The Beloveds

by Maureen Lindley

  “It is just that you must be in shock,” he says. “It is a shocking thing to have happened. You might find it helpful to talk.”

  “I don’t think so,” I say.

  He says he is happy to come again if I change my mind. That perhaps I am too close to the incident to be going over it in detail just yet. He warns of flashbacks, of how after a fire some people suffer from— He hesitates.

  “From what,” I say irritably.

  “Well, the best way to describe it might be that they suffer from the primal fear of being eaten.”

  I can’t stop myself from sneering. “Why on earth would someone feel that way after surviving a fire?”

  “Well, flames consuming everything,” he suggests. “A metaphor, of course.”

  “A bloody stupid one,” I say.

  I can tell I have offended him. But I don’t care, I want him gone. As far as I am concerned, he might as well be a witch doctor shaking a bag of bones. I am an educated, rational woman, after all, and I will not be patronized.

  “No one is immune from suffering,” he warns. “It’s only human to feel traumatized after such a frightening event. Not a good idea to bottle up those feelings; it can make recovery harder.”

  Henry visits me, too, with pictures on his phone of the haunting empty plot where Pipits once stood. It is a moonscape, a dark obsidian patch, a crematorium. Cracked stumps of the drawing room’s blackened mantel lay among the ruins; the remains of the stove, a twisted metal heap, smelted and blackened like some brutal bit of modern art, squats on what once was the kitchen floor but is now a carpet of carbon; the exterior walls are burnt to within a few feet of the ground, and the whole wasteland of it is open to the sky.

  I am in agony, but I have no tears. How dare Henry show those pictures to me, as though they are holiday snaps? I want to scream and scream, lash out at him with my fists, smash his complacent face. I hold it together, though. He is only allowed to see Betty, dear saved-from-the-fire Betty.

  “Look,” he says. “The lawns are as black as tar, and the turkey oak has been devoured by flames, its roots sucked from the earth.”

  Henry points these things out to me with a gruesome sort of pleasure. He crows that in a stroke of good fortune, his studio is untouched by the fire, apart from a bit of smoke damage to the bricks.

  “I thought you said everything was gone,” I say.

  He shrugs. “I meant the house, of course, not the outbuildings. It’s rather wonderful that we have been spared the studio, don’t you think? At least now I can work, fulfill the orders.”

  And there it is, the Beloved’s gift. I knew that there would be one.

  “A yard or two closer to the house and it would have been gone, too,” he says.

  “Just a yard or two,” I say. “Lucky you.”

  20

  I SMELL SMOKE IN EVERYTHING. In the ointment they use to treat my burns, in my newly washed hair no matter that I made the nurse who was shampooing it rinse it twice. I taste it in the water I swallow, the food I eat. They assure me that these things are normal, that they will go away in time.

  I looked in a mirror the other day at the hospital, and I won’t be doing it again for a while. My face is a mess, weeping and puffy, a dark scab on my chin, shiny red patches above both eyes.

  “Your eyebrows will grow back,” I’m told. “The burn scars will fade to nothing.”

  Both my hands are still bandaged, so I have to be helped in the toilet, the nurses have to brush my teeth, smooth my hair. It is humiliating.

  Despite all this, they say they will be sending me home soon. Home! I don’t want to go. I want to be left alone. I need silence; every sound is an assault. The worst of it is the sick sort of excitement the fire has left behind its run. My sister and brother-in-law are infected with the buzz of it and cannot let it go. They visit, and the air they bring with them is hyped-up, full of nervous energy.

  No visiting hour passes without Gloria’s endless lists of what was lost in the fire and Henry’s ongoing display of photographs.

  “I don’t want to see them,” I insist. “They all look the same to me.”

  I do not tell him that to me they are pictures of a grave. Who wants to look at endless pictures of a grave?

  “Not really the same, Betty, different angles. And we should have a record, don’t you think?”

  “Why?”

  “Well, for us, to remember. To show our children when they are grown, perhaps. And maybe the insurance company will want to see them, too.”

  Why did I not think of insurance? Of course they have insurance. It will be their solace, their chance to move on. I see in them no sign of the pain I suffer, yet still they are to be consoled, compensated.

  “The holdup in the insurance payout is something to do with the police inquiry,” Gloria says. “They have to wait for the results from that. They are sure to report that it was an accident, though. And that’s what insurance is for, after all, accidents. Henry says that we shouldn’t worry, that it will all be okay in the end.”

  “What will you do if they don’t pay up?” I ask.

  “You’ll have to take us in for keeps,” she laughs. “Orphans of the storm.”

  They both avoid saying what must be on their minds. What is an inquiry for, other than to place blame? Or does it always happen after a fire? Is it just a formality?

  I allow myself to imagine being charged with setting the fire. I summon the possibility of newspaper articles naming me an arsonist. I picture prison, which I don’t think I would mind so much, if it weren’t for the lack of privacy. Henry and Gloria would visit, of course, forgiveness lighting their eyes, bringing a glow to their cheeks.

  I blame myself for not getting it right, although I don’t let the Lemmon woman off the hook. I should have known she would be back. I should have posted the card through the door and walked down the drive with her, so that she could see that I was leaving. All that business about me behaving oddly was just an excuse for her to return and check that I hadn’t left a mess.

  I send a request through Gloria for Mrs. Lemmon to visit me. She comes ten minutes before the end of the afternoon visiting hour, dressed in her horrible anorak, her hair scraped back in one of those scrunchies that her kind wear. I can tell by the big smile on her face that she is expecting me to thank her. I won’t, of course. No thanks for her interfering, for her do-gooding, or for the cheap bunch of flowers that she has brought with her to the hospital.

  “Mrs. Lemmon,” I say. “I hear that you have been spreading lies about me.”

  “No,” she says nervously, the smile falling off her moon face. “Of course I haven’t.”

  “Well, apparently you don’t approve of the way I dress. You think that I behave oddly. You tell people that I see things that are not there.”

  “Well that’s not—”

  I cut her off. “I have asked you here to tell you to stop your gossiping. I won’t stand for it. It is not your place to talk about me. Stick to your cleaning and mind your own business.”

  It amuses me to see how her eyes dart around the ward to check who might be listening, how her mood so quickly turns from nervous to offended.

  “If it weren’t for me, you would have burned in that fire.”

  “Don’t you dare ever mention the fire or Pipits to me again. If it weren’t for you—”

  I catch myself just in time from blurting out how she had ruined everything. It is never wise to confide in her sort. Finer feelings are unfamiliar to people like her. The Mrs. Lemmons of this world delight in gossip, are strangers to discretion.

  “Take your flowers,” I say, throwing them to the end of the bed. “You can leave now.”

  I watch her walk from the ward, the flowers dangling from her hand, her back stiff with outrage.

  * * *

  AT LAST I HAVE gotten my hands on some gin. I paid the young woman in the bed next to mine to bring it to me. She was discharged yesterday, and I took the opportunity to bribe her. I t
hought she would be up for it; she appeared a truculent sort of person, not one to care much for the rules. In her short stay she has set the alarm off twice by smoking in the lavatory, and her visitors were of the rowdy sort.

  She cleverly put the gin in a water bottle and handed it over with some apples. She did it so easily, I could tell that she is no stranger to deception. The alcohol has eased my mind a little, although it seems to have roused the headaches, which have sneaked back to plague me.

  Everything in life that once had a point seems meaningless now. I cannot imagine ever bothering with gardening again, or reading, or going through the daily rituals of bathing, putting on makeup, choosing what to wear. I will never hear the sweet voice of Pipits again, or dream the dreams that only came to me in my room there, dreams of possession and togetherness. I will never again smell the cedarwood of my wardrobe, never experience the perfect light that dusts the hall at dawn. Pipits has gone before me. What’s left in the wreckage is not enough, not nearly enough.

  Without invitation, the psychiatrist visits again. He has questions. How do I feel about the investigation? Perhaps I would like him with me if the police come again. I might find his presence comforting at such times.

  “I’m fine,” I tell him. “I’m not a child; I can deal with disaster.”

  He looks dubious. “The brain attempts to reassure,” he says. “The emotions won’t be ruled, though. You have been through a terrible experience. It might help to talk.” That again!

  I am discharged, given an appointment for a checkup three weeks from now. Gloria comes to collect me. As usual, she has made no effort. There’s a small hole in the elbow of her sweater, the hem of her jeans are frayed, her long hair is messy from running her hands through it. Even so, as she breezes through the ward, she gathers admiring looks.

  “Of course we have nothing left,” she says. “Only the clothes we stand up in and the few things that we packed for our weekend away. It is extraordinary how people have been so kind. We live in such a good village, don’t we? Noah has been given a cot and lots of clothes and toys. He has everything he needs, and more.”

  She has selected the oddest assortment of my clothes for me. A pair of dark red trousers that no longer fit me, since I have lost weight. They slip from my waist and sit on my hips, and the hems brush the floor. And to accompany them a green top, fraying at the sleeves, that doesn’t go with them at all; I had been about to discard it. Both items were rolled up at the bottom of the wardrobe at Alice’s, so they are as crumpled as Gloria’s own clothes. It didn’t occur to her to iron them, of course. I have perfectly good clothes hanging in the wardrobe that any halfway rational person would have chosen. I say as much to her.

  “Oh, but they are such pretty colors. I thought they would cheer you up. Never mind, think of all the fun we will have shopping for new ones when the insurance money comes through,” she says.

  I give her a look.

  “Well, what can we do but make the best of it?” she says.

  * * *

  I CANNOT BEAR IT. I cannot bear being in this poky little house with the Bygone family appearing at every turn. Their clutter is everywhere, so that there is hardly space for me. My hatred for them is a constant stream of acid eating away at me, wolves and sharks. But what is to be done? What is to be done?

  Gloria says she doesn’t mind the huddle. “I will miss it when things sort themselves out,” she says, as though she has convinced herself that she will. Little Miss Pollyanna.

  I visited what used to be Pipits and was overcome with a new kind of misery. Poor dead House. Gone without me House.

  “You will be avenged,” I promised. “This is all Gloria’s fault.”

  I collected some of Pipits’ precious ashes, most of which have been scattered far and wide by the wind. I have them in a small leather jewelry box, which I have secreted in my car. It’s a comfort when I’m alone, to talk to them.

  To get away from the making-the-best-of-it Bygones, I daily walk the village trail through our woods and across our meadows. The meadows hold less pleasure for me these days, since there is no Pipits to be seen in the distance anchoring the view. Now there is only the patch of festering earth where it once stood, the sight of which feeds my anger.

  I prefer my time on the riverbank, where I can commune with House in peace. Naturally, I drive there. Why not? I see no reason to obey stupid rules. Gloria has no idea that I lost my license. How it would shock her to know. I still take the longer route, keeping an eye out for the police, being the most considerate of drivers.

  Two months since I left the hospital, and still no sign of the dog. In my absence, he must have found himself someone else to moon with his doleful eyes. Unless he somehow got caught up in the fire. I shouldn’t think that is the case, though. He looked a cowardly hound to me, the kind that would run at the first whiff of smoke.

  In May’s warm wetness, this new unlooked-for life is a punishment I endure. I stoically bear Noah’s crying, the mess, and the relentless company. My dreams are broken up with Noah’s keening. He has turned into an irritable child.

  “It’s a stage,” Gloria apologizes. “Frustration that he can’t get into things.”

  Alice’s house has been toddler-proofed. There are covers for the plug sockets, locks on the kitchen cupboards, even a fastener on the toilet seat.

  Gloria spoils him, so his fussing is not likely to get any better. I dwell more than ever these days on how it would have been had I never had a sister. I dwell now on too many things.

  Spring storms come and shake the window frames, the wind rattles down Alice’s chimney, and more cracks appear in the ceiling. Gloria looks upward, screws her eyes up as if to see better, and stares for the longest time.

  “Hairline at best,” she says. “Nothing to worry about.”

  So little in life bothers my optimistic sister. It comes of having a limited imagination. She has started to paint over my graffiti in a wash of yellow, the wrong shade obviously, egg yolk, when citrine was what I had in mind. Is she trying to wipe me out? Does she resent me without knowing it? Even if that’s true, it is not something she would ever admit.

  They spent last weekend with Henry’s mother. Oh, the beautiful silence. I found a letter from Bert in their bedroom, his words thick with sympathy. He can’t believe what they have had to suffer lately, the mushroom poisoning and now this terrible fire. He says thank goodness I made a complete recovery, and to give me his best wishes.

  What luck Mrs. Lemmon returned in time, he writes. You might have lost her otherwise.

  I guess they decided not to relay his message, thinking even the mention of his name would scratch the sore. How feeble they must think me. I was surprised at his reference to the mushroom episode. I had forgotten it. It is odd how these things slip my mind, how I don’t remember the details anymore. The mushroom episode has become just that, the time when Henry ate the wrong mushrooms. I do not give myself enough credit.

  * * *

  JULY, THE FLOWERING MONTH, and the weeds have taken over Pipits’ garden. It has become an allotment of nettles and ground elder; the paths are muddy, their edges tufted over with uncut grass. I have neither the energy nor the desire to do anything about it. The garden cannot now complement Pipits’ beauty or serve as a memorial to us.

  As anger and grief pace side by side in me, another privation adds itself to the total. My spot by the river has been invaded by newcomers: three lads in hoodies, parked up in my space in their rust bucket of a car, smoking weed. I’ve inspected their cigarette butts scattered about and recognize that Moorish aroma of sweat and honey. It is not uncommon in the art world.

  The river has been my haven, a place away from the wreckage, but now I never know when I will find the intruders there, so I have been forced to give up going. I do not like the idea of being in a city, the thought of noise, and crowds, quite sickens me. But there’s no other option I can see for the moment. I decide that I must return to London.

 
I have put off even visiting my apartment there, because I didn’t want people staring at me. But my eyebrows have begun to grow back, and the burn scars have faded. I’m looking about as good as I’m going to get. And if I wear makeup, the scars are hardly noticeable.

  At least in the apartment I can be alone.

  21

  I HAVE BECOME, BY DESIGN, one of those women that you see around Mayfair: smartly dressed in Chanel or Dior, her coral lipstick on straight, and walking alone, always alone. Mother’s pearls and a black velvet headband in my hair, which now skims my shoulders, add to the look. I wear silk blouses under boxy jackets and carry neat chain-handled handbags, nothing squashy; the look is all about smart, finished edges, well-applied makeup. I am pretty sure that I have nailed it. You would take me for a good ten years older than I am. I’m an actress playing a part, disguising myself in an alter ego.

  My creation of Mayfair Lady has the desired effect. Because I am a type, and therefore unremarkable, I am rendered anonymous. I do not wish to be seen. A small dog of the embryonic sort would add to the look, but I am not prepared to go that far.

  I have taken up smoking. It goes well with the gin and helps with the boredom. I am never lonely, but I find that there is little worse than being bored, little worse than the dread of the empty hour. I have thought about getting a job, returning to work, to the world, but I don’t feel fit for it anymore.

  The insurance money for Pipits has come through. The inquiry came to nothing in the end. The investigating fire officer’s report put it down to an accidental fire caused by unattended candles, a not uncommon event these days. I am not surprised; what was there for them to prove? It was obviously an accident, a kindly sister wanting to celebrate her sibling’s birthday.

  Gloria and Henry offered to pay me for the Miró that wasn’t a Miró, made charcoal in the fire.