I’ll pour my own drink tonight. Edmund usually pours my drink, but tonight I’ll do it myself. One for Edmund as well. With my cocktail, wearing my most beautiful evening dress, sitting in my favourite chair, I’m quite ready. This always was my better profile. Photographs, paintings, everything, always this profile. Portrait of a lady. Portrait of a murderess. Portrait of an old woman drinking gin.
How extraordinary that it should all have begun with Roland. Stupid, handsome Roland. I wonder if he knew that Edmund was in love with him? I suppose Roland might have been a pansy, because he was certainly far too handsome to be anybody’s husband. Perhaps he and Edmund did buggery to each other, because that’s what they do, isn’t it, pansies? But then things always get so confused in wartime, nobody knows where they are.
When you love someone you want to know everything, don’t you? Everything about them. And now I do. I suppose I should be grateful to Louisa, really. The subject came up quite by chance when she was here yesterday. She’d come to make sheep’s eyes at Edmund, as usual. I must say that quite the funniest thing about the whole episode was the way Louisa thought that I was the one who’d sent that wretched handkerchief to Roland. I confess I was puzzled for a moment when she mentioned finding it in Roland’s things when they came back from France, but as soon as she said it was a handkerchief with writing on it, I knew exactly what she meant. ‘To My True Knight’. Poor old Louisa. I almost laughed when I saw the mixture of sympathy and eagerness on her face – the furrowed brow, the speaking eyes – like a dog that wants to lick your hand. So pathetically easy to imagine what a ridiculous fairy-tale she’d made up all those years ago … that I was in love with Roland … that I’d married Jimmy because Roland didn’t want me … how I’d had to hide my grief when he was killed … I almost started laughing, but then I realised what must have really – what really happened: Edmund and Roland. Together.
I had to tell Louisa everything. If the circumstances were different, I might have kept silent, but she wanted to take Edmund away from me and I couldn’t allow that. Besides, I’ve been sparing her feelings for long enough, and why should I? She’s been biding her time ever since Davy died last year. Let no man put asunder. Except that women are the ones you have to watch, not men. But I’m far too clever for her. Besides, I haven’t come this far to give up Edmund to a woman who looks like a failed attempt at a French poodle.
Well, she’s gone now and I don’t suppose she’ll be coming back. Women like Louisa make a fetish out of understanding people, but they know absolutely nothing. The silent sympathy, wanting to please, to be liked, to be loved – but with all that love and sympathy she couldn’t understand Edmund and Roland, could she? But I can. Because Edmund and I are the same. How could we ever be parted? I can forgive him for Roland because I understand him. Forgiving him is the easiest thing in the world.
Another little drink wouldn’t do us any harm, as they say. I don’t want us to lie in a grave and rot like poor little Freddie. Scatter our ashes to the wind and that’ll be that.
I’m not going to say any more. If you want any more you can sing it yourself.
Chin-chin.