by Brian Aldiss
She was silent for a long while before turning to look at him. She spoke gently. ‘Those days are gone. We’ve got Malcolm, haven’t we? I don’t understand what you mean, all this business about summer and flowers. It’s too continental for me. I’m not used to that. We get on as best we can. You’d better save the flowers and sunshine and stuff for Lucy Traill and whatever girlfriends you went off to see the other week. All I want is peace.’
‘So do I.’
‘You have come under the influence of that drunkard Betts. I’d have sacked him long ago if I didn’t know you liked him so much – I can’t think why. Anyhow, he and his disgusting wife will have to find other employment when we go to live in Scotland.’
This was said in such a level voice that he was almost robbed of words; he had never accustomed himself to her way of delivering small death sentences.
‘We’re not – You never said anything about this. We’ve not discussed this. What the hell are you talking about? You’re going to sell that dump up there in Blarghour, yah? – same as the flat in Kensington.’ He banged his fists in fury against the wheel.
Fenella sat perfectly immobile. ‘So much for your fine talk of sunshine and roses. Have you found another reason to quarrel? You always think you can wind me round your little finger. We aren’t going to live in that damned manor of yours for ever, are we, with planes roaring overhead all day and all the filth about. We’ve inherited a family home now. Isn’t that what you’ve always wanted, Dimitri, you with all your relations vanished behind you?’
He let in the clutch with a jerk. The car bounced forward. It burst through a plastic chain guarding the entrance to the station and shot on to the road, narrowly missing three men walking by. They yelled their abuse, but he was off down the road, gathering speed. The acceleration had thrown Fenella back against the seat.
‘You’re insane,’ she said. He was savagely glad to hear her shriek. ‘If you’re trying to get us killed, go ahead!’
‘You’re insane! You know what, you’re mad and don’t know it. Look, there’s no way I will live up in Blarghour in that bloody house of your mother’s. Even if there was, you’ve gone the wrong way about – Jesus!’ He had burst through a red light, and missed hitting a turning lorry only because its driver swerved on to the pavement at the last instant.
The near collision calmed him little. Perhaps they were both frightened, for neither said a word more until they arrived at Shreding Green and were inside the house. Arold came lolloping out to see if they needed anything, but was immediately ordered back to his own quarters.
‘Say le vie,’ he exclaimed, disappearing without so much as a salute.
‘Come into the library and let’s have this thing out once and for all,’ Dominic said. He switched on the lights and paced up and down, not daring to look in the direction of Great Expectations. She stood inside the library door in one of her watchful poses, a hand crossed over her chest.
‘Now, Fenella, tell me I didn’t hear correctly. You cannot think of keeping that mock-castle your mother has left you?’
She said, with a half-smile, ‘Perhaps I should preserve it for Brother Jamie. You’re keen to meet him, aren’t you?’
He rushed at her and barely prevented himself from hitting her. ‘None of that snide talk. Try for once to be honest and straight, because we have to have this clear. That bloody Fuarblarghour is no good for you. It’s full with shadows. Even your mother couldn’t bear to live there in the wilds all year. We certainly will not go live there. Malcolm would hate it, I’d hate it.’
‘It’s only an hour’s drive from Glasgow.’
He stood back, furious. ‘Do you even listen? Can you listen? Can you even hear in there, woman? I don’t care how far it is from Glasgow. I have to make our living, I have to work in London, I have to work right here, where my business is set up, where communications are, where all my colleagues are, where everything is – not up in some vague psychotic dream in the wilds of somewhere in some place whose name I can’t even pronounce. How many times do I have to tell you this, how do I make you understand, you lunatic, that there’s no way it would be other than destruction for us to pack up and go to such an isolated dump when we’ve already got a really first-class difficulty of communication between us? You won’t speak to me properly, you won’t let me screw you any more, how the hell do we to get out of that one issue alone without complicating the whole miserable scene by we go to some rain-soaked ruin in Scotland?’
With a sneer, she said, ‘Oh, you’re planning to leave me again, is that it?’
‘You bet I’ll leave you. Tomorrow. This evening. Now.’ He tapped his watch for emphasis.
She moved towards the door. ‘You are violent. The trouble is you had too much to drink in the restaurant. You’ve been at those drugs of yours, I can tell. I’m going, and I’ll speak to you at some other time.’
He jumped up and grabbed her, pushing himself at her, yet at the same time holding her away. ‘No, you’re not going yet, Fenny. This is how you wind me up, get me mad with a dreadful proposition, then creep away, leaving me sunk and dead. Come and sit down and let’s for once talk this out.’
He swung her violently around. She was laughing, encouraging him to be violent.
He slapped her across the face. ‘Laugh at that, you bitch,’ growling like an animal.
She remained laughing in a kind of way, mouth half-open, eyes half-closed.
In an altered voice, she said, ‘I know I deserved that. Of course, of course, I see … Go on, hit me again. Do it.’
He hit her again, so that her head rocked back and crimson spread across her cheek. She put on a little girl’s voice. ‘Yes, I deserve it, I know, I see. I’ll go and throw myself in the loch, if you like. Would you like that? I’m not worth anything. Tell me again.’
Anger overrode all his other feelings. He pushed her into one of the uncomfortable Italian chairs by the fireplace.
‘You’ll stay there. Now, speak. Why couldn’t you discuss it with me properly, if you wanted to keep this fucking Fuarblarghour House? Why couldn’t we sit down in a friendly way and talk it over? What’s wrong with you? How could you dare to think—? We can’t live there. Why should you want to? It’s because of your mother, isn’t it? She still has power over you. Beyond the grave. More power than I’ll ever have. If that isn’t the problem, what is?’ He stood over her as she drooped against the hard white upholstery. ‘Come on, let’s have it finally. Confess. What’s wrong with you?’
She was not looking at him. ‘You don’t love me, do you?’ Again the tiny voice. ‘The trouble is, I’m not very lovable. I realize I’m not the person for you. All you’ve made me say is true and I believe you. It isn’t just that I’m cold, although when the wind blows I hear it saying all kinds of things. Nothing about me, nothing about me, best to ignore me. Some things are just an interruption, to be trampled underfoot …’ The voice as it continued seemed to change colour, to a sickly yellow tone, deeply disturbing to him, no less disturbing, because he had heard it before.
He dropped down on his knees by her and held her hands.
‘Fenny, dearest, you’re frightening me. Do stop it. I’m sorry, really I am. I never meant to hit you, yah? Understand? Fenny?’
She withdrew her hands gently, with the tenderest gesture like a child’s, tucking them for safety into her armpits, all the while looking away from him, head to one side, staring with a shy air into a corner of the room. Talking in the same strange way, lips barely moving, ghostly in appearance. There was no way of interrupting her, and he sat huddled by her, silenced, trying not to listen, trying to listen.
On and on it went, abject, rejecting. It was the sick monologue.
Fenella talked on without pause in the same unvarying monotone. Once he tried to break the flow. ‘Who are you?’ he asked. ‘Tell me who you are and I will try to help. Don’t be frightened.’
But he was frightened. Whoever was speaking was beyond his aid.
At last there was an end … The voice died, uttering something that might have been construed as a feeble threat or an entreaty.
Fenella looked up and said in a more normal voice, ‘Well, I don’t know about you, Dom, but I’m going to bed. I’m tired.’
He also was exhausted. ‘Are you all right? We’ll talk about this in the morning. Discuss what just happened.’
‘Good night, Dominic.’
He remained sitting on the hearthrug long after she had gone upstairs. It was two twenty in the morning. The frightening voice had prevailed in this room for over two hours. It was the sick monologue he had mentioned to Lucy Traill … Once again, he found himself unable to recall anything it had said.
Singing quietly to herself, Doris Betts was stuffing some of Malcolm’s clothes into the washing machine in the utility room. Arold came in through the outer door from the yard, stomping in his boots. ‘Arold, you nearly made me jump, coming in like that.’
Her husband put a cautionary finger up to his nose. ‘Be like dad, keep mum. Doris, love, come over to the kennels, will you?’
She was wary of his conspiratorial air. ‘What’s up? Are the dogs OK?’
‘Yes, love, fighting fit. Just step across the yard, there’s a pet.’
She rammed the washer door shut. ‘Can’t be long. I’ve the upstairs rooms to do this morning. Don’t try any monkey business, that’s all.’
‘Trust an old soldier,’ he said, standing back gallantly to let her pass.
He led the way across the yard to a building that housed the generator, looking round to see the coast was clear as he did so. Once inside, he pulled the wide door to and pointed up the wooden steps to the loft above.
‘Doris, love, I was up there sorting out ’is reference boxes, and what do you think I saw? Rape. Rape, that’s what!’ Nodding with grim satisfaction at his wife’s look of astonishment, he went on. ‘From the window in the loft you gets a good view of ’er bedroom ’cross the way. As I ’appened to be looking, who should pull apart ’er curtains but our Mr Dominic.’
‘’E never goes in there these days,’ she said indignantly.
‘I’m telling you, gel, he was in there this morning, not half an hour past. Next thing is, ’e throws open the window. Then ’e appears again – with ’er. ’E’s clutching ’er, and shouting something fierce. ’Course, I can’t make out a word. She’s fighting ’im and struggling in ’is arms. Then ’e carts ’er orf and I can’t see a blind thing. No doubt ’e ’as ’er on the bed. ’E’s a strong little devil, for all ’is small stature.’
‘Yes, Arold, but ’e wouldn’t rape ’is own wife, surely? There’s not much fun in that. Rape’s somethink gentlemen do with strangers.’
Arold lifted his best finger, speaking as one who had served in the forces of the Crown. ‘“Brutal unlicensed soldiery”, my dear. A man’s capable of anythink when aroused.’
‘Oh dear.’ She put a hand up to her mouth as if kissing a favourable view of mankind goodbye. ‘Perhaps you should phone the police, Arold … No, don’t do that. We don’t want them round ’ere. They might arrest me as an orphan and vagabond.’
‘Remember you’re a female orphan, my dear, and as such incap’le of rape. No, what worries me – in my opinion a bit of rape would do our high-class Fenella no harm – is that this means us two have got the skids under us. Their marriage is breakin’ up. If it’s breakin’ up, then this place’ll be sold up. If this place is sold up, then we’ll be chucked up. If we’re chucked up, then we’re fucked up. Aubrey can’t ’elp us in ’is situation, poor old lad, and we aren’t likely to find another billet good as this, not at our age. Not with three million unemployed.’
‘Oh dear. What can we do? She is a hoity-toity piece and no mistake. Perhaps a good rape will bring ’er to ’er senses. ’E’s not still at it, is ’e? Shall I go up there and ’ave a look?’
Arold patted his wife’s arm. ‘No, no, a rape ain’t like an ordinary bunk-up. It’s over in a flash. A bunk-up’s about sexuality, as you well know. Rape, now, that’s about power.’ He raised a clenched fist under her nose to demonstrate his meaning. ‘Point is, ’ow can we save the situation?’
‘Just let me think a minute, Arold. You talk so much.’
He shook his head at her, opening his mouth to show off his teeth to better advantage. ‘It may be too late for thinkin’, ducks. Last night when you was out, I ’appened to be passing the library and couldn’t ’elp ’earin’ our Fenella goin’ on at ’im. I dunno what it was all about, I’m sure, but she kept on and on summink terrible. What I did gather was she had developed a strong dislike for the sexual act.’
Doris snapped her fingers. ‘As we always suspected. Now, I’ve an idea. We’ve got to get that young Lucy Traill back, what she gave the sack to. Dominic was ’aving it off with ’er, wasn’t he? That’s why she got the push. So what does our lady do? Why she tries to wipe young Lucy out her mind as if she never existed, just like her little pekinese, if you remember that incident. Wipe her right out. So she chucks out every possible bit of paper with Lucy’s name on. Including a rotten vicious letter she wrote to the hospital where Lucy works, demanding the sacking of an immoral woman destroying a happy marriage. That was her words.’
He looked at his wife suspiciously. ‘How do you know all this, old love?’
‘Ah. Because she wrote out the letter first to see how it went. Practice, like. Then she tore it up into four and screwed up the bits. But I found ’em in her waste-paper basket. “Immoral woman destroying a happy marriage”. That’s what she wrote.’
‘Cow!’
‘So I kept Lucy’s address, you see, Arold. You could give it to Mr Dominic, he could get her back – or if not back, he could always meet her in secret, ’ave her as a mistress, if she was willing, of course. Then he’d be happy and have reason not to fret about the deflects of his wife. So we’d stay on here and live happy ever after.’
He scuffed his boots on the ironstone bricks underfoot. ‘You’re a clever old dear. It might work. We could give it a try. Give us Lucy’s address and I’ll pass it on.’
He clasped Doris to him and gave her a kiss. ‘Back you go now, ducks, before he catches us off duty. Chaps can be of funny temperament following rape.’
Dominic never knew what impulse prompted him to go to Fenella’s bedroom that morning. Her door was not locked. Directly he saw her, he knew things were not as they should be. An open bottle of pills stood on her bedside table by other bottles, perhaps a dozen of them. Fenella was lying, mouth open, across the bed in her nightdress, head and arms dangling. Pills of various colours lay spilled on the sheets.
He called her name and ran to her. Her head fell forward as he lifted her, pulling her into a sitting position. Despite the central heating in the room, she was cold; for a fearful minute he thought she was dead. She groaned.
‘Fenella!’ Pronouncing her name, he found himself calling endearments, shaking her. Gasping, she put her hand limply to her throat, as if bringing to his attention how beautiful her neck and breasts were.
Not knowing what to do, he ran and threw open one of the windows. As he carried her to it, to give her fresh air, she began to struggle, to cry, and feebly to hit him.
‘Leave me! Leave me!’
Even then, in his panic, he wondered why she was not saying, ‘Leave me alone.’
They fought at the open window. He tried to make her walk about, but she slumped as if her legs were boneless, and struck out wildly. Dumping her on the bed, he phoned her doctor, Fay Mee.
By noon, Fenella was sitting up, drinking hot chocolate and looking more herself: or possibly less, for a kind of mirthless cheerfulness possessed her. Her colour had returned. She gesticulated more than usual, now and then throwing her hands to left and right, saying, ‘What a shock for everyone! How the servants must have feared I was dead. Or perhaps they hoped I was. And you, Dom, poor dear, you must have run down at once to tell your friend Arold that I had gone for good.’
&nbs
p; ‘No, Fen, I was too busy reviving you.’ He had just been allowed back into the sick room.
She gave a strained laugh, appealing to Dr Mee with an artful turn of her head. ‘And I expect Dom was just a little bit hopeful too, don’t you, doctor?’
Fay Mee was an intense chunky person, short-haired and efficient. She belted herself into a business-like raincoat in preparation for leaving. Taking a pace nearer the bed, she tugged briskly at the duvet. ‘Mr Mayor was intensely upset, Fenella, so don’t let’s have any silliness of that kind.’
‘Ah ha!’ The patient fiddled with her bed jacket. ‘We can see whose side you are on! I suppose you secretly imagine I deliberately took too many Temazepam and –’ she gestured coquettishly to her piled bedside table ‘– other little treats you have brought me.’
‘There, there. You’re still over-reacting, dear. Perhaps we’ll cut down on some of the prescriptions.’
Fenella pretended to fall in with the suggestion. ‘Quite right, doctor. It would serve me right, punish me. Forget all about my being in constant pain.’
When Dr Mee was ready to go, Dominic saw her out of the house and to her car, where she paused and asked him if he wanted a sedative.
‘I’m fine. She didn’t do it on purpose, did she? She was pretty strung up last night.’ When Mee reassured him, he said hurriedly, in a low voice, ‘I would like to ask your professional advice. Can it be that my wife is – well, two people, who talk in different voices? One perhaps a small girl? Isn’t there a medical term for that, multiple personality or some such?’
She looked at him rather hard. ‘Such things exist mainly in the world of fiction. I see many unhappy women, Mr Mayor, and frequently their bouts of depression spring from their husband’s not caring for them. As for instance – being unfaithful, threatening to leave them, saying they love them no more. All such psychological acts have physiological consequences.’