Read Online Praxis by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online Page A

litter of gum wrapping and beer bottles behind. Soon Hilda would go to University on a scholarship, and her life would open out. People assured her it would.
    Hilda did not know what was to be done with Patricia, but did not doubt the arrival of some sudden event, for good or ill, probably ill, which would make the consideration immaterial.
    Hilda stopped visiting her mother, on the recommendation of the funny farm staff. In the early days of her confinement, Lucy’s rage and spite had been directed against Patricia—later it came to focus upon Hilda as well, and could be felt as uncomfortable even through the cool shell of the elder daughter’s part-acquired, part-native indifference.
    Pattie went to visit the Reverend Allbright. She called at the back door, as seemed natural, and not, as in earlier days, at the front. She found him in the kitchen, with his new young wife, making wine. The house smelt warm and sweet, as was his life. He had married one of his young parishioners, a girl with downcast almond eyes, and a sensual mouth, and a devout nature. She would kneel naked by the marital bed, saying her prayers until he could bear it no longer and flung himself upon her, tumbling her over face downwards on the bed. He felt God would understand. God can be worshipped anywhere, the Reverend Allbright avowed, in Sunday sermon after Sunday sermon. In a night bomber (so long as it belonged to the Allied forces), in a submarine (likewise), in a Scouts’ Hall (where services were now held, since the church had been bombed out) or in the marital bed. The congregation joined in shaking their fists at a vengeful sky, from which destruction raged; they were united in love and hate. The birthrate soared.
    ‘My mother’s in a strait-jacket,’ said Pattie, to the Allbrights. They sat her down to help make wine. Now she too was stripping petals from dandelions; her fingers were already dyed yellowy-green. No amount of washing, even with the strong, grainy, wartime soap, would remove the discolouration: only time would help it. Pattie, yellow-fingered. ‘She has to be,’ said the Reverend Allbright, ‘for her own safety, and that of other people.’
    ‘But she can’t be in one for ever. A person can’t live in a strait-jacket.’
    The Reverend Allbright suspected that if the staff of the asylum had anything to do with it, they would.
    ‘Poor soul,’ put in the new Mrs. Allbright, with the easy pity of the young for the old. ‘My husband—’ and with what pride she used the term—‘used to visit regularly, but his visits did seem to upset her. They said it was better for him to stay away.’
    Both the Allbrights were bare-armed: while Mrs. Allbright stirred the bruised dandelion petals in warm water, Mr. Allbright added golden syrup from a height, for the delight of seeing it fall. How bright-eyed they seemed: how happily arrived at the place they ought to be.
    Mr. Allbright’s children by his first marriage were still away at boarding school. Consideration both for their safety and for his new wife’s peace of mind had led him to taking this step. The eldest Allbright was only a few years younger than the new Mrs. Allbright, a fact which rendered Mr. Allbright uneasy in his daughter’s presence.
    ‘We must abide by the decision of the staff,’ said Mr. Allbright. ‘After all, they are the experts.’
    ‘I think she’s in a strait-jacket to save them trouble,’ observed Pattie.
    ‘That’s a wicked un-Christian thing to say, Patricia,’ said Mr. Allbright.
    Mrs. Allbright laughed. ‘Why should she say Christian things if she’s Jewish. You are ridiculous, Stephen.’
    ‘Hush,’ said Mr. Allbright.
    ‘Shouldn’t I have said anything? I’m sorry.’
    Confused and pink, she stirred the sweet, warm brew. He was angry, so she made matters worse.
    ‘I don’t see why I shouldn’t say what’s true,’ she persisted. ‘It can’t be anything new to Pattie, after all. Is it?’
    Pattie shook her head,