‘I wanted to hear the music better,’ she whispered to me, as I helped her up into the bed and pulled the linen sheets up to her chin.
‘Shall I leave the door open?’ I asked, and she nodded her assent, closing her eyes as we let Debussy wash into the room. I sat on the end of the bed, clasping my hands, feeling that it would be rude just to leave without saying anything else, yet not wanting to talk over the music. I did not look at her, for her eyes were shut, and I felt it was invasive to do so. It was shocking how sick she looked. It frightened me.
Finally the music stopped, and the piano was silent. Claudette sighed and opened her eyes. ‘Thank you,’ she said slowly. ‘You are very sweet.’ She paused, her breath rasping between each word. ‘I am so very happy for Robert that he has found you, at last.’
I felt, as she said these words, as if she had some kind of knowledge of my husband, a past ownership. I remembered Phelim’s words at lunch one day – ‘We all loved her’ – and what Claudette had said to me in the orchard. Robert had planted all those trees for her. I wanted to ask her, more than anything, whether my husband had loved her once, but it seemed cruel to question her when she was so ill, and of course terribly impolite. Yet I had to know.
‘The apples are all gone,’ I said. ‘It is getting quite cold.’
‘Yes,’ she said looking out of the window, ‘I smell it.’
I knew I should leave, but I sensed she was about to say more. There was a bowl of plums on her bedside stand. She picked one up and weakly offered it to me.
I shook my head. ‘No, thank you.’
‘Please,’ she insisted. ‘I cannot eat them any more.’
I took it to placate her and bit into it, feeling the purple juice spurt inside my mouth. It was slightly bitter, but I continued eating it, feeling that it was giving the dying Claudette pleasure to watch another person eat one of her sacred plums.
‘Soon,’ she sighed, her eyes cast towards the ceiling, ‘I shall see James D. again. Soon.’
I said nothing, unable to think of a suitable reply. She glanced over at me.
‘You are the same age as Danielle, but I think you look a lot younger.’ She brushed my cheek with her cold hand. ‘Those freckles, they are so very fetching.’
I blushed.
‘I wish Danielle were here.’ Her voice cracked. ‘Phelim is so good. He promises he will find her. He promises war will not get her as it did James D.’
‘Her father . . .’ I whispered, unable to stop myself saying it.
Claudette’s eyes widened, and she said, ‘Oh no, James D. is not Danielle’s father.’
‘But Phelim told me—’
She interrupted, speaking painfully and slowly, ‘Can I confide in you? You are, after all, Robert’s wife.’ She paused, as if thinking to herself. ‘Did he not tell you?’
I shook my head, my heart pounding.
She hesitated. ‘Non, I should not tell you, non, non, non. I do not want to come between a husband and his wife – secours, merde, secours, secours. It is up to him.’ The length of this sentence seemed to have exhausted her and she lay back against the pillows, half-closing her eyes.
‘Phelim told me he married you because you were having James D.’s child. He did it for his friend, and for your reputation,’ I persisted quite impertinently, but I could not let her go now. She had to tell me everything.
‘Yes, yes,’ she said, looking at me again, with her luminous grey eyes. ‘Dear Phelim, such a good man, like Robert, too. He wanted to marry me as well. He told you this?’
I nodded, although I felt my cheeks burning, the shock of this information causing my heart to race.
‘Such good men, and I had to choose one of them. You see, how hard it was for me? I could not tell Phelim the truth, but Robert knows, he does. I believe he must hate me now.’
‘I don’t understand . . .’
But Claudette appeared exhausted from her conversation with me and waved me away with her hand. ‘I am sorry, later we will talk . . .’ Her voice trailed off, and I watched her drift towards sleep. ‘James D. and I . . . comme les cousins . . . so innocent . . . I was keeping myself pure for him.’
I watched her sleep, my body shaking and my heart pounding. I hated her. She lay in front of me, and even so close to death I could see the exquisite creature this woman was, delicate and fine, something I will never be. I should feel compassion for her. She must be in terrible pain, and the torment of not knowing where her child is. All these things should have filled me with empathy. But I couldn’t feel them, for all I was thinking was that Claudette was a seductress like Mother. She had a part of my husband, and I wanted it back. As I sat with my back to the window, the birds twittering behind me, and looked out of Claudette Sheriden’s bedroom door, across the landing to the dusty banisters and cracked ceiling, a realization suddenly dawned on me. Could it be that Danielle was Robert’s child?
It is possible isn’t it? Min would tell me to buck up, and stop being such an idiot to think such things. ‘Robert is mad about you,’ she always told me. But why then did he leave me all on my own in Cavan? Was he running away?
If only the war were over and Robert was safely home. Everything would be back to normal. We could continue to ignore Claudette Sheriden. But I know that’s not true, because porcelain Juno is slipping through my hands, and I cannot even try to catch her as she smashes onto the floor.
NICHOLAS
‘You have a dog,’ Charlie says as she sits down by the range in the kitchen. Hopper hops up to her and she strokes his ears.
‘He was abandoned. I found him on the road, nearly dead.’
‘I always wanted a dog.’
‘I know.’
Nicholas had heard it many times. How much Charlie had wanted a dog when she was a little girl, but her mother wouldn’t allow it.
He makes coffee for them and they sit on either side of the range. Charlie looks at the boxes of cider.
‘What’s all this?’
‘It’s a little business venture. I made cider from the apples in the orchard.’
‘That’s a great idea.’
Nicholas gets up and takes a bottle from one of the boxes. ‘Here, take a bottle. Try it.’
He hands it to her awkwardly and she takes it, resting it in her lap. ‘Thanks. Yeah, sure, I’ll try it.’
Nicholas looks at Charlie. She is still beautiful to him.
‘The house is lovely, Nick,’ she says, and he knows she means it.
‘Do you want to see around it?’
He takes her through the downstairs first, from the kitchen down the little hall into the back room again, then the spare room and the bedroom.
‘It’s small, but there’s a great attic. You could do so much with it.’
They walk up the tiny little wooden staircase. She is in front of him, and he is conscious of her warm body as he leans over and pushes the trap door open. She feels different, familiar and yet new.
Charlie pokes her head through the trap door. She turns around and smiles at him. ‘This is fantastic.’
‘It used to be thatch, but the previous owners put on the slate roof and put in dormer windows, so you’ve a great view.’
They climb in and Charlie walks over to the window and looks out of it. ‘So do you own all this land?’
He goes over and stands next to her. ‘No, not all of it. The woods belong to the people who live in that house. All those fields are owned by a local farmer. But I own the yard, the field in front and the orchard.’
‘What happened to all the trees?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Charlie looks at him, and he knows she knows he doesn’t want to talk about it. She steps back into the attic and spins on the floorboards, sunlight sprinkles her skin and hair. He wonders for a moment: has he conjured her from his imagination, or is she real? She looks like a celestial vision.
‘The light is great in here. This would make a fantastic studio.’ She stops spinning. ‘For s
mall works. It’s so quiet here. You’d have to find a space outside for larger pieces.’
‘I have sheds I can convert.’
They stare at each other. For a moment there is so much between them – all the years of love, the months of hurt. The air is full and brimming with the past and with what might be to come. Charlie is standing by the window again. She suddenly sees something and points. ‘Who’s that?’
Nicholas looks down at the yard. Geraldine’s white Ford is parked outside. He didn’t even hear her arrive, and Hopper didn’t bark. She is getting out of the car, her red hair loose like a snake down her back. Grainne is sitting in the back of the car, reading a book.
‘Oh, that’s a friend.’ Nicholas can feel himself blushing as Charlie scrutinizes him. ‘I’d better go down. You stay here . . .’ he pauses, ‘if you like.’
Nick has never seen Geraldine so excited. Her eyes are sparkling, her cheeks blooming, and she sounds as if she has just run all the way to his house, she is so breathless.
‘Oh, great . . . I thought I might have missed you,’ she gushes. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be gone by now? Here, let me help you.’
She picks up a box of the cider and starts towards the kitchen door.
‘Is your car open?’ she asks over her shoulder.
‘Yes,’ says Nicholas, gathering up a box.
Charlie has parked her car down the side of the house, so it isn’t visible from the yard. Geraldine rests the box of cider on the roof of his car and flings open the boot, placing the box inside. She turns to face him, grinning, and Nicholas is conscious of the possibility that Charlie is watching them from the attic.
‘I have come to a very important decision,’ Geraldine announces.
Nicholas shrinks back. He doesn’t know what to say. All he knows is that he doesn’t want Charlie to see him and Geraldine together.
‘Are you all right?’ Geraldine asks him.
Nick carefully puts his box of cider in the boot. ‘Yes, it’s just—’
Geraldine interrupts. ‘Oh, Nick, I am so excited. And it’s all down to you. It’s you I have to thank.’
Before he can pull back, she has flung her arms around him and hugs him.
‘Thank you. Thank you.’ She pulls back and stands smiling at him. ‘For the first time in years I feel so alive. Now Ray has moved out, I realize I had made myself a prisoner. I didn’t have to stay. Life is too short to be trapped in an unhappy marriage.’
‘Maybe my apple trees were worth the sacrifice then,’ Nicholas says softly.
‘It’s terrible, I know, but it highlighted who I had married. After that, I had no choice but to ask him to leave. But it doesn’t stop there, Nick, because today I have come to realize something. And I am so very, very happy!’
Again she bounds forward and hugs him, and Nicholas can feel the elation off her, and he can’t help but hug Geraldine back. Nicholas wants Geraldine to be happy.
They separate again and she glances at her watch. ‘You’d better hurry up. You’re going to miss the market.’
They go back towards the house to collect more boxes.
‘And so this is what I have decided . . .’ Geraldine is saying as they walk through door. ‘Oh, hello.’ She stops dead.
Charlie is standing by the sink, empty cup in hand. She puts it in the sink and stretches out her hand in greeting. ‘Hello, I’m Charlotte.’ She pauses. ‘Nicholas’s wife.’
Geraldine turns crimson. ‘Hello . . . pleased to meet you,’ she stutters.
Nicholas cannot bear to look at Geraldine’s face, but he can sense her disappointment and it makes him feel awful.
‘I’m Geraldine. One of Nick’s piano pupils . . .’
‘Is he a good teacher?’ Charlie asks.
‘Very.’
Geraldine looks at Nicholas. He raises his eyes to meet her face. Her expression is a question. He stands between the two women and knows in his heart that he must make a choice.
JUNE
We huddle outside the church. It is bitterly cold, the first fierce day of winter. I push my gloved hands deeper into my pockets and watch the door of Phelim’s house. A few people talk in hushed whispers, but most are silent. They have little to say about Claudette, for I would guess that we are all here out of duty, rather than friendship. Claudette waits for us in the church. Her shell is hidden in the casket, her spirit hovering around us. Her longing is palpable. It bites me like the tiny hailstones that begin to pelt out of the sky and force us into the church, a building suddenly full of strangers to mourn her passing. Those who should be here – her daughter Danielle, the rest of her family in France, and her lost love James D. – are painfully absent. Would she wish that Robert were here too?
We shuffle into the pews. I sit between Oonagh and Teresa. Father O’Regan waits patiently at the pulpit, and we listen to the sudden squall of hail batter the windows. The candles flicker as Phelim finally arrives. Instead of letting in more light as he opens the door, it feels as if darkness shadows him as he walks up to the top of the church. I am afraid to look at him, but cannot stop myself from glancing up. He walks past me, but I do not think he sees me. He looks taller, and paler than usual. His narrow face is drained of colour, shaded by sleepless nights, aged by witnessing his wife’s journey out of this life. Had she slipped away peacefully, or was she dragged each step of the way, desperate to see her only child just one more time?
I feel suddenly choked, and tears start to flood down my cheeks. Oonagh looks over at me. I can see the surprise in her eyes, but she takes my hand and squeezes it. I cannot bear to think of Claudette, and her slow, desperate end. When Father died I could not cry. During the whole funeral I sat tearless in the front pew. Yet I can cry for Claudette Sheriden. I think of Mrs Sanderson and what happened to her, and suddenly I feel punched in the stomach. My knees buckle, forcing me to sit down on the bench and search for a handkerchief in my bag. I miss my sister. And yet it is Mummy I want now. I want the caress of the woman we never got to know. I want her safe arms holding me, telling me everything will be fine. But Mummy has never been able to do this, even when we were tiny tots. I grieve for something I have never known.
It is time to go to the graveyard. Phelim walks the length of the church, Claudette’s coffin following, carried by six local men. We tilt our faces in sympathy towards Phelim, but he looks straight ahead. We follow, milling around outside the church, while Claudette’s coffin is secured in the back of a cart. A bay cob puffs into the freezing air and we shiver, shifting our cold feet on the wet ground. The hailstorm is over, but small white pellets of hail can still be seen littered in the flowerbeds and along the path. The slate roof of Phelim’s house sparkles across the street. It is nearly the same colour as the sky.
Everyone is going up to Phelim and offering their condolences. I watch him smoking a cigarette, dragging comfort out of it, his gloveless hands shaking, his mane of hair as golden as an angel’s, politely nodding as his neighbours talk to him.
‘Have you spoken to him?’ Oonagh asks me.
‘No, do you think I should?’
‘Of course.’ Oonagh gives me a little push towards Phelim.
I weave through the crowd. Most of the people I do not recognize and assume are distant Sheriden relatives. I come up behind Phelim and tap him gently on the shoulder. He turns and I take his hands, squeezing them in mine.
‘Thank you for coming,’ he says, his teeth chattering.
‘But of course I wanted to be here.’
‘You never did get to meet her, did you?’
I hesitate, for now is not the time to tell him about Claudette’s visit to the orchard, or mine to her bedroom. I wonder if I will ever tell him.
He offers me a cigarette and takes one for himself, lighting them both with difficulty in the cold wind. He puffs for a minute. ‘I don’t know what’s taking so long . . .’
‘I think everyone is waiting for you.’
He nods. ‘Yes, of course.’
I
am so close to him that I can see his nose is dripping, and I long to pass him a clean handkerchief. It is a strangely intimate urge. I am still holding his hand, and I put my fingers through his.
‘Would you like me to walk with you to the graveyard?’
He looks surprised, and for the first time I see a hint of the man I met a few weeks ago, a warmth in his eyes and the glimmer of a smile. ‘That is kind of you, June, very kind. But Claudette wanted it just to be family at the burial.’ He bends down and whispers in my ear, ‘She wanted a picture of James D. to be placed on her coffin and buried with her.’
I look at him, astonished, feeling a stab of hurt for him in my heart. ‘Oh, Phelim!’ I wish I could do something to help him feel better.
But I know nothing will. In fact the best thing he can do is hold his grief in both hands. Let him feel the shape of it, its hidden contours of secrets and regrets, its moments of words and looks, which are locked in time now as permanent as the headstone on the grave.
Phelim looks about him, and gently pulls his hand away. ‘I wish you could come with me,’ he says softly, and then walks quickly over to the hearse, along with a straggle of relatives.
I step back and stand with Oonagh and her sister on the side of the road, watching the small group of relatives, led by Father O’Regan in a black cape, walk into the chill wind. Hats are held on by hands, coats are blown open, the heads of some of the flowers shoot up into the sky, and the priest’s skirts billow like a black balloon as the procession goes up the town and out again, down the hill into the cemetery.
Oonagh takesTeresa’s hand and the two sisters walk ahead of me out of the village and along the road home. I dally behind them, wanting so urgently to be with Phelim and to comfort him. These emotions confuse me, and I wish I had a sister walking next to me, in whom I could confide. Would Min give me the right advice?
The Adulteress Page 26