Consider Her Ways (6 page)

The countryside differed little from that I had already seen. Once we were outside the gates there were the same tidy fields and standardized farms. The occasional built-up areas were not extensive and consisted of the same types of blocks close by, and we ran on the same, not very good, road surfaces. There were groups of the Amazon types, and, more rarely, individuals, to be seen at work in the fields; the sparse traffic was lorries, large or small, and occasional buses, but with never a private car to be seen. My illusion, I reflected, was remarkably consistent in its details. Not a single group of Amazons, for instance, failed to raise its right hands in friendly, respectful greeting to the pink car.

Once, we crossed a cutting. Looking down from the bridge I thought at first that we were over the dried bed of a canal, but then I noticed a post leaning at a crazy angle among the grass and weeds: most of its attachments had fallen off, but there were enough left to identify it as a railway-signal.

We passed through one concentration of identical blocks which was in size, though in no other way, quite a town, and then, two or three miles farther on, ran through an ornamental gateway into a kind of park.

In one way it was not unlike the estate we had left, for everything was meticulously tended; the lawns like velvet, the flower-beds vivid with spring blossoms, but it differed essentially in that the buildings were not blocks. They were houses, quite small for the most part, and varied in style, often no larger than roomy cottages. The place had a subduing effect on my small
companions; for the first time they left off chattering, and gazed about them with obvious awe.

The driver stopped once to inquire the way of an overalled Amazon who was striding along with a hod on her shoulder. She directed us, and gave me a cheerful, respectful grin through the window, and presently we drew up again in front of a neat little two-storey Regency-style house.

This time there was no trolley. The little women, assisted by the driver, fussed over helping me out, and then half-supported me into the house, in a kind of buttressing formation.

Inside, I was manoeuvred with some difficulty through a door on the left, and found myself in a beautiful room, elegantly decorated and furnished in the period-style of the house. A white-haired woman in a purple silk dress was sitting in a wing-chair beside a wood fire. Both her face and her hands told of considerable age, but she looked at me from keen, lively eyes.

‘Welcome, my dear,' she said, in a voice which had no trace of the quaver I half-expected.

Her glance went to a chair. Then she looked at me again, and thought better of it.

‘I expect you'd be more comfortable on the couch,' she suggested.

I regarded the couch – a genuine Georgian piece, I thought – doubtfully.

‘Will it stand it?' I wondered.

‘Oh, I think so,' she said, but not too certainly.

The retinue deposited me there carefully, and stood by, with anxious expressions. When it was clear that though it creaked it was probably going to hold, the old lady shooed them away, and rang a little silver bell. A diminutive figure, a perfect parlourmaid three-foot-ten in height, entered.

‘The brown sherry, please, Mildred,' instructed the old lady. ‘You'll take sherry, my dear?' she added to me.

‘Y-yes
– yes, thank you,' I said, faintly. After a pause I added: ‘You will excuse me, Mrs – er – Miss –?'

‘Oh, I should have introduced myself. My name is Laura – not Miss, or Mrs, just Laura. You, I know, are Orchis – Mother Orchis.'

‘So they tell me,' I owned, distastefully.

We studied one another. For the first time since the hallucination had set in I saw sympathy, even pity, in someone else's eyes. I looked round the room again, noticing the perfection of details.

‘This is – I'm not mad, am I?' I asked.

She shook her head slowly, but before she could reply the miniature parlourmaid returned, bearing a cut-glass decanter and glasses on a silver tray. As she poured out a glass for each of us I saw the old lady glance from her to me and back again, as though comparing us. There was a curious, uninterpretable expression on her face. I made an effort.

‘Shouldn't it be Madeira?' I suggested.

She looked surprised, and then smiled, and nodded appreciatively.

‘I think you have accomplished the purpose of this visit in one sentence,' she said.

The parlourmaid left, and we raised our glasses. The old lady sipped at hers and then placed it on an occasional table beside her.

‘Nevertheless,' she went on, ‘we had better go into it a little more. Did they tell you why they have sent you to me, my dear?'

‘No,' I shook my head.

‘It is because I am an historian,' she informed me. ‘Access to history is a privilege. It is not granted to many of us nowadays – and then somewhat reluctantly. Fortunately, a feeling that no branches of knowledge should be allowed to perish entirely still exists – though some of them are pursued at the cost of a certain political suspicion.' She smiled deprecatingly, and then went on. ‘So when confirmation is required it is necessary to appeal to a specialist. Did they give you any report on their diagnosis?'

I shook my head again.

‘I
thought not. So like the profession, isn't it? Well, I'll tell you what they told me on the telephone from the Mothers' Home, and we shall have a better idea of what we are about. I was informed that you have been interviewed by several doctors whom you have interested, puzzled – and I suspect, distressed – very much, poor things. None of them has more than a minimum smattering of history, you see. Well, briefly, two of them are of the opinion that you are suffering from delusions of a schizophrenic nature: and three are inclined to think you are a genuine case of transferred personality. It is an extremely rare condition. There are not more than three reliably documented cases, and one that is more debatable, they tell me; but of those confirmed two are associated with the drug chuinjuatin, and the third with a drug of very similar properties.

‘Now, the majority of three found your answers coherent for the most part, and felt that they were authentically circumstantial. That is to say that nothing you told them conflicted directly with what they know, but, since they know so little outside their professional field, they found a great deal of the rest both hard to believe and impossible to check. Therefore I, with my better means of checking, have been asked for my opinion.'

She paused, and looked me thoughtfully over.

‘I rather think,' she added, ‘that this is going to be one of the most curiously interesting things that has happened to me in my quite long life. – Your glass is empty, my dear.'

‘Transferred personality,' I repeated wonderingly, as I held out my glass. ‘Now, if
that
were possible –'

‘Oh, there's no doubt about the
possibility
. Those three cases I mentioned are fully authenticated.'

‘It might be that – almost,' I admitted. ‘At least, in some ways it might be – but not in others. There
is
this nightmare quality.
You
seem perfectly normal to me, but look at me, myself – and at your little maid! There's certainly an element of delusion. I
seem
to be here, like this, and talking to you – but it can't really be so, so where am I?'

‘I
can understand, better than most, I think, how unreal this must seem to you. In fact, I have spent so much of my time in books that it sometimes seems unreal to me – as if I did not quite belong anywhere. Now, tell me my dear, when were you born?'

I told her. She thought for a moment.

‘H'm,' she said. ‘George the Sixth – but you'd not remember the second big war?'

‘No,' I agreed.

‘But you might remember the coronation of the next monarch? Whose was that?'

‘Elizabeth – Elizabeth the Second. My mother took me to see the procession,' I told her.

‘Do you remember anything about it?'

‘Not a lot really – except that it rained, nearly all day,' I admitted.

We went on like that for a little while, then she smiled, reassuringly.

‘Well, I don't think we need any more to establish our point. I've heard about that coronation before – at secondhand. It must have been a wonderful scene in the abbey.' She mused a moment, and gave a little sigh. ‘You've been very patient with me, my dear. It is only fair that you should have your turn – but I'm afraid you must prepare yourself for some shocks.'

‘I think I must be inured after my last thirty-six hours – or what has appeared to be thirty-six hours,' I told her.

‘I doubt it,' she said, looking at me seriously.

‘Tell me,' I asked her. ‘Please explain it all – if you can.'

‘Your glass, my dear. Then I'll get the crux of it over.' She poured for each of us, then she asked:

‘What strikes you as the oddest feature of your experience, so far?'

I considered. ‘There's so much –'

‘Might it not be that you have not seen a single man?' she suggested.

I
thought back. I remembered the wondering tone of one of the Mothers asking: ‘What is a man?'

‘That's certainly one of them,' I agreed. ‘Where are they?'

She shook her head, watching me steadily.

‘There aren't any, my dear. Not any more. None at all.'

I simply went on staring at her. Her expression was perfectly serious and sympathetic. There was no trace of guile there, or deception, while I struggled with the idea. At last I managed:

‘But – but that's impossible! There must be some somewhere … You couldn't – I mean, how? – I mean …' My expostulation trailed off in confusion.

She shook her head.

‘I know it must seem impossible to you, Jane – may I call you Jane? But it is so. I am an old woman now, nearly eighty, and in all my long life I have never seen a man – save in old pictures and photographs. Drink your sherry, my dear. It will do you good.' She paused. ‘I'm afraid this upsets you.'

I obeyed, too bewildered for further comment at the moment, protesting inwardly, yet not altogether disbelieving, for certainly I had not seen one man, nor sign of any. She went on quietly, giving me time to collect my wits:

‘I can understand a little how you must feel. I haven't had to learn all my history entirely from books, you see. When I was a girl, sixteen or seventeen, I used to listen a lot to my grandmother. She was as old then as I am now, but her memory of her youth was still very good. I was able almost to see the places she talked about – but they were part of such a different world that it was difficult for me to understand how she felt. When she spoke about the young man she had been engaged to, tears would roll down her cheeks, even then – not just for him, of course, but for the whole world that she had known as a girl. I was sorry for her, although I could not really understand how she felt. – How should I? But now that I am old, too, and have read so much, I am perhaps a little nearer to understanding her feelings, I think.' She
looked at me curiously. ‘And you, my dear. Perhaps you, too, were engaged to be married?'

‘I was married – for a little time,' I told her.

She contemplated that for some seconds, then:

‘It must be a very strange experience to be owned,' she remarked, reflectively.

‘Owned?' I exclaimed, in astonishment.

‘Ruled by a husband,' she explained, sympathetically.

I stared at her.

‘But it – it wasn't like that – it wasn't like that at all,' I protested. ‘It was –' But there I broke off, with tears too close. To sheer her away I asked:

‘But what happened? What on earth happened to the men?'

‘They all died,' she told me. ‘They fell sick. Nobody could do anything for them, so they died. In little more than a year they were all gone – all but a very few.'

‘But surely – surely everything would collapse?'

‘Oh, yes. Very largely it did. It was very bad. There was a dreadful lot of starvation. The industrial parts were the worst hit, of course. In the more backward countries and in rural areas women were able to turn to the land and till it to keep themselves and their children alive, but almost all the large organizations broke down entirely. Transport ceased very soon: petrol ran out, and no coal was being mined. It was quite a dreadful state of affairs because although there were a great many women, and they had outnumbered the men, in fact, they had only really been important as consumers and spenders of money. So when the crisis came it turned out that scarcely any of them knew how to do any of the important things because they had nearly all been owned by men, and had to lead their lives as pets and parasites.'

I started to protest, but her frail hand waved me aside.

‘It wasn't their fault – not entirely,' she explained. ‘They were caught up in a process, and everything conspired against their escape. It was a long process, going right back to the eleventh
century, in Southern France. The Romantic conception started there as an elegant and amusing fashion for the leisured classes. Gradually, as time went on, it permeated through most levels of society, but it was not until the latter part of the nineteenth century that its commercial possibilities were intelligently perceived, and not until the twentieth that it was really exploited.

‘At the beginning of the twentieth century women were starting to have their chance to lead useful, creative, interesting lives. But that did not suit commerce: it needed them much more as mass-consumers than as producers – except on the most routine levels. So Romance was adopted and developed as a weapon against their further progress and to promote consumption, and it was used intensively.

‘Women must never for a moment be allowed to forget their sex, and compete as equals. Everything had to have a “feminine angle” which must be different from the masculine angle, and be dinned in without ceasing. It would have been unpopular for manufacturers actually to issue an order “back to the kitchen”, but there were other ways. A profession without a difference, called “housewife”, could be invented. The kitchen could be glorified and made more expensive; it could be made to seem desirable, and it could be shown that the way to realize this heart's desire was through marriage. So the presses turned out, by the hundred thousand a week, journals which concentrated the attention of women ceaselessly and relentlessly upon selling themselves to some man in order that they might achieve some small, uneconomic unit of a home upon which money could be spent.