‘There’s no moon. No one will see us,’ my sister said confidently.
I shook my head, afraid of her audacity. ‘We oughtn’t to.’
But Min ignored me and sat on the edge of the pool, slithering in.
‘I don’t think Charles would want you do this!’ I called after her.
‘But Charles isn’t here, is he?’
The water snapped over her head and she was gone, gliding underwater all the way to the other side of the pool. A moment later she came up, sleek as a seal, her dark hair glossy.
‘Come on, Juno, the water is wonderful!’
I shook my head, frozen like a statue, afraid we would be found out, that someone from the hotel would come out and see my naked sister at any moment.
Min swam back towards me. She rose up below me, her head bobbing up and down in the water, her eyes like burnt almonds in the dark.
‘Sometimes you just have to jump in,’ she whispered softly beneath me. ‘It’s like life. If you don’t, nothing will ever happen to you.’
But I turned around and walked back into the hotel. I was cross with Min. When I think about it now, I wish I had got into the water and swum naked with my sister under the hot black sky. I wish I had felt the warm water caressing my skin. I wish I had floated on my back, my breasts exposed to the sky, and not been afraid.
The next day we travelled back to the mainland, going further down the coast until we reached Sorrento. Charles had booked us into the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria, an imposing and majestic hotel that was perched on the edge of a cliff overlooking the Bay of Naples. As my sister and I strolled through the front gates and walked into the gardens of the hotel, between the fragrant orange and lemon trees, I felt her becoming someone else. My salt-water sister, my wild one from the sea, was transforming into a demure young wife with each step she took.
Charles was waiting for us in the glass lobby. He embraced his new wife, showering her with kisses. ‘Oh, how I’ve missed you, my darling,’ he exclaimed.
I stood awkwardly on the marble floor, the bellboy disappearing up the staircase with our cases. Charles looked at me.
‘But where’s your mother?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Min said, putting her arm around his waist. They walked ahead of me up the staircase, and I felt like a foot soldier, an unwanted intrusion on their private love. I paused in the stairwell, letting them go ahead, and looked at the stained-glass window, the large Chinese vase full of flowers, and the plasterwork on the wall in front of me. Two mermaids were facing each other with naked torsos, the nipples of their breasts almost touching, their dance joyous and abandoned. I remembered Father’s words before we left Devon, and how he had described Min and I as two mermaids. All that was gone now. Father and Mother, Min and I. I stood on the sumptuous carpet on the staircase of the Grand Hotel Excelsior Vittoria and felt quite bereft, so lonely that not even in Cavan have I felt as desperate as that day.
When Phelim returns to the study I am sitting on the floor surrounded by books, dazzled by history.
‘Well, I can see you’ve settled in,’ he says, smiling down at me. ‘Would you like to join me for some food?’
He offers me his hand, and I take it, standing up rather awkwardly. I hold onto his fingers for another moment and then pull away, embarrassed.
‘Gosh, is it so late already?’ I dust down my skirt.
‘Indeed. It is just past one.’
‘Heavens! I can’t believe I’ve been reading for over two hours!’
He smiles again, and I think what kind eyes he has, summer sky-blue, with laughter lines creasing the skin around them.
‘I know how that is,’ he says throwing a couple of logs onto the fire. ‘When I start painting I forget all other bodily needs. I can work for hours with nothing to eat or drink. I could paint all night sometimes, with no need for sleep.’
‘You are like my sister, Min.’ I follow him out of the room and into the hall.
He turns, and looks at me questioningly.
‘She is a painter, too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, she is in London. She studied at the Slade.’
‘You must be worried about her at the moment.’
‘Yes I am.’
I am unable to look him directly in the face. How could Phelim guess I cannot stop thinking about my sister – thoughts of her are more present in my mind than of Robert. Why is that? Am I a bad wife?
We walk the length of the hall, alongside a grand mahogany staircase. The walls are covered in dark-green wallpaper, with faded gold stripes.
‘I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. The dining room is positively arctic.’
Phelim lifts the latch on a large door covered with cracked paint. We enter the kitchen and I am momentarily blinded by brilliant sunshine.
‘Oh, what a beautiful day,’ I gush. ‘I had not noticed in your study.’
‘Yes, it is a little dark in there.’ He shows me to a seat. ‘These old stone houses can be a bit gloomy.’
‘I think it a beautiful old house. It reminds of where I grew up in Devon. I do miss staircases.’
‘But your cottage is so quaint.’ He ladles soup into two bowls. ‘And much warmer than here.’
‘That’s true.’ I put my napkin on my lap. ‘Although it is lovely and warm in this room.’
‘I have the range going night and day. And the sunshine helps.’
I notice the table is only laid for two.
‘Is your wife not joining us?’
He pauses, the ladle suspended over the pot.
‘No, I’m afraid she is not feeling up to it. But possibly after luncheon she might be feeling strong enough to meet you.’
It is on the tip of my tongue to ask what ails his wife, but manners prevent me from doing so. I notice Phelim’s hand is shaking as he brings my bowl over and places it before me on the table. Maybe I have upset him.
‘So, did you find some useful material?’ he asks, unfolding his napkin.
‘Yes, I have. It has been most helpful,’ I reply enthusiastically.
‘Well, please do feel free to come back again and take more notes.’
I nod, smiling at him gratefully.
‘I hope you like pea soup. It is my favourite.’
He dips his spoon into the soup, and I watch him as he sips from the side of it, the way Father used to do.
‘Oh, yes, lovely.’
We eat in silence for a few moments. I watch Phelim and he seems so familiar, as if I am back home. I am incredibly warm, a heat rising from my belly. All I am doing is having lunch with a neighbour, and yet it feels as if I am doing something wrong. Phelim stops eating and looks up. We stare at each other for a long moment. I feel my heart beating faster, the colour rising in my cheeks. I tear my eyes away from his face and look back down at my soup.
‘So, you fought with Robert’s brother, James, in the GreatWar?’ It is the first thing that comes to mind.
‘Yes,’ he replies, dabbing his chin with his napkin.
I pause, my spoon hovering over my soup bowl, and look again at Phelim Sheriden. Here is a man, just a year older than Robert, and an experienced soldier. Why is he not fighting against the Nazis, like Robert?
‘I have had enough of war,’ he says suddenly, as if he reads my thoughts. ‘I don’t think I could kill, again,’ he adds quietly.
His words sound shocking, here in the sanctuary of his country house, looking out on the soft drumlins of Cavan, and the downy sky, where violence is a thunderstorm, and death a natural occurrence. But there is a war going on. I have to remind myself. I try to picture London in the middle of the Blitz, and our old flat in Hampstead. Is it in ruins?
And then there is Robert. Is he preparing to fly right now, leaving the English shoreline far behind and thrusting himself, exposed, into the middle of the German skies, looking down on tiny dolls’ cities and towns, and flashes of fire from his bombs, looking like splashes of bright paint – their destructi
on, their carnage, incomprehensible to his soul? Is he frightened of what he does? Or of what might happen to him if they get hit? Does he pray, holding onto the tiny gold cross I gave him for his wedding present, wrapping his lucky white silk scarf around his neck with a bravado that is contagious among all of his crew? When my husband is in his bomber plane doing his duty, does he think of me?
‘James D. and I were very young, unmarried and very stupid, when we joined up to fight.’
‘Robert never talks about his brother James.’ I blush at this personal admission, yet feel unable to stop myself from confiding in him. ‘I don’t like to ask him, although he did tell me it broke his mother’s heart when he was killed. Apparently she never recovered, and died just one year later.’
Phelim stops eating and looks at me pensively. ‘Could that be why he has chosen to fight now? To live up to the memory of his brother, as a hero?’
‘But both his parents are dead. To whom could he be proving himself?’
‘You, of course.’
‘No.’ I shake my head vehemently. ‘He knows I would rather he stayed home. I think he joined up because he believes in the Allies. He is passionately against the Nazis.’
Phelim clears away our soup plates and takes a joint of meat out of the oven.
‘The first time we went into action it was at the recapture of Gouzeaucourt in November 1917.’ He speaks without looking at me, cutting the meat and sliding it onto two plates. ‘I remember, just before we went in, dear old Father Browne from Cork gave us a blessing.’ He pauses, and shakes his head sorrowfully. I feel sorry for him.
‘Please, you don’t have to talk about the war.’
‘No, I would like to.’ Phelim brings two big plates of food over to the table. ‘Claudette can’t bear to hear me speak about that time. She was there, in France. It upsets her to talk about it. But sometimes I wish I could talk to someone about it. Do you mind listening?’
‘Of course not.’ I feel honoured that a man like Phelim Sheriden would wish to tell me about his past.
‘I remember I was on a horse, which was absolutely idiotic. But when I saw chaps being shot, I got off the horse. It was a pretty bloody battle, but at least our attack was successful and quick. There was a rumour that the zeal shown by the Irish Guards in the attack was because we knew the enemy held the supplies of the division, which had been evacuated.’
He chuckles softly, but his eyes look sad, their blue faded.
‘Indeed, when we got through, we found a couple of supply trains untouched, and a number of guns were recaptured, and most importantly the rum supply was largely intact. When this fact came to light, rum jar by rum jar was borne joyously though the dark streets. The weather was cold and bitter, and I remember James D. that night. At first we drank the rum to get warm. We were so cold in our bones. But then we got more and more intoxicated. A mixture of adrenaline from the battle and the rum. I don’t think either of us had ever been so drunk in our lives. If the enemy had rerouted, they would have met little resistance, for we were as helpless as babies from the drink.’
‘What happened to James?’ I asked hesitantly.
Phelim lets out a deep breath, and stops eating. ‘During a lull in the war in 1917 we both attended a training course in gun school, and then we returned to the front in April 1918. In August the advance from Saint-Léger to Ecourt took place. There were extremely heavy casualties – your brother-in-law was one of them – and I was seriously wounded early on in the battle, and that probably saved my life. I was invalided to England and never returned to the war.’
Suddenly the kitchen feels cold, as if someone has opened a door, and I shiver.
‘I apologize,’ says Phelim suddenly. ‘This is a rather gloomy conversation. Let us talk about something other than war.’
We slip into lighter chat easily, for talking with Phelim is like opening doors. As soon as one topic is exhausted, he leads me effortlessly into another. I find myself telling him about my childhood in Devon and the idyllic summers I spent by the sea when I was a girl. I tell him about what happened to Father. I even talk about Giovanni Calvesi and Mother. It is a topic I rarely discuss with Robert, feeling ashamed of her actions, as if it will make him think less of me. But talking with Phelim is easy, and I find myself gushing forth, as if I have been on a desert island for four weeks. We talk about my sister Minerva and art. I tell him about her dream to be an artist, and he tells me about Cubism and the life of the artist in France. It sounds so thrilling that I am envious of those lady artists. How free they must feel! Finally I bring up the subject of Claudette.
‘Did Claudette work as an artist’s model before she came to Ireland?’
‘No, it is I who introduced her to that. No, Claudette was a war orphan. I know very little about her family, apart from the fact that they were all killed during the Great War. It was all so tragic – Claudette’s mother, father and sister were killed. Every time I have tried to speak to Claudette about it she gets upset, and confused, telling me she can’t remember properly. It is a tragedy that Claudette has carried with her all her life. It is no wonder she is so ill.’
‘How did she come to be in Ireland?’
Phelim looks surprised. ‘Did Robert never tell you? It was down to James D. He rescued her – was her knight in shining armour, so to speak – and brought her back to Ireland in 1917.’
There is a hint of something in Phelim’s voice.
‘We all loved her. She is the kind of woman who inspires men to fall in love with her. But Claudette was only in love with one of us: James D. And, unluckily for her, the wrong man was killed.’
He holds my eyes steadily.
‘She couldn’t resist calling the baby after him, although I married Claudette so that people would think Danielle was mine. That is what friends do for one another.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘James D. The D stands for Daniel. It is a Fanning name, for their father was called Daniel as well. Did you not know that? I am sure, if you have a boy, Robert will want to call him Daniel.’
‘Oh.’ I am shaken by how little I know about my husband’s family. I remember my vision of Claudette in the woods, calling for Danny. Was it her lost love to whom she was appealing, rather than her daughter?
‘So you see, your family and mine are connected through Claudette’s daughter. She is Robert’s niece. Nobody knows of course, apart from Robert and I. Even Danielle never knew.’
He coughs and looks uncomfortable, getting up suddenly, his napkin dropping to the floor.
‘I must apologize, June. It is wrong for me to talk to you about such matters. I assumed Robert would have told you . . .’ He trails off, and walks towards the door. ‘If you wouldn’t mind waiting for a moment in the study, I will find out if Claudette is feeling up to seeing you.’
We walk back down the corridor. Phelim leaves me to go up the staircase, while I enter the study. The room is warmer now, and my books are still spread out on the floor. I pick them up one by one and return them to the shelves.
Butterflies dance inside my stomach, for I am not sure I want to meet Mrs Sheriden now. I need time to think about what Phelim has told me, and to figure out why Robert never spoke about his brother and Claudette. Was this why he did not want to visit the Sheridens? Surely he could not be angry with Phelim for marrying Claudette to protect her reputation, and to take care of his brother’s fiancée. To marry someone whom you knew did not love you seemed such a huge sacrifice. But there is something else that bothers me. My academic instinct tells me there is more to the story. Phelim had said, ‘We all loved her . . .’ Surely he should have said, ‘We were both in love with her’, if he was referring just to James D. and himself? Who were ‘we’?
Phelim comes back into the room. ‘I am afraid she is asleep. I wouldn’t like to disturb her, but maybe you can meet next time you call round. It will be soon, won’t it? Do you need to do more research?’ He looks hopeful.
‘Yes, if that’
s all right with you.’
‘Absolutely, June.’ He covers his mouth and coughs. ‘Would you like to see some of my paintings before you go?’
‘I would be honoured.’ I am reluctant to go home to my empty house.
We climb the stairs. The carpet is threadbare and looks dark grey, although Phelim tells me it was once evergreen. The house is completely silent, in the hushed way houses of the sick are. The only sound is the tick of the grandfather clock on the landing. We pass three doors, and I wonder behind which one is the bedridden Claudette, the woman who inspires men to fall in love with her. Phelim turns a corner, and I follow him to an emerald-green door. He opens it, and it leads to more stairs.
‘I am afraid my studio is at the top of the house. Can you manage?’
‘Yes, thank you.’
His studio is in the attic. It is small, but neat, not how I would expect an artist’s studio to look. An easel faces the door, with an unfinished canvas on it. The piece is similar to the small painting he showed me the first day we met, but this time the tones are blue and green, and linking into each other in interweaving half-moon curves.
‘I am softening up. It is slightly less geometric than my previous work.’
I notice a gramophone player in the corner of the room. ‘Oh, you have music!’
‘Yes, very important. I play music as I paint. It is very much a part of my work.’
I look at him, curious at what he says.
‘I paint in keys. Each colour is a key, so if you know a little bit about music, when you look at my art hopefully you will also hear it.’
‘What a beautiful idea.’ I look closer at his blue painting.
‘It is my way of reflecting the divine.’
As my eyes get lost in the contours of his work I can suddenly imagine its sound, full of longing, mirroring the surge of loneliness that washes through me.
‘Oh, it’s so sad,’ I burst out, unable to stop myself from saying it.
Phelim puts his hand on my shoulder.
‘Yes,’ he whispers almost in my ear. I can feel the warmth of him standing behind me, shielding my back, his breath on my neck. I have an urge to step back and let him wrap his arms about me. Just one step – that is all it would take.
The Adulteress Page 20