Scarlet gave Nick his bottle right at the table and Miss Bottomley eagerly joined in. She ate like a starved person, which it turned out, she was. The bacon and cream Scarlet had seen in her refrigerator were for the exclusive delight of The King of Wessex. Scarlet determined to shift him to tinned cat food and begin charging groceries to Miss Bottomley as Pom suggested. Feeding the old lady and the cat would have definitely bankrupted her.
“These apples are delicious,” said her employer. “What are they called?”
“Sops of wine,” Scarlet told her. “Who could resist that?”
“Most romantic,” Miss Bottomley agreed.
Pom said he must be on his way and refused a lift. Miss Bottomley closely watched Scarlet change Nick. This became less embarrassing when her employer confided her nursing experiences from World War I. The things she’d seen were worthy of a memoir. Scarlet began thinking her new employer was starved for human contact, too.
As soon as a clean Nick was stomach-down on the rug Miss Bottomley changed the subject.
“I do like your Pom person,” said Miss Bottomley, whose still-sharp eyes apparently missed nothing. “Hiring a detective, indeed! Seems so drastic. Is that husband of yours a dreadful Heathcliff? A would-be tenant of Wildfell Hall?”
“I’m no longer certain,” said Scarlet. “I thought I was in an equal marriage but he seems to have been playing a long game to maneuver me into a corner.”
“Into his harem,” Miss Bottomley agreed. “Men often do that, I find. Their excuse is that they must decide for us because we’re so supposedly “emotional”. But in my interviews with Mr. Inkum he’s always the one to fly off the handle! After all these years if I’ve learned nothing else I’ve learned how to keep my temper, I can assure you.”
“May I look at those documents the solicitor wants you to sign?”
Miss Bottomley fetched a blue legal-looking folder, settled down by the kitchen fire and promptly fell asleep.
Scarlet had discovered there was a telephone extension upstairs in the serving area and she put in a prompt call to Pelham D’Arcy at his home number.
“Miss Bottomley’s inherited some dreadful solicitor pretending to represent her but as far as I can see he’s representing himself. He wants her to turn her estate into a trust with himself as sole trustee!”
“Sounds most unsavory,” agreed Pelham. “Tell you what, Bob Thomas is our wills & trusts man – the old ladies love him. I happen to know he’s free tomorrow at ten o’clock.”
“We’ll be there,” promised Scarlet. She had had enough excitement for one day.
It wasn’t difficult to convince Miss Bottomley that she needed “a second opinion” in the matter of solicitors.
“Why of course I do,” she said, “Someone who represents my interests to the best of my ability and who’s willing to explain to me what those are. But how to find him was my dilemma? Who to trust? When anyone learns out about this estate they become so overly deferential – I don’t know how else to explain it – I feel certain they’re disguising their true face. Dilemmas of the wealthy! Who’d have thought?”
“I don’t actually know my solicitor’s partner,” said Scarlet, “but he works with my solicitor whom I like very much. Just use your instincts – we’ll interview as many solicitors as you feel you need to get a true perspective.”
“How refreshing!” said her employer. “I love options! It’s such an extravagance!”
“There’s been a development,” said Pelham meaningfully to Scarlet, after hands had been shaken all round. Bob Thomas looked more like a farmer than a solicitor with his round, cheery red-cheeked face and gleaming bald head, but Miss Bottomley seemed to take to him. Scarlet left them alone so that they could study the papers Miss Bottomley brought and transact their own business. Nick was decidedly fussy. Scarlet wasn’t sure he’d calm down enough for a conversation. He insisted on being the center of attention. Scarlet walked the floor with him, apologizing. “I’m interviewing nannies today.”
“Think nothing of it,” said Pelham. “I’ve got four of my own. I’ll make tea while you settle him.” Fortunately, he did settle, allowing Scarlet at least sit down and look at the grainy black and white photos he spread before her.
“As I informed you, we now have a detective of our own.”
Scarlet gazed at the photos uncomprehendingly, as if these were stills from some bizarre English version of La Strada. A man, a woman, suitcases and parcels – a big house – Ian. Here was his unmistakable face – looking guilty. Rather an uncommon expression for him. Had she ever even seen it? Who was this dark-haired female with the too-tight skirt stretched over the too-big bottom? Then a face shot – expression unreadable beneath Cleopatra makeup.
“Candi!” Scarlet gasped.
“Moving in to your marital residence!” Pelham rubbed his hands together enthusiastically. “It’s really the greatest good luck for us. Your husband went back to town,” Pelham confided, “So I transferred our detective’s attention to her. I must say I do hope she’s planning a long stay.” Scarlet burst into tears, waking Nick, who wailed as well.
Pelham was aghast. He rushed around the desk wielding a handkerchief.
“You must think me an insensitive monster! I do apologize!” He threw open the door and called to his clerk, “Gotobed! Fetch a cup of tea and a baby bottle immediately.”
Scarlet and Nicholas drove Ian to the station. Scarlet felt certain her determined plan to shake off the dust of this country house and leave him forever must shimmer on her in an unmistakable miasma but he seemed irritatingly smug, as if any plans of hers were unimportant and risible, no concern of his and must inevitably go awry. It was all she could do to prevent revealing the boiling anger which was probably his real goal but she somehow managed it and was rewarded with a patronizing kiss and a wink to all the other business commuters as if to say, “We’re well out of these teacup tempests, blokes!”
She stopped at the garage to top the tank with petrol. What pleasure it gave her to see Candi’s “gift” hanging in the window, slightly to the left of the neon Pirelli sign. She chuckled so loudly that Frankie commented, “You’re in a good mood today.” Scarlet responded, “You know, I really am.”
A few more items packed in Nicholas’ suitcase and her own, a change, a wash, a feeding for Nicholas and then she was ready to go. She packed his bassinet, the book boxes, the trunk – she left his crib. She left all her dishes, taking only the ancient butter molds India had sent to bless her marriage. Seemed like they had been unsuccessful. And they were off.
At the gate, she almost struck another car – Pom’s aging Dorset. He jumped out, whistling as he saw her load.
“Looks like the French are leaving Moscow,” was his comment. Tears sprang to Scarlet’s eyes. This meeting was something she hadn’t reckoned on and it felt emotionally loaded. “I’ve got a job,” she said sniffed, despising herself.
“And you’re driving up to town?” He cast his eyes over the situation and she could see him summing up her dilemma in his head. Accurately, she had no doubt.
“Well, this is wonderful luck for me,” he said, falsely, Scarlet felt certain. “I need a ride up to town and it looks like you could do with an extra pair of hands at the other end.” Scarlet gulped, unable to speak.
“I’ll even do the driving,” he offered. “Come on, what do you say? Less worry on the roundabouts.”
English roundabouts – everyone driving with demented entitlement – were particularly nasty. “It’s that you all persist in driving on the wrong side of the road,” she laughed, hearing the tears in her own voice.
‘It’s not the only thing we do wrong, either,” he said. “Meet me at the garage?”
Following his car gave her time to collect herself. Pom gave some brief orders to Frankie and slipped him a pound note. They looked cozily complicit. She was re-positioning Nicholas’ carrycot and saw the whole thing.
“What was that about?”
“He won’t mention that you gave me a ride. We don’t want the wrong people drawing the wrong conclusions.”
“That we don’t,” she agreed. She wondered, where was Ian’s detective now? Hiding behind one of these lace-curtained windows? Concealed behind a hedge? Should she warn Pom that he might be on camera?
“Don’t you have any luggage?”
He waved the open basket of shortbreads and jams he was carrying. “You don’t call this luggage?”
“I certainly don’t.” She sat in the passenger seat as he assumed the controls.
“Well, you’re right. I have plenty of clothes at my flat. This is my formal and very inadequate apology for my not telling you that nasty old house has broken up every marriage it ever got its misbegotten claws into. I wonder you don’t sue me.”
Scarlet burst into tears.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, “I would have rather – This isn’t your burden.”
He touched her hand briefly. “We’re friends, aren’t we? Friends boo-hoo in front of friends. You’ll see plenty of my sniffles and wails when I’m turned down for the Art Moderne Juried Show.”
“It’s definitely your turn,” she laughed.
“Didn’t I sob and shriek throughout Rear Window? Because that’s my memory.”
“You did NOT.” There was something so amusing about this man. He always reliably boosted her spirits.
“You didn’t notice in the dark. I assumed you didn’t care.”
“What on earth about Rear Window would make anyone sob?”
His face turned serious.
“Isn’t it the story of a poor crippled man – one who asserts some pretense of professionalism, even artistry I should note – looking on at life, unable to participate? That’s me.”
“That’s you? Impossible! Explain.” She hastened to add, “Unless you don’t want to.”
“Certainly, I want to. I brought it up, buddy. Pal. Whatever it is you Americans say. How long do you think I had to loiter around your gate looking for an opportunity to insert myself into your family drama?”
She was utterly nonplussed. He MUST be joking. “I don’t know – how long did you?”
“Long enough so that here I am. Ready to confess my horrible secrets. I guarantee they more than equal yours.”
“Dubious.”
“I’ll be the judge of that.” He shifted as smoothly from comedy to seriousness as he shifted automotive gears.
“Spill.”
He drove in silence for a moment and she didn’t interrupt his thoughts. Finally, he said, “You must wonder why I’ve never married.”
“My husband said you were a poofter.”
“His type would.” He ground his jaw, then said, “I suppose now you’ll defend him?”
“I’ll never defend him again. I’d like to think his awfulness can no longer surprise me.”
“All right, I’ll tackle his defense. I mean, who can blame him? We inveterate bachelors get this a lot. Add a British public school education and it’s really a wonder that I’m not as queer as a jellied eel. But no. The truth is I conducted a thirteen-year affair – thirteen sad, wasted years – with a woman who was married to someone else.”
When he fell silent, she prompted, “And then?”
“And then her husband died and she married another bloke. It was – the biggest shock to me. I can’t describe.”
“A paradigm shift.”
“Exactly.”
“You didn’t know about – the other fellow?”
“I don’t think he was part of the previous picture. He’s actually a very upright Catholic peer. I doubt he’d have sprung for matrimony if he knew about me. Certainly, he would never have even approached her if she hadn’t been a widow.”
“Sounds like you could have sunk her if you’d wanted to.”
“Could I?” He considered. “That didn’t occur to me. After I saw how she really was – after I had my re-visioning – I really wanted nothing further to do with her. After that, I was too absorbed in my self-hatred to tackle anybody else.” She thought of the sudden change from impressionistic color to black and white rage revealed in his paintings.
“Why hate yourself just because she was using you? I don’t waste my time hating myself for not being more like Candi. I pity her, actually. My husband called her his “bit of fluff” and insisted she was completely unimportant and he felt nothing for her. I doubt THAT would make any woman proud.”
“Possibly your inner strength is the reason I admire you. Add that to your deep intellect and your outstanding beauty and anyone can see why I cling.”
She refused to allow his seductive teasing to change the subject. The more the conversation shifted to her, the less she would find out about him.
“It’s all very Branwell Brontë,” she said finally. “The exact same thing happened to him.”
“Did it? How unflattering. I seem to recollect he was a falling-down drunk and an epic family disappointment. Luckily I have no family left to disappoint.”
“He let it destroy him. As you’re so obviously not doing.”
He looked at her with an expression of immeasurable sadness. “Yet here I am inserting myself into yet another marriage. Like a reflex.”
“I would have said you’ve inserted yourself into a divorce.”
His eyes seemed to plead a question.
“Are you so certain?”
She felt a bit shocked by his naked emotion. “Let me explain.” He would never understand if she didn’t. “My husband just told me that all men have girlfriends. Furthermore, he plans to always HAVE girlfriends. He doesn’t care what I do! He’ll pretend otherwise, if I insist. He certainly feels free to lie to everyone involved because, apparently “everyone” does it.”
“All men? Or just English men?”
“Oh, he’s very scathing about Americans, tied to their mommies and wives. Let’s say he claims all men who are really men have as many girlfriends as they possibly can. He says adultery strengthens marriage.”
“How Victorian.”
“Is it?”
“Well, the Victorians argued that the only way to have good girls is to have bad girls too.”
“The Victorians?” Scarlet laughed. “Ian told me to read Lawrence.”
“D.H. or T.E.? What dreadful taste he has.”
“He told me I can lump it or leave it. So, I’m leaving it. I’ve –“re-visioned” him. And I don’t want what I see.”
“He’s aware you’re leaving him?”
“Not yet.” She chewed her lip, uncertain what to reveal. Yet having someone in her corner – especially after the disappointment of India’s letter – was too alluring. Necessary, in fact. Habit-forming, even.
“You know that solicitor you sent me to –“
“Bob Thomas?”
“Actually, his name is Pelham D’Arcy – he’s the matrimonial guy with the same firm. Anyway, I think he’s wonderful.”
“I’m glad.”
“The deck’s stacked against me as a mother so I have to be careful. Anything I tell you is in the strictest confidence.”
“They couldn’t get it out of me under torture.” He squeezed her hand again.
“I hope that’s true. I mean, I don’t actually hope you’re tortured –“
“They could hardly do anything to me I haven’t already done to myself.”
“Well, stop it. We need clear heads.”
“Clearing, clearing…” He expertly negotiated a roundabout. “Cleared. Continue.”
“Ian had us followed.”
As she had foreseen, he couldn’t take it in.
“He had US followed? But there is no us!”
“I saw photos of our day – and night – in London. Complete with me going into your flat. Pelham D’Arcy said it can’t continue.”
“Oh, my God!” He was stunned. And silent.
After awhile, she said, “For all I know the detective is still after us.”
Pom checked his rearview. “I’ll try to see if any of these cars are following. Mind if I take a circuitous route?”
“Yes,” she said frankly. “I do mind. I would prefer that you help me unpack – in the full blaze of afternoon, before the eyes of anyone who cares to know – then we part company, and I don’t go to your flat and we have no more dates, we should be all right. Then I can insist we are only friends. If it comes to that. Do YOU mind? You can see I’m taking more advantage of you than you could ever take of me.”
“I’m honored to be your pack mule,” said Pom, “As well as your buddy and your friend. However long it takes.”
She hoped she could ignore this last remark.
“It’s not all bad news,” she informed him in a welcome change of subject. “I’ve gotten a wonderful job that comes with a new place to live.”
“The Kensal Green lady?”
“No. That was the BBC realtor, who it seems works only for my husband. My new job came through a newspaper advertisement – some wonderful eighty-eight year old author wants help updating her work but nobody who applied for the job had ever heard of her. Except me.”
He gasped appreciatively. “You were a shoo-in!”
“I was!”
“Who is she?”
“Esmé Hope Bottomley.”
He shook his head. “I wouldn’t have gotten the job. Is she English?”
“She is, and the funny part is – I’ve only just discovered her! She was recommended to my by – of all people – Candi’s husband!”
“Candi has a husband?”
“Sad to say.”
“What a mess.” He shook his head. “Miss Bottomley expects you to live-in?”
“She’s all alone in the most fabulous house she just inherited. I get the whole second floor – I guess the Brits call it the “first floor”. She never goes upstairs.”
“And that’s the Norfolk Crescent address?” He whistled. “Pricey. My only concern would be you’ll end up caring for a very infirm old lady.”
“I don’t think so,” said Scarlet. “She’s got tons of cash, and besides, it’s only three months to start with. Anyway, I told Ian all that – he would know I’m taking Nicholas if he thought about it – but I didn’t make a point of it. He seems to think I’ll fold.
But I’ll never give in to this philosophy that men get mistresses and women get houses – as a booby prize, presumably. My theory is, of course I get Nicholas who’s only seven weeks old. My solicitor wants me to stop communicating with Ian. He says he’ll do all that dirty work.“
“Can you resist monitoring Ian and telling him off?”
“I hope so. I don’t want to know what he’s up to and I don’t want to hear his lies. Silence suits me perfectly. The solicitor did say you and I must be careful with our friendship.”
“I only hope you know what you’re doing.”
She felt a flicker of panic.
Another subject change was called for.
“Tell me the truth. Do all men have girlfriends?”
“I’d say it’s time somebody explains to you the difference between dogs and wolves.”
“One’s tame and the other’s wild. I know that much.”
“That’s not it. The interesting part is, the wild ones are monogamous and the tame ones – aren’t.”
“Wolves are monogamous? I guess I didn’t know.”
“It’s a well-kept secret.”
“Very well-kept. American girls call predatory men “wolves”.
“See how deceptive language can be?”
“Truly. One needs a native guide.”
“Fortunately, you have one.” He gave her a meaning look. She laughed.
“I think you’re saying that you’re a wolf? In the scientific sense, of course.”
“Well, I have been so far. I prefer loyalty over selfishness. In the long run, it’s better for the tribe.”
Nicholas muttered and sputtered. Pom turned off on the Farnham exit. “Sounds like somebody’s ready for lunch. I think we all could use a bite.”
“Got an idea where we’re going?”
“I do. Used to be my favorite place but –“ he shook his head. “No blubbing, I promise. I haven’t been back in awhile.”
“You can blub all you want,” Scarlet said generously at which Nicholas’ muttering turned into outright crying.
Scarlet’s sister India’s Christmas package arrived on the same day as a rejection from Nigel, who said the magazine was “going in a different direction.” Had Ian spoken with him? Scarlet couldn’t put it past him. India’s little gifts were nostalgic food items like pfeffernusse and windmill cookies and an unexpected present for Baby Nicholas – a collection of the sisters’ broken-backed, well-loved books from childhood. Scarlet pushed Ian’s gift aside (a joke tie probably, considering India had never liked Ian) and stroked the worn book covers sadly. There was so much imagination in childhood that it seemed the power of youth and yearning itself was magic.
She had not even bothered to set up a tree but Ian could hardly expect one now. Perhaps she could make an effort for Miss Bottomley – see what the old dame thought about Christmas. Some people disregarded the holiday – others actively hated it, after repeated bad experiences.
Ian and Scarlet’s last apartment – where the Pourfoyles now lived – had been too small and Ian’s family had always focused more on stockings and tiny gifts. Ian was quite comfortable leaving Christmas up to his wife, all the effort and all the blame. It was always the wife’s jobs to meet everyone’s expectations, grumbled Scarlet, even those of her husband’s family whom she didn’t know while men sat comfortably aside and ordered grog.
What a different plan she’d had for Nicholas’ childhood than the desolation that lay before her! But what was her alternative? Ian hadn’t noticed Scarlet sexually or romantically since Nicholas’ birth. He had chosen a different bed. She was in this utterly alone.
Could he possibly expect her to compete with his “bit of fluff?” She couldn’t imagine that in a thousand years. The very thought made her want to enter a Turkish steambath and turn herself inside out in an effort to get clean. The church ought to offer a ceremony for this – instead they acted as if menstruation and childbirth were the defilers instead of a husband’s reckless dalliances and pernicious prevarications. She was done with all of them.
What would happen now? The future was impossible to guess at or see into. She now saw that any belief that she could see into it had wrong-footed her from the start. There were too many other players. Likely life would always be more surprising and unaccountable than she expected or counted on. The most important question was, could she ever trust anyone again? How teach Nicholas about a universe where no one could be trusted?
Favorite Egyptian Tales of Mystery & Magic – Scarlet had loved this particular volume so much it had lost its cover. For years after reading it she told people she wanted to be an “Egyptologist”. After that it was “archaeologist” until she fell in love with literature and poetry in high school and literature and poetry seemed to love her back. Would those, too, let her down? So much depended on the frail elderly shoulders of Miss Bottomley.
She turned the pages slowly, remembering every illustration. Here was the hippopotamus Ammit – “devourer of hearts” – waiting for Anubis to throw him the heavy, most evil hearts to eat. In this religion, only the light-hearted were worthy of heaven. Not a bad idea! When she thought about the challenges ahead, she did feel her heart lighten. She had Pom on her side, and D’Arcy and Miss Joringel and Miss Bottomley.
Ian had Candi and Margalo and whatever drunken buddies he could find to applaud him at the pub. But those were meretricious relationships in the fullest meaning of the word. They were based on Ian NOT showing his true self. Based, really, on his never finding that real self but remaining content to swim with whatever school he found himself in.
Scarlet had always resisted this. She understood perfectly that art required an audience and patrons, but the first requirement was that it be Art. Utterly fresh and new. The time it took to temper the artist – not to mention imagine, create and complete the work – meant finances couldn’t be a consideration. She was being tempered and it was bloody uncomfortable. But seriously, what produced good Art? Seeing Ian no longer caring about courting her – because she was good and captured, she lapsed into “history” – was like seeing the world with its skin off. It was losing part of herself.
But she had gained a new part too, with Nicholas. She was seeing how the world really worked. Promises weren’t enough. Desire wasn’t enough. The question was what you did when people showed their true selves – because that told you what YOUR true self was.
I WANT to know the truth, thought Scarlet. There really isn’t any point going forward if you didn’t know the truth. Obviously, people preferred sentimental fictions, chocolate box prettiness. She couldn’t concern herself with that. She must move forward. Thank God Miss Bottomley’s works were somethings she could enthusiastically admire. Think how grim this would be she was editing one of those writers – sadly, there were many of them, some very famous – whose work she despised. Well, she wouldn’t take such a job. She’d return to America if things got that bad.
She wanted Nicholas to know his father, but she didn’t want to tempt Ian to behave as badly as he was able and he was showing himself quite able. Pelham D’Arcy was right, it was time to make a plan and stick to it like adults. That was the model for Nicholas. That proposed a future he could rely on. Ian had come to America before; he could again.
Were there any warning signs that Ian would suddenly treat her so cavalierly? He had repeated (with so much relish!) the wedding vow to forsake all others and cleave only to her – wouldn’t that have been a good time to mention that mature British males never actually followed that plan and he didn’t intend to, either?
What would she have done if he had? Well the wedding would have come to stop, that’s for certain! But he had consistently represented himself as wanting what she wanted. Truthfully, after their marriage she had had some doubts. She had felt some “pulling away”. It made her a little scared and sad – after all she was in a foreign country – but it hadn’t seemed unnatural or unexpected. They were carving out individual lives as well as one joint future.
Vows were meaningful to her. She had been especially careful to extract the word “obey” – after all it didn’t appear in his! The expectation that all accommodations ought to be up to the wife Scarlet repudiated as not what “modern” people thought. Ian’s parents would be bound to blame her now, taking it for granted that it was somehow her “non-traditional, American” ideas that were “at fault” for their breakup.
And weren’t they? The coming days would be consumed with sensitive, difficult negotiations. The law would try to bring her down and Ian would enjoy the spectacle of her humiliation. For Nicholas’ sake she must not allow it.
Enough daydreaming. She forced herself up to her study to pack up all her papers – all her hopes and dreams all fit neatly into one brass bound trunk. She resisted the urge to burn her poetry. It seemed so insipid now – “idiotic” wouldn’t be too strong a word. She mustn’t make such cataclysmic decisions while she was in this emotional state. Some brave new world must lie on the other side of this devastation – some universe she couldn’t see – what form would it take?
Maybe learning how to proceed without hope – was the “putting away of childish things” of which the Bible spoke. When she opened this trunk again what kind of person would she be? She pushed the thought away: now she must concentrate on her job and on Nicholas. That would more than fill her days. Three suitcases, three boxes of books and a trunk – that was all she had to take with her. Goodbye to the beautiful desk – the loveliest thing Ian had ever given her. Except for Nicholas. Even the huge, ornate pram that had been Ian’s family’s gift was much too large to take in the station wagon – luckily more practical India had sent a folding stroller – just the thing for vehicle transport.
She saved India’s letter to read at tea – but it was not the treat she had expected. Naturally, it had been written before her news of separation and new address had arrived but even the usual sisterly comforts were not on offer.
India’s big news was she had decided to be “psychoanalyzed.” She, too, felt the need of a “responsible life partner” just like Ian and someday, a child – just like Nicholas! She said she needed to get to the bottom of the mental blocks she assumed were standing in her way. Psychoanalysis required making herself “unavailable” to others and making no “radical life decisions” for three years.
India might be coming to England in July – but now it was up to her psychoanalyst – to determine if she was “ready.” She was currently deep in their childhood – issues of toilet training and sibling rivalry.
Scarlet didn’t like the sound of this. She knew she couldn’t blame the psychoanalyst entirely – India hadn’t enjoyed the trouble-free childhood that was Scarlet’s legacy – if only because she hadn’t had an elder sister to cushion the parental blows. Now that India was making herself vulnerable to this rather irritating sounding man – a Dr. Weitzkopf – it would be up to Scarlet to “support” her. Scarlet wished she hadn’t written that woebegone letter of – could it have been as recent as yesterday? She must write immediately and soft-pedal her own changes. Now it seemed she couldn’t rely on India. It was a brave new world in every respect.
Scarlet asked Frankie to stop at the church so she could drop her package at the jumble sale. “And what is it, ma’am?” he inquired, eyes sharp.
She displayed Candi’s stained glass creation.
“Oh, that’s lovely, that is! See his fine red coat! Matches the foxes’ fur! I’d accept it in payment, ma’am, if you’d be willing. I’d be proud to put it in the window of the garage.”
Scarlet thought that would be perfect. So pleasant to imagine Candi coming to town, stopping at the garage and seeing her own handiwork showcased between the neon, the Michelin man and the Pirelli tire girls.
“Excellent,” she said.
Pelham D’Arcy was a youthful man trying to make himself seem older – or so Scarlet assumed – by dressing and posing as some kind of a revenant from the nineteenth century. He had the most extraordinary moustache – as carefully trained as a miniature bonsai bush – and he had a way of stroking it when speaking which meant Scarlet couldn’t take her eyes off it. He first apologized that he handled marriage contracts as a usual matter, but he did have a “small” practice in divorce. “Marriage contracts?” Scarlet collapsed exhausted into a chair, feeling that if she had any strength left she would just walk out of there. Marriage contracts? And I there was I, innocently thinking wedding vows would cover everything! Ian had promised before God to cleave to her before all others, to worship her body with his body until death did them part. If a man was ready to go back on THAT, what help could a contract possibly be? She feared the worst about all solicitors, but at this particular moment she was far too dispirited to seek further. She summoned up as much energy as she could manage and asked a question.
“What good is a marriage contract?”
“Well, I am afraid that under our laws the wife and children are entitled to only one third of the husband’s income,” he confirmed. “Any income she makes would be added to that pool – she still gets only a third. A marriage contract would guarantee that in the event of – er, negative outcomes – the wife gets a fairer disposition.”
Now she could see the point. Too late, of course. She explained her situation. “Plus, I don’t currently have any income,” said Scarlet faintly.
“What is your husband’s income, if I may ask?”
“I don’t really know,” Scarlet admitted. “He’s negotiated something with the BBC. It seems to include a flat.”
“Well that’s unfortunate,” said D’Arcy, “decidedly unfortunate. What’s to prevent them cutting you out?”
“Why would they cut me in? Are you saying the BBC would conspire with my husband to cheat me?”
“Goodness no,” he gasped, “I am saying no such thing. On the other hand, if your husband is seen as a desirable acquisition they will attempt to accommodate his needs. If not, they may of course, simply get rid of him. This is a most awkward time for the pair of you to decide that your marital difficulties are insoluble.”
Scarlet looked at his hands – no wedding ring to be seen – only a sizeable carnelian pinky ring that looked to have just been dipped in the red wax seal of some Top Secret document.
“I just gave birth to our first child,” she said as calmly as she could, “And my husband has announced that he has a girlfriend, he’s keeping his girlfriend and he will always have girlfriends. I don’t want to be in that kind of a marriage. If I get a separation, first, instead of a divorce, there’s a chance – just a possibility, mind you, that Ian will come back to sanity.”
It wouldn’t happen. She could no longer force herself to believe it this possibility. How could she ever trust him again? Wouldn’t he simply wait for the next time she was incapacitated and vulnerable to spring something similar – or something even worse, if that could even be imagined – upon her?
“I can’t recommend marital gambits, I’m afraid.” Said D’Arcy in a decidedly chilly manner. “Possibly your doctor –“
“Separation or divorce,” said Scarlet, matching his cold tone, “Which do YOU recommend?”
“Separation definitely,” he agreed, “If what you say is true.”
“Do you have any law female partners? At this firm?” Scarlet was rapidly losing patience with this troglodyte.
He drew back as if her question was improper and she had somehow insulted him. Then with an effort he seized control of himself, stiffened his upper lip, (thinking of England, presumably), and mustered up a calm facade.
“I’m afraid we do not, nor do I know of any I can recommend.”
“It’s just that I’d just like to start with a solicitor who doesn’t call me a liar.”
“I am not “calling you a liar”, madam” – he seemed to put the words in quotes as if afraid he was soiling his mouth, “I am accustomed to ascertaining the facts of the case.”
“The facts of the case are, that my husband spent the night with another woman who masqueraded as Mrs. Wye at The Carpathian Hotel. I have the receipted bill. When I challenged him he admitted it, saying it would continue because of Modern Marriage and stated further that he’s a man of the world, or some such thing, and showed me some photographs a detective took of me meeting a platonic male friend in London.”
D’Arcy perked up and looked interested in spite of himself. “Your husband was having you followed?”
“Apparently. For all I know it’s still going on – I didn’t see anybody but because I’m not doing anything, I wasn’t really looking.” I’m never doing anything, she thought disgustedly.
D’Arcy stroked his moustache. “About this friend –“
“Pomeroy Bronfen – the man we bought Wyvern House from – we ran into each other on the street by the sheerest coincidence. He invited me to dinner and a movie, and because he had a car, he ended up driving me around.”
“I believe you, of course – I would hope that goes without saying – but I also think it would be sensible on your part to keep some distance from – friendly men.”
“Should I stay away from all men?” Scarlet asked and D’Arcy looked physically pained. “That will be difficult as I’m looking for a job.”
“Don’t ride in cars with them, don’t have dinner alone with them, don’t sit in darkened theatres with them,” said D’Arcy huffily. “It is not that I don’t trust you,” he emphasized the word – “It’s a question is what a judge might think.”
“And what might he think?”
D’Arcy sighed. “In England, ma’am, it is not possible to get a divorce for adultery if the spouse has been compliant or collusive.”
She let those terms sink in. This was what she needed to know, this was why she was sitting in this dreadfully overheated room listening to this silly little man. She needed to find out what game Ian was playing.
“You mean if we both have affairs?”
“If neither one of you – such is English law – truly can be considered an injured party.”
She stared at him. She wanted to tell him what she thought of English law – what a bunch of idiots they all were – but she knew that wouldn’t help.
“I gather your husband doesn’t desire this divorce,” said D’Arcy.
“You gather correctly. And it isn’t for any reason flattering to me, it’s because of this division that exists in my husband’s mind between “wives” and “girlfriends.”
“I see. He doesn’t wish the categories to – collide, as it were.”
Was there a human being buried inside this pompous little twerp after all?
“Exactly. And I want no part of it.”
“How refreshingly American,” said Pelham D’Arcy, shuffling papers.
“American?” Was he insulting her again? She bridled.
“It’s very American to want to be both wife and girlfriend,” said D’Arcy. “But I must say my wife shares your view.”
Scarlet felt enormous relief. Perhaps this man would do after all.
“Hopefully the world will come around to our opinion,” she said. “So, given all this, what do you recommend?”
“Under the scenario you describe, I recommend we hire a detective of our own, get the goods on hubby so to speak – romantic and financial – and you file for divorce. A settlement contract will prove a more productive path than separate maintenance which allows him to play bloody hell with your allowance. And he seems to be a gamesman. I’ve got an excellent fellow – er, detective – er, Bogswell.”
“Thank you,” sighed Scarlet. “What do I owe you?”
D’Arcy raised a blocking hand.
“Nothing until we get a better sense of your husband’s assets. I also suggest we establish a trust with you as the trustee, and you write a will.”
“Why a will?”
“It’s part of establishing the trust. A trust allows you to open a bank account in your own name which your husband won’t have access to – which I’m afraid you will find difficult otherwise.”
“I’ve got even fewer assets than he’s got,” Scarlet sighed.
“I beg to differ. I believe you said something about an infant child?”
Scarlet brightened. “Yes, there’s always Nicholas.” An asset indeed.
The session ended warmly on a handshake.
“I suggest you obtain a separate address your husband doesn’t know about,” said D’Arcy. “Until you notify me I will await your call here or at my home – here’s the number to exchange news. And I’ll take that hotel bill, by the way.”
The last train came in at nine o’clock, but why would Ian need it? He had the car, and Scarlet hadn’t seen it at the station. He could be anywhere. She heard nothing from him. As she gave Nick his bath she wondered what she should do. Should she call Candi and ask about his plans? But there seemed no more reason to expect her husband’s girlfriend would be any more truthful than Scarlet’s own husband had been or that he even told the truth to her. Maybe David – Candi’s husband – was the one she should call. Or how about Margalo?
“Hello – we haven’t met – I was just wondering –“ No wonder country wives got such a bad reputation as jailers: they were both jealous and clueless; perpetually the one because they were the other. Day late and a dollar short as the Americans put it.
Even some disguised query about job or flat would be ridiculously transparent. Her private job, as Nick’s mother, was to figure out just how much of this she would tolerate, and what she would do about it. She knew marriage was no bed of roses but she had not expected so many thorns.
Scarlet, the writer, so long buried, had nothing to say. Her only role was to be oblivious, unworldly and unassuming. Scarlet surrendered her thoughts and fell asleep.
Nick awoke, like clockwork, at one in the morning. She fell back asleep while feeding him. She dreamed she stood at the junction of several dark, long tunnels. Which offered the best way out? In the distance, she heard a roar of water – but from which direction? She would drown – she felt a laggard inertia – the horror of such hopelessness awakened her. It was already light out. Here she was in Nick’s bedroom so freshly decorated with the hopeful yellow paint she’d applied herself just before his eagerly anticipated birth. There was no threatening water, no terrifying tunnel. The future that awaited her was terrible enough – or maybe just sad, really. But at least there wouldn’t be a drowning at the end of it.
She placed Nick carefully in his crib and went downstairs to the cold kitchen to make coffee and light the boiler: what Ida called “the heart of the house.”
Outside a fresh coating of snow had settled over the drive. She shivered, making toast, skipping butter but slathering plenty of tart, orange, homemade marmalade. She remembered exactly what insanity had brought them here. It was Ian’s dream of power, and she had eagerly embraced them hoping for a by-product of happiness. What had it wrought instead?
She carried her coffee and toast to her bed to find Ian sprawled beneath a pile of blankets. He must have come in during the night, and she hadn’t heard him. She moved his clothes from the armchair to the valet and settled down to watch him. He was in a deep, deep sleep. She herself was wide awake, although she felt odd, as if hung over. After effects of a restless night. Her brain was buzzing.
Miss Clew couldn’t help, the lady detective having no assistance to offer to those who willingly immerse themselves in intolerable situations. She needed someone who understood how you could be pulled one way and another till paralysis inevitably set in. She settled a lap robe over her knees and opened Muriel Spark’s The Comforters.
She must have fallen back asleep because it was past ten when she awoke. Ian sighed and rolled onto his back. Now, she thought, the light will wake him. If he can still be affected by the light. She checked on Nick – right above the kitchen he was in the warmest upstairs room – and then went downstairs to bring up more toast, warmed milk, and the coffee thermos.
When she returned to the bedroom, Ian was in the bathroom. She shivered reminiscently as she heard water running. She placed the tray on his recently vacated spot, poured herself another cup of coffee and returned to the lap robe and armchair.
He wore only boxer briefs, his big body seeming somehow more hairy and sprawling. He yawned theatrically but she noticed his eyes skittering nervously over her face. Then he smirked with reassurance. Why was that? His wife’s lack of splotchy tears or visible distress?
“Thanks for this,” he said, crawling into her side of the bed and helping himself to coffee.
“I went to the Carpathian,” she said. “I was surprised to find you’d checked in with a Mrs. Wye.”
He cocked his head. “I suppose you made a scene? Screaming and sobbing – “I’m the REAL Mrs. Wye!” he chortled, munching toast. “A right show to entertain the tourists. Give ‘em what they came for.”
She felt the hot blood bubble in her veins – as surely he intended – but she fought it down. He wanted her to get angry – to give him the upper hand. Many people preferred the relief of rage to the pain of mourning. She refused to oblige.
“I found the receipted bill,” She told him, “You lied about where you stayed. I wondered why.”
“If I don’t tell you everything – come to Jesus and confess every sin of thought and deed like one of your poor rubes at an American tent revival, does that mean I “lied”?” He scoffed. “You don’t tell me everything.”
She gasped like a fish. She hadn’t expected this return attack. But that, of course was precisely why she should have.
“I don’t have a boyfriend and a hotel bill!”
He rose portentously, snapped open his dispatch case and produced a manila envelope from which he extracted grainy, full-size black and white photos. It took a moment to uncover the sense in them, but finally she recognized shapes – herself and Pom, going in and out of his flat, at the Soho restaurant, at the Cumberland Hotel. Riding in his car. She could scarcely believe her eyes.
“You were SPYING on me?”
“They don’t do that in America? Home of hardboiled Sam Spade? We call it alienation of affections here. At the very least. Possibly criminal conversation.”
She was at a loss for words. She had definitely not expected this. “I ran into Pom in town! It was entirely coincidence.”
“Says you!” He jeered. “Look darling –“ he reached out a hand to touch her shoulder but she shied away. “Don’t you see the birth of our son puts our relationship on an entirely different footing?”
“No, I don’t.” She rose and paced away from him.
“It’s an American fantasy that a young couple with a squalling newborn is still enjoying honeymoon sex, don’t you see? It doesn’t happen anywhere else, it’s never happened anywhere else – I wager it doesn’t even happen in America but Ladies’ Home & Garden or whatever slop you read won’t admit it. It really is possible to love two people, three people, even seven people at once, just not in the same way. Adultery strengthens marriage. Read Lawrence.
Seriously, try to view this objectively. You get Nicholas, and I’m guessing the odd passade with a sychophantic poofter – and I have…my dollies. Little bits of fluff. That’s what’s done. I can guarantee you it won’t interfere with our family life. I think I can promise that I won’t invite them to dinner – how about that?”
“No,” said Scarlet, taking a breath and trying to remain stone-faced. “I want a separation.” Was she angry because he wasn’t jealous? Because he wanted her to be a cheater too?
“Oh, that’s how it is, is it? You’ll be moving out?”
“I’ll live in the London flat.”
“That you won’t. It’s leased by the BBC for me and my –“ he paused delicately – “Household. I could give you permission to live there, of course. But you can’t keep me out – or anyone I choose to invite. I’ve already accepted a position with the company.”
She was filled with horror. She couldn’t keep him out of this house either – and she didn’t want to, really. Where could she be safe? She just wanted out.
“We’ll see,” she said and it sounded feeble to her own ears. “All I know now is that I can’t trust you.”
“By all means seek counsel,” he said. “Someone to explain the realities of British marriage. But don’t let it be so very expensive. If you’ve determined on a separation I think you’ll find your allowance won’t stretch very far. Luckily women are masochists. According to Freud.” “I’ll get a job,” she said loftily.
“All right then. And I’ll get Nicholas.” He backed away. “Not that I ever wanted children. But you were so determined. There’s no talking sense to a woman in heat.” At the sight of her face he finished, “Move to the guest room, shall I?” His eyes swept over he with…was that disgust or nauseated disinclination? He closed the door in just enough time to miss the bookend that was thrown at him.
So that’s where they went. She felt relieved that he didn’t suggest that they could have coffee just as well at his place; this was all coming at her too fast as it was. They sat in the window looking out on the darkened street. He chose espresso. For her it would always be “café americaine.”
“I liked that man’s helplessness,” she said finally. “It’s the exact opposite of every other movie.”
“Well, he has to trust his girlfriend to do what he can’t do.”
“Trust her not to get herself killed, you mean? They share an unbearable curiosity. Audere scire, that’s my real motto. Dare to know.”
“What a perfect phrase! Family?”
“Hardly,” said Pom. “I think they chose some scrap of boilerplate that meant “Toady like your life depends on it.” Picturing a toad rampant.”
She laughed until his tense face relaxed.
“The camera’s like the wheelchair, in a way,” she suggested.
“How do you mean?”
“Well, he’s at one remove from the action. At a distance, always.”
“A voyeur, you mean,” agreed Pom. “That’s what they say about Hitchcock, that he turns us all into voyeurs.”
‘And he wants us to be both intrigued and ashamed.”
“I suppose our hero was so eager to find out if he was right about his neighbor being a killer that he didn’t mind putting Grace Kelly in harm’s way,” Pom suggested. “Pretty unforgiveable, really. They needed three scriptwriters to figure a way out.”
“She was brave, I thought. She really went in without his permission.”
“But knowing she was doing what he wanted.”
“He’s still helpless at the end,” said Scarlet. “Breaking the other leg.”
“He needs a special manager,” Pom agreed.
“And then Hitchcock makes fun of our happy ending by showing she’s already bored by his life before they’re even married.”
“Perhaps he’ll realize he must always find – and film – mysteries that keep her interested. Apparently Hitchcock’s real wife always wrote his screen treatments. He thought in pictures, working the film out in storyboards and then she’d write the first script.”
“What a perfect combination of skills,” said Scarlet. Like our movie tonight – he’ll be curious about the neighbors and she’ll investigate, and that’s what happily ever after is.”
“For their sake I hope so,” said Pom. A little sadly.
Scarlet realized with a start that Pom must always be looking from his lonely life into the brightly lit windows of others’ married bargains. But she couldn’t think of any polite way to broach the subject.
Pom drained his espresso, then effortlessly became very personal indeed. “Do you believe in love at first sight?”
She panicked as she realized two things – both that it was possible to have too good evening and secondly that she needed to put a stop to this very agreeable fantasy right now.
“I want to thank you for such a pleasant evening,” she began formally.
“Oh no…” he supplied. “I can feel the disclaimer coming. I brace myself.”
Could she explain, “I’m especially vulnerable right now -“ no, that was a mistake. Putting poor Pom in the wrong. Best come clean. “Ian and I have been having trouble.”
“I hope it’s not the house. I’m afraid I’ve sold you a permanently sinking ship.”
“No. No.” In a way it was, but nothing specific to Pom’s estate. She had assumed the “trigger” was her pregnancy but maybe the truth was even worse. Had Ian always been mistress as well as house shopping? “It’s his – attitude. As a country gentleman.”
“I begin to see,” Pom supplied. “The “girlfriend” thing?”
“Yes. He’s separating himself from us, as if he’s fulfilling some kind of ancient pattern that I thought we’d both rejected. It closes him off to me and to the baby.” Really, this conversation was getting too intimate. It proved that she was desperate for a friend. But could Pom – could any man, much less an Englishman – ever be that?
“Tell me,” she hazarded, “When English men go shopping for a country house are they really looking for an excuse to be unfaithful?”
She was trying to lighten the desperate moment but Pom gave the comment deep consideration. “I suppose so,” he said finally. “It’s the nest thing. You’re asking, does “nest” mean “harem” to an Englishman?”
“Am I?” She felt stunned. She gave a gasping, nervous laugh but neither that nor her stricken face intimidated him.
“I’m imagining things I haven’t experienced,” he went on. “That’s my voyeurism for you right there. It’s been my perpetual difficulty because I’ve always been considered such an odd duck. Ian blocks you off so you open yourself up to me and I don’t want that to stop because I’m feeling something I’ve never felt before, something that I’d given up expecting to ever feel – something I assumed would always be impossible for me.”
Blood flooded her face; she couldn’t speak. She was grateful for his calm. Was this something adults who’d just met could discuss? He kept his voice level and his eyes serious. “I put a curse on you by selling you that house. Sadly, you can’t have the money back.”
She hadn’t been able to lighten the moment but he certainly could. She laughed to the point of tears.
“In America, we call that “no backsies”, she said.
“No backsies,” he agreed. “I’ve spent most of it anyway.”
When she raised her eyebrows – he shared, “Debts. I bought an annuity with the rest. Keep a little money coming in.”
So he was careful! A cautious, forward planning man. Ian was the one equating masculinity with carelessness, Ian, who enjoyed recklessness for its own sake. To such a man, thoughtful Pom seemed a “poofter.”
Pom said, “So what are your plans, if I may ask?”
“I’m going to confront him with what I’ve found,” she allowed. “We have to start telling each other the truth. So really it’s about what HE will do.”
“Or?”
She pulled away. He was too persistent.
“There is no “or.”
“I’ve got a lot riding on it,” he admitted.
Once again, she was wrong. Pom was, in his own way, a reckless man.
“I can’t go that far. Yet.”
Truthfully, she had imagined so many possible scenarios. She wanted to pray, to hope, even to pretend. Anything rather than dwell upon the ugly possibilities. She knew she couldn’t live with a liar and continue to seek the truth in art. One of those devotions must be sacrificed. She had never imagined Pom stepping in to fill her husband’s place.
He squeezed her hand. “Keep in contact,” he said. He stood up over their empty coffee cups. Their ride to the hotel was silent. She wondered if his mind was as busy as hers. He seemed to concentrate on the route.
“Don’t come up,” she said at the hotel. “I can only repeat what a wonderful time I’ve had.” “Are you going back tomorrow?”
She nodded. “First train.”
“I’m driving down tomorrow night and I can give you a lift if you can wait.”
She couldn’t wait. She couldn’t bear to be parted from Nick for an extra moment.
“You won’t cut me off?” he requested anxiously.
She was touched – a little scared – to have so much power over this wonderful man so recently encountered.
“Of course not.”
In the elevator, she reflected on the oddness of their exchange. What kind of man made overtures to a woman who had just borne a baby to another man? It made him sound so awful. She heard herself trying to explain to anybody – India perhaps – that he “wasn’t like that”. But where honesty and directness stopped and fantasy took over in either of their hearts and minds she really couldn’t say. She didn’t know him that well, and it was beginning to seem like she didn’t know herself either.
On the very day Scarlet sent Candi’s telegram, Ian suddenly announced he must go up to London. Scarlet battled hard to suppress her instant jealousy. Jealousy placed her in an invidious position – the Ball and Chain carping wife. Who WOULDN’T want to escape from that? Ian argued that he had appointments about “employment options”, but Scarlet knew and stated that he’d received no calls or mail.
“Oh no?” he’d returned loftily. He’d always had these appointments, he simply didn’t tell Scarlet because “she would react like this”.
Scarlet was stumped. Stymied. How on earth had this happened? They’d been so happy just a couple of months ago, when they moved in – they’d always been a happy, get-along couple. The envy of their friends. Suddenly he had become a “high-flier” and she was a stuck at home as The Complainer! Why, oh why hadn’t she listened to India, her own Sister Anne, who warned her about Wives Stuck In the Country?
The seeming inevitability of rigid roles loomed over them. There was the “hardworking long-distance husband” who needed and deserved whatever relaxation, rest and entertainment he could find in The Big City versus the “trapped, bitter drudge” of a wife who didn’t appreciate all she’d been given and always wanted more. It was the “battle of the sexes” they’d read about (and laughed over) during courtship. It could never apply to self-aware, intelligent artists: lucky people who knew where to find and how to value “true love”.
Charming as Wyvern House was slowly becoming, it could never be worth a loss this devastating. Scarlet was facing nothing less than the total corruption of her love relationship. Worst of all, they couldn’t discuss it. She daren’t even mention it. She knew with absolute certainty that Ian would blame the baby, not the house! Wouldn’t he be simply playing to “type”? And wouldn’t everyone agree with him? Wasn’t this what the “world” insisted always happened to everyone else? The mother fell in love with the baby and the father, feeling the loss, sought attention elsewhere. He became freer, she became more burdened, then the fights began. She’d never – and Ian said HE’D never – thought any of this could possibly apply to them!
He changed, not me, thought Scarlet mutinously. Suddenly his mind was closed to her. It happened the instant we walked into this house. But how could she have stopped Ian from buying a house she’d neither heard of nor seen? Talk about inevitability! They’d planned her pregnancy together but the house idea was his alone. Although when Scarlet thought honestly about it, hadn’t agreed they needed more space? It was a hopeless mess.
Scarlet felt uncomfortable requesting fidelity from her husband considering they were banned from having sex. Although she couldn’t feel confident in his devotion, she did ask him – “will you be true to me?”
His horrible answer was, “What do you think?” Either he scorned her for raising the question, or he dared her to tell him the truth, which was, that she thought he wouldn’t be. But her pride couldn’t allow her to beg from this stranger. Who was he? The more responsibilities Ian had, the more different he became from the playful, imaginative student she had married, and the more he seemed to be turning into a hostile alien driven by unreadable compulsions.
But mightn’t he say the same of her? She kept secrets, too.
For example, she had originally considered Nicholas would have better childhood in the country. Ian considered it “American” and “suburban” (both pejoratives) to dread the dirt and despair, the “rat-race” of big cities and to conjure up instead a green Eden where Nicholas could grow slowly, while studying the past’s best minds.
Scarlet had known she must eventually brace herself to fight the English craziness of sending eight year old boys away to boarding school but in the old days she had enough confidence in herself and her marriage to feel this was a battle she might win.
Now she saw he considered marriage a partnership only when the wife agrees with her husband. When she didn’t, it was easier to ignore her.
Before the most recent trip to London she had taken care to mark him with her scent so to speak, to bathe him in her love, remind him of their passion, but after the guest weekend she felt too dispirited and if she must be honest, too angry at his cultivation of someone like Candi and his apparent willingness to use her as a goad against his own wife. How dare he! So disloyal! Her itch to scratch his face was decidedly de-rousing.
He was claiming the Holy Grail – a proffered permanence at the BBC. According to him, “everybody knew” television was THE modern workplace nowadays for money and advancement. Scarlet hadn’t cared for the BBC people she had met. They seemed so relentlessly – even aggressively, proudly “unpoetic”. Couldn’t Ian see that these people quashed rather than enhanced creativity? But such concepts only made Ian angrier. Their new obligations were expensive. She couldn’t contest that.
She found herself yearning hopelessly for the carefree days of courtship and poverty – a honeymoon in Spain for pennies a day – a dingy flat with a toilet on the landing. Too late for such nostalgia. Those days were pre-Nicholas, and now that he was here he needed the best care possible. The universe required Nicholas. It was Scarlet’s deepest belief that Nicholas needed to be born. One could even argue that Scarlet needed to become a mother, for Nicholas’ sake. Everything Ian knew of this atavism he instinctively despised. She was certain he considered Wyvern House more important than his son.
A cynic would say this was the oldest Tale Ever Told. Men and women had different investments in children. Who was that American scientist in the thirties who wrote about how important any particular man was to a woman, and how unimportant any particular woman was to a man? Men didn’t comprehend the process of giving birth, didn’t need to because in biological fact they could father hundreds of children every year. Women, on the other hand, must invest years in bringing up a mere handful of children.
Scarlet certainly didn’t want to hash any of this out with Ian. Back in their courting days, he was interested in her thoughts and they could talk about anything; now he seemed resolved on turning her own words into weapons against her.
One morning Ian galvanized her with a totally unexpected argument.
“You know, if I got this job, we’d have to get a place in town. What a Christmas that would be!” This was casually stated while he was looking in the mirror, tying his tie.
Scarlet’s mouth fell open. “A flat in town AND a house in the country?”
“Why not? Other people do it.”
They certainly did: rich people. Ian did have that thousand pounds – if he hadn’t already used it to stave off debts. They’d already agreed to skip Christmas presents in the face of all these expenses – but a shared apartment hunt would be a gift in itself!
Wouldn’t that be the perfect solution? Had she jumped too fast to all her negative conclusions? Her face burned – was he right when he called her “The Doomsayer?”
He didn’t need the mirror to tie his tie – he was using it to study her face. She had never been one who aspired to mask her emotions – especially from her husband! But this time she really tried. In her mind she saw their lives unspooled – dinners with fake people like Candi, hours spent rushing from town to country and back again, passing the baby between them and multiple caregivers as they sought to keep a precarious footing in the world of “the lucky ones” – was that really the life she wanted? She felt certain that even in the midst of these complex preoccupations, people found time to feel lonely and hopeless. Equally she felt certain that such a busy chatelaine would never write a worthwhile word.
Money was universally supposed to solve all dilemmas. She was beginning to see that wasn’t true. And yet – if she needn’t scrabble for a job herself, a flat in town would solve the education dilemma. And so she said,
“Sounds wonderful,” and was touched when he sighed with visible relief. He still cared what she thought!
They all rose late. David insisted he’d slept “very well” but Ian’s eyes were shuttered against Scarlet’s inquiring look and Candi seemed smugly triumphant. It went against Scarlet’s grain to question them but if you didn’t tell foreign sexual adventuresses that your husband was off limits, how could they be expected to know? Candi’s barbed words – “glad to know another couple with a truly modern relationship” – came back to haunt her like some sly promotion of infidelity as sophisticated, international and superior. Scarlet felt certain husband David wasn’t on board with that.
They drove to Oakhampton after a late and hasty Continental breakfast prepared by Ian, (wonder of wonders) – the “girls” in the back of the estate wagon with Nick in his carrycot between them. Scarlet struggled to find words that would be politic yet reproving, fearing that if she missed her chance, she’d be silenced forever.
But Candi forestalled her.
“You must come up to London soon,” she gushed, “Now that you have a nanny.” Scarlet struggled with the concept of Fern elevated to this pinnacle while Candi hurried on; “So we can have a real heart to heart.”
Which of us is being courted now? Wondered Scarlet. A nightmare world appeared to her inner eye where her personal good fortune; talent, beauty, husband, house, son – laid her open to invasion by this succubus scheming to supplant her.
Candi placed a cold hand with terrifyingly long, red lacquered nails on Scarlet’s hot, stubby, hang-nailed paw.
“I have discounts at all the best places. Now that you have your figure back we must suit you out.” “Lovely,” quivered Scarlet, revolted by virtually everything about this patronizing sentence. She knew immediately that the truth was of no interest to Candi, who sought always to perpetrate a façade, and who took it for granted other people did too. She seemed confident Scarlet would never correct her, never insist that she was large, baggy and leaking milk in all directions. Her presentable caftan at the restaurant for dinner out could be considered “maternity wear.” She would rather die than ever shop with Candi, didn’t want to resemble her and hadn’t planned to buy anything new until Nicholas was weaned.
But she felt a horrid certainty that Ian would side with Candi; that one must always “put on a show”. Was she being penny wise and husband foolish? Something to consider. Perhaps she could spring for one outfit – but certainly not alongside Candi! Tatiana had a pair of velvet toreador pants Scarlet coveted. “Divorce insurance” – distasteful as that might be. And she desperately needed a warm winter coat – something better than this shabby red anorak she wore everywhere.
Breakfast had been so late and Ian’s porridge was so stomach-churning nobody could think of food or even a cup of tea at the café. In desperation, Scarlet suggested visiting the bookshop instead to purchase “something to read on the train” and all agreed with this idea.
The Fruitful Browser was fortunately open Sundays. It might specialize in old, antique and “used” books but there is no such thing as a “used idea”. Francesca even offered a respectable cup of coffee which she called, charmingly, “café americaine.” She gave Scarlet’s guests – and then Scarlet – a look that could only be described as “conspiratorial.” Baby Nicholas cooperated by staying sound asleep locked safely in the car.
“Literature by the yard! I see!” said Candi, who appeared personally insulted by the very concept of used books. “But I suppose if you’ve got shelves to fill” – until Ian commented,
“Here’s a lovely section of pocket Trollopes.”
That’s what Candi was, thought Scarlet. A “pocket trollop!”
Seemingly Candi wanted anything Ian wanted. Her acquisitive eyes lit with lust.
Scarlet left them to it while she and David happily perused the Golden Age of Crime novels – tuppence a copy. David was thrilled to find a series Scarlet had never even heard of.
“Our Miss Clew,” he said, “These are glorious. I think there were only ever a baker’s dozen and I’ve been missing five! Here they all are!” To Scarlet he hissed conspiratorially, “Don’t tell. They could sell the full set for substantially more.”
Scarlet had to assume Francesca knew her business. In any event, she personally dropped a guinea in this store on her every Oakhampton shopping trip. She snapped up the five David didn’t need.
“I see you love Miss Clew,” Francesca remarked, adding up their purchases. “They really must issue reprints – these inexpensive editions – “railway” they called them – fall to tatters far too soon.”
Scarlet could only agree – her copies appeared to be restored with what she, as a new homeowner, recognized as friction tape.
Candi had chosen a first edition of Frank Harris’ Life and Loves which, horribly, Ian insisted on purchasing for her.
“I shall have to think up a really special bread and butter present,” said Candi. “This has been the most wonderful weekend of my life.”
Ian had a sweet tooth and so Scarlet suddenly found herself baking sand tarts, apple pies and lemon cake pudding in readiness for Nicholas’ birth. And that turned out to be a lucky thing, because the moment the last pie was set cooling on the wide kitchen windowsill her water broke. Ian rushed to fetch the midwife and at a quarter to midnight on Nov. 10, Nicholas was born.
He was a long, thin, bright red, squally baby. Scarlet was feeling a bit squally herself because the gas had given out at the end, right when things were at their worst and Scarlet’s confidence in the little midwife – who acted surprised at this apparently impossible eventuality – was seriously shaken. It didn’t help that Ian left immediately – saying he would bury the placenta for luck – and then the midwife forbade bathing but gave Scarlet a very unsatisfactory sponge bath.
Scarlet came down with fever and couldn’t nurse Baby Nick for two days. She couldn’t help feeling he acted a bit repulsed by the smallness and shortness of her nipples – not a problem Scarlet had even heard of before – but he did finally seem to “latch” and agree to accept nourishment and stay alive. It wasn’t until the evening of the twelfth, when Nicholas was finally quiet and Scarlet had a proper bath, a piece of pie, a glass of wine, that she was feeling more herself again.
Ian, on the other hand, wore a strangely unfamiliar expression Scarlet couldn’t parse. She chalked it up to a suddenly overwhelming realization of his increased responsibilities, plus that unwelcome existential conundrum: “This baby will bury me.”
When his wife gurgled “Isn’t he sweet?” over the sleeping baby, Ian refused to play along. “I think he’s more like a noisy drunk we can’t get rid of,” said her husband, “Constantly throwing up and needing everything done for him.”
“It’ll get better and better from here on out,” insisted Scarlet, feeling a bit angry that she had to produce all the cheer and positivity for the entire family after what she’d been through. “In a month or two you’ll be glad to have him.”
“Will I?” asked Ian. “When do they talk? Four to five years more likely.”
The doctor came by in the morning to forbid them from sex. No sex for six weeks. Scarlet thought she could live without it – she needed to heal and was grateful not to have stitches – but she didn’t care for Ian’s reaction. It wasn’t long after that he announced a trip to London.
“Should I bring it up?” she wondered. If you outright ASK someone to be faithful, are they more likely to be? Or LESS likely?
“I don’t think I want you gadding around London on your own,” she temporized.
“Oh? You’ve got two babies now? I was running my own life perfectly well a couple days ago.” She reached for his hand.
“I’m worried – I don’t want – it’s just that I’m so desperately hors de combat.”
“Whore what?” he teased. “I can see the way your mind is working.”
She flushed a deep red she was certain was hideously unbecoming. “I can’t love you the way I want to and I don’t want anyone else to try.” And she burst into tears. He kissed her forehead very tenderly.
“Don’t worry,” he told her. “You’ve given me impossibly high standards. I’ll interview nannies, shall I? Then we’ll soon be back to normal. ”
But she did worry. The night before he left for London she did her very best to satisfy him and it seemed like a difficult and endless chore. Things were hardly improved by the stack of pound notes he left on the dresser in the morning – not even ironically!
“Just in case,” he said.
In case of what? In case you never come back? She wondered dispiritedly.
That very evening – the twenty-ninth – she found a witch doll on the hearth. Sooty, as if it had fallen from the chimney.
She asked the midwife about it on her next visit.
“It’s a corn dolly!” said the woman. “Supposed to be lucky! Someone put it up the chimney for good fortune when you moved in. Why didn’t it burn up, I wonder.”
“We haven’t used that fireplace,” Scarlet admitted. But they had used all the others. Who would do such a thing? It didn’t seem like Pom’s kind of idea at all and why would the movers bother? She found herself thinking about it so much she phoned him.
“Sounds like Hedrigger to me,” said Pom. “The estate agent. I know he was desperate for the property to sell. When he took over the job from his late father – the first estate agent that we used – he told me he was willing to try anything.”
“Well, it worked,” said Scarlet and they both had a good laugh over it. When Pom heard she was alone he offered to bring dinner and Scarlet bravely took him up on it.
“Give me a chance to take a gander at the new heir,” suggested Pom.
Why did talking to Pom always make Scarlet feel so relaxed and hopeful? There was something about the way that he treated her that made her feel special and desirable without any concern she’d be forced to repel inappropriate advances. An old-fashioned relationship? Here was a true gallant, a cavalier servant, her father would have said. A gentleman, her mother would correct, because that marital pair always argued and one-upped each other. Sometimes she feared their behavior would curse her into unhappy marriage, despite all her hope and prayer and effort. Could you ever have a happy marriage if you’d never actually seen one?
Frankly she was glad neither parent had been around for Ian to meet. If girls became like their mothers…oh well. Her mother was gone forever, and besides, thought Scarlet, I was a Daddy’s girl anyway.
She mentioned the corn dolly to the cleaner, Ida, when she came in for her half-day. “Oh, I did that,” said Ida casually. “A corn dolly in every chimney for luck. So we’d get nice people. And it worked.” She chucked Nicholas under his chin and he turned blindly towards her hand. Nicholas had no standards. At this stage, he would accept anyone.
“My granddaughter Fern would love caring for a new baby,” Ida offered. “She’s just out of school – they gave her afternoon hours at the library but she wants more. She needs a ride, is all. Frankie from the garage could bring her when he’s free.”
A teenage girl living “out” would be so much cheaper than a nanny! And much less bossy. Scarlet’s American spirit rebelled at the thought of being dominated by some know-it-all woman and her catechism of antique superstitions. She resolved to make an afternoon trip to the library her first foray as a new mum into the outside world.
Trying to write a new novel plan with a migraine. My writing must never be pedestrian. Calculate I’ll be done Feb 17 so I can leave. 1 week ago I flew to DC to comfort Avril’s depression. Her therapy raises the problem that she feels “worthless”. That’s Quaker schools for you was my comment – they don’t WANT you to feel worth anything! We are particularly Worthless Worms because we were born with So Many Privileges and we STILL refuse to Give our Lives in Service.
We agree on need to sell the house. (And so I get some much needed cash.) Every night I was gone T called. Moving from here will be the best thing that could happen to our relationship. 9PM – Bad bad BAD day. Did my exercises – took bath – nothing helps. I seem to have a fever but am afraid to tell T (he called my PARENTS about the pain in my chest! “We’re getting it checked out.” Doc says “Beats me.”)
Tried reading AWFUL Margery Allingham. That woman is excruciating. Turn to Austen with relief.
Thu Feb 7 – 80 :9;40 PM Good day so far. Wrote 5 letters, cleaned study, reorganized MSS Ophelia Was A Man. Joined the Authors League even though I usually hate things like that. Cut my own hair saving myself at least $50.
10 PM – the worst happened. T upset that I ate dinner without him, upset that I want to diet “You didn’t get fat eating dinners with ME” (manifestly false) upset that I don’t want to take care of his house “You think you’re too good for housework” and especially upset about the upcoming Mar 3-23 plan (me going east to see agent & publishers) although he DID KNOW. I’ll stay in Grover’s Mill to save cash. I’m not sure he’s heard me even now – he keeps talking about being “separated for a month” and I proved its two weeks to the day. His anger makes me shiver and shake all over. Plus cramps. (Period alas.) He feels all this is a “slap” at his love and care! I thought we weren’t supposed to “lie” but he gets too upset to be truthful to! Thank God my day was a good one or I don’t know how I would bear up. His anger makes me want to scream too but my throat was locked long ago. (See Speechless.) “Go on and let him have it!” eggs on Psychology Today but I think it would be more likely to end a relationship that would be a good one if we could just get back to civilization. Jane Austen a lot more help than Psychology Today.
3:40 PM Sun 10 Feb 80 How true it is – if you want to get something you first have to figure out what it is. As these frenzied Newport Days draw to a close I give thanks they are not to be extended. At least Toss has agreed to sell this house (helps that I’m selling mine.)
Traveling relatives of T’s (a pair of married doctors) looked us up and I could tell they were shocked by the frat house nature of the place as T proudly showed off holes he’d pounded through the walls with a sledgehammer (“real brick!”) I resent doing decorator work to someone else’s taste for no money in the wreck of a rooming house whose nearest neighbor is named “Booger” (I kid you not). Before the arrival of the dogs kids broke in and stole constantly. The dogs slow them down a little but now I worry about the dogs’ safety.
An old girlfriend of T’s (married) invited us to the Covington House last night – had a marvelous time. She said we look like brother and sister! What a compliment! He looked particularly beautiful last night in his tux – a Greek idol. Sigh.
Reading Better than Rubies a wonderful book about women’s education.
Tues 12 Feb 80 Listening to Scarlatti. My tolerance for winter is definitely over. Feeling at the nadir of my stored-up strength – a bear forced to hibernate overtime. Had the clever idea of inserting short story Erin into Summer as a flashback. I think it works.
Waiting for T to get there – he’s reading slowly. Another bad fight. When I made the comment that the Grover’s Mill house could be made so nice he looked around his hell hole and snorted incredulously. How could that possibly be when I’m such a bad housekeeper? I reminded him how wonderful MY house in DC was (and is.) Unable to argue with this he made fun of my voice! Low blows. I asked him if I REALLY sounded like that – abashed, he admitted I didn’t. The problem is “Women”. He fears women are manipulative, demanding and illogical. Hard to blame him for thinking so if you’ve met his mother (and his girlfriends.) But he’s not willing to listen to criticism of his mother yet. She’s “losing” him to me. She’ll have to meet his father at graduation.
(They were divorced six years ago and separated eight before that.) The last time they saw each other was by chance in the Uffizi and she refused to shake his hand. Toss is in a misogynistic panic – I feel like I have all the duties of an old-fashioned wife and he has only as many husbandly duties as he cares to assume. He thinks he’s just “hitting back” against my “slights” which he refuses to acknowledge as the unfortunate honesty he claims to value. Oh well. I haven’t figured out how to explain my viewpoint without unleashing his hostility.
I look forward to the day when we can talk honestly about this. But we will need some emotional security for that to happen and emotional security means financial security. Let’s just hope one of my book projects pays off.
Meditation, exercise, bath, dinner with friends.
11:30 AM – Wed 13 Feb 80 T. apologizes by bringing me breakfast in bed. Tomorrow is Valentines Day. I have a hangover but last night was worth it – found out some interesting things about T. He was a half hour late, very angry because he’d scratched his car against a stone wall and not pleased when I said I didn’t think expensive bodywork was necessary on a 70,000 mile car. After the guests left he went for me. Said I talk too much and no one else can talk because I’m cooped up all day and that makes me a liability at dinner parties. He said, “I think it’s better to tell you now than say “Shut Up” in public.” I said you bet it’s better! If you say “Shut up” to me in public there won’t be a marriage! He says there you go again with the ultimatums. I asked him how he’d feel if I said, “Shut up” to HIM in public! He hadn’t even considered such an awful, unimaginable thing.
I said I didn’t think my perceptions were so totally askew – I hadn’t “dominated” the discussion or squelched other people’s ideas trying to get them to agree with me the WAY HE DOES. He apologized later and said he fears me being lionized at parties.
I said it doesn’t look like he has much to worry about yet. Besides, I’m a natural recluse. But so far I’m needing to muster every philosophical, theological and psychological aid I can come up with to deal with my stunning LACK of success.
I said to Toss I thought the real problem is we are too much alike.
11:30 PM – End of a long difficult day. I managed my 10 p. but novel is too short and I can’t think of anything more to say. Novella no good! Maybe T will have ideas.
He came home depressed at getting a D+ in Corporations – I made him a BLT and a Bloody Mary – he ate the sandwich but refused the drink because he still had a Law Review meeting. At 7 PM! When he finally came back we made up entirely for our fight and I was once again thinking, This is the man for me. He said he was upset because I’d commented on how handsome Peter Martins is! I’ve never even met the man! I said I’m jealous of the Playboy magazine in his top left desk drawer!
Thoroughly discussed my “failure” to settle in here. Said I was subject to “strong loves and few” and it was time for me to love some other place. Made him an enormous dinner of hash browns & eggs and after 2 bourbons apiece we felt pretty good..
6:10 PM Valentine’s Day – 80 Great day. Wrote 13 p so I’m up to 156. T working at the paper till midnight. T gave me box of delicious candy & card. Reading Collegiate Women – depressing tale of how the doyennes of domesticity subverted female ed.
10:20 PM Fri 15 Feb 80 Wrote a whole chapter – got to stop now or madness will result. Reading magnificent Man Who Cried (Cookson.) Morally quite sophisticated. Cast Harvey Cox’ Seduction of the Spirit away in disgust. Should be called “Harvey’s Closet – here – you clean it.”
T came home to spinach lasagna and letter from ex (the one he really loved and who didn’t believe in monogamy) that he described as “a howl of agony.” Said she will never get married or have children – spoke slightingly of her own work – and signed herself “love.” I feel for her. T was upset, angry and relieved all at the same time. The crap she put him through dragging home strange men!
T asked if I would consider living “west of Phila.” I said Sure if it has city access. Hard to beat his old grandparents’ place at Grover’s Mill right between two major cities! (His father was a children’s publisher in the 30’s.) Trustees won’t let Lois sell the house till Mother Louise dies (she is in retirement home.) In the meantime they are letting everything go to hell while hiking their management fees – Lois is suing them – needs T to help.
Can’t talk about this life to Avril – she is too naïve. If people say they love each other there shouldn’t be any problems is her theory. If there are, then it can’t be love. I feel we all have dragons and we’re going to have to meet – and slay – each other’s.
Alysse Aallyn 