Mrs Caliban and other stories

by Rachel Ingalls

  ‘We generally come in a bunch,’ Martha said. ‘We’re all friends here.’ She smiled and added, ‘Old friends.’

  Tea came, with both cakes and sandwiches. Beverley began to eat voraciously. She’d worked up a hunger again from the swimming. The two old women watched as if pleased to see someone with such a hearty young appetite.

  They talked about the skating and the ice maze. Martha asked Beverley how long she was staying and she answered that it would be only two more days because her friend had to get back to work. ‘And you?’ she said, to keep the conversation going.

  ‘Oh, we both live here most of the year now,’ Martha answered. ‘I guess you could say we’ve retired to the mountains. Took to the hills.’

  Minnie tittered and said, ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘Don’t you miss St Louis?’ Beverley asked.

  ‘I really try’, Martha told her, ‘to live in the present as much as possible. I like reading the papers and looking at TV.’

  ‘Well, you could do that at home. You could –’ Beverley stopped. She had been about to say something that had to do with how difficult she found it to think of living in Europe for ever, not just for a while. She had been getting ready to talk about Claus and her family. Something had sidetracked her. She stared at her teacup. What was it? The feeling of isolation and uncertainty came over her again. She cleared her throat. And suddenly, she remembered: St Louis. In St Louis, ten years before, when she was just a child, she’d been to Martha Torrence’s funeral.

  She looked up.

  ‘Yes, dear?’ Martha said.

  This time Beverley was deserted by her natural instinct to hide herself before she was certain what was going to happen. She was too surprised to cover up. ‘Mrs Torrence –’ she said.

  ‘Martha.’

  ‘In St Louis. I went to your funeral.’

  ‘Yes.’ Martha sat smiling at her. Minnie was looking away at a corner of the room.

  ‘Yes?’ Beverley repeated. She remembered Claus saying: A lot of famous people died there. She breathed in. She felt her comprehension slipping. The time passed. She sat in her chair for what seemed like ten minutes, until she knew how to go on. ‘Was it something to do with the insurance?’ she asked.

  ‘How smart of you, Beverley.’ Martha grinned. You could see that her teeth were the best money could buy; and her cosseted complexion also, helped by face-lifts, no doubt. Beverley thought: She probably looks a lot better than I do at the moment.

  ‘Not exactly a swindle,’ Martha confided, ‘but shall we say: a conspiracy. I was very fortunate in my doctor – a man who was five years my senior, and what he didn’t know about nursing homes wasn’t worth knowing. It’s rather a long story. Shall I tell you?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ Beverley said. Now she was intrigued and thrilled. Claus wouldn’t mind her being late, once she’d explained why. Wait till I tell people, she thought, that I had a long talk with a woman who died ten years ago.

  Martha glanced at Minnie, who picked up her cup and saucer and said, ‘You’ll excuse me, won’t you? Now that you’ve started in on the explanation, I’ll just go say hello to Herbie.’ She toddled off to a table up against a palm tree by the wall.

  *

  Martha said, ‘A friend of mine had a terrible thing happen to her once. She was in her late sixties and her children were all in their forties. She had grandchildren and two great-grandchildren. It was a large family. And Ida, my friend, started to lose her memory and repeat things and get confused all the time. The family thought it was premature senility. You can’t blame them; what can you do except take the advice of the experts? And in Ida’s case the experts said she was deteriorating fast and should be in a home. And that was that. The children were devastated, but there was no choice. They had her put away and they went through the whole legal business of transferring the house and the property and the money, and dividing it up as if she’d already died. She’d been declared non compos, you see. And she was, of course. It was all perfectly straightforward. Except for one thing – the nursing home she was in: they automatically gave their patients antibiotics. So, suddenly, eighteen months after the trouble started, Ida was completely normal again. She’d just had some strange kind of infection. Well, maybe you can imagine: she woke up into this imprisonment, not even knowing where she was – or why – and was told that her own family had committed her and taken away everything, even her great-grandparents’ silver spoons. And when the doctors came around and discharged her – it wasn’t easy, you know. So much in life is a matter of trust.’

  ‘Yes,’ Beverley said, ‘it’s one of the most important things.’ She was thinking about Claus again, and their dissatisfaction over the Christmas presents. We each choose for ourselves, she thought. But does either of us trust the other to choose for both? And that’s what marriage has to be. There has to be that trust on both sides.

  Martha said, ‘Ida’s family loved her very much. It was all a tragic mistake, or rather, a misdiagnosis. But it got me thinking: sometimes people aren’t much loved by their families. I started to sound out a few of my other friends and you’d be surprised, you really would be, at how many were honestly afraid of getting pushed down the stairs or handed the wrong medicine, or just scared to death. When you’re old – you’ve the experience, but if your eyesight starts to go, and your hearing, and you aren’t so quick on your feet any more, then it’s frightening to know that people who don’t like you – who sometimes actually hate you – are just waiting for you to die off, the quicker the better. And you wonder how far they’d go.’

  ‘But the medical profession is very careful about that kind of thing.’

  ‘The medical profession can mess something up just as fast as anyone else.’

  ‘I’m engaged to a doctor,’ Beverley said.

  ‘Then you’ll know I’m right. They misplace the X-rays, they operate and leave the sponge in, sometimes a clamp too, they get the names switched around and cut open the wrong one, they bring mothers somebody else’s baby to feed. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘All I meant was, if it’s a matter of a person’s sanity, so somebody else can get the money, then they’re very careful.’

  ‘So it seems. There are a lot of cases you don’t read about because they never get to the papers. There are a lot of families who can’t take it any longer. Ask a doctor in his seventies. They know. Anyway, about a dozen of us decided to do something. We formed a society. And now you’ve seen it.’

  ‘You pretended to die, and got part of your money away first, and then you just came here?’

  ‘That’s right. We own this hotel and another one in Switzerland and a big place down in the Caribbean – we’ve got a whole island there – but the climate doesn’t agree with everyone; it can be tough on arthritis sufferers. I really like it best here now. Of course, as far as the climate goes, we should really be based somewhere like Arizona, but that’s too close to home for most of us. Too dangerous. We’ve got quite a big foreign contingent, but the majority of us are still American. There are a lot of us now, too. In ten years we’ve gotten up to about fifteen hundred. Quite a sizeable little club. And now you’re one of us.’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Beverley laughed. ‘Your secret’s safe with me.’

  ‘Of course it is. Because you’ll be staying here. That’s why I’ve been talking to you.’

  ‘Staying? How do you mean?’

  ‘You’re going to be staying here now, with us. There’s no other solution. It’s what I was saying about the importance of trust, Beverley – we simply can’t afford it. We’ve broken the law; just think of the tax situation for a start. And on top of that, we’d have the families after us. Impossible. You’ll settle down soon. It can be very entertaining here, you know.’

  Beverley sat back in her chair. She surveyed the people at the other tables, who, she could now see, were darting interested glances in her direction. But maybe she was imagining it. Maybe it was just because she was the o
ne young person in the room. Or – because they all knew Martha Torrence went off the deep end like this whenever she found somebody new to talk to? Or maybe they were all in on it, and this could be some special refinement on a game they played with strangers and outsiders.

  She decided to argue it through and find out how much more was to come. She said, ‘Time is on my side.’

  ‘That’s true,’ Martha admitted. ‘In twenty years, I and all my friends will be dead – really dead. But the movement is very popular now. There are new recruits every year. And every year they’re going to be just a little younger than me. Eventually, they’ll be your age.’

  Beverley tried to laugh, and couldn’t. She wanted to get up and leave, but she knew she’d never find her way back through the corridors. And besides, she’d need the gold key. When she thought of the key, she felt sick. The picture came back to her with loathsome clarity: of the old woman’s well-manicured hand clutching the winged, golden, naked girl and fitting the feet into the keyhole.

  ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ Martha said. ‘We’ve got help from the outside. Maybe you’ve met some of them – the Fountain of Light movement?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Of course, they’re under the impression that they’re fund-raising for other people. It wouldn’t be right to tell them the truth. So many young people nowadays need to feel they’re part of something grand and important. I don’t think they’d appreciate being told that their efforts were really only keeping a large group of very self-indulgent great-grandparents in the champagne and cigars of their choice. The young are so in love with ideals. They might not see the humour of it.’

  This time Beverley did laugh. That would really be something to tell Claus, and her parents, too. She lifted her cup shakily, drank, and sloshed some of the tea into the saucer.

  Martha continued, ‘You’ll be completely taken care of. You’ll be our pet. I must say, it will be a delight to have a young face to look at. And our old boys will simply adore you. You’ll be idolized.’

  ‘I’d rather be loved,’ Beverley said. ‘Really loved.’ Tears began to roll down her cheeks. ‘I’d rather’, she said, coming right out with it, ‘be in bed with my boyfriend.’

  ‘I daresay. But one can overcome that. There are other things in life. You’ll just have to apply yourself to them.’

  Beverley put her hand up to rub it across her face. She stared back at the inquisitive old people. ‘What other things?’ she said bleakly.

  ‘Well, we could start off,’ Martha told her cheerfully, ‘by teaching you how to play bridge. Unless you already know how. You could join the tournaments. We’ve got some marvellous players here.’

  ‘I’m pretty strong. I could escape.’

  ‘Yes. Unfortunately that’s what the others have always tried. They take someone into their confidence and then – it’s distressing, but if it goes that far, we have to do something about all of them.’

  For the first time Beverley believed the whole story. Her room down in the village, the skiers on the slopes, even the genuine guests on the other side of the hotel seemed as far away as if they existed in a different country. The key had gone into the lock and she was separated from the rest of life. ‘The three people on the toboggan run?’ she said.

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  She thought back to the swimming pool: the artificial heat and light. Minnie and Martha talking. ‘And little Alma?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, her too.’

  ‘Who was she?’

  ‘She was the girl before you. You see, if you hadn’t said anything about remembering my funeral – well, we’d have let you go. Even if you remembered later and told people about the hotel, no one would take you seriously. But your reaction was so strong.’

  ‘I remembered the funeral because I went with my grandmother and I was worried about her. She died fairly soon after that. And I do remember that she cried like anything over you.’

  ‘You mustn’t be angry at me for that. My son-in-law was getting ready to have me certified for the sake of a few hundred thousand dollars. And my daughters would never have gone against him. Never.’

  ‘Have you been happy here?’

  ‘Blissfully happy. The peaceful nobility of the mountains – there’s nothing like it. The food is delicious, the wonderful air – and we have the most fabulous doctors, of course; the hot springs and the sun rooms: I’m talking now about our own facilities on this side of the building. We only cross over, we only really come out at all, at New Year’s, to see all the young people. That’s the only thing we miss.’

  ‘I’d miss it even more than you would,’ Beverley cried. ‘Couldn’t you take my word for it that I wouldn’t ever tell anybody?’

  ‘We can’t. We just can’t. You’ve got to see that. No, dear, it’s much too good a story. You could even sell it for money to the papers. I’m afraid not. You’ll have to get used to it. Don’t look to the others for help – they’re a lot stricter about the rules than I am. You just relax now, and accept. I think you’ll find it’s going to be in your interest to adopt a pleasant and friendly attitude. Try to breathe in the spirit of serenity that these wonderful mountains induce.’

  When she didn’t come back, Claus would try to find her. He’d telephone the Miramar; he’d go down to the Adler to look up Angela and her friends. After that, he’d go to the police. Perhaps that would be the moment for an eminently respectable and distinguished-looking elderly couple to step forward and say, ‘We saw her heading down the mountain just as it was getting dark. She didn’t seem to know how to ski very well and she took the most difficult route.’ Then the search parties would spread out over the snow, Claus among the number. But no one would really be surprised if her corpse couldn’t be found. People disappeared all the time in the mountains, all year long. The mountains were like the oceans in that respect – every season was deadly.

  ‘We aren’t even in the danger zone for avalanches,’ Martha said. ‘Anyway, long before the unstable periods, the men get out and fire things off to loosen the snow and send it in the right direction. We’re well protected in every way.’ She bent forward, took Beverley’s arm and stood up. ‘You just come on over here,’ she ordered, ‘and sit down.’

  Beverley rose unsteadily. She felt as dazed as if the tea they’d been drinking had been drugged. Once more tears ran over her face. She allowed herself to be steered to the small table where Minnie was talking with an old man. The man stood and bowed as they approached. Martha pushed her gently into the third chair and sat next to her.

  Beverley sniffled and raised the back of her hand to her eyes. The old man held out a handkerchief to her, which – after a hesitation – she took. She thought miserably that it was no wonder the other young ones they’d held prisoner had been willing to risk escape, if not to take the risk meant year after year, for ever: never in her life to see Claus again, or to get back home, to see her family; her body and her life unused and unknown.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Martha asked. ‘Good. Now try to remember: the most important thing to get straight about bridge is the bidding.’

  Blessed Art Thou

  Brother Anselm had come into the chapel early. He seemed to want to confess. Brother Francis had gone to the confessional and waited, but nothing had happened. When he’d come out to look, Anselm was in the covered archway, pacing to and fro; he was making vestigial, instantly repressed explanatory gestures in the air and occasionally he’d turn his head towards the square of green grass beyond the stone pillars, though he didn’t appear to be taking it in.

  Francis became interested. It was rare to see such signs of distress in a brother; ever since the new permissiveness, most people had become too good at dissembling. His friend, Frederick, who ran the place, had clamped down so hard on all unusual behaviour that from being a recently liberated enclosed order they had become practically suffocated by stricture. And this reaction against licence had actually forced them into a departure from trad
ition. Francis realized that. He would never have said so to Frederick. Their monastery was definitely a one-man show. It always had been and remained so even now, when Frederick was only the acting head. At times Francis thought of himself as the First Mate and of Brother Adrian as the Second Mate. Frederick stood indisputably at the helm.

  Francis and Frederick had been through so much together that they were like old soldiers; each had sustained the other through more than one crisis of faith. They could speak their doubts and not have the words taken the wrong way. They knew their faults and still liked each other. Neither one of them was so sure that they liked Brother Adrian very much, though they certainly knew his faults, too. Brother Adrian was short, meaty, red-faced and opinionated. He was sometimes right, but, right or wrong, always at loggerheads with Frederick, who was a tall, elegant, ironic man often prone to outbursts of ferocious rudeness, bad temper and bigotry. Brother Francis was the peacemaker. He recognized the important fact that both men had faith. He knew in his heart that that would overcome all obstacles.

  But there was no doubt that for the past four years life had been monotonous in the order: dull and without flavour. He had even heard young Brother William say to his friend, Elmo, that violence was not necessarily to be deprecated, as sometimes it ‘cleared the air’, a sentiment for which he had been reprimanded. And when the rebuke had been administered, the boy had made everyone gasp by asking, ‘Is Brother Francis going to be censured for eavesdropping?’ That was the last scandal they had had – two months ago. All wounded feelings had now healed. William had even admitted that he had been more or less shouting at the time. And life had returned to the uneventful rules and routines. So, it was intriguing to see Anselm displaying such uncustomary agitation.