Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  It had been just one year into their affair when he had first poured out his rage: the day after his wife’s first miscarriage.

  ‘She lost the child!’ He paced about the living room of the cottage in Molle Street, fists clenched as if he might smash everything in sight. ‘The incompetent bitch couldn’t carry it past four months!’

  Shauna watched in silence. She’d never known the reason for his mood swings and she’d never enquired, she’d simply soothed away his anger by making love to him. She made no move now, but waited while he vented his anger.

  ‘She’s been barren for nearly three years.’ he raged. ‘Dear God, that should be grounds enough for divorce! I married her to expand the company, the perfect business merger . . .’

  So it isn’t only women who marry for money, Shauna thought, detached and quite unmoved by his tirade. Men, even wealthy ones, sold themselves for a ‘business merger’, which only proved that everyone had a price.

  ‘. . . I would build an empire for our sons to inherit, that was the plan. But what happened? She was barren! The bitch was barren!’

  Reginald smashed his fist on the wooden mantelpiece above the small stone fireplace. A porcelain vase toppled on its side and crashed to the floor. He appeared not even to notice and Shauna made no move to retrieve the shattered remnants.

  ‘The woman can’t produce an heir! What damn use is she, I ask you.’ The anger and frustration continued to spew out of him. ‘Barren for three whole years, and now a miscarriage – what sort of a wife is that!’

  ‘One who’s not barren.’

  It was the first time she’d spoken and her words brought him to a halt.

  ‘What?’ He looked at her, bemused, perhaps by her comment, or perhaps by the mere fact that she’d had the audacity to respond to his rhetoric.

  ‘Your wife is not barren, Reginald. Evelyn has proved to you that she can conceive. It is a great shame for you both that she has miscarried, I agree, but she will conceive again; you just have to be patient.’ In only seconds she had defused his anger. Then she boldly went one step further. ‘And I believe also that you must be kind. It is difficult, I am sure, for a woman to conceive if she lives in fear of her husband.’

  Their relationship had changed from that day on. Subtly at first, but as the months passed it became obvious they had moved to another plane altogether. They talked now. When he was in one of his moods, she would ask what was troubling him and, if he knew, he would tell her, although more often than not he had no idea what had triggered his ill-temper. Shauna observed that his moods often followed a visit to his father, and when she mentioned the fact he told her of his childhood, openly admitting to fears and resentments he would never have thought to tell a soul. As their discussions took on new depth, Reginald discovered a sense of freedom in Shauna’s company. She had a calming effect that remained with him for some time after he’d left her. In fact she was the perfect mistress in every conceivable way. He congratulated himself on having found her.

  Shauna may perhaps have outsmarted herself. She may have been subconsciously observing her mother’s advice. ‘In order to maintain a man’s interest you must pretend an interest of your own,’ Eileen had long ago instructed her daughters, ‘give him your undivided attention and find him fascinating at all times.’ Shauna’s problem was, in becoming the outlet through which Reginald could channel his anger, she had found him interesting and he had become fascinating. During the first year of their affair he’d remained attractive to her, his moods and unpredictability merely adding to the sense of danger that had drawn her to him from the outset, but now she was discovering a new dimension, a vulnerability that only she was privy to. No-one else in the world knew Reginald Stanford as she did. But such intimacy came with a price. She found herself in love for the very first time, and this lent her a vulnerability of her own. It was a price she was prepared to pay.

  She never told him she loved him. Such an admission might invite complacency, which would court disaster, but she was convinced he loved her too, in his own way. He’d proved it surely when he’d taken her to Europe. It had been over a year before. They’d travelled separately to the mainland, boarding the ocean liner in Melbourne, and the ensuing four months of their travels had drawn them closer than ever, cementing their relationship. He’d never openly admitted his love, it was true, and he probably never would, but he’d recognised his need for her, particularly during the crises of his wife’s ongoing miscarriages. She’d been indispensable to him then.

  ‘Be patient, Reginald: she carried the child for a full six months this time, be patient and kind, other chances will follow . . .’

  And then the third time, when he’d been in despair and revisited by the blackest of rages. ‘You must not give up hope, dearest. The doctor has said she is to be confined to her bed throughout the next pregnancy. Every care will be taken; you must not give up hope.’

  The doctor had actually voiced his doubts as to whether Evelyn was capable of carrying a child to full term, and by now Shauna thought he was probably quite right, but it was her duty to comfort Reginald, and she did.

  Never once had she held any personal expectations, even when after the third miscarriage Reginald had sworn at the height of his fury that he would divorce his wife and find another. She doubted he would carry out such a threat, given his business involvement with Evelyn’s father, but were he to do so she had no delusions that she would be his next matrimonial choice. She had nothing of value to bring to a marriage, no family fortune, no business or social connection that would be to his advantage. But marriage was immaterial anyway. The trip to Europe had sealed their bond and she was content to remain his mistress in the knowledge that their relationship was superior to that of husband and wife. Whether Reginald was prepared to admit it or not, he loved her. And that gave her a power no other woman in his life had ever possessed or was ever likely to.

  ‘I’ve promised Father I’ll visit the property at Pontville next week,’ he said as he dressed. ‘I could tell Evelyn I’m staying there two nights, what do you think?’ He made the suggestion hopefully.

  A whole night to themselves, how she would welcome the prospect, but she gave a light laugh and shook her head. ‘Oh Reginald, you never stay longer than one night at Pontville. Evelyn is fully aware you detest the country.’

  Shauna rose from the bed and shrugged on her silk dressing gown. She had never once met Evelyn, but she had spoken so often on her behalf she felt she knew the woman intimately. Indeed, she felt sorry for Evelyn and was quite comfortable, even genuine, in coming to her defence. Admittedly, there was an ulterior motive involved. Reginald had never loved his wife and never would. The preservation of Evelyn’s marriage was very much to Shauna’s advantage.

  ‘You’re right, as always,’ he agreed. ‘Wishful thinking on my part I’m afraid.’

  She’d advised him that during his wife’s confinement he should arrange stringently legitimate excuses for a night away from home. ‘Be attentive, Reginald,’ she’d urged, ‘be attentive and loving, give her no cause to doubt you. She must avoid stress at all costs.’ Now, with the birth so close and all appearing safe, it seemed to Reginald that, as usual, Shauna had been right.

  ‘What would I do without you, my love?’ he said, and he kissed her tenderly.

  ‘What indeed?’ she replied. If that wasn’t a declaration of love, she didn’t know what was. ‘Enjoy the countryside,’ she said helping him on with his jacket. ‘I’ll see you when you get back.’

  He slipped out into the early dusk of the day and she locked the door behind him. She had wondered whether or not she should tell him her news, but she had decided to leave it for now. Better to wait until after Evelyn had given birth. Besides, she needed another fortnight to be absolutely certain, although in her heart she knew she was pregnant. She hoped that when the time came it would be a boy, for if Evelyn’s child proved a girl, then at least Reginald would have a son. Not one he could acknowledge, it was true, not
the legitimate son and heir he so craved, but a son nonetheless. She would ask and expect nothing beyond the current support he provided, but the child would be a secret the two of them could share, it would be a further bond between them.

  Reginald left Stanford House early on the Monday, bidding Evelyn a fond farewell before he went.

  ‘I shall be gone overnight only, my dear,’ he said as he sat on her bed holding her hand, ‘and when I return I shall not leave your side until the baby is born, I promise.’

  Evelyn smiled gratefully. He’d shown such kindness and consideration during this pregnancy that he seemed like a different man. She’d lived for so long in a state of anxiety, fearing to disappoint him yet again, but of late her tension had eased in his company. She’d gained confidence; she felt strong now. She would bear him a healthy child. She could only pray that it would be a son. ‘Have a safe trip, dear, and do give my fondest regards to Amy and the family,’ she said.

  ‘I shall.’ He leant down and kissed her cheek. ‘Take care.’

  He caught the train to Brighton, a journey of around thirteen miles or so, crossing the Derwent at the causeway that led from Granton to Bridgewater and, when he arrived, Amy was waiting at the railway station.

  She is so unmistakeably a woman of the land, he thought as he stepped off the train and saw her there. The slender young creature he vaguely recalled from his childhood days was long gone. Amy was stout and matronly and her hair, without the restrictions of a bonnet or scarf, was a mass of wild grey curls. She rather reminded him of one of the Merinos she so successfully bred.

  Only one other passenger alighted at Brighton. As the train puffed up steam and chugged off on the next leg of its journey to Launceston, Reginald crossed the semi-deserted platform and greeted her.

  ‘Hello, Amy, you’re looking well.’

  ‘Hello, Reginald,’ she gave him a hearty hug. ‘Good to see you at long last.’

  He tried to return the hug with equal heartiness for he liked his half-sister, but heartiness did not come naturally to Reginald. ‘Most flattering, I must say, to be picked up by the lady of the house,’ he said as he followed her out into the street where the horse and trap were waiting. Her husband Donald or her son Edwin collected him as a rule, or else they sent one of the farm labourers.

  ‘It’s the lambing season so the men are busy,’ she said, hauling herself up into the trap, ‘besides which I haven’t seen you for so long. I thought it would give us a nice chance for a chat.’

  As he tossed his small travelling case in the back and climbed into the passenger seat he wondered whether her mention of how long it had been was intended as a criticism, and he wondered also what exactly she might wish to chat about. Given the recent discussion with his father, Reginald was immediately on the defensive.

  ‘How is Evelyn?’ Amy flicked the reins and the sturdy grey gelding set off at an obedient trot.

  ‘She is very well, thank you,’ he replied stiffly. ‘The child is due in little more than a fortnight and the doctor does not envisage any problems.’

  ‘Oh, what wonderful news.’ Amy’s homely face broke into a broad smile. ‘I am so happy for you, Reginald.’

  He relaxed: she was clearly genuine. ‘Yes, it is a relief, I must admit.’

  ‘And how is Father?’

  His guard was up again in an instant. ‘Father is father,’ he said with cold indifference. ‘Some things never change.’

  ‘I meant his health, Reginald.’ Amy, sensing her brother’s defensiveness, decided she would have none of it. ‘I hardly expect to hear of any change in Father’s character – he will remain the cantankerous old man he has chosen to become – but he is ninety after all, and it is only natural I should enquire after his physical well-being.’

  Realising he’d overreacted, Reginald gave a wry smile. ‘I’m sorry to report that Father is as fit as ever,’ he said, ‘unfortunately for us all he’ll probably live to a hundred.’

  She laughed. ‘He probably will. I am sure it is his intention.’

  They relaxed in each other’s company. She asked after Mathilda, noting the change in his face, how it softened when he spoke of his mother. What a strange man he is, she thought. But then the circumstances of his life had been strange from the start, growing up in that gloomy house she’d been so glad to escape from, and under the rule of an old man who’d turned into a tyrant. Their own relationship was bizarre to say the least. Here she was, his half-sister, yet she was only four years younger than his mother and had a son his age. No doubt it all compounded to make Reginald the remote man he has become, she thought, although he seemed that way even as a small boy. She recalled the occasion of their first meeting. He’d been six years old when she’d brought little Edwin to the city to visit his grandfather. Edwin had met his grandfather in the past when Silas had visited the property at Pontville, but it had been her first trip into town since her son’s birth and the first meeting for both the boys and herself.

  ‘Edwin, this is Reginald,’ she’d said. It had felt odd to be introducing her six-year-old son to her brother of the same age.

  ‘Hello, Reggie,’ Edwin had said. He’d heard Reginald’s mother call him Reggie and he was trying to be friendly.

  ‘It’s Reginald.’ The voice had been firm, the ice-blue eyes unwavering, and poor little Edwin had been totally flummoxed. Then Reginald had shifted his focus to gaze up at the woman they had told him was his sister. ‘My name is Reginald,’ he’d said in a tone that did not belong to a six-year-old child, and Amy had been as nonplussed as her son.

  He is a strange man indeed, she thought, noting that as they talked he paid no attention at all to the surrounding countryside. He never did. They were travelling through the prettiest pastoral lands, where rolling hills and grassy valleys were vibrant with early spring growth, but he might as well have been at home in his own sitting room for all it meant to him. Reginald was a creature of the city.

  ‘Tell me about your latest trip to Europe,’ she said. ‘Did you go to the Louvre?’

  ‘Good heavens above, Amy – that was over a year ago.’

  ‘I haven’t seen you for eighteen months.’

  ‘That long? Really?’

  ‘That long, really,’ she said with a smile to assure him no criticism was intended. ‘Now tell me about Europe. I’m always so envious when you travel. Did you get to Florence? Did you visit the Uffizi?’

  He wondered what she would say if she knew the truth behind his last trip. He regularly travelled overseas to check on the company’s business interests in London and to meet with the French and Italian agents who handled the sale of Stanford Merino wool to the fashion houses of Europe, but last year’s trip had not been for business purposes. He had fled in order to escape his wife and the madness that threatened to engulf him. After the third miscarriage his anger had been so uncontrollable he’d feared he might kill Evelyn if he was forced to remain in her company. Thank God for Shauna, he thought, remembering the pride he’d felt as he’d flaunted her beauty around Europe, aware of the envy of others, the style of the woman, her easy command of the French language. He’d come back a different man. His anger gone, he’d been able to offer sympathy and support to his wife, and now Evelyn was about to bear his child. Shauna had proved yet again to be his very sanity and he wondered what in the world he would do without her.

  ‘I saw Stefano in Milan and Jean-Pierre in Paris,’ he said, about to recount his meetings with the wool agents, but Amy cut him off.

  ‘No, no,’ she said, ‘we can discuss business later – I want to hear about the Louvre. And the Uffizi Gallery, did you get there? And did you see any theatre in London’s West End? Do tell me every detail, Reginald. I rely upon you for my regular dose of culture.’

  He obliged happily enough, finding it no hardship for he had a keen interest in the arts. His overseas trips invariably included visits to galleries and a night at the theatre. There had been more outings than ever this time of course, with Shauna as h
is companion, but that was not a fact he chose to share with his sister.

  Amy listened attentively, enjoying the imagery he evoked of another world, but she was enjoying the scenery too. They were approaching Pontville now; up on the rise to their right stood the Catholic church and the cemetery. They travelled over the bridge and past the old military barracks and suddenly there they were in the middle of town with the gathering of stone cottages on the right and, up ahead on the left, the tavern and the general store. Then, just as quickly as they had arrived they were leaving, passing St Mark’s Anglican Church at the top of the hill, the township now behind them.

  ‘Blink and you’ll miss us,’ Amy always said with a laugh, but she liked Pontville and the village life it offered. Pontville was more than a pretty little town: it was a community of people who shared a love of the land and a loyalty to each other as strong as any family’s. Probably stronger than some, she thought with a wry glance at her brother.

  The Stanford property was barely a mile or so north of the village, and the sturdy grey gelding without a touch to the reins made an automatic turn into the drive that led to the family home. Set back just a quarter of a mile from the road, it was a beautiful two-storey stone farmhouse with a front garden that Amy personally tended and which was currently riotous with spring blossom.

  ‘The garden’s looking nice,’ Reginald said.

  ‘Thank you.’ Amy smiled to herself. It was the first time during the entire trip that he’d appeared to actually notice something.

  Donald, as always, took Reginald on a comprehensive tour, describing in detail each new piece of equipment that had been purchased. Reginald, as always, wished that he wouldn’t. He had little interest in farm machinery and even less in Donald, who was a nice man, but a farmer with whom he had nothing in common. In fact Reginald could not understand what Amy, a well-educated woman, could see in her husband, but then he couldn’t understand what she saw in the countryside either. It was abundantly clear, however, that she loved both. His sister had embraced the life of a farmer’s wife in every possible sense.