‘I suppose the birds must fly the nest one day,’ Mother said sadly, and I was astonished that she would say such a thing, for she had always made us feel as if we were a burden to her.
‘Mummy, when will you have to leave the house?’ Min asked quietly.
‘Soon, within the next month, I think, Min.’ Mummy tried to sound upbeat. ‘So I shall need you two girls to clear out some of your old things. But we shan’t be here until the beastly end, shall we, June?’
I looked up at my mother. I did not know what she could mean.
‘You will come to Italy with me, won’t you, darling?’
Before I could answer Min piped up, ‘And me too? I shall come too, shan’t I?’
‘But, Min, you are getting married tomorrow!’
‘Yes, but Charles has promised to take me to Italy. So we can join you, can’t we?’
Mummy looked uncomfortable, her cheeks reddening. ‘I would rather not travel with newly-weds,’ she said drily.
But Min was not put off. ‘Oh, but I can’t bear it if June goes and I don’t, for I just have to go to Florence. I just have to. Why, I shall go with Charles first for our honeymoon, and then I can meet you when you arrive in Italy. How perfect that would be!’
‘Maybe,’ our mother said uncertainly. ‘We shall think about it.’ I realized that Mother had not waited for an answer from me, but had assumed I would go to Italy with her. As if I belonged to her. I might not want to go, I might want to stay in England with Father. But then I thought about the chance to go to Rome, and to explore places I had only read about in books. It made my heart quicken – the possibility of stepping back in time.
‘Now we had better go back downstairs, and go to bed. Tomorrow is an important day, and we all need to look our best,’ our mother said.
Min grabbed her hand. ‘Mummy, are you happy for me?’ My mother wriggled her fingers out of my sister’s hand. ‘Of course I wish you to be happy, Min, but you must know, as they all say, that marriage is not a bed of roses.’ She paused. ‘You may find it difficult at first in the marriage bed, but you will grow used to it, and I believe your husband will be gentle and attentive. He is a good man.’
She blew out the candle, and we descended the staircase in darkness.
Later, in bed, I could hear Min tossing under her eiderdown. We had shared one room for so many years, and slept in the same bed so many times, yet this night I felt a new distance between my sister and I. It made me want to cry.
‘Are you all right, Juno?’ Min whispered, as if by instinct she sensed my feelings.
‘Can I get into bed with you?’
‘Of course.’
I heard Min pull back her covers. I slipped out of my own bed and tiptoed across the chilly floorboards, climbing into my sister’s warm bed as quickly as I could. We cuddled up together, like two peas in a pod, like two beautiful sea anemones, like two shipwrecked sailors on a raft drifting out to sea.
‘To think,’ Min whispered, ‘this will be the last time we share a bed.’
I felt a lump rise in my throat. ‘Oh, Min, why do you have to get married?’
‘Because I do,’ my sister spoke into my ear. ‘Don’t you know I have always loved Prince Charming, and now I have made him fall in love with me. It is best this way, June, because now he can never take Mummy away from Daddy, can he?’
I froze in alarm. ‘Oh, Min, you’re not marrying Captain Sanderson for that reason, are you?’
‘No, June, I know he loves me. He just fell under Mother’s spell for a while.’ She sighed. ‘I can’t bear to live here any longer, June. I have to make my own life now.’
‘Are you not frightened?’
‘Of what?’
‘Of being a wife. Of having children?’
Min laughed softly, ‘Oh, June, there is nothing to be afraid of, when you are in love. It feels so natural.’ She sighed, and took my hand into her own, squeezing it. ‘Dear June, when you fall in love you will understand what I am telling you, because you will feel how I do now, when all I want is to be in bed with Charles, and for him to caress me.’ She shivered and kissed my wet cheeks. ‘Now make me stop talking about Charles, because I shan’t be able to sleep at all for thinking of how much I desire him.’
She released me from her embrace and turned on her other side. A few moments later I heard the steady rhythm of her sleeping breath. But I could not sleep. I lay on my back, and many images raced through my head. I remembered a time Min had made me pose naked for one of her life drawings, and how the cold air had made my nipples harden, and when that had happened I had felt a tightness between my legs, and a shortness of breath. This was what Min must have been talking about. This was the desire she spoke of. Instinctively I knew it was how Mother felt when she was surrounded by the young, handsome husbands she could never have. I understood it in the way my mother would twist her hips, her eyes become large black pupils, and you could see her breasts, firm and round as if pushing to get out of the fabric of her dress. I touched my own breasts. They were bigger than my hands, and I cupped them, imagining someone else’s hands on them. Desire was not unfamiliar to me, but for me it was different. These stirrings would come to me when I was studying alone, and reading about the Roman women who rebelled against the patriarchs. Clever, spirited women who signed up as prostitutes so that they could have control over their own sexuality and not be used as political pawns in marriages brokered by male relatives. These historical imaginings excited me. As I sat at my desk, day after day, my head poring over a book, I would lengthen my legs, flex my feet and, without thinking, push my hands between my thighs, searching for a part of myself that would yield. Always, though, I stopped myself and clamped my legs tight, straightening my back, disgusted at my own perversion.
These memories trail me all the way back up to the house. How little I knew about love and sexual relations when I was a girl of seventeen. And yet possibly I was a more sensual being then. For there is a part of myself that I have long since shut away, and neither my husband nor my imagination is able to unlock it.
I walk across the nearly dark yard, bumping into Oonagh as she comes out of the kitchen door.
‘June, there you are! Where’ve you been? I was looking for you in the garden, and the orchard, all about the place.’
She is flushed, and looks irritated.
‘I’m sorry, Oonagh, I was down at the lake.’
‘That’s a very big walk. You shouldn’t overdo it, you know.’
‘I’m fine, Oonagh.’ I bend down to take off my boots. ‘Is that your bicycle?’
‘Not at all. Sure we don’t have a working bike between the lot of us.’ She leans forward, whispering, ‘That’s why I was looking for you. It belongs to an old friend of James’s.’
‘James?’
‘Yes.’ She colours, as if it is her fault I cannot remember. ‘James D., Robert’s older brother.’
‘Of course.’ I shove my hands deeper into Robert’s coat pockets, pausing on the threshold.
‘He’s waiting for you inside.’ Oonagh puffs into the dewy air. ‘Well, I’ll be off so.’
‘Are you not coming in for a cup of tea?’
It is so long since I have spoken to a man on my own, without Robert being there, that I suddenly feel very nervous.
‘No, I’ll get my tea at home. Mammy is expecting me.’ She wraps her scarf about her neck. ‘Well, you had better go in to him, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, all right, Oonagh, yes, I will.’ I hesitate. ‘What’s his name?’
‘Mr Sheriden,’ she calls, running off into the gloom, as if she cannot tell me face to face.
Mr Sheriden . . . Phelim Sheriden – Claudette Sheriden’s husband . . . The Sheridens who live in a big, cold house the other side of the woods, our neighbours and yet we have never called on them. The Sheridens who own a piano, and who are somehow part of a secret my husband has chosen not to divulge to me. How I hate secrets.
I take off Robert’s coat and sling it over my arm,
and then I smooth my hair down as best I can. The damp conditions here make it even more unruly than at home. I am sure I look a little wild after my walk by the lake, but there is nothing I can do about it now. The man is sitting by my hearth and it would be bad manners to dally any longer.
Colour – this is the notion that strikes me when I see Phelim Sheriden for the first time. He is the total spectrum of my twilight walk. Dressed casually, he is buried in a large green sweater the colour of moss, and his corduroy trousers are exactly the same shade as the beech trees I have just strolled through. He is standing by the stove, looking intently at the picture on the opposite wall, a crude landscape that belonged to Robert’s parents. He turns as I enter the kitchen, a smile of welcome plastered on his face. But it is his eyes I am inevitably drawn to. They are a bright blue, the same colour as the sapphire lake, the same colour as Mother’s.
He walks over, shakes my hand firmly and introduces himself. ‘I was hoping to see Robert,’ he says, smiling warmly.
‘Oh, I am sorry, he’s away . . .’ I say hesitantly, still startled by his vivid hues.
‘Has he joined up then?’
Before I can stop myself I nod my head, confused that Phelim Sheriden should immediately jump to this conclusion.
‘I thought as much,’ says Phelim pleasantly. ‘When he called over last week, he said he was thinking of it.’
I redden, shocked to discover that Robert had in fact visited the Sheridens and never told me. I sit down suddenly, feeling dizzy and faint. I drop my head to stare at my feet, in their plain brown brogues. I feel dumpy, like Mrs Sanderson, stupid and plain.
Phelim coughs, and then says, ‘So Robert joined up, eh? Like myself and James D., then?’
I look up, trying to compose myself, and hoping I sound normal. ‘Yes,’ I reply weakly, taking in what he has told me. Phelim Sheriden and Robert’s brother, James D., fought together in the last war. It makes sense, for Mr Sheriden speaks and looks as if he comes from a different world to Robert. They would hardly have mixed socially.
I grip the table with my fingers and muster up some manners.
‘Would you like a drink?’ I ask, thinking of a dusty bottle of whiskey at the back of the kitchen cupboard. Tea will not do. I need something stronger to steady myself.
‘That would be super.’ He sits down in Robert’s chair by the fire and stretches out his legs.
I get up, collecting two small glasses from the dresser, and kneel down to open the cupboard. I pour out the whiskey, handing Phelim Sheriden his glass first. We raise our glasses to the candlelight and both take a drink.
‘Do you like it here in Cavan?’ he asks me.
‘Yes,’ I lie, ‘it’s a very beautiful spot.’
‘I suppose, although I always found it quite claustrophobic. I couldn’t wait to leave.’ His honesty startles me.
‘But are you not based here permanently, Mr Sheriden?’ I ask, remembering seeing Claudette Sheriden in the woods just two weeks ago.
‘Please, call me Phelim.’ He spreads his arms as wide as his smile. ‘No, we have been away for a good few years. My wife, Claudette, insisted on returning recently, but for me . . .’ he hesitates, his smile fading, ‘. . . there are too many memories.’
His words float out into space, and I feel tremendously awkward. He puts his hand inside his jacket pocket and pulls out a packet of cigarettes, offering me one. I immediately take it, thanking him.
‘It’s a while since I’ve had one of these,’ I say as he lights it for me.
I sit back in my chair, inhaling deeply, almost closing my eyes with the bliss of it. I did not realize how much I missed smoking until now, puffing rings like a dragon in the Fanning kitchen.
‘What do you do, Mr Sheriden?’
‘I am an artist.’
He smiles again, as the smoke curls about his face, and I wonder why he has not come visiting with his wife.
‘Oh, yes. Robert mentioned it.’
‘Did he really?’ Phelim’s eyes flicker. ‘Well, I try to make some sort of profession out of it.’ He sips his whiskey. ‘Although it was easier to do so in Paris than in Dublin.’
‘Paris,’ I murmur, as if it is the most sacred place on earth. ‘Did you meet your wife in Paris?’
‘No, oddly enough I met Claudette here, in Cavan.’ He pauses. ‘She knew James and Robert first.’
I feel a sudden jolt. Why has Robert never told me this? Possibly Phelim senses my unease, for he continues to talk quickly.
‘I couldn’t bear it here in Ireland during the civil war. It was a very dark time in our history, as I am sure you know. One moment we were heroes heading off to fight in the Great War, and the next we were traitors. So Claudette and I went back to her homeland, and it was there that I discovered painting. We moved to Paris so that I could train, and Claudette worked as an artist’s model.’
‘That must have been fun,’ I say, immediately embarrassed by how silly I must sound.
‘It was very different from here,’ he says, sighing. ‘We didn’t have much to live on, and we didn’t have our own house, or nearly as much space. But it was so stimulating to be in Paris, mixing with other artists, and writers. We wanted to bring our daughter up in France too, although this has proved to be a mistake.’
‘Oh, why?’
I taste the bitter whiskey on my lips, imagining the Paris of the previous decade as he describes it, sitting in dusky cafes discussing art and poetry, fat on culture.
‘Danielle is such a Francophile that she fell in love with a French-man. When we decided to return to Ireland, just before war broke out, they refused to come with us. It broke Claudette’s heart, and she nearly wouldn’t come with me.’
Danielle, Dani, Danny . . . so it was her daughter for whom Claudette Sheriden was calling out in the woods the day I saw her there. I suddenly feel sorry for the woman, for she is in the same position as me, worrying about someone she loves, trapped inside the horror of this war.
‘Are they all right?’ I ask gently.
‘As well as can be expected. Contact is very difficult. We know they left Paris when it was invaded, and are living somewhere in the south of the country, but that is all. We are hoping they might be able to get out. Maybe through Spain.’
‘Your daughter is very young to be married.’
‘Well, my guess is she must be about the same age as you.’
He grins, and he looks cheeky, a lot younger than his age. I colour immediately, feeling gauche.
‘So what has brought a young English girl all the way to Cavan? For I was so surprised to learn Robert had returned. He always swore he would never come back here.’
He opens up the stove and throws his cigarette in. I suck the last dregs from mine, and throw it in after his.
‘It seemed a good idea at the time.’ I am troubled that Phelim Sheriden seems to know my husband’s sentiments towards his home better than I do. Yet the whiskey is warming me, making me more confident.
Phelim nods. ‘Oh, really, it’s not too bad a spot. At least I get seclusion here, to work.’
‘What kind of paintings do you do?’ I turn to safe territory again. My emotions about Robert’s home are so mixed at the moment that I am afraid to talk about Cavan.
‘Well, I’m an advocate of a new kind of painting . . .’ He stands up suddenly, gesturing towards the dull landscape on the wall. ‘My paintings would be very different to this.’
‘Thank goodness!’
He looks surprised and laughs, in complicity.
‘Great Scott, are you an admirer of the new art? Have I found such a rare creature, in the depths of the Irish hinterland?’
I speak shyly. ‘I love looking at art.’
‘Well, in that case, would you like to see one of my pieces?’
I take another sip of whiskey. ‘Have you something here, with you?’
‘Just a small watercolour. I was on my way back from the station. It has been with a gallery in Dublin for the past mon
th or so. Unsold, unfortunately.’
He walks across the flagstones and picks up a leather folder, tucked behind the kitchen table. He unties the string wrapped around it and opens it out on the table. I get up and walk over, standing next to him as he bends down and hands me a small rectangle of paper, with splashes of paint on the back.
‘I left the frame with a new, more conventional work,’ he explains. ‘It seems this piece is a little too modern for Dublin eyes.’
I turn the piece of paper over, and what do I see?
Nothing my eyes are used to, but shapes, and forms from another dimension, with such colour, and everything converging, vying for space. Underneath all this array of form and hue I sense control. It is impressive, and as strict as geometry.
‘Is this Cubism?’ I ask tentatively.
‘You could say it is. Although I prefer the term “abstract”. This is the style of painting I studied in France, but then we were forced to leave, as I told you. I tried London first, but the English are not so keen on the abstract artist.’
‘And how about Ireland?’
He roars with a rich, deep laughter, making me jump. ‘Let us just say that I do not think I will be making my fortune with abstract art in my homeland.’
‘So why are you here?’ I blush suddenly, aware of how rude I might sound. But why return to a place that did not appreciate his gift?
‘I have seen my fair share of death and destruction in the last war. I would not want to be back in France, or even England now. And Dublin, well, I grew tired of it.’
He says this brutally, as if it is fine to say such a thing in front of me.
‘And now I am here, in this small townland, because I am from here and Claudette is unwell. She wanted to come back.’ He casts his eyes downward. ‘Besides, the house was falling apart and I felt I should do it up a bit.’
I look back down at his tiny painting. It is very delicate, and I can see the lines of ink through the thin washes of paint. He has chosen golden colours: soft browns, rust, crimson and orange. They undulate in wavy lines, circles and columns of light.
When I look at his painting I think of my sister singing, holding one beat for two, dear Minim. How strange, I know, but this is what it makes me do.
The Adulteress Page 14
