The Jealous One

by Celia Fremlin

  ‘Whatever are you looking at me like that for?’

  Lindy finished on a slight laugh, as if the question was being asked jokingly. But Rosamund had a queer feeling that it hadn’t started like that at all; it was as if the words had been startled from Lindy by some sudden shock, from which, with swift effort, she had recovered herself. But what sort of a shock? And what had Rosamund been looking like? A quick glance into the mirror above Norah’s mantelpiece of course only revealed what mirrors always do reveal—the controlled, appraising look of one who wants to see what she looks like.

  So Rosamund laughed too.

  ‘I was just surprised that you’ve beaten me to it,’ she explained. ‘I didn’t notice you passing me in the road—or didn’t you come in the car?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I came in the car.’ Lindy still seemed to be watching her intently. Then: ‘Did you see Basil last night?’ she asked sharply, as Norah left the room for a minute.

  Rosamund was taken aback at the unexpected question. She hadn’t seen Basil for weeks—had almost forgotten his existence.

  ‘No. Why? Did he say he was coming?’

  ‘No. I just wondered.’ Lindy did not seem to understand that further elucidation was called for. ‘He didn’t telephone, or anything?’ she persisted.

  ‘No. Why should he? We hardly know him. I only ever met him that once, you know, that time at your party….’

  ‘But you seemed to get to know him quite well then. I saw you talking together for ages. What did you think of him? Do tell me.’

  Lindy was leaning forward now, intent and anxious, and Rosamund had an odd sense of a sudden small shifting of power between them—an indefinable change in the balance of their relationship. For a moment it made her physically dizzy, like an earth tremor beneath them both. The room seemed to quiver, she felt sick and shivering, but of course this could have been the beginning of her ’flu: anyway, it passed quickly, and she found herself answering:

  ‘Well, it’s quite a while ago now, you know, but I remember thinking he was quite amusing. Yes, I liked him, really. He seems a rather impulsive young man, though….’

  She was being guarded. She had the uneasy feeling that whatever she said on this topic was going to be used against her in some way—or rather, against Eileen, though by what devious means this could come about she could not imagine. But nothing more could be said now, for here was Norah back with another plate of food—plainly, she had ignored every scrap of Rosamund’s advice on the telephone—and behind her came three or four new arrivals; and the consequent confusion of greetings, exclamations and enquiries made further private conversation impossible.

  The next half hour was devoted to the passing round of food and cups. About half the company fell to with gusto, forgetful both of their figures and of the future terrors of competitive hostess-craft; the other half vied with one another in that highly complex art of registering the utmost delight and enthusiasm about all kinds of cakes and pastries without actually eating any of them.

  This ritual over, Norah’s worried little face relaxed a little as she surveyed the victorious mounds of left-overs which, like the survivors of a well-deployed army, had brought glory to their general: and now the discussion began.

  As usual, it started with somebody’s travels to somewhere, but within minutes everyone, speaker included, were talking about their children, competing, like Hyde Park orators, for an audience for their particular problem.

  The mothers of the teenagers won, of course: the owners of babies or toddlers didn’t stand a chance in the competition. For how pale and shadowy has toilet-training become during the last few years; and demand-feeding; and jealousy of the new baby; all the issues which not so long ago used to rock society from the topmost teaching hospitals to the humblest young mother at her welfare clinic, filling the newspapers and magazines with their backwash as they passed. These once momentous questions have now been thrust back into the narrow nursery world from which they so mysteriously arose. Use your common sense, the young mothers are told nowadays: their brief glory is over.

  Not so the mothers of the teenagers. Nothing so dull as common sense is demanded of them. The notoriety of their children’s age group inevitably rubs off a little on to them, and hitherto unremarkable housewives suddenly find themselves in the position of V.I.P.s, albeit of a secondary and reflected kind.

  And so it came about that Rosamund, Norah, and a brisk, very young-looking brunette called Carlotta stepped undisputed into the limelight of this little company, simply by virtue of owning one or two each of these extraordinary creatures about whom so many millions of words are day after day poured forth. It had been like this for two or three years already for Rosamund, but she still enjoyed it. ‘We’ve got one!’ she could say of Peter, as if he were a Great Auk’s egg, or a burglar alarm that unfolded into a coffee table: and the uninitiated would at once turn to her, attentive, respectful, and full of solemn questions. And it hardly mattered how she answered; everything she said was listened to with awe and wonderment, as were the travellers’ tales of long ago: she might have been an explorer, newly returned from some dangerous and uncharted jungle. What is it like, people would say, wide-eyed; what happens?

  But this morning her unearned notoriety was less enjoyable than usual, for of late, for the first time, she had begun to think of Peter as a problem instead of merely as a nuisance. Not that Peter had changed particularly. He was really no lazier, no more unpredictable, no worse mannered than he had been for ages; it was just that he and his failings seemed to matter more. As the happiness of Rosamund’s marriage slowly drained away it was leaving Peter and his sins sticking up like a jagged rock, right in the middle of everything; you could no longer float past and over them on smooth sunlit waters. She felt sure that Geoffrey was aware of the change, too: his relationship with his son was deteriorating as she watched. Not that he called Peter to order more than he had before, or was more severe; if anything he was less so. But his reprimands, when they came, were unhappy and irritable where once they had been confident; as if, Rosamund fancied, he resented having to be bothered with the boy’s misdemeanours—resented, perhaps, having to be bothered with his home life at all. Or as if his eyes had been opened to imperfections in a way they had never been in the old happy days. A skilful teacher he had at his command, one who could train and develop sensitivity to domestic imperfections as if it were a precious artistic gift.

  So Rosamund’s contributions to the debate this morning were a little sombre; so too were Norah’s. Norah, very tentatively, allowed herself to enjoy for just a little while her prestige as the owner of the most nearly delinquent son of their little circle, but never for long. Ned’s misdoings always earned her a good deal of interest and sympathy, and would have earned more but for her habit of whitewashing, as well as worrying about, everything he did. The resultant bewildering tangle of worry and whitewash threw everyone into some uncertainty, no one feeling sure where sympathy would be appropriate and where it would merely throw her into a nervous fluster of retractions and explanations.

  Carlotta’s recital came next. No problems here, but the same unbroken success story as had been deflating all her friends for years, ever since the days of her unnaturally natural pregnancies when she had felt so much less sick than anyone else and had produced bigger babies with shorter labours and fewer stitches than anyone could imagine. The way she’d talked about it, you’d think that the babies were mere by-products of the process; no more than incidental trophies designed to commemorate Carlotta’s capacity for Radiant Motherhood. You kept waiting for something to go wrong, but nothing ever did: and now here was the first of these products getting nine O-levels and a prize for physics—a tribute this time to his mother’s qualities as a Whole Woman.

  ‘Of course,’ Carlotta explained. ‘I’m particularly pleased that he’s not done too badly (Oh, the dreadful mock-modesty of the mothers of successful sons!) because everyone has always told me that they were bound to suffer
from my going out to work. They’d grow up deprived, people said: delinquent; and that I’d wear myself out, doing two jobs all the time. But they don’t seem to be turning out so badly; and I don’t think that I seem so terribly worn out, do I, compared with other women of my age?’

  She must know very well that she looked at least ten years younger than any of them, far too young to be the mother of a sixth-former; but nevertheless everyone played up and assured her all over again that she did look as young as all this. You had to play the game according to the rules, no matter what flamboyant cards people laid down, or else what about when it came to your turn?

  Rosamund glanced over at Lindy, who had not spoken all this time. Was she, for once, feeling left out? After all, she was the only one of them who had come unequipped with any problem whatsoever—not even an outdated one like a toddler not eating spinach, which used to be such a winner years ago.

  But Lindy was looking as contented, as pleased with herself as ever: not in the least bored or at a loss. On the contrary, she wore a rather tiresome air of being the outsider who sees most of the game, thus turning her initial disadvantage into a potentially winning card.

  But she didn’t even bother to use it. Even as Rosamund watched, she bent down and began to collect her bag and gloves together.

  ‘I’m awfully afraid I’ve got to go now,’ she said to Norah, standing up. ‘Don’t let me break up the party, though; I’ll just slip out.’

  Norah broke into little anxious protests, getting to her feet at the same time. Must Lindy really go? It was barely half past twelve…?

  ‘Yes, Lindy, do stay,’ urged Carlotta. ‘After all, you can arrange your work when you like! You don’t have to clock-in like us poor wage-slaves!’

  ‘No, I know,’ said Lindy smiling. ‘It’s not work, exactly, that I have to go for. It’s some typing I’ve promised to do for an old lady in the country. Such a dear old thing, and so full of go! Well over seventy, and she’s started writing a book on archaeology—proving that Evans was absolutely right about Knossos—if all this means anything to you—’ she amended apologetically to the company at large. ‘I didn’t know anything about it either until I got to know her; but she makes it so terribly interesting…. Anyway, I must go now, because I said I’d have this instalment all ready to take down to her this afternoon…so cheerio, everybody…’ Smiling, calling friendly goodbyes, she disappeared into the hall with Nor ah; and a minute later the front door closed.

  Rosamund felt her limbs shaking. Heat and cold chased each other, like laughing children, up and down her spine. She could feel her face going white.

  So Lindy, not herself, was to help her mother-in-law with the new book! Rosamund had never even been told that there was to be a book. After all her years of helping, sympathising, sharing in the old lady’s hobby, this fascinating project had been kept a secret from her! Or—perhaps even worse—perhaps Mrs Fielding just hadn’t bothered to tell her—had been so absorbed in discussing it with her new helper that she hadn’t thought about Rosamund at all. Admittedly, Rosamund had missed the last Sunday visit—Geoffrey and Lindy had gone on their own, for almost the only time—but even so, there were letters, weren’t there? Telephones? And anyway, a project like this doesn’t leap into life in five minutes—Mrs Fielding must have been thinking about it for weeks.

  Somehow this lesser blow seemed to strike with a violence that Rosamund had never yet experienced, in all these months. Perhaps because it was so utterly unexpected—a blow from the side instead of the front, so that all her guards were down. Whatever the reason, she experienced now waves of such bare, uncontrollable jealousy that she felt she was going to faint. Her mother-in-law—Jessie—the old, welcoming house—they were all Lindy’s now. She wasn’t content with just Geoffrey.

  And when she got home she found on the hall table a note from Geoffrey—he must have dashed in at lunch time, found her out, and left it there:

  ‘Late back tonight. Don’t wait supper

  Love—Geoff.’

  Not ‘Geoffrey’ any more, but ‘Geoff’.

  Everything was Lindy’s now.

  CHAPTER XII

  ‘Lindy’s disappeared!’

  Sitting giddily on the edge of the bed, just outside the circle of lamplight, Rosamund stared into her husband’s face almost uncomprehending. For one mad second it seemed the most natural thing in the world that Lindy should have disappeared, for in her dream Rosamund had killed her. How could she be expected to reappear after that?

  ‘Don’t look so blank, darling!’ Geoffrey urged her impatiently (over the last weeks, ‘darling’ had imperceptibly changed from an endearment to an expression of dutifully repressed irritation). ‘Just tell me—do you know where she is?’

  Rosamund felt the unstable heat of fever leaping in her face: inside her skull was an aching and a roaring which made it difficult to make sense of Geoffrey’s words, simple though they were and desperately though she tried to do so as she felt his irritation and anxiety mounting. Strange that her muddled brain should be aware so clearly of his feelings, and yet be so confused about his words.

  ‘No—I haven’t seen her,’ she blurted out at last, and felt her ears ring with weariness at the mental effort involved.

  But it only let her in for more questions.

  ‘Not at all? Not all day? Didn’t she say anything to you about where she was going? Or ring up, or something?’

  Rosamund was puzzled, not so much by his disproportionate anxiety as by the odd fact that it somehow didn’t strike her as disproportionate. Surely it should have? Lindy was a grown woman; why shouldn’t she be out and about at half past nine in the evening without giving an account of herself?

  But her head was clearing now. She was becoming capable of examining the question rationally, of seeing how unreasonable was her husband’s perturbation.

  ‘No, she didn’t. Should she have? Surely she’s just out seeing friends, or something?’

  ‘But she said—she told me…. Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps you’re right…. Perhaps I’m making too much of it—’ she could see that Geoffrey was trying to pull himself together—‘but it was such a shock, somehow, finding the house all dark … no heating on … the little dog yapping…. I’ve never seen it like that before.’

  Geoffrey was quite shaken, she could see, and she could a little bit understand his feelings, irrational though of course they were. She, too, albeit unwillingly, associated Lindy’s house with warmth, bright lights, comfort. Even to her, who disliked and feared Lindy, it would have been a little bit of a shock to find the house as Geoffrey described it; how much more so for him! She tried to be consoling as well as reasonable.

  ‘Well, I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about. She’s sure to be back soon. And what about Eileen?’ she added, wondering why she hadn’t thought of this before. ‘Won’t she know something?’

  ‘She can’t. She’s not there—she’s been staying with that girl since the weekend—Wait a minute, though—I wonder? … I might ring her … see if she’s had some message….’

  He ran down the stairs again, leaving the bedroom door wide open, and soon Rosamund heard his voice in the hall:

  ‘Hullo? Yes. Yes, that’s right, Eileen Forbes. Yes, if you would: thanks.’ A long pause, and then: ‘Oh, Eileen, I’m glad I’ve caught you. I was wondering if you knew where Lindy is? She was going to call for me at the office (this was the first Rosamund had heard of it, but it seemed of no importance now) but she never turned up. And she’s not at home either … it’s dark and shut up … What? No, I don’t know. She just said there was something she wanted to tell me about. But she hasn’t even taken the car, it’s still outside the house…. Yes, I thought of that; but it’s not as foggy as all that; it seems to be clearing. Anyway, she could have rung me, or come by tube or something. It’s not like her.’

  Here there was a long pause, during which Geoffrey said ‘Yes’ more times than Rosamund could count, each time, it seemed, sounding
more anxious and mystified. At last he began to speak intelligibly again.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I know. That’s what’s worrying me, too. She’d never have left him shut up like that in the cold and dark all this time. He was yapping his head off when I went in.’

  More silence at this end; then Geoffrey’s voice again: ‘Well, I know, Eileen, I wish it as much as you do; but I didn’t ask her, and there it is. Besides, she mightn’t have been able to tell me over the phone; it must have been something fairly confidential, for her to want to meet me specially away from home. And urgent, too. She sounded as if she was somehow scared…. That’s why I’m so worried….’

  A few more brief, inconclusive sentences, and then Rosamund heard the telephone ring off. Geoffrey came slowly up the stairs.

  ‘I expect you heard all that,’ he said briefly. ‘It hasn’t made us much the wiser, has it?’

  Rosamund was touchd by the ‘us’. Did he really suppose that she was worrying about Lindy, too?

  ‘I heard your end of it,’ she pointed out. ‘But not Eileen’s. Hasn’t she any ideas?’

  ‘Not really. She thinks it’s odd, though, just as I do: not like Lindy. But Eileen’ll be home tonight, she says—she was just setting out when I rang. She’ll be here in an hour or two. Perhaps she’ll have thought of something … or perhaps Lindy will be home by then….’

  His voice softened, lightened, at this possibility. Rosamund felt strangely moved by his emotion, abhorrent though its cause was to her. Trying to ignore the dizziness, the fierce headache that assailed her whenever she moved, she stood up, hoping Geoffrey would not notice that she had no shoes on. She did not want him to realise that she had been lying down. To impose her own illness on him just when he was worrying about Lindy would be terrible, just the sort of thing that neurotic neglected wives are always doing.

  ‘Let’s go over to Lindy’s and look around, right now,’ she suggested, fighting back the throbbing inside her skull, the blackness that was threatening to blot out the room as she stood upright. For a moment it seemed that she must fall… but just in time the light returned…. Geoffrey’s face swung back into her view. With one foot, she began feeling surreptitiously for her shoes beside the bed, ready to implement her suggestion. ‘She might have left a note there for Eileen, or something,’ she hazarded.