by Fay Weldon
‘Well,’ said Belinda, when she finished reading—I tried to appear indifferent, not to pace up and down—‘you’ve got a lot of it right. I hadn’t realized that Apricot’s marriage to Julian was bigamous. Poor Julian: I went to visit him in prison once, but I don’t think he was pleased to see me. He remembered me as one of the waitresses the year we helped Apricot out when she catered for Graduation Week. He couldn’t think why he was being visited by a waitress. He always was a terrible snob. Liese got asked to dinner because Leonard shoots grouse with the best people, even though it’s only because they want a cheap car, but Frank and me never qualified. Too arty. Even in an open prison he manages to be hopelessly urbane. They all hate him. But he was right about a-monetarism. There’s quite a group of us believe in it, you know. The only way to move society out of its present predicament, the dead end of the surplus society, is to devalue money itself.’
‘You must talk to my friend Hugo Vansitart about that,’ I said. ‘I’d very much appreciate your views on the supernatural. Was there, in your opinion, any sort of curse on Bernard?’
‘You mean other than just being married to Apricot?’
‘Well, yes.’
‘Of course not,’ said Belinda. ‘The media communications course set off a kind of mass hysteria, that’s all.’
‘Brenda seems to think there was. Is.’
‘Oh, Brenda!’ said Belinda. ‘She’s got four children under seven. You can’t expect sense from her. It was all simple cause and effect; Apricot left Bernard and he went to pieces. He was already halfway there. The economy went to pieces when the cash dispensers started pouring out money; but on Sundays only, thus spoiling the whole idea. It had already more or less collapsed. Of course there was resistance. No one was properly prepared. People panicked: They saw the differential going between rich and poor: they didn’t understand what was happening. They can understand Communism and they can understand Capitalism, but that’s all. That the West should try and adopt the Soviet non-money economy, just as the Soviets try to take Capitalism on board, blew their minds. People like polarities—Apricot’s always saying that. Had Julian and Apricot simply wanted to switch them, that would have worked; people would have accepted it. But in the end the courage to see it through wasn’t there.’
‘In other words, the Devil got into the works and spoiled everything,’ I said.
‘So long as you’re talking metaphorically,’ said Belinda. ‘So long as you don’t get any idea into your head that there’s some power out there talking through Eleanor Darcy’s mouth, at any rate one which knows what it’s talking about.’
‘Well,’ I said comfortingly, ‘Hugo is dealing with the political and economic background. I’m more concerned with the human angle.’ I had the feeling she didn’t like me very much. But the mistress is always an offence to the married woman. ‘You feel I’ve got her more or less correct?’
‘You’ve got Apricot’s life the way she would have wanted it to be, let’s say that. Well, thank you. I’ve made up my mind. I’ve thought for a long time I might write something about Apricot, now I’m pretty sure I will. You do the gospel according to St Valerie, I’ll do the gospel according to St Belinda.’
And I realized I hadn’t been milking her for information, she had been milking me, and I, like a fool, had let her read my manuscript. And I also thought, serve me right. Since holing up in this Holiday Inn I hadn’t been a nice person at all. I’m sure when I lived at home I was a better person all round.
As soon as my hand had stopped trembling I set to work again. There is nothing like work for putting an end to unhealthy introspection.
LOVER AT THE GATE [11]
Eleanor goes to visit Jed and Prune
ELEANOR WENT TO VISIT Jed and Prune. She found poor Prune in tears, but that didn’t surprise her. Prune had miscarried another baby, at three months. It was clear to Eleanor that she intended creeping about her kitchen for the rest of her life, trying to bind her errant husband to her by having babies she was not fit to have.
‘Oh, Ellen,’ said Prune, ‘you’re so famous now I hardly know what to say to you.’
‘You never did,’ said Eleanor, brutally. Poor Prune always made her feel brutal. ‘And to be Rasputin’s wife hardly counts as fame.’
‘I don’t know why you don’t just do a nude centrefold and have done with it,’ said Prune. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me about me? Don’t you care? I’m so unhappy. I am a failure. Three miscarriages and a stillbirth.’
She was peeling onions and seemed in no hurry to stop.
‘If you didn’t keep rubbing your eyes, and pressing more and more onion juice into your eyeballs,’ said Eleanor, ‘I expect you would soon feel better. What are you making? Stew?’
‘Steak and onion pie,’ said Prune. ‘Jed loves steak and onion pie.’
‘Love my pie, love me,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’ve got a hope. Why don’t you just give him frozen curry? How is Jed?’
‘Working in his study,’ said Prune. ‘Poor. Jed. He works so hard. He longs for a son and I can’t give him one. And if I gave him frozen curry I’d feel even more useless. One day he’ll leave me and it will all be my fault. Then what will I do?’
‘Begin your life,’ said Eleanor. ‘You’d better begin soon or it’ll all be gone.’
‘You’ve changed,’ said Prune, through onion tears. ‘You’re hard and cynical. I’m glad I’m not like you. Besides,’ she added, ‘what can I do? I never got my degree; I’m not trained for anything; I can’t do anything. I get asthma if I try. All I do is cry all the time, or gasp for breath, so who would ever employ me? What kind of CV have I got?’
‘Spent life trying to have babies,’ said Eleanor, ‘and failing,’ and went on up to see Jed.
‘Are you staying to lunch?’ Prune called after her. She had long straight hair and wore flat wide shoes. ‘Do stay to lunch. I’m sorry if I was rude. I’m upset, that’s all. Jed would love you to stay to lunch. We never see anyone.’
Eleanor went up the red-carpeted suburban stairs and knocked at the door on the left, where a little white plaque with a rim of roses said ‘Study’. Inside, in a leather chair, sat Jed, at ease and happy, smoking a pipe, reading galley proofs. He had a pleasant, lined face and a jaw which protruded, as a goat’s does, and slightly rheumy eyes, though Eleanor remembered them as bright, bright, bright. Books lined the walls; papers lay on the floor: on ledges stood mandalas, icons, pentacles. A book jacket rough lay on the table—‘The Story of the Pentacle: a Study in Self-oppression’.
Incense burned and mixed with the pipe smoke: the room was warm, scented, foggy.
‘I know why you’ve come,’ said Jed. ‘You’ve come looking for the villain of the piece. Well, you’re looking in the wrong place. How healthy you seem. The high life suits you.’
‘It suits everyone,’ said Eleanor.
He rose to his feet. His jacket was brown and tweedy, and had orangy leather patches on its sleeves at the elbow. He smelt of pipe tobacco and wet dogs; a Labrador lay by the hearth. Jed was taller than she was by some four inches. She laid her head on his shoulder; she could not do that with Julian. He wore sandals and no socks. He would never wear red sock suspenders. His feet would look strange in the shiny, elegant, pointed shoes which Julian wore. Jed and Julian were two bookends. Other men took their place in between.
‘Yes, you are a villain,’ said Eleanor. ‘You seduced your best friend’s wife.’
‘You seduced me,’ he said. ‘You were bored.’
‘And Brenda?’
‘She asked me to. She was inquisitive.’
‘And Nerina?’
‘She wanted a little excitement before she settled down. It was not my idea.’
‘She was a student. You were her teacher.’
‘Quite so. I taught her and her friends what they wanted to know. All anyone really wants to know about is sex. Information is second best.’
He undid the buttons of her blouse. She stayed where s
he was, for once indecisive.
‘Same shape,’ he said, ‘same size. I have good tactile memory.’
‘And poor Prune. What about poor Prune?’
‘Sex is the great energizer,’ he said. ‘I wish poor Prune could understand that. She only gets pregnant so we can’t have sex: she’s liable to miscarriage, you know. I see it as an act of vengeance. It is not a happy marriage. But I can’t just ditch her, can I? Where would she go? What would she do? Poor Prune. She loves me.’
‘Poor Prune,’ said Eleanor. ‘Was she always poor Prune?’
‘When I married her,’ said Jed, ‘she was a lovely, lively Prunella. Her name was a joke; her life was a joke: that was why I married her. Marriage is a fearful institution. What it does to people! Take off your clothes, Ellen. Poor Prune won’t come in. She’s hurt her ankle. She can’t get up the stairs. She won’t mind. She just wants me to be happy. She thinks if I’m happy I won’t leave her. She thinks it’s unhappiness breaks up homes.’
‘But it isn’t,’ said Eleanor, ‘it’s sheer surplus of energy.’
She took off her jacket, belt, her scarf, her jeans, her blouse. She wore a red bra, red pants and red suspenders to keep up her black stockings.
‘That is nice,’ said Jed. ‘Prune wears washed cotton, whitish grey. It’s so sensible. It stretches. And you wear red and black and end up with a poor withered old stick of a Vice Chancellor. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’
‘He is not so,’ said Eleanor, refastening her bra as fast as Jed undid it. ‘He’s a fine man and I’m proud of him. In fact I love him.’
‘Nerina’s curse strikes again,’ said Jed. ‘How’s he keeping?’
‘A little heart palpitation,’ said Eleanor.
‘I should watch that,’ said Jed. ‘How’s Bernard? I heard he was back in the faith. I heard he had a bad back. I heard all kinds of things and none of them good.’
‘Don’t you see him at all?’
‘He’s a loser,’ said Jed. ‘I don’t.’ Eleanor put her jeans on.
‘What a pity,’ said Jed. ‘I seem to have said the wrong thing. Suspenders under jeans. Prune would never do a thing like that.’
‘You’ve kept in remarkably good health.’ said Eleanor, putting on her blouse. ‘Considering.’
‘I have my punishment,’ said Jed. ‘I have poor Prune. I’m sorry you’re leaving. Can’t I persuade you to stay?’
‘Not with Prune downstairs making lunch,’ said Eleanor. ‘I really shouldn’t.’
‘That’s what I mean,’ said Jed. ‘As you see, I’m no villain. Just another victim. Personally, I blame Philip Horrocks, Head of Faculty. He panicked and disbanded my mass hysteria group overnight. They’d used the college library to try to castrate a goat. I would have stopped it had I known. There was blood splashed over the walls—it got away, mid-slice. Tender-hearted vegetarians, most of our students. No idea how to deal with animals. Have they, Rufus?’ He stirred the dog with his sandalled toe. Rufus sighed. ‘You won’t change your mind, Ellen? No? Pity. Academia lost a very promising student in Nerina: that’s my main quarrel with Horrocks. One more little balls-up: one more contribution to the drop-out rate. Another young person turns their back on education. Yes, I blame Horrocks. Why don’t you go and see Nerina? She and I are still in touch, of course.’
‘She scares me.’
‘Nothing scares you, Ellen.’
‘I don’t like Julian’s heart jumping about. Where will it end?’
‘Go and ask Nerina. She’s quite safe, at the moment. She’s de-energized. Married, covered in black, with a nose mask and pregnant. Her mother lives with them.’
‘Is it your baby?’
He looked helpless, but flattered.
‘How would I know?’ He shook his head sagely, sat back in his armchair and attended to his pipe. He was not the man he was, but hadn’t noticed.
‘Once they’d castrated the goat, what would they have done?’ asked Eleanor.
‘God knows what their fantasy was. Boiled its balls for dinner and served them up to Satan. They’d left me way behind.’
‘Lunchtime, darling,’ called poor Prune from down below.
Nerina had set up house with Sharif above a betting shop and next to a fish-and-chip takeaway, as if to underline her determination to be ordinary. Eleanor felt Nerina had somewhat overdone it and was not reassured. The door was opened by a young man in his mid twenties, dark-eyed, olive-skinned, hook-nosed, broad of shoulder; in general handsome in mien and appearance. He was both smooth and fierce. Lucky Nerina, thought Eleanor, and lowered her eyes from the brilliance of his countenance, as she could see she was expected to do.
‘Well?’ He wore a white shirt, open-necked, and dark trousers. He had a heavy gold bracelet on his wrist and rings on his fingers. He was tall. His feet were long: his shoes were clean, but not pointed, as Julian’s were. She felt dissatisfied with Julian and with herself for not having been dissatisfied with him in the past.
‘I came to call on Nerina’s mother,’ said Eleanor. And she explained how she and Mrs Khalid had worked together at the poly: she wished to renew an old acquaintance.
Sharif yelled over his shoulder, ‘Ma-in-law!’ and Mrs Khalid came clatter-clatter downstairs wearing a sari and solid black walking shoes.
‘Oh, it’s Ellen! Ellen can come in. She’s okay,’ she told Sharif, and Sharif moved aside, though he seemed doubtful as to whether it was wise. Eleanor walked in, brushing past him, conscious of the mere breath of the air that stood between her flesh and his: the hairs on her arms stood up to make the distance less. But he had no interest in her. She was beneath him—it showed in his expression: naked-faced, naked-armed, green-eyed and indecorous female that she was.
The room was small and cosy, stuffed with sofas and chairs and little tables, and the telephone was a prostrate Mickey Mouse with his legs in the air, yellow-booted. Mrs Khalid served tea and sticky cakes and asked about Ellen’s life. She herself was no longer working, Mrs Khalid said. Her son-in-law Sharif didn’t want her to. Nerina was pregnant and needed her at home. Sharif, satisfied as to the tenor of their conversation, left the room. Presently Nerina came down, in black robes and nose shield, and with only her eyes showing. Her face was plumper than before: her figure could scarcely be observed. She took off her mask and her skin had a clear and rather attractive pallor. Then Nerina smiled, and Eleanor wondered why she had told Jed she was scared. Who could be scared of this sweet, bright, pretty girl? ‘Don’t ask,’ Nerina said.
‘Just don’t ask! But I’ll tell you—yes, fancy dress is worth it.’
‘But supposing,’ said Eleanor, ‘he brings in another three wives?’
Mrs Khalid laughed a little curtly.
‘He couldn’t afford it,’ she said. ‘He can only just afford us. Look at it like this,’ said Nerina,’ ‘a quarter of my husband is worth one of any other man.’ Her hands came out from beneath the black robes and they were long-fingered and red-nailed. They moved with a kind of nervous energy. ‘Look,’ she said to Eleanor, ‘I tried it out there in the western world. I really did. I just got myself and everyone into trouble. I like it like this. Doing nothing, just being. Honour the Prophet and keep his laws: nothing to it. It gets quite boring, but presently you just slow down to keep pace with life.’
‘She’s having twins,’ said Mrs Khalid. ‘That slows anyone down.’
‘Congratulations,’ said Eleanor.
‘You don’t want babies yourself?’ enquired Nerina politely.
‘My husband already has grown-up children,’ replied Eleanor, even more politely. ‘We have decided not to have more.’
Mrs Khalid went out to boil water for another pot of tea.
‘I was always surprised that worked,’ said Nerina. ‘You and Julian Darcy. Not just worked but stuck. I thought it was going to be quite a problem. Part of the curse on Bernard, of course, was losing you. He was to have a faithless wife, but that involved two other people, you and Mr X. We used a phot
ograph of you at a meeting: it was Jed’s idea of a joke to pick the Vice Chancellor. If you can get two people on paper you circle them and dance around a bit and whip up the vibes and you can get them into bed together pretty quick, which we did. We didn’t mean it to last, but then the college made a stink and we couldn’t get back into the library. We were banned, because of one stupid, smelly goat. Anyway you can’t put spells on guiltless people. They don’t work. So I thought you probably all deserved whatever was happening. Then it had all got tacky and I wanted out.’
‘What was Bernard guilty of?’
‘He and Jed tossed up as to who would have me, and I found out, too late. Jed won, as you know.’
‘Oh.’ She felt like crying. Bernard! ‘Too late for what?’ she asked.
‘For my virginity, stupid,’ said Nerina, and her black robe heaved as her babies kicked and churned.
‘Nerina,’ said Eleanor, ‘Julian’s heart isn’t too good.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said Nerina. ‘I expect you just wear him out. I expect that’s his punishment for leaving his wife.’
‘But,’ said Eleanor, ‘you just said it was all your doing—’
‘Always twisting and turning,’ said Nerina, crossly, ‘looking for someone to blame. Why choose me? Why not blame yourself?’
Mrs Khalid came back with a teapot and some shortbread.
‘And I don’t want any of anything mentioned in front of Sharif. If Sharif found out he’d kill me.’
‘Twins are always premature,’ observed Mrs Khalid. ‘Just as well.’
Sharif came back and walked around the room to make sure nothing untoward was happening, high cheekbones glistening, bony hand through dark hair in anxiety. Nerina replaced her mask. Sharif clearly felt better. He nodded his approval. He almost smiled. He loved her. She was his most precious object. He wanted no part of her harmed. He went out again. The black bundle that was Nerina glowed with self-congratulation. Ellen thought of Bernard, thought of Prune, thought of Jed, thought of herself, transmuted from Ellen to a goat-inflicted fantasy that was Eleanor. Eleanor laughed and said, ‘Twins! Twins with orangy yellow elbows!’
