by Fay Weldon
‘How well you cope,’ people said.
‘What alternative do I have?’ she’d ask. ‘It’s cope or die.’
Sometimes on a dark night she’d wish she’d had no children. Billy had been born when she was only twenty-two. She couldn’t remember herself at all: Ruby without children. What had she been like?
And a decade passed, and the memory faded further and then the desire to remember failed. Ruby, widow, head of a one-parent family. It would do as a definition. It contained all necessary concepts of depression, hardship, loss.
When Billy was fifteen he started grabbing his brothers and getting their heads in headlocks and bashing their faces in.
‘Better face it,’ said Margaret, ‘the boy’s disturbed.’
‘He’ll grow out of it,’ said Ruby.
Billy kept swearing at Ruby and saying she’d ruined his life.
‘You have,’ they told her at the Clinic. ‘You let his father die.’
‘What am I meant to do?’ Ruby asked.
‘Try asking his forgiveness,’ they said.
Ruby did. ‘Are you crazy?’ shouted Billy. But she thought he was better after that. He just didn’t choose to show it. Like his father, he had his pride:
Billy left school at sixteen. He hung about with friends and smoked dope and stopped beating up his brothers. He did a job here, a job there, and came back at odd hours with money in his pocket. What could she say to him? Get a proper job with a pension? Impossible to mouth the words. ‘There is no future,’ he’d say, if she tried to talk to him about it, and he’d cite nuclear winter or ecological disaster, but Ruby knew he meant the sudden full stop of his father’s death, in the arms of the girl of his dreams, who was not his mother.
In the winter of 1981 Billy got a passport and said he was going to Australia. He had met a girl from Sydney called Liz.
‘At least stay for Christmas,’ pleaded Ruby. ‘Bring Liz back as well.’ And he said he would, but he didn’t, and they cleared the two laid places and moved up the chairs and there was enough room for everyone. He sent a card from Sydney to say he and Liz were married.
‘I expect she only married him to get British citizenship,’ said Joshua. He was the one who had suffered most from the head-bashing. He was doing computer studies at a local college. ‘She couldn’t have wanted Billy.’
‘Billy’s so good-looking,’ said Jason, ‘anyone would want him. Not like me.’ He had a Mohican haircut, and his head was shaved, but the school hadn’t thrown him out.
‘They can’t throw him out,’ Ben observed. ‘If they did they’d lose Mum, and never has any woman worked so hard for so long for so little.’
Once Ben had started talking, he never stopped. Ruby wondered why she’d worried.
With Billy gone there was more space. She was astonished by how little she missed him. She was ashamed. One down and three to go. This was the pattern of Ruby’s day once Billy had gone:
At six o’clock the dog woke Ruby barking to be let out, and she’d do it, and then let the cat in (her heart had hardened) and feed both and by the time she’d done that Ben would be out in the yard kicking his football against next door’s fence—bang, bang, bang: of course they complained—and Ruby would say, ‘Ben, not so early,’ and he’d say, ‘You said it was all right after eight o’clock,’ and Ruby would say, ‘It’s only half past seven,’ and he’d say, ‘I must have dunked my watch in the bath again,’ and Ruby would give up and lay the table and make the breakfast, and pick up yesterday’s old pants and socks, and empty Joshua’s ashtray (he said he liked the smell), and say ‘Not so loud’ to Jason’s ghetto-blaster, and then Ben would come in saying he had frostbite and forget to close the door, and Ruby would ask Joshua to get in the coal and he’d say, ‘In a minute’, and she’d say, ‘Now’, and he’d say, ‘When I’ve finished my scrambled egg. There isn’t much of it,’ and Ruby would say, ‘That’s because you didn’t buy any eggs yesterday. None left for me. I can’t really have to earn the eggs, buy the eggs, cook the eggs, clear up after the eggs all by myself, can I? And not even eat the eggs?’ But the boys would not be listening. They would be reading newspapers, laughing at a story in Today, rolling over under the table with the dog (the dog had been for Billy; something to love: he’d never once taken it for a walk, never once), and their great boots were everywhere—and never mind, never mind, she loved them and they loved her, and now Billy was out of the way—callous, callous—it was at least cheerful. And then at eight fifteen they’d all leave the house (the beds unmade and the table uncleared: she got back first these days: she could do it then), and at least she’d learned to drive and had a little car, and a certain Mr Abbot took her out to dinner every now and then though Jason kicked up such a fuss it was hardly worth putting on a pair of earrings—and she was the official school secretary now and being sent on a middle-management course and she thought they might even take her on at the Education Authority—
That was winter 1981. That year Ben said, ‘I wonder why Father Christmas always looks so much like mother?’
Jason said, ‘How do you know he does?’ and Ben said, ‘Because I pinch myself to stay awake and I see from the light in the hall that Father Christmas is wearing a wig beneath the hood to make him look just like mother.’ And Ruby said finally, ‘Boys, there is no Father Christmas,’ and they all just laughed and said yes there is. And she wondered if they’d have dared, had Billy still been there.
And all of a sudden, for years creep on and over you so quickly, it was over. One by one the boys left home. There was space and peace and eggs for breakfast: even the animals calmed down: she could afford a new car: Mr Abbot could stay the night—she didn’t want to marry him: she’d been married—the video stayed unbroken, the doorframes clean; she should have been lonely and upset and feeling useless, but she wasn’t at all. She was herself again. She went to the hairdresser and finally had the grey turned into a rather expensive-looking hennaed brown. A Mr Roland vied now with Mr Abbot for her company. The three boys visited from time to time: they were all in London: they saw each other frequently. They had learned closeness: she was glad of that. She finally got her better job up at Education House. The cat died, poor old thing. She resolved not to have another, though she was tempted by kittens, of course. Who is not?
This was the pattern of Ruby’s morning once the boys had left her:
She would wake in her own time (seven fifteen on the dot, true: some life rhythms, once acquired, take decades to break), put on a silk dressing gown and impractical slippers, make herself coffee and toast (scrambled egg on Saturday and Sunday) and go back to bed to eat, watching morning television, switching over at her pleasure with an unbroken remote control. After the eight o’clock news she would get up, wash and dress (flicking through a wardrobe—deciding) and, having more than one lipstick and eye pencils that were always sharp because they hadn’t been used for telephone messages, make up her face to suit her mood. (Twice a week someone came to clean, change the sheets, empty the bins; oh, wonderful.) She would feed the tropical fish, inspect their quarters, talk to them. (Fish express their discontent quietly: of all pets they are the safest: they seldom pine: they are either well and happy or totally dead, floating belly-upwards, their erstwhile friends eating their innards.) At eight forty-five she would leave the house, calmly, and be at work at nine o’clock, to meet friends and colleagues with whom she got on well and for whom she had no moral responsibility.
Ruby rejoiced in her reward, so long in coming; this apparent happy ending.
But a manner of living, once yours, tends to be yours for ever. If the tide seems to stand still it is only illusion. It is on the turn, that’s all. Back it comes. The crest of the wave becomes the trough, the trough the crest, in and in to shore. In the winter of 1988, three years into Ruby’s quiet life, something happened.
Ruby received a letter from Social Services at Hounslow. Social Services said a young Australian—who named herself as Liz but would give no f
urther information—had deposited small female twins at their offices, saying England should have them. The father, who according to Liz was English, had abandoned the family some years back: Liz did not see why his nation should get away with it. She did not want them: she had never wanted them. She named Ruby as grandmother, gave her address, and left. Could Hounslow Social Services make an appointment to see her? The girls, now in temporary care, were aged (they thought) perhaps five or six.
‘No,’ wrote Ruby, fervently and swiftly. ‘No! Not on your nelly!’
They came anyway. None so determined as Social Services in search of a home for one stray child, let alone two. Ruby was their only hope. What did Ruby want for her grandchildren? Foster homes?
‘Foster homes!’ said Ruby. ‘You’ve put your finger on it. That’s exactly what I want.’ And weakening just a little, ‘Perhaps just one foster home. Twins! They wouldn’t want to be separated.’
Social Services shrugged. Hard to organize. Ruby gritted her teeth (she was about to get them capped) and stood firm.
‘Good lord,’ Ruby said, ‘who do you think I am? Some kind of all-purpose mothering agent? Besides,’ she said cunningly, ‘there is no proof whatsoever these are my son’s children,’ and she sent Social Services packing, or thought she did.
Joshua, Jason and Ben were shocked. Of course they were.
‘Callous,’ they said. ‘Mum, how can you. You just disowned poor Billy. This is your chance to make up for it.’
‘The way your father died was enough to make anyone callous,’ she said before she could stop herself.
They wanted to hear more but she wouldn’t say more. She scarcely understood herself.
‘Why won’t you take your little grandchildren in,’ they asked.
‘They’d fill your life up. You must be so lonely. We worry about you.’
‘My life is more than well enough filled up and I am not lonely.’
The boys wouldn’t have it. ‘Flesh is deeper than water,’ they said.
‘What you mean’, said Ruby, ‘is that blood is thicker than water, but I never understood what that meant and don’t intend to start now.’
The boys claimed to feel relieved that she’d buried the dog when it died; not just dumped its poor old body in the bin. Callous! They’d never known their mother like this: capable of any cruelty, any irresponsibility.
‘I can’t possibly,’ said Ruby. ‘I’d have to give up my job. And supposing I failed with them the way I failed with your father, failed with Billy?’
‘But you didn’t.’ They were astounded. ‘Billy was just born like that.’ She all but took offence. So she’d made no difference, had she? Wasted a life cooking, cleaning, rushing to catch the bus—
‘You take them in’, she said, ‘if you feel so strongly about blood and water.’ That shook them. They pleaded youth, college, freedom, domestic incompetence, of course they did. The last plea in the list was true enough. They couldn’t even cook. Her fault. She should somehow have found time to let them make a mess of things: they told her so.
Ruby stretched her manicured toes languidly in the warmth of the central heating. ‘Never, never, never,’ she said. But Christmas was coming, wasn’t it, the dangerous time of the year.
‘Just for Christmas,’ said Social Services, who knew they’d get her in the end. ‘Poor little girls! They’re pining for each other. Oh yes, separated now: one’s in Lancashire, one’s in Devon, and both now showing behavioural problems. Disturbed.’
‘Headlocking? Bashing? Head-butting?’
‘Good Lord no. We’re talking little girls, not adolescent boys. Both too quiet and good for comfort.’
‘One week,’ said Ruby. ‘One week, that’s all.’
Judith and Jane, on the doorstep. They looked at her with Jack’s eyes: two quiet good little girls with red hair like their father’s. She felt spiteful towards them: she couldn’t help it. Or were they Billy’s eyes, not Jack’s? Wasn’t that even worse? Reproachful—why did you forget me? Aren’t I your son, your flesh and blood as well? Why won’t you grieve for me? See, I’ve left my children in my place, for you to do better. But this was stupid: they weren’t Jack’s eyes or Billy’s eyes; they were just the eyes of any lost children who’d been taken here, left there, separated, joined, parted, not knowing why they were, who they were, in the end losing even the desire to know: children with shallow minds and empty hearts, without resonance: bright eyes growing duller year by year: causing work, work, work for whoever looked after them, and never a moment’s peace.
Ruby slept badly on Christmas Eve. Children’s noises woke her in the night. She was angry. She’d had enough of all that. She went into the living room, whence the noises came. Stop it, stop it, stop it! Her heart beat fast and furious.
Judith and Jane sat on the floor staring at the fireplace, waiting.
Judith had a dustbin lid and carving fork; Jane had the frying-pan lid and the carving knife. Their little eyes were fierce and eager.
They were together, intent, as one.
‘What are you two doing out of bed? Go back at once!’
‘We’re waiting for this Father Christmas,’ said Judith, unmoved.
‘He’s not allowed to come in,’ said Jane firmly. ‘This horrid person.’
‘But he brings presents,’ said Ruby. Did they know nothing?
‘They’re only pretend,’ said Judith. ‘He dresses up as other people. Uncle Jason said so.’
‘No one asks him in, he just comes,’ said Jane, ‘all black with soot, Uncle Joshua said so.’
‘We’ll get him, we’ll kill him,’ said Judith.
‘We won’t let him in here. It’s nice here,’ said Jane. They both wore chainstore pyjamas, washed-out, faded, ironed into flatness.
Brand-new mothers, same old story. Wash and wear.
‘The nerve of it,’ said Judith. ‘Coming in where he’s not wanted. When he should be at home with his wife. Uncle Ben said so.’
‘Dirty old man,’ said Jane, ‘that’s all he is.’
And they whetted their weapons on their tiny thighs, and gazed at the blank black chimney, their small midnight faces fervent, as they waited for the deceiver, the imposter, the divider of lives.
‘This won’t do,’ said Ruby. ‘Not at all. I have this special relationship with Father Christmas. He’s my friend. I won’t have him spoken of like this.’
And that was the end of Ruby. The little girls stayed, if only to learn better. One week became two, two weeks became months, months became years. And the terrible thing was, no one seemed in the least surprised, not Social Services, not Ben, not Jason, not Joshua, not even Billy, who actually one day sent a letter, to which Ruby replied, in affectionate terms, in pencil because she couldn’t find a pen.
Ruby said to Margaret, ‘Some women are born mothers, some women become mothers, and some have motherhood thrust upon them. I struggled against it all my life, but I think the truth is I was probably born to it. I don’t do badly, I don’t do well, I just do it.’
Merry Christmas, young and old, and may all your endings be as happy!
THREE TALES OF COUNTRY LIFE
A Move to the Country
CASEY GREEN PACED HIS living room and said, ‘I can’t go on like this.’ He was six foot three and lanky with it, and his knees were somehow loosely hinged, and his living room was fourteen feet in one direction and ten in another, so his pacing seemed rather like that of a man in a prison cell, for all he was so comfortably at home.
‘Can’t go on like what, my dear?’ asked Miranda Green, his wife. Miranda was five foot four and slightly built, and she could have paced quite comfortably, but didn’t bother to. She perched on her stool at their breakfast bar, elegant—though scarcely long—legs crossed neatly at the ankles. It was 1974. Mini skirts were still half in and half out: Miranda kept hers two inches above the knee. She had good knees.
‘Living in the city,’ replied Casey Green, and the six adult yellow budgerigars in the
big cage on the inner wall chorused their approval and the eight baby chicks tweeted to keep them company. It isn’t everyone who can persuade budgies to be fertile, but Casey managed. Miranda didn’t care for the somehow fusty smell that so many birds in a room create, but she liked Casey to be happy.
‘Casey’s my pet,’ she’d say to friends. ‘Casey’s all the pet I need,’ and so he seemed to be. Spiritually she combed and groomed him, and spiritually he preened. Casey and Miranda. They didn’t have cats or dogs for fear of making the budgies nervous, though Hattie, their daughter, had recently come home from Hampstead Fair with a goldfish which they’d had to house. Goldfish are not happy in bowls, going round and round gazing at nothing: life in a prison: eternal boredom. Goldfish have to have tanks and water weeds and company: they need events, like anyone else: like all living creatures. Even an earthworm enjoys a challenge: an especially crusty piece of soil to penetrate: you can tell by the squirm of its tail. So Casey said. The goldfish had so far cost £43 to keep happy, and that was back in ’74.
‘I can’t go on like this,’ said Casey Green in May of ’74. ‘I can’t go on living in the city.’
‘Where else is there to live?’ asked Miranda Green, in astonishment. It was 5 May to be precise. OPEC was getting its act together.
‘In the country,’ said her husband.
‘Oh, Casey,’ said Miranda, before she could stop herself. ‘What a terrible idea!’ Then she went off to her job as editor of a women’s magazine. She wasn’t very good at the job: rumour had it it was only hers because she’d had an affair with Astro Aster, the publishing tycoon. A totally unfair and untrue rumour, of course: but monogamy in those days was rare and a little unfashionable. All the same, the circulation of Miranda’s magazine was dropping.
And Casey went off to his job as head of a design firm whose ideas were in worldwide demand, and got his secretary Wendy Dove to find him lists of country properties for sale.
‘The country!’ said Wendy Dove, who was five foot nine and what you might call strongly built, and wore trousers all through the era of mini skirts. ‘What a lovely idea! If only I could afford not to live in the city! But what makes the country so nice is that there are no people in it, and the reason there are no people in it is because there are no jobs.’
