  ‘I went home and shut the door and would not let Aldred in for a week. How ill, tormented and tired he looked by the time I relented. My ear was quite better by then, or I would not even have considered opening the door. Poor Aldred was beside himself with jealousy and longing. He begged that we should sell the house, and he would forget medicine, and we would go off together – somewhere, anywhere – only we must be together and I must never, never be unfaithful to him again.

  ‘“Not even for your sake, Aldred? I only did it for you!”

  ‘“Not even for my sake. And we will have children: then you will be happy and content –”

  ‘“How can we have children? If we can’t marry – if she won’t divorce you? Don’t you see how I have to live, Aldred, disgraced in the eyes of the world? I have to live in the demi-monde. Make my friends amongst artists, writers, actors and other disreputable people, who are all fun and charm, no doubt, but it can hardly count as proper life. They are not proper people. What have you done to me? I came to you an orphaned virgin of sixteen –”

  ‘He begged me to say no more and offered actually to kill his wife if that would suit me. But I said no, I had no wish to be a murderer’s wife. Nor did I have any desire to go to Bolivia, or N
ew Zealand, or any of the other places he suggested. We would stay where we were, and he would go back to work as Mr Cunningham’s assistant. Aldred protested that he could never, ever, stand such humiliation as that, but, as I pointed out, he had no choice. Who else would employ him on such favourable terms? Cosmetic surgeons, unlike medical researchers, are interchangeable. I, for my part, vowed never to see Mr Cunningham in private again – nor did I, or only once or twice, when he claimed his hand trembled as he operated from sheer deprivation of me. It does not do to make these emotional breaks too quickly. Another rule: men like to feel that they are doing the giving up. If you are seen to give them up they take offence and can turn quite nasty.

  ‘So now we made it up, dear Aldred and I, and sealed our new beginning with many kisses, and our house grew to feel warm and safe again. I took a degree in Fine Arts at the Courtauld Institute, and Aldred learned, eventually, to work happily with Mr Cunningham, though I think it was a little hard for him. Men are such seekers after status! See two cockerels fighting over who shall rule the roost, stand crowing in the dung heap, and fluff the feathers of the silly hens! Well might blood flow, for the one who loses hardly lifts his head again to groan, let alone crow, and eats last, on leftovers, and grows thin and wretched, despised even by the lamest, scraggiest hen.

  ‘Aldred is here on the other side: my beloved Aldred is with me. He took my hand as we swept along the corridor between life and death. He took it as a brother would a little sister: we were warm and safe together. We mistook our roles in life, or they were mistaken for us. How full of error the world is! We should have been family, brother and sister: the sex between us was born simply of youth, energy and proximity. All that we had was great affection, the one for the other – and of course my capacity to cause him pain. Mr Cunningham is over here too. He left cosmetic surgery some time in the early eighties and became a specialist in in-vitro conception and artificial insemination, a venture which ended badly. His clients believed they were being fertilised by the sperm of ‘virile young medical students’, but in fact of course the sperm was all his, and it was reckoned at the Court Case that there are some 500 of his children in Central London alone. Well, why not? And though his clients were disconcerted – indeed, some were appalled – to know that their children had been fathered not by some vaguely imagined Adonis but by this wizened, trembling, short-sighted septuagenarian, they should not have worried. Once indeed and in truth Clive Cunningham had been Adonis enough, and sperm does not acknowledge age. It is forever in its prime.