The Hearts and Lives of Men

by Fay Weldon

  “Clifford,” she said, “thank you for that. But what are we going to do about me? I can’t sleep, and I can’t relax, and I can’t work. I want to be with you, but I can’t do that either.”

  “It’s Barbara who’s stopping you, isn’t it?” he said, with that surprising acuity of feeling which characterized his new self. “And it’s quite true that if you take me on, you have to take her on as well. She has only me in all the world. But at least come and meet her.”

  Helen did and, seeing Barbara in the flesh for the first time, pale and sad, dressed in the stiff, old-fashioned, unbecoming way that elderly, highly trained nannies, however nice, even these days seem to insist upon, felt such a rush of pity for the child that it drove out anger and hate once and for all. She could see that Barbara was her own person, main player in her own drama, and not a relic of Angie at all. Nor was she Clifford’s substitute for the daughter lost so long ago. Which of course was what she had feared: that in accepting Barbara she would finally deny Nell.

  Reader, to the happy all things come. Happiness can even bring the dead back to life. It is our resentments, our dreariness, our hate and envy, unrecognized by us, which keep us miserable. Yet these things are in our heads, not out of our hands. We own them; we can throw them out if we choose. Helen forgave Barbara and in so doing forgave herself.

  “Yes, Clifford,” said Helen, “for good or bad, of course I’ll marry you.”

  “Poor Angie,” Clifford was to say presently. “A lot of it was my fault. One way and another I’ve done a lot to be ashamed of.” He could say it because he was happy, and was happy because he could say it and mean it. The two went together.

  DRAMA

  AND SO PRESENTLY, THAT Christmas Eve, a private plane stood on the tarmac at Heathrow while the pilot waited for clearance and a runway to be pronounced free from drifting snow. Clifford and Helen sat together and held hands. Barbara sat across the aisle and stretched out her arm to hold Helen’s other hand. She had found a mother; she could keep her nurse. Her grave face was already lighter and brighter. Young Nell Kildare sat behind, House of Lally’s leading model, her cropped black hair sticking defiantly upwards. They were on their way to Christmas in Manhattan, and the opening of “Designer as Artist” in the big new modern gallery overlooking Central Park. Nell hated flying. She wore her teddy bear around her neck, for luck.

  Edward, Max and Marcus had been sent ahead, in the care of a couple of stoical nannies, for a whole week at Disneyland before joining Helen and Clifford in New York. That had been Nell’s idea. Helen was accustomed enough to their noise and energy, and deserved some peace. Clifford, Nell could see, was not so accustomed. He would have to be broken in gently to the boys. He reminded her of someone, but she couldn’t think who. She was shy of him; it was not a feeling she was accustomed to. It surprised her. She kept out of his way. She kept reminding herself she was just an employee, not one of the family. She must not let herself become too fond of them all. It was her experience, remember, reader, that the people you love suddenly vanish; that the good times suddenly stop. More, that it was her fault. That as you loved, you destroyed, by fire and mayhem. Ah, she was cautious!

  Barbara had been asked if she wanted to go ahead with the boys.

  “No, no,” she’d cried, butting her head into Nell’s tummy. “They’re so rough! Won’t!” She was beginning to look after herself, and doing it very well.

  John Lally was there too, with his wife Marjorie. He was Leonardo’s leading painter, after all, and these days an artist has to keep a high profile. (No more hiding in fields painting sunflowers in obscurity.) Marjorie wore a patchwork shawl over her dress: she had worked it herself. Some of the squares were made from the remnants of the old, ribbed blue dress worn so very often by Helen’s mother Evelyn—waste not, want not! You and I know this, reader. No one else noticed, not even Helen. Little Julian was being looked after by Cynthia. They’d moved out of the grand flat and now had a small home with a garden in Hampstead, where a small child was always welcome. Oh, Cynthia had changed too! She’d been so proud of Clifford, that peculiar jet-lagged day in New York. Her family had turned up in droves; she could no longer hold that far-off past against them. How wrong time had proved them—Otto, once the humble builder from the wrong side of the Copenhagen tracks, still mysterious in his dignity, and now wealthy, respected, honored by the community, more than their equal. It’s good to look back on your life and know you’ve been right.

  Helen, by the way, wore a dress of a new heavy silk fabric that John Lally had consented to design. It was patterned with very small golden lions and tinier white lambs were not being devoured by the lions, but simply lying down with them. The dress itself was of a pattern much influenced by the hand of Nell—done at the time Helen was in such a state over Clifford. In the aircraft hold were eight Lally canvases, destined for exhibition at Leonardo’s (New York): four of the old, savage and despairing paintings, four of the new, more charitable kind. On the whole the early works now ended up in galleries, the latter on private walls.

  Clifford had smiled at Nell in an ordinary, friendly, not at all lecherous fashion, when she boarded the plane. He knew how fond Helen was of her. He would go along with it easily enough. She was a pretty, bright, cheerful girl, who fitted in well. Though he wasn’t sure about her hair.

  Sometimes, you know, I wonder if I’m right to be so forgiving about Angie. Perhaps she was even wickeder than I thought. Perhaps it was in the flight from Angie that Clifford fell into so many arms, bruising and harming as he fell? And yet that still means only that Angie was an aspect of Clifford, for who do we ever flee from but ourselves? All the same, it does seem that only once she was dead was Clifford free to be himself; and that that self was far, far nicer than anyone had dreamed. Some curse had been lifted.

  And who else but Arthur Hockney and Sarah and the baby Angela—an olive-skinned, sloe-eyed little beauty—sat further back in the plane. They were hitching a free ride to the States, to spend Christmas with Arthur’s family, and show off the new baby. There was space on the aircraft. Clifford, on Helen’s request, had been happy enough to offer it. If these people were friends of Helen’s, they were friends of his. There was some faintly disagreeable memory of an encounter with Arthur some time in the past, Clifford thought; but he did not trouble to recall it. Kim was being looked after at the Border Kennels, now, alas, under new management. Brenda had married her Ned; and her spots, by the way, had quite disappeared. It looked as if her mother was coming to live with them, though, until she was back on her feet.

  And further back on the aircraft—indeed in the very back row, always Peter Piper’s favorite—were two representatives of Piper Art Security Limited: Peter Piper himself and Father McCrombie. Both of them were made uneasy by Arthur Hockney’s presence on the plane.

  “I hadn’t reckoned on him,” said Peter Piper. “Six foot four if he’s an inch.” He lit another cigarette, with fingers which trembled more than ever. Not surprising; a lot depended on the events of this day.

  And then, reader, the following events happened. Once the aircraft had passed the point of no return, Father McCrombie walked casually through into the cockpit, and no one thought to stop him or wonder why, and when he came out he was herding the pilot before him at gunpoint. It took time for the passengers to absorb what was happening; it all seemed so unlikely. Only Barbara moved quickly, diving for Helen’s lap and hiding her head. And now here was Peter Piper standing at the back of the aircraft, and he was pointing a gun as well, a nasty black deadly-looking Luger.

  “Sit down,” he said to Arthur, who was on his feet. Arthur sat.

  “No one’s driving the plane,” complained Marjorie.

  “It’s on automatic,” said Arthur. “It’s okay for a bit. Just keep calm.”

  “You just shut up,” said Peter Piper, and Arthur shrugged and did. It never does to take villains too seriously. On the other hand it’s best not to provoke them, because they’re nervous, and
nasty things happen. They’re also usually stupid; to predict what they’re going to do is therefore difficult. You have to think about it, not just assume.

  Now the pilot was sat forcibly down in the seat vacated by Barbara. He hadn’t simply been shot, so obviously these villains were not of the deepest dye. They could be negotiated with. Arthur patted Sarah’s knee. “Don’t worry,” he said, but of course she did. Peter Piper took over passenger control and Father McCrombie returned to the cockpit and changed course for a small coastal town north of New York, where he had friends and helpful acquaintances. The whole affair had a dreamlike quality. No one screamed (not even Marjorie), no one shouted (not even John Lally). It was as if they had passed from real life into a film without even knowing it. Arthur held his peace, and waited. Peter Piper spoke.

  It wasn’t a kidnap, he said, or even a ransom. It was merely armed robbery; he wanted the Lally paintings and meant to have them.

  Clifford laughed. “All I can say is,” he said, “that I hope you have some new market in mind, and are not relying on the existing network. Buyers of stolen paintings only want Old Masters, the French School and occasionally a Pre-Raphaelite. Anything post-Surrealist, forget it. Contemporary British? You’re joking! Even those involved in art theft are obliged to know something about art! What did you say your name was?”

  Arthur hoped Clifford had not gone too far. Peter Piper’s pallor deepened. It is never nice to be shown up publicly for ignorance, and especially humiliating when the person who does the showing up is meant to be your victim, and should be terrified.

  His language was terrible. I shan’t repeat it, reader. He called Clifford every name under the hellish moon, and the aircraft bucketed and rocked as it went through turbulence and even when it didn’t. Piper’s gun seemed suddenly the least of everyone’s worries. It was some time since Father McCrombie had flown, and he’d had to drink a lot of brandy to steady his nerves. He remembered how in his youth, when he was a Battle of Britain pilot, he had spoken to God, and God had answered him. Now, drunkenly, he addressed his Maker once more, and fought the plane, which swerved and bucketed, as if the Devil had gotten into the air currents through which it flew. Peter Piper took no notice; he went on to accuse Clifford of conspiracy, theft, seduction, illegitimacy and child-snatching, using the most vivid and shocking words.

  “Erich Blotton!” interrupted Clifford. “You’re Erich Blotton!” He was staring now at Piper’s trembling, nicotine-stained fingers. How could he ever forget them?

  At which both Helen and Arthur wanted to cry out, but if you’re Erich Blotton, and you’re alive, where’s our Nell? But they couldn’t, because Erich was strutting and fuming and his finger was once again on the trigger, and John Lally had reverted to some earlier self, and was beginning to shout and rave about his paintings not even being worth stealing, and Marjorie was trying to hush him, as if she were Evelyn, and Erich was ripping the necklace from Helen’s neck and throwing it away outraged because it was only plastic (Fun jewelry? This is fun?) and demanding that everyone hand over their wallets (he had to get something or he’d look very foolish indeed) and found nothing much in those either, only credit cards, and the plane was bucketing, and Blotton bashed the pilot on the head with the butt of his revolver and he fell back unconscious—or was he feigning?—for prophesying disaster if he wasn’t allowed to get back to the controls at once; and baby Angela was crying and Helen and Clifford were trying to comfort Barbara, and Arthur Hockney was still biding his time (or was he paralyzed—had he forgotten everything he ever knew, lost his courage along with his guilt?); and Sarah was airsick all over Erich Blotton’s shoes—it would all have been funny if it hadn’t been so frightening. And Nell? Nell had seen criminals enough during her time at Faraway Farm. She knew bluster when she saw it, and that the pilot was pretending and that the worst danger was accident, not malice.

  “Now look,” she said calmly to Erich Blotton. “Calm down. At least I’ve got something valuable you can have.” She pulled out her teddy bear from beneath her jumper and took her time unscrewing the head; her movements were precise and confident; everyone fell silent and watched. Nell took out the little jewel and handed it to Erich. It grieved her to do it but she knew necessity when she saw it.

  “It’s a real emerald,” she said, “and a good-luck token besides, but you can have it. It seems to me you need it.” Helen looked at the jewel in Nell’s hand and then at Nell and Clifford did the same, and Arthur too, and realization dawned on all three of them at the same time.

  “It’s mine,” said Helen. “Clifford gave it to me. You’re Nell. Our Nell. Clifford’s and my Nell! Of course you are! How could you not be?” At which moment, when the pilot caught his eye and nodded, Arthur made his lunge for Erich Blotton, who was a hopeless kind of criminal, as most of them are, and found him easy enough to disarm and bundle into a seat. Then, with the pilot, Arthur went forward into the cockpit and heaved the wretched McCrombie out of it. McCrombie was not unhappy to be replaced at the controls; the more he’d spoken to God the more silent God had remained, and the worse the aircraft behaved, which you and I, reader, will not wonder at.

  “Oh begorah,” he said, suddenly, “I’d be better off dead,” which I for one don’t think was true, considering. And so it happened that by the time the aircraft landed safely and only a few minutes late at Kennedy Airport, to hand Blotton and McCrombie over to the waiting police, Clifford and Helen had found their little Nell, and she had found her parents, and none of them were disappointed in the other.

  “Our sister, is she?” said Edward, Max and Marcus, full of tales of Disneyland, but seeming not in the least surprised. “What’s for dinner?”

  “Our granddaughter,” exclaimed Otto. “She’ll have to do something about her hair!” But you could tell he was pleased. And Cynthia skipped about, and seemed to have lost twenty years. She nearly made an assignation with a friend’s husband, but stopped herself in time.

  “Why doesn’t she stop messing around with clothes,” said John Lally, noisily, “and do some paper painting instead,” which was his way of accepting her.

  And Nell could see that loving people was not perhaps quite as dangerous for them as she’d thought. She allowed herself to fall in love with an impossible young art student who rode around on a motorbike, and believed everyone should wear uniform clothes in blue Chinese cotton. It wouldn’t last, and wasn’t meant to, but it was a start. Just holding hands made her feel less tough and brisk, more soft and vulnerable, like her mother.

  And what stories Nell had to tell her parents—of the château and the de Troites, and Eastlake (and the horrible Annabel) and the clouded paradise of Faraway Farm and the puzzling events at Border Kennels. Clifford and Helen were more guarded in what they had to say, as you, reader, will understand. They did not want to hurt each other, or Nell. Besides, the older we grow, the less admirable our pasts must seem.

  But how lucky they were, to be given this second chance—and how little, you might think, they deserved it. Our children are to be loved and guarded, not used as pawns in some sad mating-game. And as to whether Helen should have taken Clifford back, well, you will have your own opinion. I’m not so sure myself. Not, of course, that Helen would listen to advice. She loved him, as always, and that was that. The best we can do is wish that they all live happily ever after, and I think they have as good a chance as any of actually getting away with it.

  About the Author

  Novelist, playwright, and screenwriter Fay Weldon was born in England, brought up in New Zealand, and returned to the United Kingdom when she was fifteen. She studied economics and psychology at the University of St Andrews in Scotland. She worked briefly for the Foreign Office in London, then as a journalist, and then as an advertising copywriter. She later gave up her career in advertising, and began to write fulltime. Her first novel, The Fat Woman’s Joke, was published in 1967. She was chair of the judges for the Booker Prize for fiction in 1983, and received an honorary d
octorate from the University of St Andrews in 1990. In 2001, she was named a Commander of the British Empire.

  Weldon’s work includes more than twenty novels, five collections of short stories, several children’s books, nonfiction books, magazine articles, and a number of plays written for television, radio, and the stage, including the pilot episode for the television series Upstairs Downstairs. She-Devil, the film adaption of her 1983 novel The Life and Loves of a She-Devil, starred Meryl Streep in a Golden Globe–winning role.

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 1987 by Fay Weldon

  Cover design by Connie Gabbert

  978-1-4804-1250-7

  This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

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