The Adulteress

by Noelle Harrison

  I look back up at Phelim Sheriden and something about him reminds me of Father. Is it his golden hair, the green jersey he wears, or is it his gentleness, his interest in my mind? I think of the last drive I took with Father. Min was gone, and the house in Torquay seemed more desolate than ever, as my parents and I began to pack all of our belongings. I was to go to London after our trip to Europe, and I might never return to Devon. I felt orphaned, for this house, and the sea, had given me as much succour as my parents ever had. Of course I would visit Mother and Father in their quarters, at the school where father had attained a position as Classics master, but it was in Gloucestershire, and nowhere near the sea, far too far from Devon.

  Daddy’s summer-long depression lifted just in time to see the leaves drop and feel the chill of early autumn approaching in the air. Although it had not been as bad as 1932, he had still wasted many of the hot, blue sunny days of’33 in bed. I could not fathom it. I loved my father dearly, and yet I was hurt that he had not pulled himself together for me. Now infuriatingly, just as we were leaving, he had brightened up, full of banter about Rome and Greece.

  Mother was in a whirl of excitement about our impending trip to Europe, and kept calling me into her room to show me one dress or another and to ask me whether she should bring it. I always said yes, and this seemed to exasperate her.

  ‘You’re no use at all. I don’t know where you came from!’

  She looked me up and down. I knew I was plain in my navy sweater and grey slacks, but I did not care what my mother thought. I was going to be an academic, and I had to look the part.

  To this end, one night I cut my hair into a bob with the kitchen scissors, all the while smirking as I looked in the mirror, imagining what fun Min would think this was. It amused me to think that my mother’s glamour would be compromised by my own ascetic presence, like a censoring nun, as we travelled across Europe. When I had finished I was surprised how like a boy I looked, just how I imagined Dickon from The Secret Garden, with his snub nose and freckles. It was a surprise to pass from my childlike face to my ample bosom. I was an odd hybrid of boy and woman.

  At breakfast Mother dropped her cup of tea back down on its saucer and gave a tiny scream, while my father looked shocked.

  ‘Your hair . . .’ he stuttered.

  ‘My goodness, June, what a terrible mess,’ Mother said, regaining her composure.

  ‘I like it short.’ I cracked the top of my boiled egg with the back of my spoon.

  My mother laughed. ‘You look like Puck. I shall have to neaten it up for you, but maybe it can be sweet, and modern.’

  I looked at Father, and to my horror his eyes were welling with tears. ‘Your beautiful golden tresses,’ he croaked. ‘You had hair like a goddess.’

  Immediately I felt terrible. I wished I could undo what I had done. I didn’t want my mother touching my hair, turning me into a ‘modern young thing’.

  Mother snorted. ‘And what goddess, pray? I think short hair for June is a great improvement. Long hair didn’t suit her face.’

  As she said this she pushed a strand of her own thick, curly black hair behind her ear.

  The day before Mother and I were due to leave for Italy, Father asked me to take him for a drive.

  ‘One last spin . . .’ he said, as I started up the engine.

  ‘But it won’t be the last one, Daddy,’ I scolded gently, releasing the clutch and steering the car through the gates. ‘I shall come and see you in Gloucestershire, and together we can drive back down to Devon and visit all our old haunts.’

  ‘I never wish to return to this place.’

  His words shocked me. But how true they were. He never did return to Devon, not until the day he was buried.

  I drove down the hill and past the houses of our neighbours, towards the harbour.

  ‘Are we going to Babbacombe?’

  ‘Not today,’ Father replied wearily, ‘I am tired of looking at the sea. Let’s go somewhere else. How about Cockington?’

  ‘All right,’ I said unenthusiastically. I had been craving a walk by the sea and had no desire to drive inland, no matter how short the distance. I drove past the sea front and turned right, heading up a narrow, hilly road. Presently we came to a small hamlet of four or five thatched houses, of wattle and daub, with lead windows and golden walls. It was a sunny day, with no wind, and the village was quiet, nestled by trees all around. Ours was the only vehicle.

  We walked through the village, towards Cockington Court and the cricket pitch, but we did not go up to the house, standing instead amongst the trees.

  ‘This is where I courted your mother,’ my father said quietly. ‘I was friends with a chap who lived in that house. Not any more, though.’

  I turned to Daddy and looked at his profile. He still had a thick head of hair. I could see strands of ginger in the grey, like fiery embers in the ashes. His cheeks were lined with tiny red veins, and the tip of his nose was red. His pale-blue eyes were watery and the rims were pale pink. I realized, with a mixture of fondness and sadness, that he had the face of a drinker.

  ‘Your mother was engaged to him.’

  He took out his pipe, thrusting it into his mouth, and hunted around in his pockets for matches.

  ‘Mummy was engaged to another man?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Poor Alexander. He ripped up his kid gloves when your mother ended things with him. I believe she even had a couple of fiancés before him. She collected us, like trophies.’

  He laughed bitterly.

  ‘But maybe, my dear June,’ he added gently, ‘I am being a little unfair to your mother. She always told me she was never sure, until she met me.’

  ‘Sure of what?’

  ‘Sure that she wished to be married.’

  His answer surprised me, for Mummy had always given me the impression that the pinnacle of any girl’s life was to be married, and to a wealthy man. Had she desired something other than that, once?

  ‘I should have let Alexander marry her, and not interfered. He was desperately in love with her,’ Father continued, lighting his pipe and sucking furiously. ‘He would have been a much better provider, but I suppose she preferred me in whites. Your mother always claims that she fell for me while watching me play cricket – apparently I cut quite a figure when I bowl.’

  I looked at the empty cricket green, with the small white pavilion facing us. I imagined my father and mother, flirting, with cups of tea in their hands, and little plates with crustless cucumber sandwiches. He was tall, with golden hair, and dressed all in white. The only patch of colour on his clothes were pink smudges on his right leg from where he had rubbed the ball. She was wearing a red dress, exactly the same shade of deep red as the cricket ball. Amid all those men in white, and ladies in pink and pastel, she stood out as hard and dangerous as the ball.

  Father sighed. ‘I liked it here in Cockington. I would have liked us to live here, but it was a little too close to Alexander for comfort. Besides, your mother insisted on Torquay. She liked the idea of the society that an English seaside town provided. I think she thought it almost as grand as living on the French Riviera.’

  He chuckled and, linking his arm through mine, we began to stroll back to where we had parked the car.

  ‘Do you not like our house, Daddy?’

  ‘I do not mind it, but I would have preferred to live in a country manor, a fine neoclassical pile. If only I had had the right background, with a handsome estate to inherit, and a private income.’

  ‘I loved growing up in Torquay.’ I gripped his arm fiercely. ‘And so did Min. We adored being able to look at the sea every day, and being so close to the beach. It is very important to who we are, Daddy.’

  He stopped walking and looked at me curiously. ‘Yes, it is, isn’t it? You are two beautiful mermaids, and I am so very proud of you both. But I have always loved the countryside inland, and I look forward to Gloucestershire and living in a cottage, maybe like one of these.’ And he indicated one of the small that
ched cottages we were passing.

  ‘But all those low beams, Daddy, you would constantly be banging your head!’

  ‘At least it will keep me awake.’ He smiled woefully. ‘For I hope I shan’t die of boredom, teaching Latin to twelve-year-old boys.’

  ‘Mummy will be there with you for company.’ I tried to sound cheerful.

  ‘Ah yes, your mother.’ His tone implied something. ‘She is so looking forward to Italy. You are a very lucky girl.’

  ‘Yes, Father, I am very grateful.’

  ‘You shall be able to see all those wonderful buildings.’ He squeezed my hand. ‘Make me a promise you will draw some pictures, so that you can show them to me when you return.’

  We stood outside the car door and my father looked up at the sky.

  ‘Summer is over,’ he announced and dipped his hand into his pocket, producing a small hip flask and pressing it to his lips. He did all this so neatly and quickly, as if he thought I mightn’t notice. But what if I did? Where was the harm in a quick nip on a Sunday-afternoon walk? ‘Maybe, one day, you will be a schoolmistress too? I think a history teacher.’

  Daddy’s eyes twinkled, for he was teasing me. He knew I found the idea of teaching as repellent as he did.

  ‘No, you will be a classical scholar, my dear.’ He nodded. ‘Remember we are only telling stories. It is as simple as this, the telling of tales. As the human race progresses we spiral into each other, generation after generation, repeating, and reliving again and again. Who is to say that I were not a Roman emperor once, and you my daughter?’

  He put his hands on his hips and laughed loudly. All the rooks took off from the trees behind, and his voice echoed across the silent village. Then he took the flask out of his pocket again, and took a longer drink, before opening the car door and getting in. Father sat waiting for me, a mask devoid of expression suddenly covering his face.

  THE ADULTERESS III

  She comes at twilight when all the sun that is left burns in her eyes. Always the same way she stands outside his house, pausing, tempting herself to turn away. She hopes the shadows conceal her, but really she doesn’t care any more. She knows it is a dangerous game, but all self-control has long since been shed.

  Why does she want to make love with this man who is not her husband? Is it because she wants to believe in something, or that someone else could love her? Or is she just like her mother, self-obsessed and vain, constantly wanting male attention? No, her lover is not an aristocrat. Her mother would never have gone near him. But this is what she likes.

  The texture of his hands seduces her, rough against her skin, the nails engrained with paint, unkempt. These are hands that know what it is like not to hold many coins in their palms. These are hands that have clung onto the edge and know how to climb, inch by inch, determination overcoming pain. Her husband’s hands are soft and careless, wandering without any particular purpose across her stomach, half-heartedly brushing her breasts. But this man, he knows what to do with his hands. He touches her with conviction, picking her up, brushing against her as if she is one of his paintings.

  She opens her bag, takes out her compact and looks at her lips. They are as red as when she last looked at them, but still she takes out her lipstick. She wants to mark him when she arrives – his shirt, his chest, his bruising chin. She lifts the compact up to her eyes. They glitter like a cat on a hunt, and for an instant she doesn’t recognize herself. She hesitates. She could still turn back, go home, but already she knows it is too late. He is watching her from his studio. She looks up to the top of the house. Its windows stare back blankly. How is it possible this one house could hide their secret? A love, she thinks, that is bigger than the two of them. A love she believes to be immortal. This is why her lover is an artist. He too believes that, like art, some things can last forever. Even if their bodies perish, what they share – love – is for always.

  It starts to rain, and pulling her coat more tightly around her she runs up the steps, pushing open the front door. Up the staircase, three floors to the top, until she stands breathless and edgy on the landing. She doesn’t have to knock. The door is open. She walks inside, takes her hat off and smooths her hair.

  She arrives, the artist’s muse. He says.

  He has not shaved, and she is attracted by this audacity. His hair is unruly, and his skin looks even darker than usual, as if he has been abroad. But she knows he has been nowhere. Just here, working, since the last time they met.

  She holds back from the embrace, her throat tightening, unable to speak. This is always the way. They never touch, not at first, but eke out this moment for as long as possible until they are two electrical wires fizzing and sparking.

  He has never drawn her, but now his eyes trace her contours as she slowly undresses. She feels bold and wanton, as if she is in one of the films she so adores. Her coat falls to the floor, and then her dress. He kneels before her, tugs at her stockings and knickers, until they are rings around her feet. He begins to lick her and she closes her eyes. His lips, his touch transports her, and suddenly she is no longer there. Instead of the smell of his damp studio, with its bitter scent of oil paint and sweat, another aroma circumferences her. Somewhere dry and warm. Crisp pine dilates her nostrils, and in the inner chamber of her ears she hears a sound, distant but distinct. It is the sound of the sea.

  JUNE

  My mother met her lover on the steps of the Duomo, her eyes cast skyward, entranced by the glittery spectacle of the fairy-tale cathedral. It seemed like a building that ought to belong to a princess. These were my mother’s thoughts as she walked, head craning backwards, straight into the back of the tallest man in Milan.

  It was one of those rare moments in the history of love when the fusion is immediate. Nature will do her work, yet neither party dares believe it. He stumbled forward and turned. She stepped back. He apologized in Italian. She in English. He smiled, a rich embrace of a smile, which lifted the small dark moustache above his thick broad lips. She clutched her purse with both hands as she beckoned for me to follow her, and hurried past him into the cathedral, looking once out of the corner of her eye. Yet it only takes one cast to hook a fish.

  I decided to climb to the roof of the Duomo on my own. Mother claimed she wished to stay inside the cathedral, to pray. I walked past the confessional boxes lined up in a row down one side of the nave, like bathing houses at the sea. I compared the spiritual abandon of stepping onto the beach, lightly clad, the sea air tickling my bare flesh, with the choking world of the submissive penitent, on one’s knees facing into the dark boxes. I had been brought up as a Catholic, but in England this meant something different from the rest of Europe. I felt no identification with the interior of the cathedral. Its high vaults forced me to crane my neck, and yet for all its height it made me feel suffocated so that I longed to be out in the sunlight.

  I wondered if my mother would confess her sins. What did she think when she prayed? I looked at her, on her knees, lit up by the reflections from the stained glass. A blazing violet light diffused the gloomy air, splashing onto the side of a grey pillar and crowning my mother’s head. I turned and marched quickly out of the cathedral, stepping into the brilliant sunshine.

  The piazza was busy. It was late afternoon and the September sun was dipping down in the sky, bathing the city in a golden light. The trams circled the piazza, and pigeons took off at mixed diagonals. To my right cars sped up and down, in front of an arcade milling with people. The buildings were grand, with classical proportions, reminding me of what I had seen in Paris, yet the atmosphere was different. I felt more at home in Italy. And yet, breathing deeply, I was aware of the ache inside me, of how I missed my father, the sea and Min. Everything had changed. I was now my mother’s only companion, and had received more attention from her than ever before. My mother had even expressed admiration that I would wish to go to university.

  ‘You are wiser than Minerva,’ she had said and then, shaking her head, she added, ‘I am very
disappointed in Min.’

  I felt disloyal when I said nothing to defend my sister, but then I was disappointed, too. In the last letter I received from Min she referred to her wedding night as an ‘awakening’. Min assumed I wanted to know these things, but I didn’t. As far as I could determine, all men did was throw you off-course. What had happened to Min’s plans to become a painter?

  Charles and Min were in Rome. In a couple of days Min was going to join us in Milan, and from there we would travel south with Mother to Tuscany and back to Rome. My stomach tightened with excitement when I thought about Rome. Finally I would see the architecture of my dreams. I had brought a small sketchbook with me, and, although not as talented as Min, I had promised my father I would document everything I saw.

  I began to climb the steps of the Duomo. It surprised me how short the ascent was, for such a monumental structure. After a few moments I was standing on one of the parapets, its marble gleaming in the sunlight. A few couples perambulated in a circle around the edge of the roof, pausing every now and again to look at the view. I was the only woman on my own, but I did not feel strange or odd. I felt serene.

  It was very warm on the top of the Duomo, no wind whatsoever. The sky was bright blue, and the marble dazzled beneath my feet. All of the buttresses, which had looked spiky and chiselled from a distance, now appeared gently moulded, with soft contours. I looked at the saints hiding in their miniature turrets, and thought about all the drama of their worlds. I sat on the roof in a pool of stillness and, taking my hat off, I let the sunlight beat down on the crown of my head. I listened to the sounds of the streets below echoing up into the clear air, which surrounded me. I cupped my face in my palms and wordlessly moved my lips, but I knew it was pointless to pray.

  From the day we departed I suspected Mother might leave Father, but I had likened myself to the role of guardian, and believed my presence would be enough to contain her. We had travelled by train from Paris to Italy, my mother’s fluency in French astonishing me. In every town we stopped in, some man had made an advance, under many different polite guises, some even in front of their wives. All of these gentlemen believed I was my mother’s sister, and Mother said nothing to correct them. She had brushed off each of these potential suitors, but not until after she had entertained their advances, even for a short while. It unnerved me that Mother could not be more aloof.