The Mistressclass

by Michèle Roberts

  Afterwards Catherine would soothe her: what’s the point in freaking out? People should be able to express whatever they feel. You shouldn’t try and censor them. You’re so intolerant.

  Sooner or later Adam would square up to his father, and the two of them would indulge in their own passionate disagreements about art or politics. These easily led to rows. They knew exactly how to wind each other up to the point of explosion, the threat of physical violence. Then whoever was angrier, Adam or Robert, would storm off and stamp around the garden.

  These flare-ups died down by the following day. Catherine refused to be intimidated by them. She said they were just part of Robert’s game. Vinny would swig too much red wine and fret. After a confrontation with Robert, Adam never wanted to make love. Yet she wanted him to stand up to his father. She wanted to do so herself. The cost of fighting, though, was loneliness. When Adam turned away from her in bed, after a row at suppertime, she was stricken to the heart, as though he’d actually hit her. His remoteness made him seem a robot, polite and dead-eyed, his soul flown somewhere else. She told herself he couldn’t help his coldness. He wasn’t in control of his responses. But nonetheless, when he wouldn’t talk to her, pushed her away, she found it hard not to feel like a wounded child, not to become tearful, demanding. At these times, Catherine, and the room they shared, became her refuge. Catherine was so wise. She was calm, a freckled brown Madonna.

  —Leave him alone for a bit. Give him some space. Men hate clingy women.

  For a month life went on in this way. Then, the pattern changed. Robert finished a big painting. He had been thinking about it for months and had suddenly been able to complete it in a matter of weeks. He locked it away in the storeroom.

  —Can’t we see the picture? Vinny asked.

  —Not yet, Robert said: one day, sweetie, maybe.

  Now he had some free time, a breathing-space.

  —Come on, you lazy sod, he said to Adam: time you started giving me a hand with the garden.

  They began working together in the afternoons, up behind the house, in the overgrown field that rose in a gentle slope above the stone-built cattle sheds. The plan was first to clear the ground roughly, advancing into the tight thickets of thorns with long-handled scythes, and then to decide on what wild saplings to leave and what to cut down. They barred their house guests from helping, from entering the field at all.

  —We want it to be a surprise, Adam said: you can’t see it until it’s finished.

  Catherine’s birthday was approaching, and the night of the full moon. They planned a celebration: a supper party in the new garden space, a trestle table carried up, lanterns hung in the trees, and fireworks. Vinny volunteered to do the cooking, Adam to see to the music and decorations. Catherine tried to look cool, but she could not help preening with delight. She hennaed her hair, painted her toenails silver, and started cutting up two of her dresses to make a new patchwork one. Blue and yellow squares overstitched with gold braid. She got Vinny to tack the full gathers onto the waistband. They sat on the doorstep, sewing and drinking beer.

  After a week of labour, Adam and Robert wanted some recognition of what they’d achieved so far. They invited the women up one heavy grey afternoon.

  You entered the field by a stone staircase built at the side of the farthest shed to the left of the house. Stone wall on one side, tightly wound and prickly hedgerow on the other. Now this entrance had been cleared. You no longer had to stoop, force your way up through overhanging holly and hazel. What had been a tunnel was now an opening, a rosebush revealed on one side and a vine, trained against the side of the shed, on the other. The stairs themselves had been scraped clean of drifts of dead leaves, crusts of moss. The two women stood on the top step and looked about.

  A spread of green. No longer a neglected and overgrown field. This wild place had become a meadow once more, its edges clearly visible. It was surrounded by a low earth bank supporting a mixture of hedgerow and trees. Behind these you could see moving friezes of cows, black and white. Adam and Robert waved to them from the far end.

  Vinny vividly remembered the impenetrable wilderness of thorny bushes that had been here previously. The two men had removed it, sheared it away like a sheep’s coat, yet it remained clearly in her memory. Her mind’s eye superimposed the one image over the other. Most of the brambles were gone, the self-seeded oak and chestnut saplings uprooted, the tides of tall ferns, thistles and nettles slashed. All had been consumed in a great bonfire. A circle of grey ash, still smouldering, marked the spot. Now old fruit trees were revealed, freed from their strangling wrappings, the long sprays of spiky bramble stems torn from their branches. She and Catherine walked up to the trees, around them. Touching the trunks, gnarled, covered with moss. Adam came across and told them the names. Apple and pear, cherry and peach. A walnut tree. A fig. Four ancient cider-apple trees, so bent they looked as though they were about to fall over. The small red fruits were round and hard as rosy beads.

  —It’s not a meadow at all, is it? Vinny said: it’s a second orchard. How extraordinary you didn’t know it was here.

  —One of the neighbours would probably have told us, Adam said: if we’d asked.

  He wandered back to work. He and Robert were almost finished. They were cutting their way around the undergrowth at the field’s circumference, chopping down the wild broom, the remaining tangles of brambles and screens of waist-high ferns, thinning the tall hazel hedge to let in more light. They had revealed treasures: a wild rose, long loops of bryony and honeysuckle, clumps of papery-flowered honesty. They had chucked down lofty ramparts of debris alongside them as they went, so that they seemed to be working in a ditch, the bank on one side and the cut stuff on the other.

  —Can we help? Catherine shouted.

  —You can clear this lot up, Robert shouted back.

  Vinny followed Catherine across the field. They found the rakes and pitchforks leaning against the walnut tree and worked out what to do with them. Gather the fallen vegetation into tall heaps, then fork it up and carry it over to the fire. Rake up all the cut fern stalks out of the grass and shift these over too.

  Raking was much harder work than Vinny expected. Soon her arms began to ache. Sweat dripped down her face, and she felt her cheeks grow crimson. Nonetheless there was a fierce pleasure in digging the long tines of the fork into a heap of branches, hoisting it high above her head and walking it down the meadow to where Catherine was already lighting the fire. She had never used a pitchfork. She was surprised at what a great mass of leafy rubbish you could pick up in one go.

  —Birnam Wood, she shouted to Adam, but he had his back turned and didn’t hear.

  The sawn-up wild broom and fir trees had to be dealt with by hand. They dragged the spiky branches, coiled with long trails of blackberry sprays, down the meadow, one by one. Carried the heavier logs between them. They picked a handful of blackberries each, just to try them, smearing the backs of their juice-stained hands against their mouths to wipe off the stickiness. Some were watery, others fat and sweet.

  The long tangles of brambles were hard to get a grip on, surprisingly heavy to lift. Since they’d been left where they fell, not laid in manageable heaps, they clung together in enormous masses that had to be dragged apart. Just when you thought you’d got a bunch of them sorted, snared and coiled on your fork, ends tucked in, they whipped back and caught your skin. Catherine and Vinny swore as the thorns ripped their arms and lines of blood spurted. They went doggedly on, hauling the springy bundles into basket-like meshes to be jabbed, swung up over their heads, marched to the fire.

  The dry ferns went on first in lacy brown layers. On top of these they laid the lopped branches of the hazel, the broom, the fir, the ornamental pine. These were oozing resin, which made the fire catch and burn well. Scarlet flames, very clear in the sunlight, leaped up. They all stood around to watch, Catherine and Vinny leaning on their rakes. Aromatic smoke gushed up, smelling like the incense in the basilica.

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nbsp; The blood pumped in Vinny’s face. She felt solid and furry with heat. If only she could cool down. But although it was late afternoon it was still hot and humid. The sky was covered over with grey clouds.

  —Thundery, Robert said: good to get rid of this lot before the rain comes.

  He glanced at Vinny.

  —You look hot.

  He looked amused at her disarray. She felt so cross she gathered up her courage.

  —It would have been a lot easier getting the brambles over here if you and Adam had chucked them down into heaps. It’s much harder to lift them when they’re all tangled up in huge long masses.

  Robert laughed.

  —Bit late now. You’ve done it all, my little Amazon.

  He threw on more armfuls of dead nettles and thistles, more fragrant fans of green spikiness. The fire was like a violent red mouth. It ate greedily whatever they gave it. Branches, short logs, green weeds. It snapped and hissed, licking sap off its lips. The flames shot up, died down, shot up again. They tended it with the rakes, throwing fallen parts back on, pushing embers together, poking and stirring it. Some of this fiddling was unnecessary, but it was enjoyable. Vinny smacked the heaped brambles with her pitchfork, forcing them down onto the flames. Inside herself she glowed with scarlet cinders. She wanted to flame out, and so she smacked again at the pile of crisp brown stalks, sending up showers of sparks.

  Adam went back to the house and reappeared with the big, two-handled laundry basket packed with small bottles of beer, a big bottle of cider, some tumblers.

  —Might as well make a party of it.

  He’d brought an umbrella too, which Catherine opened and spun above her like a sunshade. Then she closed it and drove its spike into the ground.

  What were they celebrating? Vinny felt it must be the end of summer, the toppling ripeness of the season, the hazelnuts and apples clustering on the trees, the red berries gleaming on the bryony and hawthorn in the hedgerow. The bonfire with its freight of killed greenery made her feel sad, and yet it was beautiful too. Sweat rinsed her back. It felt good now to stand around in the heat; wearing only a skimpy voile top and denim hotpants; tasting the warm bitterness of the beer as it slid down, breathing in the bitter smell of burning, the scent of grass and freshly cut pine, watching the plumes of smoke, the red flames flicker up like antlers.

  The branches on the top of the bonfire were dark, heaped up in the rough shape of a star. Underneath them now was a disc of thick white ash. A dark star on snowy white, grey smoke billowing out as a breeze blew up, flakes of silvery ash dancing sideways, the red jiggle of fire above. Her cheeks burned; cool air swished over her bare shoulders. She tilted her bottle of beer. Froth, and the last few drops.

  Robert threw down his scythe.

  —That’s it for me. I’m off back to the studio. See you later.

  He patted Vinny on the shoulder. Then he dropped his empty beer bottle into the basket and walked off towards the steps.

  —We’ll make supper tonight, Catherine called after him.

  He waved a hand above his head.

  —Good girl.

  Vinny didn’t want to go back indoors. She wanted to catch the very last of the light before it began to rain; to go on looking at the fire. So when the other two began collecting up the saw, the rakes and pitchforks, the scythes, she didn’t help them. She up-ended the heavy wicker basket, tipping the remaining bottles out into the grass, and sat down on it.

  —What shall we cook? Catherine asked Adam.

  —Dunno, he said: suppose we could dig up the last of the spinach. See what else there is.

  —Eggs, too, Catherine was musing: and I’ll make a big salad. I’ll come with you and pick some herbs and a lettuce.

  —I’ll watch the fire a bit longer, Vinny said: just to make sure it burns down properly.

  —I’ll leave you the umbrella, Adam said: I think you’ll need it.

  He touched her shoulder, as Robert had, in parting. Her crossness flowed off her with her sweat. She sat there dreamily. Their voices died away behind the house and she began to feel the quiet. The fire was a big seething mass of red. When heavy drops fell on her neck and arms she put up the blue and white striped umbrella. She enjoyed hunching in her solitary bubble with rain splashing all round her. She didn’t feel cold at all. The fire burned on even as the rain made the ash sizzle. Now the meadow was lush, its green carpet of weeds drinking up the wet. The curled heads of sprouting ferns were loaded with water.

  After ten minutes the rain stopped. The grey clouds parted and flew away, revealing a pale blue sky. The sun flashed out, golden and low; she could just see it through a gap in the hedgerow trees. Beams of sun entered the meadow like swords, striking the ground with light. Glittering raindrops filled the cups of hazel leaves, fringed every blade of grass.

  The sun has dipped, gone. A few clouds return, rounded puffs of apricot, rose. The far roofs of the Beauvins’ farm glow pink, and the field in front of them, and the hills just behind. A pigeon starts calling in the wood, its mate cooing back. The fire fizzes. Crickets rasp nearby. Very faintly, the sound of the church bells ringing in the village blows across the field. Vinny dawdles on. Half an hour? An hour? Time doesn’t matter. She is just here. She doesn’t have to do anything, just sit on her improvised stool and be part of the golden evening, chin propped on hands, wet grass touching her bare ankles. She’s not Vinny anymore she’s grass light earth she’s the hedge the water the trees she’s all of them she’s purest happiness.

  The lowing of cows somewhere nearby, a woman’s voice shouting, breaks her trance. She gets up and goes indoors, yawning, lugging the basket and the umbrella. She blinks and stumbles in the kitchen doorway because it seems so dark in here.

  She makes extra fuss and noise, a warning for the shadow over by the stove to break itself in half. Cathadam Cathadam break it up you two. She’s fumbling with the door-latch, dropping a beer bottle. Chattering loudly and exclaiming. Anything to give them time. To give herself time. To save Catherine and Adam from knowing she has seen.

  It’s not happening and there is no need to get upset.

  Get out of here.

  Vinny blunders from the house, across the path to the gate, into the lane dipping steeply downhill. The ground is muddy and slippery after the recent rain, but she doesn’t watch where she’s going, doesn’t care if she slips and slithers. She’d like to fall over, so that she could bawl like a baby. Then someone might come and rescue her. Be kind. Make everything better. Make time turn back.

  Round the corner she stumbles into a herd of cows. They surround her, bulky creatures tossing up their horned heads in surprise, snorting warm breath at her, trampling and mooing. Of course. Milking time is over. The cows are coming back from the farm. It takes her a few moments to realise that the young woman with short black hair, armed with a stick, who is marshalling the animals, is calling to her. Just as though she were a disobedient calf.

  —Stay still. Stay still. Or you’ll frighten them.

  How enormous these beasts are, close to. As tall as she is. Furry coats, big eyes. The cows flow past, towards their field, shamble in, udders swaying loose, through the open gate. The young woman slaps it shut behind the last of them, secures it with a loop of wire. She turns to Vinny and nods at her.

  —Hello. You’re one of my English neighbours, aren’t you? My name is Jeanne Beauvin.

  Vinny is hanging her head and snivelling, wiping her nose on her forearm. She raises her head and stares. Madame Beauvin is young. Who was that other one, then?

  Her newly met neighbour advances on her briskly. They shake hands.

  —Come and see my house, says Jeanne Beauvin: I would like to show you my house.

  PART 9

  Memories both sustain and torment me, dear master. Memories of that first year Emily and I were pupils together at your school.

  When you looked in at the door the dormitory seemed to stretch away into infinite space. It was filled with floaty lengths of pa
le cotton like rustling wings. These were the curtains surrounding the boarders’ beds. In the daytime pulled back and furled neatly, to open the bed, the chair and the tiny chest of drawers to Madame’s inspection, and at night flurried round each pupil as she got undressed, knelt to say her prayers, climbed in between the sheets.

  From the door, in the daytime, the dormitory was clean, silent, spacious. At mid-morning a forbidden space, unreachable as heaven, hovering at the top of three curving flights of stairs. Pretending not to know you, that you never went in there, that it was untouchable and untouched. At night it was crowded with bodies like a railway station, people in a waiting-room giving up all hope of their train’s arrival, flinging themselves down anywhere to pass out. The school was a machine that turned out nice jeunes filles and the dormitory combed them into rows, ready for next day’s grind and push. The white cotton veil around your bed separated your dreams from those of your companions on either side. Groans and murmurs as girls restlessly dozed; the smell of soap, urine, sweaty armpits and feet; and your self nearly extinguished by the weight of so many other sleepers pressing in all around you.