The Violin

by Lindsay Pritchard

  In vain she waited and fell asleep. She woke at first light – alone. After her morning toilette she went downstairs and found her new husband washed, shaved and dressed, working at his desk.

  “Did you not wish to join me last night, my love?” she said plaintively, smoothing his hair as he sat studying some papers.

  Wilfred gave a thin smile.

  “I am sorry my dear but I urgently needed to set some unseen Latin for the Remove and fell asleep in my chair. Do forgive me. Now, shall we continue with breakfast? I have a full day before me and need to be about my business shortly. Please call me when everything is ready.”

  Disappointed Florence prepared breakfast, which they ate in silence as Wilfred studied some papers. She mused throughout the day as she sat alone in the sitting room. The sun moved through the angles of the room until it began to sink in the west, shining over the casement. Why did he not want to be with her? Had she done something wrong? Said something amiss? Would it always be like this? Didn’t the chaplain bless a physical union and the eventual creation of children? This was not what was hinted in Mrs Bentham’s novels. Perhaps Wilfred was simply tired and overwrought by the ceremony. Yes, that was it. Overworked and emotional, poor man. She would have to give him some latitude and not be so selfish. Soon he would be a loving husband, desiring her.

  But the sorry state of affairs continued, and Wilfred still slept in a separate bedroom. Whenever Florence attempted any physical closeness or to discuss the matter, Wilfred told her the time was not right or that he was busy at that moment or just flatly refused to engage with her.

  “Not now my dear.” And that ended all debate.

  Until, by a steady process of the erosion of her spirit, eventually the subject was spoken of no more. Months and years passed. Wilfred became and remained a dedicated housemaster. Florence became a conscientious housemistress and dutiful, supportive wife. To the outside world their union was happy and secure. From time to time, the headmaster’s wife would raise the subject of grandchildren but Florence learned how to deal with that deftly.

  There came a time in their own world when too much time had gone by and it became impossible even to speak of the issue. Too many nights alone, Florence, with no one to confide in, had accepted that this was the way things were. Sometimes she even convinced herself that with a secure and comfortable marriage she should not be so selfish as to wish for everything. She had a house, plentiful food, interesting work and a husband who, if not passionate, was always kindly and courteous. Perhaps that was enough?

  School terms came and went. Seasons passed and turned into years. It is always possible to fall into a pattern of behaviour where, simply by performing routine functions the eternal verities of life never trouble conscious thoughts. From flighty girl, Florence progressed to respectable wife and was on the way to becoming a middle-aged matriarch. She and her husband lapsed into a semi-formal set of habits, with breakfast, school and tea punctuating the day and a predictable litany of small formalities their pattern of conversation.

  After ten years in this state of hibernation, matters were to take a dramatic turn.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Florence was a respectable, dutiful wife, supportive of her husband and his career ambitions. With no close female friend to confide in, and such matters being clearly off limits with her mother, she kept her secrets to herself. After a while the abnormal relationship was normalised simply by a process of time. Any anxieties and personal blame she may have felt for being an unattractive and demanding wife were kept so well hidden that they were sublimated in daily routines.

  After the first few years of marriage, Florence no longer felt any emotional stirrings and almost began to mirror the restrained, formal character of her husband. Her focus was on duty, the rituals of school life and presenting a competent, helpful and willing image to the world.

  This state of affairs might have carried on indefinitely. But underneath the veneer, there beat a vulnerable heart. In her trance-like marriage and despite her strong principles there was a force of life underneath the constrained and respectable public face. A seismic energy, looking for any crack in the façade.

  One of Florence’s duties as housemistress was to tend to any boys who became sick. From time to time, a boy would succumb to influenza, measles and the like and would become her responsibility to tend, calling in local doctors as necessary.

  In the frozen winter of 1910, the Head Boy of School House broke his ankle in an inter-house game of rugby. Unable to move without pain, and having been advised by the local doctor to rest for two weeks until he would be able to move around on crutches, he was installed in the sick bay in the house. This was a small auxiliary room on the ground floor of the house, adjacent to the study and equipped with three beds and necessary basic nursing equipment. Florence, as with any of her ailing charges, ministered as carer, prepared meals and drinks, changed dressings and bedding and administered medicines as prescribed. She enjoyed this element of her duties as it suited the caring aspect of her nature.

  Henry Sherriff was a tall, muscular boy, virtually a man, of around seventeen with academic ambitions for a place at Oxford. Head of House and captain of rugby, he was an iconic figure in the school whom Florence knew well. He was fresh-faced and handsome with dark hair falling in links over his square face, which he would languidly push back into place.

  Florence enjoyed learning something about her charges when she had the opportunity and would, when time allowed, fall into discussion with them, feeling for them in their illness and their motherless state. Henry was an intelligent and likeable lad; his only incapacity being physical, he was more than ready to talk in between keeping up with his studies as required by Wilfred and the other masters. It was a long day without the normal social fellowship and stimulation of his fellow students. Occasionally his closer friends would call in to retail news or gossip, but in the longueurs of the afternoon, Florence found herself drawn into discussion with him. She found him likeable, mature and with a variety of opinions on literature, poetry, politics, and occasionally verging into philosophy. They spoke of music.

  Henry was a more than competent pianist and violinist who had been taught by Wilfred. Florence initially saw all this as therapeutic and indeed part of her duty. She found herself spending many hours with him until their conversations became relaxed and easy and marked by a mutuality of humour and asides that suggested they were more like equals and good friends than housemistress and pupil.

  Florence would sit by Henry’s bed. Occasionally their hands would touch as she helped with dressings or brought him drinks and food. She tried to pay little attention to the small jolt of electricity she felt when they made physical contact. She told herself to harbour no emotional thoughts towards him; her duty simply would not allow it. She told herself that it was natural to like one of the boys, particularly one like Henry who was articulate and good humoured. She did not have to tell herself to suppress any subterranean thoughts since these were simply out of the question.

  *

  One afternoon, as the low winter sun trickled over the windowsill lighting up the room in squared patterns, Florence took Henry some refreshments. Henry lightly took her hand, she did not object, for now they knew each other this had become acceptable. He opened her hand and put in it a folded piece of paper.

  Florence made light of it.

  “What’s this, Henry? Your menu requirements for next week, or are you trying to get me to correct your prep?” she smiled.

  “Read it,” he said, holding her gaze for longer than was comfortable.

  She opened up the piece of paper. On it was written a short poem of just two verses.

  FOR YOU

  The dappled, lapping water of the backwash on the jetty

  The early morning square of sunshine on my bedroom wall

  Antiphony of treetops bowing stately to each other
<
br />   And the last gold strands of evening with the birdsong vespers call.

  I’ll capture you the diamonds from the backwash on the jetty

  Bring them with the square of gold to do with as you may

  Turn the song of birds into an anthem for a lover

  And love you in the evening till the earth has passed away.

  “Well,” said Florence, breathing a few heavy breaths, “that’s lovely, Henry. It’s not a poem I know. Who is it by?”

  “By me,” said Henry, looking directly at her although she could not return his look.

  “Lovely,” said Florence, as matter-of-factly as she could. “You certainly have a way with words. Is this for some belle of yours?”

  Henry pointed to the title. Florence, affected now, began to remonstrate with him but with no great force.

  “That is not appropriate Henry. If anyone should hear…”

  He took her hand and, with eyes modestly downcast, she let him hold it. She felt an unaccustomed beating in her chest and had to take a breath.

  “It was just something that came to me. I am sorry if it embarrassed you. But I wanted to let you know how I felt. This last week has been the most wonderful of my life. I realise it is wrong but I have felt a strong attraction to you. The words just came to me and I wanted you to have them and keep them.”

  She stood up and bustled about, back to her matronly business.

  “If there is anything else you need, Henry, then please feel free to use the bell as normal. Now I am going to prepare my husband’s supper.” This was said with some finality.

  *

  But she could not stop thinking of the encounter. Something inside her had stirred into life. She had kept the poem in her apron pocket and read it from time to time over the next few days. No one had ever expressed any such sentiments to her before. Disturbingly, after a brief effort to maintain formality she found herself sitting by Henry’s bedside. He took her hand. On the first few occasions she withdrew it. Then, almost unconsciously, she let him hold her hand as they talked and she looked into his grey eyes. Now their eyes would lock and she found it hard to leave his bedside.

  One afternoon, whilst getting up to leave, she leaned over to straighten the counterpane and their faces became dangerously close. A moment passed as they looked and, almost inadvertently, she held his face and placed a light kiss on his cheek. She stood by the bed as he held her hand with both of his.

  “This must never happen again,” she remonstrated, angry with herself for being stupid and wilful and letting herself be drawn into an inappropriate position.

  But happen again it did. After nervously attempting some household chores elsewhere in the house, pacing and shaking her head, she returned to Henry’s room. He watched her, calmly, as she sat on the side of his bed, facing away from him. He stroked her back and she groaned with the unaccustomed pleasure of being touched sensually by a man.

  “No, no!” she said to him, but her body was saying something else. She found herself almost breathless as he traced his fingers slowly along the nape of her neck. She turned toward him, now stroking his face and throat. Her hands moved down and unbuttoned his bed jacket. She touched the skin of his chest and moved closer to him on the bed. They kissed; a lingering kiss and the dam was burst. He gripped her and pulled her to him.

  Passion took over. Henry slipped his hand onto her breast and she gasped. She took his hand and placed it inside her blouse helping him find her nipple and her breathing became heavy. She lay down on the bed beside him and their hands and fingers sought out places that were dangerously new. The struggle between propriety and passion within her was over. She gave herself up to the pleasure of touching and of being touched.

  As the sun slipped down the wall of the sick bay, an atavistic lust overtook them both. Instinctively, she knew how to touch him and soon brought him to a shuddering climax. He then touched her where no man had touched her before and she felt the intense pleasure of her first sexual intimacy. He held her firmly in the crook of his arm and watched wonderingly as, with his other hand, he helped her experience a series of spasms that had been locked and quiescent for so many years.

  Afterwards they lay in each other’s arms, all passion spent. They slept the sleep that lovers sleep, flushed, warm and glowing.

  Florence woke with a start as the front door slammed and her husband’s voice announced that he was home. Quickly straightening herself, and worrying that she might looked flushed and her hair disorderly, she went to greet him.

  “Just taken tea to Henry,” she said in a voice a little too high in tone, although she deflected attention by asking Wilfred about his day and other conversational non sequiturs, hoping that her eyes would not betray her.

  Wilfred, however, as always, did not so much as glance at her as he settled into his armchair with his newspaper and a cigarette.

  Florence busied herself with domestic chores and gave every semblance of normality, although her mind was seething with thoughts. Later, in bed alone, she allowed herself to think about what had happened. There was a conflict in her head and her heart between respectful good behaviour and the delicious experiences of the afternoon.

  After a mental struggle she knew that now the primeval urges had been unleashed she would not be able to return to her prim and ladylike self. Her rationale was that she was getting no younger and this might never happen again. She also harboured an anger towards Wilfred that he should have kept her locked up for so many years, unable to experience love, life and physical fulfilment. It was wrong, but it was not to be denied.

  *

  The following day, after Wilfred had left for lessons, Florence knew that the doctor was scheduled to call and therefore was business-like with Henry, although their eyes caught and they both registered a knowledge of what had happened between them with a slight smile.

  The doctor called with a pair of crutches and said that Henry would soon be best served if he could get up and about for a short while each day to help the circulation.

  “That’s the advice now. Up and about! Get the blood pumping!”

  Later, soon after the doctor had left, Florence deliberately made her way to the room Henry was in. Her intention, as internally expressed to herself, was simply to get Henry out of bed and to take a little exercise. But, in her heart, she knew what would happen. After a few pleasantries, but with the room redolent with lust, their bodies touched and they quickly became inflamed once more. They kissed and their lips locked as Florence helped Henry to his feet and helped him undress. She then took her own clothes off, throwing them abandoned on the bedroom floor. This was the first time she had seen a man naked and the first time she herself had been naked in front of a man. It made her shiver.

  Touching each other slowly at first they explored each other’s bodies. She felt him aroused against her skin and took him in her hand, slowly stroking him as his hands rested on her shoulders and his eyes closed at the pleasure of it. She thrilled at the warm touch of him and the pleasure she could give him. He led her gently to the bed, placing her across it. Their bodies needed no teaching and Florence felt him thrust inside her. A little pain soon gave way to a full and satisfying feeling she wanted to go on forever. When at last she felt his pulsing spasm inside her, spilling into her five, six, seven times, she knew at last what it felt like to be a woman and to be desired by a man.

  *

  Florence and Henry knew that they must be utterly discreet. They also knew there was a finite time for them as Henry was taking the entrance exams for Cambridge and Oxford universities. Henry had now resumed normal life, his crutches discarded and a slight limp the only reminder of his broken ankle. There were a few occasions during the school day that Henry, as house captain, manufactured flimsy reasons to visit Florence.

  Once through the door they quickly made their way to the sick bay and, with the confidence of love
rs, devoured each other’s bodies. Sometimes, when time was short, their coupling was brief, lusty and almost like farmyard animals. Florence wanted love and sensuality but she also needed to be desired and dealt with vigorously from time to time and even a short but rough and intense coition would fulfil a different sort of need within her.

  There was danger in what they did. Although never entirely reckless, there was, perhaps, a subliminal wish that they could show the world that they were lovers and this added to the frisson when they were together. One afternoon, as they lay naked on the bed after a fusion of bodies Florence was alarmed to hear the front door slam. She heard her husband’s voice.

  “Just back for my Suetonius, must have left it in the library. Are you there my dear? Very brief visit. The Remove are getting on with an unseen translation whilst I…”

  Some sixth sense made him glance into the sick bay on his way past to the library. Expressionless, he saw the lovers, Florence attempting to cover herself with a towel, Henry with his head bowed.

  If he had flown into a rage Florence would have understood. If he had beaten them both it would have been no more than they deserved. She waited for the eruption but it did not come. Instead Wilfred looked from one to the other, silent, unblinking, inscrutable. After a full minute, during which Florence made appeasing faces, Wilfred simply turned on his heel, carried on down the corridor to the library, emerged with a book and left the house with a solid tread and not a backward glance.

  From that day, Wilfred spent his time at the house seemingly in a catatonic trance. He refused to speak, to look at or even acknowledge Florence. There were no recriminations, no accusations, no anger. Florence was simply no longer visible to him. When she prepared food it was left on the dining table until she had vacated the room and he took it to another room. He carried on with teaching as normal and to the staff and boys he was his usual disciplined self. The rituals and cadences of the academic day served to preoccupy his mind and drive out any troubling thoughts he might otherwise have had in his fore-conscience. But at some unarticulated level, dangerous waters were swirling. Henry, one of the miscreants whose presence might have stirred up seething latent resentment, had left school. For Florence, a long, silent summer lay ahead. There was, however, to be further drama. They had not spoken for several weeks but one evening she approached him in the library. She knocked on the open door. He looked up without looking at her.