‘You promise to keep count . . . of the bodies, I mean?’ Veronica asked her sister.
‘Even if we get into double figures,’ Fee replied solemnly.
Veronica gave her a sharp look but Fee was already on the move.
‘Follow me,’ she instructed, waving her hand, as if leading a posse.
Fee was a child again. She was with her father outside the garden hut, as they both rode their imaginary horses, always the rescuers, never the rescued.
Alec Clarke spotted the two women as they manouevred behind the baby grand piano, skirted round the shocking-pink love seat, passed the large portrait Les had commissioned of his wife and laced their way across the large room, now full of guests.
He bore down on them fast. Alec made it his business to bear down on Fiona Travers at every family occasion. He was her third cousin, a bachelor, thirty-seven years old but middle-aged from birth; a creature of habit since the womb. Routine was his religion.
Alec read Horse and Hound and the Sun. At home, he was cared for by Mrs Rogers, who had ‘done’ for the family for a legendary amount of time, a woman who knew the importance of a suet pudding in a working man’s life.
Alec was intelligent; he could talk EU fanning regulations better than most. He enjoyed a pint or two with the lads; he dabbled in a bit of shooting; he never felt the need to holiday. Alec was a very contented man, except for one concern.
He was the fourth and last generation of Clarkes and he needed an heir. Therefore, being a conventional sort of a chap, he required a wife. Romance was not a sport in which he had much interest or expertise. So, fifteen years ago, he had settled on Fee because she was a good enough sort. It was taking longer than he’d anticipated but he knew that she would see sense eventually.
‘Better the devil you know . . . eh?’ was one of his many attempts at wooing Fee.
Recently, however, a small niggle had entered his mind. Perhaps Fee had passed the best age for child-bearing?
‘Fiona,’ Alec bellowed. He stood between Fee, Veronica and the escape offered by the front door. He gave Fee a bear hug. ‘Your ma says you could do with a bit of company.’
Fee and Veronica looked at each other.
‘Kill,’ Fee ordered Veronica crisply.
‘It doesn’t happen like that,’ Veronica replied, glaring at Alec. ‘It’s not something I can do when I want. It happens when I don’t want—’
‘Not now, Alec,’ Fee said curtly.
Veronica and Fee arrived at the sitting-room door, majestic with its stained-glass panel of a Spanish galleon, the name Veronica just visible on the hull. There was still no sign of Les.
Suddenly, the doorbell chimed.
Veronica dropped to the floor as if pounded by a concrete block.
‘It’s Amy next door. They’ve come to tell me I’ve hurt her. I know I have . . . I ruin everything, everybody . . . I’m useless, no good for anything, nothing at all . . . I’m dead wood. Just dead wood,’ Veronica sobbed.
Fee knelt by her sister while Alec answered the door. Amy Court-Smith, fifty-ish, holding a christening present and dressed expensively and effectively in cherry red, with matching umbrella, hovered uncertainly on the step.
‘Come on, Veronica,’ Fee encouraged her sister to sit up. It was the first time she had witnessed the extent of Veronica’s distress – and she was angry. Not at Veronica, but at the possessiveness which, she suspected, had brought Veronica to this.
‘Amy isn’t dead, you haven’t killed her. You haven’t killed anyone. Amy’s here, look,’ Fee attempted to coax Veronica who, so far, was refusing to open her eyes.
Amy Court-Smith had become a neighbour when Veronica and Les first moved into the house seven years earlier (paid for by the surprising success of Les’s seared tuna with cranberry sauce and red onions on muesli bread). Amy had quickly ascertained that Les only had eyes for Veronica, but she continued to enjoy the challenge.
Now, she remained glued to the doorstep. As if unsure of the etiquette once you find yourself unexpectedly raised from the dead.
‘It is me, Veronica, alive and kicking,’ she sang out. ‘Not at all deceased. Not at all.’
Fee used her cuff to gently wipe Veronica’s tears, as her sister used to do when Fee was a toddler.
‘Don’t cry, Veronica, please don’t cry,’ she whispered softly.
‘No, you’ll only upset yourself,’ Amy Court-Smith smiled brightly.
‘Don’t you mean, “You’ll only get more upset”?’ Alec suggested pedantically. ‘I mean, she’s already upset, so if you say—’ he laboured.
‘Shut up and go away, Alec,’ Fee commanded, ‘NOW, please,’ she added as Alec proved reluctant to move.
‘Why not show Amy where to leave her wet things?’ Fee suggested.
‘Oh, I know all that,’ Amy replied, then read Fee’s face. ‘Oh, I get the point, yes . . . Alec, wasn’t it? Yes, why don’t you show me where to put my coat? Goodness me, you’re a very well-built young man,’ she added, placing a well-manicured hand on the sleeve of Alec’s Viyella shirt.
When they had gone, Fee sat on the hall floor next to Veronica, who had her back to the wall, legs curled up under her. The light pouring through the stained-glass window dappled her face, darkening the shadows under her eyes and hollowing her cheeks.
‘Veronica, this has to stop,’ Fee spoke softly. ‘You’ve got so much, you really have. You’re a terrific mother, Les worships you, you’re the best sister I could possibly have . . . And now Samantha and little Les are off your hands, you can go anywhere, do anything . . . you can start again. Veronica . . .? All you’ve got to do is get a grip. Pull yourself together.’
‘That’s what they all say,’ Veronica answered bleakly.
Fifteen minutes later, Veronica, now calmer, repaired her make-up in her bedroom.
‘Look at this,’ she instructed Fee. She opened a wardrobe door to reveal a stack of shoeboxes, each neatly labelled to indicate the colour of the contents.
She pulled out a box labelled ‘Beige’, opened it and emptied the contents on the bed. Several bottles of pills fell out.
‘I’m supposed to be taking them,’ she explained flatly. ‘Les thinks I am. So does Mum. But I won’t. At least this way, I’m still the me I’ve grown used to . . . If I take them, I won’t know who the hell I am . . .’
‘What do you think might work instead?’ Fee asked.
She couldn’t see her sister’s face, because she was looking down, apparently concentrating on making patterns with the pill bottles on the counterpane. Silence. Then Veronica very quietly replied. ‘I really don’t know any more. Probably nothing . . . It’s probably just me—’ She shrugged, her eyes filling with tears again. Fee felt fear.
Fear for her sister – and some trepidation for herself. Both, in different ways, drifting on a raft constructed of other people’s decisions. Veronica was much further downstream than Fee; much more entangled in the expectation of others. So much so that Veronica appeared not to know that she had a right to achieve something more for herself than others were prepared to permit.
Fee picked up one of the silver-framed photographs on Veronica’s dressing-table. It showed her at fourteen in a pale-green bridesmaid’s dress, with Veronica in her twenties, standing beside her, a maid of honour and dressed in a deeper greer. Two runner beans in front of a church porch.
Veronica managed a small smile. ‘It was the day you found out the truth about Vera, do you remember? You were so pleased with yourself—’
Fee picked up a second framed photograph. It was of their father in his early forties, standing awkwardly by the mantelpiece in the family sitting room, dressed as a cowboy with a check shirt, fringed waistcoat and a stetson in his hands. Helen stood by his side, also in fancy dress; a self-conscious Lady of Spain with a spectacular mantilla.
‘Do you remember the row?’ Fee asked. ‘Mum wanted Dad to go to the party as a matador and he refused point blank. He said no woman was forcing him into a
pair of tights. And she asked why did he always put himself out to disappoint her.’
Veronica gave a small laugh. ‘They started rowing again when Elizabeth was taking that picture. And Dad told Mum she could have him as Wyatt Earp or bloody nothing at all . . . so Mum said, “Why change what you’re used to? I’ll have what I usually get from you, nothing at all.”’ Veronica was laughing unnaturally hard now and Fee found herself joining in.
Veronica continued, trying unsuccessfully to control her amusement. ‘Do you remember . . . in front of us all, Dad suddenly took all his clothes off and stood starkers in the sitting room with only his stetson for decency. He told Mum, “You want nothing, you’ve got nothing.” And he wouldn’t get dressed again until she’d gone out without him.
‘You must have been about four at the time, Fee, and you thought it was the best fun. You ran out in the garden and shouted over the fence at the neighbours, “Our Dad’s starkers in the front room”. And Mrs Harris had said, “But it’s only seven o’clock.”
‘It’s the only time I can remember Dad making a real stand against our Mum—’ Veronica added wistfully. ‘He should have done it more often—’
‘Why?’ Fee jumped off the bed where she had been sitting cross-legged and grabbed her sister’s hands.
‘Why what?’ Veronica asked, puzzled.
‘Why should he have done it more often?’
Veronica shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know, it might have done him a power of good now and then. He should’ve shaken Mum up every so often. And himself come to that. He used to tell us, “Go for it, cowboy,” but he didn’t listen to his own advice much, did he?’
‘So why don’t you make a stand? Why don’t you tell Les what you’d really like to do – and go for it?’ Fee asked.
Veronica blinked some tears away. ‘I have tried . . . It’s just not as easy as you make it sound. I mean, I’m actually quite happy. Look, Fee, I’m an ordinary sort of person. I haven’t got it in me to suddenly start changing my life—’
‘Oh yes, you have,’ Fee replied firmly. ‘And I’m sure Les would—’
She was interrupted by her mother’s excited voice. ‘Fee, are you up there?’ she trilled. ‘It’s Adam. He wants to speak to you. Says he’s got something important to ask you – again. Take it on the bedroom phone.’
Fee picked up the telephone, and listened for a few minutes. Then she said, ‘Of course, I’ll tell the family. They’ll be the first to know.’
An hour later, Veronica was back circulating the christening party with plates of finger food. The sun had belatedly come out, so guests had moved into the garden. The extended family and friends admired the newly installed Japanese waterfall and Canadian-teak pagoda (both funded by sliced roast lamb and asparagus with redcurrant jelly on warm mint bread).
Fee had consumed a large amount of champagne and was now holding her godson, while his parents described his mental agility.
‘A clever boy, a very clever boy,’ said his father.
‘Takes after you,’ offered Emily, loyally. Then she turned to Fee. ‘Are you ready, Godmum?’ she asked.
‘Totally prepared,’ Fee replied. She carefully handed Nelson Charles back to his mother, now hot but happy in angora. Then, she took another sip of champagne. Les clapped his hands to gain the assembled company’s attention. Fee spoke.
‘Welcome, everyone, to this charming occasion. Thank you too, to Les and Veronica for their hospitality and congratulations to the proud parents, Emily and Peter.’ Fee raised her glass in an informal toast.
‘He is a gorgeous baby,’ Fee said, more out of duty than admiration. Everyone in the circle around her nodded vigorously in agreement.
‘But actually I don’t want to talk about christenings. I want to talk about me.’
The muted conversations halted abruptly.
Fee clambered unsteadily on to one of Les’s garden chairs. She stood upright, and said, ‘I have an announcement to make.’
Helen raised her eyebrows at Les, smiled and mouthed one word, ‘Adam?’
She congratulated herself. Her patience had paid off. Soon, she would have three sons-in-law in the fold.
Fee gave her mother a broad smile and continued, ‘I have an announcement to make about which I am very, very happy. If my dear old dad were here, I’d be happier still.’
Helen gave a little turn and a regal half-wave, to the assembled company, savouring her moment.
‘Congratulations!’ Les yelled out and there was a ripple of applause.
‘Who’s the lucky man, then?’ came a shout from the begonias.
‘There is no man,’ Fee began again. She beamed and gestured with her glass for a refill.
Silence descended on the group. Surely to God, not a second Vera . . .?
‘And,’ Fee paused, enjoying the suspense, ‘there is no woman either. But I do have a number of people to thank for the situation in which I now find myself.’
Helen could feel her heart beating faster. Pregnant? Her one unmarried daughter couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could she? Disappointment rose from her like dust from a beaten carpet.
Fee pressed on. ‘My sister Veronica, her husband Les, Adam, Paul, even Alec here, probably Emily, definitely Horatio—’
‘Nelson,’ Emily interjected crossly. ‘Nelson, he’s called Nelson. Not bloody Horatio.’
Fee smiled warmly.
‘My thanks to my dad, Jim, who was the first to show me that principles aren’t just for cowboys. And, above all, my appreciation to my mother Helen, who has contributed more to my decision than she can possibly know.’
Fee took a deep breath.
‘From this day forth, I, Fiona Constance Travers, am a fully fledged unrepentant spinster. I am putting myself on the shelf – permanently.
‘I am no longer interested in the hunt. I will no longer seek out Prince Charming. I will no longer spend my days in limbo waiting for the right man, the right moment, the right reaction, the right proposal—
‘I am now no longer “between men”. I may have male companions. I may even, one day, have occasional sexual partners.’ Fee could see her mother cover her face with her hands. ‘But, for the foreseeable future, I intend to abstain. Get it out of my system, clear the head, you know the kind of thing I mean—’
‘Poor girl,’ Elizabeth whispered sympathetically to Charlie. ‘Nobody’s interested any more. Still,’ she added, almost enviously, ‘she’s had a bloody good run for her money.’ Charlie gave his wife a sharp look.
‘I can hear that you are speechless with delight on my behalf’ Fee smiled. ‘But I vow before you here and now that, just as many of you have worked hard at marriage – and let’s be honest about it – worked hard with varying degrees of success, so I intend to work equally hard at being single.
‘One purpose of this announcement is so that you can share in my happiness. I’m sure one or two of you,’ she looked in her mother’s direction, ‘one or two of you might be interested to know that, yes, I have been asked for my hand in marriage. Three days ago, to be precise. And, this afternoon, I refused that proposal for a second time.
‘Another purpose for this announcement is to make clear that none of you are under any obligation to fix me up.
‘I have finally fixed myself—’
A few minutes later, Fee walked unsteadily towards the house in search of more alcohol to celebrate the launch of her maiden flight. Her relatives seemed unsure how to react. What do you say to a woman who has, as it were, shelved herself?
Sorry? Well done? Never mind?
Emily had run off in tears, justifiably upset that she – or rather Nelson – had been robbed of the limelight.
‘It’s not as if he’s going to get christened twice,’ she’d sobbed. And to think Emily had only asked Fiona to be godmother as a sort of consolation prize because she didn’t seem to have anything that mattered in her life . . .
‘That is it,’ Emily vowed. ‘I’ll never feel sorry for a woman on her o
wn again. It’s true what everyone says, they only take advantage.’
As Fee moved into Veronica’s and Les’s turquoise and marble Italian-fitted kitchen, in search of a drink, she spotted her mother’s rear end sticking out of the oven.
‘It’s not gas, it’s electric, you know,’ Fee suggested lightly.
‘Of course I know,’ Helen replied testily, carefully withdrawing her head so as not to disturb the iron ruts and mini-peaks that were her newly styled hairdo.
‘I’m just giving Veronica a hand with the cooking. She likes her mother’s help in the kitchen,’ she added pointedly.
Fee poured herself and her mother champagne. Helen, normally teetotal, swallowed most of it in seconds. Then she hoisted herself up on to a particularly vicious-looking wire stool, a sieve on legs, by the breakfast bar, and tackled her daughter.
‘All this . . . stuff—’ she began. ‘It is a joke, isn’t it? A bit of nonsense? You don’t mean it, do you? I’ve read about it in the magazines. You stop looking and then it happens—’
‘No,’ Fee answered firmly. ‘I’ve stopped looking so it won’t happen. Look, I’m being sensible. You’d approve of that,’ Fee smiled enigmatically at her mother.
‘Of course I can probably find a man to marry me,’ she continued, ‘but he’ll either bore me to death or I’ll end up like Veronica. If I can’t trust myself to make a good choice, then I won’t make a choice at all—’
‘Too fussy. I’ve said it before, I’ll say it again—’ Helen interrupted. ‘Expectations way, way too high. I knew it. I just knew, you’d be the one to let me down. What’s wrong with making do? You couldn’t say that your father and I were happy all the time but—’
‘You weren’t happy any of the time,’ Fee interjected sharply, then continued in an even tone, ‘And I don’t want that. I can and have been perfectly content living by myself. What can a man give me that I can’t give myself?’
Helen fell silent but her fingers betrayed her agitation. Fee watched as her mother carefully shredded a paper doily, letting the pieces fall into a pile like a small funeral pyre.
The Trouble with Single Women Page 6
