The Other Rebecca

by Maureen Freely

  And then in my bed, in my head, I hear Rebecca whispering, Do it for me … do it for us … speak from the heart … if you don’t, you’ll lose everything … you’ll become one of them …

  Even armed with hindsight, I still can’t fight off the temptation. I return to that morning in my mind and once again I lose all sense of myself and I become Rebecca. Her words came flooding in again, her thoughts and her every recorded memory.

  Since the beginning of April, Danny had been feeding me her letters and her diaries and even the poems she jotted down on napkins between courses at dinner parties. Had been staying up nights with me supplementing these clues with her own eyewitness reports. I knew more about Rebecca’s descent into addiction than she knew herself. I knew what Bea had done by commission, and what Crawley had done by omission. And now that I had helped Danny break into Max’s study, now that we had gone through his address books and his love letters and his photographs and his boxes of old manuscripts, I knew far, far more than I needed to know about how Max had set out deliberately to destroy her.

  I knew every promise he made – and broke. Not only did I know when he was unfaithful and with whom, I knew why. It was to break her, to break her and so reduce her to silence. He couldn’t bear the beauty of her poetry. He couldn’t bear it that she could do things with words that he couldn’t do. Couldn’t bear to hear the phone ring for her and not for him. And so he made it harder for her. By never being there for her, by being too often and too obviously with someone else. How bad he must have felt when the sorrows he visited upon her only resulted in poetry of even greater intensity.

  She had thrived on his cruelty, fed on it, devoured it. How bad he must have felt, to sink to theft. I now knew that what Crawley told me was a glossing-over of the truth. Danny had made it clear beyond a doubt. As I sat in my bed, I had the evidence all around me. Rebecca had never stolen anything from Max; it was Max who had stolen from her. As Danny had said only that morning, ‘What would Rebecca want, anyway, with his paltry creations? His lions and minotaurs and four-legged phallic objects with antlers in place of grey matter? Whenever she appropriated his pseudish archetypes it was to strip them of their romantic haze, show them for what they were. Oh! We used to have such fun making up poems in the manner of Max! Such fun! When he took them and published them without taking on board their satirical intent – well, what were we to do?’

  And why protest? This was the one game Rebecca had won. The lengths he had gone to in order to silence her in death – that was his real crime. And now that we had been through his papers, we had the proof. We had found 48 of the 107 missing poems Rebecca had mentioned in the last available notebook of her diary, as well as four of the five missing notebooks. Even more important, we had found an early draft of The Marriage Hearse on which he had done line editing and made spelling corrections – so much for his claim that he had not set eyes on the book until after Rebecca’s death. Worst of all, we had found the first page of the book’s suppressed last chapter.

  The original version of The Marriage Hearse had not ended with the heroine appearing triumphant in front of her audience despite wearing the wrong dress. It had ended with a speech on the subject of literary corruption. Without it, the book was, Danny and I agreed, like a scorpion without a tail, having lost its purpose and its poison. By removing it, Max had robbed Rebecca of her voice, but tonight, at my launch, I was going to give it back to her. When I stood up, ostensibly to read from my own book, I was going to read this first page of Rebecca’s last missing chapter instead. I was going to stop midsentence just as the document did, and then I was going to say my piece – about the distortion and commodification of Rebecca, about the way Max had suppressed so much of her best work, and the way Beckfield Press had overedited and deformed it. I was going to convince them that the issue was not what had happened to Rebecca in real life (as in the trial) but what had happened to her words.

  I knew what I needed to say. It was just a question of keeping up my nerve, remembering the importance of the message, reminding myself that this evening was going to be the only chance I’d get to say it. But whenever I closed my eyes and went forward to the moment of disclosure, whenever I imagined the room of faces, the clinking glasses, the tittering hush, my mouth went dry and my mind went blank.

  ‘I take it the muse has not yet paid her visit,’ Danny said to me with a bright smile when she brought me my lunch on a tray.

  I shook my head.

  ‘Never fear,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a sign.’ She paused and looked over her shoulder. The children were at the dining table, talking, not eavesdropping, but still she took the precaution of closing the door before she continued. ‘I’ve found you a talisman,’ she said as she sat herself down on the far end of the bed. ‘Rebecca used to take it with her on speaking engagements. She got stage fright too, you know!’ She reached into her bra and took out what looked like a calling card. Take a look at it. Then put it away and eat your lunch and then look at it one more time before you take your rest. You’ll write your speech in your sleep. When you wake up – and don’t worry, I’ll make sure to rouse you at three – your head will feel empty of thought, but you’ll know from your serenity that the words are there, waiting for you to speak them. Keep the card. Look at it whenever you feel your courage failing and it will come right back and you’ll speak from the heart, which is the best any good Rebeccite could hope for.’

  The card said:

  You are not an entertainer.

  You are a medium.

  Find the goddess in the back row and tell her the Truth.

  I’ve kept the card, not as a talisman but as a reminder. I can look at it now and ask myself what it tells me about my state of mind that day if I could read those words and accept them as gospel. I can ask sane questions now about my temporary insanity but still I can’t defend myself against my memory of the relief it provided me, the wisdom and protection it seemed to offer as I slept in Rebecca’s bed, as I awoke to slip my feet into Rebecca’s slippers and padded up to the stairs to pour Rebecca’s bath foam under the tap, to soak in her bath, as I looked over her collection of half-finished shampoos and conditioners. I was not an entertainer – how true. I was a medium – what a privilege. I would be able to rise to the occasion if I found the goddess in the back row. I was to go to sleep and let my muse write my speech and whenever I felt my courage failing I was to remind myself that I was not an entertainer but a medium, that I was not alone, that all I had to do was look towards the back row and let Rebecca’s words run through me …

  ‘Is that new?’ Crawley asked me when Danny and I joined him in the car that was to drive us down to the party. He was referring to my plain blue maternity dress and there was something in his voice to indicate that he had a suspicion of where it came from. But it was a generic item. There was no way he could know that it had belonged to Rebecca, any more than he could know that I was also wearing Rebecca’s necklace and Rebecca’s watch and carrying Rebecca’s talisman.

  ‘It’s not new,’ I told him. I didn’t like to lie unnecessarily. ‘But it’s the first time I’m wearing it. I got it from a friend.’

  He gave me a searching look and then he asked, ‘Have you spoken to Max today?’

  Before I could answer, Danny said, ‘Oh, you’re not telling me he’s planning to grace us with his presence?’

  ‘I don’t know what game you’re playing at, Danny, but I’m telling you. I’m giving you a warning. I know you’re up to something.’

  ‘Then tell me, O oracle. What am I up to?’

  ‘I don’t know much, but I’ll tell you what I do know. I do know that you—’

  He stopped in midsentence, because now Bea was hobbling towards us. ‘Oh, God, just look at her!’ Crawley said, shaking his head. ‘Has she been like this all week?’

  ‘All week, you ask! All month!’ said Danny.

  ‘Doesn’t anyone happen to know what in particular is eating away at her?’

  ‘G
uilt. Don’t you think?’

  Crawley sighed. ‘I would say stage fright myself, but if she carries on like this, people are going to assume she’s guilty even if she can prove she was digging for China when Rebecca went AWOL. When is she due to testify?’

  ‘It’s not clear. It could be tomorrow and it could be Monday.’

  ‘Then God help us,’ Crawley said.

  Bea opened the door with care. Standing there, breathing vodka on us, she gave me a broad but unseeing smile. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes.’ Then she turned to Crawley and said, as carefully as if she were trying to walk a straight line, ‘You wouldn’t mind stepping out of the car for a moment, would you? Something’s come up.’

  They walked to the edge of the drive to confer, Crawley holding Bea by the arm to keep her steady, and as he did, I noticed that there was a man sitting in a car parked next to the barn. Crawley noticed at the same time and went over to speak to the man. The discussion grew heated, but ended with the man starting his car and backing it out to the road, where he parked again. Crawley swung the gate shut and then waited while Bea struggled with the padlock.

  ‘So the hacks are here again,’ Danny said. ‘Something must have happened this afternoon in court. Who’s on next, do you know?’

  ‘I think it’s Max’s father.’

  ‘You’d think, after what he said in Jack’s book, that he’d be a witness for the other side.’

  ‘I think the point is to prove that anything he said has to be discounted.’

  ‘A high-risk strategy, I’d say I wonder if…’ Danny’s voice trailed off as Crawley helped Bea back into the car. ‘Everything all right?’ Danny asked.

  ‘No, since you ask,’ said Crawley, ‘everything is not all right.’

  ‘What’s up, then?’

  Crawley crossed his arms. ‘Actually, that’s exactly what I was about to ask you.’ He cleared his throat and took in a deep breath, as if everything depended on the way he phrased his next question. Before he could ask it, Giles had appeared on the other side of the padlocked gate. ‘Oh, blast!’ said Crawley. Bea made to get out of the car. ‘No, Bea. I’ll handle this. Just throw me the key.’ As she fumbled inside her handbag, the top of a flask came into view.

  After Crawley had let Giles out and locked the gate behind him, the two men exchanged words. Both bowed their heads, then nodded resolutely and headed for the car, with Crawley making no attempt to hide his grim mood, and Giles struggling to tame his twitching mouth.

  He succeeded. ‘Darling,’ he said to his wife through the open window, ‘may I have a word?’

  Again Bea got out of the car. He put his arm around her and walked her towards the gate while Crawley moved on ahead and opened it for them. Then he stood there guarding it for the five minutes it took Giles to return.

  He did so alone, and looking as cheerful as if he had gone back for his diary. Bea had been edited out of this evening’s performance. There was to be no further mention of her. After climbing into the seat next to the driver, and greeting him with studied courtesy, Giles turned around to me with a kind smile and said, ‘We’re having such bad luck with the weather, aren’t we?’

  All the way to London, he kept the decorous patter going. How had I felt about the reviews I had received to date? Wasn’t the one in The Spectator lovely, and hadn’t the Literary Review been just a little bit naughty? Was I getting enough rest now? Had I managed to get my next appointment at the hospital moved or was I still having to go in the next morning? Not once did he mention the trial. When Crawley brought it up as we weaved our way through Soho, he tried to silence him. ‘Don’t you think it would be nice if we could all forget about the blasted thing for the next few hours? I’m sorry if it sounds disloyal, but there are other things in life, and here is a perfect opportunity to remember what they are.’

  ‘You’re right, of course,’ said Crawley crisply. ‘But it’s important to remember that most of the people at the party tonight will be in attendance because of the ghoul factor, and just waiting for someone to make a slip, Freudian or otherwise -’ here he glared at Danny – ‘and that unless we all prepare ourselves, we may just give some horrible hack the scoop he’s looking for. Especially with this latest development. I’ll bow to your wisdom, Giles, but I really do think we should tell her what’s in the offing.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Crawley,’ Giles said with an annoyed wave of the hand. ‘Put aside your theories for one evening and let the poor girl have a little fun.’

  If only this decent man knew what I had in store for him. And was it fair? How was I going to condemn what he stood for without also condemning him? When had he ever done anything that wasn’t utterly correct and thoughtful? This was the first time my courage failed me. I got it back after arriving at the Groucho Club.

  Crawley had been right. Here and there I saw a friend, but most of the hundred-odd guests already gathered in the party room were people I had never seen before. As I made my way to the drinks table, I felt as if I were swimming through a sea of poisoned eyes. These hostile eyes and twisted smiles had come for a spectacle – and so I would give them one.

  The second time my courage failed me was an hour into the party, when Crawley broke into the small circle of friends who were protecting me and asked if I was ready to do my reading. I had the card in my book, but when I opened it, it fell out.

  ‘What’s that?’ Crawley barked.

  ‘What’s what?’ asked Danny as she pounced on it.

  ‘Nothing,’ I said. I took it from her and put it back into my book.

  ‘I smell a rat,’ said Crawley. And my courage came back again. I wasn’t going to let Max and his spies get the better of me.

  Then I saw Max come into the room. He looked thin and cold, but when our eyes met, his face lit up the way it had in the early days. He came up to me, kissed me on the forehead and said, ‘Good luck, my darling.’ And I thought about what I was about to do, and once again my courage left me.

  ‘How did it go today?’ I asked. I couldn’t keep my voice from trembling.

  ‘Couldn’t have been more tedious. It makes you wonder how the words “courtroom” and “drama” could ever have been linked. But enough of that. I was hoping you were going to help me put the whole thing out of my mind. Look, you wouldn’t mind putting off starting until I’ve got myself a drink, would you?’

  ‘Not at all,’ I said. As I watched him make his way through the crowd, I made up my mind. I would still tell him what I knew and show him what I had, but I would do so privately, not in front of a crowd. I would give him a chance to defend himself. It was only fair. But then what was I going to say now? I scanned at the crowd in front of me. There in the far corner was the features editor from Max’s paper. The man he was talking to could possibly be the Wayne who caused the upset at Giles’s sixtieth-birthday party. Madame Blackberry had just arrived in a sea of diaphanous white cloth and on the arm of the man I had been told was Grovel in Private Eye. I watched them greet two men I had never seen before as if they were schoolfriends they had not seen in a decade. And then I watched their effusive greetings go flat, I watched each one begin to glance over the other’s shoulders, I watched the eagerness with which Grovel pounced on another newcomer, the gratitude with which Madame Blackberry smiled at another long-lost friend who now presented herself. And then I watched this conversation go flat even faster. I watched Madame Blackberry’s face brighten when the other woman pretended she needed to go and find another drink. After an effusive farewell, she joined another circle, which reformed to become two circles and then three circles as more strangers swirled into the room. I looked at them and asked myself what I could possibly want to say to these people, when they had nothing to say to each other but hello and goodbye. Why had I ever thought they would want to know or even deserved to know what I thought about anything? Already my publisher and his publicity people were trying to hush them. But I had nothing to say to them, nothing to hide behind except words that now mea
nt nothing to me, words I had written in another life. I took out my copy of Happily Ever After – the book this party was meant to celebrate – and tried to find a passage I could read from it. As I flipped through the pages, as the text swam before my eyes, the first page of Rebecca’s last chapter fell to the ground.

  Crawley dove for it. I got to it first. My hands shaking, I refolded it. I looked into the sea, the conversations dying one by one as the faces turned towards me and my microphone. What was I doing? I scanned the crowd and just as I was losing hope I saw the person I was looking for. She was standing on her own, staring right at me. She had small, bright eyes and a deep tan made more emphatic by her long, white coat and matching skullcap. I had never seen her in my life, but she was smiling as if she could read my every thought, as if to tell me I was not an entertainer but a medium. She was in the back row.

  I cleared my throat and began.

  ‘Good evening. I’m gratified that so many people have taken the trouble to come to my pale shadow of party.’ I paused to allow time for the polite laughter to subside. ‘I’m gratified because I’ve decided to use this opportunity to speak about something far more significant than my own career. To paraphrase a very famous last line, my name is not Rebecca and I am not standing before you to explain why I’ve decided to appear in the wrong dress.’ Now the laughter was more nervous. ‘But the time has come, I’ve decided, to let Rebecca speak from the grave.’