Sin (10 page)

TWENTY-FIVE

For one month, thirty days, Charles Harding deprived me of the very sight of him. Things—I had no words for them—seemed to flutter and die in me. Endless daily deaths in some small cavity within me. Somewhere to the left. I think the pain first emanated from there.

A weekend in Lexington was cancelled. On a Friday morning. Pressure of work. Elizabeth's voice. The sincerity of her apologies echoed round empty halls in my mind. And in Lexington. We were not invited to Frimton Manor.

I needed a plan. I had to see him. Could I trick him into seeing me? I used the nearest available and most potent weapon. My family. Particularly my son.

I rang Elizabeth. The right words tripped fluently from my lips. Phrases like “family gatherings.” “The boys.” “So close.” “All together.” And finally, “Mother's loneliness.” Elizabeth agreed enthusiastically to a family half term at Lexington. I heard her win Charles's agreement.

Or do you secretly want to come, Charles? To Lexington? To see me? His distant voice—trapped by the phone as he answered her questions—beat a tattoo of desire on my skin. Yet I held on to the bars of myself and did not fail.

Half term at Lexington. Autumn days. The leaf-strewn lake a broth of winter colour. Browns, gold, ruby reds. And the sky—a high, cold, singing silver-blue. Ferocity had etched something high, cold and silver onto my face.

Charles was an animal at bay. One who knew he had walked into the trap. Because he had to. Because he wanted to? As we all gathered in the main sitting room, I decided to be merciless.

Damn you, Charles. To have thought of escape. Damn you. I would prefer you dead than not mine. His large body made sudden movements—startling— out of character, when he saw me. I walked deliberately towards him at the drinks cabinet.

“Are you in hell, Charles?” I whispered the words. “I hope you are.”

“Hope he's what?”

“Happy at spending more time in Frimton.”

“I always like to spend more time with Elizabeth.”

Vengeance.

“And I with you, Charles. And I with you,” said Elizabeth.

“A happy couple.”

Do they get the note of irony in your voice, Dominick?

“Just like us.” I smiled at him.

“Aha!” He responded.

“Dominick. You've definitely decided against the studio?”

“Yes. We really don't need it.”

“I'm pleased. I don't think I want to sell it. I've been so happy there. It's been a lovely haven.”

I remembered an intricate ballet of lust. Limbs and bodies angled so as not to harm the paintings. In her haven. Her husband and I. Shall I shatter her now? Take the hammer? But I will lose him forever.

“You had a marvellous piece in
The Daily
… by Brannington Orchard. Terrific for you, I would have thought.”

“Thank you, Dominick. I can't connect to anything anyone writes about my painting. Even those who are kind to me. It's just something I have to do. Increasingly.”

The compulsion of the artist. Even the most minor artists feel driven to develop their minor talent, often accompanying its development with major displays of temperament.

“Have to, Elizabeth? The only God, Art? ‘Te Absolvo' always on His lips?”

Such was the bitterness in my soul. My soul? I had fed it such a diet over the years that it had long ago hidden, small and hungry, from my bitter offerings.

“I don't think you really mean that, Ruth,” Elizabeth replied. “I know this is old-fashioned, but I believe that art should serve good.”

“Dominick. You should work out a formula for good. If
x
equals kindness and y
…
equals … Let's see. There really aren't that many words that instinctively describe goodness … are there, Charles?”

I turned towards him, smiling. He looked back. Unseeing.

“Courage?” Stephen volunteered.

“Admirable, Stephen.” He turned with relief to his stepson.

“But evil men have often been very courageous.”

“Justice?”

“Aha. The pagan virtues seem to appeal to you.” Listen to me, Charles.

“Pagan virtues, Aunt Ruth?” Stephen looked at me. Fascinated.

“Yes. The virtues before Christ. Hard virtues. Masculine virtues.” I spoke severely. The words demanded it.

“Well, Mum,” William interrupted. “Which do Stephen and I have—the pagan or the Christian virtues?” I love the way William speaks. So gently. Dominick again. Dominick dominates.

Stephen turned to Elizabeth.

“You're both good boys.”

“Aagh. Aaaaaagh. Oh, God, Mum. Never even whisper that in public.” Stephen fell around the room, as though wounded.

“Sorry. Sorry, Stephen. Sorry, William.” Elizabeth laughed.

“You did badly there, Elizabeth.” Dominick smiled at her.

“I know, Dominick. I know.”

“Perhaps Christ was fed up with all that macho stuff, and that's why he started preaching about meekness and about patience et cetera. And love with a capital
L
. Was he the first ‘new man' do you think, Mum?”

“Stephen, this is quite sacrilegious.” Said with a gentle smile. All her smiles were gentle.

“One can never show all the virtues at the same time.”

Charles, as he spoke, concentrated his gaze on the boys. “The pagan and the Christian are virtues almost in opposition. Gentle courage? Meek justice? Fate decides what virtue your life depends on. For example, Stephen, you might discover that only courage could save your soul. That you were kind, generous and loving … but the Christian virtues were not required. Courage was the necessary virtue.”

Look at me, Charles. Charles. Look at me. Like that, if you want. But I've got courage. Why haven't you?

“What is the greatest virtue, Elizabeth?” Dominick turned towards her.

Speak to me of virtue, Elizabeth.

“Oh, dear I find these things difficult.”

“Go on, Mum.” Stephen interjected.

“There's no single quality that cancels out the others. As Charles said, you can be cruel and courageous, or truthful and proud. I'm sorry, I'm not good at absolute statements.”

Oh, come on, Elizabeth. Stop looking for sympathy. You're doing OK.

“The boys would like to hear … it's important.” I turned, bright-eyed, towards her.

“It's an attitude to the world. To others in the world. And to yourself. It's an attitude of … It's a belief based on a personal commitment to do the right thing in all the circumstances of your life. And I suppose this is my philosophy of life: You must prepare for action … by thought. Because evil action springs from evil thought. So you have to develop in yourself ‘goodness of thought.'

“Good action will spring from that. I … It doesn't matter that … it doesn't always work. It's almost always hard.”

Charles walked towards her. “Indeed it is, Elizabeth.“ He sat on the edge of her chair.

“So, it's in the soul … or heart, or mind?” I asked. With some interest.

Show respect, Ruth. The woman is sincere, Ruth.

“Yes.” She nodded. “And it requires … everything.”

His eyes are on her as on a god … goddess. This. This, perhaps I cannot fight. But fight I will.

“Mum. You're an angel. I always knew it.” Stephen exploded from his chair. “But when you talk of being good, I just want to be bad. Let's race around the lake! William? Aunt Ruth? Come on, let me show you how fast I am.” He held his hand out to me.

“I'll come later,” William said. “I'm going up to the sheds—to fix my bike.”

William liked to be alone sometimes. My independent, grave child.

“Will you come for a walk with me, Aunt Ruth?” Stephen asked.

I hesitated. I could not say, “I want to stay with Charles. Your stepfather. To see if I can destroy his will. His desire to leave me.”

“Yes. All right, Stephen. You go on, I'll catch you.

“Great. See you later, Aunt Ruth.”

They both jumped up like arrows speeding towards their target. The whoosh of their exit seemed to force the French windows open. They were gone. Youth had left the room. We sat silent for a moment and looked at one another. The way adults do. Indulgent.

My mother began: “I wonder, Charles. Would you drive me to Barnham? Could you bear it? It's only ten minutes' drive. I promised Claude that I would take her some of our tomatoes for lunch. Ben picked them this morning. I'd rather like to give them to her myself.”

“I'm at your service, Aileen. With pleasure.”

“Oh, I haven't seen Claude for ages, I'll come too,” I offered.

There would be time surely, in the presence of two old women, both a little deaf and slow … for words. Maybe.

“But, Ruth. You never liked Claude.”

Mothers! The things they know. The things they remember. A life before one's own memory. No wonder we long for escape. They'd devour us if they could.

“Nonsense, Mother.”

“Do you pass through the village?” Dominick asked.

“Dominick, how many years have you been coming to Lexington? You have the worst sense of direction of anyone I know. ”

“Well, thank you, Ruth. But when we're here, we don't leave Lexington all that much. Since I've never been to Claude's, how on earth would I know where it is?”

Marital banter. That's all, Charles. Don't look so worried.

“Well, let's start your education today. Come with us. Claude is a fascinating woman. She was in intelligence during the Second War.” Charles. The peacemaker.

“Add to her war efforts, three husbands—all dead, conveniently—and a considerable run of lovers.”

“Ruth, darling, ‘conveniently dead' is not how I would describe three men I knew and liked.”

“Joke, Mother. Joke.”

This is not as I had planned.

“To be honest, apart from the fascination of Claude, I want to get some petrol for the car. Let me drive the three of you there.” Dominick rises.

“But, Charles, if Dominick is going it's hardly necessary for you to go as well.” I tried. For time.

“Ruth. I'd love to see Claude. And I can direct Dominick.”

He had escaped me.

They left. Elizabeth headed towards the kitchen to talk to Alice about lunch. I walked after Stephen to the lake.

“Hello, Aunt Ruth.” A short silence.

“Do you know I'm reading
Madame Bovary
at school.” He sought to impress me.

“And what do you think of her?” I asked him.

“Well, I think she was trapped … you know … within herself. No one set her free.”

“That's very good, Stephen.” He blushed at me. I played, a little, with the look in his eyes.

“I sometimes feel trapped … by my asthma.” Then, manly again, not wishing to seem as though he had looked for pity: “Do you know what Flaubert said when he was dying, Aunt Ruth?”

I did. Best to let him tell me.

“What did he say, Stephen?”

“He said: ‘I'm dying and that bitch Bovary will live forever.'” He laughed. Thrilled with himself.

“Sorry about the word ‘bitch,' Aunt Ruth. Learned it from my French teacher.” More laughter. Whoops of laughter. Stephen had a wonderful laugh.

He took my arm.

“I think you're amazing, Aunt Ruth.” He paused. Looked at the ground. “You're really … really pretty. Aagh. That sounded … yuck. Sorry. Sorry, Aunt Ruth.” Suddenly, leaping in front of me.

“I'm going to swim across the lake, Aunt Ruth. For you. Show you … how brave I can be. For you.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Stephen. Go on up to the sheds. Help William with his bike.” He looked at me. A question in his eyes. Then he shrugged. Kicked a few stones and said, “OK, Aunt Ruth, OK.”

Bored, I turned away. And started to walk home. Lost in my contemplation of Charles. How to get him back.

When I got to the house, Elizabeth was rolling the lemons to soften them. I chopped and scattered black olives onto the creamy pink and beige of the crabmeat. I chilled the wine and warmed the bread.

I went to my room to prepare myself. Before my lunch. With Charles. Then I rejoined Elizabeth and Alice in the kitchen.

I turned from the window, for a moment blinded by a sudden slanting ferocity of October sun. A man stood blocking the kitchen doorway. It was Ben. And he could not speak. I grabbed him. I shook him. I pushed him against the door. Useless to ask, “What happened?” To ask, “What is it?” A face contorted in fear and agony almost obliterates the need for words.

Then a name. “Stephen … in the lake,” he gasped. “Asthma … attack.” I stopped for a second. Not William. Oh, God … in whom I do not believe … thank God.

I am not a monster. With Elizabeth's cries of, “Oh, no. No,” I ran to try to save her child.

I ran across the lawn, through the garden, on and on through the park and then down to the lake.

But someone had got there before me. William. My son. Trying desperately to save Stephen.

From the top of the hill I saw them. Together in the water. They seemed to rise slowly. Gracefully. Like dancers. As though some great force propelled them through the surface of the water. Towards the sky.

Stephen seemed to hug William to him. Like a lover. Unwilling to let go. Fierce in possession. Winning. They went down. And the muddy lake closed over them. How many times?

How many times had the lake closed over them?

“Save yourself, William” screamed out of me.

And “Let him go” carried on the wind. Into nothing. The muddy lake closed over them. Again.

And still I ran, Elizabeth after me, down the long hill. I fell into the water, and I swam to where it seemed to me they had gone down. I dived. Into black nothing. And murkiness. Why not blue waters clear for them?

I dived again. And again. And again, nothing. Filth. Sediment. And darkness. And now pain. Physical pain. Something to fill me up. I came to the surface. And down again. And again. Over and over again. But I could not find their secret place. Elizabeth, far away from me, was frantically swimming around. Diving over and over again.