Devils, for a change

by Wendy Perriam

  ‘Gloria, my darling, am I ever going to change you?’

  She didn’t answer, just removed a pile of cheeses to try to find the juice. Robert said he loved her, then did his best to make her someone else – someone who loved going out, every night, and late; who kept chucking out expensive food; shrugged off waste and mess without a qualm. She glanced around the jumbled kitchen – lids off tea and coffee jars, books on greasy shelves. If she tried to make things orderly, he teased her, called her his boring little housewife. She was hardly that. The house was his – exclusively – his colour schemes, his furnishings, his choice of food and friends, his decision about mealtimes, even bedtime, his calendar, his clock. Yet why should she complain? He shared it with her, didn’t he; invited her to come down each weekend, tried to make each special, did his best to please her? It was just that …

  ‘I’d like to cook tonight,’ she said, turfing out two mouldy heads of lettuce, then turning back to touch his arm, hot fingers on damp skin.

  ‘You don’t know how to cook.’

  She flushed, withdrew her hand. ‘I’m learning, aren’t I?’

  ‘Yes, but it’s a chore.’

  ‘No, it’s not. I like it. I’ve never had much chance before. Liz always says she’ll let me, then does it all herself.’

  Robert yawned and stretched, revealing two wet patches spreading from his underarms. ‘I’d rather go out. There’s this fantastic new restaurant just opened in East Grinstead.’

  ‘Isn’t East Grinstead rather far for just a dinner?’

  He shrugged. ‘Not really. We’ll be there in twenty minutes, if we cut across country. Well – say half an hour.’

  Fifty minutes, she corrected silently, as she rearranged the cheeses, softer ones on top. ‘It’s awfully hot for driving, though. It must be over eighty still and I’ve got this stupid headache.’

  ‘It’s far cooler in the car than stuck indoors, especially with the roof down.’ He snapped a beer can open, foamed it over ice. ‘They’ve got wild duck on tonight, braised in wine and juniper, and salmon in puff pastry, as a starter.’

  ‘How d’you know?’

  ‘I asked them. I phoned to book a table.’

  She banged the fridge door shut. ‘Why ask me what I want, then, if it’s all arranged already?’ She heard her voice sounding petulant, resentful, as she strode across the room, down the spiral staircase and out to Robert’s patch of new-dug garden, now wilting in the heat. She needed to calm down, put some space between them. She was becoming sour and shrewish, getting far too blasé about her pampered life with Robert. Liz and Di would be grateful for those lavish dinners out, the constant generous presents – not carp because the gifts and meals were chosen not for her, but for some ideal abstract woman, or even for himself. She slumped down on a shelf of rock, stretched out her tanned legs. It was her fault more than Robert’s: she couldn’t love enough. The Abbess had remarked once that if you didn’t love God, then you couldn’t love man either – couldn’t love His creatures or creation, couldn’t love at all.

  She looked up at the sky, a still and shimmering sky, inflamed with pink-tinged clouds. ‘Teach me how to love,’ she prayed, wondering if she’d ever stop these senseless prayers to No One. She had lost her God, and with Him, lost her capacity to love – if she’d ever had it. Even in the convent, where love of God and love of neighbour were stressed above all else, she had been more concerned with self, she realised now, with shame – saving her own soul, grooming herself to be a saint in heaven, an angel in the cloister, obsessively striving for her own cold and neat perfection. Had she ever really cared about another person, ever learned to give and share?

  She bent to grub a weed out, hands hurting on the hard unyielding earth. She owed so much to Robert. He had taught her such a lot: how to sleep late; how to drive his car; how to choose flattering female clothes; how to play a score of games from golf to chess to tennis; how to view the world without blinkers or dark glasses; even how to live without a God. So why was she not satisfied; why resentful even now, as she glanced around his garden. His garden, yes – completely. She had suggested simple country flowers – lupins, foxgloves, hollyhocks – which wouldn’t mind the dry and chalky soil, or need a lot of nannying. He had overruled her, insisted on exotic strains; showy flowers like tiger lilies, moody ones like edelweiss. His lilies were now dying, and even his azaleas looked limp and undersized.

  She rubbed her forehead, tried to knead the pain away. Robert hated headaches, suspected she invented them. She couldn’t really blame him. He was never ill himself, never even tired. He’d poured out care and sympathy when she’d truly been in pain, smarting from the cuts and weals she’d inflicted on herself. She couldn’t expect that same intense devotion when there was nothing really wrong with her – nothing bar a throbbing head and a heavy cramping period, which had come on just that morning.

  She eased up to her feet, climbed back to the kitchen. Robert was still sitting quaffing beer, eyes half-closed, blond hair dark with sweat. She wished he’d come to find her. It was always her who had to make the overtures. She jerked her head impatiently, flinching at the pain. Would she never learn to love him, think about his needs and pains, instead of just her own, put him first, for once? She crept up close behind him, arms around his shoulders, mouth against his hair.

  ‘I love you,’ she said softly.

  He didn’t seem to hear, just pulled her round to face him, hands reaching for her breasts again. ‘So what are you going to cook?’ he teased. ‘For our celebration dinner? Shepherd’s pie and junket, or bangers and baked beans?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘We’re going out. I’ve got this sudden weird craving for salmon in puff pastry and wild duck braised in juniper and wine.’

  ‘So how was Sussex?’ Delia asked, bursting into Hilary’s room in her new beautician’s uniform.

  ‘Er… fine.’

  ‘Mum said you went to some new fantastic nosh-place and had morning-gathered frogs’ legs, or whatever.’

  ‘Yes, we did. Last night.’

  ‘Lucky you! The food we get at Cedars is unspeakable.’ Delia frowned into the mirror, pulling at her skirt. ‘You’re back early, aren’t you? Mum said I wouldn’t see you, that Robert always whisked you back in the early hours of Monday morning, as if he couldn’t bear to part with you.’

  She flushed. ‘Well, sometimes, yes.’

  ‘Actually, you’ve saved my life. I’m meant to be off duty, but they’re laying on this thrash tonight, and want me back at bloody six o’clock. I’ve got to help pour drinks and stuff and they insist I wear my uniform. Just look at it! I tried to take it in myself and messed the whole thing up. You couldn’t be an angel and do something with it, could you, Hil? I’m desperate. I’ve got to catch the 4.14 from Paddington, which means leaving here just an hour from now.’

  Hilary joined her at the mirror, inspected the botched seams. ‘What’s the problem with the fit? Is it just too big on top, or…?’

  ‘Well, it’s very baggy there, but the waist looks really weird, as well. I’ve made it all uneven.’

  ‘Yes, I see. Don’t worry. We can sort that out quite easily. I’ll just go and fetch the scissors and some pins.’

  ‘Thanks, Hil. You’re a saint. God! Was I relieved to see you. Mum’s out, you see, and the thought of appearing at a party in this … They’d go stark staring mad. They’re paranoia about the way we look. I mean, we’re meant to be professionals, trained and everything, and they’re still treating us like schoolkids.’

  Hilary started pinning, making darts around the bust, evening out the waist. ‘I thought you liked the job.’

  ‘It’s okay, I suppose. I was thrilled at first, just because it’s snazzy and a health farm sounded fun. But the hours are real slave labour. This is the first weekend I’ve had off in a month, and then they haul me back, expect me to act waitress, as well as mere beautician. Ouch! Those pins are vicious.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Delia, but if you could just
stand really still. That’s better.’ Hilary took two paces back, to check the fit, secured a few last pins. ‘Now, try to ease it off as gently as you can … Careful! Right, that’s it. If you want to get dressed, I’ll bring it down the minute that it’s done. It won’t take all that long.’

  ‘No. I’ll wait for it.’ Delia draped herself across a chair, feet up on the sides, thighs straining through her skintight lacy slip. ‘It’s too hot to get dressed, and apart from just my top things, I’m ready, more or less.’ She watched Hilary unpick the seams, then examined her own nails, all scarlet and extremely long, bar just one casualty. She reached out for a nailfile, smoothed its jagged edge. ‘D’you like that Robert character?’ she asked.

  Hilary looked up, startled. She was always thinking in terms of love, feeling all the burden of the word – its claims, its obligations, her own deficiencies. ‘Like’ was different, easier. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I do.’

  ‘I don’t. He’s a wanker. Still’ – she shrugged – ‘each to his own, as Mum is always saying.’ She checked her watch. ‘Where is Mum? I wish she’d get a move on. She’s driving me to Paddington, but if she doesn’t get back soon, I’ll have to take the tube and lug my case. I only came back really to get a few last things, yet they seem to weigh a ton. God knows how I’ll fit them in my room. You’re jolly lucky, Hilary. Your room’s twice the size of mine and gets all the sun. I’ve got one mingy little skylight facing north, and no room to swing a cat, and then they have the cheek to charge the earth for it, dock it from my wages. Mum’s far too soft with you.’

  Hilary was grateful for the whir of the machine, which prevented her from answering, covered her embarrassment. Della drew her chair up, peered down at the stitching, waited for a lull. ‘You probably just don’t realise how high most normal rents are. It’ll be quite a shock, I bet, when you start looking for another place. You know Mum’s moving, don’t you?’

  ‘Moving?

  ‘Yeah. Good old Uncle Harry! He suggested it – wants to share his home with her, drag her up to Scarborough to live. He says it’s crazy for them to keep on two big houses and flog up and down each month, wasting precious time and petrol. I reckon all he’s really after is a live-in cook and bottle-washer, but he’d never say that, would he? Anyway, Mum’s hooked, agreed to go and everything. The only problem is she can’t bring herself to turf you out, or even mention it. She’s had a word with Ivan and he’s already found another room in Richmond, but she’s frightened you’ll collapse, I think, if she so much as opens her mouth. I told her there were other pads in London and about half a million house-agents, all dying to let their flats, not to mention every local paper crammed with vacant bedsits, but …’ She made a face. ‘To tell the truth, I’m jolly glad I’m out of it. I loathe that Harry character. I mean, the way he treats my mother like his lapdog, expecting her to move up North, away from all her friends. Why can’t he come down here and live in London?’

  Hilary tried to hide her shock, the sudden surge of panic which had clawed her chest and stomach, even lamed her voice. ‘Well, h … he’s tied down by his business, I assume. He couldn’t leave it, could he, Delia? It’s very much a local thing. And isn’t he important on the council, hoping to be Mayor or …?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, Mum loves all that. I suppose she sees herself as Lady Mayoress. What a hoot! By the way, perhaps I ought to tell you that Di’s considering going up as well now. Mum tried to make me promise not to say a word, but you’re bound to hear it anyway, from someone in the shop. They’re really having problems. You must know that, at least.’

  ‘Well, yes, I …’

  ‘That bloody place – what’s it called?’

  ‘ “Mam’zelle”.’

  ‘Yeah. Rotten pigs! I mean, setting up two doors away and snitching all her customers. That could mean instant death for Di, or at least a slow decline. Except Hero Harry comes up trumps again, says has she ever thought of moving North herself, that there’s far less competition away from the South-East, and he could help her find really super premises, and if she’s worried about the cost, well – nudge-nudge, wink-wink – he knows a good few people and could pull a good few strings. Talk about wooing the mother via the daughter, except it’s usually vice versa. He’s so old, poor Grandpa Harry, he should be moving to a rest-home, not trying to set up a harem with Mum and Di and … Do you know, he even tried to rope me in, as well, said he could help me land a job in one of Scarborough’s top hotels. I’ll get my own jobs, thanks.’

  Hilary kept treadling the machine, guiding the white fabric with shaky sweating hands. If the Kingsleys moved up North, she would lose everything at once – her room, her job, her livelihood, her ‘family’; would be alone again, and unemployed. She was appalled to think that nobody had told her, that Liz and Di had hushed the whole thing up, been discussing all their futures secretly and privately, without involving her. Was it true what Delia said, though – that she was still too vulnerable and spineless to be included in such things, must always be babied, for fear she might collapse?

  Delia yawned and stretched, started jabbing with her nailfile at the chair. ‘Hey, you won’t tell Mum I told you, will you, Hilary?’

  She shook her head, voice still understrength.

  ‘Promise? Cross your heart? She’d do her nut if…’

  ‘No, I won’t, of course not.’ She felt guilty promising, as if she were betraying Liz, keeping secrets from her, as Liz had done with her. She reversed the stitching on the machine, to finish off the seam, then stood up, shook the skirt out. ‘I … I’ll just give this a press, Delia. I’ll use the iron downstairs.’ She had her own iron in her room, but she needed an excuse to be alone, to sort out the confusion churning in her mind. Why hadn’t Liz included her, as well, suggested that she join them in the move, continue her work in Di’s new Scarborough shop? Liz knew quite well that she didn’t want to five with Robert, preferred her independence and her job, so that couldn’t be the reason. Perhaps Harry disapproved of her, or Di had found another girl, more skilful, more congenial. Or maybe Liz herself had wearied of their friendship. Harry must have more or less proposed, yet she hadn’t said a word about it, had left her out completely, left her in the dark.

  She tripped on Stephen’s engine, as she walked into the kitchen, paused to pick it up. The move would suit them all, even Steve. Di was worried about his school, and now she’d seen it for herself she couldn’t really blame her. They’d probably find a better school in Scarborough, with smaller classes, fewer louts and bullies, even less pollution in the air. She and Luke would be left behind, to make out how they could.

  She hadn’t even seen Luke for a month, felt suddenly abandoned, totally alone. She was losing everybody – Ivan moving out to Richmond when she hadn’t yet managed a rapprochement, still felt nervous and embarrassed in his presence; Luke stuck in his own home, the feud with Steve unhealed. Still no word from Eva, and no God to keep her safe. And now Liz, her closest friend, sneaking up to Scarborough in secret, concealing her big news, confiding in everyone but her. She couldn’t even turn to Robert – they’d had their first real quarrel, just today, which was why she’d come back early, come back on the train.

  She slammed the iron along the seams, furious with herself. She was useless at relationships. Liz saw her as a baby, Robert as a prude. She’d been spinsterish and squeamish to object to making love just because she had a heavy period; selfish to suggest a walk when she knew he liked to spend his Sundays drinking in the pub. She must phone him right away, try to make amends, return there next weekend and really make an effort, do the things he wanted, and do them with real love. Except that wouldn’t solve the problem. She was still losing Liz, losing job and home. The lighthouse wasn’t home, was too much Robert’s project, and somehow too eccentric for a home. And how would she earn money, find herself another job in the middle of the downs?

  Fear began to gripe again, knotting up her stomach, drumming in her head. She switched on the radio, searched through all
the stations for a concert. That would calm her down, help distract her mind. Ah, Berlioz! The overture to Beatrice and Benedict, one of Robert’s favourites – hers as well, since she’d discovered the opera just a month or so ago, instantly responding to its passion, its intensity. Only last night, Robert had been talking about a brilliant new recording of all the Berlioz overtures by a young Viennese conductor, still only in his twenties. She’d scour the shops for it, take it down on Friday as a present and a peace offering, a gift to match his own.

  She rested the iron a moment, to relish the sudden rich crescendo, as clarinets and oboes joined the frenzied strings. She remembered him conducting it – chisel as a baton, leaping on a chair to control his wayward orchestra, arms flung up, hair wild – Berlioz himself.

  ‘I do love you, crazy Robert,’ she told him, told herself, as she continued with her pressing, iron dawdling now to match the slower tempo of the woodwind. Could there really be much wrong with their relationship, if they had Berlioz in common?

  ‘Shall we play it just once more?’

  ‘It’s a bit late, darling – nearly two a.m.’

  ‘Oh, come on, Sleeping Beauty, I’ll let you off the rest, if we can just have Le Corsaire again. That last bit’s so fantastic – the way he really drives the strings, as if he’s got a whip behind them. D’ you realise, he’s only twenty-six?’

  ‘Yes, you said.’ Hilary stretched out on the rumpled bed, put the pillows back where they belonged. They had been out for dinner, then made love; a long and languid dinner, a fierce and almost frantic love. She’d tried her best to scorch her worries out of her, burn them down to ash in the heat and force of Robert’s ramming body. It had worked, for half an hour.

  ‘What’s wrong, my sweet? You’re not still fretting, are you? I’ll kill that wretched Harry for upsetting you like this. Except if it wasn’t him, it would be someone else – someone worse, most likely, who lived even further off, in the Hebrides, or something. I mean, it was bound to happen sometime, with Liz still so attractive – well, very warm and loving, if not a raving beauty, and anyway, that house is far too big for her. It must be quite a strain having to keep up all the payments and look after everyone.’