Remember Me by Fay Weldon

Author:Fay Weldon [Weldon, Fay]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: General Fiction, (¯`'•.¸//(*_*)\\¸.•'´¯)
ISBN: 9781480412538
Publisher: Flamingo
Published: 1976-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

Poison indeed! And the only antidote is love. If there’s a scrap of it left, find it.

Presently Margot does so, and feels better. The cat emerges from under the table and jumps on her lap. The doctor, after all, has not left the home: he is only the other side of the dividing wall. She can almost hear his patient voice, slow and reassuring, he sympathises with, understands and heals the whole world and its populace, with the single exception of herself. Well, it has to be put up with.

Margot thinks of Hilary, poor Hilary, with her shorn hair, and the thought lifts what remains of the oppression on her spirit. She clears the table, and sweeps up and presently goes to the bedroom and takes off the sweater and skirt, and puts on her navy and white suit, and looks in the mirror somewhat nervously, and is pleased to see her own plump and easy face. It is more than time for the doctor’s wife to go to work.

Ten o’clock. Bonjour! Lettice’s French class commences. Last year Lettice came top in French.

Arthur the mortician arrives for his day’s work. Goliath gathers his belongings together, and prepares to leave for school.

‘What’s she doing out?’ enquires Arthur, of Madeleine’s body, sheeted and harmless on its trolley. ‘Well, she’s not doing any harm,’ says Goliath. ‘Enough of your lip,’ says Arthur. ‘That’s a white woman lying there, let me remind you.’ Goliath smiles grimly but patiently at his aged superior.

Bonjour!

Margot arrives at the Katkin household in command of herself, and cheerful, her earlier breakfast behaviour all but forgotten, so little does it accord with her normal experience of herself. In much the same way will a virtuous woman expunge from her mind the memory of an untoward sexual adventure, attributing it, if she thinks of it at all, to some split-off part of her personality, for which she can hardly be expected to accept responsibility.

Margot is let in through the stripped pine door, and there, staring and distraught is Lily. Lily’s face is paler than ever, and her lipstick more scarlet, more clearly-edged than usual. Lily wears the same dress she was wearing the day before. Lily’s finger is bleeding.

‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ says Margot, feeling that perhaps an apology might help. ‘You know what family breakfasts are.’ It is not the kind of remark she usually makes.

‘I do indeed,’ says Lily, and continues to stare unflinchingly at Margot.

‘It was a lovely evening we had last night,’ says Margot. ‘I’m sorry I was taken ill.’

‘You’re quite better now?’ enquires Lily, politely.

‘Perfectly,’ says Margot. ‘Is everything all right?’

‘No,’ says Lily, ‘it isn’t.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Margot. ‘Why not?’

‘My husband is drunk,’ observes Lily. ‘He is drinking whisky with his bacon and eggs, and seems disinclined to go to the office. Madeleine is dead. She was killed in a car crash last night. It was to be expected—she drank very heavily, as you know, and she kept her car—Jarvis’s car—in a dreadful condition. In fact,

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