Sun in Splendour

by JH Fletcher

  I shall come.

  For the moment, it was enough.

  She turned and began to retrace her steps down the eastern slope of the ridge. She did not go alone. Her new-found sense of identification and commitment went with her. She had bound herself ceremoniously to this land and here, regardless of her origins, would be her destiny and fulfilment.

  Her mother’s rejection had a further consequence. Marie sought out Aline, whom she had feared lost, and found her again. Perhaps not quite — the business of Atlas Pentecost had created fault lines in their relationship that would never completely close — but they became closer than Marie would have believed possible.

  The painting she had done of Aline and her daughter might have been the catalyst. That portrait now occupied pride of place in the Widdecombe drawing room, placed upon an end wall so that the light fell correctly upon it, yet Marie suspected that it was not the portrait itself, but the painting of it that had made the difference between them.

  It had created problems, too. One day she came upon her sister staring up at it. Aline had not sensed her presence and, for several minutes, she was able to watch her unobserved. Aline’s expression was desolate, as though she were seeing, not the painting, but the path from which she had strayed and to which it was no longer possible for her to return.

  Aline turned and became aware of Marie’s presence. Her manner changed at once. She became cheerful, with no hint of regret for anything that had happened, or not happened, in her well-upholstered life. Yet they had been close, once, and Marie was convinced that Aline’s brittle cheerfulness was no more than a veil to hide her real feelings not only from Marie, but from herself.

  Later, she spoke of it. ‘Have you never thought of going back to painting?’

  They were alone in the drawing room yet, at the question, Aline’s eyes jerked uneasily towards the plush corners of the room, as though afraid that they might overhear them. Even, perhaps, carry tales.

  ‘There is so little time.’

  This, in a house full of servants.

  ‘You’ve done nothing at all?’

  ‘A few sketches.’ Aline smiled dismissively, as though they, and art, could be of no account in the well-fed house. Yet there upon the wall hung Marie’s painting and Marie remained convinced that it was not there only because it was a family portrait. ‘Show them to me.’

  Impossible. They were nothing, an embarrassment …

  ‘Show me.’

  Aline had put them away. She did not know where they were. They —

  ‘Show me.’

  ‘Well …’ And went to look.

  A portfolio of drawings, pencil for the most part, some charcoal, a couple of colour wash. Marie studied them while Aline waited and looked, most carefully, at nothing.

  They were not what Marie had expected. In the old days, Aline’s paintings had been exquisitely, almost painfully, meticulous, as though her brush were responding to an invisible wire that had drawn her creative instincts into a tight and well-ordered knot. Now all that was gone. The lines flowed, a flood of fresh ideas had somehow loosened the restricting knot. A horse, trotting. A sailing boat, scudding before a boisterous wind. Everywhere movement and life.

  Marie stared at them, and at Aline, with new eyes.

  ‘They’re wonderful.’

  Aline laughed, embarrassed and, yes, even fearful. ‘Hardly —’

  ‘They are.’

  ‘You sound surprised.’ Again the embarrassed laugh, behind which Aline failed to conceal herself.

  ‘I am. They are so different …’

  Something — marriage, perhaps, or motherhood — had loosened her constraints. That would be the conventional judgement, but Marie did not believe it, nor that Aline had found fulfilment in her wealth; truth lay deeper, in what Marie feared might be darkness.

  ‘You’ve changed your style. Why?’

  A shrug, Aline reluctant to discuss reasons with which it might be safer to be unfamiliar. ‘I don’t know why. It’s not important.’

  ‘It is very important.’

  ‘No!’ Indignation, as unexpected as a blow. ‘It’s not important at all.’ She stood. ‘Let me put them away.’

  Let me hide them, from your eyes and mine. From your heart and mine.

  ‘Hang on a minute.’ Marie resisted Aline’s efforts to reclaim the portfolio, turning the pages once again as she remembered what Martha had told her once.

  Do you think Aline will never regret what she has done?

  Yes, she thought. That was it. Before, Aline had wanted too much, and the wanting had tightened her hand and ideas. She had not been strong enough to break through, to dare. Now she had discovered that wanting was insufficient, that it was too late and that she would never find her way back again.

  Her new, flowing style was a sign, not of freedom, but despair. Because, as Aline herself had said, it was no longer important what she did. Yet it would always be.

  It was terrible, terrible. She looked at her sister, who coloured, and returned her expression defiantly, in silence. She saw that Aline knew very well what price she had paid to be where she was, with her house and wealth and husband and child. Knew, too, that Marie also saw it.

  Marie thought, She will never forgive me for letting her see that I know what she has lost. Despair closed its fist upon her. She had found her mother again, and lost her. Was the same thing to happen with her sister?

  She said, ‘What are you going to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  Aline’s defiance had spilled from her eyes into her voice, but Marie was patient now, understanding how important this conversation was. ‘About your painting.’

  ‘I can do nothing. I told you. There is no time.’

  ‘So how will you manage?’

  ‘What is there to manage?’ A laugh with jagged claws in the silent room. ‘I told you: it’s not important.’

  Marie remembered Aline’s excitement when they had been promised lessons, first with Miss Dorkin, then with Atlas, who had not yet become a sexual object. ‘I remember when it was very important. To you as well as me.’

  Again the painful laugh. ‘Not for a long time now.’

  ‘So why this?’ And gestured at the portfolio of Aline’s drawings.

  ‘To amuse myself.’ Aline’s defiance flared and gulped, like a dying flame. ‘It means nothing. Nothing at all.’

  I should have said nothing, Marie told herself again. But who can be quiet in the face of sacrilege?

  6

  Marie visited Aline, with news.

  Eyes exuberant, hands clutching the air as words spilled from her. ‘The Society of Artists has accepted two of my paintings for its first exhibition.’

  The Society of Artists had recently been formed by Tom Roberts, rebelling against the Art Society’s increasing conservatism.

  ‘You’re really getting somewhere,’ Aline said.

  ‘About time.’ Marie laughed again as she said it, the sound like bubbles of joy breaking in the decorous room. It was a huge step, indeed, one that might lead to even greater things in the future.

  Aline also had news, but was more cautious about announcing it. ‘Although it’ll show, soon enough, I suppose.’

  Marie’s eyes went round. ‘You’re —’

  Aline smiled, or half-smiled. ‘Again.’ She was a lot less exuberant than her sister had been.

  Marie frowned. ‘You’re pleased?’

  ‘Of course.’ But, her voice said.

  ‘Then what’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing is the matter.’ Aline’s boots clacked as she took an impatient step or two across the tiled floor. ‘It’s all very well for you …’

  Marie accepted the gulf that existed between women who’d had children and those who had not. Yet suspected that some might be tempted to trade upon their superior experience.

  ‘Charles is pleased?’

  Apparently yes. ‘He hopes for a son, you see.’

  As men did, especially
propertied men.

  Marie decided not to pursue the subject of Aline’s feelings. If she’s hiding something, I shall find out in time. She won’t be able to keep it from me forever.

  The months passed, with Marie once again a regular visitor to the Widdecombe house. Lukas Smart had joined forces with Julian Ashton, the ex-President of the Art Society who had been dismissed for his progressive ideas and had established his own school. Favoured students, Marie among them, were taken into the bushland outside the city to paint, and commune with, nature. Marie was the only woman. It created problems.

  One day a student hoped her presence might be an invitation to practise artistry with implements other than his brush. It was a half-hearted attempt, not in the least threatening, but it brought back, sickeningly, the terror she had felt when Jim Keith had turned on her in the Blue Mountains. Panic savaged her. She knew her response was excessive, yet could not control her keening voice, the legs that sent her stumbling from the open-mouthed student. He later protested his innocence most vehemently, self-righteous that anyone could imagine …

  Until Marie, trembling still, felt constrained to apologise to him for what he had not done — but would have, most certainly, had she encouraged him by so much as an eyelash.

  Lukas said nothing, but Marie remembered what he had said when Margaret Throstle had first introduced them. Women are more trouble than they’re worth …

  Now, it seemed, she had proved it. Yet she remained indignant that she should be expected to tolerate even the most half-hearted overtures of a complete stranger. She thought of giving up the classes and, for a few weeks, did so, until Lukas came to see her.

  ‘It didn’t mean anything,’ he said.

  ‘He took it for granted I was available.’

  ‘Just pushing his luck …’

  Apparently pushing luck was acceptable, if you were a man. Marie remained indignant. How would you feel if I came on to you? she thought, but knew he was quite safe; she would never dare do such a thing, in case he took her up on it.

  She stayed away a little longer, to prove to herself that she was still capable of independence, and then went back. The other students were as stiff as boards over her unreasonable behaviour, but Marie made herself ignore them. The lessons were too valuable to be missed. She was determined that their attitude would not weaken her, as perhaps they intended, but, on the contrary, would make her strong.

  The next time she went to see Aline, she told her what had happened. She expected sympathy, but Aline sided with the men. ‘It’s the way they are. It doesn’t mean anything.’ Lukas’s words.

  ‘I hate it.’

  ‘If you must go on expeditions, alone with men, you must learn to put up with it.’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because that’s the way the world is.’ As sharp as knives, but that was Aline, these days.

  As her pregnancy had advanced, Aline’s physical health had remained good — strong as a cow, she said bitterly, seeming to despise herself because of it — but in her spirits she was not well at all.

  She had apparently not confided in her husband, but was willing to open up to Marie about her pregnancy and how she felt about it.

  ‘It’s like being in a box.’

  Marie had been brought up with the belief that the bearing of a child was a sacred task. She tried to say so.

  Aline laughed contemptuously. ‘You wouldn’t talk like that if you’d been through it.’

  For the first time, Marie presumed to ask this experienced woman what childbirth was like.

  ‘It’s horrible. Not just because of what it does to your body; it does things to your head, too. You blow up like a whale. You can hardly walk. People tell you how wonderful you look, but it’s all lies. You know you’re ugly, but there’s nothing you can do about it. You’re helpless.’

  Marie remembered Aline, shortly after her marriage, boasting of her freedom. No longer, it seemed. And Aline was not finished yet.

  ‘It’s uncomfortable. It hurts. Then, when you thank God it’s over at last, you discover it hasn’t even started.’

  Marie did not understand.

  ‘It’s not for nine months,’ Aline explained. ‘That’s only the beginning. It’s for life. Not just because of the child: you’re changed, too. You can never go back to how you were before.’

  Marie doubted — how could any experience, however traumatic, change you to that extent? — but dropped the subject, which she feared was becoming uncomfortably mystical. She did not need the knowledge, in any case; she would never marry or have a child. She said as much.

  Aline was scornful. ‘You’ll get married, just like the rest of us.’ A dagger gleam of malice. ‘What’ll happen to your precious career, then?’

  ‘That’s why it’s not going to happen. I won’t let anything interfere with that.’

  ‘I told myself that, too. Now look at me. You won’t have a choice, any more than I did.’

  But Marie placed her faith in the strength she prayed she possessed. ‘I shall be different.’

  Aline’s son Gregory was born on a warm afternoon at the beginning of summer. The baby had not been due for another week so Marie, staying with Aline for the great event, had been out, painting with Lukas and the rest. By the time she got back to the house, it was all over.

  Mrs Arkwright, housekeeper and domestic tyrant, told Marie that Aline was sleeping. Both she and the baby were well. Yes, Mrs Widdecombe senior had been there for the birth. Of course: where else should she be? What Mrs Arkwright also said, although not in words, was that Mrs Widdecombe knew where her duty lay. You would not find her traipsing around the country with a bunch of artists on the day her grandson was born.

  Mrs Arkwright withdrew, pleased with her demolition of this young woman who presumed to stay so regularly, but who had been absent on the one occasion when her presence might have served some purpose.

  Some people! Mrs Arkwright thought, and said so to those members of the staff whom she deemed worthy of her confidences. But what can you expect? Look at their background.

  Because Mrs Arkwright, no less than Mrs Widdecombe, had never ceased to regret Charles’s folly in marrying so far beneath him. For which, undoubtedly, there would be a judgement.

  Three days later, an hour before daybreak, it seemed that Mrs Arkwright might have been right.

  Marie was asleep, came awake with a rush to discover the house shaking and swaying about her. There was noise, visceral and terrifying, coming out of the ground, the sky above the ground. It surrounded her, beating against her ears, swallowing her.

  Marie flung herself out of bed, but the floor moved away from her and she fell. She clawed at the carpet, trying to get to her feet, failing, trying to crawl to the door and failing in that, too, while all about her the walls shook like trees in a strong wind. Somewhere there was screaming, whether inside or outside her head she could not tell. She knew only that the pressure on her lungs was so great she could not breathe, that the bellowing rumble was eating her up. The shaking continued, the world ending in a cataclysm of noise and movement.

  A moment’s pause, the silence as weighty as the noise that had preceded it; then, for a few seconds, the noise returned, violent as ever. And stopped. Silence hung, like the dust.

  Marie moved a hand, cautiously. A foot. She stood, but almost fell with her first step, no longer knowing where the ground was or when it would move again. She was afraid, but the ground did not move. Screams echoed through the house.

  Thought and memory came plunging. Aline. The baby. She rushed to the door. It would not open. Panic bit. She dragged at the handle, now screaming herself at the door jammed by the movement of the house, at herself for her inability to open it, at the earthquake for having imprisoned her.

  Suddenly the door came free, opening so abruptly that once again she found herself on the floor. No time to think about that, or bruises; she got up and ran down the dark corridor, noticing without seeing a jagged crack running do
wn the wall beside Aline’s door. She burst in, to find Aline and the baby, Mrs Arkwright and Mrs Widdecombe, all looking at her. ‘I wondered how she … How the baby …’

  ‘They are both fine,’ Mrs Widdecombe said. ‘As you can see.’ And waited.

  But Marie was not beholden to the Widdecombes and their snooty ways. Her eyes went to Aline.

  ‘You all right? Really?’

  ‘You may be certain we have everything under control,’ said Mrs Widdecombe in a voice that would have daunted the earthquake itself.

  ‘I’m fine. Everybody is being very kind …’ Aline’s voice was a silver echo of its normal self.

  ‘If you will leave us —’ Mrs Widdecombe’s voice was less than kind.

  Marie ignored her, looking at her sister. ‘Is there anything you want?’

  ‘No.’ A whispery laugh. ‘At least the house is still standing, that’s the main thing. I don’t think there’s anything you can do.’

  Except be here. With you. She might have said so, but was afraid of upsetting Aline still further, when she was already upset enough.

  ‘We can be thankful the house is so well built,’ Mrs Widdecombe said. ‘Otherwise we might not have been so lucky.’

  Resenting her dismissal, Marie said, ‘Not as good as that. I saw a crack in the wall you could stick your fist in.’

  ‘Nonsense.’ Mrs Widdecombe was resistant to the impertinence of cracks, and those ill-bred enough to mention them.

  ‘In the corridor. For all I know, there may be others, too.’ And turned her back on the bedroom and its occupants, leaving the old bat staring after her as though Marie might have caused the crack herself, from spite.

  There was other damage, but nothing serious, and the builder who was brought in declared that the house remained sound. With the cracks filled in, the walls replastered, nothing remained of the earthquake that might have killed them all.