by Fay Weldon
But the Rice lawyers, summoned by Edwin, were clever: injunctions were served, Humphrey was given no time to recover: he was ejected from the home, Susan re-installed, with little Roland back in her care, within six weeks. Clive and Natalie attempted a reconciliation: they stayed under the same roof but Natalie could not stop crying; not even Rosamund’s Prozac helped.
The upset had lost Susan her baby (though Mrs. MacArthur claimed it was too much gin and a purposefully too hot bath that did it). Humphrey was blamed by everyone for his insane jealousy, for murdering the unborn child by so upsetting the mother. No one blamed Susan. It was clear to everyone that Humphrey had driven Susan to infidelity. He was obviously unstable. Susan was too open, too innocent, too charming, too impetuous to have the marriage-breaking instincts which Natalie, Rosamund, and Humphrey claimed she had; these three had come to regard Susan an obsessive hater of wives, rather than a lover of men. Natalie, in the meantime, was said by everyone, except Rosamund (who had access to her medical records but wasn’t in a position to talk about her patient) to have a long history of infidelity, culminating in her current affair with a colleague at work. Clive too was to be pitied, not blamed. If only Clive and Susan could get together! Mad Humphrey, possessive Natalie, the story went, stood in the way of true love.
Before Susan left the shelter of Rice Court, she said to Lady Rice, earnestly, “Don’t ever think Edwin isn’t safe with me: you are my friend, after all,” but there was a look behind a look, a smile behind a smile which made Lady Rice then later say to Edwin, in bed, for once not rolling away from him but towards him—Lady Rice was more obliging than Angelica and had more regard for others’ feelings than her own—
“Did you and Susan ever—?”
And Edwin looked astonished and said, “Good heavens, Susan’s like some kind of sister to me. I’m very fond of her, Angelica. Angelica is such a long word. Couldn’t we shorten it? Anglia, perhaps?” and he laughed heartily and Lady Rice felt bad. It was the kind of name you’d choose for someone at a distance.
It was with distaste that Edwin reported home one day that he’d encountered Humphrey in the street, and that Humphrey had spat at him. Spat! In the circles in which Edwin had been reared, infidelities were commonplace, but no one minded much, no one went around with long faces, everyone kept a stiff upper lip and no one spat. Lady Rice felt herself excluded from desirable circles, and indeed responsible for Humphrey’s bad behavior. The friends she had found for her husband turned out to be scarcely worth the candle of his acquaintance. Boffy Dee came over once or twice: Anthea decided the dogs were putting on too much weight, and persuaded Edwin out on long hearty walks. Edwin went so reluctantly Lady Rice did not believe for a moment there was more to it than Anthea’s passion for healthy animals. Not happy animals—Anthea spoke sharply to the dogs and they kept out of kicking distance of her riding boots—but slim, shiny-coated, pleasant-breathed beasts. Edwin certainly was improved by the walks: he’d return flushed and energetic: the presence of Susan in the house had seemed to make him sluggish and moody. But everything was okay, thought Lady Rice. Everything had settled down.
And of course it hadn’t. Once sexual betrayal splits a community of apparently like minds, the evil’s never over. Households fall, writs fly, children and adults weep alike. Sometimes one could almost believe that if a war, an earthquake or a famine doesn’t come along and get in first, people will set out to destroy their own households, their own families, their own communities. As if we build only to break down, as if the human race can’t abide the boredom of happiness. As if truly the devil is in them. The fireworks of Bonfire Night are a burnt offering to the Gods of War, to appease them, but no one really wants those gods appeased for long. Peace is boring, war is fun. Non-event is the most terrible thing of all, to people of a certain disposition.
(11)
More
BUT THERE WAS SUSAN living righteously at Railway Cottage, the snows of winter past, the hollyhocks of summer beginning to burst into purples and mauves and pinks. Susan was beginning to look quite pink and healthy again; she had recovered from the miscarriage, though not yet from what was seen by all around—well, almost—as Humphrey’s mistreatment.
Susan herself said very little about the events of the past months, as if by ignoring them they would cease to exist. She lived quietly, though it was known that she had changed her solicitor and her doctor. She was divorcing Humphrey for unreasonable behavior, and Humphrey had decided not to argue about it, for Roland’s sake. She would keep Railway Cottage and live there with Roland and he would manage somehow, though his practice had collapsed about his ears. He seemed unable to concentrate or persist in anything. He would visit Roland as often as possible.
“I suppose I should be grateful,” was all Susan had to say, “but it’s all so typical of poor Humphrey! One day he’s violent and furious, the next day he’s passive and meek. He has these passions but he can never persist in them. Of course Humphrey’s a Gemini. You never know which twin you’re kissing. I hope he doesn’t visit Roland too often. It isn’t good for a child to see too much of a father who’s seriously unstable.”
It was obvious that Clive, so much and so publicly in love with Susan, could hardly handle the legalities of the divorce; and it was understood that Dr. Rosamund Plaidy no longer suited her as a physician. Susan murmured to one or two friends that Rosamund did rather gossip about her patients. And what sort of doctor was she? Had she not treated her own husband for low spirits with pills, and thus tipped him over into real depression? More, had she not stood between Susan’s about-to-be-ex-husband Humphrey and the psychiatrists when it was obvious that Humphrey was raving? Was such behavior ethical? Let alone sensible? No, Dr. Plaidy was not Barley’s best doctor. Faith in Rosamund rapidly declined, and an un-trusted doctor achieves few cures.
One day Natalie came across Clive weeping into his rose bushes when he should have been at work.
“I suppose you’re weeping for love of Susan,” said Natalie, helplessly.
“I am,” said Clive, just as helpless.
“Not for the grief and trouble you’ve caused myself and the children, but for yourself? Because you’d rather be with her, not me?”
“Yes,” said Clive. “I wish it wasn’t true, but it is.”
“In that case,” said Natalie. “That’s the end. I quit trying.”
Natalie went upstairs and threw all Clive’s clothes and papers out of the windows, out of the house, some into the garden, some into the road. Neighbors gathered. There went his school photographs, his early letters to Natalie, his secret porn videos, his cigarette lighters, his compact discs: his socks, his shirts, armfuls from the wardrobes, old shoes he’d never thrown away. It took her an hour. Clive waited till she was done and then packed what she’d forgotten into cardboard boxes and put the boxes neatly in the back of the car. He scavenged amongst what she’d tossed out for anything he really wanted, which he discovered was very little—the old shoes, his address book—and took those, too. The children watched. Daddy was leaving home. They were too stunned to cry, or too riveted by the drama. Then Natalie opened the bonnet of the car and took out spark plugs and threw them into the brook which ran so prettily through the English country garden.
“I want the car,” she said. “It’s mine by right. I need it to take the children to school.”
Clive called a taxi, and left home in that: taking nothing further but his wallet and a clean shirt. It had begun to rain. Taxi tires drove the mementoes of a happier past further into mud. Later Natalie went out and retrieved his cufflinks, which were gold, and a present to Clive from his mother. Then she took the car and drove it into the stream so the water played and gurgled through anything material which could remind her of her husband, and destroyed it. Later she told her insurers she’d been stung by a wasp, and claimed for the car.
Clive went to Susan and said, “I know you don’t love me. But aren’t you lonely in Railway Cottage? You and little Roland nee
d looking after. Let me move in with you. Please?”
“No,” said Susan.
“But I love you,” said Clive. “I’ve given everything up for you. Home, wife, family. All for you! I’m losing my clients; my business is failing. When you left me, so did others. You’re all I have!” It was true that Clive was losing the confident, well-fed look a successful lawyer needs to have. His little moustache had turned grey. One architect, one lawyer, one doctor down. Who would be next?
“Clive,” chided Susan, “don’t be absurd! We did have a certain rapprochement for a time, and some good talks. It was wonderful and I don’t regret it. But it just wasn’t the stuff of which futures-together are made. Can’t you get back together with Natalie? I’m sure she loves you. It’s all such a great fuss about nothing. You really ought to think about your children.” When Clive wouldn’t leave, saying he had nowhere to go, no home any more, she put her case more plainly. “Please don’t pester me like this, Clive. It’s thanks to you and your indiscretions I’ve lost my husband, and Roland now has to make do without his father. I’ve been treated so badly. Please don’t make it worse. You men are unbelievable.”
Clive took a bed-sitting room in town and hung about in the supermarket, hoping to catch sight of Susan. But Susan changed shops, and blamed Clive for that, too. Now her marketing cost more.
“It’s really hard to take men with moustaches seriously!” said Susan to Lady Rice, meeting her in the greengrocer’s. “Yet Clive seems bent on serious self-destruct. Natalie is being really horrible to me: she cuts me dead in the street: you’d think she’d at least try to stay out of my way, do her marketing mid-afternoon, not mid-morning. It’s not my fault her husband’s in love with me. She ought to have looked after him better: she’s completely frigid sexually. Rosamund Plaidy was treating her. I thought she was on my side but when it comes to it she’s as cold as you are, Angelica. You’d all rather have a grievance than a friend. Why doesn’t Natalie just ask Clive back and be nice to him? He’d soon get over it. Women make such a fuss about this kind of thing. And so shortsighted of her! If Natalie and I go to the same party and she. sees me, she just walks out. It’s really stupid: people will stop inviting her if she keeps making scenes.”
And Susan was of course right. Susan always got asked out and Natalie didn’t. The wronged make depressing companions.
“And Rosamund’s another one,” said Susan. “She acts strangely towards me, too. It’s unprofessional of her.”
“But you’re no longer her patient, Susan,” said Lady Rice.
Susan enthused over the quality and color of local apples, and the greengrocer’s wife, with adoring eyes, offered her a bagful free.
Susan accepted.
“But Rosamund’s such a gossip,” said Susan. “All that silly stuff about your having an oestrogen implant, when we all know how much Edwin wants a baby. Remember how he wept when I lost mine? You and Edwin were so good to me, I’ll never forget that. You’re like sister and brother to me. But Rosamund—why is she the way she is about me?”
“I think she believes Roland is really Lambert’s son,” said Lady Rice. “Not Humphrey’s at all.”
Susan turned pale. The color drained from her face. She looked quite gaunt and nearer forty than thirty. She left the shop. Lady Rice followed.
“Angelica, you are to tell everyone that’s ridiculous,” said Susan. “It’s obvious just to look at Roland that he’s Humphrey’s. Roland has inherited all Humphrey’s talents and qualities, thank God. Poor Humphrey; he was emotionally crippled, like so many English men of his generation. But that leaves the genes okay, doesn’t it? I never had anything to do with Lambert, though he was always a little bit in love with me, so it wasn’t for want of asking! Men get so obsessional, don’t they! And so full of fantasies. They’ll always claim you’ve been to bed with them when you haven’t; when what’s happened is they’ve tried but you said no. No wonder Rosamund is losing her grip. Of course Lambert’s saying the same thing about you, Angelica, do you know that? What a problem village life can be!”
And, apparently quite recovered, Susan went on down the village street, basket over arm, strong stride, fair hair shining, exotic yet domestic; with all the confidence of her own goodness and likeability.
If excited voices clamored within Lady Rice, she did not hear them. She made her deafness her strength.
(12)
Damage
LADY RICE CALLED UPON Rosamund. It seemed prudent. “You and Lambert? I never said any such thing,” said Rosamund to Lady Rice. “Susan, or the Great Adulteress of Barley, as some call her, just enjoys stirring up mischief. Roland is indeed in all probability Lambert’s child, but fortunately Lambert has gone right off Susan since she had her moments of passion with Edwin. Don’t look so stricken: I’m not saying for one moment Susan and Edwin did have an affair, just that Lambert, who tends to be paranoid, believes it, so what’s the difference? It suits me that he does believe it.”
Lambert was back home again with Rosamund. Susan-damage, as Rosamund observed, had so far been restricted to three households, four children—two of hers, two of Natalie’s—and one baby, who never got born. The village had calmed; gossip was stilled. Rosamund was beginning to build up her medical practice again: mostly in the Estate where the humble lived. She had more patients with varicose veins, fewer with emotional problems.
“By the way, Angelica,” said Rosamund, “I’m pregnant again. Don’t you think it’s time you and Edwin thought of starting a family?”
A voice sounded tinnily in Her head: “Yes, yes, yes,” but she ignored it.
“I don’t think so,” said Lady Rice quickly. Lady Rice found herself frightened of change, of pain, of swelling up, of sharing her body with another personality. As well grow a monster as a baby. Lady Rice was a little person, with narrow hips. Edwin was big. If the baby inherited Edwin’s size, how would it get out? These things hadn’t occurred to her before. Maternity, to Lady Rice in her discouraged state, seemed a very bad idea indeed.
How quickly time passed: lava steamed and sizzled in the volcano’s crater but didn’t quite boil over. Rice Court went on the Heritage brochure as a three-starred family outing. Over the weekends visitors could be counted in thousands. Lady Rice was kept busy. English Heritage took over the day-to-day running of the place, but Edwin liked Lady Rice to keep her hands on the reins, so she did. A small zoo was built: pythons, which the children could hold, were a great attraction. There was a monkey enclosure where if you wore laced shoes you were advised to remove them and put on free canvas pull-ons with the Cowarth crest on them which you could then take home. Lady Rice’s idea, and most successful.
“Do come to Roland’s birthday party!” said Susan to Sir Edwin and Lady Rice. “He’ll be four on Saturday. I’ve asked Rosamund and Lambert to come. They just have to get over this silly quarrel with me. I asked Humphrey but he says no. He’s much too uncivilized. Even if he can’t make an effort for me, you’d think he’d do it for his own son, even do a few things about the house. The boiler’s leaking again. But no. People round here are so rancorous!”
(13)
The Garden Party
SUSAN HAD MADE THE garden pretty for the party. It was her gift to make things pretty. Ropes of colored lights twisted through the flower beds. Little iced cakes were charmingly arranged; there was champagne. Susan had forgotten to provide fruit drinks for the children but they made do perfectly well with water. Lady Rice observed to her husband that it didn’t seem so much a children’s party as one to celebrate Susan’s own continuing childhood.
“You women are so catty about poor Susan,” said Edwin. “You must have your scapegoat, I suppose.”
Rosamund also declined to come to the party, though all those of note and influence in the neighborhood were attending. It seemed ungenerous of her to stay away, and cutting off her nose to spite her face, as Susan pointed out. Rosamund surely needed to make friends and influence people: to build up her practice. Lam
bert came though. Lambert wore a shirt unbuttoned to the waist. A piece of string held his trousers up. His shoes were unlaced. But his disorder seemed born of triumph, not tragedy. His eyes sparkled. He was almost manic. He burst into the garden with a hoot and a song, and a beating of fists against his hairy chest.
“Are you okay, Lambert?” asked Lady Rice, startled.
“I’m more than okay,” said Lambert. “I left home today. I’ve left
Rosamund. You try living with a doctor!”
And he held Lady Rice by her two shoulders, and stared into her eyes beseechingly.
“Everyone deserves happiness, don’t they? I’m a creative person. I can’t be put into a mould; I can’t live with it.”
Well, it was true that everyone had been saying that Rosamund had tried to pressure Lambert into respectability, to make him look and act like a husband and father when actually he was a writer and a genius.
“Rosamund is destroying me,”, said Lambert. “Susan can’t cope here on her own; she gets lonely and frightened. She’s asked me to move in with her. I’ve got a play going on at the National Theatre.”
“I’m so pleased for you,” murmured Lady Rice, while she tried to collate so much new information all at once. “Fame and fortune are on the way.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” said Lambert. “I only care about
Susan.”
Susan was laughing and chattering amongst her guests. She held Roland’s hand. She had dressed the child in the party attire of a hundred years ago—white broderie anglaise flounces, leggings, black patent-leather shoes. He was a quiet, passive child, and just as well.