Going Loco

by Lynne Truss

  ‘They’ve invited us to dinner,’ Viv told Jago.

  ‘Linda and Stefan?’

  ‘Tomorrow night.’

  ‘OK.’

  Viv returned to her treadle machine and her cloth of gold. She had volunteered to make all the costumes for an end-of-term Shakespeare. To add a bit of interest to the project, moreover, she had urged the drama teacher to set it not in some fustian bardic wasteland (sacking robes, and so on) but at the court of Louis XVI, with the hall of mirrors.

  ‘You always have to overdo it, don’t you?’ said Jago. The living room was a sea of scarlet satin and costume pearls. The Ripleys were not speaking much, these days, except to snipe at each other.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ said Viv, completing a seam.

  Agitated, Jago drank his coffee and poured some more. He hated his days off, especially if they were not at weekends. Viv was so madly domestic at present, as if to prove she could outdo the old cleaning lady. And as for him, he couldn’t settle at home. He was frantic to know what Tanner was up to at the office. Every time he closed his eyes, he pictured Tanner trying his chair for size.

  ‘So are you all right about Linda and Stefan?’

  ‘What? Of course.’

  ‘I take it you’ve stopped thinking Stefan’s a clone?’

  Jago put down his mug with a clunk. ‘I never thought Stefan was a clone.’

  ‘Oh, really? I thought you did.’

  Belinda put down the cuttings and stared at the wall. Then she stared at the ceiling. Then she stared out of the window. She couldn’t believe it. She felt sick. This reflects on me, she kept thinking, idiotically. I wouldn’t mind, but this reflects on me.

  To find oneself described in public print as the Bat in the Belfry was a shock, of course. No doubt Mrs Holdsworth thought it was this libel she needed to know about. But matters were far worse than that. Because, truth to tell, ‘Up the Duff’ was rubbish. Linda was writing liquefying compost, and under Belinda’s name! The realization had so many implications! Belinda considered several of them rapidly. ‘Good God,’ she breathed. ‘How will I ever explain it to Julian Barnes?’

  There was nothing wrong with the genre of ‘Up the Duff’, as such. Even from the seclusion of her ivory tower, Belinda was aware that people wrote these domestic dramas in newspapers all the time, and sometimes executed them with effortless brilliance. Linda’s tone, however, was as clunky as a piano dropped down a staircase. The eponymous Up-the-Duff (Linda herself) had comical misunderstandings with Nordic Dream-boat (Stefan), while Conversationalist with the Feather Duster (Mrs H) took meals to Bat in the Belfry (Belinda). Meanwhile Unborn Sprog caused mayhem of a predictable nature. There was no getting away from it. ‘Up the Duff’ was dire.

  ‘Sprog?’ Belinda shuddered. ‘Sprog?’

  Dermot sat at his desk, twiddling a pencil and thinking hard. He, too, had noticed that ‘Up the Duff’ was dreadful, but this was not his only reason for wishing to spike Linda’s activities once and for all. True, he had recently contracted an ambitious young woman writer who would be glad to fill many of Linda’s commissions, were Linda abruptly to relinquish them. But by and large, he just didn’t approve of Linda posing as an anaesthetist without qualifications.

  Yet it was by no means obvious what he should do. The police must not be involved; Viv must not be dragged down. As he now understood, the poor confused woman had only responded to a biological urge to make cushion covers, after all. So, weighing up all considerations, he just needed a story about Belinda Johansson to scupper Linda’s career. ‘A story about Belinda Johansson,’ he muttered to himself. ‘A story about Belinda Johansson to scupper Linda’s career.’

  But what rumour could he circulate, to make all Linda’s editors and friends drop her? That she was an impostor? No, that would merely intrigue them: they would ask her to write about it. That she was a criminal? Ditto. An adulteress? A transsexual? A matricide? Ditto, with knobs on. That she was terminally ill? Dermot laughed nastily. Any hint of terminal illness (even curable illness) would have them gagging for Linda, and upping her fees.

  It was frustrating for a man like Dermot to find he could do nothing. Possibly the best-connected chap in London, he need only break the story and it would be everywhere. Wild fire looked sluggish in his vicinity. Yet he felt powerless. He frowned and fiddled with his silver bracelet, ran a hand across his smooth pate. Whatever a famous person admits to nowadays, it merely makes him more famous, more hot. Unless…?

  Dermot felt the answer was coming to him. He pressed his knuckles against his eyes. Unless…?

  Gingerly, he picked up the phone and dialled the Effort. The editor was, naturally, one of his clients.

  ‘Jack,’ he said. ‘Terrible news, I’m afraid. About Belinda J.’

  ‘What’s happened to her? Don’t tell me those bastards at the Telegraph—?’

  ‘No, it’s not as bad as going to the Telegraph, Jack.’

  ‘Good. What is it, then?’

  Dermot took a deep breath.

  ‘The thing is, Jack, Belinda’s dead.’

  Linda got the news on her mobile. Dermot felt it was only sporting to let her know at the same time as her editor. She was at the fishmonger’s, and in her dismay involuntarily sat down on a display of dressed crabs. ‘You’ve said Belinda’s what?’

  ‘I’ve said she’s dead, Linda. This couldn’t go on. Fight it, and I’ll tell everyone about your syringe secrets. You could be in prison for years. Tell Belinda I had no choice. People will be expecting a funeral, but that’s your problem.’

  And he hung up.

  Linda felt her throat constrict. Everything she’d built up for Belinda was to be destroyed! A life so rich and fruitful! A life so happy! Running home, she phoned Stefan, in tears, and he promised to meet her there as soon as he could.

  ‘Belinda!’ she yelled, as she let herself in to the house.

  ‘Belinda! Belinda!’

  Belinda peered through the loft trap-door. ‘I’ve got a bone to pick with you,’ she said, waving the columns.

  ‘You’ve heard?’ squealed Linda.

  ‘I’ve read it myself, thank you very much. How could you do this, Linda? I trusted you.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’m so terribly sorry.’

  As Belinda watched her cleaning lady climb the damn ladder for the umpteenth time, she was deeply puzzled. Confronting Linda about ‘Up the Duff’ was turning out to be a lot easier than she thought. She had feared one of Linda’s weeping tantrums. Instead of which, she seemed the soul of contrition.

  ‘This wasn’t how I intended things to end,’ Linda said. ‘You’ve got to believe me.’

  ‘End?’ said Belinda. ‘There’s no need for them to end.’

  But Linda wasn’t listening. She was agitated. She kept picking up tissues and tearing them into shreds. ‘Things are worse than ever!’

  ‘Linda, are you all right?’

  ‘How can you be so calm, Belinda?’

  ‘Look, it’s only a column.’

  At which point Linda realized, with a sinking heart, that they’d been talking at cross-purposes. ‘You said you knew,’ she said, flatly.

  ‘Knew what? About this damn “Up the Duff”? Yes, I do.’

  ‘Everyone thinks you’re dead, Belinda.’

  Belinda laughed. ‘But I’m not.’

  Linda shrugged. ‘Well, there’s the rub. If I am, you are.’

  ‘But you’re not dead, Linda. You told me you’ve got a box at the Proms. Have you gone raving mad?’

  ‘Trust me, Belinda. It’s over. We’re dead. No Proms, no nothing.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s over. There’s absolutely nothing I can do.’

  In the Gemini café near Maggie’s flat, Noel perused the ballet listings in Time Out. Visiting the ballet was not in fact his favourite pastime, but since Julia was a fan of dance, and since his marriage needed considerable attention since his wife found out about Maggie (if only he had not wooed Julia likewise with a
pound of spuds!), he was quietly reading the listings, and circling events with a pen, when a strange woman caught his eye and smiled, as if he ought to know her.

  She was sitting at a neighbouring table, nervously playing with a knife and flicking through a Swedish–English phrase book, but when she recognized Noel, she moved with awesome speed. Before he knew what was happening, she crossed over to him, grabbed his head and pressed it hard against her chest.

  ‘Hur lange har du varit här?’ she cried, impenetrably, and kissed the top of his head.

  His face smothered by this strange woman’s bosom, he tried saying, ‘Do I know you?’ but not much came out. The sense of fear and confusion was matched in intensity only by the taste of rough wool and the déjà vu. Another of his brother’s conquests? Well, if it was, Leon’s taste in women was coming seriously into question.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, uncertainly, as she released him from her excessive greeting.

  She pulled his ears intimately, and danced a jig on the spot. Whoever this unattractive little Swedish woman was, she was evidently very pleased to see Leon.

  ‘Birgit!’ she called to another small woman, solid, who was bringing coffee.

  ‘What?’ said Birgit (in Swedish), sitting down.

  ‘It worked! This is the man who carried me through Malmö, on the night of Stefan’s death! The man who gave me his coat with the note in the pocket!’ she said (also in Swedish).

  Birgit slapped him on the back and saluted him in true Swedish fashion. ‘Hej!’ she ejaculated.

  ‘Er, hi,’ Noel replied, and turned to Ingrid. ‘Er, good to see you again. Last time I saw you, you were – um?’

  ‘I had my knees around your head, ja?’

  Noel laughed, and tried fervently not to picture the scene. ‘That was some night,’ he ventured.

  ‘But I escape,’ Ingrid explained, suddenly solemn. ‘I escape to London. All Sweden looking for me! Mad woman on loose! Birgit help me.’

  ‘Oh good.’

  Noel’s brain was whirring.

  ‘I found this note in your pocket, describing this Gemini café!’ She produced the note Maggie had scribbled to Leon all those months ago – the day she’d run into Noel in the Gemini. That poor sap Leon had evidently treasured it. ‘So I come here to see you, beg you to help. I am so unhappy,’ she added, unexpectedly.

  ‘That’s a shame,’ said Noel. ‘But only natural.’ He assumed his sympathetic expression and, through force of training, handed Ingrid a paper serviette.

  She took it, wiped her eyes, and lowered her voice to explain. ‘Stefan is dead. I come for Belinda. Birgit help me. You understand? Then my work is done.’

  Noel patted her hand, which still held the knife. He knew Maggie had been in love once with someone called Stefan. Belinda was her oldest friend. A plan was hatching, vaguely but very quickly. The fact that it plainly involved a dangerously mad woman gave him no particular cause for alarm. As Maggie so rightly pointed out, Noel assumed that everyone was mad. For the first time in her life, Ingrid’s overtly dangerous insanity provided her with protective colouring.

  ‘Where are you staying?’ he asked.

  ‘Nowhere,’ Ingrid sobbed. ‘We yust arrive.’

  ‘There’s someone I want you to meet,’ Noel said, gently taking the knife away from her. ‘I’ll find you a place to stay.’

  ‘How can you be dead?’ Stefan paced the living room. ‘How can you be dead?’ he repeated. ‘You just cooked salmon and samphire pancakes. We’ve booked for the Cleveland Orchestra. Dead people don’t do that.’

  Linda hung her head. ‘Look at the flowers, George.’ The room was full of sympathetic bouquets; the answering-machine flashed with thirty messages. ‘Belinda doesn’t seem to mind, that’s the funny thing.’

  ‘She doesn’t mind that she’s dead?’

  ‘She’s coming down later, for a chat.’

  ‘A chat?’

  ‘Don’t keep repeating things, George. I’m worn out. I’ve had a pretty bad day, when you think about it.’

  She certainly had. News of Belinda’s demise had spread quickly. Her new agent – a friend of Dermot – informed all her employers within the hour. In fact, when the first of the flowers arrived at the house, she was still in the attic delivering the thunderbolt to Belinda. ‘You’ll have to go down,’ she told Belinda. The bell was ringing insistently downstairs. ‘Quick!’

  ‘I can’t. I haven’t been down for three months. I won’t know how to find the front door.’

  ‘Go on!’

  ‘But who shall I say I am?’

  ‘Who cares? Just act sad and shocked. Go on!’

  ‘We ought to nip this in the bud. Tell everyone you’re OK.’

  ‘Please, Belinda. Nobody knows you.’

  So Belinda hauled herself down the ladder, and crossed the landing, and made her way through the house. And the funny thing was: it was exactly as if someone had really died, or at least, abruptly disappeared. As she made her way to the front door, she tried to move noiselessly, yet was spooked by the silence. Unfamiliar pictures hung on familiar walls; she saw new objects on old shelves; she spotted the shopping left in bags on the kitchen table. A shiver rushed up her spine. ‘This was how she left it,’ was the emotional message of everything in the house. ‘In the midst of life we are in death. Ingredients for salmon and samphire pancakes were found in the shopping. A macintosh still wet from rain dripped beside the front door.’

  The doorbell rang, and as she reached for the door-knob, Belinda felt dizzy.

  ‘I’ve got some flowers for Mr Johnson,’ snapped the young man on the doorstep. He was in a hurry, and his pocky skin was wet. His double-parked van was blocking the road; a taxi braked behind it in the rain, and tooted. To Belinda, the combination of sensations was so intense that she staggered. It was like going from the reading room at the British Museum into the trenches of the First World War. The colour, the noise, the people!

  ‘For Mr Johnson,’ the man repeated.

  ‘Mr Johansson,’ she corrected him, automatically.

  ‘Well, can you take them, love? My van’s in the way. Are you all right? You look terrible.’

  ‘There’s been a death,’ she explained, lamely.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It happens.’ And handed her the flowers. She wrestled with the card, to see who they were from. It was Dermot, of course. ‘Are you related to the deceased, yourself?’

  Belinda thought about it. ‘Not really.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry anyway. ’Bye.’

  And now, while Stefan consoled Linda downstairs, Belinda considered how all this affected her. It wasn’t too bad, actually. In fact, strange as it may seem, she felt rather chirpy. For one thing, dying made her feel a lot better about Mother. The phenomenon known as ‘survivor guilt’ no longer applied. Plus, being dead had stopped her from killing herself. Which had to be a good thing, really.

  As she cast a quizzical glance at Linda’s medical box, she could only think how strange it was to have fancied ceasing on the midnight with no pain, courtesy of Linda’s needles. ‘“I have been half in love with easeful Death,”’ she told herself, in astonishment. ‘“Now more than ever seemed it rich to die”, tsk, tsk.’ Add these morbid sentiments to all the frantic pre-death gleaning she’d been up to, and Keats had rather a lot to answer for, she reckoned.

  Dying was definitely the best thing that could have happened. Dying made her tidy her attic, and sort her clothes. Books were neatly piled; manuscripts efficiently stuffed into black plastic bags. Belinda embraced nonentity with an energy that was quite inspiring. On her way back to the attic after the Interflora man had gone, she had gathered a few items together, including a mirror from the downstairs loo, and now she looked at herself in it. She fingered its surface, pawed at her reflection, like an orang-utan in a perception experiment.

  ‘Belinda, you’re dead,’ she said to herself in the mirror. ‘You’re dead, you are.’

  She rubbed her teeth, and put some
lipstick on. ‘This is fucking fabulous,’ she said.

  Selecting an old cassette of Kinks records, she slipped it into an old machine, and wound it at top speed until she reached ‘Days’.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ remarked Belinda, and played the track again. She’d often noticed in life how old pop songs came to mind just when their lyrics finally meant something to you. But wasn’t ‘Days’ supposed to be about an affair? How could it at the same time describe so accurately an experiment in full transference with a cleaning lady that had ended in this unique paradox in a Battersea attic? The true potency of cheap music must have been sorely underestimated. As she listened to the lyrics for a second time, she felt an old familiar twinge in her abdomen. It was Neville. Oh God, the lovely rat was back. Ta-da! This was almost more solitary happiness than she could bear.

  At midnight, Linda called to her. ‘Belinda, are you mad?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Belinda called back.

  ‘This is supposed to be a house of grief,’ Linda barked. ‘Some of us are quite upset, even if you aren’t. Stefan just had a call from a very tearful Terry O’Neill in Mauritius. I was phenomenally well liked, you know. People are being so nice. Come down. Have some supper with us. We’re worried about you.’

  But Belinda couldn’t help it. She didn’t want to go down to the funeral parlour of the living room. Instead she played the song again, and turned the volume even louder. ‘Thank you for the days,’ she yelled. And, stooping slightly under the eaves, she danced and twirled and laughed.

  Thirteen

  Whether to persist with the dinner party was the Johansson household’s chief concern. Arguably, the Johanssons had broken their fair share of new ground, etiquette-wise, yet here was a further ticklish point to ponder. If your best friends know you’re not really dead, is it OK to ask them to dinner? Finally, they decided it was. So while Stefan spent hours on the phone, accepting sympathy in a courteous Swedish manner from a surprisingly large proportion of the Groucho Club membership, his late wife flicked listlessly through her recipe books, with unseeing eyes. ‘I can’t enjoy cooking now we’re not alive any more,’ she objected to Belinda. ‘When I was doing it for you, it had a point. It was for you. But I’ve failed us, Belinda. I’ve let us down by kicking the bucket like this.’