Watching Me, Watching You. Fay Weldon
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badly indeed and it is humiliating to have your hands tied.’ ‘I can imagine.’
He wrung out the dishcloth. The tap, she noticed, was not dripping. ‘I’m sorry about your things,’ she said. ‘I should have told you.’
‘Am I such a frightening person?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’re only things,’ he said, to her astonishment. The house seemed to take a shift back into its ordinary perspective. She thought, that though childless, she could still live an interesting and useful life. Her friends with grown-up children, gone away, complained that it was as if their young had never been. The experience of childrearing was that, just that, no more, no less. An experience without much significance, presently over; as lately she had experienced the behaviour of the material world.
David insisted that Deidre must surely have the bedroom key, and was annoyed when she failed to produce it. ‘Why would I lock you out of the bedroom?’ she asked.
‘Why would you do anything!’ he remarked dourly. His gratitude for her return was fading: his usual irritation with her was reasserting itself. She was grateful for familiar ways, and as usual animated by them.
He went up the ladder to the bedroom window, and was outraged. ‘I’ve never seen a room in such a mess,’ he reported, from the top of the ladder, a figure in clerical black perched there like some white-ruffled crow. ‘How you did all that, even in a bad temper, I can’t imagine!’
The heavy wardrobe was on its side, wedged against the door: the bed was upside down: the chairs and light bulb broken, and the bedclothes, tumbled and knotted, had the same stretched and strained appearance as David’s socks; and the carpet had been wrenched up, tossing furniture as it lifted, and wrung out like a dishcloth.
When the wardrobe had been moved back into place, the door was indeed found to be locked, with the key on the inside of the door, but both preferred not to notice that.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Deidre, ‘I was upset about our having no children. That, and my time of life.’
‘All our times of life,’ he said. ‘And as to your having no children, if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s God’s.’
Together they eased the carpet out of the window and down onto the lawn, and patiently and peaceably unwrung it. But the marks of the wringing stayed, straying for ever across the bedroom floor, to remind them of the dangers of, for him, petulance, and for her, the tendency to blame others for her own shortcomings.
Presently the Ming vase was mended, not by Deidre but by experts. He sold it and they installed central heating and had a wall knocked out there, a window put in here, and the washer on the kitchen tap mended, and the dry rot removed so that the sink drawer smelled like any other, and the broken floorboard beneath the dresser replaced. The acoustics in the kitchen changed, so that Deidre could no longer hear David’s services as she sat by the fire, so she attended church rather more often; and David, she soon noticed, dressed up as God rather less, and diverted his congregation’s attention away from himself and more towards the altar.
It’s 1972.
‘Fiddlesticks,’ says Maureen. Everyone else says ‘crap’ or ‘balls', but Maureen’s current gear, being Victorian sprigged muslin, demands an appropriate vocabulary. ‘Fiddlesticks. If Erica says her bald patches are anything to do with Derek, she’s lying. It’s alopecia.’
‘I wonder which would be worse,’ murmurs Ruthie in her soft voice, ‘to have a husband who tears your hair out in the night, or to have alopecia.’
Ruthie wears a black fringed satin dress exactly half a century old, through which, alas, Ruthie’s ribs show even more prominently than her breasts. Ruthie’s little girl Poppy (at four too old for playgroup, too young for school), wears a long, white (well, yellowish) cotton shift which contrasts nicely with her mother’s dusty black.
‘At least the husband might improve, with effort,’ says Alison, ‘unlike alopecia. You wake up one morning with a single bald patch and a month or so later there you are, completely bald. Nothing anyone can do about it.’ Alison, plump mother of three, sensibly wears a flowered Laura Ashley dress which hides her bulges.
‘It might be quite interesting,’ remarks Maureen. ‘The egghead approach. One would have to forgo the past, of course, and go all space age, which would hardly be in keeping with the mood of the times.’
‘You are the mood of the times, Maureen,’ murmurs Ruthie, as expected. Ruthie’s simple adulation of Maureen is both gratifying and embarrassing, everyone agrees.
Everyone agrees, on the other hand, that Erica Bisham of the bald patches is a stupid, if ladylike, bitch.
Maureen, Ruthie and Alison are working in Maureen’s premises off the Kings Road. Here Maureen, as befits the glamour of her station, the initiator of Mauromania, meets the media, expresses opinions, answers the phone, dictates to secretaries (male), selects and matches fabrics, approves designs and makes, in general, multitudinous decisions — although not, perhaps, as multitudinous as the ones she was accustomed to make in the middle and late sixties, when the world was young and rich and wild. Maureen is forty but you’d never think it. She wears a large hat by day (and, one imagines, night) which shades her anxious face and guards her still pretty complexion. Maureen leads a rich life. Maureen once had her pubic hair dyed green to match her fingernails — or so her husband Kim announced to a waiting (well, such were the days) world: she divorced him not long after, having lost his baby at five months. The head of the foetus, rumour had it, emerged green, and her National Health Service GP refused to treat her any more, and she had to go private after all — she with her Marxist convictions.
That was 1968. If the State’s going to tumble, let it tumble. The sooner the better. Drop out, everyone! Mauromania magnifique! And off goes Maureen’s husband Kim with Maureen’s au pair — a broad-hipped, big-bosomed girl, good breeding material, with an ordinary coarse and curly brush, if somewhat reddish.
Still, it had been a good marriage as marriages go. And as marriages go, it went. Or so Maureen remarked to the press, on her way home (six beds, six baths, four recep., American kitchen, patio, South Ken) from the divorce courts. Maureen cried a little in the taxi, when she’d left her public well behind, partly from shock and grief, mostly from confusion that beloved Kim, Kim, who so despised the nuclear family, who had so often said that he and she ought to get divorced in order to have a true and unfettered relationship, that Maureen’s Kim should have speeded up Maureen’s divorce in order to marry Maureen’s au pair girl before the baby arrived. Kim and Maureen had been married for fifteen years. Kim had been Kevin from Liverpool before seeing the light or at any rate the guru. Maureen had always been just Maureen from Hoxton, East London: remained so through the birth, rise and triumph of Mauromania. It was her charm. Local girl makes good.
Maureen has experience of life: she knows by now, having also been married to a psychiatrist who ran off with all her money and the marital home, that it is wise to watch what people do, not listen to what they say. Well, it’s something to have learned. Ruthie and Alison, her (nominal) partners from the beginning, each her junior by some ten years, listen to Maureen with respect and diffidence.
‘Mind you,’ says Maureen now, matching up purple feathers with emerald satin to great effect, ‘if I were Derek I’d certainly beat Erica to death. Fancy having to listen to that whining voice night after night. The only trouble is he’s become too much of a gentleman. He’ll never have the courage to do it. Turned his back on his origins, and all that. It doesn’t do.’
Maureen has known Derek since the old days in Hoxton. They were evacuees together: shared the same bomb shelter on their return from Starvation Hall in Felixstowe — a boys’ public school considered unsafe for the gentry’s children but all right for the East Enders.
‘It’s all Erica’s fantasy,’