by Fay Weldon
So Chloe curbs her tongue and her needs, and goes on polishing, patching, darning, smiling and mashing turnips at twopence a pound, until one Friday evening Oliver comes home with a bottle of whisky and drinks it in surly silence, out of his tooth-mug, staring into the gas fire with its four broken radiants.
Chloe knows betters by now than to ask him what the matter is. She goes to bed, in her British Home Stores nightie, reduced ten per cent for staff, and tries to sleep.
At two o’clock Oliver rouses her, and she dresses, and they walk to Chelsea and from there take a taxi (madness!) to an address off Hackney Road. Chloe is being taken at last to meet old Mr Rudore.
‘But it’s the middle of the night,’ says Chloe.
‘He never sleeps a wink,’ says Oliver, ‘or that’s what he’s been telling me all my life. So night or day, what’s the difference?’
Mr Rudore, poor shuffling old soul, is roused from deep slumber as he lies in his brass bed beneath his feather quilt in the back bedroom of his two-up, two-down house. Alley cats yowl and prowl about his dustbins.
Mr Rudore, though sleepy, does not seem disconcerted by the hour of his prodigal’s return; rather there is a look of pleased animation in his glittery old eye, and gratification at the renewal of a temporarily lost source of entertainment and mirth.
He makes Chloe tea and toast, and shows her photographs of family holidays, taking particular pleasure in a Bournemouth snap of Oliver, naked on a beach, at the age of five, with bucket, spade and starfish.
Oliver I’m sorry we came so late.
Oliver’s Father So it’s the middle of the night. So she’s a lovely girl. So you should want to let your father know.
Oliver We’ve been married three months.
Oliver’s Father So that’s well and truly married.
Oliver She’s a goy. A shiksa.
Oliver’s Father So long as she stops her husband drinking.
It seems that Oliver’s father can hardly contain his mirth.
Oliver I’m sorry I missed the girls’ wedding.
Oliver’s Father Weren’t you there? I could have sworn I saw you there, my boy.
Oliver No. I hurt my ankle. I’ve never been in such pain in all my life. I sent a telegram.
Oliver’s Father The telegrams there were! By the hundred! Their poor mother, that she shouldn’t live to see it.
Oliver can’t win. Mr Rudore settles Chloe down and hour after hour, through that long night, details to her an account of his still raging litigation with Maison Furs, the establishment which sold his wife a fur coat when they could see she was dying. Chloe struggles with sleep. She has to be at work the next morning, unlike Oliver or Oliver’s father. Oliver fidgets.
Oliver (Interrupting) Father, about money. How are you managing?
Oliver’s Father Quiet, boy. The next week, Chloe, the very next week, they had the nerve to send this bill, here it is—now where is it? If I’ve lost it that’s got me finished—ah, here it is. See the date? The 25th. And those initials scratched out. They changed typists, that’s a sign of guilty conscience, if ever I saw one—
Oliver Father, I can let you have two pounds a week, if that will help. I’m doing quite well in the film industry.
Oliver’s Father Quiet, boy! If you ask my opinion, Chloe, that typist couldn’t bring her sweet fingers to type anything so grasping and heartless—
Oliver Three pounds a week, father.
There is silence.
Oliver But you are not to use it for lawyer’s fees. And you are not to sue Dr Richman for negligence. He did everything he could for mother; if anything killed her it was overwork, and you know it.
He does not say he lays his mother’s death at his father’s door, but of course he does. It was his father’s meanness and stubbornness, he is convinced, which made his mother’s life a misery and so he often tells Chloe. Oliver’s father weighs £150 a year in Oliver’s hand against a possible £1,500 in Dr Richman’s bush, and plumps for Oliver.
He even seems prepared to take Oliver a little more seriously, and as the dawn breaks and Oliver and Chloe take their leave he actually says—
Oliver’s Father You have broken this poor old man’s heart, my boy. Marrying out!
And he screws an aye-aye-aye wail out of some almost forgotten racial memory.
Oliver, satisfied, prods Chloe awake again and they walk all the way home through the beauties of the dawn. Chloe gets blisters on her feet. She is wearing her slippers and the soles have worn through. She is very tired at work the next day.
Oliver’s meanness slips off him, as if someone had removed a strait jacket. His whole spirit seems to stretch and grow. Next time he is asked to write a film he holds out for payment on freelance terms, and gets it. He uses the money to put down a deposit on a house in Fulham, and they move into it. As if in gratitude, Chloe becomes pregnant again: stays in bed most of her pregnancy, and is delivered safely of Inigo, Oliver’s son.
forty-two
WILL INIGO, NOW EIGHTEEN have fish-fingers with the younger children, or wait for the boeuf-en-daube? Although at ease in adult company and, it sometimes seems, both more sophisticated and more righteous than his elders, so that they feel obliged to temper their conversation in his presence, hearing it anew through his critical yet innocent eyes, he enjoys the company of his brother and sisters, both fleshly (Imogen) and spiritual (Kevin, Kestrel and Stanhope).
It is a belief in many rural communities, and of practical consent in dog-breeding circles, that a female will not breed true once she’s been had by a male of the wrong pedigree. Thus the Alsatian bitch that gets off one night with a Labrador is a write off: and a cow will be mated with two bulls in quick succession, the first for milk, the second for meat. Does Inigo, Oliver’s child, have something of Patrick in him? Impossible to believe, yet he and Stanhope are so similar in looks—if not in build—it is hard not to imagine they are brothers: and Inigo and Imogen seem to share Patrick’s looks, not Chloe’s. Rows of hard blue eyes survey Chloe across the table: it is the triumph of crude vitality over gentility.
And do not think that Chloe thought of Patrick more than once or twice, while she gestated Inigo. She did not. She knew he was living in Marjorie’s house, no more than that, and had long ago confessed to Oliver the details of her encounter with Patrick beneath and on top of her mother’s bed. She would have told the story in the most general of terms; it was Oliver who insisted on the detail. It seemed to fascinate him.
Now Françoise, leaving Chloe peeling potatoes for the chips, goes to find Inigo to ask him whether he will join the children for supper, or stay up late, perhaps too late for his health and energy, and eat with the adults.
Françoise has a degree in Psychology. She is twenty-eight. She is the only daughter of the best restaurateur of Rheims. Picture her standing, one morning, amongst the unswept litter of Victoria Station, off the boat-train, with only one suitcase. She has left home in pique and panic, her fiancé of eight years’ standing having abandoned her on the eve of their wedding, for Françoise’s best friend.
How can she stay in Rheims, and face the pity of friends and family? But where, now she is in London, can she go?
It is at such desperate moments in our lives, of course, as Grace frequently points out to Chloe, that help of one sort or another materializes. The day a husband slams out of the door, a fresh suitor, hitherto undreamt of, appears. The dog is run over: that very day a stray parrot flies in through the window. By the same post the mortgage is foreclosed and an uncle leaves you a villa in Spain. Look warily at these sideways gifts from fate, Grace advises. They are usually loaded. The suitor brings pregnancy, the parrot psitticosis, the villa aged relatives. By the same wisdom, Françoise, standing lost and helpless on Victoria Station, with no past and no future, does not despair, and is right not to.
For on the platform Françoise is approached by Thérèse, a French girl of the kind she, Françoise, most despises, small, fair, timid, virtuous and Catholi
c, who asks Françoise to mind her bag, and at the very sound of the French tongue collapses into tears. Thérèse is returning to her chère maman, after three weeks’ disastrous stay as an au pair in an alarming household in the heart of the English countryside, where the children did not belong to the parents, there was no religion, washing-machine or vacuum cleaner, dinner was frequently at midnight, she was required to work long hours for little pay; the master of the house, who they said was a creative genius and in the film industry but in fact was writing a very important book, so there weren’t any film stars, made suggestive remarks and clearly wished to seduce her, and the lady of the house, having just had her own novel refused by her publishers, was bad-tempered and unjust. Thérèse had packed and left the night before when required to make bread like a peasant. Life is very sad, is it not? Thérèse’s mother had sent her off to this English country house with a frilly apron with which to open the door to milords, but no milords had arrived.
Françoise, who has a great respect for literature in all its forms, extracts the address of the household from Thérèse, and makes her way to Chloe’s door.
It is true enough that Chloe at this time is more short-tempered than usual. She has, over some eight years, and in all secrecy and diffidence, managed to complete a novel. She sends it, unsolicited, to a publishing house, who, to her surprise, accept it with moderate enthusiasm. Oliver has not read the manuscript, nor does he do so until it is in the printing presses.
Well, Oliver has been very busy and none too happy. His latest film, written at great emotional and financial cost to himself, and a departure from his normal big-budget top-star cops-and-robbers commercial successes, being concerned with the fragile sensibilities of a man sexually betrayed by his wife (himself and Chloe, some said), has finally been made and screened, and although not slammed by the critics, has been ignored and failed to get distribution either at home or abroad.
So if he has not read his wife’s manuscript until this stage it is hardly surprising. When he does read it, he calls for its immediate withdrawal. The publishers demur. Oliver issues an injunction—he has taken over his father’s passion for solicitors—and succeeds in getting publication stopped, though at considerable cost to himself. Thus he addresses Chloe, in the mildest terms, for someone so tried by the folly of a wife:
Oliver Chloe, my dearest dear, what were you trying to do to us? To thus air our domestic grievances to the world? All you could do is harm the children, yourself, me. No artistic endeavour in the world is worth that, surely. It is a great achievement of yours, Chloe, you’ve had it accepted, and we both acknowledge its worth, while not pretending it’s any great work of art. Isn’t that enough? My clever literary Chloe! But you know how dangerous this autobiographical stuff is. No-one, honestly, is interested.
Chloe Oliver, not by any stretch of the imagination is that novel about us. It’s about twin sisters.
Oliver Yes, my dear, and you based it on my sisters, did you not?
Chloe Your sisters aren’t twins.
But Oliver is right and she knows it and her resistance crumbles. She has used his sisters, those lively Jewish matrons, whom she so liked and he so feared, and tapped the sources of their energy and jollity, without permission, and feels like a thief in consequence. All the same, she is unusually cross, for a time, with Imogen.
And worse, as a result of her libellous folly, and the increase of Oliver’s overdraft—already burdened by his venture into filmic self-examination—by the £1,500 he is obliged to pay her publishers in recompense, Chloe finds herself morally responsible for Oliver’s financial anxieties.
Oliver, as Grace says, has money disturbances as other people have eating disturbances.
It is part of the pattern of Oliver’s life, ever since he resigned himself to supporting his father, that he should always be in debt, always endeavouring to earn more rather than spend less—though he demands prudence and parsimony from his family; and if, as frequently happens, so many tens of thousands of pounds should tumble through his letter-box all at once as would make any more ordinary person free from anxiety for the rest of his life—Oliver will take to gambling and dispose of his good fortune that way, and feel quite convinced, too, that in some mysterious way it is Chloe who has driven him to it.
Now, for once, Chloe feels actively responsible for his sleepless, agitating nights. She prepares to take a job in a rather shoddy department store in Cambridge as a trainee buyer. Oliver, on hearing what the salary is to be, tells her that she is wasting her time and her life, and her family’s happiness and future, but for once Chloe persists. She employs Thérèse, underpays and overworks her on Oliver’s instructions, and is irritated by her long-suffering face. She, Chloe, at least suffers cheerfully. Did not Esther Songford once tell her so to do? She nags and snaps at poor Thérèse.
And if Thérèse, running away from her torment, encounters Françoise on Victoria Station so that now she stands on Chloe’s doorstep, is this not exactly what Chloe deserves? Though Thérèse, to be fair, would bring out the bully in anyone.
Thus Chloe describes her household to Françoise, at that initial interview:
Chloe My husband is a writer. He needs peace and quiet and a tidy house if he’s to function properly. His digestion is delicate, and he cannot eat eggs, they give him stomach cramps. He will not eat carbohydrates for he is watching his weight, and we steer clear as much as possible of animal fats for fear of cholesterol in his blood-stream. Within these limits, he likes to eat very well. He has a light continental breakfast in bed—just coffee and bread and butter, but the bread must be fresh, which means we make our own. I’ll continue to do that in the meantime—I let the dough rise overnight and then pop the loaves in the oven an hour before his breakfast. As for coffee, it must be made with freshly ground beans—he cannot bear the taste of instant coffee. It seems to get into his lungs. We have some trouble getting good quality beans, but now I’m going into Cambridge to work I can of course pick some up in my lunch-hour. But do remind me! Don’t let me forget, it makes such a bad start to the day. Inigo is eighteen and is in his last year at the Comprehensive. Imogen is eight and goes to primary school just down the road. She comes home for lunch. Three other children stay at half-term and holidays—Kevin and Kestrel, fourteen and twelve, and Stanhope, also twelve. They share a birthday—Christmas Eve. We haven’t much domestic machinery, I’m afraid, we like to live naturally. But I’ll help with the washing. You know what boys are. Fortunately everyone’s quite healthy except for Oliver’s migraines. And he suffers dreadfully from insomnia. His nights are a battle against it, and when he sleeps, he has nightmares. We have separate rooms. We have to. I snore, I’m afraid. I don’t throw off colds easily and I get stuffed up—and, well … I need someone to run the household while I’m at work. Feed, clothe, care for everyone. Not so much an au pair, or a household help, as a replacement.
Françoise You want someone to replace you?
Françoise’s brown eyes are bright and somehow shuttered. She has hairy moles upon her chin, strong fat forearms and short legs. She looks stupid, but she is not.
‘Yes,’ says Chloe, ‘I want someone to replace me.’
And so she does. At this point in her marriage she would gladly leave Oliver.
For Oliver finds fault with Chloe all the time. If she rises from the table she is restless. If she sits at it she is lazy. If she talks she is yacketing. If she is silent she is sulky. Chloe cannot bear to lie in the same bed with Oliver. She suffocates. Oliver says Chloe’s snores keep him awake: his wife has enlisted on the Enemy Insomnia’s side. Chloe moves to another bedroom. Chloe has no weapons left.
The children’s eyes are anxious. They watch their parents carefully. Imogen sulks. Inigo’s face gets spotty.
And how can Chloe leave? Where can Chloe go? Oliver might make himself responsible for Inigo, but there would still be Imogen, Kevin, Kestrel and Stanhope to provide for, and without Oliver’s money, how could Chloe do it? Is there
a divorce court in all the land which would agree with her that Oliver was unkind? She doubts it. Courts of Law are staffed by men. And perhaps the law would be right, and Oliver was not unkind, and it was she herself who was impossible, alternately restless, lazy, yackety, sulky, and frigid.
She who once lay so close to Oliver, slept soundly with her legs thrust between his; or half-asleep, embracing, knew herself to be exalted from her daytime body into that other night-time self, into that grand compulsive being which nightly rides the surging horses of the universe—she, Chloe, frigid! Her daytime self in full possession even when asleep—mean, aggrieved, resentful, out of tune with the rhythms of the earth; spiteful too—killing the kitchen pot plants with a glance.
It might be parasites which do the damage, of course, but Oliver says they die because Chloe has failed to water them.
Yes. Certainly Françoise can replace her. Certainly!
forty-three
ONE MORNING, WHEN FRANÇOISE has been with her for six months, Chloe stands in her kitchen drinking a cup of coffee before running to catch the bus to take the train to get to work in Cambridge. It is term time. Inigo has left for his school. Françoise has taken Imogen along to hers. Françoise now works there on Tuesday mornings as a speech therapist, an arrangement which suits Françoise very well. It would have suited Chloe well, too, had she thought to apply for the job.
Oliver, in an evil mood (she knows by the forward curve of his shoulders), comes into the kitchen, and thus the conversation goes:
Oliver Chloe, I have something to tell you.
Chloe Could you tell me this evening? I don’t want to be late for work.
Oliver This is rather vital, actually, to all our interests. But since it concerns people and their happiness and not pay-packets, I can understand you wouldn’t think it very important. Off you go, my dear. Don’t miss your bus whatever you do. Or there’ll be a shortage of maroon crimplene in Cambridge tomorrow! Off you go to your chosen profession, Chloe.
