Praise for Chalcot Crescent
‘Weldon’s mischievous blend of fact and fiction produces a hybrid that is at once futuristic satire, tragedy and tongue-in-cheek memoir… A persuasive fable: sinister, clever, funny and vintage Weldon.’
Independent
‘Sparkles with wit and acute observation. These, one feels, must be exactly the subtle ways in which government can slither from good intentions into dangerousness… a clever jeu d’esprit.’
Guardian
‘Spirited characters, led by Fay Weldon’s fictional sister, make this fresh take on sci-fi shine… It’s a pleasure… She’s an extraordinary writer.’
Observer
‘A great scroll of memory, skewed history and canny observation. Wonderfully imagined, constantly surprising.’
Saga Magazine
‘An apocalyptic vision that is too amusing to be taken entirely seriously. Or perhaps we should…’
Financial Times
‘Reads like a first novel… it’s so fresh and vibrant and funny. The funniest dystopian novel I’ve ever read.’
Boyd Hilton
‘Frances narrates much of the novel with a twinkle in her eye… knowingly light-hearted and tongue-in-cheek… Sharply observed, entertaining, and with a sparkling satirical edge.’
Independent on Sunday
‘This legendary English author really opens up in this wickedly sharp story of her imaginary sister Frances… Riveting!’
Look Magazine
‘Weldon’s impish sense of humour and gimlet-eyed social observations stand out.’
Sunday Times
‘Orwellian nightmare recast for the Twittering classes… You’ll be entertained if you enjoy Weldon’s trademark barbed frivolity.’
New Scientist
‘Weldon has created a sinister world of national poverty, suspicion and hopelessness with impressive attention to detail… The helplessness of old age and the timelessness of the pain Frances has picked up on the way are poignant.’
Spectator
Copyright
First published in Great Britain in 2010 by Corvus,
an imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd.
Copyright © Fay Weldon 2010. All rights reserved.
The moral right of Fay Weldon to be identified as the author of
this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright,
Designs and Patents act of 1988.
“Falling In Love Again” Music & Original Words by Friedrich
Hollander, English Words by Reg Connelly © 1930, Published by
Fredeick Hollander Music, Administered in the UK by Chelsea
Music Publishing Ltd.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be
reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying,
recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of both the copyright
owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. All characters, organizations, and events
portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s
First eBook Edition: January 2010
ISBN: 978-0-857-89057-3
Corvus
An imprint of Grove Atlantic Ltd
Ormond House
26-27 Boswell Street
London WC1N 3JZ
www.corvus-books.co.uk
Contents
Cover
Praise for Chalcot Crescent
Copyright
Kehua!
PART ONE
Scarlet blows the gaff
Where they live
In the basement
Running into a trap
Down in the basement
Scarlet’s plan for leaving home
Back to the basement
In the kitchen at Robinsdale
Murder in the family
A break for lunch
The first murder: a set piece
Jackson too is in a rush
Beverley talks about her will
Night in the basement
Now, about Louis
Scarlet washes Beverley’s hair
Louis thinks it over too
In the basement
Run, Lola, run
Lola’s move to Nopasaran
Would Louis mind?
At home with Cynara
Understanding Louis better
Another place, another time
Down here writing
Beverley feels better
What Lola is doing in the meanwhile
What happened next, in that other country long ago
A friend from Glastonbury drops by
What Beverley does when Scarlet leaves
Beverley, Gerry and Fiona
Down here writing
Louis at work when Beverley’s call is put through
How Jackson is getting on
What Jackson did next
Things are not working out in the basement
PART TWO
Beverley, pre-pubertal
Lola, pre-pubertal
Beverley at Fifteen
Beverley at sixteen
Beverley’s seventeenth birthday party
Holding brief
A drunken scene in Coromandel
Dido and Aeneas
The night before she ran
But it wasn’t…
Beverley at nineteen
Beverley at thirty
Beverley at thirty-four
Beverley at thirty-five
Underpinnings
Back to Beverley, and sanity
Beverley and Gerry, an interlude
A conversation between Marcus and Beverley
Let’s get out of here
PART THREE
Enchanted Scarlet
Lola waits for Louis
Alice’s mysterious pregnancy
The peace and quiet of the basement
And now for something completely different
D’Dora leaving home
D’Dora digs Alice out of her hole
After the row was over
Alice prepares to leave Lakeside Chase
Out in the garden
The convergence of the clan, the convening of the whanau
The gathering of the kehua
Down in the basement
Another’s day’s writing
The cleansing of Robinsdale
Scarlet’s brush with death
Glossary
May the Maori amongst you excuse this fictional foray into your world, for which, believe me, I have the greatest respect, having as a child in the Coromandel encountered both taniwha and kehua.
Kehua!
A glossary of Maori words is provided on page 325.
PART ONE
Scarlet blows the gaff
Your writer, in telling you this tale of murder, adultery, incest, ghosts, redemption and remorse, takes you first to a comfortable house in Highgate, North London, where outside the kitchen window, dancing in the breeze, the daffodils are in glorious bloom: a host of yellow male stamens in vigorous competition, eager to puff their special pollen out into the world. No two daffodils are exactly alike, nor are any two humans. We attribute free will to humans, but not to daffodils – with whom we share 35 per cent of our DNA – though perhaps rashly, when we consider the way some human families behave. It may be that DNA and chance is all there is. We can only hope that this morning the strong wind blows the brightest and best of daffodil genes abroad, so all the gardens around are blessed by yellow loveliness.
Inside the kitchen, Scarlet, a young journalist
of twenty-nine, is in conversation with her grandmother Beverley. Scarlet is indifferent to the marvels of nature – how the tender, sheltered female pistil, all receptivity, is rooted to the spot, while the boisterous male stamen above yearns for something better and brighter than plain stay-at-home she. To Scarlet a flower is just a flower, not a life lesson.
Daffodils occasionally self-fertilise, but not often. Inbreeding is unpopular in nature, in the plant and animal kingdoms alike.
‘I wasn’t going to tell you now, Gran,’ says Scarlet, as casually as she can make it seem, ‘but I’ve decided to run away from home.’
To which Beverley, aged seventy-seven, closes her eyes briefly like some wise old owl and replies: ‘That’s not surprising. There’s quite a breeze today. How those daffodils do bob about! Are you going to tell Louis before you go?’
Louis is Scarlet’s husband; everybody thinks he is anyway, though they never actually went through with the ceremony. The couple have been together for six years and have no children, so they are entwined merely out of custom and habit, like ivy tendrils curling up a tree, but not yet grown into one another. The severance will cause little distress, or none that Scarlet can see. She is anxious to be off to her new life, with a hop, a skip and a jump, as soon as she has packed her grandmother’s freezer with all the delicacies that a relative newly out of hospital is likely to favour. She reckons she can just get it done, and meet Jackson her lover in Costa’s Coffee House in Dean Street, Soho, by twelve-thirty. He will wait patiently if she is late but she would rather not be. A tune is running through her head which bodes no good. It is a doomy song in which Gene Pitney gets taken to a café and then can never go home any more. Twenty-four hours from her arms and he met and fell in love with someone else. It’s the kind of thing that happens, Scarlet knows. It’s at the very last minute that the prize is wrenched from you. She will not be late.
‘No,’ says Scarlet to her grandmother. Beverley has had a knee replacement, and is temporarily holed up on the sofa in her large and well-equipped kitchen. ‘I haven’t told him. I hate scenes. Let him come back to an empty house.’
Already Scarlet regrets telling Beverley she is leaving. She can see she’s in for a sermon. As if Twenty-Four Hours from Tulsa were not enough, now the hop and the skip will turn into a lengthy drama with the hounds of doubt and anxiety snapping at her heels.
‘The house isn’t exactly empty,’ says Beverley. ‘Isn’t Lola staying?’ Lola is a wayward nymphet, and Scarlet’s sixteen-year-old niece. ‘I daresay she will look after him. But do be careful, all the same. Leaving home can cause all kinds of unexpected problems. But I don’t suppose Louis is the kind to go after you with the kitchen knife. And you haven’t got any children he can put in the back of the car and suffocate with exhaust fumes. So I expect you’re okay. But you can never quite be sure what manner of man you have, until you try and get away.’
Try to envisage the scene. The dancing daffodils: the smart kitchen: Scarlet, a long-legged skinny girl of the new no-nonsense world, with the bright, focused looks you might associate with a TV presenter, attractive and quick in her movements: a girl for the modern age, a little frightening to all but alpha males, in conversation with the raddled old lady, who, though obliged in her infirmity to rely on the kindness of family, is not beyond stirring up a little trouble.
‘I know it is tempting,’ says Beverley now, equably, from the sofa at the end of the long kitchen, ‘just to run, and on many occasions I have had to, and thus saved my life, both metaphorically and literally. But a woman does have to be cautious. Are you running to someone, Scarlet, or just running in general?’
‘To someone,’ admits Scarlet. ‘But it’s only temporary, a really nice guy with a whole range of emotions Louis simply doesn’t have. Louis is hardly the knifing sort. I wish he was. Jackson’s offered me a roof over my head. I’ll move out as soon as Louis sells the house and I can get somewhere of my own. Louis hit me last night, Gran, so there’s no way I can stay. You wouldn’t want me to.’
‘Hit you?’ enquires Beverley.
‘On my cheekbone,’ says Scarlet. ‘Just here. The bruise hasn’t come up yet.’
Beverley inspects her granddaughter for sign of injury but sees none.
‘Leaving in haste,’ says Beverley, ‘may sometimes be wise. The first time I did it I was three. I wore a blue and white checked dress and remember looking at my little white knees going one-two, one-two beneath the hem and wondering why my nice dress was bloodstained and why my legs were so short. My mother Kitchie, that’s your great-grandmother, had very good long legs, like yours and your mother’s. They bypassed me, more’s the pity.’
Scarlet grits her teeth. What have these toddler reminiscences to do with her? She has since childhood been incensed by her grandmother’s – and even her mother’s – ‘when I was a girl’ and ‘in those days’. Why can’t the old realise the irrelevance of the past? There can be no real comparison between then and now. People have surely moved on from the old days of ignorance, hate, violence and prejudice they are so fond of talking about. No, she should never have started the Louis hare running.
‘I can’t remember what my shoes were like,’ Beverley goes on, relentlessly, ‘it being such a long time ago – 1937, it must have been – but I think they were yellow. Or that might have just been the dust. We were in New Zealand then, in the South Island, on the Canterbury Plains. The dust on those dry country roads round Amberley was yellowy, a kind of dull ochre. You notice the colour of the earth more as a small child, I suppose, because you’re nearer to it.’
Beverley too wonders why she has set this particular hare running: now she has, she can see it will run and run. But then she takes a pleasure in rash action, and always has, and perhaps Scarlet inherits it. There is something grand about burning one’s boats. And Scarlet, bound by the tale of the family scandal, longs to get away to her lover, but like the wedding guest in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, holds still.
‘I was quite athletic as a child,’ Beverley says. ‘I even used to get the school gymnastic prize. And I was a really good little runner, a sprinter, until my bosom began to grow, and I developed an hourglass shape, and bounced while I ran. That was one of the early tragedies of my life. I expect it was that early experience of one-two, one-two down this dusty road to Kitchie’s best friend Rita that made me so value running. I wasn’t otherwise sportive in any way. I ran because Kitchie, that’s my mother, your great-grandmother, was lying dead on the kitchen floor. I wasn’t quite sure at the time what dead was, I was only three, but when I tried to open her eyelids she didn’t slap my hand away as she usually did. There was a lot of blood around; I remember thinking it was like the time when I blocked the basin with my flannel and the water overflowed and I thought that was funny. But this wasn’t funny and it wasn’t even water, which is a nothing sort of substance, but a strange red rather sticky stuff coming from my mother’s neck.’
‘They say you can’t remember things that happened when you were three,’ says Scarlet. She would rather not be hearing this. It is making her very angry. What sort of inheritance does she have? What has her grandmother done? As happens with many when they are shocked, their first instinct is to blame the victim for the crime.
‘I was rising four,’ says Beverley. ‘They say anything that suits them, and I am bad at dates. But help was required and I was sensible enough to know it, which was why my little legs were going as fast as I could make them. And the reason my mother was lying dead on the floor, though I didn’t know this until later, was because she’d told my father Walter, while he was cutting sandwiches, that she was running off with another man. So Walter cut her throat with the bread knife, leaving me, little Beverley, having my afternoon rest upstairs. Men do the oddest things when sex is involved. And fathers weren’t very close to their children in those days. They supported them and that was that. If it happened today I expect he’d have come after me too. In times of desperation, the nearest and dear
est get it in the neck.’
‘You never told me,’ says Scarlet. She could see the Alexandra Palace mast between the trees. She feels it was probably transmitting invisible rays of evil, jagged and ill-intentioned, cursing her designs for the future. ‘What kind of genetic inheritance is this?’
Today Scarlet is a little pink and feverish about the cheekbones; perhaps her blood pressure is raised? If it is, it is only to be expected: last night she wept, screamed and threw crockery. A high colour suits her, brightening her eyes and suggesting she is not as self-possessed as she seems, and might have any number of vulnerabilities, which indeed she has. After she has had a row with Louis, and these days they are more and more frequent, men look after her in the street, and wonder if she needs rescuing. Today is such a day, and Jackson is indeed at hand. She has no real need to worry about losing Jackson. He would be hard put to it to find another more desirable than she, celebrity though he may be.
After last night’s row Louis went to sleep in one of the spare bedrooms of their (or at any rate his) dream home, Nopasaran. The bedrooms are described in the architectural press, where they often feature, as alcoves, being scooped like ice cream out of the concrete walls of a high central studio room. Guests are expected to reach the alcoves of this brutalist Bauhaus dwelling by climbing ladders, as once the cave-dwellers of the Dordogne climbed for security. Changing the bedding is not easy, and the help tends to leave if asked to do it – there is other easier work around – so Scarlet finds the task is frequently left to her.
No one in this book, other than peripheral characters like ‘the help’ as the particular reader may have realised, is particularly short of money; that is all in the past for them. The need to avoid poverty, once both the reason and the excuse for improper actions, no longer dictates their behaviour. This is not the case for Jackson, who is in financial trouble and has his eye upon Scarlet’s good job and general competence, as well as upon her face and figure, but find me anyone whose motives are wholly pure? He for his part could complain Scarlet loved him for his headlines, which once were large though they will soon be small. None so desperate as a failing celebrity.