Lady Jean

by Noel Virtue

  She sat down heavily on one of the wicker chairs. There were now six wicker chairs in the garden and a small cast-iron table Freida had brought from the patio of her house. Once settled, Freida having helped, Aunt Dizzy sat with hands resting on her plump, perfectly white knees. Leaning forward she suggested her own idea to hold a garden party that would begin late in the day and carry on into the slightly cooler evening with lanterns and fireworks and games of charades and a wide array of food.

  ‘Fried chicken wings,’ Christopher said, his ears, through embarrassment, having turned the same colour as Aunt Dizzy’s hot pants. ‘Fried squid. Iced tea. Poppadoms with curry. Asparagus. Nuts. I’ll brew the tea.’

  Aunt Dizzy glanced at him as if she was concerned for his mental health. ‘Excellent,’ she said. ‘Excellent.’

  ‘We could dance,’ Uncle Fergus suggested and then whinnied. ‘In moonlight.’ Then he paused and broke into song. ‘By the light, of the silvery moon, I want to swoon, with my honey I’ll …’ his voice trailed off as he met Freida’s gaze. She was suppressing an urge to laugh which twisted her face into what Fergus translated as a sneer.

  ‘He has always suffered the curse of threatened insanity,’ Aunt Dizzy said, patting Freida on the back as she pretended to cough. ‘His entire family are quietly insane.’

  Uncle Fergus again whinnied. Christopher sniggered.

  ‘Now,’ Aunt Dizzy said, ‘are we sitting comfortably? Then we shall begin.’

  There was an immediate silence. Mrs Meiklejohn had disappeared from behind her net curtains. Two cats, several gardens away, began to yowl at each other in mutual hatred. Christopher examined his right foot, holding it with both hands. Unseen and unheard, Mrs Meiklejohn was dialling a local number on her gold-plated, pseudo-antique telephone, standing in her downstairs hall fighting a giddy spell brought on by a combination of excitement and revulsion.

  ‘Is that you, Nellie?’ she asked, when the dialled number was answered.

  Aunt Dizzy had locked herself in her bedroom with Christopher when the doorbell rang in several short bursts. The two of them were pouring over a list of items and ideas for Jean’s forthcoming birthday bash, as Aunt Dizzy was now referring to it. It had gone seven o’clock. Jean had only just arrived back from Brighton with Ivan’s assorted treasures, which they’d carried indoors from the car. There was a huge amount in assorted boxes. Ivan collected early twentieth-century wind-up tin toys, nineteenth-century golfing equipment, owned no less than five wind-up portable gramophones – two miniature – with dozens of seventy-eight recordings. There were copies of National Geographic in boxes that went back to the beginning of time. Or at least Jean thought so. Everything had been stored in another room to the one Ivan had lived in on Farm Road in Brighton. He had decided, not having told Jean until they’d reached Brighton, that he could not part with anything, as he’d bought every single item with May. He and Jean had just finished carrying the multitude of fusty-smelling memories down the hall to the morning-room when the doorbell sounded. Jean, out of breath, decidedly grubby, hair in complete disarray and irritable beyond measure, opened the front door to a distinguished-looking gentleman in a three-piece suit carrying two ancient leather suitcases, a walking-stick over his arm.

  ‘Yes?’ Jean asked.

  ‘So sorry to disturb you,’ the figure said, staring at Jean so intently her heart began to race. ‘Is Christopher here? I’m his father.’

  Mr Harcourt had the same unfortunate over-large ears and a broad smile which, as he stood there, did not quite reach his eyes.

  ‘Mr Harcourt! Is something wrong?’ Jean asked. ‘I’ll fetch Christopher. Do come in.’ She thought he looked rather too pale and flustered. As he put down the suitcases, the walking-stick slipping from his arm and clattering on to the ground, she noticed that his hands were trembling. He looked ill.

  ‘I shan’t, if you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Though I am feeling a mite queer. The heat perhaps … May I just…’ but before he was able to finish he crumpled – collapsing, it seemed to Jean afterwards when she thought about it, almost in slow motion – to the ground. He sat on the steps like a tall, well-dressed stick insect, blinking rapidly, legs splayed out in front of him in an ungainly posture. His face was the colour of clotted cream. Jean rushed forward and grabbed one of his arms. Just as she did so she heard Christopher running down the hall and his voice, behind her, calling ‘Father? Father!’ Christopher roughly pushed past her when he reached them, knelt down at his father’s side and, taking one of his hands, rubbed it frantically between his own.

  ‘I’m all right, son, I’m all right. Or I shall be in a minute. Let me just catch my breath.’

  ‘What is it? Is it Mother? Where is she?’

  Mr Harcourt stared about him as if he had suddenly forgotten where he was. He continued to blink rapidly.

  ‘She’s at home, son. Nellie’s all right. Nothing to fear. We’ve had a little set to.’ Slowly Christopher helped Mr Harcourt to his feet. Jean backed away a few steps and bumped into Aunt Dizzy, who was trying to peer around her from the hall.

  ‘She’s thrown you out,’ Christopher said, staring down at the luggage. ‘She’s thrown you out!’

  Mr Harcourt stood shaking, balanced by Christopher’s grip on his arms.

  ‘I was off to find an hotel, son. Came over a bit queer. Didn’t wish to depart without a goodbye.’

  Christopher turned his head and stared at Jean, his face also ashen and creased with a frown. He was close to tears.

  ‘Bring him in,’ Jean told him. ‘Leave the luggage. I’ll get it. Take him along to the kitchen. Put the kettle on, Christopher.’

  After they moved off, Aunt Dizzy went to help Jean as she picked up the two suitcases and the walking-stick. Jean shook her head and made an exasperated sound. The evening was still too warm and the air from the street smelt sour. It was difficult to breathe. Aunt Dizzy followed as Jean began to make her way with the luggage down the hall. Freida, who had been asleep in her room, had, in the mean time, emerged and was leaning in her doorway staring, wearing the largest hair curlers Jean had ever seen. Jean ignored her and pushed past.

  ‘What’s up, Lady?’ Freida called after her. ‘You look as if you’ve been down the salt mines, girlie!’

  ‘Oh, shut up!’ Jean tried to shout, but the words came out as a squeak. Then she came to a stop, took several deep breaths and before moving on, head drawn back, she shouted, her voice rising an octave with every word, ‘THE BARRIE HOTEL IS NOW FULL! ELIZABETH, GO UPSTAIRS AND MAKE UP THE BED IN THE EMPTY GUEST ROOM. FREIDA, I NEED A DOUBLE GIN. IMMEDIATELY!’

  Freida and Aunt Dizzy rushed to comply.

  THIRTEEN

  ‘Talk about the concert,’ Anthony had said, before switching on his minicorder. ‘Or, rather, the Albert Hall concerts.’

  Jean had almost come to the conclusion back then, when he visited the house with only a professional interest in her, that she didn’t like him. He was not sycophantic, which she approved of. He was not condescending. She had found herself staring at his lips and his hands, which were perfectly shaped as well as sensual. They’d spent hours alone together by that time.

  ‘I was asked to sing there,’ she said and shrugged.

  ‘Go on.’

  The minicorder is switched on. There is a long silence before Jean speaks.

  It just happened. Oh, it took a long while to organize, I expect, and I had nothing to do with that. My agent grovelled. To me. To everyone who’d listen. I’d agreed to appear. That was enough for me. There was huge pre-publicity, posters everywhere you looked. Listings magazines gave heavy coverage before and after the first night. There were to be three concerts. Each one was booked solid within days of tickets going on sale. I was asked to do one more evening, but I refused. I’d only wanted to do one. I was drinking heavily, tempted by happy pills someone was offering. Never took them. I was exhausted from travelling, flying to New York, San Francisco. Other places. William was never home. The children
had almost stopped talking to me. They spent all their time, when I was here, with my mother and father. They were living here then, of course. Quite happily. Had sold the Brighton house. William was edgy, even cold. Distant. I knew I was slowly breaking down the family from too many outside commitments, yet there seemed nothing I could do about it and I didn’t think about it very often.

  There is a pause. Jean coughs. Ice tinkles in a glass. She coughs again.

  Rehearsals went reasonably well. I was to wear several different outfits, all terribly glam. I was fussed over and pampered. I kept forgetting the stage directions at first. I got drunk, twice. It was all done, the show, with dramatic lighting and backdrops. A fright of timing. I simply did as I was told during rehearsals and sang. Or didn’t. My parents decided that they would bring the children – though they were hardly children by then – to the third, final performance. I was too caught up in myself to take much notice. The weeks that led up to the first night are rather blurred. I remember being awake at night, drinking, fraught with panic, agonizing over nagging phone calls from William. He was, I suppose, despairing of me, even then letting go. Sunday gatherings had long stopped. I was away so much that Jared and Gemma treated me sometimes like a stranger. Mother brooded, when she wasn’t lecturing me about parental responsibility.

  The telephone is heard. The tape is switched off, then back on.

  Sorry. Freida. Where was I?

  Talk about the first night.

  Well, you know who was there. Just as well I hadn’t known beforehand. I’ve never had any desire to meet any of the royal family, even minor members, but I had to. My voice was fine. I had rested. I even remembered the stage directions, tried my best not to bump into anything or trip over. There were so many – far too many – encores. Do they call them that now? Call-backs? I don’t know. I sang perfectly in tune. I think. Jean laughs.

  There was a party afterwards. After the first night. Interviews. Television. It all got thoroughly out of hand, as if I’d only just been discovered. Y’d been singing for years. By the second night I was regretting all of it. But it went ahead, despite how I felt. Look, I don’t know what else to say.

  The minicorder is switched off.

  “The most dazzling performance of style and succinct originality ever seen at the Royal Albert Hall,” it said in the Observer,’ Anthony said quietly, staring at her, leaning forward in his chair. He kept glancing at the vodka bottle beside her, which was almost empty. The ice had all gone. ‘All the reviews were unanimous. “Lady Jean is conquering London,” someone even wrote.’

  ‘Yes, yes. I know. Sickening, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And offers pouring in. A new production of Sunset Boulevard with you in the lead.’

  Jean laughed, too loudly, and swallowed the last of the vodka. She stared at the empty bottle, then carefully, too carefully, placed it under her chair and pushed it away with her feet.

  ‘Oh yes. All that. I can’t talk about that.’

  ‘Humility isn’t needed here, Jean.’

  ‘No? Tosh, tosh.’

  The minicorder is switched back on.

  It was all grand, grand fun and I loved every minute. Every second. Is this what you want to hear? I was – what is it? – in seventh heaven. On a roll. At the top. The world was my oyster. The whole of London worshipping at my feet. Tributes. Offers. My agent began to smile and laugh and pretend he was human. Wonderful, wonderful. Everyone was there for the final night. Except William. My father kissed me, he was so, so …

  Jean stops. There is a long silence and she begins to weep. The sound of her weeping grows louder and more desperate. A glass crashes and Jean cries out, angrily, Rats, bloody stinking rotten rats!

  The tape is switched off.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Anthony said. ‘I am sorry.’ They had moved into the kitchen and sat opposite one another at the breakfast table. Jean shrugged. An hour had passed. She had calmed down enough to make them some tea.

  ‘Not a lot I could do about it. This whole idea stinks. It wasn’t your fault. I do my best not to think about what happened, after. There’s always a reaction. If I allow myself… it was all a last-minute thing, my idea to drive down to Wales. I just made up my mind and no one had any choice.’

  ‘Do you want me to record this?’

  Jean shook her head.

  ‘No! Oh maybe. I don’t know. Don’t interrupt. I was on such a high that night, yet I was utterly, utterly exhausted. I was over the limit. Drunk. I shouldn’t have been driving. I wanted simply to be alone with Mother and Father and the children, somewhere a long way from London. I wanted William, but he wasn’t here. Just a few days, I told him on the phone. No need for us to wait and for him to fly back. He’d been in Singapore, you see. Too far. And I was angry at him. For not being here.’

  The minicorder is switched on. Jean is not aware of it.

  So, after the last night I made them all get into the car and we drove. It was terribly late. All those miles. Hours. Down to Wales, to the cottage, in the dark. We were all excited. I’d just accepted several new offers. And the Boulevard thing had made us all laugh. Mother thought it a joke. Me? Norma Desmond? Ha! A ludicrous idea. We stopped on the way, some motorway café. Full of truck drivers. We all ate breakfast. Grilled sausages. Even Mother seemed caught up in it all despite her complaining every five minutes about the idiocy of my juvenile impulsiveness, as she called it. Wait until the morning, she said, over and over. Drive down tomorrow. The cottage is in need of repairs. We could stay in a hotel. On and on she went. I wouldn’t listen. I ignored her.’

  Jean pauses.

  Is that thing switched on? Turn it off. NOW, Anthony. You conned me. I’m drunk. You prick. Turn it…

  The minicorder is switched off.

  ‘I’ve nothing more to say. You can go. You tricked me. Bastard. You got me drunk on purpose.’

  ‘Hardly! It’s your vodka.’

  ‘GET OUT! Go on, just bugger off. Leave. It’s late. And don’t you EVER do that again!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get me talking about Wales. I won’t. I won’t. Prick. Fuck off.’

  ‘All right! Steady on. I’ll go. I’m sorry.’

  She walked him to the front door. It was gone one o’clock in the morning. It was freezing in the hall. He tried to kiss her on the cheek, but she pushed him away with a sigh and shuddered as she closed and bolted the door behind him. For the rest of the night she wandered the downstairs rooms of the house, drinking, muttering to herself, sometimes weeping. She was quite unaware that Catherine Truman was sitting quietly in the darkness, half-way down the stairs, having descended earlier to watch and to listen with intent.

  FOURTEEN

  Ivan Fitzpatrick is having a terse, whispered talk to his late wife. Sitting on his bed in his underwear and socks, he has not been able to sleep. He has made himself a mug of hot chocolate in his tiny kitchen and sits sipping it, listening every so often, as if he is waiting for May to reply. She doesn’t, of course, but her voice is so implanted in his memory that he is able to speak to her and listen for replies, nodding his head or shaking it where appropriate when they come. It has rained briefly during the night and the sound woke him. It is four o’clock in the morning. The house below him seems too quiet, as if everyone has tiptoed out the front door and deliberately left Ivan alone.

  Everyone else is asleep, even Mr Harcourt – Percival – in the room on the other side of Aunt Dizzy. The room had once, long ago, been a children’s nursery. Mr Harcourt, who prefers that name to Percival or Percy, which he has always detested, sleeps soundly and is not snoring. His eyeballs, however, are moving rapidly from side to side, for he is dreaming of his own long-gone childhood in India. It is the first uninterrupted night’s sleep he has enjoyed for many weeks. Since, in fact, his wife packed up Christopher’s belongings and threw their son out on to the street in an act that had nothing to do with the Christianity she is possessed by but more to do with petulance and spite, in Mr Harcourt’s opin
ion. Every evening and almost every night from that time Mr Harcourt had not been allowed to rest easily for hearing, plainly and with gathering momentum, Nellie Harcourt conducting vigorous prayer meetings in the living-room of their Eamont Street apartment with members of her church. Praying, sometimes in tongues, for the soul of their wayward, sinful, shameful son and for the damnation of her evil brother Fergus.

  The walls of the house are very dry. The brief rain shower merely covered the roof tiles in a thin film of damp that will evaporate as soon as the sun is up. Damp rot in the foundations has dried up or disappeared or whatever damp rot does when it doesn’t any longer exist. There are still ceiling-to-floor stains of past damp, filigreed down the walls of Ivan’s rooms, but they are barely noticeable. The mural of Jean below its layers of fresh paint is totally invisible. Christopher believes the house is, figuratively, being reborn.

  The field mouse which has been living behind the skirting board beneath the breakfast table downstairs in the kitchen is dead. Christopher set a trap and earlier, though there was no one present to hear it, there was a sudden, muted thud and a brief squeak. The field mouse lies in the trap with its tiny back broken. Behind the skirting its mate has given birth to eight babies. Naked and pink and blind, they crawl about in a nest of shredded newspaper and Shredded Wheat which their lone parent is feeding on, the late male having dragged pieces through the tiny entrance to their home several nights before. Aunt Dizzy enjoys Shredded Wheat as a breakfast cereal and has dropped many on the neglected kitchen floor tiles which are now rarely swept.

  Three houses away, along Acacia Road, an unmarried, post-middle-aged couple who have just won several thousand pounds in the National Lottery are making love. The woman is sitting astride her lover, pinching his nipples as she reaches orgasm. Her voluptuous lower thighs bounce and shiver on each side of his ample, distended stomach, which is full of spaghetti bolognese. She is crying out so loudly that it wakes the elderly gentleman next door, a retired country GP, who lies in his bed listening. The sounds from the woman fill him with nostalgia, in his half-dreaming state, for they remind him of the sounds foxes made, at night, when he lived far away in North Yorkshire.