Amenable Women

by Mavis Cheek

  Pauline’s face was in shadow but Flora was sure she read something there. ‘Really?’ she said. ‘I shouldn’t have thought that . . .’

  ‘Better be getting on,’ Flora said quickly, ‘Got a lot more reading to do before I start writing it all up.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Pauline. She waited.

  ‘I wondered,’ said the pink lips, while the eyes above had a suspiciously glassy sheen. ‘I wondered if I could have something to remember Edward by. A keepsake of some sort.’

  ‘You’ve got the posy pot,’ snapped Flora. Too late, it was out before she could control it. Was any wife to be treated thus? That the object of her husband’s deceit should stop her by the village pond and say – in full view of the sleeping ducks thereon – that she wanted a memento of their shameful dealings? Since Pauline did not know quite how much Flora did not mourn for Edward, it was a bit thick. Over thirty-five years together after all.

  ‘There’s a sweet little painting of a cat I bought him. I wondered if you would mind . . .?’

  So that was where the horrible thing came from. Flora almost said, Take it, take it – for God’s sake take it. But she controlled herself. Power is in property. Anna knew that. Anyway it cleared up one mystery, for Flora had thought it was the oddest of choices for Edward to hang in his study and assumed it was a gift from his eccentric employer. Nothing was ever said. The cat was white and fluffy and managed to look as if it had not only consumed the entire EEC cream lake, but could disembowel a cow with one swipe of its paw. ‘Well – it’s all in probate for the time being,’ said Flora.

  ‘I thought it might be,’ said Pauline, with an irritating hint of slyness. ‘When’s that likely to be over?’

  Flora smiled in condescension. ‘Your guess is as good as mine. These things can go on for years’. Flora shrugged. ‘My hands are tied,’ she said happily.

  ‘Your solicitor’s in The Players isn’t he? I need a solicitor in any case. I could ask him about it.’

  Flora could not stop herself from flinching.

  Pauline could not stop herself from noticing. Ah-ha. ‘He’s very busy,’ said Flora, too quickly.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll bribe him,’ she said. ‘Take him a pot of my quince and crab-apple. See if that will persuade him.’ She gave Flora a happy little smile.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ said Flora. ‘He wouldn’t discuss his client’s affairs with you. Have the cat if you want it.’

  But it seemed Pauline was quite taken with the idea of visiting the solicitor. ‘You gave him Edward’s yellow jumper, didn’t you?’ There was ice beneath the sweetness.

  Flora nodded and shrugged. ‘Well it was no use to me.’ Pauline looked at her with unblinking distaste. ‘Not yellow, no, definitely not yellow.’

  Flora said nothing. It felt as if the Pike had won.

  ‘Well,’ said Pauline eventually, as if she had made up her mind to something, ‘I thought it suited him, poor man. And I bet he doesn’t get many home comforts with that dreadful drunk of a wife of his. I’ll make an appointment.’

  Quince and crab-apple indeed. Something not altogether pleasant popped into Flora’s mind. She had read that one of the ladies at court gave Henry just such a gift to smooth the path of her young girl relative into Queen Anna’s service.

  Extraordinary, given his track record with them, that a Queen’s ladies-in-waiting were chosen by Henry. With such terrible consequences. Much as Flora might imagine that she would like to see the Pink Pike’s head roll – the image of any pretty young head lying sightless and bloodied in the straw was not a good one. On the other hand, neither was it a good one to imagine Pauline sitting opposite Ewan in that intimate little office of his with her little head on one side in that tempting daisy way of hers a-woggling her jam at him . . .

  Flora leaned towards her and said confidingly. ‘He’s not a jam man, Pauline. The way to Ewan’s heart, if you really want to persuade him of anything, is to give him a bottle of good whisky.’

  ‘I thought it was his wife who drank.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Flora. ‘They both do. Like fishes. I was amazed myself.’ She felt as if someone had walked over her grave. But the lie was necessary. Forgive me, Ewan, she said to herself. There was just something far too determined about the Pike. Dainty as a daisy she might be, but she had iron in her little pink soul. ‘Irish whiskey is best. Goodnight, Pauline,’ she said, and moved briskly away, keeping her hands, those hands that that itched to shove a pink person pondwards, firmly in their pockets.

  The sound of Pauline’s clattering heels died into the distance, the dusk gathered more deeply, the sky was full of stars and the beauty of it all made the encounter so much the worse. ‘Pox take the woman,’ she said to the silent ducks. ‘Pox take her. Or she’ll be in The Players before you could say ninepence.’

  Flora had reached a point in the History where she had to apply herself to the datestone. She still had no idea why the dates did not match. Everything she had learned about the portrait, everything she had read about Anna, must hold a clue. If only Hilary would come back to her and say that the carvings were of the same date as Anna’s death, then it would be straightforward. A memorial. Simple as that. If not Flora must concentrate harder. Which was all very well but she was no longer the late-night student, she was very much the early-tobed retired teacher. A world of difference. A world. Why, she could almost hear her brain creak. And she so wanted Ewan to visit and be amazed at all her discoveries. That was the happy plan. She had everything she needed to know about Anna from the portrait. Lively. She couldn’t be wrong about the things the portrait said to her. She, despite Henry, was loved by all. Mary, Elizabeth, her household, her friends. Nothing in the painting said differently. The portrait was the visible truth of all she had discovered about Anna.

  Back in the cottage she thought how simple it seemed in Paris. Here in Hurcott Ducis she realised that the personal was not quite enough. She must go deeper, underpin what she wrote with what she knew; like an iceberg it would be, keeping most of itself hidden but informing everything.

  Well, she had made a promise to Anna in the Louvre and she wanted to fulfil it. Trouble was – she felt very, very sleepy. Again. But it was still early, the Hurcott Ducis Players not being known for candle burning, and certainly it was too early to go to bed. Flora was in that state where the spirit may be willing but the flesh is weak and wishes to go on holiday – and where the flesh in most cases wins hands down with a packed suitcase. It did so now. So she did what many a researcher both great and insignificant does when they are stuck. She yawned while contemplating how to catch the Muse by surprising Her. Almost invariably, the Muse has seen it all before – and also yawns.

  Out of the Parisian experience, names of royal women flew around in her head. Marie of Guise and her daughter Mary Queen of Scots; Mary Tudor; Elizabeth Tudor; Jane Seymour

  . . . The characters surrounding Anna and who contributed to her arrival and stay in England. Flora had looked up the forthcoming exhibition’s website so she had a list. Lists were good and comforting things. They spoke from the page of important things to do, of things already half done. Fascinating. This would keep her awake for hours.

  Within minutes Flora was dozing on the couch next to a pile of unopened books and her pen ceased to make its slight noise of action across the paper. Softly, as if not to waken the sleeper, the paper made a delicate shushing noise as it slid to the floor. Followed, with equally harmonious auditory effect, by the pen slipping slowly from her hands to join it. The only noises to be heard in the house after this were the sounds of Flora’s even breathing and the ticking of the grandfather clock, the latter of which had a distinctly frosty edge given that its mistress was asleep and the time being a mere twenty-five minutes past nine o’clock. The last image Flora took in was a postcard of the portrait of Anna. Not a very good reproduction but Flora found it useful – a constant reminder of the young woman who seemed to speak to her from down the years. There were several such image
s pinned around the house, in strategic places. Wherever she goes, there is Anna. Alas, right now it is a lullaby in paint.

  As her sleepy eyes close the portrait looks even more like an icon in its miniature state. Flora sometimes needs to avoid the desire to pray to it. If not plead for guidance. Tick, tick, tick goes the clock. And by the time it bongs the half-hour, its owner is – gone. It is at times like this that those whom we long to conjure may – if we are lucky – come a-calling.

  Flora dreams of portraits. Of course she does. She dreams of standing in a room full of portraits; good ones, bad ones, dusty ones, glowing ones, and she does not know what to do, where to look, what to say. They stare down at her from the walls, mute and blank and she, too, feels mute and blank. Anna is there and she has a story but Flora doesn’t know how to tell it . . . And then into the room marches Miss Murdoch, striding up to the portrait of Anna, sneering at it defiantly, and Flora takes courage. She berates Miss Murdoch for her blindness, for her inaccuracies, for her lack of humanity. Miss Murdoch stands back in fear and amazement. It is a heart-warming scene, as only scenes in dreams that are going well can be heartening. Flora rises to the dreamed of challenge, and wins.

  Bong, goes the clock. Bong.

  11

  The Thawing of Hilary and the Quivering of the Little Pink Pike’s Gills

  The remaining three conundrums to be dealt with by Flora, and in no particular order, were the accurate dating of the Anna stone, whether or not she should let Hilary see the Pink Pike’s video, and did the Davieses share a bedroom. Each of which was as exercising as the other.

  She rang Hilary and arranged to take her for lunch in London. Nicely neutral ground for both of them and Hilary could show off her Calligraphy and Wordiform research. Flora could then also judge the state of things so far as the video was concerned and, anyway, it would be a little stepping stone for the two of them. Moving on and moving closer, she hoped.

  Thinking so much about portraits gave her an idea. Before she left for London Flora sorted through the photo albums and picked out some nice pictures of Edward and a few snapshots of their lives that she thought Hilary might want. It was interesting and not a little saddening to look at them – after deconstructing Anna’s portrait Flora thought she could never look at any face in any picture without trying to find its soul. The family photos were much as anyone else’s might be on the surface faces bright with hope when they first came to Hurcott. Standing close together in the garden, in a field and near the pond. Then pictures of the two of them with Hilary – all very usual and ordinary – but very quickly Flora saw that she stood away from father and daughter, sometimes behind the cuddling pair, sometimes not there at all. It was nobody’s fault but her own. You did not get to your sixth decade without knowing that looking around for someone to blame for your actions was futile. Flora could, should, have done something about it, and she hadn’t. That was how it was – a maternal disappearing act. She let it happen instead of keeping herself in the picture.

  How dull she probably seemed. Any child was bound to be excited by fun and games and wholly irresponsible behaviour (would Flora ever forget coming home to find the tree-house that Edward had just thrown up, half hanging out of the oak tree, and Hilary with a bandage round her elbow looking pale but determined not to show fear? No – she never would). She had a photograph of the three of them, taken when Hilary was about seven and on a borrowed pony, enlarged. It was the best she could do. The others she slipped in an envelope to give to her. Flora had no further use for them – but she kept all the early photos of Hilary as a babe in arms. Then she had needed her mother – it was when she learned to walk that she upped and walked away.

  As she waited on the station for the 11.05 wearing her navy skirt and jacket and white silk shirt – safe again she thought a little miserably (how long it took her to choose the right mark of respect so as not to offend Hilary and which she now realised was just plain dull) – she mused on her widow’s loss. Here it was, at this very place, that she had stepped off the train into a whole new world of strangeness and surprises. Having a heart of stone being the least of them, really. It seemed, suddenly, that since Edward’s death the world was full of grieving widows – heightened consciousness she supposed unless there had been an outbreak of dying husbands – these widows were all very proper – bemoaning their fate in newspapers, in glossy magazines (with photographs), on the radio, on the television (nicely made up and with hair arranged) and in books. She had been cheated out of the one full, centre-stage role she could play as a wife. Being a good widow. No wonder the Victorians made such an event of mourning – it was, like the marriage ceremony itself, the funeral and after, the validation of everything to do with love. Ecclesiastes even said something along the lines of it being better to go into a house of mourning than a house of feasting. It felt as if she was the only woman in the world to be such a fraud and she took some comfort in remembering how Anna had also had to pretend her way through much of her existence where Henry was concerned. It was unlikely they were the only two in the world, but all the same Flora felt very isolated.

  It occurred to her as she walked up and down the platform that this was what it must have been like for men who loved men and women who loved women in the dark old days. Isolation and a general sense of unease, fear at the pretence, the cold shivers at being found out, always lying about your feelings. The only difference was that she didn’t have anywhere to go at night – the grounds of the Brompton Oratory for example, or dimly lit clubs, or cruising in Midland parks – to mix with other stony-hearted wives and fall on each other’s necks and admit that yes, yes, yes – I am feeling reasonably cheerful and not really mourning my dead husband very much at all. Oh I miss him, but . . . No. She could trust no one with the secret. She must keep it to herself. It was not even the subject of a sisterly telephone conversation, her sister being, like the rest of the world, convinced Flora was a true widow in every respect and accordingly sympathetic. Why, Rosie, not having heard from Flora for a while, even suggested she really would come back early if required. How vile I am, Flora thought. It wouldn’t be long before Rosie was counselling Flora about getting another man into her life and then Flora would have the burden of keeping quiet about Ewan, too. Were you ever grown-up enough to tell the truth to the world and hang the consequence? Probably not. Was she ever going to be grown-up enough to speak the truth? Even just tell Ewan what she felt for him? Probably not. The little Pink Pike would have swum her way in by now if Flora knew anything about it. She might even be doing it at this very moment. Oh, she thought as she boarded the train, Oh I should have been braver. Or cleverer. Or both.

  Atonement. She could atone to herself for some of this deceit by being truthful about the History of Hurcott. A small thing, she thought wryly, but mine own, and I will claim it as such. Not just to Ewan, but to everyone. I will write the story of Hurcott with the story of Anna and I will take full credit for it and Edward can just go on whizzing. And Hilary, too. She swallowed hard at this last thought but faint heart never gained high moral ground. Hilary, when the time came, would just have to lump it. With luck they would have built enough bridges by then for her to accept that her mother was someone in her own right. She then had a very satisfactory mental picture of Hilary looking proud and happy. This was closely followed by a mental picture of Ewan being amazed by her brilliant erudition. It probably wasn’t the au naturelle and orange silk way of getting close to someone you liked, but it would have to be Flora’s.

  A plain woman, she told herself firmly as the little white houses and fields became grey brick and arterial roads and the train started to slow for London, a plain woman has little to lose from setting out her stall early. So say the wise – unless they are in denial and would have it that there is no such thing as a plain woman which clearly, Flora thought, there is. The plain woman stallholder in this case, however, felt that she might never recover from having the potential purchaser metamorphosing into a slightly bal
ding Winged Mercury. Although he was no oil painting himself, since when had that ever stopped a rejection? She had only to think of Anna and Henry to shudder at the prospect. But she had to do something and what else was there? Who is the third who walks always beside you? I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Or in your facial anomalies. Exactly.

  Oddly enough she was beginning to look – for Flora – quite blooming. She noticed it this morning when she was getting herself ready. Not beautiful, nor pretty, not even handsome, but alive to the world somehow. A bit too noticeable, perhaps, for a lunch with Hilary. She put on quite a lot of pale foundation and was tempted to rub a bit of darkness under her eyes (she didn’t) but still the light shone out of her. How right the Caliphs and the Crusaders were to lock up their wives – it seemed that nothing bred bloom on a female cheek quite like a bit of freedom. All in all, despite being a little nervous about lunch with her daughter, she thought she had never felt quite so ready for life and she stepped off the train full of good intentions.

  When she arrived at the restaurant and despite the pale foundation, Hilary noticed it straight away.

  ‘I thought you’d look rough,’ she said, less accusing than admiring, which was nice. ‘But you look very well.’

  Flora immediately put it down to alcoholic flush. ‘I’m probably drinking a little too much,’ she said. Hilary was not surprised and accepted the suggestion. ‘Ah,’ she said knowingly, as if she expected little else.

  ‘It helps me sleep,’ added Flora. Something prodded her, a little demon’s triton was it, to go on. ‘I sleep very well – have a lot of very nice dreams actually.’

  ‘Mourning takes us all differently,’ said Hilary primly, and Flora thought – You can say that again.

  ‘Oh, it’ll all settle down eventually,’ Flora said firmly. ‘But more importantly, how are you?’ She reached over and gave her daughter’s cheek a little stroke. Hilary moved her head to one side like a kitten – but then thought better of it and sat up straight again. Still, it was a start. ‘We’ve just got to be strong,’ she said.