Fay Weldon Omnibus: Collected Works of Fay Weldon

by Weldon, Fay

  ‘But I miss him,’ wept Alexandra.

  ‘Stop thinking about yourself,’ said Irene. ‘I’ll keep Sascha with me until after the funeral, and that’s that. It’s the best thing. And when is the funeral? Why is nobody saying? Is it going to be a cremation? Really they’re the best, except there’s always a problem about the ashes.’

  ‘I don’t know, I don’t know,’ wailed Alexandra. ‘I can’t bear to think about it. Hamish is going to see to all that.’

  ‘You’re the widow,’ said Irene. ‘You really ought to take some responsibility.’

  ‘You’ve had so much practice, I suppose,’ said Alexandra, bitterly. ‘You know all about it.’

  ‘Actually,’ said Irene, who had indeed buried two husbands out of four, one of them Alexandra’s father, ‘I do.’

  ‘Was our house full of whispers when my father died? And rustlings, and movements out of the corner of your eyes? Things you thought you almost saw, but didn’t really? It’s got so spooky here.’

  ‘It was perfectly quiet and ordinary,’ said Irene. ‘I made sure he died in hospital. But when our cat Marmalade passed away it was just as you describe until she was safely underground. Sascha made a little tombstone in the garden. I expect he told you about that. No? I’d keep seeing Marmalade on the stairs, but when I looked again she wasn’t there.

  As I was going up the stair,

  I met a cat who wasn’t there,

  She wasn’t there again today,

  I wish to God she’d go away.

  The eyes play tricks. These are Marmalade’s eight grandchildren we’ve just had. I suppose you don’t want one for comfort? No? Probably wise. You’re never in one place long enough. The sooner Ned is buried the better. Or burned. As for this Lucy Lint, be careful. People like that can be dangerous. If Ned was God what does that make you?’

  ‘Mary?’

  ‘No, darling, the devil. In this Lucy Lint’s eyes. Do be careful! Wasn’t there a Lucy Lint in A Doll’s House?’

  ‘Christine Linde,’ said Alexandra. ‘She plays the doleful widow, a woman who has to earn her own living. Daisy Longriff was playing her – and understudying me. Now Daisy’s playing me, and they’ve got a girl out of wardrobe to do Mrs Linde. Her big chance.’

  ‘That’s a bit spooky,’ said Irene. Then she had to go because her current husband wanted her to find one of his golf shoes which the puppy had no doubt run off with, and Sascha had tried to put one of the kittens in the dryer. Alexandra, usually so independent, missed her mother and whimpered.

  Alexandra put Mozart’s Greatest Hits on the CD player, very loud. That dispersed a fear or so but added to her melancholy. She put Lucy’s diary and address book in a drawer among Ned’s papers – then she took them out: there was too much intimacy there – and put them on an open bookcase, where they touched nothing important. She would turn her mind to them when she felt like it. She stored it up in her mind as a kind of treat. Having them in her possession increased her control over the situation. She felt empowered, as would a witch who had just stolen the clippings from her enemy’s toenails.

  Dr Moebius called. Ned’s body would be back in Mr Lightfoot’s morgue during the course of the afternoon. He hoped Alexandra did not take his insistence on a full autopsy as unfeeling. It was important that the forensic labs didn’t cut corners.

  ‘Only skulls and breastbones,’ said Alexandra.

  Dr Moebius did not laugh. He repeated that the cause of death was myocardial infarction; he confirmed that there was no sign of cerebral haemorrhage. He asked if Mrs Ludd would like some sleeping pills? He seemed to have forgotten his recommendation of herbal tea.

  ‘What brought my husband’s heart attack on?’ asked Alexandra. ‘So suddenly, and without warning?’

  ‘These things just happen,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘Or there may have been some undue excitement.’

  ‘Like someone coming to the door you didn’t want to see?’ suggested Alexandra.

  ‘Possibly,’ said Dr Moebius. And he told her that someone you didn’t want to see might well increase the heartbeat, and a simple increase could indeed be enough to trigger an infarction. She should think of the many middle-aged men who died when getting up to make an after-dinner speech; or in the middle of sexual congress. He asked when the funeral was, and said he would do his best to get there. Ned had been a charming man, and an excellent patient. That is to say, he seldom came to the surgery. It might have been better if he had come. His blood pressure might have been high for years but no one would know now.

  Alexandra said the day of the funeral had not yet been decided. ‘Don’t leave it too long,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘An overnight stay at a morgue can cost as much as a five-star hotel. Am I being too practical? I’m sorry.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ said Alexandra.

  Dr Moebius asked when Alexandra was going back to work. She said a week today. He was shocked and said she’d need more time than that – and wasn’t there the child to think about? Alexandra said too much thought might be counterproductive: she did not know yet what her financial position was going to be; time off for widowhood might prove an impossible luxury.

  ‘Surely –’ said Dr Moebius.

  ‘“Surelys” went out the windows years back,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘These days we all do what we have to, not what it would be nice to do if we could.’ She asked if Lucy Lint had been in the house when he was called in on the Sunday morning, and Dr Moebius said that was so; apparently she’d turned up to walk the dog and found Ned dead –

  ‘Abbie found him dead,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘Oh yes, of course,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘The one who runs the language school. She was there as well. She’s very careful, very responsible. But Mrs Lint was particularly distressed and made quite a nuisance of herself.’ He’d given her a sedative and she’d left. If Mrs Ludd happened to see her, would she ask Mrs Lint to drop by to see him? She might find herself suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder.

  ‘Why should she?’ asked Alexandra. ‘She’s not exactly family. Just an acquaintance.’

  ‘She’s very sensitive,’ said Dr Moebius. ‘We are not all made of stone.’

  Meaning I am? wondered Alexandra, detecting censure in his voice. She told herself not to be paranoic. Dr Moebius said he had to make an emergency visit to the language school and brought the conversation to an end.

  Alexandra called Abbie and told her she’d broken into Lucy’s home and how she’d found a shrine to Ned there, and how eerie it was. Abbie said she thought Alexandra had gone maddoing such a thing, but she, Abbie, couldn’t come now because the doctor had given the student an injection earlier, and the lad was now reacting to that far worse than to the suspected wasp sting, which had probably never happened, and she’d had to ask the doctor to visit yet again. Should she ask Vilnato go over to The Cottage, if Alexandra was upset?

  ‘No,’ said Alexandra. ‘I’m just fine, thank you.’ Then she asked Abbie if in Abbie’s opinion Ned and Lucy had ever had an affair.

  Abbie shrieked down the phone and said, ‘Why should Ned look at anyone else when he had you?’

  ‘He looked at Vilna,’ said Alexandra, ‘according to Vilna.’

  ‘Vilna’s like that,’ said Abbie. ‘Hopelessly Balkan. She thinks every man’s a sexual vampire. Take no notice. What does it matter anyway, Alexandra? Ned’s dead. Over. Don’t these things fade into perspective?’

  ‘Actually no,’ said Alexandra. ‘They don’t seem to. Since I can’t discuss the matter with Ned, or ever have any explanation from him, let alone excuses, or any resolution to do better in future or any apology, and since there is no way more recent times could ever push back past times into irrelevancy, why then no forgiveness is possible. I can’t play both sides of the argument on this matter, speaking for him as well as for me. It isn’t possible.’

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ said Abbie. ‘If Arthur can play three-dimensional chess with himself, you can forgive a husband post
humously for a trivial and stupid affair –’

  ‘You mean there was one?’ Alexandra was quick.

  ‘I mean nothing of the sort,’ said Abbie. ‘I swear on the cross that to the best of my knowledge and belief nothing untoward happened between Ned and that little bitch Lucy.’

  ‘On the cross?’ demanded Alexandra. ‘I thought you were a Buddhist.’ But she laughed. Then she said, ‘Did Ned ever say anything to you about seeing a therapist called Leah?’

  ‘Of course not,’ said Abbie. ‘If he didn’t tell you why would he tell me?’

  ‘You mean he was?’

  ‘Alexandra,’ said Abbie. ‘Stop all this. You’re brooding and paranoic. Can’t you just grieve peacefully, and think of the real Ned; do all that stuff you’re meant to do: reconciliation and incorporation and all that?’

  ‘I expect I am a little mad,’ said Alexandra.

  ‘You certainly are.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘What are friends for?’ asked Abbie. ‘It’s OK. Just lean on me.’

  9

  No sooner had Alexandra put the phone down, having seen Hamish’s Citroën coming up the drive, than Abbie had a call from Lucy Lint. Lucy was crying and gulping down the phone and saying she’d got home from her therapist to find someone had broken into her house and stolen her photographs of Ned and her address book and diary.

  ‘What else did they steal?’ asked Abbie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Lucy. ‘Isn’t that enough? To steal what’s nearest and dearest to me, at a time like this.’

  ‘Are there signs of a break-in?’ asked Abbie.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Lucy. ‘That’s what’s so weird. Just Marmalade acting peculiar, miaowing and rubbing up against me. I’m sure he’s trying to tell me something. You know Ned gave me Marmalade? He’s all I have left of him. No, that’s wrong. His spirit is with me. He’s in my heart, in my being. Leah said today she felt his presence in me very clearly.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said Abbie. ‘Are you sure you didn’t just put the books somewhere else? It’s the kind of thing one does. And you’ve been so upset. You could have taken down the photos yourself. Have you looked everywhere?’

  ‘The books were on the table when I left,’ said Lucy. ‘I’ll swear they were. But I suppose I could be wrong.’

  ‘Or perhaps you took them with you in the car,’ said Abbie. ’And if they were on your lap or something, and when you got out at Bristol they might have fallen out. That once happened to me with my Filofax.’

  ‘I suppose it could be,’ said Lucy. ‘And I do rotate the photographs, it’s true. I could have taken them down and not put the others up. I’m so upset I don’t know what I’m doing any more. The air in my lovely little house was all shaky from spite and malice, I’m sure it was. You don’t think Alexandra got in? She is such a hating person. Why should she live and Ned die? There’s no justice in the world at all.’

  ‘Now, Lucy,’ said Abbie, ‘all this is total paranoia. It’s guilt speaking, because you used to snoop around in The Cottage from time to time. Ned was Alexandra’s, after all. He isn’t really yours to mourn. She was his wife.’

  ‘How dare you say such a thing!’ cried Lucy Lint. ‘Leah says Ned and I were married in heaven: we were old souls reunited at last in this life. Leah realised that the moment she met Ned. She says Alexandra was the cross Ned had to bear: Dave was my cross. Apparently we all have them. What have I got to be guilty about? Nothing! Why are you all so horrid to me? You used to be on my side.’

  ‘Lucy,’ said Abbie. ‘Now calm down. I think perhaps you tend to remember what you’d like to remember, not what really happened. You must be careful what you say. We don’t want anyone to be more upset than they are already.’

  ‘Don’t we?’ shrieked Lucy Lint. ‘Well perhaps I’m sick of bearing things alone. Perhaps I’m tired of being the one good person round here. If I don’t get my address book and diary back I’m going to pull the plug on Alexandra Ludd. Stuck-up bitch!’

  10

  When Hamish stood in the doorway, Alexandra thought for a moment it was Ned. Same build, same colouring: the palecurly hair receding in just the same way. She put her arms round him and felt his warmth; she buried her head in his jacket but he didn’t smell of Ned, his body didn’t melt into hers. She was conscious of his distress.

  ‘Poor Alexandra,’ said Hamish.

  ‘Poor Hamish,’ said Alexandra. ‘You’ve been crying. Poor you, poor me.’

  She led Hamish into the dining room, pointed to the space between the window and the refectory table, oak, 1860s, which seated eighteen and at whose head Ned had so often sat.

  ‘That was where he died,’ she said. ‘Just fell down and died. He was watching Casablanca; he turned it off ten minutes in, came in here, for air, I suppose: and then clasped his heart and died. At least it was quick.’

  ‘Um,’ said Hamish.

  ‘It must have been quick,’ said Alexandra. ‘I can’t bear it not to have been quick. They don’t say and I won’t ask. I haven’t seen the body yet so what do I know? I slept through it, Hamish. How can you sleep through your own husband dying?’

  ‘It would have been more remarkable if you’d woken up,’ said Hamish. He was Ned’s younger brother, by two years. He lived in Edinburgh, and wore a suit. His wife Sabrina had left him three years ago. He was a senior manager for the Edinburgh Health Authority. Ned would dismiss him as a dull old stick, but sometimes they’d all meet up in London for a meal. Ned and Hamish would talk about their childhood, and Alexandra would feel quite left out. He’d write on occasion to keep Ned in touch with family news – and sent an economical religious greetings card every Christmas and never forgot.

  Perhaps he isn’t dull at all, thought Alexandra: perhaps it’s just another thing Ned said, which I accepted without question. Perhaps now Ned’s gone I shall have to go back to the beginning, to where I was when I first met him. Perhaps there are all kinds of things I now think which are really Ned’s thoughts, not mine. Judgements I make about people and things, not really mine but Ned’s and mine combined. Marriage is a terrible intertwining, a fearful osmosis; I will have to relearn myself.

  They went into Ned’s study.

  ‘Has someone ransacked the place?’ asked Hamish.

  Alexandra said no, it always looked like this. The piles of paper made sense to Ned, no doubt, though to others they seemed random. There were shelves of box files but Ned seldom put anything in them. Anything that was there he would take out, in his struggle to locate some missing document, and might not be particularly careful in which file he put it back. She thought there would be life-insurance documents somewhere, and so forth, but she couldn’t be sure where. Ned more or less kept up with correspondents; he was always taking letters to the post, but of course, anything difficult or complicated tended to get postponed. Wasn’t that the way everyone was?

  ‘No,’ said Hamish. He asked Alexandra if she wanted to be consulted about details, or should he simply go ahead and organise what had to be done? He would have to talk to banks, solicitors and so on, and if Alexandra still wished him to organise the funeral, as she had suggested on the phone, he must proceed with that forthwith.

  Alexandra said Hamish was a manager by profession: let him go ahead and manage. At the moment she was all over the place: she doubted if she was in her right mind, she was sure Hamish’s judgement in most things would be better than her own. He should proceed as he thought fit.

  Hamish said he was relieved. He had a week’s bereavement leave – a right not officially accorded to siblings, but in the circumstances it had been granted. He would need all that time to get this mess tidied up and in his experience consultation multiplied by at least five the time taken to accomplish anything at all.

  ‘You creative people,’ he said, surprising her, ‘put too much store by emotion. Emotion doesn’t get things done, it doesn’t bury the dead. Love can be shown by deeds, not words.’ He trembled as he spoke.

&nb
sp; ‘Of course it can,’ said Alexandra. ‘And I am grateful to you.’ He sat down in Ned’s chair; he was the same shape and size as Ned.

  ‘I’m not a particularly creative person,’ said Alexandra. ‘I’m just on the stage. I get to be flamboyant. Ned was the truly creative one. That’s part of the tragedy. His life cut short before he could show the world what he really was! He was writing a stage play, you know, as well as everything else. But he was such a perfectionist, so self-critical when it came to original work, he found it hard. And all I had to do was say my lines and prance about –’

  But Hamish was not listening. He was already shuffling papers, with his back turned to her. It occurred to Alexandra that Hamish could have an opinion of Ned which was not altogether flattering, just as easily as Ned could have of Hamish. If Ned could say, ‘My brother? He’s a dull old stick,’ Hamish could say, ‘My brother? Resentful bastard,’ and both would have equal weight, in their own circles. The thought shook her.

  Hamish called the undertaker, Mr Lightfoot, and arranged a funeral for the following Monday. It was to be at eleven in the morning, and was to last an hour. Mr Lightfoot was to advertise the funeral in the local paper and in The Times. Hamish would decide upon the wording. He made an appointment to discuss the type of coffin required and to establish an appropriate level of costs. He called Dr Moebius and went into Eddon Gurney to collect Ned’s death certificate and register the death with the part-time Registrar’s office there, apologising for the delay. He had the certificate copied at the local stationer’s and the copies certified by Sheldon Smythe, Ned’s solicitor. All this, once accomplished, he told Alexandra.