by Fay Weldon
‘But Ada Lovelace and Charles Babbage were not married,’ says the She Devil. ‘You will have to change that.’
‘I have done my research,’ says Valerie, ‘and I’m sure they slept together, so it’s much the same thing. We must see these ancient partnerships for what they were. “His-story” is so often the male account of the past that it becomes important to redress the balance. Actuality becomes irrelevant. Or so I was taught at uni.’
The She Devil scrolls further down the page: ‘It was not until 1832 that the High Tower was decommissioned as a working lighthouse and fell into private hands. And more recently, ironically enough, into those of a famous writer of romantic fiction. After her death the striking steel and glass structure, which now abuts the High Tower and is known as the Castle Complex, became the headquarters of the Institute for Gender Parity. Here we comfortably house some fifty resident sisters, dedicated as they are to the improvement of society, and up to thirty temporary guests in the inspirational IGP Women’s Retreat [see accompanying leaflet].’
‘Better,’ says the She Devil. ‘But your sentences are still too long and I don’t think Mary Fisher should be described as famous. Notorious, perhaps, using her ill-gotten wealth to turn a ruin into a love nest where she freely seduced the unfortunates who fell into her web. I don’t see the point of mentioning her at all.’
‘Because I was going on to talk about the way her ghost still haunts the High Tower,’ says Valerie, ‘and why. That’s more interesting than any amount of history!’
‘This tower is not haunted,’ says the She Devil. She is very angry. ‘Serious people do not believe in ghosts. Write such rubbish and we will be beyond contempt. You need to remember that the Institute pays your wages and deserves your loyalty, and that you work for me.’
It is turning into quite a quarrel.
‘OK,’ says Valerie, ‘though people love a good ghost story. And what do I say about the Lantern Room which is closed to visitors though it’s the room everyone always asks to see?’
‘If my ex-husband Bobbo lives his poor demented life out in the Lantern Room,’ snaps Lady Patchett, ‘where he has all the medical care and consideration he needs, it is thanks to my good graces. And he will not be with us for long. What you will say, Valerie, is absolutely nothing!’
‘Very well,’ says Valerie Valeria. ‘If you say so. Nothing about the ghost. But tomorrow can we get back to the Widdershins Walk and the equinox? It’s so important not to be negative!’
Valerie knows well enough that to give way on a small thing is to get your way on the one big thing that really matters. And what does the She Devil know about publicity? Nothing. Long sentences indeed! Valerie has evidently touched on a very sore spot indeed. Now is clearly not the time to bring up the subject of the Widdershins Walk. Valerie Valeria smiles sweetly and holds her tongue.
12
She’s Not To Be Trusted
Valerie just so happens to run into Ms Bradshap.
Ms Flora Bradshap, aged sixty-five, who was one of the five founder members of the Institute for Gender Parity, was on the walkway that led from her bedroom (2CC/23: second floor of the Castle Complex, room 23 in the flashy glass and steel edifice that abutted the High Tower) to her dark, dank office (3HT/12: third floor, High Tower, room 12) when she was accosted by young Valerie Valeria.
Valerie was a pleasant sight. Today she was wearing heels with her cropped jeans and her shins were slim, taut and bronzed. Her little red cashmere cardi – it was November, after all – was worn over a long-sleeved t-shirt, striped navy and white, her lipstick more pink than scarlet and her hair blonder and shinier than ever. On such a dismal day Valerie seemed a welcome source of youth, vitality and light.
‘Ms Bradshap,’ said Valerie, ‘I’ve had such a wonderful idea!’ And she explained the concept of an International Widdershins Day, in which women throughout the world would be reminded that the old concepts of feminism were over: men and women both must walk anti-clockwise: ‘the other way’.
‘That sounds very nice, child,’ said Flora Bradshap. ‘By all means work on it. But isn’t that what witches do – widdershins: walking round churches and stone circles?’ And she tried to get by, because she was in a hurry and others depended upon her. But Valerie stood in her way and was gazing up at her with such bright happy eyes that Ms Bradshap stopped, though her instinct was to get through the glass walkway as fast as she could, the weather being so bad today.
Outside seemed too near inside; the skies were dark and menacing as though it were dusk not mid-morning; wind whistled in spite of the double-glazing and lightning played about in rolling black clouds. The High Tower was having one of its ‘bad hair days’, as one of the girls had described it, though more sensible people knew well enough it was the unique configuration of coastline and hills, land and sea which made the High Tower attract weather conditions unknown elsewhere.
Valerie, having lived in Australia, seemed impervious to extreme weather conditions: or else she preferred to ignore them.
‘No, take me seriously,’ she beseeched Ms Bradshap. She explained that though young – indeed probably because she was young – she had friends and colleagues in high places, in both UNESCO and the International Conference of Homophile Organizations, and could probably get Widdershins Day formally listed.
‘I am sure you could, my dear,’ said Ms Bradshap, soothingly. ‘And I am glad you have such important friends. But we do have other things to worry about. The gender pay gap is now 13.9 per cent. There is real work to be done.’
‘But you do think Widdershins Day – Walking the Other Way is best? Or perhaps Walking the Other Way, Widdershins Day would be better?’ persisted Valerie.
‘Either, I suppose,’ said Ms Bradshap, with a hint of asperity. ‘And quite brilliant. Like so many of your ideas, my dear. But no mention of women? Widdershins Women’s Day has a real swing. But perhaps you should give your attention first to the Tower on Top brochure, which the Board is eager to see, and as soon as possible? Is that gum you’re chewing?’
‘Yes, sorry, but it does say it’s sugar free,’ said Valerie, unfazed, and, removing a tissue which she kept in her bra, wrapped the gum in it and put it back.
‘But not sweetener-free,’ said Ms Bradshap. ‘Sweeteners can be worse than sugar.’
‘I’m already working on the annual brochure as fast as I can – so it’s in time for our very own Widdershins Walk,’ said Valerie. ‘I was thinking of changing the title Tower on Top – it has rather unfortunate sexual connotations for our gender-fluid friends – to Women Walk the Other Way. What do you think?’
‘What do I think? It’s change, and who likes change? The point is, as with so much these days, what does Lady Patchett think?’
‘The Diabolissima? I did try and discuss it with her,’ said Valerie. ‘But she went to take her rest. These days she seems tired a lot of the time. And it does rather hold things up and then it’s left to me to take up the slack.’
‘That is what we pay you to do,’ said Ms Bradshap, quite sharply. ‘And the IGP does not tolerate discrimination against the old. Though I must say it’s quite a good name for her, Diabolissima!’– which was as far as she was prepared to go in open opposition to the She Devil.
Valerie, satisfied, took her lightness and brightness away down the walkway, taking a little hop and skip as she went. She then rescued her chewing gum and put it back in her mouth.
13
Fear Of The Future
A desperate measure.
Tyler, the She Devil’s grandson, had taken the felt-tip pen he kept in his pocket the better to fill in the Jobcentre Plus forms – biros on the end of string were provided free but had no ink – and had tried blacking out his front tooth. But as soon as he closed his mouth it all washed off, the fantasist in him faded, and he became aware only of the smear on the mirror and the stench left by so many angry and deliberately careless visitors to the men’s toilets, and was shocked back into as near to rati
onality as you can get in a Jobcentre Plus.
He joined the others slouching in the waiting room, where he was still sixth in the queue for Miss ‘I’m here to help you’ Swanson, and where the cloacal stench was somewhat modified, but only somewhat. The door to the toilets hung open, wrenched at some stage from its frame.
Miss Swanson and her colleagues worked behind toughened glass windows, presumably from fear of assault. Certainly notices informed clients, as those claiming benefits were known, that the Department for Work and Pensions took physical and verbal abuse against their staff very seriously indeed. Miss Swanson called him Tyler, and seemed friendly enough that day. If you were relegated to Long Term Unemployed (LTU) you lost the privilege of a given name, and got called by your surname without even the benefit of a Mr, Mrs, Ms or Miss. Things weren’t looking too bad.
Miss Swanson had said Tyler’s dubious objections were unfounded and he was not in a position to refuse his interview with the Brighton Beaux Agency. If he did he would find himself financially sanctioned for at least two weeks. Moral objections to working for any listed firm were seen as frivolous.
‘Just go along like a good boy,’ she said. ‘Use your ingenuity. Tell them you don’t approve of gay marriage and you’ll be out the door in five minutes.’
‘You want me to starve?’ he asked, raising his wide and innocent blue eyes to her rather rheumy ones, but Miss Swanson had just laughed merrily and loud, showing metal fillings and one missing tooth near the back, and stretching her green cardigan tighter over her bosom. Today there was a grease stain over her rather low left nipple. Miss Swanson’s laugh was quite loud and at a pitch which could be dangerous: Tyler had watched marvelling once as a plastic ceiling tile, fluorescent tube and all, had trembled and fallen to the floor in the waiting area, catching a Security guard’s shoulder as it went – Security staff usually outnumbered those in the waiting area.
Hermione, Tyler’s on-off girlfriend – as some would say bed-buddy, there being lust and affection between them, but no love – was sure that Miss Swanson was in love with Tyler. For the short time Hermione herself had been an official jobseeker at the Jobcentre Plus, Miss Swanson had required her to call at the office three times a week and produce evidence of five job applications on every visit. Miss Swanson was letting Tyler off very lightly and it wasn’t fair, Hermione maintained. Tyler should report the woman for sexual harassment, or at the very least unconscious bias. Tyler pointed out that the fairly sensible distinctions were made because Hermione was an early school leaver with a drug problem, while he, Tyler, was a graduate student with a future, but Hermione would have none of that. Insulted, she stopped going to the Jobcentre Plus, became a drug dealer instead of a drug consumer, and kept her dignity.
It certainly seemed true enough that when Tyler was called to her cubicle Miss Swanson would lean back in her chair and put her hands behind her head, a sure sign, according to Hermione, who read the tabloids, of a heightened sexual awareness – Tyler himself read the Guardian. But then it wasn’t as if Miss Swanson had managed to put any employment his way. She always seemed rather pleased that she hadn’t.
‘You won’t starve,’ said Miss Swanson. ‘Even if I do sanction you. We’re starting a food bank out the back to help everybody. It’ll cut down on the actual assaults. This is a dangerous job!’
Even as she spoke there was some contretemps behind them – an unshaven middle-aged man in flared trousers – no doubt from a charity shop – was shouting ‘Legalised slavery! Arsehole! Cunt! Scum! Give me my fucking money!’ and banging his fists against a closed window until two large Nigerians in Security uniforms descended upon the wretch and eased him out the front door to an assortment of cheers and jeers.
‘Typical male!’ observed Miss Swanson calmly, when all was quiet again. ‘That’ll be a two-year sanction for him, I imagine, and a gold star for his supervisor. But I tell you what. There are minimum wage jobs going for catering staff up at the High Tower. Why don’t you apply? You have family connections, I believe. Why you graduates prefer to sponge off the State rather than your families I cannot understand. However.’
‘There are family reasons,’ said Tyler. The State seemed to know more about one than one did oneself. Facebook, he supposed. They’d know all about his wicked Gran.
‘There always are, I find. Just apply,’ she said. ‘You’re quite safe. They’ll reject you because you’re not a girl.’
‘They’re not allowed to do that.’
‘Employers have their little ways,’ she said. ‘And you’re such a pretty boy. I suppose you could always dress up as a girl.’
Sometimes, it was perfectly true, he liked the feel of fabric between his legs, and the sound of the swish of a skirt. What else did they know? But he was male, male, male, male. He said as much.
She said she’d be kind and let Tyler off a sanction this time. He went off to find Hermione.
14
The Power Balance Is Altering
Valerie drops a bombshell.
‘Lady Patchett, I’m so sorry to keep returning to this point, but decisions have to be made about our Widdershins Walk. We really do need to have a man in the procession. Perhaps Mr Patchett, Bobbo, could parade with you? He is on the Board, after all.’
Was the girl out of her mind? Did she understand nothing? Feminists did not ‘need’ men. There were such depths of miscomprehension here. Valerie had been working for the She Devil for almost a year, editing lectures, articles, writing leaflets, arranging festivals and so on, travelling with her, bringing her wake-up coffee. She must surely know what her employer felt about husbands, not to mention marital law: how marriage was a fraud and a wife no more than a sex slave, how fraudulent the very concept of ‘family’ was. How Bobbo was a ghost trustee, no more than that, because of the OTT requirements of the Charity Commission. At least he now lacked fleshly wherewithal, too old and withered to do much harm. Had the girl sat through a hundred such lectures and learned nothing?
Valerie Valeria waits for a reply, her lovely little face eager with hope and expectancy.
‘Bobbo is far too ill to walk anywhere,’ says the She Devil, less sharply than she might have. After all the girl is young. Her feminism is still only skin deep, an academic study. History, now fashionably related in the present tense, has deprived the past of its reality. Any sense that what had happened once could happen again, that the cost of liberation actually was eternal vigilance, simply hadn’t occurred to her. Horror at the lingering of patriarchy was yet to dawn upon her. If ever she had children she would learn what submission was, and helplessness, and dependency.
‘But I’ve seen him up and about,’ says Valerie. She tells the She Devil how she had been coming upstairs with the She Devil’s good-night cocoa when she encountered an old man running down the stairs from the Lantern Room in bare feet and pyjamas. A nurse had come down after him and wheedled him back.
‘I take it that was Bobbo? He seemed perfectly lively, just rather old.’
‘He’s nearly a hundred, he won’t be with us long. But it shouldn’t have happened. Those stairs are so steep! I’ll have a word with Nurse Samantha. She’ll have left the door unlocked and he’s off like a shot. The girl’s rather a fool. He has Alzheimer’s and keeps trying to run away, it’s a common symptom. Did he try to expose himself?’
‘He didn’t really have time, Diavolessa. But it’s true his flies were undone, and it hung out like a little grey pencil. Ugh!’
‘You get the picture now?’ says the She Devil. ‘No Bobbo. No Widdershins procession, come to that. I thought I okayed a small party with a few guests, nothing more.’ Valerie seems not to hear her.
‘Ellen says the light will be best for us at midday, so we’re in luck, it’s a very high tide,’ is all she says. Ellen is the official High Tower photographer, aged seventy-three. ‘She hates those low-tide shots when the foreground is all seaweed and washed-up plastic. A big tide covers all faults. So we walk widdershins before lunch, wi
th the sun behind us so we look our best. The twenty-first of December, your birthday, and the IGP’s, and the winter equinox, all in one. Oh, wonderful!’
What sun? the She Devil refrains from asking. Valerie had arrived in a mild winter and didn’t know how rare a fine day was; how savage the midwinter storms could be; how high and strong the seas; how up on the higher floors the wind howled like the wrath of God: how the lightning ignored all diversionary tactics and kept on hitting other bits of the High Tower. Conductor rods, the contractors claimed, were neutralised by the sheer number of aerials and antennae which, alas, these days sprouted from the top of the tower to keep in contact with the outside world. And how cold!
The She Devil is frightened of the cold. All she thinks about at night is not the sins of man or the folly of women, but how her children will not speak to her, and how will her poor old bones keep out the cold? Or is it that her heart is cold?
‘Okay, no Bobbo,’ says Valerie Valeria. ‘But you keep going on about having no family, when you have a grandson down in the village. Perhaps he could process with you? We simply must have a man. No longer war between the sexes but peace! Glorious peace!’
The She Devil has no idea she has a grandson. Her first instinct is to deny it.
‘I have no grandson. Whoever it is must be an impostor.’
‘Yes, you have a grandson. Your daughter Nicci has a boy called Tyler. He lives locally. I’ve seen selfies on Facebook.’
‘Nicci is no daughter of mine. I disowned her and her misbegotten twins decades ago. Ruined by romance, by her stepmother, by Mary Fisher’s silly ideas. Nicci was only fifteen. Those poor babes should have been aborted. I know I am being hard but it was a matter of principle. And I’ve heard nothing about her having a son. Obviously an impostor. Someone after my money.’
