by Brian Aldiss
‘In the age of the computer, you have to have a decimal currency, together with standardized paper sizes. Standardized globally.’ He saw this unification as a great, unacknowledged advance. ‘Steve, my car has a central locking system. That’s computers. You should treat yourself to one. The day will come when cars won’t need human drivers any more …’ He shook his head at the wonder of his imagination. ‘Another child of the computer is credit cards. I don’t need money in my pocket any more. I won’t deal in cash with nobody.’
That reminds me,’ you said. ‘I must get to the bank.’
‘Credit cards simplify everything. Speed up life. It’s just a beginning.’ He produced from an inner pocket a wallet in which he displayed a dozen plastic cards. ‘Very soon, cards such as these will unlock our front doors, switch our TV sets on and off, draw the blinds, set our meals cooking. All sorts of things.’
You shook your head. ‘You make me feel old-fashioned, Pief.’
He bestowed one of his smiles on you. ‘You must dine with me some time. Then we can talk. You are old-fashioned, Steve, let’s face it. But you have values I don’t. Maybe when I am old, which God forbid I will, I will read Proust and Tolstoy.’
You liked Tolstoy, which conjoined storytellers from both East and West.
Glancing at his gold Rolex watch, Pief said he must hurry. He shook hands with you. He turned one way, you another. Then he stopped and called back to you.
‘Hey, I almost forgot, Steve, so much on my mind. I was looking over this plot of land. It’s a prospect for Sale-Safe. Planners got planning permission to build a new shopping trolley factory here. If you like this house up for sale, forget it! Don’t buy. Take my word, don’t buy – not unless you got a big thing about shopping trolleys.’
You were grateful for his warning, but you said to yourself as you drove away that Pief was so full of himself, he never even thought to enquire how your darling Verity was.
10
Violet in Her Bath
You and Verity were flying back from a brief holiday in Corfu. You had stayed in a pleasant, small hotel on the north-east coast, where you swam regularly and virtually lived on a diet of retsina that washed down fresh fish, taken from the sea just before dawn. The skies remained every day a gentle blue, unbroken by cloud. You were sixty-five, a little grey at the temples, but very much content with life, and with Verity, who had by now recovered from her burns and was in exuberant spirits.
It was September of that remarkable year, 1989, when the pilot of your plane, instead of advising passengers to keep their safety belts fastened, announced that Hungary had opened up its frontiers in order to let refugees and others through to the West. It was a sensational decision. In Warsaw there was unrest. Gorbachev was about to visit the German Democratic Republic, a visit that would signal the downfall of the Honecker regime. The Communist world was in stress, breaking open like a rotten melon. After the uncertainties of previous years, there was reason to be cheerful, and to hope that the armed division of East and West might at last be drawing to a close.
Nevertheless, as the plane crossed the tidy English coast, with its bars of damp shingle and its parade of rainswept promenades, so unlike the informal bays of Corfu, with their welcoming tavernas, melancholy filled your mind. You could not understand it, nor escape it.
‘Are you sickening for something?’ Verity asked.
‘No idea. Perhaps something’s sickening for me …’
Once you were grounded and rang home, you understood. You were told your Aunt Violet had committed suicide.
You pushed past the faded mauve door of 19, Park Road into the hall, where Joyce greeted you.
‘It’s good of you to come, Uncle, I knew you would.’ She kissed the air by your cheek, clutching you tightly, looking pale and drawn. The years had thickened Joyce’s figure. Paul stood rather helplessly in the background.
‘When did this ghastly thing happen?’
‘In the night. About two o’clock this morning, according to the coroner. Dougie and I were asleep; we never heard a thing.’ Joyce managed to keep her voice level. ‘Oh, I feel so awful. I knew mum wasn’t feeling too good – depressed, you know – but I didn’t do anything about it. She and dad had had a terrible row. He was so unkind. And you know we were going to the cinema again this evening … He called her a spendthrift and a witch and I-don’t-know-what-all.’ Joyce’s hands fluttered about her like lost pigeons, she choked over her words. Her blonde hair straggled, despite a ribbon tied to keep it in subjection. ‘Of course she liked to spend money, but that’s not a crime, is it?’
You were still lingering in the hall, against their heavy hallstand. From a rear room, Dougie called. ‘Who is it? Is it the hospital again? Visitors? People who live in prisons roaming the streets?’
‘Dougie’s in a terrible mood,’ Joyce said, speaking quietly. ‘Thank God Paul is here.’
‘And Bertie?’ you asked. ‘He’s here? Where is he?’
She shook her head and more strands of hair escaped from the confining ribbon. ‘I say he should be here, looking after us at the least, the scumbag …’
Still she made no move to leave the hall. You said, ‘Hadn’t we better …?’
‘Okay. Listen, I’m glad to see you, Steve. Thanks for coming.’ She took your arm and led you into the sitting room. Paul Patel followed.
French doors looked onto a small back garden, part of which had been terraced. A bed of bewildered French marigolds lived out their existence. The doors were open. Paul went to stand on the terrace, his back to the house, smoking a cigarette, away from the fray. He gave you a sad smile. ‘We’d taken Violet to the cinema yesterday,’ he said. ‘We went to see a movie produced by Roger Corman, The Drifter. Wasn’t very good …’
‘Yeah, we sat in the cheap seats,’ Joyce added.
Dougie was a solid man in his late forties. He wore a plastic jacket over a T-shirt which said ‘Famous DJ’s Can’t Spell D J’ – a gentle hint that he was by now a famous D J. He rose from an armchair and came to shake your hand. His expression was gloomy.
‘Good of you to come, Steve, unlike the rest of the lousy family. This day of all days. I took the day off. I’m a refrigeration engineer, in case you didn’t know – hence the frosty reception – thinking of giving it up since D J-ing takes up more and more of my time; but what’s time for, if not to be taken up? And a fine state we’re in.’
‘Oh, do shut up, Dougie,’ said Joyce, and was ignored.
‘It’s the worst day of my life. Poor old Dad – he’s cleared off. Dead wives don’t come any deader. Can’t blame him.’
‘You can blame him,’ said Joyce quietly. ‘It’s his cruelty to Mum drove her to commit this terrible thing to herself.’
Dougie scowled at her, then turned to you. ‘She keeps saying that. What was Pop supposed to do? She’d used up all Dad’s money; we all knew what a spendthrift Mum was. She spread money like honey. Poor old Dad – deep in debt. I knew he was upset but I didn’t do anything about it. What’ll happen now? It’s beyond me.’
You saw that Joyce was working herself up. ‘You keep on saying that. Dad was so weak, he encouraged her. It’s our fault too, we encouraged her. I encouraged her, I admit it. But then I loved her so much.’
‘Don’t get into that,’ he said. Dougie’s face was growing redder. ‘The fact is that architecture never paid. Nothing he ever did ever paid. Mum would not face facts –’
‘He was too old-fashioned,’ said Joyce, throwing you an appealing glance. ‘Wouldn’t adapt.’
Paul Patel flung the stub of his cigarette away and re-entered the house. ‘Shall I make us all a cup of tea? This is really not a fitting time to quarrel, not when poor Violet is newly demised. Life is horrible enough –’
‘I’m not quarrelling,’ said Joyce sharply. ‘I’m merely defending my mother’s good name. You agree with me, don’t you, Steve?’
‘I loved her too,’ you said, with sorrow. ‘I’m sure you both loved her.
Perhaps your father loved her too much, couldn’t be firm with her, or face telling her the truth.’
‘That’s tosh,’ Joyce was saying, when there came a rap at the front door. Someone had found it open and walked right in. The someone proved to be your Uncle Claude, bringing with him a young woman in a tight pink blouse and a miniskirt, with a dragon tattooed on her right upper arm.
As Paul disappeared into the kitchen with Joyce, Claude came round, shaking your hand and Dougie’s. ‘Heard the bad news. Came right over.’
‘Where’ve you been, Uncle?’ you asked him.
Although he was looking older, his usual blustering manner was still in evidence. ‘Joey’s emigrated to America, the blighter. I told you Terry was in Canada, didn’t I? Britain wasn’t big enough for them.’
‘We’re better off without them.’ You could not resist saying it.
‘Never mind all that. They’re still my kids. Dreadfully sorry to hear about Vi. Anything I can do? Do you want some flowers? I know the very place where I can get them cheap.’
You asked him what he was doing.
‘I run a garden centre down in Brighton. Ideal for my old age. Come and look it over some time.’ Claude was wearing a hairy green suit, evidently a sartorial reference to his new trade. You had heard that his previous job had collapsed under him.
He turned to Dougie.
‘Don’t mind me barging in, do you? Terribly cut up to hear about your dear old mum – one of the nicest people in our ruddy family, was Vi. Never did anyone a mischief. You want someone to sing her praises, it’s me.’
His remark about mischief made you wonder over again if Violet had been mischief-making when telling you that your parents had hoped you would drown on Walcot beach. Even if it had been as she said, discretion might have preserved her silence on the matter. You would have been saved years of perplexity.
‘So who found the poor old dear?’ Claude asked. As Dougie was explaining, Claude’s girlfriend nudged him in the ribs. ‘Oh, by the way, this is Dusty Straw, a new friend of mine. Laughable peasant name, admittedly, but a sweet and charming lass, aren’t you, love?’ He leered at the young woman who, on closer inspection, was less young than she had at first appeared.
Dusty Straw giggled. ‘If you say so, Claude.’ She curled her left foot about her right.
‘Oh, but I do say so,’ Claude declared, feigning seriousness.
Joyce re-entered the room with a plate full of biscuits.
‘So you found her, Joyce, old gal?’ Claude kissed her cheek. ‘In the bath, right? Bit of a shock for you, I’d imagine. Wrists cut, bath full of blood … Nasty! What did she do it with, if you don’t mind me asking?’ He grabbed a biscuit.
Dougie took charge of the answer. ‘She used the bread knife. Do you want to see it? Do you want to see the blood-soaked towels? The empty gin bottles? Why all these nauseating questions, Claude?’
‘They must be asked. Suicide is a serious business. You have to face facts, whether incriminating or not,’ Claude stated, possibly with an echo of his old profession. ‘Why isn’t Bertie here – the erstwhile Hero of Kabul? I hope he’s crying his little eyes out.’
Paul emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray loaded with six mugs of various colours and vintages. Claude immediately grabbed one.
‘Nothing stronger, eh? Any sherry, to name but a few?’
‘We can’t afford anything stronger,’ said Dougie, impatiently. ‘We’re bust, you understand! Bust, got it? Why do you think mum killed herself? We’re deep in the red.’
Claude gave a snort of laughter and winked at Dusty Straw. ‘She certainly died in the red in the bath, didn’t she?’
‘You lout!’ Dougie exclaimed. ‘This is a fine time for your coarse jokes!’
‘Bit of a joke to lighten the atmosphere. You’re a touch touchy, Dougie – absolutely understand how you feel.’
Joyce, ignoring this exchange, walked about the room, tugging at a lock of her hair. She stopped suddenly and attacked her brother again. ‘How dare you say Mum died because we are in debt? You know darn well it was because of your father’s hostility to her. She just felt that life wasn’t worth living after years of that. Guilt and misery, that’s what Mum died of, poor darling.’
‘It’s not the first suicide in the family,’ you reminded them. You thought, or the attempt, as in Verity’s case.
Which of the siblings was right, you wondered. Why could not both be right? After all, as you now realized, your dear aunt had been of a fragile nature. Could her two suffering offspring not come to a conclusion, and comfort each other instead of quarrelling? But, you had to admit, this painful time was scarcely a period for reason to flourish; you too suffered, although not as they did.
As if tired of the discussion, Dougie turned with his mug of tea and went to stare down the garden. ‘There’s that bloody tabby from next door again. If I still had my air rifle, I’d shoot him right up his jaxi. Anyhow, Mum’s dead, and no argument will bring her back. It’s Dad I worry about now.’ Glancing at his watch, he added that the police should arrive soon.
Joyce breathed a deep sigh. Claude said, ‘Dusty will give you a hand cleaning up the bathroom, if you like.’
‘It’s been done,’ Joyce said, shortly. After a silence, she added, ‘I feel so desperate. I feel one of us should shoulder the blame.’
‘No,’ you said. ‘That won’t help, Joyce, dear. Blame always follows a suicide; the guilt thing. You remember when Aunt Flo’s son, Sad Sid, killed himself? It’s enough that we grieve for a life lost. You’ll never forget your dear mother. Nor will I.’
‘She spoilt me rotten.’
‘Then you were lucky.’
‘There are worse conditions than rotten in this context,’ said Paul.
Paul set his mug down and said, ‘Remember Violet’s life. Don’t just remember her being dead in the bath. Remember her love for you, remember what a nice person she was, remember her living, and breathing. Maybe she had her faults, as we all do, but just remember what a nice person Violet was, and how she cared for you. Remember we all loved her.’
‘Hear, hear,’ said Claude. ‘And remarkably pretty when young, eh, Steve? When’s the funeral?’
The funeral was later in the week. Later in the year, Nicolae Ceausescu, the dictator of Romania, was shot, together with his wife, after twenty-four years in power. You viewed his downfall on television. In November, the Berlin Wall, brutal symbol of oppression, was also to fall – and you would happen to be there to witness it. It was an example of the way in which the face of a nation could change in a few days; whereas an individual takes longer about it.
These great events meant little to the family when weighed against your beloved aunt Violet Wilberforce’s death.
Uncle Bertie went into a home for the poor, and was subsidized there by contributions from the family. You visited him once, to help him settle in. His little room was painted cream; even the sparse furniture was painted a thick, indigestible cream. Bertie wanted to talk about Violet. The more he talked, the more strongly you felt he had no idea of her inner life; but then the question arose, Did you understand her inner life? Your aunt had left no suicide note. Such a note might have held, if inadvertently, a clue to her inner life, and what really drove her to kill herself.
And knowing, you reflected, would have made you a little happier, perhaps even in an Aristotelian sense. You had loved Violet; you hoped she had been at least content with her life, her character. She had loved and cared for her children. That was a virtue and a blessing.
You tired of hearing your mother trying to justify her long hostility towards your aunt. ‘I know people. I never trusted her. I trusted my instinct. I always thought she was unbalanced, and this proves it. Of course I’m sorry, sorry for Joyce of course, but –’
You cut off one of these monologues, saying, ‘If you’d been kinder, Mother, and had offered her some support in her difficulties, instead of ostracizing her, Violet might still be alive.’
>
She flinched backwards as if from a blow. ‘How dare you? How dare you? Whose side are you on?’
And she left the room.
You talked the matter over with Verity. She inclined to the idea that much of what one tends to think of as ‘character’ is actually just an accumulation of accidents and contingencies which occur to you by dint of your being around, much as, she added unflatteringly, the flu virus passes round from one person to another on a winter’s day, just because they happen to be present. Looking back on your own life, you could not but admit there was some truth in this point of view. If the bullying Jeremy Nash had not invited you to supper on that certain evening, if there had not been an outbreak of Dutch elm disease, if there had not been a high wind just then, if he had not shouted at Verity … why then, you two would never have married.
‘Still,’ you told her, ‘there’s more to it than that.’
‘Oh yes, the inward thing, I agree,’ she said. ‘Like the accident that there happens to be two sexes.’ She put an arm round your neck and kissed you. ‘Had a thousand people rescued me that evening, I would still have loved you.’
You heard later that Uncle Bertie was ill. You had been so busy that you had gone only once to see him in sheltered housing, where he had a small room.
You paid him a visit clutching a small bunch of flowers and a bunch of seedless grapes. A nurse in a white overall showed you to Bertie’s room. The one-time hero of Kabul was sitting up in bed, wearing a dressing gown and smoking a cigarette. He looked much older than when you had last seen him.
‘I’m all right, old boy, thanks. Got over it with the help of my nurse. Like a cigarette? She’s Nurse Marya Bird. Was Marya Deschutski, or something, but she got married to an English chap. She’s a Pole.’
‘She treats you well, does she?’
He blew out smoke and stubbed his cigarette end in a conveniently placed ashtray. ‘There’s not many people you can talk to here. Half of them are daft – you know, past it. Marya likes to talk. Look, she brought me this pear.’ He indicated the fruit, its nose cocked at an angle, sitting on a saucer on his bedside table. ‘I haven’t eaten it yet. Don’t seem to have much of an appetite these days.’