‘Not out of Miss Felicity’s way,’ observed Joy, ‘if it were her car. But it is some way out of mine.’
‘I am very sorry about that,’ he said, courteously enough, and she felt mean at once and said he was welcome.
William Johnson directed Charlie through the narrow back streets of Mystic, where no-one of any interest lived. The Mercedes pulled up outside a large, shabby wooden house: a few old folk, well- wrapped up in rugs, sat nodding on the verandah. A clothesline was visible at the side of the house, from which male undergarments hung, neatly pinned. Joy clicked disapproval. A sign outside read:
The Rosemount Retirement Home.
Peace of Mind for Those who Deserve it.
‘Calm, quiet and comfortable, and l get a sea view, which is more than I deserve,’ said William, by way of explanation. He got out and indicated his thanks. He smiled at Joy in a friendly and forgiving fashion, which infuriated her. He nodded to Charlie. He pressed Felicity’s ringed fingers against his withering cheek.
‘This is revolting,’ thought Joy. He turned and went up the path; the gate was rusty and hung loose. Felicity looked after him fondly as Charlie drove off.
‘I forgot to take his telephone number,’ said Felicity. ‘But you know how it is with men. If they’re really interested in you, they’ll find you. He knows where I live.’ A kind of snort came from the front: it was Charlie, but he managed to make the sound of mirth turn into a sneeze.
16
A private eye agency called Aardvark Detectives had done excellent work for the studio in relation to the Olivia/Leo fiasco. Aardvark. I kid you not. It seems that most detective agencies are chosen through the Yellow Pages, and although the A. A. this, and the A. I. that enjoy priority of initial, the more solid words are easier to read, and Aardvark I suppose did have a kind of relevance: it being an ant-eater, a creature which searches after scraps of scuttling nourishment with a long, busy, snuffling nose. By virtue of its name Aardvark Detectives picks up no end of passing trade, first-time inquiries - follow that husband, check out that home- buyer - and flourish accordingly. It had found me Alison within weeks, in a briefer time than I had needed to find the courage to contact them.
Wendy made the initial contact. She was one of the founding Aardvark partners, a comfy, inquisitive matron dressed in a neat navy suit and costume jewellery (though nothing that clanked or glittered too much, and attracted attention). The Aardvark agency had well-paid runners in all the big national enterprises: social security, national health, vehicle registration, tax offices, credit agencies and so forth, and within hours could provide any client with a broad picture of any other citizen, one not quite legally acquired, so long as in Aardvark’s view that client was comparatively law-abiding. Amazing how by simply looking at credit-card expenditure you can acquire a snapshot of a life as represented by a pattern of purchase, or indeed in some cases, as Wendy told me, charity giving. Someone who spends a lot in expensive restaurants and pays vet bills and gives to animal charities is going to be a very different person from the one who spends in the supermarket, pays bookmakers, and gives to children. Some people manage to run undercover lives, of course, have credit cards in numerous names, false passports, and deal in cash - not necessarily from criminal motives, sometimes from a distaste of so much easy overlooking by the State - but even this lot, Wendy tells me, usually end up visiting a doctor or hospital and cover is blown. Personally, I don’t mind who knows what about me, and having spent vacations in India, when you’re lucky if your existence is noticed at all, and dead bodies lie round for days to be walked over, see some virtue in a society which at least has you on its computers.
Files on adoption are in a peculiar state. I know, having once worked on a film called Babyroot, and had to excise a five-minute sequence at the last moment, the researchers having failed to realize that the law had changed since the writing of the novel on which the book was based. Five minutes is a lot of footage and in the end the film quite frankly didn’t make sense. But I like to think those who watched it were crying so hard they failed to notice.
Secret records were kept until the mid-seventies, when mothers could give their babies away secure in the knowledge that that was the end of it. But then, after the screening of Roots, together with the Insurance Companies’ growing desire to know the genetic destiny of their clients - ‘parents unknown’ is doom to their ears: how can they make profits if expected to take risks - it was decided that everyone had a right to know their origins and would be miserable and unhealthy if they didn’t; that given-away children, once they got to eighteen, should have the right to trace and find their natural mothers. The right of the mother to find the child was not asserted - the spirit of retribution still hung around, though undefined. The new world saw it as unnatural and callous for a woman to give away a child; the old world, living as it did without State benefits, and knowing that the orphanage was the normal destiny of most of those born out of wedlock, was well aware that early adoption, no matter how painful for the mother, was in the child’s best interests. An unmarried mother could struggle on for a year or so with her child: in the end, since female wages were so low, unless she was lucky enough to find a man to give shelter to her and the child in return for whatever services he insisted upon, she would be defeated.
In the eighties and nineties, organizations sprang up to link the mothers of the old world with the children of the new; reunions were tactfully organized, bitter pills of truth buffered by soft- toned counsellors in the same way that aspirin is coated against stomach pain. Let us all know our origins: this way surely contentment lay. A myriad of disowned young turned up to claim their backdated right to natural mother-love, and as often as not to retreat disappointed and reproachful. A mere six per cent of all those reunited go on to deeper acquaintance. But I didn’t know that at the time. Babyroot presented a very different picture.
Material comforts were not enough, the abandoned asserted: they wanted all this and mother-love too, their inalienable right. They could not understand, these children of the therapy age, that there once were more important things than the avoidance of stressful emotion. They had no notion of a world without safety nets, where people starved, or if they jumped in the Thames with the newborn baby in their arms, would be fished out and hung by the neck until they were dead. I know that from a film I cut called Watery Grave.
Many a girl, around the age of eight, looks at her parents and decides they can’t possibly be hers: they’re far too dull and ordinary: she must have been switched at birth. How much more so does the child who’s told she’s adopted - ‘but we chose you, darling’ - fantasize about the royal palace which surely must be hers by right of birth, if only the terrible mistake had not intervened. Alas, on discovery the birth parent turns out to be not the princess, but just another kitchen maid. An older, wiser generation of social workers contrived to be obstructive in reuniting a child with its parent: the new, younger lot ploughed ruthlessly on, destroying lives and families in the name of genetic truth.
Why then, you might ask, knowing all this as I did if only from the film Mother Trouble - I had an affair with that director too: his name was Tom Humble and we nearly got married but I didn’t want to be called Sophia Humble, not after all that - why then was I determined to find Alison for Felicity? I do not know. Why does one do stupid things?
Revenge? Not as strong as that. I loved Felicity: that was my justification. I wanted a family: she could put up with it. Perhaps I wanted something of hers for mine: I never felt she gave me enough. Stupid, sloppy, therapy reasons. In the real world reason takes second place to what one just finds oneself doing. Reasons are for police courts and soap operas. Why, why, why, only happens when things have gone wrong. Because, because, because, is for settling the minds of the onlookers. This happens because of that is for science, not for human beings. I just did.
And okay, because of Harry Krassner, my own personal Hare Krishna, sometimes in my bed, sometimes out of it, maki
ng me weak and needy for permanence. Settled, now?
Wendy’s favourite spy in the registered charity Mother Unknown was young Melissa, aged twenty-four and just out of college, who didn’t see why mothers over eighty shouldn’t get in touch with daughters of seventy, and fought her way through piles of actual dusty hospital files - no computers way back then - charred by blitz fire and stained by the water used to put the fires out, in the basement of St Martin’s-on-Thames in Kingston, whence they had been moved to safety and forgotten, to discover that a bastard baby was born to Felicity Moore, aged fifteen, spinster of this parish, on 6 October, 1930. (Father unknown.) Further consultations of adoption records, in rather better state, showed three babies named Alison passed to new parents in the middle of November; the Registrar of Births, Deaths and Marriages showed that two of these children had later died - one at the age of three (of poliomyelitis), one at fourteen (killed in an air-raid), and the other one, an Alison Moore, had married at twenty-two a Mark Dow- son, student. There was a one-in-three chance that Mrs Dowson was Felicity’s daughter. Personally, I had no doubt of it. If you deal with fiction enough, your own life begins to be fictional. The narrative had me in its grip.
17
Felicity returned from the funeral in high good spirits, which Nurse Dawn found a little strange. Inappropriate emotions could indicate the onset of dementia. She mentioned her worry to Dr Grepalli, who waylaid his newest and favourite guest as she made her way down the long polished corridor, with the non-slip rugs and the double-glazed windows, towards the Atlantic Suite. He fell into step beside her.
She pulled off her gloves as she walked; he noticed she had left off all but one of her rings for the outing. Golden Bowlers, if they insisted on unescorted outings, were encouraged to leave their jewellery behind, for fear of provoking attack. It seemed to Dr Grepalli that the single ring was a compromise: she halfacknowledged the dangers of the outside world: half-defied the wisdom of the Golden Bowl. Soon she would give in and be happy. She looked at her fingers as if seeing them for the first time. The skin of her hands was creased, crumpled and liver-spotted, but the fingers were still elegant, long and lively. She stretched them, as if testing them, warning arthritis away.
‘A funeral, Felicity!’ he said. ‘How brave and in such weather. You must be upset. Do drop by my rooms if you feel like it, and we can have a little talk.’
‘I am not in the least upset,’ said Felicity. ‘I have been to many funerals in my life and survived them without your help, Dr Grepalli.’
He caught her arm in an excess of concern.
‘God gives us feelings he means us to express, Felicity. Otherwise he exacts a revenge. Denial isn’t good for us. A reluctance to face our emotions leads to chronic headache and exacerbates arthritic pain.’
‘Personally I attribute arthritis to damp rather than denial. The heating in my room is inadequate now the wind is in the east. Perhaps you will see to it.’ She smiled at him so charmingly he failed to take offence, and walked on. Baffled, he fell back. Nurse Dawn gave it ten minutes and then made tapping movements outside Felicity’s door without actually touching it and went in. Felicity was sitting at her table throwing coins in the air and making notations when they fell.
‘That looks fascinating,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘Is it a game?’
‘Kind of,’ said Felicity. ‘I didn’t hear you knock.’
‘I knocked really loudly,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘We must expect our hearing to fail as we advance in years. Some of our guests choose to have a warning light above the door rather than rely on their ears.’
‘I’m not that bad yet,’ said Felicity. ‘What are you trying to do, demoralize me?’
‘Better to face than to deny,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘The game seems really absorbing. Maybe you could teach it to the rest of us? It would be a good way of getting to know everyone.’
‘Bloody hell,’ said Felicity. ‘I’ve thrown twenty-seven and not a single changing line.
‘The Marrying Maiden.
Nothing that wouid further.’
‘Shit.’
‘There’s a Reconciliation and Tranquillity session starting any minute in the Library, Miss Felicity,’ said Nurse Dawn, at a loss to know what else to say. ‘It might be a good idea if you joined us.’
‘Please call me Miss Moore,’ said Felicity. ‘I am Felicity only to friends and family. I think I have told you this before.’ ‘Informality frees us up,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘Research shows that friendly intimacy with others is what keeps us young in body and mind. And I like to think I am your friend, and counsellor too.’ ‘You are self-appointed in these roles,’ said Felicity. ‘I wish the Golden Bowl could simply provide me with my creature comforts and leave my soul alone.’
‘You may be becoming a little confused in your memory,’ said Nurse Dawn. ‘We have you on our guest list as Mrs Felicity Bax. Now all of a sudden you are Miss Moore.’
‘Don’t worry about it,’ said Felicity. ‘Mrs Bax will still sign the cheques.’
And she rose to her feet and ushered Nurse Dawn out of the door and closed it quite firmly behind her. It was as if she had come back from the funeral ten years younger than she had set out, and thirty years more delinquent. Nurse Dawn wished she had stuck by her original plan and accepted the Pulitzer Prize winner, smoker or not.
Nurse Dawn joined Dr Grepalli in the Library for the R and T session. At least ten Golden Bowlers had come along. That was good. Attendance was in no way compulsory - how could it be? If your heart wasn’t in it what was the point? But sherry was available - a moderate amount of alcohol kept old arteries flowing free, and invitations to local events were announced: to the Aquarium - there was always some new fish to see - or the new Indian Museum, or some theatre or dance event.
Trips to the Foxwoods Indian Casino were not encouraged: gambling was not within the Golden Bowl ethos: the elderly could get all too easily hooked on the slots: go into a trance and throw their money away. Not for the old the wildness and skill of craps, let alone blackjack or roulette, just the mindlessness of feeding in quarters, and waiting to see what happened next. Which was nothing, and then nothing, and then all of a sudden something. But never enough nothing to make up for the something, as any rational person could see, or how would the Casino live, despite the background beat and the dimmed lights and the rushing chinking of coins, and the wafting smell of barbecue sauce and junk food, and the row upon row, rank upon rank, of blue-haired widows and matrons not even playing a system, content to succumb to fate. Very blue-collar. Not Golden Bowl.
If there was one thing the Golden Bowl could do for the relatives, it was keep Golden Bowlers away from the slots: what price inheritance then? And were not Native Americans, on whose reservation land normal anti-gambling state edicts did not apply - therefore Foxwoods - and who didn’t have to pay tax on their vast profits, and who were scarcely pure-blooded anyway, having mingled so freely in the past with African-Americans, playing the victim card too ruthlessly? One way and another no-one who slipped out of the Golden Bowl for a day’s outing to Foxwoods cared to admit where they had been. Entertainment on a higher plane, that is to say self-improvement, was always available at home in the Golden Bowl. Yes, home. The Golden Bowl was home.
This evening Dr Grepalli sat in a deep armchair, backed by rows of leather-bound books. Cruel white light from the snowy land reflected through mullioned windows on to withered faces and carefully combed hair. Eighty, ninety, for some even a hundred winters had passed: still they did their best.
‘Is the glass half-empty or the glass half-full? Altogether now!’ boomed Dr Grepalli.
cHalf-full, Dr Grepalli,’ came the quavery, stalwart answer.
‘Every breath we take,
Every move we make,
What do Golden Bowlers do?’
‘We live life to the full!’ came the answer.
As she listened, Nurse Dawn’s ruffled feathers were soothed and smoothed. She felt proprietorial towards Dr Grepall
i, who today was looking so patricianly handsome and benign. Hers, all hers! As for Felicity, sooner or later something would happen to bring her to her senses and a proper sense of gratitude. A hip or a knee that needed replacing, arthritis in the hands, a disabling loss of memory, and she would cease to be independent: she would become like everyone else in the twilight of their days, and not think herself so special. Time was on Nurse Dawn’s side: the great advantage the young have over the old.
18
Felicity was on the telephone, discovering the number of the Rosemount Retirement Home. She would not call William Johnson first. She would wait for him to call her. But she wrote the number down on the pad beside the bed in case she changed her mind. The age gap was not so great: she was twelve years William’s senior, but as he himself had observed, men age faster than women. And women live longer by a good seven years: if you were reckoning in terms of marriage and who would have to live without the other longest, William could be predicted to have to live only four years without her. It was not such a bad deal. Though a glance over a grave hardly added up to a marriage proposal, she could see that.
She threw the coins again and this time got fifty-four, Kuei Mei, changing to fifty-five, Feng. That was better. The Marrying Maiden turning to Abundance. How could you get proper results with Nurse Dawn in the room? The I Ching would be bound to present life in a static state, gruesomely fixed. The minute the woman was gone the atmosphere lifted: breezes of energy began to flow, pushing the coins as they fell - throw three heads and there was nowhere they could go but to two heads and a tail, or two tails and a head, and the readings changed and every step of the way there was something to be said. Life proceeded in a wave motion: as soon as everything seemed as bad as could be, and stuck like that, it began to change: life began to get good again. Took only two lines - the second and third throws - to turn from two heads and a tail to three tails, and the bleak nothing that would further turned into
Fay Weldon - Novel 23 Page 11