Read Online The Hearts and Lives of Men by Fay Weldon - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Fay Weldon
Tags: General Fiction
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pregnant; that is to say sick, swollen, tearful—as her mother had been during her last disastrous pregnancy, only five years back. That baby had miscarried, horribly and bloodily late in the pregnancy, and Helen had been horribly sorry and bloodily relieved when it happened, and confused by her own conflicting emotions. And John Lally had sat and held her mother’s hand, with a tenderness she had never seen before, and she had found herself jealous—and planned there and then to leave home after A levels and go to Art College, and Get Out, Get Out—
Well now, what it added up to was that Helen now just wanted to forget the past and love Clifford and prepare for a glittering future and not be pregnant. Because Clifford had asked her to marry him. Or had he asked her? Or just somehow said, sometime in the middle of one of their lively, enchanted nights, part sticky, part silky, part velvet-black, part glowing lamplight, “I must tell my parents about all this. They’ll want some kind of marriage ceremony, they’re like that” and so, casually, the matter had been settled. Since the bride’s parents were so clearly incapable of arranging anything, it would be left to the bridegroom’s. Besides, the latter’s income exceeded the former’s by a ratio of a hundred to one, or thereabouts.
“Perhaps we should just be married quietly,” Helen said to Otto’s wife, Cynthia, when the whens and hows of the wedding were discussed. Clifford had taken her down to the family home in Sussex to introduce her for the first time and say they were to be married—all this on the one day. Impetuous lad! The house was Georgian and stood in twelve acres. Dannemore Court, reader. Its gardens are opened to the public once a year. Perhaps you know it. The place is famous for its azaleas.
“Why a quiet wedding?” asked Cynthia. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Or is there?” Cynthia was sixty, looked forty and acted thirty. She was small, dark, elegant, vivacious and un-English, for all her tweeds.
“Oh no,” said Helen, although she had risen in the night twice to go to the bathroom, and in those days, before the Pill was in common use, the symptoms of pregnancy were all too well-known to every young woman. And being pregnant, and unmarried, was in most circles still something to be ashamed of.
“So let’s make all the fuss we possibly can of such an important occasion,” said Cynthia, “and as for who pays—phooey! All that etiquette is so stuffy and boring, don’t you think?”
That was in the big drawing-room after lunch. Cynthia was arranging spring flowers in a bowl: they were fresh from the garden, and of amazing variety. She seemed to Helen more concerned over their welfare than that of her son.
But later Cynthia did say to Clifford, “Darling, are you sure you know what you’re doing? You’ve never been married before, and she’s so young, and it’s all so sudden.”
“I know what I’m doing,” said Clifford, gratified by her concern. It was seldom shown. His mother was always busy, looking after his father’s needs, or arranging flowers in vases, or making mysterious phone calls, and dressing up and rushing off. His father would smile fondly after her; what pleased his wife pleased him. There seemed no room for Clifford, either as a child or now he was grown, between them. They made no space for him. They squeezed him out.
“In my experience of men,” said Cynthia (and Clifford thought sadly, yes, that’s quite considerable) “when a man says he knows what he’s doing, it means he doesn’t.”
“She’s John Lally’s daughter,” said Clifford. “He’s one of the greatest painters this country has. If not the greatest.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” said Cynthia, on whose walls were a minor Manet and a nice collection of Constable sketches. Otto Wexford was a director of The Distillers’ Company; the days of the Wexford poverty were a long time ago.
“You will,” said
Well now, what it added up to was that Helen now just wanted to forget the past and love Clifford and prepare for a glittering future and not be pregnant. Because Clifford had asked her to marry him. Or had he asked her? Or just somehow said, sometime in the middle of one of their lively, enchanted nights, part sticky, part silky, part velvet-black, part glowing lamplight, “I must tell my parents about all this. They’ll want some kind of marriage ceremony, they’re like that” and so, casually, the matter had been settled. Since the bride’s parents were so clearly incapable of arranging anything, it would be left to the bridegroom’s. Besides, the latter’s income exceeded the former’s by a ratio of a hundred to one, or thereabouts.
“Perhaps we should just be married quietly,” Helen said to Otto’s wife, Cynthia, when the whens and hows of the wedding were discussed. Clifford had taken her down to the family home in Sussex to introduce her for the first time and say they were to be married—all this on the one day. Impetuous lad! The house was Georgian and stood in twelve acres. Dannemore Court, reader. Its gardens are opened to the public once a year. Perhaps you know it. The place is famous for its azaleas.
“Why a quiet wedding?” asked Cynthia. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Or is there?” Cynthia was sixty, looked forty and acted thirty. She was small, dark, elegant, vivacious and un-English, for all her tweeds.
“Oh no,” said Helen, although she had risen in the night twice to go to the bathroom, and in those days, before the Pill was in common use, the symptoms of pregnancy were all too well-known to every young woman. And being pregnant, and unmarried, was in most circles still something to be ashamed of.
“So let’s make all the fuss we possibly can of such an important occasion,” said Cynthia, “and as for who pays—phooey! All that etiquette is so stuffy and boring, don’t you think?”
That was in the big drawing-room after lunch. Cynthia was arranging spring flowers in a bowl: they were fresh from the garden, and of amazing variety. She seemed to Helen more concerned over their welfare than that of her son.
But later Cynthia did say to Clifford, “Darling, are you sure you know what you’re doing? You’ve never been married before, and she’s so young, and it’s all so sudden.”
“I know what I’m doing,” said Clifford, gratified by her concern. It was seldom shown. His mother was always busy, looking after his father’s needs, or arranging flowers in vases, or making mysterious phone calls, and dressing up and rushing off. His father would smile fondly after her; what pleased his wife pleased him. There seemed no room for Clifford, either as a child or now he was grown, between them. They made no space for him. They squeezed him out.
“In my experience of men,” said Cynthia (and Clifford thought sadly, yes, that’s quite considerable) “when a man says he knows what he’s doing, it means he doesn’t.”
“She’s John Lally’s daughter,” said Clifford. “He’s one of the greatest painters this country has. If not the greatest.”
“Well, I’ve never heard of him,” said Cynthia, on whose walls were a minor Manet and a nice collection of Constable sketches. Otto Wexford was a director of The Distillers’ Company; the days of the Wexford poverty were a long time ago.
“You will,” said
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