He glanced at the stable, then blinked, squinting at the blurred silhouette there. Upon recognising the outline of his wife and the coachman, he turned away and stared up at the sun, warming his blanched face. He had come to apologise, and possibly to call a doctor to the house, a discreet and loyal friend. But now he questioned his own sudden jealousy as he looked on.
60
Los Angeles, 2002
‘This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,
Thous strokedst me, and madest much of me, wouldst
give me
Water with berries in’t, and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less,
That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:
Cursed be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ th’ island.’
CALIBAN, DRESSED IN A FEATHERED loincloth and painted with tribal markings, lurched towards Prospero and the front of the stage. Julia, sitting in the front row, flanked by Gabriel and Naomi, flinched. Gabriel had insisted Julia accompany him to the student production, set on a Spice Island in the seventeenth century, and, at the last minute, Naomi had invited herself along too. Although Julia was sure her friend knew nothing of their affair, she couldn’t help feeling unpleasantly furtive.
On the stage, Caliban was stilled magically by Prospero, dressed as a Dutch spice merchant. Dumbfounded, the ogre staggered drunkenly, his eyes wide with child-like surprise. Julia was transfixed: here was a man fated by his genes, unable to wrestle a way out of his inherent monstrosity. It was heart-wrenching. Julia could barely watch; she recognised the expression of horror on Caliban’s face, that moment of realising one was fatally imprisoned by one’s own nature. Images of the knife sinking into the side of the young Afghani, a startled goat, the falling shepherd, swam before her.
Suddenly claustrophobic, she stood and, despite the disapproval of the audience around her, pushed her way towards the exit sign and out into the cool forgiving night.
She stood on the basketball court that ran alongside the campus building. The air tasted faintly of barbecues, the day’s heat still radiating off the concrete. A silver balloon floated across the tarmac, trailing its string forlornly. The stadium lights suddenly flicked on, flooding the court with neon. Julia leaned against the wall and breathed in deeply, trying to stem a growing sense of panic.
Gabriel stepped out of the auditorium, the sound of the play instantly flooding the court, the theatrical declarations incongruous in the still night.
‘Personally I’ve always thought Caliban should never have trusted Prospero in the first place,’ he said.
‘He’d never met a civilised man before. He didn’t know not to trust.’
‘Come here.’ He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into an embrace.
‘Gabriel, someone will see us.’ Nevertheless Julia rested her head on his chest.
‘I don’t care.’
After a moment, she pushed him away. ‘I would like to surrender to you, but I can’t, you do know that?’
‘Why not just enjoy the moment. Away from the rest of the world we’re great together. That’s all that matters.’
Looking at him standing there, his face so open and hopeful, made her want to believe, want to give in to the illusion.
‘Apart from the obvious difficulties…’ she said, then faltered, not wanting to bring up the age difference for fear of hurting him. ‘There just isn’t enough left of me to become involved with someone else. Surely you can see that.’
He looked away and she knew she had hurt him nevertheless. Picking up a pebble, he threw it across the court and into the green, then swung back toward her. ‘Not everything needs defining, Julia.’
He stepped back into the theatre, leaving her staring at the Santa Monica skyline and the rising moon.
The foyer was packed with people mingling around a table covered with plastic glasses of cheap champagne and bowls of taco chips and salsa. Julia studiously read the program while waiting for Gabriel and Naomi to join her.
‘I’m not entirely convinced Shakespeare meant The Tempest to be a condemnation of colonialism. I mean, Prospero as a Dutch spice merchant—please.’ Naomi, dressed in a low-cut gingham smock, her hair arranged in a dishevelled pile, a couple of chopsticks thrust through for effect, appeared slightly tipsy.
‘Where’s Gabriel?’ Julia said.
‘Getting champagne. I need a drink after all that doom and prophecy…’
She leaned forward and Julia noticed a definite smell of marijuana lingering in her long hair.
‘Have you noticed that Gabriel’s changed,’ she continued.
Julia reached for a bowl of peanuts and stuffed a handful into her mouth nervously. ‘I think he’s in love,’ Naomi continued. ‘But you’d know all about that.’
Coughing in panic, Julia spat peanut pieces all over the front of Naomi’s smock, but her friend didn’t seem to notice. ‘Well, I guess that’s only natural for someone his age,’ she said, then wiped the front of Naomi’s dress with a paper serviette.
Naomi leaned forward, swaying slightly. ‘And you know what else? I know who it is.’ She looked at Julia knowingly. Julia felt a slow burn of panic rise from beneath her collar.
‘Naomi, I can explain—’
‘She’s very beautiful, don’t you think?’ Naomi continued, much to Julia’s confusion.
‘She is?’
‘India—the girl playing Miranda. I mean, it has to be her, right? Gabriel’s never shown an interest in the theatre before, then suddenly he has to see this particular production. It’s why I insisted on coming—I had to see her close up. She is gorgeous.’ Bleary-eyed, she peered into Julia’s face. ‘Did he say anything to you? You guys seem really close—I’m almost jealous. I mean, it was me who used to have all these fantasies about my son being my best friend. He was until he turned thirteen. Now we lead entirely separate lives—I didn’t even know whether he was straight until now.’
‘Naomi, you’re raving.’
‘I’m not raving, I’m stoned. Parental nerves. I was so excited about meeting his first girlfriend, I had a joint in the car before the play. I hate this “responsible parent” shit.’
Gabriel appeared, holding a tray with three plastic champagne glasses balanced precariously on it. Naomi immediately grabbed one.
‘Just in time.’ She knocked back the champagne. ‘We were just discussing your sex life.’
‘You were?’ Gabriel looked at Julia, surprised, while, behind Naomi’s back, Julia gestured wildly at him.
‘Absolutely—your sex life with India.’ Naomi pinched her son’s bottom. ‘She’s so gorgeous.’
‘She is?’
‘Oh, please, Gabriel, now I know why you’ve been so distracted. You should have told me.’
Concerned that her facial expression might betray her, Julia moved towards the exit. Gabriel followed with Naomi stumbling behind.
‘Mom thinks I have a girlfriend. Don’t you think that’s hilarious, Julia?’
Naomi looked at her son then at her friend, utterly perplexed. Panicked, Julia broke away.
‘I have to go, I have an early start tomorrow.’ She turned to Gabriel. ‘See you at the lab on Monday.’
Surprised, Naomi and Gabriel watched her push her way through the thronging parents.
Gabriel stood facing the pinboard. He didn’t want to turn around; he was too angry.
‘You do understand?’ Julia said. ‘I’ve transgressed. By sleeping with you, I’ve broken the unspoken code between lecturer and studen
t—’
‘You’re not my professor, you’re my employer. Besides, I seduced you, remember?’
Ignoring him, Julia paced the room. ‘Not to mention the trust Naomi has in me. How dare you place me in that situation!’
He swung around. ‘I’m a grown man, I can get involved with who I like.’
Outside, Jennifer Bostock, seeing the arguing couple through the glass panel of Julia’s office door, paused, her hand still clutching a test tube.
‘Gabriel, I’m in the middle of a separation. I’m not ready for anything except a breakdown!’
‘Speaking of which, I do think you should get some help. You know, maybe a psychologist or something—’
‘Don’t tell me what I need!’
Gabriel, glancing over Julia’s shoulder, caught sight of Jennifer Bostock outside the door.
‘Julia, you’re shouting and people are noticing.’
Spinning around, Julia looked through the glass panel of the door, then flung it open.
‘Just a difference of opinion about methodology,’ she said sharply.
Jennifer retreated and Julia slammed the door behind her. Suddenly exhausted, she collapsed onto the edge of the desk.
‘I am so tired of trying to control everything.’
Gabriel caressed the back of her neck. ‘Then don’t.’
She leaned against him. ‘You don’t understand, I have to.’
61
Mayfair, 1861
LAVINIA HAD BEEN SUMMONED to the conservatory; a large domed structure that jutted out from the side of the main building. Filled with palms and succulents, with jasmine curling around the white iron trellis that formed the glasshouse’s internal skeleton, it was a place where Colonel Huntington had attempted to recreate the tropical rainforest he had experienced in his travels. A macaw named Horatio sat on a perch in the corner, a chain wrapped around its ankle. Around the parrot, reaching up toward the roof in multicoloured fronds, stood a mass of exotic orchids. It was the latest fashion in London, and Colonel Huntington was famous for the variety and obscurity of his own Paphiopedilum collection, which included wild orchids as well as the miniature orchids of the Amazon.
Positioned in the centre of the conservatory was a cane table and chairs. A maid served out tea and scones as the Colonel sat reading, his face buried in a copy of Punch magazine.
Lavinia, a sticking plaster across her bruised face, limped past the ferns and quietly took a chair opposite her husband. It was difficult to be near him.
The Colonel laughed out loud, startling her. ‘The cartoonists are parodying the endless debate between the Anglicans and the Darwinists yet again,’ he said, ‘and this hunter, Du Chaillu, continues to provide amusing fodder with his extraordinary tales of gorillas kidnapping female missionaries and the like. All complete poppycock.’
In the ensuing silence, Lavinia heard an orchid blossom fall to the ground. Finally, the Colonel lowered his paper. Unable to help herself, Lavinia flinched again. Noticing, he dismissed the maid, then settled back into his chair and examined his wife.
‘I am full of repentance, Lavinia.’ He took her limp hand.
Unable to meet his gaze, she stared at an orchid, the beauty of the flower mocking her misery.
‘I had no wish to injure you. But you will not accept that I must be true to myself.’
‘You have a child, a career.’ Angry, she pulled her hand away.
Shrugging, the Colonel reached into his waistcoat pocket and pulled out his snuffbox. Pouring a large pinch into the crook of his hand, he inhaled deeply.
‘From what I observed this afternoon in the stable, you have no right to speak of a duty of care, Lavinia.’ He sneezed a fine mist of powder.
‘You spied on me?’
‘I was not spying. I had come to make amends.’
‘The relationship between Mr O’Malley and myself is entirely innocent. He is a friend—as much as a servant can be a friend. He was the only one to comfort me.’
‘Perhaps, but I saw another emotion at play.’
She could not reply; he was right. But even though the two of them had stood there, their hands interlocked for a length of time that was indeed scandalous, they had not spoken. The knowledge that any declaration would be disastrous to them both had prevented any conversation. Instead, Lavinia, finally pulling her hands free, had collected the soaking poultice of herbs the coachman had prepared for her injuries and left without a word.
In the corner of the conservatory, the macaw cracked a hazelnut, scattering pieces of shell.
‘There will be no separation,’ the Colonel said. ‘My social standing will not permit it. My duties as a husband—other than economic—will cease from this point. I will not allow you, nor any other, to dictate how or with whom I choose to spend my time. You are a child in these matters. I have strived, in my own way, to protect you from certain aspects of my character. But you have been obstinate and naive to insist on fidelity. Man is simply not constructed to live in such a fashion. For the sake of propriety, we shall continue to attend the remaining events of the season as man and wife. Meanwhile, you will respect your vows and perform the role of loving mother and dutiful wife.’
‘And what of my needs?’
‘You have food and lodging, the dress and accoutrements of a lady of society, and the good name of a gentlemen—that is more than most. Be thankful, Lavinia.’ He reached for a scone. ‘But there will be no betrayal under my roof.’
She stared at him. There was a detachment about him she’d never seen before. The Colonel picked up the copy of Punch again, signalling the interview over.
To disappear to France or Germany, would that be possible? Such a flight would mean a life of poverty and social ostracism. And what of Aidan? What right did she have to condemn their child to ignominy?
She lifted her hand to her throbbing cheek. Noticing, the Colonel sighed guiltily.
‘I will ring for my doctor. He is an old family friend and extremely discreet. But if he should ask, you have fallen from a horse, do you understand?’
Lavinia nodded silently.
Aloysius pulled the coach into the kerb and steadied the horses before loosening the reins. He hadn’t been able to speak to Lavinia since the day of the quarrel. He was determined not to lose his board and living over a woman he could not have, but the persistent sense of belonging with her filled his days with doubt and his nights with temptation.
Then another letter from his brother arrived: impenetrable black letters dancing upon a piece of paper that appeared blood-stained in one corner. Placing it under his horsehair pallet, Aloysius had slept on it for a week, hoping the meaning might seep up in his dreams; but instead, a fear that it contained news of his brother’s death started to whisper poisonously in his ear.
The coachman wove the reins between the iron railings and, after checking the note was still concealed in his sleeve, went to open the carriage door. The Colonel climbed out first, trying to prevent his spats becoming mud-splattered. Under the shelter of an umbrella held up by Mr Poole, he ran for the steps of the mansion. As Lavinia stepped down, Aloysius slipped the letter into the sleeve of her fur coat.
‘Midnight, the wine cellar,’ he whispered.
The coachman waited, a shawl crossed over his chest and tucked into his belt. A lantern lit the rows of dusty bottles stacked sideways in their racks. The air was musky, cold and damp, reminding him of the marshy ditches he sometimes hid in as a child. Handwritten labels in French were pinned above each wine bottle. A wooden cask of brandy sat squatly against the other wall, an old sabre hanging incongruously above it. Hearing the swish of Lavinia’s skirts, Aloysius’s heart leapt high in his throat.
Lavinia came down the narrow steps. She stood for a moment, holding her candle aloft, peering into the darkness, then, finding the pale moon of his face, she smiled, reassuring him. ‘I have read the letter.’
‘And is my brother still with us?’ he interrupted, unable to contain himself.
The coachman dusted off the top of a cask with the end of his shawl. Sitting, Lavinia pulled out the letter from her pocket and read it aloud.
‘May in West Virginia, the year of our Lord 1861
Brother, today I have seen many fight and die bravely, fellow Irishmen fighting for the freedom of other men, so they will never have to suffer the serfdom we ourselves have suffered for so long. Aloysius, I have received a bullet to the leg. As I write, the injured and the dying lie all around me in a tent below the battlefield. This will be a united nation, even if it be over my dead body, brother, and there is more opportunity for the Irishman here than you could possibly dream of. Join me, Aloysius, and write so I have a voice to encourage me in my recovery.
Yours, Seamus Kildary O’Malley’
Aloysius was silent as he absorbed his brother’s words, Lavinia’s crisp enunciation of the Irish rhythms making a curious music. Through its cracks he could see his brother lying in the hospital tent, bent over the page, his fingers curled around a pen, the dried blood caking his saturated bandage, surrounded by an encroaching sea of death and groaning that he pushed away with each pen stroke. My dear brother…
‘You should go,’ Lavinia said. ‘There is nought for the Irishman here except prejudice and ridicule.’
He returned his attention to her, dragging himself away from a distant drum roll that he imagined would both inspire and terrify. Her proximity was stupefying; there was nowhere he could picture himself so entranced—not even on the deck of a ship approaching a fabled harbour that promised freedom for all men. But he could never tell her that.
‘Maybe I will go, maybe I won’t. But what does emigration do to a man with his homeland burned into him like stigmata? Now Ireland may be a miserable windy corner of the world, but it’s what I’m made of and in the end it’ll drag me back, kicking and screaming, whether I like it or not.’
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