Sin

by Josephine Hart

  “There aren’t many of those about.” She smiled back at me.

  “Oh, yes there are. They’re just as lethal.”

  We laughed our conversation to an end. And I left having learned a lot, but knowing that I had also revealed something of myself. Which, for me, was always too much.

  SIXTEEN

  * * *

  Charles Harding had invited us all to his house in Gloucestershire for Sunday lunch. We would come bearing gifts. Or more precisely the gift of Elizabeth. He should beware.

  Dominick and I drove in silence. Earlier, we had had another conversation about our marriage. He had lain beside me, physically satisfied, or finished—whichever—some lonely sensuality draining from his face. His blond hair fell limply across his forehead. His eyes, without his glasses, seemed somehow out of focus as he stroked my hair and whispered, “Ruth … you’re breaking my heart.”

  I sighed.

  “You’ve got what you wanted. Me.”

  We should not try to take what we know is not ours. Even if by some miracle it becomes available to us.

  “Do you know what a catastrophe is, Ruth?”

  “I think so.”

  “No. In mathematics. Do you know what the word catastrophe means … in mathematics?”

  “No.”

  “It means ‘a system that disturbs another.’ You have disturbed me. You’ve invaded me.”

  “Indeed. Well, there are other invasions.”

  I rose to shower. After the invasion. Modern woman, modern moves. So hygienic.

  “We have too many of these conversations.” My morning memory faded. We were now in the car.

  “Maybe. You did pursue me, Dominick. And I’m not breaking any promises. Look. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s enjoy it. It will be interesting to see Sir Charles on home ground.”

  I was anxious not to have an obvious tension between Dominick and me. So unattractive, so demeaning. In front of Charles. So I placated him.

  A woman adored—and of course I was—can do anything. Particularly when she makes so few mistakes. We were balanced. His love. My coldness. I wondered if Dominick understood how much he needed the agony. Probably not.

  Charles Harding’s house, Frimton Manor Farm, disconcerted me. Just outside a Cotswold village, it was a low-built, stone, seventeenth-century mansion. In place of the grandeur and opulence I had expected, the house exuded a mellowness and peace. It nestled behind a row of chestnut trees, which marked a sort of terrace at the end of a short poplar drive.

  He stood in the stone porch to greet us. Then, he led us into a low-ceilinged drawing room in which a roaring fire, deep armchairs and an old carpet on the dark wooden floor all painted an image of the slow seduction of other times, and did so authentically. The house was not a lie. It was itself—in structure, decoration and odour. And if ghosts haunted it, I wondered if it was because they were at ease there. And perhaps found heaven a little bright.

  The polite cliches began.

  “How long have you lived here?” I asked.

  “Since I was a boy.”

  “How lovely.” Oh, God.

  “When did your family acquire it?”

  “My father bought it, when he married.”

  A pause.

  He was polite but bored. I didn’t blame him.

  Another car arrived, and in a minute Elizabeth stood in the porch. I watched his face tense. He was no longer bored. I wished I didn’t know these things. Elizabeth, in black again, shook hands briefly, then kissed me. Oh, those false sisterly kisses. False sister.

  Within fifteen minutes or so, my parents had arrived. We ate a simple lunch, served by a couple who seemed as much part of the house as the old silver and plain white linen napkins. Afterwards, we sat in a small sitting room for coffee. A portrait of a dark woman in a blue velvet dress gazed down at us. Surprisingly, it was Elizabeth who commented on its beauty.

  “It’s a portrait of my wife,” he said.

  A little silence.

  “It’s four years … now … since she died.”

  Murmurs of sympathy. Polite. Of no greater intensity or sincerity than an apology for disturbing someone who had been sleeping. “So sorry. Did I disturb you?” Nothing could disturb the subject of the portrait anymore. I wondered, had Felicity ever disturbed Sir Charles? Other than in death.

  “Felicity loved this house. She loved country life. Rarely came to London.”

  “And you?”

  “In those days I liked applause. When I was younger, London seemed a better place to find it than here.”

  “Well you have been much applauded.” My father spoke.

  “A little. In my own world.”

  “And internationally. Your work for …” Father mentioned an international charity for refugees.

  More desultory talk of success, and its necessary companion—adherence to a good cause. Slowly, Sir Charles allowed a portrait—a most attractive portrait—to be painted of himself. For Elizabeth. Surrounded by her family.

  And as he stalked her, I stalked him. I was not certain, watching him, which of us had more practice.

  Did Elizabeth remind him of Felicity? There was no physical resemblance. Felicity’s portrait was that of a petite, dark-haired woman in a blue dress. But other qualities perhaps? Spiritual qualities? Who can tell?

  Memories—the living with them, and the killing of them—blur so much of daily life. We pick today’s bouquet of feelings, sounds and smells, for tomorrow’s contemplation. Tomorrow, Charles Harding would add today’s miscellany to his gathered images of the past. And, perhaps, they would include me.

  SEVENTEEN

  * * *

  Where does all the time go to?

  It goes to grow children and grey hairs. It goes to grow adolescent beauty and cancers. To grow the couple in their coming together and their separation. And at the end of all the time we mark, it sweeps us up and away. An efficient hausfrau, a diligent harbinger of the next generation.

  And time brought Charles Harding to Elizabeth and made them a couple.

  It did so quickly, quietly, with utmost discretion. It moved so fast it disarmed me.

  For the widow had been won. Back to life. She had been mesmerised by the intensity of Charles Harding’s pursuit. And she was no doubt anxious, to live for others. Particularly her son, Stephen. A new pattern was established. With new players. Lexington absorbed Charles Harding for weekends and special anniversaries, as once it had absorbed Hubert.

  William and Stephen, “the boys,” became even closer. In their times together I could detect only love. And in their childish battles—they seemed to fight clean. But who can tell?

  In small, careful ways I increased my influence on Stephen, Elizabeth’s son. Particularly in the early years of her new marriage. At a time when Charles sought connection with his stepson, I forged a deeper bond with my … what? Nephew? No. False sister. False nephew.

  Elizabeth was a quiet, gentle mother. Good, and kind. There was no question that Stephen adored his mother. But I was a more captivating companion. Subtly, I increased his adoration.

  I was an intriguing aunt. I had a certain wildness, a sense of adventure that Elizabeth lacked.

  Of all Elizabeth’s possessions, Stephen was the most accessible to me. Our temperaments matched in some way. A wayward streak, perhaps.

  It pleased me a lot when, at Lexington, he would call out, “Aunt Ruth, you’re so funny,” or, “Oh, come on, Aunt Ruth. Challenge me,” or, “Test me on this, Aunt Ruth,” or, “Let’s go, Aunt Ruth. Let’s go.”

  It pleased me, this application of my power. It would have pleased me more had Elizabeth ever seemed distressed. But she remained serene.

  Was such serenity a fault? Are you certain you approve?

  EIGHTEEN

  * * *

  Over time, I found I noted everything about Charles Harding. I had an appetite for facts about him. His body had a density about it, as though it had no hollows. As though it were a statue. His
legs implied not speed but power. And when he stood before a window, he effectively blocked the sun.

  When he spoke to others, I felt it clearly on my skin. Yet whenever he spoke to me, he came blurred down the line.

  Sometimes, looking at him, I thought of the story Helen had told me. It was impossible to exploit, I was aware of that.

  “There’s nothing Elizabeth looks forward to more than your visits.”

  Charles and Elizabeth were welcoming us to Frimton Manor.

  Dominick collected our things from the back of the car.

  Elizabeth smiled, opening her arms to us. Stephen raced towards William and me.

  Then, Elizabeth’s kiss.

  “Charles is right. I’m always full of happiness at the thought of your arrival.”

  Sometimes Elizabeth’s happiness disgusted me. Literally. I felt disgust.

  “But you see us regularly at Lexington at the weekends.”

  “Yes. Yes. But it’s … just different here. It becomes a treat.”

  Charles was in fine, generous form. The mogul now spent only four days a week in his office. “Besotted,” I had read in a magazine in a doctor’s waiting room. “Besotted” by his new wife—“the artist, Elizabeth Ashbridge.”

  Elizabeth Ashbridge is not an artist, I had sighed at the journalist’s idiocy. Elizabeth Ashbridge is a reasonably competent painter of skies.

  We sat down to eat—a group united by blood, by love, by hatred, a fairly common combination—and we drank to the success of Dominick, this man who had stayed much longer in my life than I had ever intended. He had just become the youngest ever head of Government Statistical Service at the Treasury.

  “You must be so proud of him, Ruth.”

  “Ruth’s pride is like so many things about her— understated,” Dominick replied.

  “Oh, but underneath she’s glowing.” Elizabeth raised her glass.

  Charles addressed me. “Ruth. When William’s older, do you still want to set up that book division you once mentioned?”

  “Maybe. Why?” This is not how I want to speak to you. These are not the words.

  “Ruth, you had so many ideas. The kind of books you wanted to publish. Charles is right. It would be …” Elizabeth speaks for me.

  Who are you to know what is good for me? How dare you speak of my life? You two. As a couple. For my happiness.

  “Ah, you’re so encouraging. But Dominick is … uncertain. Darling?”

  “Ruth would be brilliant at anything she did. There’s no doubt about that. It’s an interesting idea. But, let’s wait—William is still young, and Ruth enjoys being with him a lot,” Dominick replied, on my behalf.

  “Well, Ruth, what would be the first book you would publish—a daring novel by a new young writer?” Charles asked.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “Why?”

  “There are enough books in the world already.”

  “You astonish me.”

  “I always at least try … to astonish you.”

  “But …” Dominick started to speak.

  “Ruth, I think is teasing us.”

  Oh, sweet Elizabeth.

  “No dear—I’m not. I’d like to re-issue some oddities—The Laws of Sparta, or Diary of an Erotic Life—in little pocket-book size. My first title would be The Devil’s Dictionary.”

  Silence. Neither Elizabeth nor Charles smiled.

  “I don’t know the book.”

  Of course you don’t, Elizabeth.

  “Is it amusing?” Charles asked me.

  “Yes.”

  My husband looked at me.

  Charles said, “You have a very private mind, Ruth.”

  “What an extraordinary phrase, Charles. I always see myself as very open.”

  “You’re not. If you decide to pursue your plan in the future, I’ll help. But I’d need to establish whether you had a private passion which you’d bring to the public—or if not, whether you’re an effective arbiter of public taste.”

  “Which do you think, Charles?”

  “I would think not the latter.”

  “You know, Charles, you understand Ruth very well.” I heard the note in Dominick’s voice.

  “Not better than you, Dominick.”

  “Private minds—anything that’s hidden always fascinates us.”

  “Dominick’s right.” Elizabeth spoke.

  And what would you know of hidden things, Elizabeth? You, who have lived with my hatred for years. Unknowing.

  “Well, I’ve known Ruth longer than anyone. What she hides most often is her brilliance … because she …”

  Dominick laughed. Or rather made a sudden, abrupt sound that used the mechanism we know as laughter. The rictus on the face … the force to expel the air through the lungs. All this effort to cover his pain. But then laughter is never passionate.

  “Ah, I hear their car.” Charles rose. My parents had been lunching with someone from my father’s old regiment, who lived in the vicinity. They joined us for tea.

  “Let’s go into the garden and watch the boys.”

  We all became an audience. We watched their hardy, wiry little legs collide at speed, and yet not break. And our heads were filled with screams that would have turned our blood to ice, had we not seen the boys ride the screams to laughter.

  Bodies, warm and dirty, threw themselves at us. We held them tight, and, as boys will, they struggled free again.

  “I was in the Navy,” Charles replied to a question from my father.

  We were walking back towards the house. It was Armistice Day.

  “Ah yes. The Senior Service.” My father smiled at Charles. There was a silence. My father had been captured as a young pilot and had spent a year in Colditz. He never spoke of it. His elder brother had been killed over Berlin. His name was Michael. Whenever my father spoke the name, it seemed to me he quietly saluted a ghost.

  “It’s a mark of how old I have become.” He sighed as we entered the house. “At last I can … occasionally and quietly … weep for the dead. For today, especially, we should acknowledge their sacrifice. It had a kind of glory.”

  I felt my father was summarising his view of the world almost as though he was preparing to leave it.

  Later Dominick lay beside me—his long nakedness dense and heavy on the bed. Men do not look right covered in a sheet. Sheets are a woman’s adornment. As the nakedness moved towards me I remembered the choreography. And afterwards. My cold eye. Questioning. I wondered if, in the cold eye, he found some peace.

  NINETEEN

  * * *

  Elizabeth considered it too cruel that I should receive by telephone the news of my father’s sudden death from a heart attack. So she sent Charles to my home. At four in the morning. She knew William had accompanied Dominick to America, on a visit to his parents. She knew I was alone.

  She gave me my chance. Her trust in me, and her kindness to me, gave me my chance. And it was my nature to take it. To bank down the sudden shock, to fight the pain. I would mourn later. Now, in this instant, I might know this man, Elizabeth’s man—and through him know Elizabeth.

  As Charles reached out to comfort me, I held the sympathy in his eyes and transmuted it into something else. It was my gift, you see. To find the centre. As he leaned towards me I moved—in such a way that his weight fell upon me as I collapsed with grief and desire against the wall.

  When I opened my eyes, I saw in his face certain clues to my triumph. I saw that he knew himself. From past experience. That needs, past needs—buried now—propelled him towards me. He needed a sense of sin. To keep him in touch with his past.

  I slowly opened the door to my dressing room. He followed me, down the steps. As I knew he would. Then, naked, arms above my head, I pulled on Elizabeth’s silk slip—ageless enticement. And I thought I saw Elizabeth, ghost-like, stand beside me.

  I lay on the floor, and he moved over me on all fours and grabbed my hair. As though to eat it. And then we separated and stood at either end
of the narrow room. An image of my father flew across my sodden mind. And was lost. For I remembered that before I was even born it had been too late for us. The old anger crushed the pain that rose in me. And I acknowledged that it was now too late for everything.

  My eyes beat Charles down and broke his resistance, as he walked, hypnotised, towards me again.

  I took Elizabeth’s pristine black shoe and licked the heel. I gave it to him. And quietly lay down. My eyes fixed on his face above me. Slowly he traced down the lines of my body with the gleaming heel of Elizabeth’s shoe. Then he hesitated. I raised my back from the floor, for I saw the fear in his eyes. I wished to give him courage. Carefully, as though in a trance, he did what I wanted. And for the first time I wept for what I had become. Falling further away from myself, trailing Charles in his terror and delight towards the hidden face in the rock, which, unknowingly, he had begun to carve.

  It was as I believed it would be. Elizabeth lay defeated beneath her black slip. Which I would not let him remove. A line long forgotten, came back to me. Je est un autre.

  I bathed and dressed—in Ruth’s clothes. We drove to the hospital in silence. I kissed my mother. She was as noble in grief as one would have expected. Elizabeth opened her arms to me, held me tight and consoled me. Perhaps an acknowledgement that he was my father, my real father. And not hers. Too delicate perhaps, to mention it.

  Charles sat with my mother, held her hand and did not look at me. Finally, we all left for Lexington. Charles drove us. The widow, and two wives. One of them his.

  An adult family mourning its patriarch is not stricken by grief so much as grieving. Even the sudden death of the old has about it the knowledge that it was foreshadowed.

  As I stood in church my sadness was pierced by the light of an endlessly playing internal film of Charles and me. And of our bodies. I looked at Charles secretly, intensely. Hadn’t Dominick once told me that gazing at certain objects alters their composition? Are you the same man, Charles? Am I the same woman? Is there a persistent self? Somewhere?