Kehua!
‘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
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
imagination or are used fictitiously.
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 WC
1
N
3
JZ
Contents
Scarlet’s plan for leaving home
Scarlet washes Beverley’s hair
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
Louis at work when Beverley’s call is put through
Things are not working out in the basement
Beverley’s seventeenth birthday party
Beverley and Gerry, an interlude
A conversation between Marcus and Beverley
The peace and quiet of the basement
And now for something completely different
D’Dora digs Alice out of her hole
Alice prepares to leave Lakeside Chase
The convergence of the clan, the convening of the whanau
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.
A glossary of Maori words is provided on
page 325
.
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.