Free Fay Weldon - Novel 23 by Rhode Island Blues (v1.1)

All
different shapes and sizes with dirt on them.’
                 ‘Potatoes
come from the ground, Joy,’ said Felicity. ‘They are not born in the
supermarket. That’s what vegetables look like in real life. I loved that place. All such a hoot. Now all I have to do is wait and see
and pray.’
                 ‘Oh
they want you all right,’ shouted Joy. ‘They want your money.’
                 But
here was the limo come especially for me, here in my
hand was the Concorde ticket, there was the thought of Kubricky- Krassner back
home. There was the driver whose name was Charlie, and who looked like a
mountain tribesman in The Three Feathers ,
dangerous and glittery-eyed, glancing with meaning at his watch. It would not
do to cross him. ‘You go on back to London , Sophia,’ said Felicity. ‘There’s nothing
more you can do here. I’m going to become a Golden Bowler. If I don’t do
something I shall just fade away.’
                 ‘I
think you’re crazy,’ roared Joy. ‘And you’re selling this place far too cheap.
I’m going to ask my deceased sister’s husband, Jack Epstein, He’s in car
dealership in Boston .’
                 I
thought I could safely leave them to it. I had done what I had been summoned to
do: endorse Felicity’s decisions. She seemed well and positive. She could look
after herself okay without me. I decided not to thwart the mountain tribesman
but simply to go home. Joy was not best pleased, but didn’t set up too many
difficulties, impressed as she was to discover I was the kind of person for
whom limos were sent from New York . She had assumed , I suppose, that I was someone’s
PA. Or the make-up girl.
                 Felicity
finished asking advice of the I Ching while Joy helped me get my few things together. That is to say she banged and
crashed about, and tripped over chairs and the edges of carpets and got in the
way.
                 ‘I’d
have gone on looking after your grandmother if I could,’ she shouted. ‘But I’m
too old for the responsibility.’
                 ‘Don’t
worry about it,’ I said. ‘I’m family. It’s up to me.’
                 ‘The
only family I have left is Jack,’ she said. ‘That’s my deceased sister
Francine’s husband.’ Jack and the sister Francine came into her conversation
rather frequently, I noticed. Something beyond her betrayal of my grandmother
was bothering her.
                 ‘You
young things and your careers!’ she said. ‘I’ll help her pack up the house, of
course. Someone’s got to. A lot can go in storage, I daresay.’
                 ‘I
don’t know how sensible that is,’ I said. ‘When and where is everything ever
going to come out of it? Better sell up and use the money.’
                 I
felt brutal saying it, but it was true. The storage space of the Western world
is full to overflowing with the belongings of deceased persons, which no-one
quite knows what to do with, let alone who’s the legal owner. I cut a
prize-winning documentary about this once. You
Can't Take It with You.
                 ‘I’ll
get Jack to help her sell the antiques,’ said Joy. ‘There are so many villains
around, just waiting to take advantage of old women alone.’
                 I
said that the only thing she had of any real value was the Utrillo, and
presumably Felicity would take that with her to the Golden Bowl. Joy asked what a Utrillo was and I explained it was a painting, and
described it. Joy doubted that it was worth anything, being so dull, but had
always quite liked the frame.
                 ‘It’s
not as if Felicity is going far,’ Joy consoled herself. ‘Only
just over the state line to Rhode Island . It’s a much rougher place than here, of
course, all has-beens and losers, artists and poets, yard sales and discount
stores. Everyone rich and