Lady Jean

by Noel Virtue

  ‘This is too droll. Tutu droll, if you like. Today should be fun. Fred the Frock – no sorry, Father O’Connell – is hugely looking forward to it. Especially the meal. You know he actually cancelled two appointments so he could spend more time with us? He adores me, of course. Not often he gets to conduct a blessing in St John’s Wood. Brixton, yes, Even Balham. Putney, once. Lewisham. On Clapham Common he betrothed two ancient fairies in matching wheelchairs.’

  ‘Yes all right, Freida. Now when are the flowers being delivered? And the cake? Will that be ready?’

  Mrs Meiklejohn stands in her kitchen and is preparing honeyed ham and watercress sandwiches. She is smiling, a rare phenomenon. Her smile pushes up the pouches beneath her eyes so that it appears she doesn’t have any. Guests are to arrive at exactly eleven forty-five and must not be late. Only five of them, six altogether including herself, she’s been told. The bluntly worded placards, red paint still gleaming, stand in a row in the front hall. Mrs Meiklejohn has brought out her very best china from the glass-fronted cabinet she has owned since 1929. She has washed each cup and saucer lovingly in the kitchen sink and set each out to dry on a thick towel in her airing cupboard. She trims the crusts of the prepared sandwiches and inspects the chocolate cake, covered by cling-film, to see that it does not have any dents in its perfectly circular form. There are store-bought scones, whipped cream and jam. There are two plates of cocktail sausages on sticks and diced fruit in bowls with small, delicate, solid-silver spoons. She gazes out through her kitchen window, nibbling on a watercress stem, her eyes resting on the top of the hideous pink-and-white tent next door. As far as she can ascertain there is no activity going on there yet. Knowing Jean Barrie as she does, there will be a horde of invited guests, dozens of them, even the chance of several distinguished people, if people from the entertainment world could be classed as distinguished. She has convinced herself that there will be a huge number of guests and so informed Nellie Harcourt as if it was a fact. There’ll be a small orchestra, too, she stated, again having convinced herself that there will be one and relating it as an overheard fact. Fireworks, she’d heard some time ago, would be a feature. And a barbecue meal on the lawn. Deplorable, all of it, only weeks after a bereavement. No respect. Mrs Meiklejohn shivers, there in her spartan, pristine kitchen. She has never liked the Barrie clan. She regards this as simple dislike and not envy or resentment. Mrs Meiklejohn does not regard herself to be envious of anyone. She does still resent her husband for abandoning her. Yet soon she will be a fully fledged member of Nellie’s church. Life will become busy, filled with happy days and joy and visitors who will bring respect, and she will belong to a select group of good, moral people.

  Jean grieved for Aunt Dizzy. Talking to Anthony about the past made no difference to the pain of losing Elizabeth Barrie. She had not, of course, expected it to and she still did not understand just why she had spoken to Anthony in such a candid way. There were any number of reasons, such as shock. Aunt Dizzy’s room had so far been left as it was on the day – or night – that she’d died, but Jean planned to convert the room for Fergus, so that even if he did not wish to live at Acacia Road he could use the room and give both Christopher and himself more space, more privacy. Christopher, she knew, wished for the latter. Jean had seriously considered having other guests, semi-permanent or casual. There were distant relatives that Fergus spoke of, in America, who would, he claimed with his peculiar naïvety, be charmed to stay in a normal English household when they visited London.

  The gap Aunt Dizzy left had not narrowed and probably never would. The absence of her voice, her little ways, were things Jean noticed every day, and when she was feeling especially tired and vulnerable the quietness of where Aunt Dizzy had been seemed so deep and abiding that it brought pain. She could never be replaced, never be removed from the house, just as the rest of the family, with the exception of William, could never be replaced or removed. She began to think about Brighton at odd moments, about buying a house down there.

  Mr Alder had telephoned to apologize for not having been at the funeral. He’d offered no excuse. Letters had come, including a card from William that had at least made up, in a minuscule way, for his not bothering to fly back. Though, as Freida had pointed out, the writing on the card, she was certain, had not been William’s; it had been a feminine hand. Jean spent two weeks unable to leave the house at all, and for a few days she became obsessed with the notion that it had all been a mistake, that Elizabeth was not dead and was recovering somewhere in a hospital. As Ivan had kept expecting to see his late wife, Jean hoped she would see Elizabeth coming down the stairs or languishing in the garden wearing hot pants. Saying nothing to anyone, Jean wandered the rooms looking for her aunt when no one else was about. Then, one morning, she awoke and the small obsession had simply left her. She thoroughly cleaned Aunt Dizzy’s room, leaving the same linen on the bed and not disturbing the arrangement of her aunt’s possessions, drawing back the curtains and opening the windows. Anthony stayed close to her for that time, sleeping at the house but not always in her bed, drawing closer to Freida and getting to know Ivan, Christopher and Mr Harcourt a little better. He spent a lot of time with Ivan and liked him. Fergus appeared but remained much in the background. Jean had Freida get more keys cut so that each of them was able to come and go as they pleased. She sat in the garden and in the morning-room, eventually beginning her days upstairs in the formality of the Green Room, close to Aunt Dizzy’s urn. Ivan loaned her some books on English history which she read, their dry factuality comforting. She did not listen to music, her own or anyone else’s. The house stayed quiet, voices hushed not in a maudlin way but with a gentle quality of regret and sadness. Aunt Dizzy would have hated it, but for Jean it was part of a process of getting through to an acceptance that Elizabeth Doo Lally Barrie was no more to wander about in her hot pants or in almost nothing at all, leaving the odour of cigar smoke everywhere she went.

  Each of them was dressed in their own version of finery by the time Father O’Connell arrived exactly on time. Jean had not wished to know much about him or his background beforehand, despite Freida’s eagerness to tell all. He had, it seemed, quite a reputation in certain London circles and possessed numerous right-wing enemies as well as a legion of supportive friends. He was, surprisingly, quite small in stature, extremely polite and reticent, dressed in a quiet, formal grey flannel suit and sombre tie. Freida had asked for him not to be dressed in his usual garb of a cross between Catholic priest and Church of England bishop.

  ‘He makes all his own frocks,’ Freida announced in mock seriousness to a completely silent room before he appeared. Christopher sniggered.

  Flowers had been set out in vases alongside the red carpet and inside the pink-and-white tent where the ceremony would take place. Father O’Connell went in for simplicity and brevity, the latter usually because he was in such great demand. Christopher went out with his father, followed closely by Fergus, stunning in a white suit, his face flushed and tinted monocle sparkling. Freida and Jean wore corsages; the men wore buttonholes of green carnations. There was no music and no delay and the entire blessing was over in fifteen minutes. Father O’Connell spoke beautifully in a modulated, calm and pleasant voice about tolerance and recognition of all the varied forms of commitment. Christopher and Fergus exchanged new, inscribed, solid gold rings and hugged. Mr Harcourt awkwardly read from a card for less than a minute about parenthood, the speech apparently provided by Father O’Connell. Freida smirked. Ivan Fitzpatrick seemed rather touched by the simple formalities and Jean was certain, when he glanced at her, that his eyes were moist. Christopher kept grinning, glancing over his shoulder at Jean. Somewhere outside the tiny tent, above them on a rooftop, could be heard for a moment the two collared doves that frequented the garden, giving out their own particular melody. As soon as the ceremony was concluded they withdrew back inside the house. The two hired cars Frieda and Ivan had arranged were already waiting out front, and within a very short sp
ace of time they were being driven off towards Soho.

  It had been Freida who wished for the blessing to be conducted briefly and for the true celebration of the day to be held elsewhere at a restaurant. A last-minute decision, not discussed, it was made from respect for Aunt Dizzy’s passing, which each of them was still recovering from and still so aware of, inside the house as well as in the garden.

  Mrs Meiklejohn sat on a hard wooden chair in an inner win-dowless box room, dressed up to the nines, waiting for her own guests to arrive. She did not wish to be seen at the front of the house while all the dozens of Jean Barrie’s guests would be arriving next door, along with, she had convinced herself and Nellie Harcourt, caterers and waitresses and all the implements of what she had decided was to be An Event at the Barrie residence. There had been many of those in the past, with all the trimmings. An entire brass band once. Noise and shouting and singing and drinking on the lawn, music never ending, all night, on so many occasions. Mrs Meiklejohn never once invited over, never forewarned, never apologized to afterwards.

  As she waited she envisaged marching out into her garden with the others from the church at the appointed time, singing hymns, waving the placards: SODOMY WILL BRING DOWN THE WRATH OF JESUS. THE SINS OF THE FATHER WILL DESCEND ON TO THE SON. WICKEDNESS WILL BE PUNISHED. EVIL SOULS SHALL BE BANISHED TO HELL. The wording of the placards, the banners, was perfect if somewhat severe, she thought. She hoped there would not be trouble; Mrs Harcourt did not want authorities involved. Naturally she would be remaining indoors unseen, having pre-directed the action and written the slogans. Mrs Meiklejohn glanced at her wristwatch. It was noon. Her guests were late. She was tempted to take a peek out through the kitchen window but resisted. She might be seen. She was already trembling. She picked at red flakes of paint on the backs of her hands with her peach-varnished fingernails. She could hear nothing, of course, from next door, as the walls of her house were solid and insulated. She sat imagining the crowd arriving next door, as they had in the past, ready to party, ready to witness the execrable ceremony between Nellie’s son and her evil brother. She grew angry then calm, anxious then resigned. She waited silently there in the inner room amongst cardboard boxes of abandoned magazines and books and the detritus of all the years.

  ‘That was it?’ Freida whispered to Jean as soon as the hired cars were driving away from the house, turning left at the top of Acacia Road. As they’d got into their car Freida had complained that the driver looked as if he had just been released from a high-security prison.

  ‘You organized it,’ Jean responded.

  ‘It was far too short, Lady. Tutu short.’

  ‘They loved it. Look at them,’ Jean whispered back, gesturing up front. Fergus and Christopher, separated from the driver by a smoked-glass window, were gazing into each other’s eyes in rapture, both smiling broadly, Fergus’s arm around Christopher’s shoulder.

  ‘If you say so. It didn’t really mean anything. Not really. Fred the Frock isn’t even a real priest.’

  ‘What is wrong with you? I found the service most touching.’

  ‘Yes, lollypop, if you didn’t blink! That tent cost the earth to hire. Fred the Frock charged me a fortune – in advance. It was a rip-off. I’ll have words.’

  Jean glanced behind out the rear window. The other car was following closely. Ivan sat up front with the driver. He waved, and Jean smiled. Freida sat fuming, tapping her enormously long and immaculate nails on her knees.

  Mrs Meiklejohn kept glancing at her watch. It was almost twelve thirty. The doorbell remained silent.

  Freida, unbeknown to Jean, had booked the entire restaurant. She had peopled it with, to her mind, carefully chosen guests and friends, male and female, all of whom knew who Jean was and some who were fans. The restaurant was decked out in pink shades and streamers and giant cloth flags. There was to be a small orchestra under instruction to play only music from the 1920s and 1930s, a period Jean adored. Christopher and Fergus were to sit at their own table in front of the orchestra, on it a three-tiered wedding cake and, above, a pink-blossom-covered arbour. Amongst those present would be a scattering of drag queens and a group of female wrestlers, who were to give a demonstration of their talents to the music of Cher. Cedric Hyde was invited, numerous gay male friends and a dozen elderly men and women who were there to pay tribute to Aunt Dizzy, members of a social club – who went dancing and drank and smoked and still did aerobics – to which Aunt Dizzy had once belonged.

  Just as the sound of Mrs Meiklejohn’s doorbell reached her straining ears, the cars arrived outside the restaurant in Soho, and Freida, taking over, gathered everyone together on the pavement.

  Nellie Harcourt stood at the door when Mrs Meiklejohn answered the bell.

  ‘I have been ringing your bell for three minutes! No one is there!’ Mrs Harcourt immediately complained. ‘Next door! The house looks deserted. Are you sure you got the correct day, Alvina?’

  It was, by then, gone one o’clock.

  Mrs Harcourt had brought eight other women from the church, more than Mrs Meiklejohn thought she was to accommodate. Her first panicked thought, as she glanced at them over Nellie’s shoulder, was whether or not she had made enough sandwiches. She had certainly made a mistake about what she wore. Each of her guests wore black severely cut two-piece suits with pleated skirts. Mrs Meiklejohn was dressed in an an elegant full-length fake-silk peach dress and she had spent hours on her hair, suffocating it with half a can of lacquer. The other ladies all wore black berets. In twos, the members of Nellie Harcourt’s church filed sombrely into the hall, peering about them with superficially friendly stares, reading the placards, considering the mock-antique telephone, the flock wallpaper, paintings on the wall. Mrs Meiklejohn excused herself after showing them into the best room and hurried through into the kitchen, peering out the windows. Seeing no one across the wall, she quietly opened the door, fully irritated by the babble of voices now wafting out from her downstairs living-room.

  Jean Barrie’s garden was empty. Mrs Meiklejohn hurried down the path and stared through the gap in the wall. A vase of flowers had been overturned beside a red stretch of carpet. One green carnation lay on the grass. A black cat stood staring up at her; it mewed. Beside the closed french windows stood half a bottle of Tanqueray. As she lingered, not having noticed that the day had grown progressively grey as she had been hidden in the inner room, it began to rain. A light shower fell at first, then suddenly stopped. When a sudden, heavy deluge fell, Mrs Meiklejohn, still not having noticed the sky and intent on trying to peer through Jean Barrie’s french windows into an empty room, let out a shriek.

  ‘Fooled you, Lady,’ Freida said as she ushered Jean, Christopher and Fergus through the doors into the restaurant. The others followed. Freida had been glaring at Fred O’Connell and had half playfully slapped his wrist. Immediately they entered there came a burst of loud applause and the orchestra began to play ‘Mr Bojangles’.

  ‘I was pretending, lollypop. About being miffed. It has all been engineered. Let the fun begin! Come on, I want to dance with you, whether you want me to or not. The whole place is ours!’

  ‘You trollop!’ said Jean, and held out her arms.

  Jean danced with Freida. She danced with Christopher. She kissed Christopher twice and he kissed her back with moist rubbery lips. She danced with Fergus to a requested Viennese waltz, and then with Mr Harcourt. Cedric Hyde danced with Christopher. Christopher danced with anyone who asked. The women wrestlers wrestled to the music of Cher. Father O’Connell spoke at great length about love. Fergus spoke about himself and invited everyone there present to his country seat in Cheshire. Christopher wept. The group of elderly ladies and gents danced enthusiastically with each other and smiled vaguely with perfect dentures. Food was served. The tiered cake was cut. Champagne was sipped and spilt. Ivan stood up and sang an Irish ditty after drinking too much wine. Anthony arrived eventually and Jean danced with him and held on to his hand. Freida insisted on dancing with
both of them.

  ‘We’ve only got the place for two hours!’ she shouted, throwing her arms around them. Anthony asked Jean to marry him, and she declined. She was asked to sing and said no to that. Everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’ as she stood with her arms around Christopher and Fergus being photographed, laughing while Fergus whinnied.

  She was to remember this day for a long, long time. She was to forgive Aunt Dizzy for leaving her. And while dozens of pink balloons floated down on to them from a suspended net and her friends, one after the other, each kissed her, she realized for the first time that she would have to make every effort in the years ahead also to forgive herself.

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  ©Noel Virtue 2001

  This ebook edition 2014

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