I was furious, and although I had not intended to mention Phelim Sheriden, I could not help myself. ‘Mr Sheriden called to see you,’ I said tartly.
‘Phelim?’
‘Yes, he thought he might catch you before you went. I didn’t know you called on the Sheridens,’ I continued, hissing into the receiver as quietly as I could. ‘Why didn’t you bring me? There are so few people for me to meet here, and they are people like me, Robert.’
‘I don’t want you going there,’ he replied stiffly.
‘But why?’
‘It’s not important why.’ He paused, his tone softening. ‘Please, June, trust me and do as I ask.’
‘Oh, Robert!’ My voice broke, and I forgot how angry I was. Tears began to prick my eyelids, and I missed him so dreadfully. ‘When will this awful war be over?’
‘Not long, Junie. Be a brave girl, now.’
There was more noise, in the background, and I could hear someone calling, Hey Fanning, stop gassing, will ya’?
‘I’ve got to go, June,’ Robert said hurriedly. ‘Be good.’
And before I had a chance to say goodbye, to tell him I loved him, to hear him tell me the same, the line had gone dead.
Be good, this was all he had said to me. It was an instruction, not an endearment like be loved, be safe, be well or be happy. I stood with the telephone still in my hand, my lip trembling, and on the verge of tears like a small child. None of this was fair. I wanted my husband back, and I wanted things to return to the way they were before the war, when we first met and we all lived in London. I picked a splinter out of the wood in the telephone box and pushed it against the palm of my hand. I could hear Miss Daly behind me, her low gravelly pitch, and Oonagh’s light treble, like a piccolo in comparison. I wondered: was Robert going to a dance that very night? And who would he dance with? A girl he preferred to partner than his own wife? I wondered: would she be a pretty young thing, would she tempt him to stray? The thought made me prick my finger with the splinter, and I stood motionless watching a bud of red blood pop out.
I shuffle through the trees, bending slowly and checking the windfalls for damage. I am in my least favourite part of the orchard. The trees are more closely planted together, and as I move through them, my coat catches on their branches, as if they are pulling at me like demanding children. This place is a million miles away from the war, and yet it makes me think about the tragedy of Robert’s brother’s fate. I wonder: does his soul wander here?
The gate creaks behind me, a twig snaps, and I jump like a cat. But when I turn it is not the ghost of Robert’s dead brother who stands before me, but Phelim Sheriden, a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, a lock of ginger hair flopping across his forehead and his hands shoved into his pockets.
I straighten up, embarrassed that he has caught me in an old pair of Robert’s trousers, with my hair tied up in a huge knot on top of my head.
‘Apologies for barging in,’ he says, ‘but Oonagh said you were out here.’
‘Is she still in the house?’ I ask, looking at the winter sun beginning to sink into the hills.
‘She was just leaving.’ He stubs out his cigarette on the trunk of the nearest tree. ‘Can I give you a hand?’
‘On one condition,’ I reply.
He looks at me expectantly, his blue eyes wide and mischievous like a schoolboy’s. ‘And what condition would that be?’
‘You take some of the apples off my hands,’ I smile at him.
‘Delighted to,’ he says cheerily, ‘it will do Claudette good to eat these apples from the Fanning orchard.’
‘How is she?’ I ask, feeling suddenly tense at the mention of her name.
He doesn’t look at me, but bends down scooping apples up and loading them into my basket. ‘She is quite unwell,’ he says quietly.
Silence drops between us, and I do not know what else to say. I wonder why he has called round to me.
And as if he has read my thoughts, he says abruptly, ‘I brought you some honey.’
‘Oh, how wonderful.’ I clasp my hands together.
‘I was given some, and it is too much for us,’ he says.
‘Well, that is very kind of you. I adore honey.’
‘Yes, I thought you might.’
The basket is brimming with apples. I pick it up, but Phelim leans forward and takes it from my arms. Our hands brush, and his skin feels soft, so different from Robert’s rough farmer’s hands. He lifts one of the apples out of the basket and smells it, and then holds it for me to smell. I inhale.
‘God, I love that smell,’ he says. ‘It is the perfect combination of bitter and sweet. And it smells so new, unblemished.’
It is almost dark, and now the sun has set and his face is cast in shadow. I feel something enveloping us. Is it the old love-lost ghosts of the orchard? Or is it us – is this the beginning of our desire? I shiver.
‘You’re cold,’ he says.
‘Yes, yes,’ I stutter. ‘It’s getting chilly. Would you like to come into the house for a cup of tea?’
We sit either side of the hearth and I offer Phelim a cigarette with his tea.
He takes one, smiling. ‘You managed to get a supply?’
‘The apples are proving very useful.’
We puff on our cigarettes, and it makes me feel I could be in London sitting in Lyons’ Corner House, having a cup of tea with my sister Min, as free as a bird.
‘Any word from Robert?’ Phelim asks.
‘I got a letter this morning. He is flying now, stationed somewhere in Sussex. That is all I know.’
Phelim has touched my sore spot. After the disappointment of our telephone conversation I was so excited when I received the letter, hopeful it would uplift me, and practically tore the one single sheet in half when I opened it. The letter was bound to be an anticlimax. I convinced myself my husband would hardly have the time or the inclination to write his wife a love letter when he is in the middle of a gruelling cycle of ‘ops’, as he calls it. But still his few words seemed inadequate. He wrote about the food and the rationing, how dreadful it is, and how he missed the butter and cream of Cavan. He talked about the other ‘chaps’, and what good men he was with. Then his writing trailed off in the middle of the page as if he was trying to rack his brains for something to tell me, and finally the letter ended with a few enquiries about the house. Was I warm enough? Not to forget to ask the Tobins to bring in the turf for me.
It was the kind of letter I might expect to receive from an acquaintance, not from a husband to a wife, the woman you cherish and adore, because surely that is what I am to him? There was no mention of the baby or talk of love. Neither did he say when he might be on leave.
The letter made me cry. I fell back on the bed sobbing until I felt weak and sick, and had to stumble into the yard to empty my stomach of breakfast. I sat in the shed for a long time, my back pressed against the wooden stalls, my knees into my chest, shaking my head. Could it be Robert didn’t love me at all? Had he joined the war as a way of escaping our marriage?
I needed his letter to feel like he was reaching out to me, so that I could conjure up his scent, his embrace, and know that he was carrying my love for him in his heart wherever he went. I needed him to know this so that it would keep him safe like a talisman. Love is not a hardy thing. Did Robert not know this? How capable it is of disintegrating without reassurance.
‘What do you do most evenings?’
Phelim’s voice breaks through my distraction. Without thinking I tell him about my thesis. ‘I am doing a little writing, some research,’ I say uncertainly, afraid he will think me strange.
‘I see.’ He looks interested, leans forward in his chair.
‘When I met Robert I was at university studying Classics.’ I take a deep breath. ‘I had the intention of writing a study on the life of Julia, the daughter of Emperor Augustus.’
‘Oh, the bold Julia!’ Phelim laughs.
I am shocked. Here is someone who has heard of Jul
ia, sitting right in front of me, in the last place I would expect, so far from college and London!
‘You know about Julia?’ I ask excitedly.
‘Yes, I am rather interested in classical literature myself. I love Suetonius’s Twelve Caesars, and all his wonderful gossip. I do believe he wrote quite a bit on Julia.’
‘She is a colourful character, and such a wonderful contradiction of beauty and refinement, yet, of course, with very loose morals . . .’
I trail off, not wanting to be too specific.
‘Didn’t her own father banish her to an island for committing adultery?’ he asks, sipping his tea.
‘Yes, although I think her stepmother, Livia, was behind her banishment. She wanted to get rid of Julia, and all of her children, so that her son, Tiberius, could become the next emperor.’
‘Well, how fascinating to have discovered a classicist, on my doorstep in Cavan.’ Phelim chuckles, offering me another cigar-ette. ‘I would love to read your thesis,’ he adds.
‘Oh, it’s not finished,’ I answer nervously. ‘You see, I never completed my degree . . .’ I hesitate, blushing, ‘I met Robert, and so then – well, it seemed irrelevant at the time to continue . . .’
‘But now it is relevant?’ Phelim asks softly, looking at me under lowered eyelids.
‘Yes, now it is,’ I reply emphatically, inhaling deeply and letting a plume of smoke drift out of my nostrils, and quite by chance I catch Phelim’s eye. His expression is encouraging, as if he believes in what I am doing.
The teapot goes cold, yet still we talk on.
‘So what is your theory on Julia?’ Phelim asks. ‘Was she really as depraved as they claim?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ I shake my head, and feel my heartbeat quicken. ‘I think she was frustrated.’ I continue, passionately, ‘I believe she was in fact a very intelligent woman, and that was her downfall. She had no outlet for her intelligence and so she grew bored. Her adultery was an act of rebellion. I think she used her body as a political tool.’
‘But what about love?’ Phelim asks, his penetrating gaze making me feel slightly disconcerted. I wonder if I am being disloyal to Robert because I am talking about love with a man I hardly know.
‘She wasn’t interested in love. Like anyone seeking power, she wanted men – and women – to adore her so that she was always in control. She needed to conquer them.’
I take a deep breath and look to Phelim for reassurance.
‘For instance, she registered as a prostitute not for any masochistic reasons, but because a new law had been brought in, making it illegal for any Roman woman to have sexual relations with anyone other than their husband unless she was a prostitute. That is why Julia, and her friend Phoebe and many other Roman women, signed up as prostitutes, not because they were particularly promiscuous or debauched. It was a political act of defiance.’
‘So she considered it was her right to be an adulteress if she so chose?’
Are these not dangerous words to say to another man’s wife? I look into Phelim’s face, his bright blue eyes and boyish smile, remembering the last words Robert had said to me. Be good. I look away quickly, out of the window at the full silvery orb of the moon, which has risen while we have been talking. It is wrong, I know, but so very nice to talk to a man and sense that I am being admired.
‘Do you think ancient Rome was very different from how we live now?’ Phelim’s crisp voice breaks the silence.
‘Yes, and then no.’ I remember the nights I lay in bed when I was at university, wondering about how my Roman characters really lived. ‘It is hard to imagine the concept of the gladiatorial games, and the enjoyment of the death of other human beings as a sport, but then maybe that was one way of culling their enemies . . .’
My voice drops, as if someone might be outside the cottage door listening to us, although it is ridiculous to imagine that. We are alone, quite completely, with only the animals of the night outside rustling in the undergrowth, and the trees as silent sentinels.
‘I have heard of death camps created by the Nazis. And of course there is the systematic bombing of cities where civilians are living. Is it so different?’ My voice trembles. ‘Is it maybe even worse?’
We sit without speaking and I grip my hands, for I have frightened my very soul with images of the modern world outside the sanctity of Cavan. Phelim pushes his foot across the flagstones and back again, to rest against his chair leg. I shake myself, thinking of Rome again.
‘In many ways,’ I say, ‘most Roman women experienced more freedom than women do now . . .’
‘Especially in Ireland,’ Phelim adds. ‘I am finding it hard to adjust to society here after Paris.’
‘Any word on your daughter and her husband?’ I ask, feeling guilty that I have not thought of asking before.
‘No,’ he replies briefly. ‘Claudette and I keep the candles burning and the prayers flowing.’
‘You must be so very worried about your daughter,’ I say gently, thinking of how much I have been fretting about Robert and Minerva.
‘I am. Although it is worse for Claudette.’
I look at him, not sure why he says this. He takes a cigarette out of the packet, plays with it between his fingers and looks up at me furtively.
‘Danielle is not my daughter.’
I colour, embarrassed at his disclosure, and wondering why on earth he has told me. I say nothing.
‘I am sorry,’ he stands up suddenly. ‘I’m afraid I must go home. I should not leave Claudette on her own for so long.’
‘Of course.’ I get up as well, and shake his hand. His grip is firm, his palm warm and engulfing.
‘Well, I look forward to hearing more about your studies of Julia,’ he says cheerily in an attempt to break the gloom that has descended upon us.
I sigh, still feeling his fingers tipping mine. ‘It shall be a hard job, since I am missing most of my books, but I hope to have it finished before the baby comes.’
He squeezes my hand, looking surprised. ‘I had no idea – why, congratulations.’ He keeps shaking my hand fiercely, nearly dislocating my arm, a bright smile plastered on his face. ‘Robert must have been dismayed to leave you.’
‘Yes,’ I say in a small voice. ‘He was.’
He hesitates, looks at me closely. I can feel myself begin to blush and, confused, I stumble towards the door, tugging at it with my right hand.
‘Don’t forget your apples,’ I say, flustered, hoping he will be distracted and not look at my face.
‘I’ll just take a few,’ Phelim says, bending down and reaching into the basket. He shoves some apples into his pockets. I tug at the door, which is incomprehensibly stuck. He puts his hand on my shoulder. ‘Please, Mrs Fanning, let me get the door for you.’
I stand aside, and he is next to me. I am surprised to notice that he is not much taller than I. ‘Please, call me June.’
He pauses on the threshold, and I shrink back, dreading that he will ask me again about Robert or the baby and that I might disintegrate, as I have so often in recent days.
‘I have a library,’ he says suddenly. ‘You know, I do believe we have quite a few classical authors. Would you by any chance like to come over and see for yourself?’
‘Oh, my goodness, I’d love to.’
‘Yes,’ he continues. ‘And I shall introduce you to Claudette. She would be delighted to meet Robert’s wife.’
‘That would be lovely,’ I reply timidly, suddenly intimidated by the idea of meeting Claudette, and yet needing to, desperately needing to.
‘Well, then.’ He slaps his thigh boisterously, and his breath puffs into the chill air. ‘Shall I expect you tomorrow morning, at around eleven o’clock, shall we say? Or maybe that is not convenient . . . come any time. We are always in – always in . . .’
‘Eleven is fine,’ I reply shyly.
‘Excellent,’ he looks pleased.
I watch him walk across the garden. He treads in a path of moonlight, h
is back glinting dove-grey, against the black night. He pauses to light a cigarette, and for a second his face is illuminated and it makes him seem otherworldly. I watch Phelim Sheriden disappear into the trees, and I wonder whether I now have a friend. It is only then that I remember Robert, and his instruction to me while we were speaking on the telephone. Oh, hell, I am not supposed to visit the Sheridens.
THE ADULTERESS IV
He takes up a clean paintbrush and brushes each of her eyelids shut. The soft, dry bristles hush her, and she lets him lead her to the bed like a small child. She lies down.
A sudden bang against the windowpane jolts her and she sits up, her eyes wide open. He stands in front of her, shirtless.
It is only a bird, he says.
She stares at him. He is swarthy and dark, like the pirate in her dreams.
Close your eyes, he says softly, lie down.
She does as she is told. She can hear the floorboards creaking as he moves about the room. She lies on the bed, her eyes closed, naked and reborn, trusting him. Then she feels his breath above her, and she knows he is leaning over her. Her body tightens with anticipation.
She feels a tiny drop land on her forehead, like a speck of rain, and then the brush comes down, this time wet. He pulls a line from the tip of her head, across the bridge of her nose, down her lips to her chin and neck. Then he pauses. She hears the brush dip into water nearby, the tinkling of the handle against the glass, and she imagines his arm as he quickly mixes colours, the way he always does so fast, as if without thought. Back the brush comes and this time he trails it between her breasts, down the centre of her, all the way to her navel. Back to her breasts, and he paints around her nipples; excited by the cold, wet paint, they become hard and she tries to guess what colour they are: green from the forest, blue as the sea, yellow from the sun. He is painting her stomach now, and she senses his delight in her small, round belly. She can feel the brush spiralling around her stomach and then spraying off in all directions onto her hips and thighs. She is reminded of a game she used to play with her sister, when they would take it in turns to lie on their tummies while the other traced a picture on her sister’s bare back and the challenge was to guess what it was. They could spend hours like this on the beach in the summer, making temporary pictures, gradually becoming more and more intricate, tattoos of shapes and images, which they carried on their backs until they ran into the sea, kicking spray at each other and enjoying the ecstasy of movement after the still moments of concentration on the sand.
The Adulteress Page 18
