by Fay Weldon
“Told you so,” said Lady Rice.
“Tully’s like Edwin,” said Jelly. “He may move slowly, but he thinks quickly. He saw your eyebrows rise.”
“It’s ridiculous,” said Tully. “Two old people living for nothing, and in squalid conditions, in a space you could fit two hundred!”
“Planning permission won’t be too much of a problem,” said Sara. “It’s a Grade II listed building but Tully has such good friends in the Ministry of Heritage.”
Lady Rice was sorry she’d invited the Toffeners: teeth were being gritted and even the dogs were looking wearily out of their sleep-hooded eyes. But it was like being back in the old days, when the ire of the group was projected towards outsiders, not turned inward.
The guests had moved into the dining hall—the occasion being too formal for kitchen eating. Lady Rice was serving the lobster bisque when there came a ring at the great front door. The bell echoed harshly to the vaulted timber ceiling, which was these days lyrically described in the Guide to the Cowarth Estates Handbook. Family friends and guests normally used one of the humbler and lighter side doors.
“Trouble,” said Jelly.
“I can’t hear you,” said Lady Rice.
“Blind, deaf and dumb,” said Jelly. “I don’t know how you get through your day.”
“What was I to do?” asked Mrs. MacArthur later, deprived of her normal composure and gentility. “That bell rings, you answer it. No mistake! I thought it would be Anthea, had a riding accident or run out of whisky. Or I wouldn’t have answered it.”
Mrs. MacArthur had to unplug and unlink various security devices to open the great carved door. Once, in more innocent days, the door had stood half-open day and night, all summer long. Only an inrush of winter cold ever led to its closing. But now thieves were everywhere, who knew who came and went amongst the visitors? The Handbook referred to the value of everything: tarnished silver had been polished and dull gold made known for what it was; what looked like Woolworth’s fake Chinese turned out to be fourth century B.C. Korean, so now the guards stood at the door by day, and at dusk the visitors would be shooed away and it would be closed and the alarm system activated. Robert Jellico even wanted the gentle Labradors replaced by German shepherds but Edwin would have none of it, and Anthea had told Lady Rice that Robert Jellico was a bear of very little brains let alone breeding or he wouldn’t have said such a thing. One did not trade in one’s dogs as if they were cars or wives.
“She’s dangerous—careful,” said Jelly.
“For God’s sake,” said. Lady Rice. “She’s old, and a family friend. In fact, she is family.”
Anthea lived in the Dower House next to Cowarth Castle and was a distant cousin of Edwin’s, and ten years older than he. She had a splendid-booted, narrow-waisted figure and a raddled, out-of-doors, wind-toughened face and a voice made husky and attractive by drink and exercise. She did not involve herself in what she referred to as Angelica’s bohemerie, being more at home with the Castle’s hunting and braying set, as she dismissively but affectionately called them. She would sweep into Rice Court by day or night, regardless of inconvenience to the keepers at the gate, calling, “Bingo! … Solo!”—the dogs—and as often or not “Stupid!” as well, by whom she meant Edwin, who would appear dutifully like a third dumb beast for his long, healthy walk.
But when Mrs. MacArthur opened the door on that evening, it was not Anthea who stood there, but Natalie. Natalie pushed her to one side and walked into the dining room. Soup spoons froze—only Tully Toffener continued eating, fishing the yellowy soup for morsels of lobster flesh.
Natalie was also dressed in black; but black as in shroud, not elegance. Hollow eyes stared from a gaunt face. Once she’d been plump, lively and smiling. Susan maintained that Natalie liked to make the most of her misfortunes, and the consensus had come to be that she did: that her hollow eyes were as much the result of smudged kohl as distress. Barley society, these days, taking their lead from Susan, maintained that times were changing, that it was folly to believe that wives owned husbands, or husbands wives. If one or the other lost interest in the arrangement, fell out of love or into it, that was that. Everyone must try to behave well, not let bitterness spoil social engagements or interfere with the children’s education.
And here Natalie now was, bent apparently on justifying the suspicions of her critics, self-pitying and worse, out of touch, advancing upon Edwin and Angelica’s dinner table. Now she swept the very spoon out of Susan’s hand. A splodge of hot lobster soup landed on Susan’s brow. Edwin was on his feet at once, restraining a struggling Natalie, who was trying to strangle Susan.
“Bitch, bitch!” yelled Natalie, as well as she could for Edwin’s vast hand around her throat.
“Get this cow off me!” Susan shrieked, or tried to shriek.
Now Clive tried to rescue Natalie from Edwin’s clasp. Everyone was on their feet except the Toffeners, who tried to pretend that nothing untoward was happening, and the Stephenses: she kept her eyes closed and he held her hand.
Naggard said, over and over, “Look here, look here!” Hannah
Letchworth made little moaning noises.
“Leave my wife alone, you bastard fornicator,” shouted Clive at Edwin. Edwin, surprised, let go of Natalie. Natalie let Susan go. Susan’s hand went to her throat, to her face, where a blob of yellow soup still remained.
“If you’ve bruised me, if you’ve scarred me, I shall sue,” said Susan. Edwin dipped his napkin in sparkling water and gently removed the mess from Susan’s brow.
Natalie looked disgusted and turned on Lady Rice.
“Why don’t you do something about him and her, you idiot!” she said.
“What’s she talking about?” Lady Rice asked Jelly, frightened, but Jelly seemed to have gone off duty. Lady Rice was alone.
“None of you English women have the least idea how to look after your husbands,” said Susan.
“If you lost him, you deserved to, Natalie, you self-pitying, frigid bitch.” Natalie sat down in the spare chair. Mrs. MacArthur laid her a place and gave her some soup and some bread. She left the soup but ate the bread. Edwin suddenly laughed and said to Susan, “Jesus, Susan, you’re a troublesome child.”
Everyone laughed in relief. Mrs. Stephens opened her eyes. Clive remarked, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. I apologize for Natalie.”
Sara Toffener said, “That was a good entrance, Natalie!” Tully Toffener said, as if he were a child, “Any seconds of soup?” Natalie said, “Itemized telephone bills are a boon to domestic understanding.”
Susan said, “What do you mean, Natalie?”
Natalie said, “I have yours, Susan, for the last three months. Margaret gave them to me.” Susan said, “She’s fired.”
Natalie said, “She’s left already. She’s tired of you sleeping around and slapping your children about, and then complaining she hasn’t dusted the tops of the doors. As for you, Clive, when you’re busy taking Lambert’s children to school, Susan’s on the phone to guess who? Her first husband, the artist, Alan Adliss. And she meets him once a week, on Tuesday evenings, at Royston Car Park.” Clive said to Susan, “But that’s when you go to Philosophy class.” Lady Rice said, “I hear Alan Adliss is having a major retrospective at the Tate.”
Tully Toffener said, “Of course, my ambition is to be Minister of the Arts, but don’t tell Robert Jellico.”
Susan said, “Natalie has flipped her lid. She suffers from vaginismus, poor thing. Most uncomfortable for any sexual partner. Abstinence has driven her mad.”
Lady Rice said, “Tell you what, shall we call this dinner party off? Just all of us go home, everyone?”
Natalie said, “The point is, Clive, Susan just keeps you as a babysitter while she waits for Mr. Next. I’m sorry for the current Mrs. Adliss: she doesn’t stand a chance.”
Sara Toffener, who, as it transpired, had drunk more champagne than anyone, said, “There’s no need to rely on one’s vagin
a. One can simply bypass it. Apparently men go to prostitutes because then they can do it, you know, the other way. And then men get sort of addicted.”
Tully Toffener said, “You’ve drunk more than enough, Sara,” and huffed and puffed, and explained that his wife did charity work in the East End.
Sara Toffener asked, as if she really wanted to know, “Is that the secret of your success with men, Susan? One longs to know.”
“I’m going home,” said Susan. “Clive, take me home.”
“I have something to show you, Clive,” said Natalie. And she put photos down on the table. There, in a car-park setting, a car. There on the front seat Susan’s head of blonde hair, buried in the famous artist’s lap: he with an expression of mesmerized distraction on his face. “I suppose in a public car-park that’s about all you can do,” said Sara Toffener, “until after dark at any rate.”
“Clive,” said Natalie to her ex-husband, “now will you please take me home and stop leaping about like Susan’s pet poodle?”
Without a further look at Susan, Clive took Natalie away. Susan sat stunned. Then tears came to Susan’s eyes, but whether of grief, shock or outrage, genuine or contrived, who was to say? Mrs. MacArthur cleared the soup and brought in chicken, salad, and pommes dauphin. Edwin put his arm round Susan; he at any rate assumed she needed comforting. Lady Rice caught just a glimpse of a look from Susan before Susan tearfully buried her head in Edwin’s shoulder, as Susan made sure that Lady Rice understood that she, Lady Rice, was finally defeated.
“Take me home now,” said Susan to Edwin, and Edwin excused himself to his wife, and guests, and did so.
“But I need you to carve,” said Lady Rice, woefully. Her husband didn’t hear.
“This is a divorcing matter,” said Jelly.
“He’s just being a good host,” said Lady Rice.
“Pull the other one,” said Jelly.
Lady Rice carved the chicken herself, though Tully Toffener offered. Then she passed food round. Still Edwin did not return. Mory and Hannah Letchworth, who both designed fabrics, came to life and made everyone move up their chairs so the two blank spaces weren’t so obvious, and started prattling about craft fairs; and Harry and Cynthia Stephens, who ran the Barley bookshop, chattered about publishing, and Eric Naggard, the TV director, the extra man who makes a dinner party go, talked about take-over bids in the industry.
All left in due course with cries of “lovely evening, darling: nothing like a little real life drama! Give our love to Edwin when” (by inference “if”) “he gets back,” and so on, and Lady Rice became aware almost for the first time that envy and resentment interwove others’ liking for her. Lady Rice was too pretty, too young, too favored by fortune, too (once upon a time) successful and rich, too happy with Edwin—or was that in the past, she could hardly remember; how did the present become the past: at what juncture?—to enjoy the unadulterated support of others. They were happy when she was cast down.
Lady Rice wept and Mrs. MacArthur helped her to bed. For once,
Lady Rice was grateful for her presence.
“I told you she was trouble,” said Mrs. MacArthur. “You young women are such fools. Some women are born marriage-breakers.
They ought to be stoned to death.”
“But everyone likes Susan,” moaned Lady Rice. “Everyone likes to; be in Susan’s company. Why is Edwin taking so long?”
“Because I expect he likes to be in her company, too,” said Mrs.
MacArthur tartly. “She comes round here too often for my liking. Especially when you’re out. Lady Anthea’s a different matter. She’s family. And she’s too old for him anyway.”
Edwin returned home just after three.
“I had to calm Susan down,” he said. “But she’s very angry with you, Angelica.”
“Angry with me?” Angelica was astonished.
“You set the whole thing up, one presumes. Told your friend Natalie you’d invited Susan.”
“I did no such thing,” said Angelica. “Have you gone mad? I didn’t set anything up. I was doing what you wanted.”
“Don’t hide behind me,” said Edwin. “Someone has to have told Natalie. You’ve had it in for Susan for a long time. You’ve even suspected me of sleeping with her, which hurts her very much and it certainly insults me. You’ve done untold damage to Susan and her children. What are we going to do with you, Angelica?”
Edwin undressed and slipped into bed beside his wife. His body, which should have been cold from the journey home, was warm. He lay still for a moment and then pulled her out of bed roughly, propelled her across the room and stood her against a wall, and possessed her, careless of her pleasure or composure, as if she was some girl he’d met in a pub and the master bedroom of Rice Court was an alleyway.
“You’re easy enough with other men,” he said, “to all accounts. You’re only ever reluctant with me. Why?”
She was too surprised to say anything; too hurt, too proud, and—discovering she had enjoyed this assault on her dignity almost to the point of orgasm—too alarmed to protest. She got back into bed; he lay at the far side of it without touching.
“God, you’re a bitch,” he said, and then he fell asleep. To her own surprise, so did she.
(16)
Friends
LADY RICE, CRAVEN, CALLED Susan the next day. “Susan, what’s the matter?” she said. “I thought we were friends. It’s ridiculous to suggest to Edwin that I set you up. I trust you; why can’t you trust me? I don’t even object if Edwin takes you home mid-dinner party and doesn’t come home till three. Much. What have I ever done to you, except be supportive, speak up for you, take your side—surely, after everything—”
“I don’t know what ‘everything’ you’re talking about,” Susan said. “I’ve never needed your support. Why should I need speaking up for? But we all have to pick and choose in life, don’t we? And some friends suit for a time, and then don’t. So we have to discard them. I hope you don’t think I’m being brutal. But that was no favor you did me last night. I no longer count you as a friend.”
“So long as you discard Edwin as well,” said Angelica, “not just me.”
“There you go again, Angelica,” said Susan. “This is exactly what I mean. You’ve changed. You used to be good fun but you’ve become a jealous and closety sort of person. As for me and Edwin, men and women can be very close friends indeed without sex entering into it at all. But you don’t seem to understand that. And these days surely people aren’t expected to have to have friends in couples. Edwin’s my friend; you aren’t. Shall we leave it at that? We’ll smile and talk if we meet in a social situation, naturally, but that’s the limit of it. Don’t call me again.” And Susan put down the phone.
Lady Rice wondered if she could get a posse together to go round and burn Susan alive in Railway Cottage as a witch. Or perhaps they could stone her to death as an adulteress. She said as much to Edwin, who looked at his wife askance and asked her not to cause more trouble than she had already.
And the day after that, when Lady Rice was doing the filing in the Rice Court office, still trembling with shock, confusion and upset, and Edwin was off for the day somewhere with Robert Jellico, Anthea came in without knocking. She was looking, she said, for Edwin. “He said he’d be up at Wellesley Hall at ten,” said Anthea. She seemed annoyed. She brought in a flurry of wind and weather with her: outdoors had suddenly taken over from indoors. Anthea was wearing green wellies, a blackish anorak, and a horsy headscarf damp with rain. Her hair fell over her eyes. She carried a riding crop, from a force of habit. “Edwin’s too bad. He was meant to be looking over Henry Cabot, with a view to purchase.”
“Henry Cabot?” Angelica was bewildered.
“A horse, darling, for the new stables.”
“The new stables?”
“Darling,” said Anthea kindly, “he says you don’t notice very much, and you don’t seem to. What is all this secretarial stuff?”
She drew An
gelica away from the files, the computer, the fax; she led her, protesting, into the drawing room, flinging aside the ropes that kept the visitors confined to the established pathways through the house, snatching up labels and throwing them to the ground as she went. She called for Mrs. MacArthur and told her to light the fire—always laid but never lit—which Mrs. MacArthur meekly did.
“You’re meant to be Lady Rice, not some office factotum,” Anthea said. “And it’s pissing Edwin off. I thought I should warn you. And what are these village creeps you keep mixing with? Very sordid things are happening, to all accounts. You and Edwin should stick to your own kind. Well, Edwin’s kind. You started off fine, exotic and eccentric; we can do with wild cards to liven up the bloodstock, but you’ve turned into some kind of dozy housewife and what’s more you haven’t even bred. So what’s the point of you? That’s what Edwin’s beginning to wonder.”
Anthea had her boots and her anorak off; she lay back in a leather armchair, unbooted feet stuck towards the fire. Her sweater was ancient and thin.
“And, darling,” said Anthea, “infidelity runs in the Rice blood. A capacity to chew women up and spit them out. Women of all classes, including their own. You served your other purpose: you were basically respectable, lower-middle class; got Edwin off drugs and back on the straight and narrow okay. But that’s done and here you are, demoting yourself to domestic/secretarial, and he’s taken the Great Barley Adulteress for his mistress while he works out who to marry next. I’m telling you this because I like you. You’re hopelessly out of your depth, but it’s not your fault. You’re the choirmaster’s daughter, and an amateur choir at that.”
“You’ve been drinking,” said Angelica. “God, how you lot drink.” And indeed Anthea was helping herself to whisky even as she spoke, delivered her bombshell.
