by Ruth Rendell
It was a strange feeling watching the screen and seeing her walk onto the set. Zillah suddenly felt naive and rather helpless. The woman, whom she hadn’t recognized, turned out to be a pop singer of the seventies trying to make a comeback. The presenter, an ugly man with a beard and the rasping voice that had made him famous, asked her if she didn’t think she was “a bit over the hill” for what she had in mind. She wasn’t exactly Posh Spice, was she? Maybe she’d like to sing for them now. They’d an accompanist on hand. The singer answered the questions bravely and sang not very well. While she was singing the young man came back and beckoned to the teenage boy who was there because he’d got into Oxford at the age of fifteen. Zillah would be the last.
“They always save the best till last,” said a girl who’d come in to see if she wanted more coffee or orange juice.
After the singer came a woman reading the news, then a weather forecast, then advertising of the programs for the day ahead. She thought the singer might come back but she didn’t. The boy came on and was interviewed by a kindly woman presenter who treated him as if he’d won the Nobel Prize. Zillah had been told that the man with the rasping voice would be talking to her but she found herself hoping that plans had changed and she might get this woman who was now telling the boy that his family must be enormously proud of him. And he wasn’t even very good, but shy and tongue-tied.
Zillah was called. The girl who’d inquired about coffee and orange juice led her along one passage and then another and onto the edge of what seemed like theater-in-the-round, a circular platform, partly screened and curtained, thick with cameramen and soundmen and electricians. The brightly lit area she’d seen on the screen could just be seen in the center.
“When I give you a sign, I’ll lift my finger like this,” whispered the girl, “you walk on from here and sit in that chair opposite Sebastian. Okay?”
“Yes, that’s fine,” said Zillah loudly.
Everyone in her vicinity turned and shushed her, fingers on lips. Such confidence as she had left began to ebb. Her heels were too high, she knew that now. Suppose she tripped? The boy genius came off and so did the kindly woman interviewer. The man called Sebastian told viewers they were now to expect the guest of the day, Zillah Melcombe-Smith, bigamist wife-or was she?-of the disgraced MP James Melcombe-Smith, and widow-or was she?-of the Cinema Slayer’s victim. Zillah suddenly felt very cold. That kind of introduction wasn’t at all what she’d expected. But the girl who’d brought her here was holding up one finger, so she had no option but to set off on what seemed like the longest and slowest walk of her life to the chair opposite Sebastian.
He stared at her as if she were something peculiar in a zoo, an okapi or echidna. “Welcome to A Bite of Breakfast, Zillah,” he said. “Tell us what it feels like to be a widow, a wife, and a bigamist all at once. It can’t happen to many women, d’you think?”
Zillah said, “No,” and, “No, it can’t,” but could think of nothing else.
“Well, let’s start with the bigamy, shall we? Maybe you’re one of those people who don’t approve of divorce. A Catholic, are you?”
Her voice came out thin and hoarse. “I’m not.” Suppose her mother was watching! She’d only just thought of that. “My husband-my first husband said we were divorced. And my husband-my present husband, I mean-he said I was.” Whatever she didn’t do, she had to stick to that. “I thought I was divorced.”
“But when you married James in the House of Commons Chapel”-the way he said it made it sound like St. Peter’s in Rome-“you told the vicar you were single. A single girl and fancy free, that was about it, wasn’t it?”
Why had no one picked on that till now? Her tone trembled: “James…James thought it best. James said…I didn’t know I was doing wrong. I thought I…I…”
“Well, never mind. It all came right for a while with your first husband’s tragic death in the cinema. A terrible thing, of course, but in some ways it happened at just the right time. What was your reaction?”
Her reaction in the here and now was to burst into tears. She couldn’t help it. She felt driven into a corner from which the only escape was to be led away to prison. Falling forward, anything to stop looking into his awful bearded face, she put her head on her knees and sobbed. What he was doing, saying, what all those cameramen and soundmen were doing, she didn’t know. She felt a touch on her shoulder, jerked up, put her head back, and howled. The kindly woman presenter took her arm, helped her up. She couldn’t really tell because of the beard, but Sebastian seemed to be smiling. Behind her, she heard him say something for the benefit of viewers about her being overcome with grief. Still on camera, she did what she’d feared to do, tripped and nearly fell over. As she left the set, crying and limping, a cameraman whispered, “Great television. It’s what presenters dream of.”
That program was really the end of the battle for Zillah. She went back to Abbey Gardens Mansions in a cab. It was still only nine o’clock. The children were watching television and she recognized the same channel as that on which she’d just appeared.
“Did you do that on purpose?” asked Eugenie. “That crying and falling over?”
“Of course I didn’t. I was upset.”
“When he said about your first husband’s tragic death, what did he mean?”
Zillah had never thought about that, about the children watching the program and in this way, this terrible way, learning about their father’s death. Looking into Eugenie’s beautiful, troubled, reproachful face, she could tell that the child knew, but still she couldn’t answer her. Not now, not in the midst of all she was going through.
“That’s why we never see him,” said Eugenie.
“I’ll tell you later, I promise I will.”
“Your mascara has run all down your face.”
Zillah said she was going to wash. “Where’s Jims?”
“In bed. He didn’t go out and leave us alone, if that’s what you think.”
She wanted to tell the child not to speak to her like that, but she was afraid. It was a dreadful admission to make, that she was afraid of her own seven-year-old daughter. Nevertheless, it was true. How would it be when Eugenie was a teenager? She would be able to do exactly as she liked with her mother, she would rule the place. Willow Cottage, Long Fredington, Dorset. Zillah realized she was resigned to returning there. Consulting lawyers was no longer feasible. Jordan was crying again. He’d probably been crying since before she came in and while she was talking to Eugenie, but she hadn’t even noticed, she was so used to it by now. They were due at the child psychiatrist’s in an hour’s time.
“We’ve never even seen her,” Michelle said indignantly. “We don’t know who you mean. We’ve never had an old homeless woman sleeping in our front garden.”
“Not homeless, Michelle,” said Violent Crimes. “She had a home. That’s the point. Her home was in Jakarta Road. What about you, Matthew? Do you remember her?”
Matthew had been writing his column when they came. They hadn’t phoned first. The thought was inescapable that they had hoped to catch the Jarveys unawares. Plotting their next crime perhaps or disposing of the weapon. “I am old-fashioned,” he said, “but I would prefer you not to call my wife and me by our Christian names. You didn’t when you first spoke to us, so I can only think that since then, for some reason, we’ve forfeited your respect.”
Violent Crimes stared. “Well, if you feel like that, of course. Most clients say it establishes a friendlier relationship.”
“But we’re not clients, are we? We’re suspects. In answer to your question, I don’t remember Mrs. Dring. To my knowledge, I’ve never seen her. Now will that do?”
“We’d like to search this house.”
Michelle shouted, “No!” before she knew what she was saying.
“We can get a warrant, Mrs. Jarvey. All your refusal does is delay things.”
“If my wife will agree,” said Matthew wearily, “I will.”
Michelle shrugged
, then nodded. From believing, a week ago, that no one could suppose a couple like themselves guilty of violence, she had come to understand, only too easily, how Violent Crimes must see her and Matthew. Already she could imagine their photographs, their rogues’ gallery death-row portraits, in some true-crimes collection of the future. A sinister pair, he cadaverously thin with the skull-like face of an Eichmann or a Christie, a man who purposely starved himself and made a living out of writing about anorexics, she a waddling tub of lard with a deceptively pretty face sunk in pillows of fat. It made no difference to this picture Michelle had of herself, and the husband she adored, that since he embarked on his television program he’d been steadily eating a little more every day and that she had done no more than nibble at a piece of fruit or a slice of chicken since the investigation began. She still saw them as grotesque.
The searching began. Four officers worked over the house. They didn’t say what they were looking for and neither of the Jarveys would condescend to ask. After the early rain the day had become warm and sunny. They went out into their garden, which, front and back, was no more than a lawn surrounded by flowerless shrubs, sat on the swing seat, silent but holding hands. Both were thinking of Fiona.
Their neighbor had gone off to work at eight-thirty as usual. Carefree was how Michelle saw her, for though she and Matthew had fallen in love at first sight, she found it hard to believe in the passion Fiona claimed to have had for a man she’d known for such a short time. And such a man! She’d gone off to work, no doubt making money hand over fist for herself and her clients, with never a thought for the people she professed to be her friends but whom she’d made the police suspect. She must have more money than she knew what to do with if she was talking, as she had last time they saw her, of compensating two of those women of Jeffrey Leach’s for what they’d lost through him. Michelle no longer believed she was sorry for what she’d done. She wouldn’t have put it past Fiona, once she’d seen of the murder of Eileen Dring on television last night, to have phoned the police and told them the Jarveys had known the dead woman. Wasn’t it rather too much of a coincidence that they’d known both murder victims?
They went indoors again after the search was over. Of course, nothing incriminating had been found. But, “We shall be in touch,” Violent Crimes said. “We shall want to talk to you again.”
Michelle felt as some people do after their homes have been burgled. Not just an intrusion but a violation, a desecration. She imagined the officers going through her underwear drawers, sniggering at the size of her bras and panties. Finding those X rays of Matthew’s spine and pelvis, which had been taken when a specialist suspected his bones were becoming brittle. Marveling and exchanging amused glances over their wedding photograph album. She’d never feel the same about her house again. She and Matthew had begun their married life there in such an ecstasy of joy and hope. In the kitchen she began to prepare his lunch. For herself, she felt less like eating than ever.
He came out to her. “I love you.”
“I love you too, darling,” she said. “Nothing makes any difference to that.”
“Thanks,” said Jims, “that’s very kind of you.”
He’d been astonished when Eugenie brought him a cup of coffee in bed. It wasn’t very good, being made from less-than-boiling water, instant coffee, and dried milk. Nevertheless he was touched and vague thoughts fluttered through his mind of how, had things turned out differently, he and his stepdaughter might one day have become friends. At least, unlike her mother, she had a brain.
“She’s gone to do some interview,” said Eugenie.
“So what’s new?”
Eugenie laughed and then, to his surprise, so did he. And there he’d been thinking he’d never smile again. So Zillah had gone out-no doubt to bad-mouth him-leaving him to look after her kids without first asking him. And he’d do it. He hadn’t much choice. It would be the last time.
He heard her come back. Because he’d known her so long, he could tell from the way she shut the front door and walked across the hall what kind of a mood she was in. A desperate one, by the sound of it. He lay in bed for a further half-hour, then got up and had a bath, a long, hot soak. Where she was going with the kids this time he neither knew nor cared, but he waited until the door had closed and he heard the lift move before emerging into the living room. He had dressed with care, but then he always did. What sort of a mess had he got himself into that he was being driven out of his own home by that woman?
He walked for a while. It was a beautiful day now, the rain clouds swept away by a high wind, which had since dropped, and the sun had come out. He found himself in South Kensington outside the Launceston Place restaurant where they were happy to let him lunch, though he hadn’t booked. His thoughts drifted from Zillah to Sir Ronald Grasmere and the terms they had agreed on for Willow Cottage, then to Leonardo. Jims hoped he’d been unable to get a taxi and been forced to walk to Casterbridge, that the train had been canceled or that weekend works on the line had necessitated part of the journey being made by bus.
A cab took him back and Big Ben showed twenty minutes past two as he went into the Commons by way of Westminster Hall.
Two messages awaited him. The one from the leader of the Opposition was peremptory and cold. No messing, thought Jims. He’d see him at three sharp. It was a command. The chief whip’s message was couched in rather more wistful terms. Would Jims like to come and “meet with him”-why did even his own party use this awful language?-in his office for a predinner drink and review of “the situation”? Jims threw both into a wastepaper bin and, drawing in his breath, remembering how he’d confronted the press on Saturday morning, he strolled into the Commons Chamber.
All eyes were immediately on him. He had known it would be so and was careful to meet no one’s gaze. Two members sat near where he always sat, on the second from the back of the back benches. With assumed nonchalance, though his heart was pounding, he moved to sit between them. One ignored him. The other, whom Jims of course knew but whom he’d never thought of with anything like friendship, leaned across and gave him a small fatherly pat on the knee. It was so unexpected and so bloody kind that Jims, grinning at him and saying, “Thanks,” felt something happen that hadn’t occurred for twenty years. Tears came into his eyes.
They never fell. Jims didn’t give them the chance. He remained in the Chamber for twenty minutes, apparently listening but in fact hearing nothing, and then he rose to his feet, looked one by one at such members as were present, then at the Speaker (“We who are about to die salute you!”), and walked toward the door. There he paused and looked back. He would never see this sight again. It was already receding into his past, like the fading memory of a dream.
The central lobby was almost empty. Yesterday he had sent his resignation to the chairman of the parliamentary Conservative party and his relinquishment of the whip to the chief whip. There was nothing to stay for except one small consultation. A member who’d been in here for forty years and who knew all about procedure was expecting him in his office with helpful hints on ceasing to be a member. It couldn’t be done as easily as leaving the party.
“The Chiltern Hundreds,” said Jims.
“Pity about that, old man, but it’s taken. You remember-well, a little contretemps in the matter of the former member for…”
“Oh, yes,” Jims cut in. “Pederasty, wasn’t it?”
“Possibly. I try to put a distance between myself and that kind of thing.”
“There must be other offices of profit under the crown. What about the Lord Warden of the Cinque Ports?”
“I’m afraid His Royal Highness the Prince of Wales has that.”
“Of course.”
A ledger was consulted. “There’s the stewardship of the Tolpuddle Marshes. It carries a nominal annual stipend of fifty-two pence and acceptance of it would of course disqualify you from membership of the House of Commons.”
“Sounds perfect,” said Jims. “I’ve always
wanted to have my say in the fate of the Tolpuddle Marshes. Where exactly are they? Wales, isn’t it?”
“No, actually it’s Dorset.”
The aged member afterward remarked to a crony of his that Melcombe-Smith had laughed so much he was quite concerned, supposing that the shock of the wretched man’s recent experiences was bringing on some kind of breakdown.
Jims wasn’t going to hang around for any scoldings, reproaches, or impertinent inquiries. He walked out into New Palace Yard as Big Ben struck twice for three-thirty, an awesome sound to which, for the first time in years, he gave his full attention. The afternoon was beautiful-sunny and hot. What should he do now?
The child psychiatrist told Zillah he was also a doctor of medicine. She didn’t know why he bothered, she hadn’t brought Jordan all the way to Wimpole Street because he had a sore throat. Jordan hadn’t stopped crying since they got into the taxi. Just before they left he’d been sick. It wasn’t surprising, she thought and told the psychiatrist, that a child who was always crying should also be frequently vomiting. Eugenie, who had to come because there was no one to look after her at home, sat on a chair in the consulting room, wearing the wry and cynical expression of a disillusioned woman six times her age.
When he’d talked to Jordan, or tried to, the psychiatrist said he’d like to give him a perfunctory physical examination. Zillah, who was nothing if not a child of her times and was in a nervous state anyway, immediately envisaged sexual abuse, but she nodded miserably. Jordan was stripped and examined.
It took two minutes for the psychiatrist to sit him up, give him a pat on the shoulder, and covering him with a blanket, say to Zillah, “This child has a hernia. Of course you must have a second opinion but I’d be very surprised if that’s not what’s wrong with him. And another may be forming on the other side.” He gave her what she interpreted as a nasty look. “If he’s been crying and vomiting he’s had it for a long time. Pain doesn’t start until the hernia’s reached a critical stage. It may even be strangulated.”
