Praxis (30 page)

Willy shrugged, Carla sighed. Praxis risked Mary’s upset by suggesting an abortion and more time to think.

‘Abortion is all right in theory,’ said Mary. ‘But I’ve seen the reality of them in practice. By the dozen. It’s carnage. A woman’s got a right to her own body, and all that: she’s got the right to ask anyone else to make her un-pregnant. If I could do my own abortion, I might consider it. But I’m not asking anyone else to do it for me. I’d rather wait for it to be born, and then kill it myself.’

‘That would be murder,’ said Praxis, shocked.

‘It’s murder at any stage,’ said Mary. ‘In any case I love Edward and I want his child. I’ll be able to go back to work sooner or later.’

‘You don’t understand,’ said Praxis, ‘you’ll shrivel up and die, mentally and emotionally. Women do.’

‘Not me,’ said Mary, and laughed. ‘In any case I rather fancy the domestic life. It’s woman’s highest calling, according to you. “God made her a woman, love made her a mother—electricity made it easier.”

Praxis shuddered, but went to work as usual the next day.

Praxis went to visit Willy and Carla.

‘She loves him,’ said Willy. ‘Why, what did you hope for her? That she wouldn’t love anyone?’

Willy’s beard was grey. The hairs on his thin chest curled white and wiry.

‘Of course not,’ said Praxis. But perhaps she had.

‘She reminds me of you,’ said Willy, ‘at her age. But she’s not your flesh and blood. Perhaps it’s just that all girls are the same?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Praxis.

‘I’m going to be a grandmother,’ complained Carla, ‘without ever really being a mother. Mary’s been like a daughter, but it’s not the same as your own flesh and blood.’ She was superintendent manageress of the canteen, now. She drove a little car.

She took Praxis in to see Lucy. Lucy sat in an old chair, in the dank master bedroom and stared out over the drive, and tut-tutted vaguely at the behaviour of the common children on their way to school, although the school had long since been closed.

‘Who are you?’ she asked Praxis, and drew Carla towards her and said, ‘I only like to see family.’

Carla, upset for Praxis, hurried her out of the room. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Praxis, weeping. ‘I understand.’

‘But she knows who you are, I’m sure she does!’

‘I don’t,’ said Praxis, sniffing.

‘You will come to the wedding, won’t you,’ begged Carla.

‘Mary will be so upset if you don’t.’

Willy walked her to the gate.

‘You don’t look like yourself at all,’ said Willy. ‘When you were a whore you looked most like yourself.’

He had never forgiven her.

Mary was married in Brighton in a becoming white dress which did not even attempt to conceal the bump in her tummy.

Edward’s parents were there. Praxis thought she recognised the father from the old Raffles days, but did not study him too closely in case she was right. It was a good outing. They all went. Phillip, Victoria and Jason; Robert and Claire too. Everyone laughed: nobody said anything unkind. Praxis had the feeling they were all supporting her, bolstering her against misfortune. And so they were. Even when they were stuck in the traffic jam on the way back to London—it was one of the first fine spring weekends, and Brighton a pleasant day’s outing for Londoners—they sang, and did not grumble.

Praxis resigned herself to the futility—or so it appeared—of human effort. Phillip seemed happier: he did not ask her to sleep in the spare bed: he had a feature film to direct: a disaster movie about the great flood. (His documentary on the Hydro-electric scheme had won two awards.) The commission meant spending much time away on location. When he was not home she served fish fingers and chips straight from the pan, instead of fillet of sole Veronique, potato duchesse and mange-tous from Wedgewood serving dishes, and had time to recover her strength and energy.

There was, finally, trouble at work.

Advertising budgets had been slashed. Staff were fired, on a last-in, first out basis which at least left Praxis protected. But now the cigarette account was lost altogether. She did the work of three people. The value of money diminished, the annual rise was not forthcoming. She felt her work was under scrutiny. The research department, increasingly powerful, seemed to feel the need to explain things to her.

‘Sixty per cent of women go out to work,’ they said. ‘And it’s not interesting work like yours. They have boring, repetitive, tedious jobs. The work that men won’t do, but women don’t mind.’

‘I know,’ she’d say. ‘I know all that.’

‘You mustn’t lose touch with the market.’ Had she?

Lucy had a stroke and lay still and silent in the damp, dank bed where she had lain with Benjamin long ago, and later, sporadically, with the photographer. Praxis sat at her bedside, but when Lucy stirred, or turned, she made her movement towards Carla. Carla, after all, had looked after her: Praxis had provided the money—but what was money? Easy. Days passed. Praxis did not go to work. Lucy’s condition remained unaltered. Her breathing was difficult: it would seem to stop altogether from time to time; then it would restart.

Hilda was sent for. She peered at her mother. She sat by the bed, opposite Praxis, and fidgeted with her gloves, and occasionally spoke.

‘She should never have left father,’ said Hilda.

‘What sort of mother was she anyway?’ asked Hilda.

‘I hate this house,’ said Hilda. ‘You can smell the rats.’

‘We’d better sell it now she’s gone,’ said Hilda, hopefully.

‘Hilda!’ beseeched Praxis, ‘for God’s sake be quiet. She’ll hear you.’

‘She never could hear anything,’ said Hilda, and cried.

Praxis could not remember Hilda having ever cried before.

Hilda and Praxis went round the house, looking at damp, peeling wallpaper, rotten plaster, crumbling woodwork. ‘Really,’ said Hilda, ‘Willy is the meanest man in the world. He’ll have to go. It would be a kindness to Carla.’

It was as if, with her tears, at least some of the madness had drained away.

‘We don’t need the house for Mary and Carla,’ said Hilda, ‘do we?’ The ‘we’ touched Praxis.

‘Miss Leonard was so kind to you,’ said Hilda, ‘we owed Mary something.’

Hilda looked out of her old bedroom window.

‘How wonderful the night sky used to be,’ she said. ‘With the searchlights and the flak and the guns. Nothing’s been the same since.’

Hilda went back to London. In the night Lucy died. Her breathing stopped and did not reassert itself.

‘A peaceful life,’ said Carla.

‘With a few struggles,’ said Praxis, remembering the distant past.

Praxis took more time off work; she organised the funeral and disposed of Lucy’s belongings. Carla wept and was helpless. So long as somebody is rendered helpless, thought Praxis, that’s all right. Blood ties don’t matter, not as I thought they did. Now Carla is my dead mother’s daughter; Mary is Willy’s child; Victoria and Jason are mine; Robert and Claire are Diana’s. We claim as much or as little as we want, through the degree of responsibility which we offer.

Phillip rang through just before Lucy’s death, and asked if Praxis would mind if he came down and filmed her end for the disaster movie. Aged actresses were always difficult to locate and employ, and tended to get upset if asked to simulate the brink of death.

Praxis refused.

Phillip was hurt: wasn’t Praxis being selfish and unfeeling? Did she really want to put some old actress through inevitable pain, when Lucy would neither know nor care? And the fee could go towards the funeral; or, if Praxis preferred, to any charity for the aged she cared to name.

‘Why don’t you just cut the scene altogether,’ enquired Praxis, ‘if it’s so difficult’

‘If I was to cut out all the deaths,’ said Phillip, ‘there wouldn’t be a film at all. This is a disaster movie.’ He put the phone down.

After Lucy’s funeral, Praxis thought she would call at the hotel in Sussex where the film unit was based, and make her peace with Phillip. There was nothing he could do to Lucy now.

‘Room 22,’ said the desk clerk.

Praxis went into Room 22 and found Phillip in bed with Serena Walker, whose breasts he had auditioned long ago. She had done well since then. Praxis recognised her long, thick red hair from publicity stills. She was not yet thirty and renowned not just for her looks but her acting ability, and for the scandal, now six years old, of the birth of a baby with an allegedly royal father.

‘I’ve nothing to be ashamed of,’ she had said. ‘No, we’re not married. And not getting married. I’ll be mother and father to my baby. It’s all right.’ She had been one of the first: now there were many others following her footsteps, and Serena was reduced to disaster movies. Her mother looked after the baby.

Phillip and Serena did not hear Praxis come in. Praxis watched them for a while. Serena’s red hair spread like a modesty veil over Phillip’s loins. Her smooth plump behind arched delicately over his face. It was a strangely decent sight. There was a Polaroid camera on the end of the bed. Phillip had been taking photographs of her: Serena like this; Serena like that: of Serena and Phillip together, using the delay buzzer.

Praxis shuffled through the cards.

‘I love you,’ she heard Phillip say. Praxis laughed aloud. Phillip and Serena twisted themselves about and stared at her; not shocked, not guilty: secure in the conviction that what they were doing was right, beautiful and natural, as it probably was.

Praxis felt an intruder, foolish for having turned up uninvited, foolish for making claims. She went and sat downstairs in the lobby.

‘You in the cast?’ asked the desk-man. ‘Yes,’ she said.’ A bit part player.’ Oh, I’m cool, she thought. Like Irma. Like Irma, once.

‘A great movie,’ he said. ‘Not a thing left standing at the end.’

Serena came downstairs presently. Apart from her spectacular hair, she looked more plain and ordinary than she did in her publicity photographs. Praxis even thought she looked quite nice. Victoria and Jason would like her: would enjoy the sensation of fame, of something special about the house; something supremely filmable.

‘I’m sorry,’ Serena said. She had a little, high, piping voice.

‘You’re welcome,’ said Praxis. ‘Of course he’s a voyeur; he only uses the camera as a sublimation.’

She wished she hadn’t said it. It seemed, these days, an unnecessary comment. It made Serena cross, moreover.

‘I love Phillip,’ Serena said, her voice rising. ‘I make him happy. You’ve never understood him, never appreciated him. You don’t look after his house: you won’t sleep in his bed: you’ve driven his children away. He lives in a kind of desert of non-appreciation. You’ve all but ruined his career. He’s a fabulous director; fabulous. You make him nearly destroy himself in television; do those dreadful series: those boring commercials: you’re completely superficial: you believe that advertising is real life.’

‘Go slowly,’ said Praxis. ‘My mother’s just died. My mind isn’t quite functioning yet.’

‘Listen to you,’ said Serena. ‘You’re cold. So cold. You don’t care about anything; not even your mother dying. You find your husband in bed with me and you just stand there and watch and then melt away—God, you must be guilty. You’re sleeping with your boss, anyway. Everyone knows. You’ve no right to object: you drove him to it. Now we love each other and it’s too late. We want to get married!’

‘I told you you were welcome,’ said Praxis. ‘Take it all. I hope you have some money. You’ll need it.’

‘And I’m having his baby. All these years you’ve refused him a baby, one excuse or another. You were too tired, you had pains, you couldn’t give up your job. You’re just so competitive. Prudish and old-fashioned: that’s why his children are in the mess they are.’

She cried, all the same, anxiously. Praxis took Serena’s hand and laid it on her own cheek.

‘Oh well,’ she said. ‘Love.’

‘You are a bitch,’ said Phillip to Praxis later, ‘upsetting Serena like that.’

Praxis couldn’t do anything right: nor did she try. She developed a cold in the nose, and bronchitis and took to her bed.

‘Don’t cough over everything,’ said Phillip, ‘or you’ll infect Serena.’

Whether he was worried for the film or the baby, Praxis neither knew nor cared.

Praxis moved out of the house such few things as she thought she could bear to see again, and left the rest for Serena. Friends advised her not to, saying she would lose what few legal rights she had. The house was in Phillip’s name. Praxis had no savings of her own: they had been spent during his periods of unemployment; the earnings of the past years had gone into the running of the home, not its fabric. The fee for the new film was safely in Phillip’s account. They had no children between them: Phillip would not be obliged to keep her, or pay her alimony since she was earning.

‘Well, why should he?’ inquired Irma. Praxis spent a good deal of time, now, with Irma. ‘I took his money because I was angry with you both and I was ill. I gave it straight to the Women’s Movement. But you’re able-bodied and healthy. Why expect him to keep you? It’s humiliating.’

‘Because of the years of service,’ said Praxis, angrily. ‘Doing the washing up and the cleaning and the children while he played records and criticised.’

‘More fool you,’ said Irma, unkindly. ‘Nobody made you do it, you volunteered.’

‘I’ve just evaporated from Phillip’s life,’ Praxis wept.

‘You evaporated from Willy’s, and Ivor’s,’ said Irma.

She allowed Praxis no way out, turning her round to face herself, whenever self-pity or indignation threatened to overwhelm her.

‘Victoria and Jason don’t seem to care,’ she moaned.

‘I know the feeling,’ said Irma, sprightly.

She would have gone anywhere else, but there was nowhere to go. She had few friends: well, she had hardly looked after them. They were mostly Phillip’s, in any case. It was as if, over the years, he had been planning her downfall, her total misery.

‘Of course he wasn’t,’ said Irma. ‘You were merely sharing his life, that’s all, edging over and over into it. Your fault’

‘I hate you,’ said Praxis to Irma, eventually.

For a time, she did. It seemed that Irma required from her a whole new view of the world, and one which, while liberating her from the sense of personal failure which so afflicted her, would also free Phillip from the guilt she wished him to bear.