by Fay Weldon
Sitting opposite each other at a window table for two, they could have been taken as mother and daughter, two good-looking, fashionable women, the older accepting of life, the younger anything but inconspicuous, no matter where she went or how she tried. The slim figure, the straight back, the long neck, emphasized whenever time of day allowed by a jewelled choker – little chin and mouth and a clear high brow, a tiny, rosy mouth and huge, smudgy black eyes in an elfin face – could there be Red Indian blood? – and then the pearls – even today it seemed she could not be parted from them – two short strings over the collar of the green pleated taffeta of her high-necked dress, a third swinging free and almost down to her waist. The Palace was out of mourning, Queen Alexandra appeared in pale pastel flower prints, and anyone who was anyone could breathe a sigh of relief, and be in colour again.
‘I wanted your opinion on the Koh-i-Noor,’ said Consuelo now, leaning confidentially towards Isobel across the table, as well she might, the subject of the conversation being what it was. ‘The Queen has set her mind on it for the crown but to me the stone looks dull. It had not been well cut. We don’t want her to be a laughing stock. Potentates from all over the world will be present: the last thing we want is for the Queen of England to be outshone. And I worry about the King Edward Sapphire for the Monarch’s crown, though that is Sunny’s business, not mine. It’s so spectacular it looks as if it came out of a joke shop.’
‘Consuelo,’ said Isobel, ‘why ask me? You know more about diamonds and sapphires than anyone else I know.’
‘I know about pearls,’ said Consuelo, ‘and they’re easy. Though they say they’ll soon be able to culture them artificially, and then they’ll be two a penny, and no one will be able to tell the difference, so we’ll have to give up wearing them. But diamonds are a different matter. And the Koh-i-Noor! Its reputation so exceeds its worth. The Old Queen was convinced it was unlucky.’
‘Only for Kings,’ said Isobel, ‘not for Queens.’
‘But the real problem is the Queen’s penchant for any old jewellery. So long as it sparkles she’ll put it on. She’ll come across an emerald brooch, stick it on any old where but next to a pink sapphire, bury both beneath some crude crystal necklace and a string of pearls, and add a diamond choker high enough to strangle her. I love jewels, and so does Sunny, but at least I know where to stop. She’s fond of you, Isobel, she was so happy with you at Christmas, will you please talk to her and teach her a little taste?’
‘I’m afraid it may be rather late in her life to learn,’ said Isobel, ‘but I will do what I can should occasion arise.’
She took the opportunity of explaining to Consuelo that Minnie was expecting and would be in no condition to walk in the Coronation, indeed to attend at all. Her condition would be too obvious. The baby was expected in the first week of July.
Consuelo flushed with joy: she seemed delighted. Isobel was accustomed to the outrage that usually struck the very rich when their plans were thwarted but no. Consuelo’s pleasure was instant and sincere.
‘But that is wonderful, Isobel. Little Minnie! An Earl to follow in Robert’s footsteps: I hope he grows up to be as wise and wonderful as his grandfather, who is second only to Mr Balfour in greatness. I am sure he will be, proud and strong. Minnie is so sensible. She is like me, American and practical. She will get the necessities over with, she will produce the heir and the spare and then be free to get on with her own life, as I do. It is perfectly possible to be as happy in this country as at home: one must just learn the rules and follow them scrupulously. And the men here – quite extraordinary, they mumble and look reluctant and aloof, but then they pounce, oh how they pounce! American men are all talk and precious little action. But tell Minnie she must be terribly, terribly discreet. Not a breath of scandal, not now or for posterity. Oh Isobel, I am afraid I have shocked you!’
Isobel was indeed aghast, conscious of other tables listening in; but what exactly had Consuleo said? Not a child for Minnie, not a grandchild for her, but a grandchild for Robert. Robert the wise and wonderful. The men who mumble but pounce. The black fog was stirring around Isobel, clutching her ageing womb, narrowing her eyes and her thoughts. She made an effort: opened them, cleared them.
‘I am not in the least shocked,’ Isobel said, as if nothing untoward had happened. ‘But of course we mustn’t forget the baby may be a girl.’
‘I have the two darling little boys,’ said Consuelo, ‘for which thank God, one brave and bold like my father, the other like Sunny. If they had been girls I would have had to go on and on until two sons were achieved. Of course Robert’s grandchild will be a boy. Your husband is to be Prime Minister, Isobel, after Arthur Balfour the disembodied has drifted off into space. Robert is so firmly bodied. But why did he not tell me about the new child, why did he leave it to you to tell me? I don’t understand: men are so strange, but I suppose Robert is so, well, English. I had such a good long talk with him the other day at lunch. We talked about war horses and cavalry and how my father, who is a great horseman, believes tracked motor tractors will soon replace the war horse. Are you interested in horses, Isobel?’
‘No,’ said Isobel.
‘Ah no, of course, Robert said you were not.’
Isobel felt a sudden stab of anger. Consuelo was quite deliberately taunting her. She was in effect saying to Isobel, ‘I can have him if I want him.’ Isobel had met her sort before. The kind who loved their fathers and despised their mothers, and now liked older men, the ones with wives to upset and marriages to break up, who, having failed to replace their mothers in their fathers’ affections, couldn’t see a happy marriage without wanting to destroy it. Realizing what she was dealing with, Isobel’s head cleared wondrously. Consuelo had declared war, but had also revealed herself. She would toy with Robert like a cat with a mouse but not pounce. She would not risk indiscretion, she had said, and Robert was too naïve to be discreet. Isobel was safe enough.
Her Grace continued to complain about her Majesty. ‘And now she wants to borrow my seventeen-strand pearl necklace for the occasion. Her very best is a mere fifteen. Is one even allowed to say no to monarchy? I fear not.’ She asked if Isobel would like to see the treasures she, Consuelo, had brought back from Moscow. The jewellers there were so skilful and imaginative. She was taking her new treasures to the bank. ‘I ordered one of the Fabergé eggs they talk about; they usually only go to Royalty but the dear little man made an exception for me. Sunny can be very nice when he is in a good mood – the trouble is he so often isn’t. He’s a little man, of course, and can hardly help it. All little men are Napoleons, and must have their own way, however strange that way may be. But in Moscow Sunny behaved like an angel. Look. Let me show them to you. The bank must wait just a minute.’
Consuelo produced a little blue velvet reticule which she emptied onto the white tablecloth.
Isobel felt the tables were ridiculously small. The ruby earrings practically fell into the butter dish, and the pin of the fragile amethyst and garnet brooch pierced the bread. A diamond necklace followed. All glittered tremendously. There was a muffled gasp from the next table. Isobel felt it sounded very like disapproval, but what could you expect in a place like this?
Consuelo let the diamonds trickle through her fingers.
‘Sunny in Moscow is one thing,’ she said. ‘Sunny in New York is quite another. We were married in New York, you know. I was eighteen. I stood at the altar and looked up at him shyly in love and trust, but he didn’t look at me, he was looking over me, past me into space and I knew he was longing to be marrying someone else. There were three of us in the marriage. No matter. I am a good wife. And there are always jewels, aren’t there, to comfort one. Hard and cold, but at least for ever, as love is meant to be. Alexandra loves them too but goes too far. Every necklace, bracelet, brooch masks a disappointment.’ Her dark eyes glittered. Isobel thought for a dreadful moment she was going to cry. The tops of her little shell-like ears flushed pink. But she just laughed her d
elightful little laugh, and threaded the jewels back, one by one, into her bag. The blue-stocking ladies, their entertainment over, went back to their rubbery scones and puffed-up cream.
The two ladies parted apparently on the best of terms. Isobel felt quite benign, poor flailing Consuelo could be forgiven; she was hardly to be taken seriously, the more so because she wanted to be. She was like some child’s tinselly cut-out toy and if Robert was entranced, it was hardly surprising and would come to nothing. She felt immensely generous and forgave Robert too though for what she could not be sure. But as they were leaving the Club Consuelo said, ‘I am so happy for Minnie: just so very trying that she now can’t follow behind the canopy. I can’t think of anyone else pretty and smart enough to accompany you, Isobel. Perhaps I’ll just scrap the idea and have nobody, and you can join in with the other countesses. I’ll think about it. I’ll let you know.’
The bitch. Isobel went back home, at least with the invitations, and resolved to get them into the post to the Baums that very day, and to hand the remaining card to Rosina. What had she been thinking of, trying to disown her own daughter? The black fog again, now happily dispersed. Tomorrow she planned to go all the way to Wells to meet with Adela and discuss the wedding, acknowledge her too as one of the family, and see what could be done to help.
There was uproar in Belgrave Square as the cab dropped her off. Three large covered brakes were parked outside No. 17, apparently too wide for the mews entrance, so that a mass of indoor servants and their possessions were being disgorged into the street. All could have been managed more easily in four broughams. Reginald’s fault. She would have upbraided him but needed to ask him to drop the invitations for the Baums into the post before she forgot. What an intolerable fuss, she thought, about seating for three at a King’s Coronation.
Mrs Baum Waits
It was a beautiful Spring and Mrs Baum’s garden in Golders Green, two years in the making, was showing the benefits of the attention lavished upon it. The daffodils had made a wonderful display and the gardeners were tying back their green spikes to make way for a dozen budding shrubs. Jonathan Reuben and Barbara Ruth were enrolled at the prestigious City of London School on the Embankment, though the promised Hampstead Tube line had still not materialized. It was a day school, so heaven knew how she would get them there, but she would manage. It was unfortunate that Jane, who although a shiksa girl had been so good as a nursemaid and general help about the house, and whom she had come to treat almost as a friend, had given in her notice so suddenly and for no apparent reason. It would be hard to replace her. But the building plots on the road were being quickly taken up and quite a little community, like the Baums fleeing from London’s East End, was growing up fast around them. A little row of shops including a Kosher butcher was now within walking distance. She could not be the scientist she had hoped to be, but perhaps her daughter would.
Eric had bought her a very splendid Bösendorfer grand piano and she had set up a little choral society in her front room, and a Saturday shul for the children. Eric had given in to her demands to call the children by their middle names, respectively Ruth and Reuben. He was, thank God, now in no danger of apostasy but proud of his religion, being now so well established in society, and indeed a director of the Anglo-Palestine Bank. There was little point now in assimilation. And had not Lord Robert asked them to sit with his family in the Abbey at the Coronation? It was a great honour.
She thought perhaps she had contributed to his acceptance into high society. A year or so back she had been invited by Lady Isobel to a charity dinner at which the Prince of Wales had engaged her in conversation, since when many doors had opened. She had encountered Mr Arthur Balfour, a friend of Lord Robert’s, at the inauguration of the Royal London Voice Choir and talked at length with him about Ebenezer Prout’s sterling work re-orchestrating Handel’s Messiah. It had been a most exhilarating conversation – though Eric had looked blank and not known what was going on. Well, let him get on with the money – what he was good at, she would get on with culture. Mr Balfour, everyone said, was going to be the next Prime Minister and would do much to promote the arts. She sincerely hoped so. Not since Disraeli had the country been governed by anyone remotely cultured. Now she waited for the invitations to come dropping through the letterbox. His Lordship’s business interests were so intertwined with Eric’s she had no doubt they would.
Naomi had started a small local branch of the Zionist Federation in her front room. They met monthly: it was for women and many came, their husbands for once not objecting to their absence, such was the cause. The ladies would read and discuss Theodor Herzl’s work and someone had embroidered ‘If you will it, it is no fairy tale’ on a banner and pinned it up above Naomi’s splendid Adam fireplace. All present looked forward to the creation of a new and perfect society, a land of peace and plenty, where ethics would prevail over greed, where Jews of all nations could live without fear or persecution. The most determinedly religious stayed away: furious in their belief that Zion must wait until the second coming. But these were a gentle lot. Tonight they were going to discuss the dreadful plight of Jews in Roumania, and someone was bringing forward the idea of Uganda instead of Palestine as the new homeland. Naomi did not think it would be well received: Israel was not a geographical but an historical and spiritual concept. Nevertheless she would let the idea go forward. All discussion was good.
Naomi was in her bedroom dressing for the occasion, and thinking she needed fewer guests or a bigger drawing room – the orthodox ladies seemed to wear more voluminous skirts than the ones who turned up for choir practice. She would wear something pretty but modest and perhaps, to liven things up, the pretty diamond and gold bracelet Eric had bought her last December. She had almost refused it at the time: still perhaps a little over-sensitive when it came to observing proper ritual. One should not succumb to the lure of a pagan festival like Christmas, she had told herself: she had already had a more than satisfactory Hanukah gift in the form of a very similar bracelet in twenty-three-carat gold, only without the diamonds, but it was so pretty she had over-ruled her scruples, and fastening the clasp now, was glad that she had done so. Eric, back from work, came bounding up the stairs to her room, and she could stretch out her pretty wrist for him to admire, and kiss.
‘Two things,’ he said. ‘Both good news! One, I have bought us a building site in The Bishops Avenue, the new road that joins the Heath to Finchley. The Church is selling off plots large enough for palaces, and that’s what we shall build!’
But apparently it was not good news. Naomi snatched back her wrist before he could kiss it. In the silence Eric could hear Jane moving about downstairs in the drawing room, setting up for this evening’s meeting, wavy hair flowing free. When she was working overtime she refused to wear a cap. Naomi, as ever, wore a black wig: he had never insisted on it, let alone pointed out the inconsistencies of her rituals: it was her doing. Eric hoped it was not his doing that Jane had handed in her notice – she was so pleasant to watch moving around that he could not help doing so – and a chaste kiss or two could hardly have come amiss: she was almost one of the family – but perhaps it was just as well she was going, for whatever reason. It could be hard not to covet one’s handmaid, and perhaps even excusable, thinking of Hagar and Abraham, but he loved Naomi dearly. It was just she seemed to find enthusiasm so difficult. The Bishops Avenue was a huge step up.
‘But Eric,’ she was saying, ‘we have only just got settled here. And anyway, why should we want to live on ground, as you boast, named after Christian bishops? We are Jews. And the daffodils have been so lovely: the lawn is finally grass not mud: I have made friends: I have a good butcher. What about my choir – what about my Ladies for Zion – they don’t want to have to traipse across all London – I’ll lose everything I’ve taken the trouble to build up. We will stay where we are.’
He felt his temper rising. He did so much for just a kind word from her, and so seldom received it.
; ‘For heaven’s sake, Naomi,’ he said coldly: he could be unkind if she could – ‘The Bishops Avenue is only around the corner, and “here” is going to be next to impossible when the Crematorium goes up practically next door; you have campaigned against it often enough. I will not have my children growing up in the shadow of its chimney, for the sake of some daffodils and the Ladies for Zion. We are a good Jewish family: we live where I say we live. I work hard for what we have: I give you everything, everything – today I hurried home with these – at least pretend to be grateful!’
‘These’ were two invitations to the Coronation in a blank envelope sealed with a crescent moon and two suns. Reginald had dropped it off by hand – Eric Baum suspected because her Ladyship could not bear to write out a North London postal address. Well, a Bishops Avenue address would be harder to despise. They were very large plots and very expensive; the Church evidently preferred to sell to its own. Others had bought for less. He had run for the bus to get the invitations home to her quickly; two causes for exultation. Now this. She did not even open the envelope but looked at it with distaste and dropped it to the ground.
‘A good Jewish family?’ she enquired, her voice hard and raw, so different from when she spoke to the children. ‘So you say. But one in which the husband does not care to observe the laws of purity?’
It seldom happened, but it had. The ritual bath took a long time coming. He was a vigorous man.
‘You deny Mitzvah,’ he could not help retorting. ‘You deny me unreasonably. You are rebellious. I could divorce you.’
‘Oh divorce me,’ she said, ‘please do. Why has Jane handed in her notice, I ask myself?’