Death of a She Devil

by Fay Weldon

  I find it strange – I have almost nothing in common with Mary (and certainly not a belief in ‘love’), except that I too am now perforce a conscripted functionary of The Great Fictional Religion and a devotee of Momus. He has work for me to do. But I’m fucked if I’m going to do all that wooo-h, wooo-h, wooo-hing business. Most people just ignored it. You have to ignore the paranormal, the intrusion of alternative universes – eleven of them, apparently, our Cambridge cosmologists are currently claiming – if you’re going to get on with things, otherwise you would live a life of constant terror. Mary suckered Valerie and Samantha and even Ms Bradshap, but most people took her with a pinch of salt.

  Anyway, that’s me. The formerly corporeal Nurse Hopkins and I’m going to tell you what happened...

  Chapter 2

  Tyler

  Tyler, at Samantha’s suggestion, hid away in a shadowy corner of the room. Dr Simmins signed the death certificate: cardiopulmonary event due to aspiration failure. The She Devil deigned to come down and weep a tear. Ellen took photos. Valerie took notes and Samantha laid out the body as she had been trained to do.

  When the room finally emptied Tyler slipped away unnoticed. Or would have had he not been stopped by Security. He had forgotten about his shoes, Balenciaga’s sneakers, bright blue nappa leather with grey laces, barely worn, a whole £10 in the Help the Aged charity shop in Steynswick. It was true, they were rather startling when worn with his nurses’ cloak: well, worn with anything, come to that. But who wouldn’t need cheering up when visiting the dying, he asked himself? Tyler was to have a gruelling time of it, for such a sunny, innocent lad.

  ‘Nice shoes,’ said the Security girls. ‘Just rather large for a girl.’ They made a pleasant cluster, Tyler thought, most of them under thirty, in smart blue and black braided uniforms, but shrewd-eyed and well-exercised, with long legs and well-developed shoulders. They made him strip down to t-shirt and jeans and looked him up and down, but asked for no further proof of his maleness, though he would not have minded if they had. Death was so strange that the normal assumptions that went with everyday life were jolted out of true. It all seemed rather dreamlike. Anyway, he had nothing to be ashamed of. He had time to spare.

  Asked if he was going home he said yes; but it seemed no kind of sanctuary, just another nest of females – Nicci, Matilda, Jane and Jilly, and for all he knew Madison and Mason would return. He was the odd one out. He wondered where all the men had gone. In India they aborted girl babies, and the rest of the world thought it a scandal. In middle-class England they aborted boys, because girls were so much more desirable than boys, fun to dress, went to college, got jobs. Would he, who’d only escaped abortion because of a mistaken gender diagnosis, become the rule, not the exception?

  Well, he still had friends, they still had sofas, he would resign himself to sofa surfing and a diet of pizza and chips, and call on Hermione from time to time. She might even ask him to help with the business. He could not stand the humiliation of the Jobcentre Plus any more. Miss Swanson would have to look after herself.

  Asked how he had effected entry in the first place he told them the truth, that Samantha had smuggled him in so he could be at his grandfather’s deathbed. Truth, in his experience, took up less time and caused less trouble than lies.

  ‘Oh, soppy Samantha,’ said the one called Leda. ‘That figures. So the old man’s finally gone, has he? That’ll please Valerie.’

  Could they mean his Valerie? The one with legs up to her armpits? The one he’d had a passing ‘thing’ with in the village shop when he’d been so upset? Apparently so. Tyler had assumed Valerie to be some kind of low-ranking secretary but apparently she was a power in the High Tower. Everyone seemed to like to talk about Valerie, under whose aegis Security now fell. He listened. Valerie was now on the Board, as they had all hoped. Young blood at last. Perhaps now the food in the canteen would get less flower-powery and more suitable for young appetites. Perhaps Valerie would give them new uniforms designed in the modern era and eschew flared jeans. Valerie wanted the Lantern Room for use as a Parity Library, open to the public, which meant more staff and higher wages but was problematic because men would have to be allowed in and some twat was bound to demand a men’s loo which would be disgusting because they always missed.

  But now the old man was no more the Lantern Room was free, and at least Security wouldn’t have to be running up and down the stone stairs at night when Samantha was off shift, putting up with his antiquated rages and general imbecility. He used to throw his false teeth at them. The stairs were so steep they were dangerous and not really suitable for public access. Valerie would have to check it out with Health and Safety.

  The aptly-named Leda, who seemed to be the leader of the group, a tall, dark and sultry girl with a strong jaw and heavily fringed almond eyes, said she was sorry the old man had gone but it was a blessed relief for everyone. And what would happen about Saturday’s Widdershins Walk? Would it have to be cancelled? They were all looking forward to it. Didn’t Tyler know anything? Tyler said no he didn’t.

  He thought of how different the attitude of a group of male Security guards would be. He said as much and they laughed, stuck out their stomachs, slouched their shoulders and grunted and snorted at each other in what seemed to be a practised routine and said theirs was not a hierarchical dog-eat-dog organisation but a team of friendly bitches working together and Tyler should be careful of what, being male, he might grow into. Tyler felt uneasy.

  And then Valerie herself came tripping down the steps. The weather had cleared. It was a bright, bright beautiful day. Tyler realised how alike he and Valerie were, a pigeon pair the way they normally dressed, he male, she female, jeans and black sweaters – hers expensive, his Tesco’s – blue-eyed and with cropped fair hair. She stopped stock still when she realised who it was. She ran her fingers through her hair, and seemed embarrassed to meet his eye.

  ‘Good God,’ she said. ‘It’s you!’ It occurred to him that their brief encounter had meant more to her than it had to him. And that couldn’t be bad. He liked a powerful woman. He was accustomed to them. If another chance came he would certainly take it. She could be very helpful. He might even finally meet and mollify his mysterious grandmother; he might even get a decent job. If the Lantern Room was to be a public access space, and a Gender Parity Library open to men, and he was on good terms with both Valerie and the She Devil, and one fancied him and the other was family, why could he not be the librarian or something? Stranger things had happened. How quickly ignoble possibilities arranged and rearranged themselves in one’s head, while one was staring into someone’s eyes. Valerie’s blue eyes. Deep pools, all that. They seemed a great deal more pool-like than they had in the village store. Could he be turning into his grandfather – all lubricious thought, self-interest and power play mixed? He realised he was holding her hand.

  Security was apologising to Valerie for the security breach: Tyler had been let through in the first place, without so much as a signed pass. Valerie said it was all right, she was cool about it, Tyler was a relative and could come and go as he wished: a far worse breach in protocol was their handing over the car keys of the Mercedes to Dr Simmins, who had apparently lost no time in driving it away. Really, they must check any instruction from Lady Patchett with her, Valerie. The She Devil was old, upset by her husband’s illness and death, and did not know what she was doing. Valerie needed to go to Lewes at once to register the death at Births, Deaths and Marriages before it closed. They should bring out the Lexus since the Mercedes was unavailable. Tyler had better come with her since, though she had the necessary documents, it was as well to take a family member with her.

  ‘Is this him?’ Leda, the one with the fringed eyes and jutting jaw, asked Valerie. She seemed upset.

  ‘Yes,’ Valerie said, ‘it’s him. Isn’t he pretty? I’m sorry, dear, I told you I was bi. Get used to it.’ Leda looked flushed and upset.

  ‘Hasbian!’ said Leda under her breath. Tyle
r was beyond making sense of anything. This morning his long-lost grandfather had been alive, now he was not. All anyone seemed interested in was practicalities. He’d never seen anyone die before, if that indeed was what had happened. But they wouldn’t say anyone was dead when they weren’t quite, would they?

  When the car came round, a serviceable Lexus with an old number plate, he got in beside Valerie and they drove off. She pulled in at a lay-by outside St Rumbold’s and said he looked as if he needed a joint. Tyler said he did and she rolled one expertly, using one hand, which he thought admirable. Their cheeks touched and the same familiar shock of electricity he’d felt down at the shop seemed to run from her to him, him to her. Of course she wasn’t a lesbian. This thing would run and run.

  Chapter 3

  A Board Meeting

  Minutes of Emergency Board Meeting, Friday, 10.30 a.m., 20th December.

  In attendance: Ways and Means and Ethics Committees.

  Venue: 3CC/1

  Apologies for absence: Dr Ruby Simmins.

  The Minutes of the meeting on 18th December were read and approved.

  Matters arising: Urgent steps were under way to remove alleged dead rat from beneath the Archive Room floorboards. One objection was noted; an acceptably quick and humane death for a field mouse did not equate with a slow and lingering death for a single rat, who had crawled away to die. The Ethics Committee had this under discussion.

  Agenda:

  1. Staffing concerns:

  Miriam from Human Resources informed the Board that Samantha had laid the body out sympathetically and had received her P45, plus a week’s money in lieu of notice. Ms Sidcup reported in her rather tremulous voice – she was eighty-four and one of the founder members of the IGP – that dear Ms Octavia had kindly donated her unbleached bamboo linen shroud, cost £175, for which she would be compensated in due course. Leda from Security explained that the body was now housed in the walk-in chiller in the staff canteen until further deliberations as to its disposal were concluded: the body had a shelf to itself and perishable items were kept well away, though contrary to common belief, cadavers were not in themselves a biohazard. Internal bacteria kept themselves to themselves and flourished inside the corpse initially, not outside. Dr Simmins had signed the FFI form in case of questions (Freedom From Infection, required for burials at sea). That left:

  2. Matters relating to funeral.

  3. Matters relating to tomorrow’s celebrations.

  4. Vote of thanks to Valerie Valeria, for 10 per cent membership rise over two years.

  5. Policy direction.

  6. Any other business.

  The She Devil was Chair but she was tired. She would like a holiday. It must have been ten years since she took one. But where would she go? With whom? You got to a certain age and people started dying and friends had never been her forte. She supposed she could count Nurse Hopkins as one – the She Devil had set her up in business years back, and she had ended up a multi-millionairess of the start-up age, luxury yacht and all – but now even she was gone. The She Devil had this very morning received a black-edged email with a mourning emoticon which told her that Nurse Hopkins had died the previous day – had collapsed at her desk. She’d found that more distressing than Bobbo’s death. Old friends were worth more than old husbands. The She Devil had been comforted through many vicissitudes by knowing that Nurse Hopkins was simply there. Their worlds did not mix, of course.

  Nurse Hopkins too, no doubt egged on by the She Devil’s urge to self-improvement, had become fashion-conscious and become known in celebrity circles as ‘La Jolie Laide’. She had invited the She Devil onto her yacht for a luxury Mediterranean cruise, but it had not seemed suitable. If you were running a charity, these days you had to be so careful.

  There’d probably be more people at Nurse Hopkins’ funeral than there would be at the She Devil’s own when her turn came. More would be grateful for washing machines mended, food deliveries taken in, children collected from school or walked round to nursery than they would be for anything the She Devil had done – driving them out to work in the first place, putting uncomfortable thoughts of independence in their heads – when in the end dependence was all you really had. Look at her and Valerie Valeria. If you so much as wanted to take a walk or address a meeting you had to have someone to help you. And she would not carry a stick – it was demeaning.

  The She Devil had been on her way to visit Bobbo, Ellen helping her up the stairs, only to arrive just as his fool of a nurse was closing the old man’s eyes. The eyes had started open of their own accord, which had freaked Nurse Samantha and her assistant out until Samantha had used her common sense and taped them down. Fortunately Dr Simmins was there and had written out the death certificate without question. Dr Simmins had made a rather unfortunate joke, however: ‘Cause of death? What shall I say? By common consent or boring old infarction?’ It would not do. Now Dr Simmins had the Mercedes, which she seemed to see as a gift rather than a loan, and there would be no stopping her ribaldry. The saying ‘No good deed but goes unpunished’ was in this case only too true.

  And Dr Simmins couldn’t even be bothered to come to this meeting – to which, come to think of it, the She Devil realised she had better pay attention, having called it in the first place. Perhaps the Widdershins Walk would be cancelled. The weather was great today, positively balmy, but tomorrow’s forecast suggested storm, snow, sleet, lightning and gusts as a new low came rushing in from the west... Where had they got up to? Ah, still on:

  2. Matters relating to the funeral.

  It was decided, there being no legal requirement for a funeral and many options open as to the disposal of the body, that no actual funeral was necessary. So long as the person was de-cently, publicly and permanently disposed of and there was no biohazard, you could do as you saw fit. The normal route via the undertaker was unnecessarily complicated and expensive. Ms Valerie (apologising for her late arrival) argued strongly that parity must extend to the dead and that the Walk the Other Way slogan was strengthened not weakened by this break with burial tradition, and that on no account should the Walk be cancelled out of any hypocritical respect for the dead. So much depended on the dead and the life they had lived.

  As for the weather forecast, she said, feminists had always struggled against adversity and should be seen to put their money where their mouth was, and venture out with spirit and courage to process, crying ‘Widdershins! Walk the Other Way! Out with the old, in with the new!’

  Nevertheless, a death had occurred and could not be ignored. Ms Laura had suggested, wisely, that guests should be informed of the death on arrival or, if possible in the short time allowed, notified by email. What amounted to a wake could then be incorporated into the victory celebrations.

  (‘Victory now, is it?’ the Chairperson Lady Patchett was heard to murmur. ‘I thought it was meant to be a birthday party!’ but no one heard.)

  Leda from Security broke in at a sensitive moment to explain that to alleviate people’s anxieties the body could easily be moved to the cold store, otherwise empty, and not remain in the walk-in chiller, and so long as the temperature was between 4 and 5 degrees Celsius there was no problem with that.

  ‘Will that keep you happy, Valerie?’ demanded Leda, fringed eyes flashing.

  ‘It does,’ said Valerie cheerfully. ‘No worries. I’ve nothing more to say anyway. You always did hate me making speeches.’

  ‘Hasbian! Burn in Mordor!’

  ‘Is something going on here I should worry about?’ asked the She Devil, coming to life. Was that a love bite on Valerie Valeria’s neck? In which case why didn’t the girl wear a polo neck? Oh, such a typical exhibitionist!

  ‘No worries,’ said Valerie, apparently blithely, the girl who had once been the She Devil’s assistant but now seemed to be running the show. But Leda walked out in dudgeon, so that was that sorted.

  The no formal funeral matter having been decided (there were no all-female burial firms in the a
rea, anyway, the excuse apparently given was coffin bearers in the age of obesity had to be extra strong, which meant male), the disposal of the body was the next cause for discussion. Ms Octavia had changed her mind and thought the freezer was preferable to the cold store, but was over-ruled. Time was of the essence. It was normal to bury bodies in the earth (ecologically sound) or have them cremated (ecologically unsound). But there was a new form of cremation called alkaline hydrolysis, which turned the body liquid and was thus an improvement on both. But Lady Patchett said, ‘Enough is enough. I will not have him poured down a drain,’ and the debate took a different turn.

  Some said even to suggest it was tactless, the She Devil’s bereavement being less than a day old, while others argued that attending to ecological issues must always be a priority. The She Devil was known to be something of a climate change denier, blaming it on changes in the sun rather than human activity; someone who refused to join in the waste sorting exercise at the High Tower, upsetting Ms Bradshap by seeing it as appeasement of the Almighty – ‘Dear God, if I get mucky fingers sorting the food waste bucket, will you promise not to burn the Earth to a cinder?’ – was such a person fit to comment on cremation? Everyone knew that mercury tooth fillings of cremated oldtimers dangerously polluted the air and belching crematorium chimneys broke all CO2 regulations. Alternative methods had to be found and the IGP had to lead the way. There was quite a heated debate until someone suggested it might be easier for her if Ms Valerie took over as acting Chair. Lady Patchett, surprisingly, stood down. She was obviously getting old.