Shape of Snakes

by Walters, Minette

  "It has," I said.

  She waited for me to go on and, when I didn't, she said brightly, "Peter tells me you've been living abroad. Was that exciting? And you've two boys, I believe?"

  There was so much blatant curiosity in her over-thin face that I took pity on her-it wasn't her fault that her husband was late-and talked enthusiastically about our years abroad and our children. She studied me over the rim of her glass while I spoke, and there was a shrewd glint in her eyes that I didn't much like, I wasn't used to having people see straight through me, not after so many years of growing an impenetrable skin.

  "We've been lucky." I finished lamely.

  She looked amused. "You're almost as good a liar as I am," she said matter-of-factly. "Most of the time I can contain my frustration, but every so often I drive to a wide-open space, usually a cliff top, and scream my head off. Peter knows nothing about it, of course, because if he did he'd think I was mad and I simply couldn't bear to have him fussing round me." She shook her Lear-like locks in grotesque parody of a lap dancer. "It's quite absurd. We've been married forty years, we have three children and seven grandchildren, yet he has no idea how much I resent the utter futility of my existence. I'd have made an excellent vicar, but my only choice was to play second fiddle to a man."

  "Is that why you scream?"

  She refilled my glass. "It's more fun than having a hangover," she said.

  Psychiatric report on

  Mrs. M. Ranelagh-dated 1979

  Queen Victoria Hospital

  Hong Kong

  Dept. of Psychiatry

  A consultation was requested for Mrs. M. Ranelagh of 12 Greenhough Lane, Pokfulam, Hong Kong, by her general practitioner, Dr. J. Tang, querying postpartum depression after the birth of her son, Luke (DOB 20.10.79). According to her husband, she has been suffering from depression for some time. She refuses all medication. Mrs. Ranelagh had a two-hour consultation with Dr. Joseph Elias on December 19, 1979.

  (The following extracts are taken from Dr. Elias's report, which was released to Mrs. Ranelagh in February 1999.)

  ...Mrs. Ranelagh was a difficult patient. She insisted on making it clear from the outset that her only reason for attending was to prove once and for all that she wasn't suffering from depression. She was uncooperative and angry. She expressed considerable hostility toward "men in authority" and "people who throw their weight about," and referred to "coercion," "bullying" and "intimidation" on a number of occasions. When I suggested to her that, far from persuading me to give her a clean bill of health, such statements were leading me to question the existence of a paranoid disorder, she agreed to cooperate.

  ...She admits to feelings of emotional turmoil following various events that happened at the end of last year and the beginning of this in London. She refused to discuss these in any detail for fear of confirming my suspicion of paranoia, however, she touched on three-two of a highly personal nature-to explain her "anger." She produced a number of newspaper clippings as evidence that the first incident had occurred-the death of a black woman-but was unable to support her other allegations. Without independent confirmation, I cannot say whether the subsequent incidents a) happened or b) are a construct to validate her sense of injustice re the black woman's death.

  ...The main focuses of her resentment are her husband (resident with her in Hong Kong) and mother (resident in England), whom, for various reasons, she feels betrayed her. This has resulted in a "coldness" toward them, which she "needs time to overcome." She describes her pregnancy as "ill-conceived"-(pun intentional?)-pointing to the difficulties of starting a new life abroad while carrying a baby to term. She talks lovingly about the child, calling it "my baby," while blaming her husband for "exposing her to an unplanned pregnancy." She retains a close bond with her father (resident in England), whom she contacts regularly by telephone and who is her only confidant. In addition, she listed a number of related problems: a dislike of being touched; feelings of insecurity when alone in her house; an obsession with hygiene; dislike of certain sounds-i.e. doorbells, London accents, rats scratching(?).

  ...I advised her against forging alliances-particularly with her father, who is "conducting some research" for her-which her husband will almost certainly see as betrayal if he finds out. I also pointed to the potential danger of making an ally of her son as he matures. She concurred on both counts, but remains adamant that her marriage will end tomorrow if she forces another confrontation with her husband. This is not what she wants. She rejected my offer of a joint session with herself and Mr. Ranelagh, as she believes that neither of them would be able to talk honestly without causing the immediate separation referred to above. Her feelings for her husband are confused. She seems to retain a close bond with him despite her resentment and believes her decision earlier this year to stay in the marriage was the right one. Nevertheless she is intent on punishing him for sins of "omission and commission."

  ...Mrs. Ranelagh presents herself as an intelligent, self-aware woman who is trying to come to terms with some extremely unpleasant, and as yet unresolved, issues in her life. Once satisfied that she had persuaded me she was not a "depressive"-a view I encouraged-she talked at length about her intention to seek "closure," although she is clearly ambivalent about what sort of closure she wants. In simple terms, she prefers the more anodyne description of "justice" for her black friend to the rather more accurate one of "revenge" for herself.

  ...When I warned her that prolonged internalized anger, be it well-founded or capricious, could lead to the sort of paranoid disorder-persecutory, delusional, phobic-that she was so determined to dissociate herself from, she said the damage had already been done. "I'm between a rock and a hard place, Dr. Elias. I'm a coward if I give in and a neurotic bitch if I fight back."

  ...In conclusion, I can find no evidence of depression in this patient. She is obsessive and extremely manipulative, but is also well in command of herself. I found her rather frightening...

  *6*

  In the end I exchanged less than twenty words with Peter Stanhope. He bustled in half an hour late, full of apologies for the delay, only to be sidetracked almost immediately by a telephone call. Pausing only to say it was important, he disappeared into his study and left his wife to murmur courtesies into the receiver until he picked up the extension. It hardly mattered. Wendy was a mine of information, and I was fairly sure they weren't the sort of facts I would ever have had from her husband since most of it was gossip, and some of it was scurrilous.

  While waiting for Peter's return we had transferred to the sitting room, where Wendy had tried to relieve me of my small single-shoulder rucksack, not realizing that it was held by a buckle across my chest. She was surprised by how heavy it was and how reluctant I was to let it go. I relented enough to unbuckle the chest strap and lower it to the sofa beside me- but if she wondered why I needed to bring the kitchen sink on my travels she was too polite to say anything. I was clearly an enigma to her, for whatever picture she had in her rnind of a crusading zealot it certainly wasn't me.

  She made a small moue as she replaced the receiver, and I wondered how often she was left to hold the fort and how accommodating Peter would be if their roles were reversed and she were the vicar and he the helpmeet. My expression must have been more revealing than I realized.

  "Has he let you down, my dear?" she said into the silence.

  "Not at all," I assured her. "I wanted to talk about Annie's neighbors on Graham Road and I think you probably know more about them anyway."

  She fixed me with her all-seeing eyes. "I meant in the past," she said gently. "Did he let you down before?"

  "In a way," I said, looking about the room to avoid looking at her. "He told me I was hysterical when I wasn't." Wendy was apparently a collector of porcelain figures because every surface seemed to have them. She had a fine array of white Dresden ladies along her mantelpiece and some tiny hand-painted birds in a small glass cabinet on the wall. Photographs were her other love, with pictures o
f her family everywhere, and a huge blown-up snapshot of seven laughing children on one wall. "Who are they?" I asked, nodding in their direction.

  She accepted the change of tack without demur. "My grandchildren. It was one of those rare moments when they all looked their best." She gave a little chuckle. "Usually one of them can be relied on to scowl."

  "Who took it?"

  "I did."

  "It's brilliant," I said truthfully. "Forget being a vicar, you should have been a professional photographer."

  "I was for a time ... well, semiprofessional. I used to do the weddings at St. Mark's, particularly for the couples who didn't have much money to spend." She pulled open a drawer in a desk to one side of the fireplace and produced a bulging photograph album. "I think this might interest you. Most of Annie's neighbors are in here somewhere."

  She passed it across to me and I flicked my way through a pictorial history of weddings, christenings, funerals and feast-day services at St. Mark's. The pictures from the '70s made me smile because the fashions were so dated-men in suits with flared trousers, frilly shirts and chunky identity bracelets; women with big hair, wearing empire-line dresses and sling-back shoes. There was even a picture of me at Annie's funeral, twenty-four years old and desperately self-conscious in a brand-new black maxi-overcoat which hadn't fitted properly and gave me the look of an orphan in someone else's cast-offs. I recognized very few of the faces because they weren't all from my era, but some I remembered.

  "Why did you take so many?" I asked Wendy. "You can't have been paid for all of them."

  "I thought it would be interesting for future generations," she said. "I wanted to leave copies with the parish register so that when people came looking for information about their families, there'd be a visual record as well as a written one." She laughed. "It wasn't a very good idea. There was so much time and paperwork involved in cross-referencing pictures with written entries that I got snowed under very quickly. After that I went on doing it for fun."

  She does a lot of things for fun, I thought, warming to her. I even began to wonder if I could excuse what I was doing in the same way. Would anyone accept that I was asking questions about Annie's death because I was bored? I touched a finger to a picture of a family group. "The Charleses," I said. "They lived next door to us at number 3."

  Wendy moved across to sit next to me on the sofa. "Paul and Julia, plus two children whose names I can't remember. Peter christened one of them and it howled nonstop throughout the service. These were the christening photographs."

  "Jennifer," I told her. "She used to cry all night. Sam went 'round once to read the riot act because we couldn't sleep for the row that was going on, but Julia was so exhausted she burst into tears on the doorstep and he couldn't bring himself to do it. After that we took to wearing ear plugs. Jennifer's about twenty-four now and working as a solicitor in Toronto. The whole family emigrated to Canada in 1980."

  "Goodness me! You are well informed."

  "I recognize this man's face," I said, pointing to another picture.

  "Derek Slater," she told me. "He was a horrible brute ... used to beat his wife and children when he was drunk. The poor creature was always taking refuge with us because she was so frightened of him." She turned a page and pointed to a dark-haired woman holding a toddler in her arms. "That's her ... Maureen Slater. She had four children by him-two boys and two girls-all of whom got thrashed at one time or another. Derek was always being arrested ... usually for drunk and disorderly ... although I believe he had theft convictions, too." She placed a finger on the toddler's face. "Derek certainly spent time in prison because this little chap came long after the other three. As far as I know Maureen's still living on Graham Road, but goodness knows where Derek went. There was a terrible fight some time in 1979 or '80 when his elder son finally found the courage to take a baseball bat to him and told him to leave."

  "That would be Alan?"

  "Yes. Did you know him?"

  "I taught him English for a year ... a tall, heavily built child with hands the size of dinner plates. They lived next to Annie at the end of the terrace. Number 32. Do you have a picture of Alan?"

  "I think so ... but he wasn't in church when I took it. As far as I recall the only time he ever set foot in St. Mark's was to see if there was something worth stealing." She tut-tutted to herself. "He was a frightful thief, stole my mother's brooch from under my nose when I offered Maureen sanctuary one day, and I've never forgiven him for it. Mind you, all her children were thieves ... only to be expected, I suppose, with a father like Derek. It's very sad the way the sins of the fathers are visited on the next generation."

  "Did you report the theft?"

  She sighed. "There was no point. He'd just have denied it. And it was my fault, anyway. I should have been more careful. After that I made sure everything was locked away whenever they came to the house."

  I wondered what else Alan had got away with. "He tried to steal from me, too," I told her. "I left my bag on my desk while I went to collect some notes from the staff room, and when I came back he was going through my wallet. I didn't report him either." I tapped a finger against my lip where a tiny tic of hatred pulsed and throbbed beneath the skin. "I'd never have let my own children get away with it."

  Maureen and Danny Slater

  outside St. Mark's Church,

  summer 1978

  Derek Slater on a park bench

  outside St. Mark's Church,

  summer 1978

  "No," she said slowly, watching me with her sharp eyes, "but I don't suppose you liked Alan much so you overcompensated."

  I didn't answer.

  "I'd forgotten you were a teacher," she said to break the silence.

  I nodded. "For my sins." I ducked my head down for a closer look at Derek Slater's face. He had long, dark hair and a pleasant smiling face and appeared anything but a wife-beater. "What did Derek go to prison for?"

  "I've no idea. Theft? Assault?"

  "On his wife?"

  "A woman certainly. I don't think he was brave enough to pick fights with men."

  "Who's this?" I asked, touching a picture of a heavily made-up blonde, simpering at the camera from beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

  "Sharon Percy," said Wendy, turning her mouth down at the corners. "Mutton dressed as lamb. She wasn't far off forty when that was taken but most of her bosom's hanging out and her skirt barely covers her knickers. You must remember her. She lived next to Annie on the other side from the Slaters and was forever complaining about her." She heaved a sigh. "Poor Annie. She was sandwiched between the two worst families in the street-a thieving violent family, the Slaters, on one side and a tart with an out-of-control son on the other."

  Sharon Percy-aka Jock's floozy and Libby's "bleached vampire," I thought with amusement. "I don't believe I ever saw her," I said, "or if I did I don't remember. I taught her son, Michael ... at the same time I was teaching Alan Slater, but I don't think she ever came near the school."

  "She was a dreadful woman," said Wendy tartly, "little better than a prostitute ... entertained a different man in her house every night ... but she still thought she was superior to a black woman ... made Annie's life a misery with her endless complaints to the council."

  I studied the young-old face with interest and recalled some of the rednecks we'd met in South Africa. "It's the 'poor white' syndrome," I said slowly. "The lower you are in the pecking order the more important it is to have someone beneath you."

  Sharon Percy at a wedding

  at St. Mark's Church,

  Spring 1983

  Alan Slater and Michael Percy in

  the alley behind Graham Road,

  March 1979

  "Mm, well that was certainly true of Sharon."

  It seemed a very unchristian attitude and I wondered what the woman had done to make Wendy dislike her. "How do you know so much about her?" I asked curiously. "Was she a regular churchgoer?"

  "Oh, yes. Regular as clockwork as l
ong as Peter was willing to give her an hour a week to discuss her problems. Hah!" she snorted suddenly. "Alleged problems, I should have said. Called him Father Stanhope because she knew it would appeal to his vanity. It was only when she started putting her hand on his thigh that he realized what she was up to and told her he wouldn't see her again unless I sat in on the discussion. After that she never set foot inside the church again."

  I hid a smile. For all her declared frustration with her marriage, she could still feel jealousy. "Did she ever marry?"

  "Not when we knew her. I couldn't even say who Michael's father was, and I don't suppose Sharon could either. The poor child was always getting into trouble with the police and Peter would be dragged out at midnight to stand in loco parentis because his mother was flat on her back somewhere." "Turned fourteen in '78," I said, remembering. "Dark-haired, rather adult-looking ... always wore white T-shirts and blue jeans." She nodded. "He wasn't a bad lad, just hopelessly out of control. He was very bright and very articulate-the complete opposite to Alan Slater, who could hardly speak without uttering an obscenity. I was rather fond of him, as a matter of fact, but he wasn't the type to give his affection easily." A wistful expression crossed her face. "I read in the newspaper about six years ago that a Michael Percy had been sentenced to eleven years for armed robbery. The age was right but the photograph was very different from the boy I remembered." I couldn't bring myself to shatter her illusions. "Does Sharon still live at number twenty-eight?" "Presumably. She was certainly there when we left in "92." She took the album from me and leafed through the pages until she came to a picture of a gray-haired man with a pointed, raddled face like a tortoise, "Geoffrey Spalding," she said. "Married to a woman called Vivienne who died of breast cancer in '82. Poor creature-she fought a long battle against it-nearly five years in all. I took this at her funeral. They lived across the road from Sharon, and it was one of the big scandals that, while his wretched wife was dying, Geoffrey spent more time in Sharon's house than he did in his own. He moved in for good about six months after Vivienne's death." She sighed again. "The whole business upset Geoffrey's children terribly. He had two teenage daughters who refused to acknowledge that Sharon even existed."