by Parks, Adele
They had not managed to see one another for eleven days. It was becoming harder and harder to function. She thought only of him. The weight of him on top of her. His smile breaking through. The scar on his rib where a bullet had grazed. His big, misshapen feet. There was no chance of sending and receiving telegrams because privacy, let alone secrecy, couldn’t be guaranteed when she was at Clarendale. She had telephoned him, twice; both times she had spoken to his intractable landlady, rather than Edgar himself. It was torture. Depressingly, the landlady had been surly and insolent; Lydia had not dared leave her name.
‘Who should I say telephoned, madam?’ Lydia had heard the disapproval and prudery in her voice. Why hadn’t she called her miss? How could she have known Lydia was married?
‘Oh, don’t bother. It’s not important.’ She’d quickly slammed down the handset.
Then her fog had darkened. She became paranoid, weepy and despairing. Would he know it was her that had telephoned? He must. This – all that she felt and thought – couldn’t be one-way. Could it? Madam, rather than miss. What did that mean? Did Edgar have a pattern? Had there been other married women? Were there other married women now? The thought made her breathless, careless. Lydia knew of such things, of course. A single girl had her reputation to lose and a man looking for sex wouldn’t bother there. Too complicated. Single girls were only noticed if a man wanted to marry. Married women couldn’t marry. Married women were the ones to pursue for uncomplicated sex. This argument found its way into Lydia’s head and ran round and round, many, many times a day, like a bird trapped inside a room, flinging itself against walls and windows in confusion. She hated what she knew of the world, and what she thought of the world, when she was not with him. She was ashamed of her doubts and fears. They seemed like a betrayal. When she was with him she was so sure. So positive. It was everything. They were invincible. They could not get enough of each other. He consumed her. She fed him.
They had been lovers for three months now. They met up two or three times a week. He accepted more and more invitations to the parties that she attended, because although they could not spend the entire evening together as they would like, without arousing suspicion, they could at least see one another. Feast their eyes. They did find ways to be alone. They met in the daytime. He’d spend the morning at the office in the army HQ and she’d spend the morning dressing, waiting; they’d meet just after lunch. She’d have the chauffeur drop her off at a gallery or museum. They sometimes made a show of looking at the exhibit, even taking tea; other times they would simply run to the underground and take a train to his flat. His landlady charred in the afternoon for families who lived in Islington; he could sneak Lydia in and out any time between two and five. They had these slivers of heaven, alone in his bed with its skinny mattress and a patchwork blanket that his sister had made for him.
She was changed. She talked quickly, as though she had more words to get out, which indeed she did. More ideas, more thoughts, more point. She roared with laughter when she was with him, something she’d never done previously; she’d always confined herself to polite laughter, giggles and guffaws. She explained loudly. Ate hungrily. Made love enthusiastically. She didn’t apologise if she missed her step and tripped on the stairs. She simply got up and rushed on. There was no time to waste with apologies, regrets or remorse.
But eleven days was such a long time. Eleven days was for ever. She’d had no choice but to come to the country. The earl had asked for her. She’d sat with him for three days; he’d been unconscious for much of it. She hoped he knew she was there, but she couldn’t be sure. She’d tried to think of a reason to go to town between the death and the funeral, but there wasn’t a viable one. She was stuck here in the depths of the West Sussex countryside. For how much longer? she wondered. It took an immense amount of will and attentiveness to hold on to her certainty and for that reason she appeared dazed and confused to others. They muttered among themselves how very badly she was taking the earl’s death.
The dowager leaned towards Lydia and commented, ‘Darling, I think it’s very wonderful of your friends to join us today. Lawrence said Mrs Gordon in particular has been an enormous help to him over these past few months.’
‘Sarah is so very practical and together.’
‘And generous with her time.’
‘Yes.’
‘Her sister, too.’
‘Bea likes to be useful.’
‘Quite right.’ The dowager paused; she eyed the long net curtains that fell into folds like a gown on the floor. Her gaze drifted around the room half-heartedly; Lydia’s followed. The panelled walls looked gloomy; the grandfather clock had been stopped. ‘So does your other friend, come to that. The modern one.’
‘Ava.’
‘Yes, that’s it, Ava Pondson-Callow. A double barrel with barely a title, how interesting.’
‘Her father is a knight.’
‘Inherited title?’
‘No.’
‘Hmmm. She is a busy young woman, I hear.’
‘Ava is on a number of committees,’ Lydia confirmed carefully. She wasn’t sure if the dowager was simply making conversation or whether she had a point she wanted to raise. Lydia felt uncomfortable talking about Ava; she’d used her as an alibi on countless occasions recently and lived in constant nervousness that she would be rumbled.
‘I saw her dash off just after the service.’
‘Yes.’ Lydia had been relieved that Ava couldn’t stay and chat with Lawrence.
‘Where is she going today?’
‘She had to go back to London. She has a trustee meeting for the National Council for the Unmarried Mother and Her Child, first thing tomorrow.’
‘Oh. How very progressive.’ The dowager tried not to look as though she had just eaten something that was slightly past its best.
‘Yes.’
‘Still, it’s good of her to make the time.’
Lydia smiled, understanding that her mother-in-law was being as conciliatory as possible. It was unlikely that the dowager actually wanted unmarried mothers to be mentioned in the drawing room. Lawrence coughed; no doubt he thought that the conversation should be moved on, but Lydia knew he wouldn’t risk saying anything specific. She would not tolerate any criticism of Ava, outright or implied, and he was aware of as much.
In the past, Lydia might have agreed with her husband and mother-in-law, acquiesced that illegitimacy shouldn’t be discussed in mixed public, but her relationship with Edgar had changed things. Running to and from his lodgings she had seen women, deserted and desperate, wearing rags, starving so that an unrecognised child could eat. She’d seen a lot of shocking poverty in the East End. It was hot now, but there had been snow in March, and as she’d walked holding Edgar’s hand, even love couldn’t block out the desolation of the dire and abounding poverty. She’d seen people sleeping outside, likely to freeze to death overnight. In the mornings, when dawn forced her from his flat, she’d passed a line of men snaked outside the gates to a factory; obviously they hoped to get a day’s casual work. Their backs, once broad enough to fight a war, seemed vulnerable, their necks looked too thin to hold their heads as they’d hunched over their hands, pathetically trying to blow warmth into them.
The light in the over-hot drawing room bounced from the strings of pearls hanging around the women’s necks and danced on the silver tea urn next to the plates weighted with untouched cakes. Lydia seemed to be living in two different worlds. Irritation fuelled her mischievous side, and although it was her father-in-law’s wake, she couldn’t stop herself from prolonging the conversation that was making her husband uncomfortable. ‘Ava’s work is so vitally important.’
‘Well, quite.’ Lawrence’s ears turned pink.
‘These women and children shouldn’t suffer so. You’ve seen them, Lawrence. You must have. Lining the streets and huddling under bridges and viaducts. Grubby hands stretched out. I don’t doubt that some of the men at your club are responsible for one or two of t
hem.’
‘Not the gentlemen, not the right sort of gentlemen, but there are bounders who have no sense of responsibility,’ he admitted.
‘These women could starve.’
‘The children are innocent, we can all agree on that,’ commented the dowager in a placatory tone; she was far more used to managing tricky conversations than either her son or daughter-in-law might imagine.
‘Evidently they need help, but is it ladylike?’ This contribution came from one of Lawrence’s old school friends.
Lydia knew that Lawrence would have liked to have asked as much, but he limited himself to musing, ‘I just question whether this sort of work has to be done by single women. Is that necessary?’
‘Women your wife is intimate with, you mean?’ asked Lydia.
Lawrence did not answer her question; he simply added, ‘However, considering the demands on her time we must be grateful that she came to support you at the service and to pay her respects to my father.’
‘Quite,’ they all chorused. They were much more used to politely mollifying, rather than saying anything they really thought or meant.
After a moment or two of silence, only interrupted by the sound of uselessly fluttering fans, beating the air like bird wings, Lydia said, ‘Actually, I think I need to go back to London for a day or so.’
‘But the house is shut up.’ Lawrence had closed it, expecting to spend a longer than usual summer in the countryside. There was a lot to be done. Having said goodbye to his father, he now had his mother to comfort and an estate to run. Lydia had been too horrified by the suggestion of leaving London for three months to form a coherent argument against doing so.
‘I could stay with Ava.’
‘Why do you need to visit London?’
‘I need to go and buy some more clothes.’
‘Didn’t you shop just last month?’
‘For London clothes. Now we are going to be spending so long in the country, I need some suitable things for here.’
‘But don’t you do the same things in London as you do in the country: lunch, chatter, dinner, dance? Is there any real need for more gadding about? More extravagance?’ He sighed wearily.
Lydia doubted this was a financial issue. They had plenty of money. Too much, probably. She bit her lip. She had to remember he was a grieving man, a man about to inherit a great deal of responsibility; he was bound to be tetchy. He wanted her at his side. It wasn’t his fault that he irritated her, thwarted her; it was her own. But what was she supposed to do? A woman like her? What was there for her to do? Besides, since when had Lawrence baulked at the traditional set-up in their lives? Lydia had never heard him hint that he might find her life of indulgence and privilege a little lacking in true purpose, although it was a thought she’d had herself, with increasing frequency, since she’d met Edgar.
Edgar.
His name licked her soul and bit her conscience. She wasn’t planning on shopping at all. It was impossible to resent Lawrence’s implication that she was idle or giddy when he’d been given that very idea because she needed an excuse to visit London to have a secret meeting with her lover. Lydia hated herself and yet at the same time loved the woman who had attracted Edgar. That woman couldn’t be wrong; it was impossible. She chose to smile broadly, although her smile was as tight and tense and insincere as a circus clown’s.
‘You are right, but even so, the two styles are not interchangeable. You must know that by now, Lawrence.’
The dowager stepped in. ‘I won’t accept that you are such a fashion heathen, Lawrence, despite what you’d like to pretend. How can you imagine satins and silks are the same as brogues and tweeds? You’re being ridiculous, my dear.’
Lawrence wasn’t soothed by his mother’s intervention, as she’d hoped. Instead, feeling bullied, he became increasingly fractious and glowered. Lydia decided to put an end to the debate.
‘I need more black clothes. It’s as simple as that.’ She was being deceitful, but she now realised that wasn’t a new thing in their marriage. Before Edgar, she’d deceived Lawrence – and herself – on a perpetual basis. She’d pretended they were happy. Now, her deceit sickened her because she recognised it as a charade; before, she’d thought it was simply all there was.
Lawrence infuriated her, disappointed her, disgusted her, and yet her infuriation and disappointment with herself was equal.
She was not disgusted with herself, however. She could not bring herself to regret a moment with Edgar. He’d taught her so much. How to live and how to feel. She transformed under his touch, and as if to underline this fact, he’d taught her words for her body that she’d never thought she could use. Her breasts changed from day to day. When he was tender they were breasts; when he took her with more passion, she thought of them as tits. Her tits. A crude and hard word. A true and real word. The hair between her legs, which she had never been able to name, had never had need to name, he called her bush. He stroked her there; his fingers were swallowed up. He told her he loved her vagina. She didn’t know if she would die of embarrassment or hysteria. At times yearning for Edgar made her weak. She longed to touch him, even though she knew it was like putting her finger in a flame. She would not feel the pain instantly, but the moment she withdrew she’d be blistered and in agony. Her sex and her heart beat for him as though there had been no other man. No husband. She trembled. The familiar faces that filled the room merged into one dull, indistinct blot. She was left alone in a searing, painful lucidity. All she wanted was Edgar.
Lydia longed to be outside; to feel the sun, uncomfortably hot, scorch her skin. She welcomed it like a lover’s playful pinch. It was suffocating to stay in the stuffy, shaded room. ‘I need some air,’ she blurted suddenly.
She stood up and left the wake, heading for the gardens, pretending not to notice the murmurs and concerned glances.
‘She’s taken the earl’s death quite excessively badly.’
‘I hadn’t realised she was so fond of him.’
‘No. Nor had I.’
34
OUTSIDE, THE AIR was so still that sound carried endlessly. Lydia could hear the clink of a teaspoon against a saucer, the sound of the servants’ footsteps pit-pattering through the house. She thought she ought to whisper. Or scream. She ran to the east front, past the yew hedges and the borders of gladioli. Past the terracotta statues that depicted the seven virtues. She knew them well and automatically named them in her head as she sped by: temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness, humility and chastity. She’d never before thought they were in any sort of chronological order, but now, she wondered. She sat, heavily, with the over-hot daisies, on a grassy slope. The sun had baked the ground and she was wearing black, so there was no danger that her dress would be ruined; still, she should probably have sat in a chair or at least on the steps of the lower terrace. If anyone spotted her here, they would think she was behaving oddly. She was. Did she want them to notice? Sheep baaed, from far off, where they were scattered in a field in the opposite valley. It sounded like a child crying. Lydia wanted to cry herself.
‘The view is magnificent.’
Lydia was startled by Sarah’s voice; she hadn’t realised she’d been followed. She didn’t turn; she feared her friend would see too much in her face. Instead she agreed with fake enthusiasm, ‘Isn’t it?’
The view of the Downs was picturesque to the point of unreality. People often commented that not only did they want to drink it in, they wanted to bottle it and take it home with them.
‘Can I sit with you?’
‘Of course.’
The two women listened to the birds and longed for a breeze to lift the brim of their hats or the edge of their skirts. The grass smelt dry, starved; Lydia felt the same.
‘So, all of this is yours now,’ commented Sarah.
‘Well, Lawrence’s.’
‘It’s the same thing.’
‘I suppose.’
‘You are lucky to have it. So many people are hav
ing to give up the big houses.’
‘Indeed, it’s a marvellous time to be an hotelier or someone looking for a big home to house the old or weak-minded.’
‘Inheritance tax is enough to send one quite mad,’ Sarah sighed.
‘Yes.’
‘But Lawrence has enough?’
‘I think it’s all fine.’ Truthfully, Lydia hadn’t given the question any thought at all. Over the last couple of years she had seen friends crippled by taxes and forced to abandon houses that had been in their families for generations. The ones who suffered the worst were those who’d lost a father and then a son in the war. Two deaths meant two sets of taxes. ‘He’s never mentioned any monetary issues,’ she murmured.
‘Lucky you.’
‘Lucky me,’ Lydia replied, trying hard not to cry.
‘Are you quite all right, dear?’
‘Lawrence and I … Things aren’t as they should be.’
‘He’s just lost his father.’
‘I know.’
‘Is it because of the baby issue?’
‘Not just that.’
‘You’ll have to give him up now.’
‘Who?’ Lydia could no more imagine Sarah, of all people, knowing her secret than she could imagine a man landing on the moon. For this reason – rather than any consideration as to whether she ought to dissemble or not – she didn’t admit to him.
‘Edgar Trent,’ Sarah clarified calmly.
‘Oh.’ Lydia felt an explosion in her gut. To hear his name said aloud, here in Clarendale, was at once a profound liberation and a shock. ‘How did you know?’
Sarah didn’t want to have to say that she’d seen them together in Sir Peter’s study. The image of the sergeant major’s peachy white buttocks moving backwards and forwards, his powerful thighs, dark, hirsute and broad, had not left her consciousness, but she was too shy to admit as much to Lydia. She felt as though she’d done something wrong by discovering them, and her feelings of shame annoyed her. It was the adulterous couple who were the wrongdoers; they were the ones who ought to feel smeared and stained by guilt. She sidestepped. ‘I’ve seen how you are together, ever since Ava’s house party. At Lady Cooper’s lunches and the Duchess of Feversham’s spring ball, for instance.’ She kept her eyes determinedly in front of her, fixed on the view. She knew this conversation would be easier that way.
