Worst Fears (16 page)

She went back upstairs again with the axe and began to chop away at the base of the bed; some wood, some of it metal. She stove it in, in its middle. Diamond, witness to the life, barked and barked. She aimed savage blows at the curlicued brass rods which composed the headboard; they at least buckled and broke. That was satisfactory. But for the most part the bed just stood there, defying her. The axe blade merely slipped and slid where it met the metal of the frame. She would be lucky to avoid hacking herself by mistake. She didn’t care. Destruction was harder than she thought. But at least the bed was now unusable. The mattress beyond repair.

Hamish was trying to restrain her arm. She whirled on him, axe held high. Then she dropped her arm, dropped the axe. “Are you on drugs?” he asked.

She had to laugh. She went through the house finding everything of Ned’s she could—raincoats from the hall, binoculars, Wellington boots, the guitar left over from his hippie days, T-shirts from the “Save the Roman Cemetery” campaign, his entire Ibsen collection, the CDs, the old 78s, the video tapes he liked and she did not—and flung them into the bedroom. She carried up the stairs, on her own, the easy chair he favoured, far too heavy a task for anyone in a normal state of mind. She shoved that on top of the wrecked bed. She smashed the bathroom mirror because Ned had looked in it too often, and threw that in with the rest. She went to the linen cupboard and found the green sheets that Abbie had laundered, and tore them hem from hem with a little help from the scissors, and flung them in too. Then she locked the door and turned to see Dr. Moebius facing her, Hamish behind him.

“Shall we calm down, Alexandra?” he said. “I could have you put away for this.”

“I am perfectly calm,” said Alexandra. “And please call me by my proper name: Mrs. Ludd.”

He was taking notes. She could see she should be careful. She was a widow with a child; a woman without a husband to give her authenticity. She was an actress, which suggested promiscuity and profligacy. If Social Services got involved she could end up with Sascha in care, at best with her mother, at worst with abusing foster parents. She was vulnerable. Society now required from her as a mother emotional correctness: she must subdue anger; she must practice understanding and forgiveness. She had better go to the funeral—hand in hand with Jenny Linden, if required. She smiled at Dr. Moebius.

“On second thoughts,” she said, “do by all means call me Alexandra. I know you’re here to help me. And you’re right, I need help.” A show of gratitude always went down well, when dealing with authority.

It appeared that Hamish had called Dr. Moebius. After all, she had been running wild with an axe, a danger to herself and others.

“I’m so sorry if I alarmed you, Hamish,” said Alexandra. “I was just trying to move the bed: I thought I’d give Sascha the bigger bedroom. Then the brass bed turned out to be too wide to get through the door. I wanted it in bits the better to re-assemble it, that’s all. As for the rest, I’m just getting Ned’s things in one place for sorting. Oxfam will be round any moment. There’s a lot here can be re-cycled.”

Dr. Moebius was smiling now, and nodding. Even Hamish seemed pacified. It was easy, once you understood what was going on.

“I’m seeing Jenny Linden this evening,” she told Dr. Moebius, easily.

“Poor thing, she’s had such a hard time. I’ll try and persuade her to get round to see you. She and I really must be friends. We have so many memories to share. We can help one another through this hard time: make the journey through grief together. Perhaps we should give her a lift to the funeral, Hamish?”

“That would be generous of you, Alexandra,” said Hamish, though he looked at her a little suspiciously.

“I thought perhaps it would be best if little Sascha doesn’t come to the funeral.” Alexandra appealed to Dr. Moebius. “But what do you think?”

“Seven is the lowest age we recommend for funerals,” said Dr. Moebius.

“You’re right. Keep him away. Divert him. Then take the little chap aside, talk him through what happened. A mother’s instinct is often best. He’ll need extra mothering now. What we used to call TLC. Tender loving care.”

“What do we call it now?” Alexandra asked, without thinking, but heard tendentiousness in her own voice and quickly continued, “I have some borage in the garden. Shall I make tea? You know the Ancient Greeks drank borage in times of bereavement? Borage is the solace for grief.”

“So where is the child now?” asked Dr. Moebius, sipping his tea, which was not, as it turned out, unpleasant if taken with enough organic honey, though heaven knew how control was exercised over the bees so they supplied only the relevant purest nectar. His notebook was still out, but at least closed. “I see no sign of him around. Is he asleep? Through all the furore?”

“He’s with my mother,” said Alexandra, “I’ll be driving over to see him tomorrow. I do miss him so much! I’m making his new room ready for him. I thought if the house changed in little respects, the major respect—his father not there any more—wouldn’t be so horrendous for him.”

“Very wise,” said Dr. Moebius. “But I do think perhaps you should see a grief counsellor.”

“I know a good one in Bristol,” said Alexandra. “Leah someone or other.”

“Leah?” said Dr. Moebius. “Does she do grief as well? Well, I’m glad. She’s very good.”

A
LEXANDRA COULD SEE THE
wisdom of doing what she was told. She felt an agreeable sense of cunning: what she imagined a vixen would feel, mid-winter, hungry, desperate but so full of plans she’d scarcely notice, staring through a hedge as a frosty dusk fell, and the silly hens were locked away by a slow man in Wellington boots, footfalls crackling on already icy grass; and lo, there was a new rat-hole in the side of the henhouse, and the she-fox could see it, and the man plodded back to the house—and now the moon and the night-hour gave permission—

Alexandra looked up Leah’s number in Jenny Linden’s address book and called it up. She sat on the settle at the foot of the stairs, where she could see the back door, so often used, and the front door, so seldom used, and thought Ned would come in through the back any minute, but he didn’t.

She could hear Hamish moving about in the study. What was he doing? He paced a lot, and wept a little judging by the state of his eyes. She could see that to lose a sibling was hard: it could only seem unnatural: out of time, out of order, a vicious re-run of your own departure into nothingness. Widowhood was a normal state. Most married women endured it, unless divorce intervened. Perhaps that was the merit of divorce.

“Hello,” said Leah, in her soft, ingratiating voice, with its hint of reproach. “How can I help you?”

Alexandra imagined Leah, on no good grounds, to be a thin version of Jenny Linden: colourless hair falling limply and simply,
au naturel.
Leah would not have Jenny Linden’s stubborn, sexy helplessness in the face of her own passions, which men found so attractive. She employed some other, even greater power over others: she could murmur “worst fears” over the telephone and practically kill you. After that you would get better: turn the curse into a blessing but no thanks to her. “I am Alexandra Ludd,” she said.

“I was expecting to hear from you,” said Leah.

“Why’s that?”

“Jenny has told me how distressed you are,” said Leah. “I imagined you would soon seek help.”

“Why should I choose you,” asked Alexandra, “of all people?”

“You already have,” said Leah. “You’ve been seeking to incorporate everything that’s Jenny: stealing her writings, speaking to me with her voice.”

Jesus, thought Alexandra, these people interpret even attack as dependency. Give them a situation, they’ll twist it any old way to come out on top.

“But you’ll deny my interpretation,” said Leah, who appeared to be able to read minds, even over the phone. “That too is natural. And don’t be surprised by the degree of your distress. The poorer the relationship to the deceased, the harder it is to move through the grieving process.”

“You’re telling me this for nothing?” asked Alexandra. “Shouldn’t I be paying? I bet this wisdom doesn’t come cheap, either.”

“Ned paid three sessions in advance,” said Leah. “If you want to step into his shoes, by all means do so. I loved him: I love all my clients. When one goes, it is as if a member of my own family goes.”

“Bully for you,” said Alexandra. “Actually the postman’s in his shoes. Ned’s only got bare feet. His toes are quite, quite blue, and stiff, though shrinking. He has almost perfect feet: very straight toes. His mother, in spite of being Scottish, always made sure his shoes fitted.”

There was a short silence. “I don’t quite follow you,” said Leah.

“I shouldn’t think you would,” said Alexandra, confident in her own superior wit, her fox-like mastery of the situation.

“You put too much faith in the intellect, Mrs. Ludd,” said Leah, sharply. “Ned always said so. Sometimes it is better to put cleverness aside, and let the feelings flow.”

“I’ll do my best,” said Alexandra. “Thank you for the advice.”

“I’m glad you’ve come to me for help,” said Leah. “And I’m so glad you speak of Ned in the present tense. He is alive and well in you, as he is in Jenny.”

“Yes, isn’t that nice,” said Alexandra.

“Jenny is doing very well, by the way. She is moving swiftly. I have been able to pass her on to the angry phase.”

“I’d noticed,” said Alexandra. “So you reckon I should come and see you?”

“I’m very booked up,” said Leah. “I don’t normally do telephone work, but I can see this consultation is useful to you.”

“I hadn’t realised it was a consultation,” said Alexandra. “I thought it was a conversation.”

“Oh no,” said Leah, firmly.

“Well, perhaps I could take Ned’s next appointment,” said Alexandra, “since he won’t be turning up.” Diamond crouched at her feet, head on her lap, looking doleful. Jenny Linden had not been round to take him for his walk, or perhaps he wanted food, or missed Sascha. Or even, of course, Ned. Perhaps Diamond should go down, like everyone else, to view the body. But the cold in the morgue would get to his bones. It wouldn’t be fair.

“He and Jenny would come for an appointment together on Tuesdays at 11,” said Leah.

“That’s nice,” said Alexandra: the rat-hole wasn’t as big as she thought.

She was wedged.

“We would talk quite often about the possibility of Ned’s getting together with you again,” said Leah, with a hint of apology, but the merest hint.

“How good of you,” said Alexandra. She could see the hens; she couldn’t get at them. She snapped and snarled. They squawked.

“But your worlds had become so very different,” said Leah. “You had grown apart. Ned was a very spiritual man. I don’t think you realised. Do reconsider your choice not to attend with Jenny. Reconciliation is so important; you should join together in love for Ned.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Alexandra. “But I still don’t think I’ll take up the offer.” She withdrew from the rat-hole, to reconsider her position.

“Of course, what Ned had to say to me in our sessions together must remain confidential,” said Leah. “Those are the ethics of my profession.”

“You must send me a copy some time,” said Alexandra. She would gnaw away at its edges, enlarge the hole. “But perhaps you could see this as a joint consultation, Ned and me, his and hers, his spirit here in principle. His fucking ghost’s been banging round the house. I could probably still bring him along.”

“Ned’s advance payments were for three individual sessions,” said Leah. “I suppose I could count this as one and a half.”

“Yes, why not,” agreed Alexandra. “Good idea!”

“
Ghost
is not a word we use,” said Leah. “It has unfortunate connotations. We prefer to say
soul.
And strong language doesn’t upset me, if it helps you in some way, but I am sorry to say it does upset the telephone company. So please refrain. I take it the anti-love expletives are used freely in your theatrical world.”

“They do get bandied about a bit,” said Alexandra. “And Ned himself wasn’t averse to a shit, a fuck and a cunt.”

Wood was splintering in her mouth. She was aware that she was starving. If she didn’t eat, she’d die. Cluck, cluck, cluck went the silly hens.

“In your company, perhaps,” said Leah, “but certainly never in mine, or Jenny’s. It is probably some residual violence of expression lingering in the air which prevents his soul from settling, as you say is the case; evil making itself apparent in the material world.”

“Ah, that’s it!” cried Alexandra. “My fault again! It’s the bad language does it!”

“Try to accept what I say, Alexandra,” said Leah. “Denial can cause cancer. We take the poison back into ourselves. I believe your father died of cancer.”

“These hereditary problems are gender-linked,” said Alexandra, cunning again. The hole was big enough. There was a short pause.

“And then of course,” said Leah, “on top of the growing spiritual incompatibility, there were your and Ned’s sexual difficulties.”

“Oh, what were those?”

“He felt you smothered him,” said Leah. “And of course, as I unblocked his animus and it could flow freely, he looked for more anima in his partner.”

“You mean big tits?” asked Alexandra. “Ned talked to you in this detail? To you, a stranger. About his and my sex life?” Her voice, she found, had risen a pitch. Her mouth was bleeding, her fox-teeth were broken. How would she tear the meat once she had it?

“I am his therapist,” said Leah primly. “That’s what therapists are for, surely? There is no shame.”

“But I don’t know you!” cried Alexandra, before she could stop herself. Her pulse was beating faster; her heart was suddenly thudding. “You are taking even this away from me.”

“I know sex was very important to you,” said Leah. “Ned would complain to me that after you and he had sex you would be so happy.”

“Complain?” The man in the Wellington boots was plodding towards her. He had a gun. He raised it.

“It made him feel manipulated; as if sex was all you wanted him for. And you were so often away. You would come home just for that, for penetrative sex, not loving sex.” Bang, bang in her head.