Worst Fears (5 page)

Except of course Jenny was the sort of person who loves everything and everyone at the same level. She would “love” her therapist, “love” her friends, “love” Ned because he had once taken some notice of her. Why would Jenny think she, Alexandra, didn’t love Ned?
Erratum
: hadn’t loved Ned. Because Alexandra hadn’t been there when Ned died? Jenny was probably the kind of woman who’d cling like a limpet just in case someone died and they weren’t there, and that way hasten their death.

She remembered Jenny saying, though she couldn’t remember where, or when, or in what company,

“I have this wonderful therapist. She gave me the courage to leave my husband,” and thinking “Lonely women are always saying that.”

Somewhere there had been a husband and a son, both rejected in the interests of Jenny’s talent. The husband a lighting director in the West End; yes, that was it. A technician, not an artist. Not even a critic. Jenny was the kind who longed aggressively for the peace of the countryside, to live next to nature; to discover her true self, that kind of stuff. Ned was in the country because there was somewhere to park and he could have a rest from theatrical folk.

Why was she even giving Jenny Linden two minutes’ thought? A mad woman, excited by death, roaming the edge of the territory. She wasn’t worth it. Alexandra had seen herself as duty bound to ask her round, from time to time—a neighbour in vaguely the same profession—and Ned would say, “For God’s sake, not Jenny Linden. She’ll bore everyone to death, and talk about animal rights.”

Alexandra wondered by what right she and Ned had felt it their entitlement to dole out social acceptability or otherwise round the neighbourhood. If the Ludds said people were okay, they were. Now Ned had gone, had toppled in death through the linking of a protective fence of their own devising—the one that kept the boring and pitiable out—and broken it, now heaven knew who’d come rushing in. And it might even serve Alexandra right.

Alexandra went to the living room and under the gaze of Leda entwined with her swan, and Europa petting her bull—both deities in porcelain,
circa
1760, and a Dog of Fo, in salt-glazed stoneware, around 1730—took down Ned’s book on
Peer Gynt.
The book fell open on a photograph of Jenny Linden’s little set, little figures, tiny dresses. The caption read: “Photo: Ned Ludd. Jenny Linden’s brilliant and exquisite recreation of the 1922 production at the Old Vic.”

You could either assume Ned had gone back at some other time to take pictures of Jenny’s work on the 1922 production, or that the caption was wrong, or that Ned had been in error in the first place. Or that she, Alexandra, had misremembered 1911.

Alexandra heard a movement behind her and whirled, and there was Jenny Linden staring at her. In her, Alexandra’s, living room. “I brought Diamond back,” said Jenny Linden. “I came straight in. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I do, actually,” said Alexandra.

“I did so hope we could be friends,” said Jenny. “We both need someone to talk to.”

“A trouble shared is a trouble halved, that kind of thing?” enquired Alexandra.

“Don’t mock,” said Jenny Linden. “You’re very clever and smart, but it doesn’t help in the end. I know that book by heart.
Peer Gynt & The Nordic Imagination.
Ned was such a wise and wonderful man. I don’t suppose you even read it. Ned said you were never interested in his work.”

“Just get out of my house,” said Alexandra, but Jenny stayed where she was, with a kind of stolid, stubborn lumpenness, as if she hadn’t heard what Alexandra said, or perhaps Alexandra had only thought it, not spoken it.

“You’re upset,” said Jenny. “I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

Alexandra followed Jenny into the kitchen. Jenny was taking mugs from the cupboard, the teapot from the shelf, without hesitation, as if this were her own home. Diamond lay under the table, exhausted and panting, thumping his tail from time to time, and looking strangely guilty.

Alexandra advanced on Jenny and slapped her across the cheek. Jenny dropped a mug and stared, stupefied.

“You’re violent,” she said. “On top of everything. You really do need treatment. Ned was right.”

But still she didn’t go. She moved her little hands up to her pink cheek. Jenny Linden had a squidged-up face, as if the chin aimed up for the eyebrows, the ears longed to get to the nose. She had a puffy little bosom and a thick waist. Ned would not have looked at her twice. This woman was in some fantasy of her own. In twelve years Ned had only once disconcerted Alexandra, by yearning after Glenn Close, whom he admired for her intelligence and temperament as much as her looks.

“You’re just back here to lay your greedy hands on what you can,” spat Jenny Linden. “You don’t care about Ned. It breaks my heart.”

Alexandra kicked Jenny Linden’s shins hard. Jenny Linden hopped about and finally ran out of the kitchen door. Alexandra slammed it after her and locked it. Alexandra went to the phone and called Abbie.

“Jenny Linden’s been here,” said Alexandra. “Is she mad or what?”

“Oh dear,” said Abbie. “I’d better come over.”

“Tell me now, on the phone,” said Alexandra. But Abbie only repeated that she’d come over as soon as she could, with Arthur.

Alexandra inspected her house for traces of Jenny Linden, or others. She looked in the bathroom mirror, and for a second thought she saw Jenny Linden looking back at her, but it was just a trick of the light.

She felt disloyal to Ned for checking up on him; like this, after his death. “You’re too bad, Ned,” she said. “Whatever did you say to that dreadful deluded creature? There must have been something.” But there was no reply from Ned. It wasn’t that she expected words—how could she?—rather a momentary joining, a fleeting acknowledgement, some brief touching of his spirit with hers. A laugh that ought to be shared: a dismissal of doubt; a dismissal of Jenny Linden. “Dire Jenny Linden, gone completely round the twist!” Ned would have said, could have said.

Alexandra looked through cupboards, drawers, the kitchen shelves, the bathroom cabinet. She no longer knew what she was looking for. Everywhere familiar things, some worthless, some priceless, everything redolent of a present which had so unexpectedly turned into a past. Everywhere was Ned. She would have to remove so much—pack stuff up, burn some things, give others away, in order to reclaim the present for herself, forget the future.

Abbie had cleaned up before she, Alexandra, arrived: she’d emptied ashtrays, run the dishwasher through, even changed the sheets. Why? Abbie’s nervous mind, she supposed. And where was Ned’s toothbrush? Missing. Hers was there, and Sascha’s, but not Ned’s. The tooth mug needed cleaning: tooth mugs always did.

She went into the bedroom and looked through Ned’s sock drawer and for the first time wept without worrying about her eyes. She even knuckled them and howled. Then she found a red suspender belt with black lace trimmings amongst the socks. Her own, she supposed. Except she couldn’t remember ever owning such a thing. Perhaps before she was married? She tried it on over her jeans. It was too big for her. Even so, she couldn’t fasten it behind her back: she had to tug the clasp round to the front to do it. A kind of trick fastening: you slipped one bit of plastic into another at an angle, then flattened it and it snapped to. Except she couldn’t do it, even looking at it. She gave up and let the belt just fall to the floor. Wouldn’t you know how to fasten your own suspender belt? Not if it was years old, pre-marriage, pre-motherhood, in the stockings-and-suspender party days. You’d have forgotten. She supposed.

She looked under the bed: nothing: spick and span. There were the usual two suitcases there. They’d been dusted. Theresa the help had been away for the week in Spain. Theresa was 17 and as many stone. Theresa had trouble vacuuming under the beds: she didn’t bend easily in her middle. Abbie must have done it. The carpet was a little damp, towards the window. Had it rained? Alexandra couldn’t remember. When the rain was from the West, fine and strong, water could creep into the room between window frame and window, forcing itself in along with the delicate new tendrils of Virginia creeper. Perhaps that was it. But when she’d been weeding the pansies the soil had been dry, dry, dry.

Alexandra had a sudden clear impression that Ned had died on the bed, not downstairs at all. That for some reason nobody had told her this. But that was absurd. Why would they lie? Perhaps they’d thought it would make her reluctant to sleep in her own bed? They were wrong. She wanted to be where Ned’s last breaths had been. Perhaps such breaths lingered in the air and she detected them. She lay down upon the coverlet and fell asleep. Diamond crept up the stairs and lay beside her.

The phone woke her. She went downstairs to answer it. There was no extension in the bedroom. It was the
Daily Mail
asking her how she felt. She put the phone down. It rang again. The caller was the assistant to a broadsheet’s theatre critic, saying she was sorry to disturb Alexandra at a time like this, but could the paper have advance notice of the funeral: they would be sending a photographer: such a great loss. Alexandra put the phone down.

The doorbell went. A flashbulb popped in her face. She slammed the door shut, went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and crouched the other side of the door. The bell rang again. She opened the door quickly, brandishing the knife. But it was only a bunch of flowers from the local florist, cellophane wrapped. They were from Jenny Linden. “Forgive and forget,” it read. “In fond friendship, Jenny.” Alexandra threw them after the florist, and then, as they scattered over the path, noticed a man with a camera standing amongst the long artichokes, beneath the clothes line, where the green sheets from the marital bed had lately hung to dry.

“Just a minute there!” he called to her, so she quickly went inside and called the police. They said they’d send someone as soon as possible.

The phone rang. It was Abbie. She said she couldn’t get over because one of her Japanese students had choked on a plum stone and become hysterical. No, the girl was fine physically, just humiliated. The Japanese were like that. Abbie would come over in the afternoon. She’d hoped Jenny Linden would stay quiet and out of the way, but apparently not. The only thing to do with her was to physically throw her out.

“That’s what I did,” said Alexandra.

“She’s had a crush on Ned for years,” said Abbie. “She’s on the verge of psychopathic. She’d hang round in the garden a lot. He’s had to call the police. You know, like
Fatal Attraction
but without the sex. A total fan. A kind of sub-stalker.”

“Why didn’t Ned tell me?”

“It was embarrassing, I suppose,” said Abbie.

“Why didn’t
you
tell me?” asked Alexandra.

“She was so pathetic. It was so ridiculous. I just thought she’d go away or be locked up or something, and we’d all forget it. I’d rather tell you this in person. It’s so cold like this. Can’t it wait till this afternoon?”

“No. It’s Wednesday. Hamish is coming this afternoon.”

“Thank God for that. At least you’ll have someone there to keep you company.”

“You called me at five-thirty on Sunday morning,” said Alexandra. “I was there by Sunday lunchtime. In that time you called the police, the doctor, me, Vilna, and the ambulance, and you cleaned my house from top to bottom, and washed my sheets.”

“I didn’t do any cleaning,” said Abbie. “I just changed the sheets and ran the old ones through the washing machine. If you run a residential language school it gets to be second nature. If in doubt change the sheets and serve food. Joke?” Alexandra laughed a little. “That’s better,” said Abbie.

“Then who did the cleaning?” asked Alexandra. “Theresa’s still away. It wasn’t her.”

“I expect Ned did. He’s not hopeless. You hadn’t been home since the previous Tuesday.”

“He doesn’t vacuum under beds if it means moving two suitcases. Sorry, delete doesn’t. Insert was not accustomed to.”

“Vilna might have done it,” said Abbie, ignoring Alexandra’s joke. “During the morning Vilna may have run round with the vacuum and the duster. People behave oddly when there’s a body in the house.”

“Abbie, that’s my body,” said Alexandra, and began to choke and cry. “And this is my house. I don’t want strangers like Vilna and Jenny Linden making free with it.”

“Oh God,” said Abbie. “I ought to be with you. I’m coming over. The Japanese girl will just have to do without me.” She put the phone down.

Alexandra went to the door and looked round. The photographer had gone; there was no sign of Jenny Linden. Flowers dozed in the sun. There was the gentlest of breezes. There were broad beans on the tall pole pyramids which needed picking. She’d try and do it this evening. Ned fretted if the pods stayed on the plants long enough to become stringy. She lived in a beautiful house, in a beautiful place. She was a widow.

She called the Eddon Gurney police station to say not to bother to send anyone up; everything was now quiet. They were relieved because they were understaffed; they’d take it off their list of calls; they expressed their sorrow about her husband’s death. Ned Ludd was such a loss to the community. Would she be staying in the house? “Of course,” she said.

They’d thought she might be selling, moving up to London altogether, to the bright lights. Wouldn’t have much time for slow country folk and their country ways. What was to keep her in the countryside now? Alexandra resisted the temptation to say if they talked less they might have got someone over earlier to chase the photographer out of her garden, but it is never wise to rile the police so she said, with truth, how much she loved the area, how after twelve years The Cottage felt like home; now that her husband had died she would need more than ever the support of the community, and so forth, and they said call if there was any trouble and they’d be up at once. To let them know.

Abbie called Alexandra to say she couldn’t come over. Now a young

Gulf Arab boy had bitten into a plum and got stung on the tongue by a wasp, and though there seemed no swelling they’d thought it best to call the doctor.

Alexandra suggested that Arthur cut down the plum tree.