Dark Angel

by Sally Beauman

  Winnie, loyal and devoted to Wexton, had been reading his latest collection of poems. It was dedicated to my parents—a fact Winnie mentioned in passing. Constance’s mouth tightened.

  Winnie explained, at some length, that she and Cootie (detained in London on regimental matters) liked to read these poems aloud to each other, often over cocoa at bedtime. One in particular was their favorite: a love sonnet. Winnie, oblivious to Wexton’s embarrassment, went so far as to quote, from memory, certain lines.

  She misinterpreted them, in a sense. Winnie was, and is, an innocent in many ways. To her, the poem was about love—it must therefore be about the kind of love Winnie understood, the kind of love she felt for her husband.

  When she had finished her quotation, there was a small silence. Steenie, who had not yet had time to become properly drunk but who was heading that way fast, gave Wexton a surreptitious wink. Jane, who found the words moving, glanced toward Acland. Constance leaned forward.

  “Of course,” she said in a clear voice, “you do know, Winnie, that the poem was written to a man?”

  Winnie, in the act of raising her wineglass to her lips, almost dropped it. She blinked. She stared at Wexton in consternation. Her neck, then her cheeks, blushed crimson.

  “He is describing lovemaking, of course,” Constance continued, into absolute silence, her voice thoughtful. “Lovemaking between two men. The kind Wexton prefers. The kind Steenie prefers too. Did you know, Winnie, that Steenie and Wexton used to be lovers?” She frowned. “I forget. Were you sixteen then, Steenie, or seventeen? Under-age, certainly.”

  There was a crash. The elderly maid, less imperturbable than William, had dropped a large vegetable dish. Its silver lid clattered across the floor. Roast potatoes spilled out, then slithered. The maid knelt down, then attempted to pick them up.

  “Homosexuals,” Constance continued musingly. “I never use the term queers myself. Nor pansies. I think those words stupid, and rude—don’t you, Winnie? People use them—”

  Acland stopped carving. He laid down the knife. He gave a small sign—and at that sign both servants departed. Over the sound of their footsteps Constance continued.

  “People use them—terms like that—because they find sexual inversion frightening. Some people would say shameful—but I don’t believe that. No. Fear is involved, I feel sure. People like Steenie and Wexton remind us that there are no rules—for love or for sex. People will try to pretend that there are—which seems to me so very tiresome! You, Winnie, for instance, how would you define normal love? As heterosexual? And what about normal sex? As married? As occurring once a week? As employing the missionary position? How I wish your husband, Cootie, were here! Then he could tell us what he thought. I mean, when it comes to fucking, are his views conservative or liberal? Could they be radical? Now, there’s a thought! When it comes to fucking, is the absent colonel a radical? And if so …”

  Winnie’s chair scraped back. She was quivering from head to foot. Her mouth opened, then closed.

  Acland said, with some force, “Constance. Stop this.”

  Constance turned upon him a wide-eyed gaze.

  “Acland, please—this is interesting. I make my case for the deregulation of sex. And love—come to that. But the two do become so inextricably entangled, don’t you find? Which doesn’t help for clarity of viewpoint. People will get so hot under the collar! I cannot think why. Sodomy now—let’s consider that. We all know sodomy is something homosexuals practice—”

  “Biblical!” cried Steenie, rising dramatically to his feet. “Are we going to be biblical, because if we are—”

  “But after all,” Constance went on, “sodomy is not a practice confined to homosexuals. Heterosexuals, the most muscular Christians, they have been known to indulge in it too. So, is it a perversion? If so, why? Winnie, what would your attitude be? Would Cootie consider it a perversion, do you think? Does he have a view on—let me see—masturbation? On oral sex? On fornication? Personally, I’ve always taken the view that if it’s pleasurable, it’s permitted—and if it isn’t permitted, it’s all the more fun. But then I never set myself up as a moralist. Oh dear.” Constance gave a small sigh. “I feel sure that if Cootie were here, he could set me straight. Then I should understand at last—why one practice was more permissible than another…. Do you know, I think I have a language difficulty? Do you find that, Winnie? I cannot quite understand why we make lust a sin, and love a virtue, when love causes so much trouble in this troublesome world. But then, for that matter, I have never understood why laborious Latin terms are more acceptable than native ones. Would anyone truly prefer to say ‘penis’ when they could say—”

  “Never!” said Winnie, finding her voice at last.

  “—And then fuck. Quite apart from the fact that no other adequate verb exists, I find it a charming word—don’t you, Wexton? It has poetic virtues. It is onomatopoeic, to begin with, and—”

  “Never!” cried Winnie again, with gusty force. “Never in all my life—to hear a woman speak in this way—to hear anyone speak in this way. Is this woman deranged? Is she drunk?”

  Winnie was wearing a shawl. As she spoke she gathered this shawl about her shoulders, straightened her back, and fixed Constance with a gimlet eye. Constance considered her wineglass.

  “No, Winnie. I’m not drunk. I don’t think I’m drunk. Actually, I never become drunk. I don’t think I’ve ever been drunk in the whole of my life—”

  “Then this display is all the sadder,” replied Winnie with some venom. “I shall not listen to one more word of this—”

  “Neither shall I,” interjected Freddie. He rose. He looked around the table, his face dazed with blind distress. “Acland, can’t you stop her? You know what she’s like. Once she starts—”

  “Constance—”

  “Acland, don’t be foolish. We are discussing language and morals. I am a woman. A rather small woman. What are you going to do, eject me?”

  “Leave,” replied Winnie smartly. “I for one intend to do just that. Freddie, if you would be so kind. I feel in need of a little fresh air.”

  Winnie swept toward the door. Freddie hesitated. He looked back at Constance, as if about to risk one last plea. Evidently the expression in Constance’s eyes suggested this might be unwise; Freddie decided not to risk it. He headed for the door, offered Winnie his arm—a small gallantry that was later to be remembered, I think, in the years of Winnie’s widowhood. Winnie’s exit was regal; Freddie’s, less so. The door shut.

  Steenie said, “I feel sick.” He slumped in his chair. He drank one glass of wine, then poured another. “Honestly, Connie—why do you do it?”

  “Do what?” Constance looked from face to face, her expression innocent. “It was only a discussion.”

  “A pretty one-sided discussion.” Wexton leaned forward. “In fact, I wouldn’t have said it was a discussion at all. You set out to hurt Winnie.”

  “Well, perhaps I did.” Constance gave a small smile. “Just a little. She is the tiniest bit stupid, don’t you think? She made horrid faces at my hat, all morning….”

  “Jesus Christ,” said Steenie.

  “Besides, people like Winnie irritate me. You, too, Jane, if you will forgive my saying so. I hate moral codes that are self-limiting. Being blinkered is not moral—it’s cowardly, and more than a little self-deluding. And Winnie really was terribly stupid about your poem, Wexton. Confess—she made your toes curl the second she started to recite.”

  “My toes curl when anyone recites my poems.”

  “Do they really? How high-minded. But then you are high-minded, Wexton. An Olympian teddy bear. May I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “I admire your poems, you know. Even I can see they are good. But I never understood how you could dedicate such good poems to a man like Steenie. Or fall in love with him, come to that. Now, Steenie, don’t roll your eyes about and wave your hands—you know this is true. I love you dearly, and when you were young
er and didn’t drink so much, you were terribly pretty. But I would never have thought Wexton was the kind of man to fall for a pretty face—”

  “Don’t,” said Steenie, both rolling his eyes and continuing to wave his hands. “Don’t start on me, Connie, because if you do—”

  “Well, be honest, Steenie. You are a dabbler. One exhibition of paintings—and then look what happened. You weren’t faithful to Wexton for five seconds. The minute Boy shot himself, what did you do? You went running off to Conrad Vickers and leapt into bed. And you blamed Boy for your own unfaithfulness—which I must say I always thought a little cheap. But then no one told the truth about Boy’s death, including Boy. All these years we all still pretend it was the war, shell shock. It was nothing to do with the war. Boy killed himself because he liked little girls—”

  “What did you say?”

  “He liked little girls, Acland—surely you guessed? If you doubt me, ask Freddie. Freddie saw the photographs Boy took of me when I was a child. I’m afraid they were rather pornographic. What Freddie doesn’t know—none of you know—is that it wasn’t just photographs.” Constance paused. “May I use the word fuck, now Winnie’s left us? Boy liked to fuck little girls. Me, for instance. And there’s no point in looking at me like that, Acland—or you, Steenie. Facts are facts. If you think about it, Acland, you’ll know I’m right. Don’t you remember, that time you caught me coming out of Boy’s room?”

  “No, I don’t remember. I don’t believe this. I don’t believe I’m hearing it. And I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Acland, I can quite see you may prefer to forget, but I remember the incident perfectly. I think I was twelve.”

  “It never damn well happened.”

  “None of it happened,” Steenie interrupted, his voice rising in pitch. “Don’t argue with her, Acland—there’s no point. Constance bloody well tells lies. Her father was a nasty cheap little liar, and she’s exactly the same—”

  “Steenie, do be quiet.” Constance gave him a dismissive glance. “Your mascara is running. You’re about to burst into tears, as usual—”

  “You’re a bitch,” said Steenie, whose powers of invective were never at their best when he was emotional. “You always were an absolute bitch. Boy’s dead. He can’t defend himself—”

  “Steenie, it’s really very silly, calling me names, when we both know you’ll come running back to me, sweet as pie, three days from now. Also, you look awful. You always do when you lose your temper. You’re beginning to look raddled, do you know that? Truly, Steenie, another few years and you’ll be a pathetic old queen.”

  “Oh, really? I look raddled?” Steenie, sniffing, drew himself up. “Well, let me tell you, darling—I’m not the only one. Maud said you were ill-bred. She said it was beginning to show—and it is. Nasty little lines, all ’round your mouth, darling. By the time I’m a pathetic old queen, you’ll look like a harpy. I should ring the plastic surgeon, dear—ring him quickly—”

  “Steenie, do go away.”

  “My dear, I’m going.” Steenie, even quivering, managed a certain dignity. “I shan’t give you an audience. Not for a performance like this. I haven’t seen so much ham in a theater in years. Way over the top, dear—even for you, and that’s saying something. Wexton, are you coming?”

  “No. You go. I’ll stay.” Wexton hunched himself in his chair. He fiddled with his knife and fork. “You’re right. It is over the top. But it’s kind of interesting. I want to see what she’s planned for her finale.”

  “Well, when she gets there,” said Steenie, on the move, flouncing, “do ask her about the stevedore in New York. I gather that should be very entertaining.”

  Steenie slammed the door. Wexton looked from Jane, who had not spoken, to Acland, who had turned his back. He smiled. He settled himself more comfortably in his chair. He poured himself another glass of claret.

  “You know,” he began in an amiable way, “Steenie’s wrong. I don’t want to know about the stevedore. I don’t think it would be entertaining. Now, you’ve gotten rid of all the people you wanted out of the way—except me.”

  “Wexton! How unkind!”

  “So why not come to the point? Jane’s here. Acland’s here. You’ve fired your tracer bullets. I guess you can see your main target. Go ahead.”

  “No, Wexton,” Acland interrupted. “I’ve had enough of this. This isn’t a game. This is my family, my brothers. Steenie’s right. Boy isn’t here to defend himself. I won’t hear him spoken of in that way.”

  “Heavens! What a cold voice! What are you going to do, Acland? Manhandle me out of the room? I might like that.”

  “That won’t be necessary. This is all just a little one-sided, it seems to me. Before you go, Constance, why don’t you tell us about yourself? Why not tell us about this afternoon? After all, that’s what provoked all this, wasn’t it?”

  Constance gave a small sigh. “Do you know,” she began slowly, “I think it was. I realized something this afternoon, and I’ve just seen it in action again. An English family, closing ranks. Perhaps all families do that—perhaps it isn’t purely an English quality. It shouldn’t surprise me, I suppose. I am the outsider here. I always was.”

  “That isn’t true.” Jane leaned forward, her voice indignant. “Acland’s family took you in. Even today—you asked to be a godmother. Acland agreed. I invited you here.”

  “Ah, but reluctantly, I think? Constance as a godmother. I know you couldn’t have wanted that.”

  “You’re right. I did not want it.”

  “Well, well, I won’t argue with that.” Constance smiled. “A very sensible attitude. I always did tend to bite the hand that feeds me. A defect in my nature. Is it charity I resent? No. I don’t like to be patronized, I think.”

  “Is kindness patronage?”

  “Jane, don’t argue with her. It’s pointless.”

  “Oh, Acland—don’t stop your wife!” Constance glanced back at him with a radiant smile. “I love to listen to Jane’s arguments. I find them edifying. Sometimes I think that if I listened to Jane long enough, I might reform. I could become just like her. Calm and good, unfailingly reasonable, invariably right. And then I think—no, I’d rather be dead. I like to … walk on the wild side, you see. I always did.”

  “Walk on the wild side. Jesus.” Acland turned away. “That’s what you call it? I never heard such crap.”

  “It’s a term, a phrase. I can think of others. It’s very odd …” Constance rose. She began to walk about the room. “Whenever I come to Winterscombe, I begin to feel … oh, very wicked. Like an anarchist. I look around me, at this splendid house and this splendid family—and sooner or later, I itch to blow it up. One bomb! A great conflagration! This whole edifice, hurtling up into the air. It’s very strange. Five minutes in this house and I turn into the most ardent revolutionary.”

  “You’re destructive, in other words,” Acland replied shortly. “I suppose you always were.”

  “Is that destructive?” Constance seemed to consider the question seriously. “Perhaps it is. It doesn’t feel like that—I see it as cleansing, all those flames licking up through the roof. No more good intentions. No more pretenses. No more secrets. You see, it always seems to me that Winterscombe is a very flimsy construct. So many cracks in the walls—and everyone busily papering them over. Now, when I see a crack, I always want to prise it open. I want to make it gape, wider and wider—and then I want to step through, into all the rubble and chaos. Where it’s dangerous.”

  “Why?” Jane frowned. “Why do that?”

  Constance gave a little shrug. “Just to see what’s left, I think. To see if there’s anything still standing. After all, who knows what I might find there?” She smiled. “I might find all the things people say are good. I might find love. Or truth. On the other hand, I might find nothing at all. Not one single thing.’ Don’t you think that’s brave of me? I do. None of you would risk following me. Well, Wexton might. But not y
ou, Acland, or your wife. You’d rather stay here, where it’s safe.”

  “Safe?” This word seemed to distress Jane. Color mounted in her cheeks. “That isn’t true, Constance. If you’d seen the war at firsthand, you wouldn’t say that. This house—this family—it isn’t just a refuge. It’s something I believe in, and Acland believes in. It’s fragile, and vulnerable—we both know that. We have to struggle, every day, to make it work—”

  “Your marriage, too—do you have to work at that?”

  “Jane, don’t argue with her. Can’t you see that’s what she wants?”

  “I will.” Jane’s face had become fierce. “I won’t sit here and let her dismiss everything I care about. She makes it sound so plausible, so attractive—and she’s wrong. You’re selfish, Constance. You tell lies, and you don’t care who’s hurt by them—”

  “Lies? Have I told lies tonight? About Steenie? About Boy? Everything I said was true. Heavens!” Constance gave a small grimace of irritation. “It seems to me I’ve been very merciful. I never mentioned Freddie—and I could tell you some very amusing things about Freddie. As for Acland—”