The Parasite Person

by Celia Fremlin

  “… if you wouldn’t mind answering just a few questions? Now, first of all, if you don’t mind telling me, how long have you been feeling—well—like this? Kind of low-spirited, I mean? Not too happy? How long, roughly?”

  Still the baleful eyes watched him, narrow with idiocy and the mindless wariness of dark forests, long ago. He sat, biro poised, expecting, almost, some ancient pre-hominid language to come jerking from her lips, all labials and gutturals, no T’s or D’s at all. She still did not stir, but a trace of spittle appeared at the corners of her mouth, as if she might be licking the insides of her lips; and at this sign of some sort of life, the old husband’s face lit up as if he was watching the sun itself rising in all its glory.

  “That’s it, Magsy girl!” he cried. “That’s my Magsy! Din’ I tell you, Sir, how she’d perk up once she got talking to you! Now, come on, me darling, tell the gentleman! He wants to know how long you bin poorly. Ten years, innit? Ten years come Christmas, that’s about the size of it, innit?” He turned to Martin: “She’s a bit nervous, you see, just a bit nervous. We don’t have that many people come and visit us these days, not that many we don’t, and so she’s a bit nervous, just at first. Just keep talking to her, Sir, will you? She’ll soon get used to you, won’t you, Magsy, love, you’ll soon get used to the gentleman.” Then, to Martin, “You’ll soon have her chattering away nineteen to the dozen, just you see….”

  By now, the old man was sitting on the arm of his wife’s chair, his arm protectively around her humped shoulders.

  “Ten years,” he repeated, encouraging her, “Ten years, near enough, tell the gentleman, Magsy….”

  In default of any sign of life from his actual subject, Martin was getting all this down instead. It might come in useful somewhere—Attitude of Close Relatives, or something, you never knew—and at least it would pad out the interview to a decent length. He continued his questions, pretending as best he could to be addressing that lump of lard.

  And how exactly, Mrs Timberley, did the whole thing start? Did it come on gradually …? Or was there some shock …? A bereavement, perhaps …? Some sort of family trouble …?

  Family trouble. That nearly always got them. Mr Timberley’s skinny behind fairly bounced up and down on its precarious perch as he chirruped excitedly to his spouse, cheering her on as if she’d been a football team.

  “Come on, Magsy! That’s the girl! That’s my Magsy! There’s a question for you, eh? Right up your street, eh, Magsy darling? She’s got plenty she can tell you about that, Sir, and no mistake! Come on Mags, tell the gentleman! Tell him how it was that Christmas, eh, with both your Aunties here together, your Aunty Nell and your Aunty Vi, both here in the house together, my goodness, a proper to-do that was! Though mind you, Sir, I’m not saying a word against ’em, not either of ’em, we wouldn’t, would we, Mags, God rest their souls. No, it was That Gwenda what started all the trouble. Wasn’t it Mags? That Gwenda! It wouldn’t none of it have happened, without she’d poked her nose in! All that fried food, too, it wasn’t doing her no good. I told her at the time, I told her straight. Gwenda, I said, that fried food what you bring in, it’s not doing her no good. Fried in cheap oil, too, you know the kind of stuff, Sir, cheap … nasty … wasn’t it, Mags? Rancid, half the time….”

  There was a non-sequitur somewhere: maybe it would sort itself out when he went through his notes properly. Not that it mattered. “Breakdown of Extended Family Network” was obviously the category, and whether the story ended in Aunty Nell and Aunty Vi leaving all their money to That Gwenda, or merely with the more long-drawnout drama of nervous breakdowns, Valium all round, and nobody speaking to anybody else ever again, really, it didn’t make a blind bit of difference.

  Besides, there were all these other questions to be worked through somehow; he didn’t want to be here all night. And so, as quickly as was compatible (just) with common politeness, he hurried the old man through this section, on to the next one, until he got to the last and (in this case) most bizarre question of all:

  “I wonder, Mrs Timberley, if you could give me some idea of how you mostly spend your time? Any hobbies …? Any special interests …?” In order even to enunciate so grotesquely inappropriate a question, Martin had to avert his eyes as he continued: “What, actually, do you do all day?”

  The small eyes did not even blink in their piggy sockets, and once again it was left to the old man, still frantic to display his treasure at her best, to launch into a reply.

  “Do? Why, my goodness, we’re busy as bees, aren’t we, Magsy? On the go all the time, you could say … Oh, you know … meals and that. And then it takes her a bit of time to get dressed of a morning, don’t it, Magsy, these days? She likes to take a bit of trouble, you know, to look nice, make the best of herself, like all the ladies do … ha ha … they’re all the same, aren’t they, Sir, when it comes to prettying themselves up, and we wouldn’t have them different, would we?” He laughed again, happily, thinking, perhaps, of his Magsy looking her best. “And then there’s lunch, of course: we get our bit of lunch, and then clearing it away and that … one thing and another. Do we get out a lot? Well, of course, it’s winter just now, isn’t it, Sir, and winter’s never been my Magsy’s best time, has it, me darling? Well, it isn’t anyone’s best time is it, not when you think about it. Yes, well, we do stay indoors a good bit winter time, and that’s the truth. But come the summer, my goodness, we’ll be all over the place! You should just see us … out and about … here, there and everywhere, aren’t we, Magsy! She really brightens up, come the summer, does my Magsy! Well, don’t we all? It’s only natural …”

  Outside, dusk was falling, and by the time the interview was nearing its end, Martin could scarcely see what he was writing. Still, he persevered. There were some good quotes here, authentic lower class stuff, and this always made a favourable impression on the examiners. He listened patiently, anxious to get the ill-educated, cliché-ridden turns of phrase exactly right.

  At last it was all over, and he prepared to take his leave. His formal “Thank you’s” as he put away his papers and got to his feet were quite drowned-out by Mr Timberley’s rival expressions of gratitude, effusive and irrepressible:

  “Oh, but it’s been such a pleasure, Sir, I can’t tell you! Such a very great pleasure, wasn’t it, Magsy? You’ve really enjoyed it, haven’t you, love? She’s really enjoyed it, Sir, chatting with you like this…. It’s not often she gets the chance of a real good chat, is it me darling? Somehow, people don’t seem to chat with her like they used to do…. Still mustn’t grumble. Anyhows, Sir, it’s been a real treat for her, this afternoon, hasn’t it, Magsy? She’s got a lot off her chest, talking like this, heart to heart, you might say, it’s helped a lot, hasn’t it, dear? All her worries, all what she’s been bottling-up all this time…. Bringing them out into the open, like, it’s done her a power of good, hasn’t it, Magsy? So come on, me darling, say goodbye to the gentleman nicely, and thank him for coming. If you just step a little nearer, Sir … just a little bit … that’s right … she’ll shake hands with you, won’t you Magsy …?”

  The thought of taking one of those grey, motionless hands into his own filled Martin with horror. He could imagine the damp limpness of it against his palm. It reminded him of that awful party game they’d played as children, all sitting round in a circle, in the dark, while some unknown horrible thing—a raw sausage, perhaps, or a cold poached egg—was passed from hand to hand, while a voice out of the darkness intoned some appropriately horrific and well-timed story about severed fingers and dead men’s eyeballs….

  With a small gulp of uncontrollable revulsion, Martin edged backwards, evading the ordeal with grunts and mumblings of apology, all the while sidling towards the door. At last he was through it, and out on the landing, now pitch dark.

  “Mind out, Sir! Mind out for them stairs!” Mr Timberley, close on his heels, switched on the light in the nick of time to reveal the short steep flight of steps only a few inche
s ahead.

  And at that exact moment, there came from the room behind them a thin, exultant shriek; and then another, and another, so shrill, so empty of meaning that it was unlike any human voice that Martin had ever heard. He whirled round, sick with shock and incredulity, to stare back into the room, now flooded with light.

  The slumped creature in the chair had not stirred. She lolled there, exactly as before, eyes fixed and vacant, responding by not so much as a flicker to the sudden blaze of light.

  But other eyes had responded; unnoticed, hitherto, in the dim clutter of the room.

  “Tweetie! Who’s a good boy, then?” cooed the old man to the budgerigar which, from its cage by the window, screeched again in its joy in the sudden coming of the light.

  “Tweet! Tweet!” it yelled; and “Tweetie! Tweetie!” the old man chortled in reply. Thus the conversation between man and bird continued joyously, while the great sagging doll lay motionless in its chair, and Martin, all the science drained out of him, thundered down the stairs, his feet stumbling and clattering on the narrow, awkward treads.

  CHAPTER VI

  HELEN SAW THE note as soon as she came in, before she’d even dumped her two laden shopping bags on the kitchen table. As Martin had surmised, she wasn’t offended or put-out in the least; though this ready acquiescence could have been due less to her tolerant nature than to her aching back. With a sigh of sheer physical relief, she sank down into the nearest easy-chair, allowing her carrier bags to spill out on to the floor on either side, revelling, briefly, in the fact that she could now go on looking a mess for a bit, and it wouldn’t matter. Could just sit here, untidy, sagging, past thirty, boring, her hair uncombed, her tights laddered and her face smudgy with tiredness, and in need of fresh make-up.

  The sense of reprieve was amazing. Her very limbs drank in the restfulness of it. For this brief, unexpected interlude, she needed neither to teach her class nor to fascinate her lover, she was off-duty, though for how long, of course, she did not know, and the uncertainty made it all a little less relaxing.

  She looked at Martin’s note again,

  “Sorry, had to dash out, may be late.

  Love, M.”

  Followed by a row of “X’s”, hurried kisses, all he had time to scribble before racing out of the flat on whatever errand it might be.

  Late for what? Tea? Or dinner? If the latter, then she could afford to stay slumped here a little longer. On the other hand, there was no certainty about it, he might be in quite soon. Any minute, in fact. She ought, really, to be rushing round already, changing into her red wool dress with the gold belt, fishing out some unladdered tights, splashing her face with cold water, re-applying her lipstick—a softer shade for the evening. Martin always liked her to look soft and fragile after her tough and gruelling day at school. She should comb her damp, wind-blown hair back into shape, too, into a soft shining curtain, brushed slightly to one side so that her left cheek was half obscured. It was a style which emphasised her good bone-structure. Her profile, etched against the heavy sweep of blonde hair, looked almost filmstar-ish at times, and Martin adored it.

  Beatrice had one of those blobbish faces, no bone-structure at all. No make-up, either, most of the time. She’d “let herself go”, as wives do, and Helen, as mistresses do, was resolved that this, at least, would never happen to her. However much time it took, however tired she might be, Martin was always to see her well-groomed and at her very best.

  However tired she might be…. Helen made a movement to rise, and then, overcome by temptation, sank back against the cushions. Just for a few more minutes. Surely he wouldn’t be back this early, else why bother to write the note at all?

  Such bliss to be lounging here, ugly, lazy, empty-headed, nobody’s employee, nobody’s ideal companion or perfect sex-partner. Just dull and ordinary. Helen felt dullness and ordinariness flowing through all her limbs like a benison, like an answer to prayer….

  *

  Not to any prayer of hers, of course. Her prayers had always been quite other than this, and as it happened all of them had, miraculously, been fulfilled. To fall in love: that’s what she’d prayed for during her teens and early twenties. And then, a little later, she had found herself praying more and more often that this time it should last: that there should be an end, somewhere, to all these new beginnings. And later still, finding herself turned thirty and still single, she had prayed her last and most passionate prayer: that her next bloke, whoever he was and whatever he might be like, should actually want to marry her, or at least set up house with her.

  Oh, and that he shouldn’t be too young, as so many of them were beginning to be these days.

  And it all happened, exactly as in the fairy-tales. Her next bloke had been Martin Lockwood, forty-ish, and wanting to marry her terribly, right from the start. He couldn’t, of course, because of Beatrice, but this made scarcely a dent in the fairy-tale quality of her good fortune. A man who can’t marry you because of his wife is a very different proposition from one who simply doesn’t want to, as any sensible girl can immediately perceive.

  All her prayers, then, had been answered, even the back-dated ones about falling in love. She had met him at an end-of-term school party last summer, and had naturally assumed at first that he was a father of one of the girls, as attractive males of the right sort of age practically always were. She had noticed him straight away, a tall, anxious-looking man, with a lock of lightish hair flopping boyishly over his forehead, and his eyes fixed warily on a plate of jam tarts that someone had thrust into his hand and then left him with, ruthlessly, without further instructions. He had no idea what to do with them, you could see; he was the sort of man to whom a party is a drinks party, with perhaps a few cashew nuts thrown in, but certainly nothing as crude as jam tarts. He looked helpless beyond measure, and worried to death, like a Martian in a launderette—this was, in fact, the very first remark she made to him when he asked her, somewhat testily, what she was giggling at? He laughed then, and she laughed too, and apologised, and had gone on to sort out the jam tart problem for him in about three seconds flat. After that, he’d fetched her a gin and tonic, and while she stood sipping it, and listening to what turned out to be only the very first instalment of his troubles, she knew already that she was in love. Really in love. For the first time in years.

  *

  Beatrice, of course, was the problem; and at first Helen had felt really guilty and unhappy about her. She knew her slightly, because she’d been at the party too, and they’d been introduced, though not by Martin. Helen’s recollection of her was of a dim, rabbitty little woman with dried-out hair, a scuttling walk and peering, restless eyes, never still, never looking anyone full in the face, never settling on any object for more than a second. Later, she was to learn that Beatrice was short-sighted, and too vain to wear her singularly unbecoming granny-glasses on social occasions, and so all she’d been doing was trying to recognise the shadowy tree-trunk things that loomed up and spoke to her, Helen among them; but at the time the impression had been one of an exhausting and non-stop restlessness of spirit. It was no wonder that poor Martin looked so anxious and bothered most of the time. Anyone would.

  She continued, though, to feel guilty about Beatrice for some time, even after Martin had described to her at length, and repeatedly—sometimes over long, lingering meals, and sometimes in bed—his wife’s multifarious failings and deficiencies. Possessive … lazy … boring … sluttish … no good at cooking … no good in bed … it all added up to as leave-able a wife as any Other Woman could hope to encounter. And yet still Helen felt uneasy. She kept picturing the poor little rabbitty thing scuttling hopelessly about her messy home, picking things up, putting them down in the wrong place, pushing dust around, trying her best, in her muddly way, to run a home worthy of this incredibly glorious husband of hers.

  But no, Martin would insist, it wasn’t like that at all. Beatrice didn’t try. If she had, things might have been different; but she’d never trie
d. Okay, so a woman can be a hopeless cook; but surely there is no woman alive so hopeless that she cannot sometimes boil potatoes so that they are eatable? Occasionally fry sausages without burning them?

  “And half the time she doesn’t cook anything at all!” Martin would complain, “Not even a bloody frozen pizza from the supermarket! I come home, worn out by a ghastly day at the Poly, and there she’ll be, slumped in an easy-chair, her hair a mess, her tights laddered, and hasn’t even bothered to put away the groceries….”

  Helen leaped to her feet as if at a pistol-shot, gathered up her assorted purchases, and fled into the kitchen. Already, it was past five, and if they were to sit down to their meal at seven—which was what they’d decided on, so as to give Martin good long evenings for his work—then it must all be ready, actually, by twenty past six. In a low oven, and somehow not spoiling. This was so that they could have a long, leisurely session of drinks, or occasionally of love-making, before dinner, just as in the old days when Helen had been only the Other Woman and Martin had come to dinner at the flat only once a week. Oh, the yearnings, the frustrations, the agonies of those days! And how easy it had all been, compared with this! In those days, there had always been tomorrow for the clearing up, and yesterday for the preparation; it had been child’s play, in these circumstances, to produce a delicious three-course meal effortlessly and without fuss.

  Beatrice, of course, had always made an awful fuss, about even the simplest meal. This was one of the wonderful things about Helen, Martin used often to say, that she was able to produce such marvellous food with no fuss. She was incredible.

  And incredible, naturally, she intended to stay, as would anyone in her position. With one eye on the clock, she set the oven to heat, spread out the cod fillets on a floured wooden board, fetched butter, lemon, fennel, fresh parsley, a sharp knife, and set to work. If the main dish could be in the oven by twenty to six, then at six she could turn the fillets, sprinkle a few drops of lemon juice on each—real lemon, of course—and then lower the gas to the merest bead so that it would still cook, but ever so gently, without losing any of the delicate flavour. There would be buttered carrots for a vegetable—she’d planned these for the colour contrast with the white fish—and a few mushrooms, fried lightly and added at the last minute. The soup, thank goodness, she’d made yesterday, real Italian minestrone, and it only needed warming up. She’d grated the cheese too, on the fine grater, before seven o’clock this morning, but she must find a moment for transferring it from its plastic saucer to the pretty little jade green bowl which would look so good alongside the carrots….