With a smile of total ecstasy, she closed her eyes, let go – allowed mousse and soufflé, pawpaw and pavlova to spurt and spatter out of her, cascading through the ruffles of her flimsy silken knickers, gushing through her flimsy dress, seeping on to Mummy’s lap, soiling Mummy’s clothes. But Mummy didn’t leap up in disgust, or yell those hateful, hurting words that had thundered through her childhood: ‘revolting’, ‘foul’, ‘repulsive’, ‘dirty’, ‘dirty’.
Only at that very moment did she understand how exquisite ‘dirty’ was. For fifty-three rule-ridden years, she had been holding on, holding back, stoppered, throttled and bunged up, as she battened down her mind and body in an effort to stay ‘clean’. All the pleasures barred to her in those caged and muzzled years were flooding back in torrents as she continued letting go, not just of cake and coulis; sorbet, sole and saffron sauce, but of restrictions and economies, prudery, rigidity, prohibitions, subjugation, penny-pinching, self-denial. Yet there was no punishment, no retribution. Her father hadn’t gone storming out in fury, and – miracle of miracles – her mother simply sat and smiled, murmuring, ‘Margaret, little Margaret, my own precious, darling pet.’
Paradise Lost
‘Excuse me, dear, for bothering you, but I wondered if you were going to the Hackney Empire?’
Harriet looked up in surprise. The old woman sitting opposite looked ordinary enough, yet did she have physic powers?
‘I mean, this is the train to Hackney, and I couldn’t help but notice that you’re reading Paradise Lost.’
Hardly ‘reading’, Harriet thought, reluctantly closing the book. All she’d done so far was scan the first page of the introduction. But the bony female was now leaning forward eagerly, obviously keen to engage in conversation.
‘Don’t you think it’s marvellous that they’re doing it at all? In the normal way, they put on rather low-grade stuff – musicals and comic shows and suchlike.’
‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know. This is the first time I’ve ever been there.’
‘Well, it’s lucky that we’ve met then, because I can show you the way to the theatre. Actually, it’s not far from the station, but if you don’t know where you’re going, it’s easy to get lost.’
Harriet sat in silence. The way she felt today she didn’t want the company of even her closest friends, let alone a stranger tagging on.
‘My name’s Avril,’ the woman continued, reaching out a scrawny hand.
‘I’m Harriet.’
‘What a lovely name! My father was called Harry and he was a perfect gentleman. I was his favourite, to tell the truth. He never had time for my brother. But then people always say there’s this special bond between fathers and daughters.’
A subject Harriet had no wish to explore. Dominic’s two daughters had been the decisive factor in ending the relationship; their charm acting like a magnet and yanking him back home.
‘And it was certainly true in my case. As far as Papa was concerned, I couldn’t do a single thing wrong.’
And nor could Kim and Katie, as far as Dominic was concerned. His ten-year-old twins (blue-eyed, blonde-haired and precocious) combined the wisdom of Solomon with the beauty of Venus – in his eyes, anyway.
Avril had changed tack, thank God, and was now eyeing the tattered copy of Paradise Lost. ‘I see you’re reading the Penguin edition. I don’t rate it quite as highly as the Longman’s. The notes are rather sketchy, don’t you think?’
‘Oh, this is just the one we used at school. I kept all my set texts, even after I’d left. I suppose I hoped I’d read them again, but somehow I never got around to it. We only did Book One, in fact, and I can’t remember much of it at all, so when I heard they were putting it on stage …’ It was the title that had drawn her, as much as anything else. Having lost her own paradise, she could relate to fallen angels, fallen woman, banishment from Eden. Besides, she couldn’t bear being stuck indoors on another lonely Saturday, pining over Dominic.
‘You do realize it’s an adaptation, don’t you?’ Avril said, still glancing at the book. ‘As far as I remember, there are some ten thousand lines in the original poem, so they couldn’t possibly include all that in just a couple of hours. I only hope they haven’t truncated it too much. These modern directors are a law unto themselves. Ah, here we are – Hackney Central. Mind how you get out, dear. I missed my footing at Aldgate last week and almost took a tumble. And of course this rain makes things more treacherous.’
Having alighted with some difficulty, the woman spent several moments struggling with her umbrella, a tatty thing with two broken spokes, which looked as ancient as she did. Holding it lopsidedly above her, she glanced to left and right. ‘This area’s changed enormously, you know. In my young days, you’d see children walking barefoot in the street.’
‘Look, I’m sorry, Avril,’ Harriet said, not wishing to be rude, yet all too aware of the time. ‘But it’s already ten past two and I haven’t got a ticket, so I ought to get my skates on.’
‘You haven’t got a ticket? Good gracious me! Supposing it’s sold out?’
Unlikely, she thought. John Milton was hardly top of the pops, especially here in Hackney.
‘Yes, you go on ahead, dear. I’ll only hold you up. What you do is walk towards the Town Hall, then turn right into Mare Street. Don’t cross the road. It’s the same side as the station.’
‘Thanks,’ said Harriet, jogging briskly down the platform to the exit.
By the time she reached the Empire, she was drenched – although at least tickets weren’t a problem. Not a single person was waiting at the box office and, once she entered the huge, ornate auditorium, it looked less than a quarter full. She pitied the poor actors, having to play to a near-empty house, then repeat the performance this evening, maybe again to a tiny audience.
She settled herself in a row towards the rear of the stalls, unoccupied apart from her. Avril was nowhere to be seen – perhaps sitting in the circle or the gods. There was no time to glance at the programme or at her copy of the text, since the house lights were already dimming and some music starting up. The stage looked bare and stark, with no scenery at all and no props except a small wooden chair. And when an actor emerged from the door at the back, he was dressed in tatty jeans and a grey hooded anorak, like some delinquent from a housing estate. She hadn’t expected a modern-dress production, but presumably it cost much less and, judging by the tone of things so far, the company seemed severely short of funds.
The actor produced an apple, seemingly from nowhere, and began tossing it around, as if he were a juggler. Next he broke into a dance, his movements becoming faster and more frenzied, until he suddenly stopped dead. After a few minutes’ edgy silence, he stepped forward and began to speak, and only at that moment did a frisson of excitement shudder through her body at the sound of his rich, resonant voice.
Sing, heavenly Muse!
Of Man’s first disobedience, and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree, whose mortal taste
Brought death into our world and all our woe …
She recognized the words from school, although when Miss Hethrington recited them in her strangulated whimper, they had sounded different entirely. The actor’s perfect modulation was in total contrast to his shabby, casual garb, but thrilling none the less. Dominic had a voice like that – velvet steeped in brandy – a voice that made the simplest phrase sound riveting, seductive.
‘Concentrate!’ she reproved herself. ‘You’ve already missed a chunk.’
Concentration wasn’t easy in her present state of mind, although certain words and phrases seemed to pierce her with an anguished personal charge.
No light, but rather darkness visible,
Where peace can never dwell, hope never come …
Yes, peace and hope were strangers to her now, and there was a continual sense of choking darkness – even in the daytime, even in mid-August. The stage, too, was murky-dark, although all at once a black and scarlet Lake of Fire
began flickering across it, engineered by light effects. A figure rose from the lake, clad in a dapper thirties suit in a shade of blatant purple that contrasted with his bottle-blonded curls. Only when he spoke did she realize it was Satan. A blond Satan in a three-piece suit! Shouldn’t he be dressed in black, with a scaly tail and horns?
‘Oh, how fallen,’ he lamented, in a sonorous yet desolate voice. ‘How changed …’
The two words smote her heart. She, too, was changed and fallen. Instead of the bewitching days with Dominic, she now spent her time in tears; lying awake each and every night, aching to feel his warmth beside her. Continually she wondered what he was doing – now, for instance, at quarter to three on a Saturday afternoon. Well, she knew the answer to that: he’d be with his wife and daughters, of course, out together as a family. It was impossible to win against a family, or break marriage vows forged from steel. She had succeeded for a few forbidden months, until Dominic’s increasing sense of guilt had dragged him back to home and fatherhood.
‘Stop it!’ she muttered under her breath. ‘You’re here to watch the play.’
A third actor was speaking now, also dressed in a natty suit – another devil, she gathered from his words.
Too well I see and rue the dire event,
That with sad overthrow and foul defeat
Hath lost us Heaven …
It had been heaven with Dominic. Never before had she met a man with his unusual mix of gifts: seriousness and wit, amazing sensitivity combined with scorching lust. Suddenly she realized she was crying – tears streaming down her face, unchecked. Through a blur and haze, she watched the fallen angels thronging the dark wastes of Hell. How could she not sympathize when she was locked in her own private hell?
At the interval, she escaped into the street outside, anxious to avoid Avril or indeed anyone who might comment on her red eyes and tear-stained face. Wandering up the road, she turned off into a quiet alleyway and stood leaning against a crumbling wall, seeking shelter from the persistent rain. If only Dominic were here, to share the play with her. Creatures like angels and devils, which to her seemed mere delusions – imaginary, fictitious beings – were for him completely real; indeed, part of his world view. Sinner he might be, but he had been brought up as a Catholic to believe in the most extraordinary things, like transubstantiation, resurrection from the dead, Jesus ascending bodily into heaven. Yet that strange and shining faith was part of his attraction, especially to an agnostic like herself. She longed to inhabit his transcendent world, a world in thrall to unseen powers, and pulsing with deep mystery. Even the strong line he took on abortion and euthanasia roused her admiration, despite the fact she didn’t share his views. He was never afraid to speak his mind; never cared if he were mocked for believing every person had a soul. She didn’t really understand the concept of a soul, but if Dominic had one, then she loved it as much as she loved his mind, his body and his cock.
Keeping her eye on the time, she waited till the very last moment to return to the theatre and slip into her seat, in case Avril was around. The stage was now draped with a peculiar green carpet, with brilliant-coloured flowers and fruits springing lushly out of it. And Adam and Eve were lying on that carpet, both unashamedly naked. She stared in fascination at Adam’s penis. Was it semi-erect, or just exceptionally large? Eve’s pubic hair also drew her eye: the thickest, darkest, springiest bush imaginable. The pair were utterly at ease – not a trace of embarrassment about their unclothed state. She had tried to be an Eve, when first alone with Dominic, desperate to overcome his scruples and her own doubts about her chances of attracting him. She had played the part of a brazen little sexpot, stripping off her clothes and pretending to a confidence she was far from really feeling.
‘No,’ he’d kept repeating, clearly struggling with his conscience. ‘We mustn’t, Harriet. You know I’m married.’
‘Sssh,’ she’d whispered, pressing her naked body right against his formal navy suit, so he could feel the fullness of her breasts; the pressure of her pubic bone thrust against his groin.
He continued to resist. His wife, she guessed, was prudish – the sort who insisted on undressing in the dark, and hated making love outside. So, the following week, she had lured him to the common, coaxed him to the ground, pushed her skirt up, let her hand stray teasingly down towards his zip.
‘We can’t! It’s wrong, my sweet. In fact, as a Catholic, it’s a very serious sin for me.’
It took another month – and a long drive to the coast, where they found their own secluded stretch of beach; the waves pounding, crashing, foaming, all around them. After this fall from grace, the former fervent Catholic seemed to lose all trace of conscience and want only to repeat the ‘serious sin’. Once, they even made love in his own garden, the week his wife and daughters were away, although at first he objected vehemently.
She shut her eyes, hearing those objections gradually change to cries of pleasure. That day, he’d become a pagan out and out, tickling her nipples with long, soft, feathery grasses, scattering her with petals, passing strawberries from his mouth to hers.
Besides the Eastern gate of Paradise,
Betwixt two rocky pillars, Gabriel sat …
She jumped at a new voice on stage, opening her eyes to see two magnificent angels, dressed in shimmering golden robes and with huge white-feathered wings. Their costumes were so superior to the rest, they had clearly been designed to give these heavenly beings in-built power and majesty, and visibly distinguish them from others in the cast. She continued gazing at the pair, wondering if angels were male or female or something in between. Their voices were deep baritones, their faces strangely androgynous, but their rippling, waist-length, golden locks lent them a distinctly feminine air. It was their wings, however, that intrigued her most of all; wings ethereal and solid both at once, rearing up from their shoulders to form resplendent pinions, poised for flight. If only she and Dominic had wings, so they could soar away together, lift off to a different realm – a realm devoid of obligations, daughters – a shining, selfish Heaven where they could transport themselves eternally.
‘Ah, there you are!’ Avril enthused, bustling over to Harriet as she tried to slip unnoticed from the theatre. ‘I searched for you at the interval, but I couldn’t see you anywhere. But what a stroke of luck to bump into you again. I presume you’re going to the station?’
Harriet nodded, annoyed at being forced to walk at the woman’s snail-like pace.
‘Well, did you enjoy the play or not, dear?’
Harriet searched for words. ‘Enjoy’ was too feeble a one for the elation it had roused in her – elation at the brilliant acting and awe-inspiring verse – but elation doused with deep despair. Eve had been banished and left Paradise in tears, but she’d still had Adam with her, to share her future pain. How different from her own fate: ejected and excluded from even the smallest scrap of Dominic’s life.
‘I must admit I had my reservations. And the nudity was shocking! In my opinion, there should have been a warning. I mean, full frontal nudity is offensive to a lot of people, including religious folk. Two Muslims sitting next to me actually walked out in protest.’
‘Really?’ If Avril objected to simple nakedness, how censorious she would be about a predatory girl like her trying deliberately to wreck a marriage; putting her own base desires above the interests of two ten-year-olds. Any decent person would condemn such callousness. She’d been seriously at fault – there was no escaping the fact – yet only the play had made her see it.
‘But I did think it was ingenious when the angel handed Adam and Eve those two suitcases of clothes and they put on modern business suits – shirt and tie for Adam, blouse and skirt for Eve. That made it very relevant to society today, reminding us we can still do wrong, and must take the consequences.’
‘Indeed.’
‘You’re very quiet, dear,’ Avril observed. ‘Are you feeling all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ she muttered tonelessly. She
was a shameless, scheming little bitch, who deserved everything she’d got.
She sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her stomach as a wave of nausea shuddered through her body. Her own stupid fault, of course, for using whisky as a sleeping-draught. Normally she never touched the stuff. Scotch was Dominic’s tipple. It hadn’t even worked. Here she was at 2 a.m., still churningly awake, and with a splitting headache on top of everything else.
She stumbled to the bathroom, swallowed a couple of aspirin, took a gulp of Listerine to remove the foul taste in her mouth, then groped her way back to bed. She knew she wouldn’t sleep, wrestling as she was with guilt, as well as grief and loss. Her sense of shame had doubled after reading more of Paradise Lost, on the long journey home from Hackney. She had gathered from Book IV (which they’d never done at school) that Milton came down really hard on what he termed ‘adulterous lust’, comparing it with married love, which he saw as ‘pure’ and ‘blessed’, and clearly the only type of sex he would ever countenance. At first, she had fumed with indignation. Why should the skewed ideas of a seventeenth-century prig have any credence now? Yet when she closed the book, his words continued to echo in her mind, filling the small flat with reproaches, accusations. She had indeed dragged Dominic from a sacred marriage-bed, to engage in casual couplings in hotel rooms and parks. And, even now, she couldn’t accept his return to Faith and family, but kept hoping he’d relent. If she had any sense of decency, she would honour the fact that, as a highly moral man, he had to follow what he saw as right, and not tempt him from that path again.
‘It’s over,’ she said out loud, staring into the darkness. ‘I give him up. For ever. He belongs at home. With his family.’
The Biggest Female in the World and other stories Page 23