by R J Gould
So she sat through an hour and a half of lecture, thankfully broken up by the viewing of a series of hellish Hogarth prints showing an utter chaos of skeletal harlots kissing obese men, of inebriated mothers dropping babies, all in a townscape of collapsing, dilapidated buildings.
Despite the bad image of gin portrayed during the lecture, that was the drink that she most fancied by the end of the talk. She had to suffice with a weak tea and the offer of a bourbon biscuit, which she declined. She stood self-consciously alone for a minute or so before Henry Derbyshire approached and she gave him a welcoming smile.
Henry Derbyshire
Henry frowned as he dressed, discomforted by Fiona calling him annoying. There was an unsightly stain on his fawn suede shoes. He’d wanted to wear them when meeting the boy’s family – how preposterous calling their son Wayne – but the dark splodge would be stubborn. He did like the look and feel of suede but leather was so much easier to clean.
Fiona had been rather tense lately. Perhaps it was a natural reaction when one is about to lose one’s daughter to the unknown mire called marriage.
Mire was a strong word, but it wasn’t an easy path if his relationship with Fiona was anything to go by. They had only been married a matter of months – what must it be like for those trying to stay close after years together? Probably easier for younger couples, he reflected, men and women who didn’t have half a lifetime of idiosyncrasies to share. His bachelorhood, spent for much of the time in solitude until his to marriage to Fiona, had created a person no doubt difficult to live with. He did everything he could to please her, taking her out for meals and to the theatre, supporting her with more than his fair share of the housework, cooking sometimes, always showing concern if she was tired or unwell. He was happy enough, but sometimes she got so impatient with him – a woman’s prerogative, he supposed.
By contrast he certainly wasn’t impatient, or at least didn’t show it, even when he was expected to trek around countless shops in search of something or other.
‘This is wonderful, I love it,’ she had said when she saw the Gaggia machine at John Lewis. An absurd price for a gadget just to make coffee, but that was by the by. More to the point, despite loving it they still had to trudge round Selfridges and House of Fraser in case there was something better. There wasn’t so a dash up Oxford Street was needed to get back to John Lewis before closing time.
At least with the Gaggia she hadn’t purchased it then changed her mind, a consistently irritating habit with Fiona. Just a week before the coffee maker expedition they were out looking for cushions for the conservatory sofa, and indeed buying the sofa itself had been an adventure and a half. They had spent hours traipsing around local shops in Richmond and Kew. Finally, Fiona found cushions that she defined as “perfect” in good old Marks and Spencer, only for her to decide against them as soon as she placed them on the sofa back at home. So it was off to Richmond again to return the goods and continue the search, on a Saturday afternoon when the traffic was always a nightmare.
Today’s voyage was going to be to Kensington. Fiona’s wardrobes were bursting at the seams, but she was adamant there was a need to get something new to wear for the engagement.
‘We’re only meeting Wayne’s parents, Fiona,’ he had remarked.
‘Exactly. I want to impress them.’
‘Clarissa says they aren’t at all affluent. We don’t want to embarrass them with opulence.’
‘I’d like to get something, thank you, Henry. You don’t have to come with me, though your opinion would be most welcome. I want to look the best I can.’
Sometimes Henry could be perceptive. He realised that the request to join her was more to do with him acting as the chauffeur than it was for his opinion. Furthermore, the wish to look as best as she could was for Reginald and Suzie’s benefit, not anyone else. He changed his shoes and went downstairs. Fiona was in the kitchen.
‘What do you think of this, Henry?’
She was holding up a magazine with a photo of a bizarre rack full of different sized bottles.’
‘What is it?’
‘Can’t you see, it’s a spice rack? I think it’s lovely, it would fit nicely in here.’
‘What about that one?’ he asked, looking at the two-tiered wooden wheel that had Schwartz bottles dangling from their necks.
‘I’ve had that years, I think from when I first got married. Time for a new one, and this is only £79.99 and that includes the spices.’
Henry considered it an expensive and unnecessary purchase. ‘Yes, good idea, let’s get it then.’
In a very short period he had come to realise that marriage was all about conflict avoidance. In principle it should be about compromise, but if the power distribution was unequal this was unlikely to occur. Such insight shouldn’t have come as a surprise. Historical events and great literary works repeatedly illustrated the state of affairs, all the evidence was there. This inequality presented two options to the weaker force – concede or die.
The power balance seemed to be realigning between the genders; now it was men who were the weaker sex. No more Taming of the Shrew or Anne Boleyn, now it was The Passion of New Eve or Henry Derbyshire.
The Passion of New Eve was very much on his mind. Just before the end of term, Isobel Daines, a bright young colleague in his department, had raised the question about the Angela Carter book. Did he think it appropriate for her to use it with the sixth form? She assumed he had read it, which was not the case. He said he would reflect on the request, giving him time to investigate. The content shocked him. A man called Evelyn is captured by women from a female-dominated city in the middle of a desert and is dragged across the sandscape to encounter Mother, a cruel goddess figure who castrates him. Now named Eve, the hero – or is it heroine – is sexually abused by all men he – or she – encounters.
‘What is it trying to evoke?’ he asked Isobel.
‘My interpretation is role reversal. There are plenty of novels out there depicting men abusing women in a similar fashion so this is trying to even things up.’
‘Hardly abusing in exactly the same way.’
‘That’s beside the point, abuse is abuse. This is a feminist revenge novel.’
‘The language is rather poor.’
‘Poor! It happens to be one of my favourite books. The language is deliberately stark to represent misogyny.’
‘Well, be that the case, it is hardly suitable for this school. We would have parents queueing up to complain.’
Admittedly, Fiona’s treatment of Henry Derbyshire was hardly on par with Angela Carter’s treatment of Evelyn, or of Henry VIII’s treatment of Anne Boleyn, for that matter. Nevertheless, she was the one with the power and he was the appeaser. Michael Clapton, a bachelor colleague at school, had asked what it was like to be married after all those years of being single. He’d spent a lot of time with Clapton before his own marriage – both were keen chess players and theatregoers. Occasionally they dined together, and Clapton had taken him to watch his beloved Queens Park Rangers many times. The quiet, well-spoken French teacher revealed a very different personality at football matches. ‘Bollocks, ref,’ was his favourite and rather over-used jibe.
‘Well, Michael, I suppose like anything, marriage has its good and its bad points.’
‘Where are you going to start, good or bad?’
‘I think neither, it is rather personal.’
‘Well, just a recommendation, Henry. Should I do it or not, do I need some support and company in my old age?’
‘First, you have to find someone, Michael. I’m not convinced that the wish for security in old age should be the basis for marriage. I will say, one thing I’ve come to regret is not having any children. Of course, it’s too late now.’
‘Unless you find, well, not you, if I find, a young bride. I hear that Russian women are desperate to come over here.’
‘Hardly the basis for marriage, though.’
‘No, I suppose not. But
your Fiona is so charming. How did you meet her?’
‘Do you remember Clarissa Montague?’
‘Let me think, Clarissa. Clarissa. Yes I do, hardly a pleasant memory. Disinterested, but no fool. In fact, rather too clever for her own good.’
‘Yes, that’s Clarissa all right. And now she’s my stepdaughter. Fiona was a regular attender at parents’ evenings. Concerned, polite, rather over-anxious. And as for her husband, he came along once and was one of our parents who think that any fault in their child is a result of our incompetence. Well, you know I rarely forget a name or a face, and quite a while after Clarissa left I saw her mother at one of my local history society meetings. She looked rather tired. Sad, too. I joined her for tea after the lecture and enquired about her daughter. Perhaps I shouldn’t be telling you this, Michael, it is confidential …’
‘You can trust me, Henry.’
‘Well, she started to cry. I sat her down and faced a dilemma, because it was my responsibility to host the lecturer, get the hall emptied, and lock up. I apologised for having to leave her alone for a short while and asked if she would like to come out for a drink once I had finished. The last time I requested that to a woman was probably twenty years ago. To my surprise she agreed so we sat in The Pitcher and Piano …’
‘That’s the rambling Georgian building by the riverside, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s the one. And Fiona opened up her heart to me – how she had been so mistreated by that wretched husband of hers. She was sobbing so much I put my arm around her shoulders and we sat for ages chatting. You know, Michael, I don’t think I have ever felt so close to anyone. When she asked if I’d like to come over for a meal that weekend, I was delighted to accept. And as they say, the rest is history. We gradually got to know each other. We have many shared interests. I proposed last spring and she accepted. Of course you know that part of the story, being my best man.’
‘What a lucky man you are, Henry. A dark horse, too, taking the lead with an attractive woman like that. There’s hope for me yet.’
Yes, Henry reflected, he was very fortunate. So why did he feel so uncomfortable?
Fiona had completed filling in the spice rack order form and looked up.
‘I’m all set, Fiona, shall we go.’
‘Yes, let’s,’ she said without a smile.
Fiona Derbyshire
Henry had been so kind that evening; he’d made her laugh and was clearly trying very hard to take her mind off things. He was reassuringly philosophical too, going on about how out of distress comes opportunity and without the distress there could be no true appreciation of pleasure. Fiona was just starting to feel stronger when he put his arm around her, which started another bout of intense sobbing.
‘Oh dear, silly silly me,’ she mumbled.
‘It’s silly of you to think you’re being silly.’
‘And it’s silly of you to think it’s silly of me to think I’m being silly.’
‘It is silly of … no this is getting …’
‘Silly?’
‘Very silly! What about another drink?’
‘Yes, please. G&T.’
‘A pleasure.’
And he walked towards the bar, a spring in his step, conservative Mr Henry Derbyshire in his navy blazer with brass buttons. Clarissa would laugh at him, Fiona reflected. But he seemed a good man, someone who wouldn’t hurt a fly. And beneath the serious exterior there seemed to be a spark. ‘Silly. Silly. Silly,’ she muttered smiling.
‘A smile, how nice to see,’ he remarked as he carefully placed a glass on each of the two mats on the table.
‘Thank you, Henry, you’ve cheered me up no end.’
‘I’d be delighted to have the opportunity to do so again.’
And why not, Fiona thought. So she invited him over for dinner that weekend and the sweet man brought a huge bouquet of dahlias and a bottle of red wine. He wore the blue blazer again with something she hadn’t seen for years; a cravat of paisley silk. They began to meet regularly, once a week or more, for meals in, meals out, theatre, cinema, and concerts. He was no substitute for erotic novels, but the company was pleasant enough. She wondered about sex – was he ever going to instigate it, could she take the lead?
One evening, she was preparing dinner for them, washing down olives with a considerable amount of gin and relatively small amount of tonic. She worked quickly, allowing pots and pans to pile up, packets and tins everywhere, their contents spilling and spreading over the work surfaces, her glass always close at hand amidst the chaos. Henry was given pretty menial jobs to do.
‘Not like that, Henry. Smaller slices, like this.’
Chopchopchopchopchopchop.
She took a step back and handed him the knife again. Henry tried to make the courgette slices thinner, fearful as the sharp silver blade moved nearer to his vulnerable pink flesh. Chop. Pause. Chop. Pause. Chop. Pause. ‘Is this better?’
‘Hardly.’
‘Sorry. Anyway, does it really matter how thick the slices are?’
‘Actually yes, to sauté thickness does matter. I love Berlocinni’s recipes and he makes a big thing about how to cut food properly.’
Chop. Pause. Chop. Pause. Chop. Pause.
‘Henry, at that rate the melanzana will be baked to extinction.’
‘Melon – what?’
‘Melanzana – aubergine, eggplant!’
‘I know, Fiona. I was joking.’
‘I am sorry, bossy me.’
‘But I haven’t heard of Bertolucci.’
‘It’s not Bertolucci, he’s the film director. La Luna. The Last Emperor. Or are you joking again?’
‘I meant Berlusconi,’ Henry retorted with a broad grin.
‘No, you didn’t. You know full well who Berlusconi is, and I hope you share my intense dislike of him.’
‘But seriously, what makes your chef so special?’
Fiona took another large gulp of gin. ‘Style,’ she said. She took the aubergines out the oven and turned the purple, brown, and green strips before adding more extra virgin olive oil into the swimming pool baking tray.
‘Smells good,’ Henry said encouragingly. ‘Isn’t taste the important thing for food, not style?’
‘They’re inseparable, Henry. Food should stimulate all our senses, not just taste. You’ve just said it smells nice, so there’s another sense for a start. It can be sensual, even erotic, you know.’ She stretched out her arms towards him. ‘Just come here, will you.’
Henry blushed. ‘Why?’
‘Why? Because I say so. It’s time for you to loosen up, Mr Derbyshire!’
Henry put down his glass of wine and approached her. He was feeling light-headed, partly because of drinking an unusually large volume of wine, partly because of the unpredictability of the moment. Fiona put her oily, floury hands around his neck. They stood self-consciously for a short while, their faces almost touching, Henry captivated by the beauty of her eyes, light green with little flecks of brown. Then Fiona pulled him closer still and kissed him. A soft, passionate kiss with her tongue moving across his lips and into his mouth.
‘Upstairs,’ she ordered.
‘We’d better turn down the oven.’
‘Yes, Henry, how practical.’
She walked on ahead and he followed her, out the kitchen, up the stairs, and into her bedroom where she began to take off her clothes. By the time she was naked she expected some reciprocation, but Henry just stood there, fully clothed. That presented two alternatives; either put her clothes back on or undress Henry. It was a marginal decision but she chose the latter option.
There had actually been no need to turn down the oven because a slightly drunk, fairly aroused, and highly embarrassed Henry ejaculated at such rapid speed that Fiona’s level of stimulation equalled the excitement derived from boiling an egg.
‘First time for so long, Fiona. Over twenty years. I do apologise.’
‘Not to worry, Henry. If we practice enough, I’m sure we�
�ll improve.’
Over the next few months there might have been slight improvement, but not much.
They went to Rome for a long weekend during the spring half-term week and were blessed with bright blue skies and sufficient warmth to have made the escape from dull grey London beneficial for the weather alone. Of course there was so much more to make the trip worthwhile. The Roman and Renaissance architecture dazzled with a richness of colour and culture. Henry’s knowledge of the history and sites was impressive, making Fiona’s Rough Guide an unnecessary purchase. However, he seemed rather hesitant on the day they visited the Colosseum, his head down as they circled the magnificent structure chased by fake centurions and their accomplices determined to be photographed with you for an extortionate price.
‘Non, grazia,’ Fiona stated for the God knows how many times. ‘This is getting on my nerves,’ she declared, but Henry was no longer by her side. She turned to see him kneeling behind her. Was it a heart attack, a stroke? ‘Henry, what on earth … are you all right?’
‘Yes, I am. Come here, please.’ He took her hand and began to talk about companionship and a once in a lifetime opportunity and fate and this being a highly appropriate venue. It was as if he was making a speech to a large unknown academic audience and it took Fiona quite a time to realise it was actually a clumsy proposal for marriage. She laughed and perhaps with insufficient thought, accepted.
The following week, with Henry back at school, Fiona took out a notepad and wrote down scores. Sex 1/10 (a charitable point awarded). Shared interests 6/10 (at least compared to Reginald). Fun to be with 6/10 (Rome was lovely, but everything else?). Security 9/10 (unlikely to head off with another woman). Kindness 10/10. Faced with these numbers she had no firm idea what to do with them, but considered that there must be over half marks for the marriage to have a chance of success. With an average of 6/10 she had exceeded her arbitrary target and was reasonably satisfied to go ahead. They were married in August, a rather quiet affair with one of Henry’s work colleagues as the best man and Clarissa a reluctant, moody bridesmaid.