Down Among the Women by Fay Weldon

Author:Fay Weldon [Weldon, Fay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction
ISBN: 9781480412484
Publisher: Penguin
Published: 1971-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

9 ON THE MOVE

DOWN AMONG THE WOMEN. If all else fails, we can always be useful.

Angling story:

Two men sit fishing on a river bank, raincoated, morose, silent. Eventually one speaks.

1st angler: You weren’t here yesterday, then.

2nd angler: No.

1st angler: (presently) Something hold you up, then?

2nd angler: Got married.

Silence.

1st angler: Good-looker, is she?

2nd angler: No.

Silence.

1st angler: Got money, has she?

2nd angler: No.

Silence.

1st angler: Sexy, then?

2nd angler: You’re joking.

Silence.

1st angler: Good little housekeeper, is that it?

2nd angler: No. She’s blind.

Silence.

1st angler: Then what you want to go and marry her for?

2nd angler: She’s got worms.

The girls are on the move. That same manoeuvring star, which once led them trooping up the stairs to offer help to Scarlet, which then dispersed, antagonized and rooted them down for years—like children playing Statues, caught when the music stopped—that same star now takes another turn and sets these young women in motion once again.

Helen turns up at Jocelyn’s house in the middle of the night. (It is fortunate that Philip is away on business.) Jocelyn lives in Chelsea now. She is a cool, chic, childless young lady. She has a built-in kitchen, new American style. Her cushions are covered in Thai silk, and tastefully arranged in a cool, chic, childless drawing-room. Her bathroom is pink and orange, and the soap and towels match. Her drinks tray contains bottles of every imaginable form of alcohol. Her accent has sharpened into Upper English Chelsea. Shopgirls pay attention when Jocelyn walks in: it seems an achievement.

To live so graciously costs a great deal—more, probably, than Philip can afford on his salary. They do not, of course, discuss money, or sex, or politics. Jocelyn, made nervous by the amount of her Harrods’ bill, has been obliged to spend some of her capital. One suicidal impulse, as it were, leading to another, she then takes the rest out of Gilt Edged and re-invests in Insurance Companies. She does not tell Philip.

The parrot has died. Jocelyn left the window open one frosty night, and forgot to move the cage, so that it caught a chill, wilted, and expired, reproaching her. Now she has a highly-bred dachshund with a bronchitic cough, and a limp, creased body.

Jocelyn, opening the door to Helen, wears a pretty white and blue fur-edged housecoat and white fur slippers. (Central heating is not yet fashionable. Hot bedrooms seem sinful and over-luxurious.) As for Helen, she has walked half-way across London in her night-gown, and the night is not warm, and her face is battered, but still she smiles with condescending grace at poor, dull, chic, bourgeois Jocelyn.

‘You can’t have come dressed like that,’ is the first thing Jocelyn says.

‘I walked boldly,’ says Helen, ‘with my head held high. I assumed I was wearing evening dress, so others assumed it too. No one remarked on anything unusual.’

‘Not even a policeman?’ asks Jocelyn, leading her friend to the bathroom.

‘One can tell you’re a rate-payer,’ says Helen. She surveys the cleanly lustres of the bathroom, and manages to make clear that it is not to her taste.

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