Three Pretty Widows

by Barbara Else

  ‘I’m thirsty,’ said the bandages. ‘Come on.’

  She slipped the medal box into her bag. Besides, he wouldn’t marry her when she’d wanted. A woman bides her time. Time’s on a woman’s side in many ways.

  Jealousy and perfection. Some find it easy to be kind when the perfect one is seen to have a flaw. Not everyone, but some.

  Can it be said that you’re widowed if you’ve never had your wedding day? It’s war time, after all. You’ve been unlucky, pet, we’ll let you be. The poor girl’s heart is breaking.

  Is a widow’s heart supposed to break? Some do. Not all, mind you. Question everything, Jocasta thinks as she waits for time to pass, the baby to be born, the next events to happen. Why is thirteen unlucky, for instance? Unlucky for Peter, sure enough. In Paris, there’s no number thirteen in any street address, or so Jocasta’s heard. She’s also read the Turkish language has no word for it. You might have thought it was because of the Last Supper with its twelve disciples and the boss, but it was superstition long before that time. A breaking heart comes into it. It’s all because of Loki. What a savage lot, those Norse gods. Grief, widowhood, pagan jealousy and trickery — just like the folk next door in Papanui, Birmingham, Los Angeles or Perth. Loki, god of tricks and god of fire, arrived uninvited at a dinner table for twelve. He heard the other gods declare that an oath had been made by every living thing, by fire, water, stones and trees, by poison, by diseases, never to harm their favourite, handsome Baldur. Every single thing, that is, except the mistletoe, which they didn’t bother to ask, for surely such a measly little thing could never kill the sun god. So — what would you do, out of jealousy or curiosity? Loki tricked another god to aim a twig of mistletoe. It pierced the sun god through. The heart of Baldur’s widow rent with grief. Her body was placed beside her husband’s on his funeral ship, and both were consumed with fire. Dark waves, a bonfire on the water. A passionate lot, those gods. The end of their world, the chaos Ragnarok, was seven deadly winters with no sun, with ice and lava, serpents, wolves. Passionate stuff, indeed. The legends are not clear, though, to Jocasta. Has the cataclysm come and gone, or is Ragnarok still pending?

  Jocasta has no time for gods, thank you. There’s tragedy and trickery, both big and small, right where we are. We have our trifling crises every day.

  chapter fifteen

  Ruth is beset by trivia. One detail wrong and the edifice of her deceit will concertina down around her.

  Into the waste basket in her study, torn into shreds, goes the little memo Craig has sent asking for the name of her hotel, what precise dates she’ll be there, his promise that it’s up to her, he’d still like photographs. Adultery and trickery among the heroes of old Greece, the gods of Scandinavia, have flair and grandeur — maybe. Ruth just feels sleazy. She has to thrash out those two more columns before she leaves, and sleaze of the type that permeates the modern world is all that she can think of.

  At least she’s not taking to the bottle like the tippling archdeacon. Not that sort of bottle, at least. Bottles Ruth has taken to have been skin toner, moisturiser, exfoliating liquid, and they’ve worked for a good long time. They’ve given her mystique. That’s why she has to take herself off to the country now, to preserve that strange charisma. Her mystique is why her study drawers are full of junk mail of a very odd sort; and the junk mail is the inspiration for one of her columns: the ego vultures and the show-offs. Style and manners.

  Ego vultures? writes Ruth. These sleazy creatures nest in places that sound reputable like Cambridge England, Boston USA. They send a clever form(al) letter, proclaiming you’re a person of great skill in your chosen field, an example unto others. You have been awarded the title of Human Being of the Year — rush off a hefty sum of money and you’ll receive a plaque that says so. A scam, that’s all it is, perpetrated by a vulture. What you really need to know is which of your acquaintances has thought so little of your intelligence that they’ve given your name to these buzzards. This is a sort of mental equivalent of the Emperor’s new clothes — how little you can wear (achieve) and still call it a dress.

  The second half of Ruth’s column — given she tried to tidy her study, gave up and came upon some samples of the nastiness — is a diatribe against an even more blatant case of sleaze and ego: the Seasons’ Greetings card. Not with snowflakes on, or angels. There’s a logo of the sender’s personal company on the front, but you are in fact a relative or friend. Seasons Greetings as an advertising stunt is as elegant as the excreta of bottom-dwelling ocean fish, writes Ruth. Do you really expect me to deck my halls with examples of your crassness? Deck my wastepaper receptacle, thank you. She adds a burst of spleen about computer-generated thank-you letters with your name scrawled in at the top in handwriting. She received one when she donated two hours of her time to the new airport opening. This form of thank-you letter assumes that we are stupid, she ends. It’s dishonest, gross and, worse, it’s so transparent. If you’re going to be dishonest, do it with style.

  She uses vituperative language much more than she need. Because Ruth herself has been dishonest, for years and years and years. If, that is, it is dishonest to preserve the truth to yourself. Walsh knows, of course. It’s Walsh’s secret too. And they share it — now — with only one other living human being.

  They have to talk. Barnaby’s death has brought up all sorts of things, like — for one thing — how it makes Ruth want to be with Walsh. The fireworks part of their marriage might have fizzled out, though a flicker or two still flares up now and then. The thing is, they’re used to each other. And they are both still flattened by Barnaby. There’s been not the least spark over the last few days and that is not surprising.

  Ruth finishes a first draft of the column as the front door opens. Walsh, home early. He’s still nursing his back and won’t go to see the doctor. She expects him to call out, ask if she’s arranged to see Anna yet, but he trudges upstairs and starts to run a bath. He must be very sore, as he hates baths. Walsh is not fond of water. She hears him groan and open the linen cupboard.

  It would be so much more simple if hearts could break and that would be an end to it.

  The ancient Egyptians believed the souls of the dead ascended unto heaven on a ladder with thirteen rungs. Imagine that. A ladder. Thirteen rungs.

  I’m waiting for something.

  Impatience used to be one of my minor sins. Now, waiting doesn’t seem to be a problem. But then, time wouldn’t bother angels. Angels have for ever, I suppose. Do ghosts? If, rather than being an angel, a ghost is what I am — I mean, what the hell am I here for?

  So, then. What are a ghost’s jobs? To warn the living? Watch over them? To rectify injustice?

  Warn the living about what? I should have warned Eliot off my wife as soon as I could see the bastard fancied her. Trouble is, if a man does that he sounds a pompous fool. What’s more, if Eliot hadn’t fancied her already, it would have put the idea into his bloody ugly head.

  Watch over the living? There’s no point in that. I can’t influence events; I can’t tell them anything, alter what they do. Hell’s bells, this could be Purgatory after all, having to watch my wife and friends still mucking around like a pack of idiots, and there isn’t any off-switch I can find.

  And — to rectify injustice? If anybody tries to say I should have been more reasonable to Bella, I will thump them. It was damned unfair that Walsh got Ruth in the end. The bumbling nice guy. It is damned unfair that Eliot might end up with my wife long term. I’m the one against whom injustice has been perpetrated — all right, that sounded pompous. But I am growing more than a little impatient at …

  Double damned hell, I’ve still got that minor sin.

  No, I don’t fancy this ghost idea. It still seems much more likely I’m an angel, though I’m becoming a little suspicious. Still no feathers, and no halo.

  Maybe you have to earn your wings.

  Any hints?

  Bella leans against the kitchen bench and looks at the mess. It’s
a mess she should be making, but Eliot is the cook again tonight. Breast of chicken in triple mustard sauce, basmati rice and a home-grown salad — curled red lettuce, curlier pale green lettuce, fresh chives, snips of coriander, and a feather or two of fennel.

  The more trouble he takes, the more accused she feels. He’s being very like a wife, in fact, avoiding her, moving so he doesn’t brush against her. Look at the way he measures out that mustard. Wordless punishment so often is the worst. All because she didn’t phone him from the shop and she’d left before he called around. And of course he’s not her wife, so who does he think he is: her dad? Big Brother watching her? Her probation officer, perhaps?

  ‘Tired?’ he asks, not looking at her.

  Tired is a pallid word for it. She feels heavy and hollow all at once.

  ‘How was it?’ He opens a pottle of sour cream. The lid falls sticky side on the bench in the universal way of sticky lids.

  ‘It was hot.’

  ‘It is still damned hot. I meant — no. It’s none of my business.’

  Bella shrugs and sips the glass of Chardonnay he’s poured for her.

  ‘I think I’m a little well-to-do,’ she says. ‘By my standards, filthy well-to-do.’

  Eliot turns his head towards her, looking worried.

  ‘More or less well-off, at any rate.’ Why should she excuse herself? It’s not her fault. ‘I had a look at the accounts. I talked to the accountant, and the lawyer again. Barnaby …’ How hard, to say his name. ‘He always complained about how little money we made. I thought he was extravagant when we couldn’t afford it. What a docile little animal I was.’

  Eliot jabs the chicken with a spatula. ‘If you are more or less well-off, that elucidates why Lydia has insisted upon seeing you tonight.’

  He should have told her this when she came in. He is being like a wife, indeed he is: ‘elucidate’ is the clincher.

  ‘Damn,’ says Bella.

  ‘You must have known roughly what income you had.’ Eliot prods the rice this time. ‘I knew Barnaby had money. It’s one perfect explanation for Lydia’s sisterly loathing.’

  That inexplicable loathing that masquerades as love. It’s intense enough for love, at any rate.

  Eliot slaps the spatula down. ‘It was Barnaby’s gallery and you merely worked in it. So how did he pay you?’ He puts his hands on his hips and turns to face her. It looks funny, with his apron on, but this is not the time to laugh. He is damned scary. Bella’s glad she hasn’t been a labourer on one of his engineering projects, when a bridge fell down or a pipeline ended up crooked.

  ‘For goodness sake, it was a partnership,’ she says. ‘I liked the work. I could dabble with my own bits and pieces if I thought he wouldn’t mind.’

  ‘Dabble.’ Eliot’s shoulders rise and fall.

  All right, it wasn’t a brilliant thing to say, but you can’t eat words once they’re spoken.

  ‘If you have money, you can set up on your own.’ Eliot measures out more mustard. He’s a bastard with that mustard. It makes her feel she should sit on the kitchen floor in a romper suit with the saucepan lids. Okay, he’s had enough — is trying to force her to snap back at him so they can have an argument and she’ll stalk out.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Eliot growls. He still sounds furious to Bella. He unties the apron, bundles it up, chucks it in the sink, and turns off the element beneath the rice. ‘I’m being unreasonable.’

  ‘What do you want? D’you want me to get out?’ This isn’t bad, for a grief-stricken woman. ‘Or do you want me to be independent of Barnaby but fully dependent on you? That would definitely be unreasonable.’

  He grabs his whisky glass and tops it up. Eliot’s jaw has tensed: if he chose to bite, he’d be as relentless as a wolf. The thought’s exciting — much to Bella’s shame. It is perverse, trying to fend off grief, at the same time wanting to make love with a wild animal. She takes a swallow of her wine — it makes her cough.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  She shakes her head, still coughing.

  He pats her back. She leans on him. His hand slows. Something makes her wind an arm around his neck, search for his mouth with hers. If perverse is what it is, so be it. Her hips press against him. After a moment his arms come round her, his hand moves down her spine, he groans — but then Eliot pulls away.

  He flings his large hand over the stove, crashes pots and dishes around. The doorbell rings. It won’t be Lydia? So early? Eliot strides into the hallway.

  Voices. Eliot’s and a shrill one.

  Damn, oh damn, it is Lydia.

  Bella hugs her arms around herself and stays against the bench. She hears Eliot in a false host-with-the-most voice invite Lydia into the living room and offer a glass of wine. Lydia refuses: good sign, she might not stay.

  ‘Is Bella here? You told her I was coming?’

  Wishing she’d put a brush through her hair some time this afternoon, Bella goes to do her stuff. Whatever her stuff ought to be. You never know, with a witch like Lydia.

  ‘Right to the point,’ says Lydia. ‘We have investigated Barnaby’s will very thoroughly. You realise we have the option to contest it.’

  ‘As long as that’s done within three months,’ says Eliot.

  ‘Do you mind?’ Bella asks. His shoulders hunch.

  Lydia inhales noisily, which might be an indication of grief though is more likely to be petulance. ‘However, I have decided that would be unfair to my mother. A strain at her age. She retains a surprisingly gold-rimmed image of what you and Barnaby meant to each other. His third bride, third time lucky. She thought you’d sort things out.’ Lydia gives her unexpected chuckle. ‘I think the old girl’s mental. Never mind.’

  Lydia can’t mean that Charlotte’s part of Bella’s team. No — she must know the will is like a trampoline: Lydia would bounce off it whatever she tried.

  ‘What I’m here for,’ Lydia says, ‘is something I had imagined you’d have offered us by now. A memento. A little something or two to remember Barnaby by.’

  Eliot gives a wolf-like growl. Bella glares at him. So does Lydia.

  ‘Of course I’ve thought of it,’ says Bella. ‘But I haven’t had a chance to talk to Charlotte and I haven’t been to the house yet. There are family bits and pieces …’

  ‘Of course we’ll have the heirlooms,’ says Lydia quickly. ‘But the gallery, that’s what I thought, for a little something extra. For instance, he still has that bird cage in the window, the one he bought for his canary when he was a boy. It would look attractive with a fern in it. But I might choose something else. And something very particular for Mother.’

  ‘Charlotte can have whatever she wants,’ says Bella. ‘First I need to clarify what the shop owns outright, and what belongs to someone else — something he might have been appraising, that sort of thing.’ And on what items he had been trying to work a swiftie.

  ‘He definitely owned the bird cage. He loved his budgie.’ Lydia gives a tiny cawing sound. It might be a sort of a sob.

  ‘Canary,’ Bella says. But Lydia’s right: he had loved it and Lydia had been the one to kill it. ‘It was sensitive to loud noises. Like your Elvis Presley records.’

  Lydia flushes. ‘I helped him bury it,’ she says.

  ‘Under a dahlia. You fetched the prayer book for him.’

  ‘All that fuss over a bird.’

  Oh, Lydia, fly off on your broomstick, please. ‘You’re welcome to the cage.’

  ‘And maybe something else.’ Lydia speaks too fast again, her eyes searching over Eliot’s shelves. ‘I’ll come and see.’

  ‘Feel free,’ says Bella.

  ‘The only thing of Bella’s here is the teapot. It never belonged to Barnaby.’ Eliot pronounces like a judge. ‘That vase came from my mother. A present from Lincoln. It’s not crystal, it’s only cut glass. The little boots are mine and those giraffes are ten cents a dozen at the right market in Zimbabwe. You’re welcome to the giraffe.’

  Black smoke from the ch
icken and mustard pours through the door.

  ‘Blast!’

  Eliot dashes to the kitchen. Out of sight, he clangs things: the spurt of water, hiss of steam, a yell as he must have scorched his fingers. A hammering: he’s trying to open the window. It always sticks. Like the window in the workroom at the shop. Bella should have chucked Barnaby’s hat out that window. His bloody Borsalino. There, Bella’s got the name right and Barnaby isn’t here to be pleased. There’s a tightening in her chest.

  Lydia flaps smoke away from her nose. ‘When will you sort out the house?’

  If ever Bella feels like it.

  Another clattering — it’s footsteps — comes from outside by the front door, and someone knocks. More pizza deals, more Mormons? Without answering Lydia, because her throat and chest seem full of cotton wool, Bella goes to the door. A young man is standing there.

  He smiles as if entranced. ‘Craig,’ he says. ‘We met at Ruth’s. She said you were a designer.’

  Bella blinks at him.

  ‘This might not be a good time,’ he says. ‘Ruth wouldn’t give me your phone number but she … look, can I come in? I’ve got — um — a proposition.’

  Lydia shoves past Bella, waving at the smell of singe inside. ‘It’s right on dinner time. Good luck.’ Her heels rat-tat down the path.

  Craig seems to have taken Bella’s non-answer as a yes. She follows him into the living room.

  ‘I’m hardly a designer. For fifteen years I was a repairer of broken objects.’ She’s also been incredibly gullible and, on one occasion lately, an adulteress. ‘Now and then, I’ve made a piece of jewellery, that’s the only positive thing about me. I’m a rotten painter. I’m not even sure that I’m a widow. Legally, of course — I’m just not sure about the ethics —’ It was preferable when Bella couldn’t talk because now she utters nonsense.

  ‘Excuse me?’ asks Craig. He moves around the room as much as Lydia, though keeps gazing back at Bella.