The Realms of Gold (47 page)

She was still aimlessly tidying magazines, like an actress tidying an over-neat stage set when the door bell rang, and as it rang, as she saw the outline of Frances through the glazed door, the connection she had been searching for came back to her, recalled by the woman's very silhouette. Of course, she knew who Frances Wingate was. She had read a whole article about her, a year or two ago, in the
Sunday Examiner
Colour Magazine. There had been a lot of photographs of her, at home in her house in London, and in some kind of ruins, abroad, and there'd been a ridiculous interview, in which Frances had said a lot of ridiculous things about being famous, and how she organized her home life, and who she had to dinner parties, and Janet had remembered it so well because she had found it quite sickeningly offensive and irritating and silly, and here was this silly woman, standing on her own doorstep, and ringing her own door bell. Janet wished she could remember what she had been famous for, but she couldn't. Something ridiculous, no doubt. ‘I never use frozen vegetables,' was one of the more infuriating things that this woman had said, ‘because one of the things that I enjoy most in life is queueing at the greengrocers to see what they've got, and I like peeling things too, I get a lot of pleasure out of peeling things.' Too bad about the instant coffee, thought Janet, as she opened the door.

The woman on the step was wearing a brown jacket, a green man's sweater, and a black skirt unfashionably (or fashionably) long, and her shoes were not at all clean. ‘Excuse me,' were her first words, as she offered her hand to be shaken, ‘I'm afraid I look rather a mess, I've had quite a day, with one thing and another.' Her hair could have done with a brush, too.

‘Oh, that's all right,' said Janet, feebly. ‘There's only me. My husband's still out, at this meeting.' She was slightly appeased by the fact that Frances wiped her shoes on the mat: not very effectively, as the mud was dried on, but at least it was a gesture.

‘How lovely and cosy it is in here,' said Frances, following Janet into the lounge, and taking it all in—the cheap carpet, the cheap modern furniture, the pretentious orange curtains, the pretentious Swedish candles, the desolate bleak wilderness of boredom, the nest of coffee tables, the small not-quite-full bookshelf, the overfull magazine rack, the reproduction of a Dufy painting, the white Formica table, the vase of dried leaves. ‘How nice,' said Frances, insincerely, as she allowed herself to be settled by the electric fire, in an armchair. She warmed her hands in front of the fire. ‘How nice to be able to get warm,' she repeated. ‘I'm afraid I came up without a proper coat, I've only just got back from Africa, and I didn't have time to go and collect one.'

It wasn't a good opening.

‘From Africa?' said Janet, frostily, without interest. ‘I'll get you a cup of coffee,' said Janet.

Frances's heart sank, as she sat there for a moment on her own. It was going to be ghastly. There was no point in having come round at all; she'd have been better off ringing the undertaker, or chatting up the barman in the hotel. She knew this kind of house all too well: she knew all too many people like Janet, tightmouthed, slightly sour, over-tidy (she looked with alarm round the impeccable, polished, dull room), critical, mean, not yet quite hardened into irremediable bitterness, but well on the way towards it. Frances shivered, and reached out her hands to the red rings and the dangerous red ache of the fire in the mushroom-tiled hearth (they were still designing hearths from the thirties, up here), and watched the big veins rise in the backs of her hands. In so many houses like this she had sipped glasses of sherry, drunk cups of coffee, eaten small cakes (sometimes rather good cakes, for people still bake, in some parts of the provinces), and listened to discussions about the education system, while waiting to catch her train home after a lecture, while waiting to give a lecture. How many bitter little domestic disputes, how many professional meannesses, how many ungenerous remarks she had witnessed in rooms like this, bred out of the tiles and the white plaster walls. How many discussions about television programmes she had never seen, how many attempts to pull the conversation away from television, how many strange savage comments on heads of departments unfairly promoted, on the ignorance or stupidity of schoolchildren and students, on public figures arbitrarily disliked, on the distance from or closeness to London: how many insults she had received, in such rooms, from those whose only aim had seemed to be to score. Janet's husband must be a teacher: the room bore so familiar a stamp. The only endurable subject in such a place was children: the only subject which would bring flickers of grace, of humanity, of feeling.

‘How old is your baby?' she asked, politely, when Janet brought in the tray with the coffee.

‘Oh, he's nearly one,' said Janet. She handed her a cup. ‘I'm sorry,' she said, not meaning to, ‘that I haven't got any cake. Or even any biscuits.'

‘Oh, I never eat cake,' said Frances, untruthfully. ‘And what's he called, your baby?'

‘Hugh.'

‘That's funny. My brother's called Hugh. Is it a family name, do you think?'

‘Not that I know of. I called him Hugh because it wasn't a family name.'

‘Funny, that we should meet like this,' said Frances, uneasily.

They got on badly. Janet was stiff, nervous, resentful: Frances simply wished she hadn't bothered, and wondered why she had inflicted on herself such a dull and disagreeable hour. She was wondering how soon she could safely leave. She hadn't in fact eaten anything since lunch, except a few olives and gherkins and peanuts, and was beginning to feel rather hungry: a piece of cake would have been quite welcome. She could tell that Janet didn't like her at all, but hadn't any idea how to set about interesting her, nor could she quite find the will to try. They talked, a little, about Constance, and her will, and the cottage and what would happen to it: Frances sympathized, formally, over Janet's troubles with the press and
TV
, thinking privately that either the girl was a fool to let herself in for the publicity, or that she had secretly enjoyed the thrill: she suspected the latter, for there is no limit to people's morbidity, and up here, anything must have been better than the normal tedium of life. They agreed that Constance's death was nobody's fault, and that nobody need feel guilty. They uttered a good many platitudes, in the course of this discussion.

Janet's husband, it turned out, wasn't a teacher: he was a chemist, who worked on plastics. That figured, too. Janet inquired politely about Frances's visit to Africa: Frances replied briefly, well aware that a description of Adra would be unlikely to go down well. They talked, a little, about Eel Cottage, and Janet explained that the present owners were health food people: Frances was quite pleased to hear this, it fitted in well with her conjectures on her visit in the summer. All in all, it seemed a reasonable fate, that the Eel should have ended up like that.

The conversation slumped. Janet offered another cup of coffee, Frances declined. She looked at her watch, covertly. It was nine o'clock: too late for a meal in the hotel, but she'd noticed a Chinese restaurant and an Indian one, either of which would do.

‘Would you want to come to the funeral?' she asked, for want of anything better to say. ‘When I get it organized?'

‘I don't see the point, really,' said Janet. She paused. ‘I've never been to a funeral,' she added.

‘There has to be a first time for everything,' said Frances, fatuously. She felt sorry for Janet Bird, cooped up here with her little baby, but it wasn't her fault, what could she do?

‘Well, perhaps I will,' said Janet. And she looked at Frances, and said, ‘After all, there's not much else to do round here, is there?'

Frances laughed. ‘That's one way of putting it,' she said. She reached for her bag. She would have one cigarette, and then she would go. ‘Do you mind if I smoke? Would you like one?' Frances hardly ever smoked: she smoked intermittently, always less than a packet a week. Sometimes a packet would stay in her bag till it fell apart. Janet accepted one, to her surprise. Things seemed slightly, just marginally better, as Frances leant forward with a lighted match.

‘I read an article about you,' said Janet, as she neatly knocked ash into a zodiac-patterned ash tray. ‘In the
Sunday Examiner
.'

‘Oh God,' said Frances, ‘how ghastly, did you really? I always hope people won't really read that kind of rubbish. I never do. But I suppose somebody must. It was horrible, didn't you think?'

‘Your house looked very nice,' said Janet primly.

‘It
is
very nice. I quite liked those photos, but I've never been able to make them send me copies. And the African ones were really good.'

‘Where were they taken?'

‘In Carthage. They flew out, specially. I kept saying, what a waste of money, why don't you fake it, you could easily make my back garden look like Carthage, but they wouldn't. They're purists, photographers.'

Janet looked resentful, still, as well she might: but she also looked faintly interested. Frances began to feel that a little perseverance might well effect some kind of thaw, and was thinking what a pity it was that they hadn't got a drink (she could really have done with a drink) when the phone went. Janet answered it with the air of one who has not too much expected a call: Frances watched her, as she spoke. It was clearly her husband on the line: Frances saw her whole body stiffen. Poor woman, she thought, poor woman. She knew that look. So that was how it was. She might have known.

The husband was saying he would be back soon, and was bringing a friend, and would she put the kettle on, or something along those lines, because Janet answered, ‘But I've got somebody here, myself.'

This did not go down well, for Janet continued to defend herself: no, it hadn't been pre-arranged, no, she couldn't have told him about it earlier, yes, she supposed there might be enough shepherd's pie left for two. By the time she put the phone down, she was looking faintly desperate, and anxious, as though she knew too well that she had revealed too much.

‘Is that your husband on his way home?' said Frances, trying to be helpful. ‘Perhaps I'd better push off, he's probably had quite enough of the Ollerenshaw family lately.'

‘No, don't go,' said Janet. ‘He won't mind.'

He so obviously would and did mind that Frances, watching that shadow of terror on Janet's face, felt quite overcome with sympathy. How could she leave her here, to await such a homecoming? Yet how could she stay, so unwelcome?

‘I'll tell you what,' said Frances. ‘I've had an idea. When your husband and his friend get back, why don't you come out with me for an hour? We could have a drink at the hotel, or something. That would be more of a pleasant change than a funeral.'

‘Oh, I don't see how I could,' said Janet.

‘Of course you could,' said Frances, in a healthy, bullying tone. ‘It's good for one, to get out every now and then. I know what it's like, with small babies. They're a terrible tie.'

‘
You
don't seem to have found them very tying,' said Janet, with spirited asperity.

‘Oh, I don't know,' said Frances. ‘Even I've stayed at home once in a while.'

She could see that Janet was going to agree: it seemed a good plan, and once agreed, they began to get on better.

‘You ought to make your husband baby-sit every now and then,' said Frances. ‘On principle.'

‘Oh, he does offer, sometimes,' said Janet. ‘But he usually offers when he knows I don't want to go.'

‘Well, there's not much he can do about it this time. We'll present him with a fait accompli. We'll say we've got to go and discuss your Great-Aunt's will. He can't do anything about that, can he?'

‘I don't suppose so,' said Janet. And then added, surprisingly, ‘I don't suppose he could do much about anything I really decided to do. It's just that I can't decide myself.'

‘Well, there's not much scope for action, with a baby around. You'll have to wait a bit.' „

‘Yes, I will.'

‘You know,' said Frances, who was beginning to think that the curtains weren't so pretentious after all, they were really quite an attractive shade of orange, and she rather liked the red piano—‘you know, you're the second new relation I've found recently. It's just occurred to me, you must know David Ollerenshaw, he must be your first cousin, unless I've got everything hopelessly mixed up.'

Janet did, of course, know David: they discussed David, happily. How much easier conversation becomes, with a person in common: Frances felt that the Ollerenshaws' network might well one day approach the density of the Sinclair-Davieses. Janet had known David since childhood, of course, though he had been some years older than she: he had always been regarded as ‘the clever one' of the family, rather more attractively clever than his father, whom nobody had ever liked. He had ‘turned his nose up', Janet said, implying that she too thought the phrase funny: and as for his mother, as for Auntie Evie—well, she had been a very unpopular character, critical, carping, nothing good enough for her, and religious, too. There was one good thing you could say for the Ollerenshaws, at least they had never been religious. They hadn't gone round nosing into other people's affairs, telling other people what to do. Poor David, said Frances, he must have had a tough childhood. Yes, said Janet, but he was always so nice, he was always so nice to me, he was good natured. I was nothing, I was just another little cousin, but he was always nice to me. Why shouldn't he have been, said Frances, and Janet said, oh, I don't know, when I was a child I never expected anyone to be nice to me. I haven't seen him for years, she said.