The priest droned on, and my mind wandered to the story of Halcyone, who plunged into the sea in despair after the shipwreck and death of her husband, King Ceyx. The goddess Thetis transformed both husband and wife into kingfishers, which always fly in pairs, symbolizing the tender love and unity of the dead couple. I thought about Isis and her brother Osiris, and how Isis was able to bring about the resurrection of her brother-husband through the power of love. She too transformed herself into a bird, a hawk, so that she could hover, and watch over her love. And then I thought about Mrs Sanderson and how like a little bird she had been, always watching, never speaking, her eyes shining with some other knowledge that she was never willing to reveal, yet behind them misery. The poor woman had always put a brave face on things. Even in my inexperience I could sense Mrs Sanderson’s loneliness, and felt sorry for her. Had she lived her whole life with no great love in it? For I was beginning to think the grand stories of the Ancients were a mere wash over how mundane marriage really was. The myths created such false expectations, which could break a heart. I wondered whether this was what had killed Mrs Sanderson, really, and whether this was the true reason my own father spent days hiding from the world in his bed.
I turned my attention to the top of the church. Captain Sanderson looked the picture of bereavement, dignified, pale and smart. He was dressed in uniform, and stood as straight as a poker, his dark eyes expressionless, his mouth set in a straight line. Charles Junior was there too, and at every opportunity looked round at Min, but she ignored him, staring down at the ground, muttering the verses of the hymn.
After the burial, everyone was invited back to the Sandersons’ house for tea and sandwiches. Father excused himself, and walked home. He said he needed the air after being cooped up in the house for so many weeks.
‘It is because he doesn’t want to drink,’ I heard my mother whisper apologetically to Captain Sanderson, who nodded distractedly before walking off to speak to his wife’s relatives.
‘Can I come with you, Daddy?’
‘No, June, I prefer to be by myself. Besides, you must stay and keep your mother company.’
I watched him lumber off down the road. He was a tall man, yet he seemed crushed in stature, walking heavily, as if the weight of the world was on his shoulders. My eyes followed him down the street, a small pearl of rejection lodged in my throat, making me gulp.
It was the first cool day in August. I sniffed the air, aware that today was the last day of the holidays. The grass was still damp from rain the previous night, and a nipping wind was picking up. I shivered, pulling my light jacket tightly about my shoulders and watching the funeral guests milling about inside the house. It was surprising how small the Sandersons’ house was. I had imagined them living somewhere much grander. But then, what exactly did Captain Sanderson do, now that he was no longer a soldier? Mother had told Min and I that the house had been Mrs Sanderson’s; she had been widowed before she met her current husband. The couple had no children, and there was that exactness to the interior of the house – where there were no disruptions to the order – that Captain Sanderson had placed on everything. I was cold outside, but I couldn’t bear to go into the house and attempt to balance sandwiches on my lap while talking to Mrs Sanderson’s niece, or cousin, or other distant relative. I turned my back to the house and gazed at a row of poplars, which blocked the view of the sea. What a stupid place to plant them.
Min and Charles Junior emerged from the small potting shed at the bottom of the garden with croquet sticks and balls, waving at me to come and join them. Was it inappropriate to play croquet? Nobody in the house seemed to notice us, so we tried to play for a couple of hours, but they were half-hearted games. The garden was much smaller than ours and too bumpy to play properly. By six o’clock it was too windy and cold to stay outside any longer.
‘I’m afraid I must be going,’ said Charles Junior.
‘Will you not come back into the house with us?’ Min asked, touching his sleeve.
He smiled at her. ‘No, I already said goodbye to my uncle . . .’ He faltered. ‘I don’t think I can bear to do it again.’
We all nodded, saying nothing. Charles Junior suddenly reached forward and took Min’s hand. I reddened. The couple said nothing, just stared into each other’s eyes. How could Min embarrass me so? I began to walk briskly across the lawn away from them. They did not call after me. I wondered what he was asking her. He couldn’t possibly be asking her to marry him? That would be ridiculous. Min was still only fifteen, and a schoolgirl. But then the way he looked at my sister, he was most certainly in love.
I entered through the French windows, thinking of school. We were going back the next day and the thought depressed me. I hated leaving Father when he was so low. I longed to have one afternoon discussing Classics with him. I felt suddenly cross with him. Why did he have to be like this?
There were no lights on in the house, and the clouds, which had begun to gather outside, blocked the sun so that the room was murky. There was no one in here, only half-drunk glasses of sherry, and crumbs on plates. I walked over to the sideboard and took a sandwich off an untouched pile, then picked up a small glass of sherry and knocked it back in one. I coughed. It tasted disgusting, but it warmed my chilled bones and made me feel a little less gloomy. I needed to find the lavatory.
I opened the sitting-room door and entered the cramped hall, heading towards the staircase. Where was everyone? The grandfather clock ticked solemnly, and I walked slowly up the stairs looking at the walls crammed with engravings of horses and dogs. On the landing I was faced with four white doors. I needed to go quite badly now, so I tried one door, but it wouldn’t open. It was locked. I was terrified I might walk into Mrs Sanderson’s bedroom. The body was gone of course, but I didn’t want to see her things. I tried the next door and turned the handle slowly.
It wasn’t the bathroom. And it wasn’t Mrs Sanderson’s room, either. I was looking into a bedroom, obviously unused, and I was looking at Captain Sanderson, who was standing facing me and holding my mother. That was what I could see. He was cradling her face in his hands, and he was crying. The two of them were completely unaware I was behind them, for his eyes were closed as the tears trailed down his cheeks. I had never seen a man cry before. I watched incredulously as their lips came together, and they kissed. It was like watching a moment in a film. Then I saw their bodies coming closer together, and Captain Sanderson put his hand under my mother’s skirt. I saw him lift the light material, and I saw my mother’s alabaster limbs, as one of her legs wrapped around Captain Sanderson’s backside. I jerked my head back suddenly and stepped out into the hall. My breath came so fast I was almost hyperventilating. I ran down the stairs and back into the sitting room, out of the French windows and onto the grass. It had begun to rain, and I looked about for Min. Finally I saw her, sitting under an oak tree at the end of the garden. I ran towards her.
‘Crikey, what’s wrong with you?’
‘I just . . .’ I sat down, trying to catch my breath, ‘I just saw Mother and—’
‘Captain Sanderson?’ Min finished the sentence for me. She turned towards me, held me by my shoulders and stared into my face. I saw her eyes harden. ‘Were they at it?’ she asked harshly.
‘No, well, maybe . . . They were kissing?’
‘Did they see you?’
‘No.’
Min folded her arms, whistled through her teeth. ‘I knew it,’ she said emphatically.
I felt stunned. How could Min have known? Although my sister was a year younger than me, I felt naive and stupid.
‘How did you know?’
Min pursed her lips into a smirk. ‘I just did.’
‘Oh.’ I looked at my feet. I felt confused and strangely betrayed. Why had Min not said something before? How many secrets might Min have from me? I looked at her hands, half-expecting to see an engagement ring, but her fingers were bare. ‘What did Charles . . . Charles . . . Junior say to you?’ I asked, my anxie
ty causing me to stutter.
‘Oh, nothing.’ Min smiled serenely. ‘Apart from the fact that he wants to marry me.’
‘But you’re only fifteen!’
‘He wanted me to promise myself to him, until I am sixteen.’
I picked up a couple of acorns, which had already fallen from the tree. I separated one of them from its cup and pressed its smooth, round green body into my palm.
‘What did you say?’
‘Well, don’t you know me well enough by now?’ Min raised her eyebrows and laughed out loud. I smiled with relief, and then the fright of what I had just seen inside the house began to make me giggle.
‘I can’t believe it! Mother and Captain Sanderson! It’s so—’
‘Ghastly!’ yelled Min with her arms outstretched towards the pouring heavens.
The two of us dissolved into laughter, as the rain beat down through the leaves of the trees, soaking us. I couldn’t stop laughing. I danced up and down with mirth, made worse by the fact I still needed to go to the lavatory. Yet my heart was filling up with a new rawness. The biting reality of our mother’s adultery confirmed the travesty of our family. I will never fall in love, I promised myself.
As we sisters laughed we held hands, swaying like two young saplings in the wet wind. This is love, this is intimacy, I remember as I uncurl from over the stove, and press my hand into the small of my back, standing upright, feeling suddenly fierce in my husband’s kitchen, unnoticed by him. I look out into the black yard and I see Min and I, lit up and young. We have laced our fingers together and are rocking back and forth. How is it that Robert and I have never laughed together like this? But see, even our sisterly love is an illusion. Already I am beginning to detach, and Min becomes a wet hand, any hand. When I close my eyes I imagine I can feel that same rain streaming down my cheeks, and I see my father’s face at Mrs Sanderson’s funeral when Mother pulled away from him. I see his wounded expression and I understand what happened to him. In my memory there are no longer two girls laughing in the rain. Now there is only one girl, and she is crying.
THE ADULTERESS II
He is not a big man, her lover, but he is strong. He has the stamina of an ox. She stands inside his door, her arms raised above her head, her hands pressed into the splintering wood, and shivers with anticipation. She is completely naked.
She has never felt so exposed.
She had lain with him, and undressed in front of him on numerous occasions. She had even sat on him, but to be standing, and to know he is behind her, looking at her, all of her, is something different. For some reason it feels like the ultimate anarchy.
She smells him first, the damp sweat of him, which is so different from the odour of her husband. He smells of his life, resin and oil, and hard work. She tenses, excited, unsure of what he will do.
He takes her by surprise, just one finger, tracing it down her spine, right to the bottom of her back, and further, tracing underneath her, passing over her opening, wet, wanting him, until he stops. Then he presses her flesh with certainty, and she lets out an unexpected murmur.
Oh! she says.
Oh! he laughs softly. Oh, yes.
He begins to rub her and she twitches, pushing back into his stomach.
He peels the outside of her away, layer after layer, and each sensation grows deeper, closer and closer to the edge. He is teasing her, and impetuously she gropes behind her, finds what it is she wants so badly, needs so much inside. She pushes him into her, and then just as suddenly he is gentle no more. He surges forward, and her face is pressed into the door, his hands grip her waist, and he grinds into her. She wants this feeling – that now she is no longer herself, but just an element igniting him, and they are fusing.
It is nature, and it is not something they can stop, for all nature is art.
NICHOLAS
For three days it rains non-stop. At first Nicholas tries to get some work done, but he finds it hard to motivate himself. It is so dark and gloomy and the wet makes it too difficult. It is supposed to be the summer, but it feels like a winter’s day. The second day of rain he tries to bake an apple pie, but he has no recipe books and is unsure how to make pastry. The result is a strange, doughy concoction of apples, flour, butter and sugar, which is tasty if odd-looking. He decides just to bake the apples themselves, with the cores cut out and stuffed with raisins and honey. He remembers his own mother doing this when he was little, and the delight of Sunday dinner with his mum and dad, the three of them around the kitchen table and the aroma of roast meat, roast potatoes and sweet apples in the air. He wishes now he had paid more attention to what his mum had been doing in the kitchen, rather than hanging on to his dad’s every word. He had been a great storyteller. Charlie had loved to hear about Nicholas’s childhood Sunday dinners and the stories his father told him. She said her family never sat around the table, apart from Christmas Day. They were a TV-dinners family, with two working parents and the four siblings fighting over the best seats in front of the telly, Birds Eye crispy pancakes and Angel Delight served up on trays.
‘You’re so lucky,’ she would enthuse. ‘You had such a happy childhood.’
Yes, he did. That is, until he was twelve, until his father died. His mum had been great, always putting his needs before hers. Charlie thought she was wonderful. She was always complaining about her own mother, and how she had ignored her when she was a little girl, and then broke up the family by leaving her father for another man. Nicholas guessed there was no such thing as an idyllic childhood, but he decided not to let himself be defined by his father’s death. He didn’t want to use it as an excuse. He hated telling people, he hated pity. And so he played along with Charlie. Yes, he had had so much happier a childhood than her, and that was why she was allowed to be more difficult than him, more demanding.
Nicholas waits for the apples to explode so that their insides are frothy and white and the skin is brown, and crisp. Had Charlie ever understood who he had been as a little boy? Charlie the child was always there in their relationship. He saw her in her paintings, and in her moodiness, and in the way she would react to him sometimes with no logic whatsoever.
‘I’m not your bloody mother!’
He would yell back sometimes. She expected so much from him, but not any more. He is free. But although the baked apples melt inside his mouth, his new-found freedom doesn’t taste so good.
And so he retreats into music. Since the day the ghost lady led him to the piano, Nicholas cannot stop playing. He plays for as long as his hands will let him. He plays his favourite Debussy, challenges himself with Rachmaninov, and then comes back to his mother’s favourite, Chopin. Afterwards he drapes himself across the keys, his heart raw, his fingers sore, his back aching.
On the third day of rain he writes Charlie five different texts.
I trusted u but uve shown yr true colours now.
How long was it going on 4?
R u still seeing him?
Who r u fuckng?
Uve ruined my life will never 4give u.
He doesn’t send them, deletes them all and throws his phone into a kitchen drawer, slamming it shut in disgust.
He is running out of money. Every day he wakes up wondering if he has made the biggest mistake of his life. He has no friends here, no income. And yet he feels relief that he is living somewhere nobody knows him, or what happened to his marriage.
It is still raining when Nicholas gets in his car and drives into town. He carefully negotiates the old Volvo around the potholes and deep puddles of boggy water up the lane. Town is one broad main street double-parked with tractors. There are five pubs, two hotels, one small supermarket and post office, a bookmaker’s, a Chinese takeaway, a couple of clothes shops and a cafe. The falling sheet of rain makes the town seem dismal and depressing. Nicholas wonders what it must have been like growing up somewhere like this. He goes into the supermarket, but he can’t think straight. It feels as if everyone is looking at him. He grabs a six-pack of beer, a lo
af of brown bread, cheese, milk, eggs and bacon. There is a horrible smell in the supermarket, as if someone has been frying bacon in old cooking fat. He puts the bacon back in the refrigerator unit and picks up a packet of smoked mackerel instead. The woman behind the till has weak blue eyes and straight blonde hair with dark roots. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, although there is a queue behind Nicholas. Slowly and wearily she pulls the food across the scanner.
‘Terrible weather,’ she says casting her eyes bleakly at the grey sky outside.
‘Yes,’ Nicholas replies, fumbling with his wallet.
‘The poor kids. They’ve no summer at all. Of course as soon as they go back, it’ll be baking, you see.’
‘Yes,’ he nods, uncomfortably.
She takes his money, and hands him his change. ‘So you’re doing up the old Fanning place?’
Nicholas stares at her. Who is this woman? How does she know this? ‘Yes,’ he replies coldly, trying to shove his shopping into his bag as quickly as possible.
‘And how are you finding it? Do you like living there?’
Nicholas stops what he is doing and stares at her. There is something in those weak blue eyes, some kind of intelligence. He wonders: does she know about the ghost?
‘Yes, sure.’
He walks hastily away from her. Everyone in the queue is listening to their conversation. Everyone knows who he is and where he lives. Already his desired anonymity is shattered. He sees a noticeboard right in front of him by the exit to the supermarket. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a card he has already written and reluctantly sticks it up. He doesn’t want to have to teach, but he has no choice. He senses someone standing next to him, at his shoulder and reading his card. It is a plump woman with long red hair. Her face is so pale it looks like white china, and it is moist-looking as if the dampness in the air has made her skin wet.
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