Lady Jean

by Noel Virtue

  ‘Do sit down,’ Jean said. ‘I’m sure Christopher won’t be long. They won’t have walked far.’

  After Uncle Fergus had edged his thin frame down into an armchair he continued to gaze out through the french windows and fell silent, ignoring her. Jean returned to the kitchen, after hovering. She pretended to be preparing the afternoon tea, rattling cups and noisily refilling the kettle after quietly emptying it. She was rather relieved when she heard Christopher and Aunt Dizzy entering the front door.

  ‘Wolves should never be kept in such a small environment,’ Aunt Dizzy was saying. ‘It’s cruel, Christopher, cruel. There’s no two ways about it. Wolves need freedom. Freedom is not merely the reserve of us fortunate, fragile mortals.’

  Jean stepped back into the morning-room, drying her hands on a towel. Uncle Fergus had got up from the chair and was nervously posed, his head turned to the hall door. His hands were again thrust into the pockets of his canary-yellow jacket. His monocle hung from a silver chain at his waist. There was an expression on his face of someone who was being hunted. Glancing at Jean, he smiled thinly, revealing perfectly white teeth, one of which, in the front, had a gold filling.

  ‘My aunt won’t bite,’ Jean said quietly and, smiling, went across to the hall door, pulling it fully open.

  ‘Unlike the aforementioned wolves,’ she heard Uncle Fergus mutter in an unsteady voice. Christopher came rushing into the room and moved across to his uncle’s side, taking his arm.

  ‘This is Aunt Elizabeth,’ he said, his face slightly flushed. Aunt Dizzy stepped grandly into the room, her hand outstretched, tinted teeth plainly visible within her smile.

  ‘So lovely to meet you, Mr … Shall I call you Fergus? Uncle? Or both? What an interesting suit. Christopher has been telling me all about you. When we weren’t arguing about wolves. I am utterly exhausted. Really, Jean, we walked along the south boundary of the zoo and I was aggrieved. Those poor creatures, so confined. In this day and age. Is tea ready? Are we going upstairs? Has Freida come? You may take my arm, Christopher’s Uncle Fergus. I am a little at odds with the stairs. My damned niece still hasn’t done anything about it. She’s obstinate.’

  ‘I am rewardingly charmed to meet you, rewardingly charmed,’ Uncle Fergus said rather vaguely, still looking ill at ease.

  ‘Are you?’ Aunt Dizzy responded, putting her arm through his. ‘Shall we ascend to the drawing-room for tea? Christopher has organized everything. A sumptuous spread. I’m bloody starving.’

  ‘They won’t stop talking,’ Christopher said urgently to Jean. He had followed her downstairs, an hour later, into the kitchen where she was preparing more tea and hurriedly slicing cucumber. ‘They’re ignoring me, as if I wasn’t there.’

  Jean laughed. ‘Then that simply means the afternoon is a success. Now stop wringing your hands and worrying. Aunt Dizzy knows about you and your uncle. Is that what’s upset you? I had a chat to her days ago. She is quite unfazed. In fact she thinks it’s lovely for you to have someone, as she put it, to share intimacy with. She had girlfriends when she was young.’

  ‘You shouldn’t have told her.’

  ‘Well, I did.’

  Christopher remained silent for a moment, staring at the kettle which was about to boil. Then he took up a knife and began to butter bread.

  ‘You mean like Freida?’ he asked.

  ‘Oh yes. Men friends too. She was quite the raver. A long time ago, now.’

  ‘We don’t… you know… do anything, Uncle and me.’

  ‘You mean sleep together?’

  Christopher’s face went bright scarlet.

  ‘Uncle Fergus won’t. Not until I’m older. He said that we should really be married before anything like that should happen, anyway.’

  ‘But…’ Jean glanced at Christopher and then looked away. His face was rigid with embarrassment. She didn’t continue with the unnecessary, obvious comment that men couldn’t marry.

  ‘He’s really moral,’ said Christopher. ‘Mother probably thinks that’s all he wants, you know…’

  ‘Sex?’

  Christopher nodded. He handed her slices of buttered bread but wouldn’t look up at her.

  ‘Sex? he whispered. ‘She wouldn’t use that word.’

  ‘You mustn’t be scared of it, Christopher,’ Jean said, softly. He stopped buttering bread when she gestured that there were enough slices and stood with his arms at his sides looking warily at her out of the corner of his sight. His lips sagged.

  ‘Did your parents ever talk to you? Your father?’

  Christopher visibly relaxed. ‘Father gave me a brochure once, about a year ago. Never said anything. The brochure didn’t say much. I know all about it. I’m not stupid. But I was never interested in anyone except Uncle. Not that way. Boys at college are all pillocks. They just make crude jokes. I like the girls better. They don’t know that I’m … queer.’

  ‘I prefer the word gay,’ Jean said and smirked. Christopher began to snigger. Then he stopped and began coughing. He doubled over and Jean found herself patting his back and helping him to a chair. From upstairs she could hear laughter and then Aunt Dizzy’s voice.

  ‘Jean! Jean! Where have you got to? There are two old maids bloody dying of thirst up here!’

  Uncle Fergus whinnied with laughter.

  The afternoon tea went on until past six o’clock. Aunt Dizzy did not even excuse herself to indulge in her habitual afternoon nap. She and Uncle Fergus noisily discussed everything, from the recent onslaught of baby-carrying Romanian refugee women begging on the Underground to whether the only female Prime Minister in the country had, before her downfall, set the women’s movement back fifty years. The latter was something Aunt Dizzy was convinced of. ‘Just as I am convinced, Jean, that I should be allowed to keep my room upstairs,’ she remarked sharply.

  Jean and Christopher sat mostly in silence, Christopher staring at his uncle with an expression of deep devotion. He clung on to Uncle Fergus’s every word, glancing at Jean and Aunt Dizzy as if his uncle was speaking the whole truth and nothing but the truth in everything he said. The two of them sat close together on a sofa, evidently relaxed enough to hold hands. Uncle Fergus kept crossing then uncrossing his legs. He was wearing yellow socks and highly polished patent-leather black shoes. He’d consumed almost an entire plate of cucumber sandwiches by himself and giggled in a high-pitched, whinnying voice when he wasn’t expounding on the world as he saw it.

  ‘Of course things were a whole lot different when I was a lass,’ Aunt Dizzy was saying. ‘Nothing was spoken of. It was all perfectly bobbity-boo so long as nobody said anything. That’s changed, thank the fates. And fighting back. I’ve thoroughly enjoyed all this outing that goes on nowadays. Demonstrations inside churches. Good for them. There’s a pile of hypocritical rot in this country about sexual matters. One or two of those obnoxious old hags in the Lords should be taken across to the green and stripped before being shot.’ Then she turned towards Jean and asked, ‘Is Freida not coming? I thought you said she was coming?’ but without waiting for a reply went on to relate an event in her past at a garden party, where she fell in love with one of the maids, despite just having got engaged to Freddie Braymount the week before, who later married an earl’s daughter and disgraced his entire family with his unquenchable thirst for little girls and pornographic photographs, all of which was exposed in the press. ‘He’s gone now,’ she added. ‘Shot himself in the head back in 1978. Times aren’t what they used to be. Far too little scandal, everything’s hushed up and no one has any shame.’

  Uncle Fergus and Christopher sat entwining their fingers together. Both, Jean noticed, wore gold bands on the third finger of their left hands. She had noticed Christopher’s before, but he had never mentioned anything about it and neither had she. The telephone rang downstairs, just as Uncle Fergus was explaining that he had to leave. There was a function to attend, to which Christopher was unfortunately not invited.

  ‘Discretion still has to be observed,
’ he said.

  ‘Well, I was going to suggest dinner and a round or two of Scrabble,’ Aunt Dizzy said to him without even glancing Jean’s way. ‘Never mind, I’m sure you’ll be here again. I’ll have to fall back on the lad.’

  Christopher had begun to tell her about some theatrical connections Uncle Fergus possessed as Jean left the room.

  There was a lengthy silence when she answered the telephone.

  ‘It’s Will,’ came William’s voice. ‘Hello, Jean.’

  ‘William. I did mean to call you,’ Jean responded. ‘I received your note. You’re at the Connaught?’

  ‘Just for a day or so, then back to New York. How are you, Jean? I thought you might have at least called me.’

  Laughter drifted down from upstairs. Aunt Dizzy cried out, ‘Whoop-whoop! Whoop-whoop!’ and something heavy crashed to the floor.

  ‘Frieda saw you at the theatre a short while ago,’ Jean said hastily, feeling inadequate and trying to think of something more interesting to say. She sounded inane. ‘So I knew you were back.’

  ‘I did notice. Few missed seeing her. She should have come over. I wasn’t so impressed by the look of her … companion.’

  ‘Mandy someone. Wants to move in.’

  ‘Look, Jean. Why I’ve called. I need to come and see you. I won’t insist, but it’s something I don’t wish to speak about over the phone. Would it be convenient?’

  Shades of Mr Alder, Jean thought. ‘Oh dear, let me think. Well, all right. I’ve Aunt Dizzy living here now. Don’t ask. Chr … someone’s taking her out for the morning. What about ten-thirtyish, coffee?’

  ‘I could take you out, an early lunch.’

  ‘No, you come here. I’d prefer it.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. So, how are you?’

  There were voices behind her coming down the stairs and into the morning-room.

  ‘… and I really didn’t mind about her broken, chipped dentures at all,’ Aunt Dizzy was saying. ‘They didn’t hurt.’

  Uncle Fergus was whinnying.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry,’ Jean said hurriedly into the receiver. ‘I’ve company. I’d best go. I’ll see you tomorrow,’ and before William could respond she replaced the receiver, turning and smiling as Uncle Fergus made his way towards her, right hand outstretched, gold-filled tooth exposed in a rictus smile.

  ‘What a splendiferous afternoon, Jean Barrie,’ he was saying. ‘Your aunt is jollity personified. Utter contagion. I do hope I shall not be construed as being impertinent, I fear I ignored you in favour of dear Elizabeth. Now. As I said earlier, we must think on, about you both coming down to the country seat, very soon. I’ve not been down for weeks and I need the change. I’ll let Christopher know the details of when, etcetera, eh?’ and he took Jean’s hand and pressed it delicately to his moustached lips, emitting a smacking sound, his eyes never leaving hers. Christopher was hovering in the background, wringing his hands. When Jean caught his eye he mouthed the words ‘She wants to go to sleep’, pointing upwards.

  ‘It was an experience to meet you, Fergus,’ Jean said. ‘I’ll leave you to say goodbye to each other. You are welcome to call any time. I mean that.’

  Christopher, an hour later, was in the bath. Jean had delicately suggested that he take a bath at least once a day. He had complied quite happily. Aunt Dizzy was in her room resting. Exhausted, Jean had fallen asleep in an armchair in the morning-room. She had heard some noises but had not opened her eyes, thinking that it would be Christopher, and half lay, curled up in the chair, face turned towards the french windows. She had fallen into a deep sleep when she was awake again suddenly, realizing she had heard the front door being opened and closed several times. She’d been dreaming of William and her mother dancing together on the lawn, with a full orchestra somehow arranged in the background on a brightly lit podium. Freida had been singing a Cole Porter song out of tune at a microphone. She opened her eyes slowly. The house had grown quite dark and she had not switched on any lights. Yet she was certain there was a figure moving away from her along the hall when she turned to look. The hall door was open, whereas she had left it closed after Uncle Fergus had left. Jean shook her head, only half awake.

  ‘Hello, is someone there?’ she called out. There were hurried footsteps and the front door was opened. With little street light she could only see someone silhouetted in the doorway. ‘Freida? Is that you?’ There was no response. The figure moved swiftly out on to the steps, pulling the door closed. Jean struggled up out of the chair and switched on a lamp. The hall was empty. By the time she got to the front door, opened it and looked out all she could see over the privet hedge was the top half of a taxi moving fast away from the house.

  Closing the door, switching on the hall lights, she immediately noticed the keys sitting on the hall table alongside a card.

  Goodbye, Jean Barrie, she read aloud after picking up the card, then the keys. I will never, ever forget your kindness and your beauty. Catherine.

  Still clutching the keys, letting the card drop back on to the table, Jean retraced her steps into the morning-room and hurried up the stairs. As she passed Christopher’s and Aunt Dizzy’s shared bathroom she could hear the sound of splashing water and Christopher humming. A smell like bleach wafted in the air.

  On the uppermost floor Catherine Truman’s rooms were empty, apart from the furniture. There was a faint lingering odour of incense. The walls had some time been painted a gloss white, where they had been a dull brown when the Fallen Nun had moved in. There was almost no trace of anyone having been living there. Jean had never been into the rooms in all the time her lodger had been in the house. She had never wished to intrude.

  On the small casual table in the main room sat one long-stemmed white rose, still fresh. There were droplets of water on the petals. Opposite, on the wall where once had been a fireplace, was painted from floor to ceiling an enormous portrait of a woman, reclining lasciviously in an armchair. The figure was naked. Jean stared at it for several minutes, her hands moving up to her mouth and remaining there, her heart beginning to thud uncomfortably. The painting was realistic, revealing, disturbingly realized in its detail.

  Jean turned and hurried out, relocking the door behind her in a rush and almost running down the stairs. For the first time in a week she opened a bottle of gin once she reached the kitchen and downed two glasses before she sat nursing a third. As she’d stepped rapidly along the downstairs hall, trying not to think about anything, heading for the kitchen, something caused her to stop and stare. The framed poster of herself that Freida had once given her and which had promoted her second album was missing from the wall.

  SEVEN

  With Christopher’s help Jean had managed, not without difficulty, to move Aunt Dizzy’s new orthopaedic bed upstairs and carry the one she had been sleeping in down to the renovated reception room. Her card-table and two Queen Anne chairs had also been taken up to the first floor.

  ‘You can stay upstairs now, Auntie,’ Jean told her. ‘I’ll enquire about stair-lifts.’

  ‘Will you?’ Aunt Dizzy responded. Later, she said, ‘I’m so relieved you’ve changed your mind, Jean. About the rooms. The one downstairs is all very well, but it looks like a hospital ward. Or a morgue. It lacks character. It’s a man’s room.’

  She and Christopher had gone out in a taxi to visit an art exhibition at the Institute of Contemporary Art.

  ‘It’s a collection of nude transsexual poses,’ Aunt Dizzy had explained over breakfast. ‘Very explicit, I believe. Body-part art as never seen anywhere before in public’ She had come across an advertisement for it in a trendy listings magazine and thought the exhibition might be educational for Christopher. ‘As for myself,’ she added, as Jean hesitated over her warmed-milk cereal, ‘I’ve seen nearly everything of the flesh in my day. You remember the maid I said I fell in love with, just after my engagement to Freddie Braymount? She was a man underneath her garb. Quite a shock, I tell you, when she disrobed. It thoroughly confused e
veryone at the time. After the truth also came out, so to speak,’ she went on, laughing loudly, ‘the family got rid of the poor soul and I faced the ignominy of being engaged for two months to a pervert. Life is too quiet now, Jean. Boring. I do think you should telephone the police about the stolen poster. Stir things up a little. The pot of life is becoming a trifle stagnant.’ Christopher, standing at the sink, sniggered.

  William was expected in less than half an hour. Jean abandoned her usual dress code of loose cotton trousers and plain sweatshirt which she wore about the house for a long-sleeved tasteful dress that made her look ten years older. She decided that a mumsy, prim look would be better. William, she felt certain, would have the good manners to come alone. She had wondered momentarily what it was he might want. Money did not seem likely. The deeds to Acacia Road were in her name. The past, if not assimilated, was at least never mentioned any longer. There was no possible reason for William, or herself, to seek reconciliation.

  She again tried to telephone Freida. Now there appeared to be a fault on the line that British Telecom, for all its computer wisdom, could tell her nothing about.

  ‘There’s a fault on the line,’ she was cheerfully informed when she enquired. When she asked politely for an explanation the same obvious statement was repeated before it was suggested that Jean have a nice day. The chirpy female voice had squawked with an American accent.

  Jean had not seen William for over a year. They had been in touch by letter or between solicitors. The divorce had been agonizingly slow to reach a decree absolute but amicable enough under the circumstances. For most of the time William had remained in New York, where he had fled to. He’d allegedly done well there, possessed offices in Manhattan and two secretaries, one of whom was from Birmingham and who had known his mother, a fact related by letter that caused Jean inexplicably to laugh.