The Adulteress Page 4

  ‘Are you all right?’ she asked her daughter.

  Min sat up, rubbing her chin. ‘I’m fine,’ she replied brightly. ‘I suppose I deserved it.’

  Mother pulled Min up by the wrists, dusted her down. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but just look at what you did to those new dresses I ordered for you both. And it’s the Sandersons coming to tea, and you know how Daddy likes to impress Captain Sanderson.’

  I looked over at the house, the study window dark against the sunlight, but I knew my father was sitting there, looking at us, indifferent to Captain Sanderson’s arrival, ignoring my mother’s behaviour.

  Mother took Min’s hand and squeezed it in her own, and they began walking briskly towards the house. I stood, willing my father to open the window, shout out at Mother, tell her she was being a tyrant. But nothing happened and in the end I trotted up the lawn behind my mother and Min, their arms linked. I knew what Mother was trying to do. It made me feel sick, and I dreaded the forthcoming tea, the sly asides at my expense and the praise of Min. She was trying to split us, but she never would, not ever.

  The lawn rose in a slight incline as we approached the veranda, and I tripped as I hurried behind them, only just managing to regain my balance without falling onto the gravel. Mother noticed.

  ‘Clumsy foot!’ Her voice rang out, soft and mocking, and Min turned round, and giggled at me. I forgave her though, for Min had taken my punishment for me, had she not?

  All summer long we had to endure tea on the lawn with this young gentleman or that, prospective husbands that my mother had selected for us. She would flirt with the fathers, the mothers rigid with disapproval, and our father was sometimes there, sometimes not, but so distracted it hardly mattered. There was my sixteenth birthday and yet another tea party with the Sandersons. That was the afternoon when the seeds were sown for all the bad things that would happen to my family.

  It was a sweltering June day, and there was nothing I would have rather done than gone down to the beach with Min, and swim in the sea. We could even have begged Mrs Wyatt to give us a small basket filled with egg sandwiches, two small bottles of her tart lemonade and a slice of fruitcake each. It would have made the perfect birthday afternoon. Just the two of us, lying on the sand, tickling each other’s toes and talking about our dreams for the future. But Mother interfered and told me that my sixteenth birthday meant I was grown-up now, too old to be building sandcastles, the right age to get used to polite society. Min thought it hilarious that Mother would describe the Sandersons as ‘polite society’, but Mother’s attention made me nervous. I was bound to disappoint.

  For the special occasion of my sixteenth birthday Mother had decided to buy me a new dress, which had given her an excuse to go into town and spend an afternoon in Hooper’s admiring her own reflection in the new season’s fashions. She announced that with the advent of the Thirties there was, thank goodness, a return to more feminine contours: a normal waistline, a lowering of the hem, curlier hair and more attractive hats. All of these trends Mother had adopted.

  ‘It’s important,’ she said to us, ‘for the matriarch always to look smart and up to the minute.’

  Min smirked in the corner. ‘But, Mother,’ she said sarcastically, ‘there would never be any fear of it being otherwise.’

  Mother sniffed, and turned her attention to the dress she had chosen for me. ‘Yes, that will do.’

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror of the dressing room, and out of the corner of my eye I could see the assistant’s unsure expression, Min’s hand over her mouth and Mother’s stern face.

  ‘Oh, June!’ Min blurted out, ‘you do look a sight!’

  The dress was buttercup-yellow with a bright-orange print, shades that looked fabulous on my raven-haired mother and would, next year, look equally super on Min, but were not suited to my complexion, not at all. I have the colouring of my father, light-brown hair, pale skin and ginger freckles spattered across the bridge of my nose. My best features are my eyes, which are the only thing I inherited in looks from my mother. I opened them wide in that dressing room in Hooper’s, staring in horror at the vision of myself in the tight yellow dress.

  ‘Mummy, I think it is too small.’

  ‘Not at all. You just need to eat a little less. You’ve put on far too much weight recently.’

  It was true that for the first time in our lives I was larger than Min. I spent as much time as possible reading, with secret supplies of Mrs Wyatt’s ginger cake in my pockets, whereas Min had no interest in books or cake, but liked to roam outside, picking up tiny blue birds’ eggs, shells from the shore, leaves and stones, which she would bring back to the house and draw. All the same, it was not so much my waist as my chest that was too large for the dress. It was the only part of my anatomy that I believe my mother may have envied.

  ‘You need to keep covered up,’ Mother warned me. ‘A bosom of your proportions, if revealed even to a tiny extent, will give a man the wrong idea.’

  But I had seen the flash in my mother’s eyes as she glanced at my bust, sensed her irritation, and it pleased me slightly. Now she had done her best to make one of my only assets look its worst by squeezing me into a garish, georgette dress, with a very fussy bow at the front and a high collar, which strained at the seams every time I sat down.

  ‘Mother, I don’t think this dress suits me at all.’

  But she ignored me, a cerise crêpe evening dress for herself already being packaged by the assistant, its price three times that of my dress.

  The only item my mother bought me that I liked was a pair of cream kid gloves. These did make me feel sophisticated. They were incredibly soft, and felt like a protective second skin. My mother was a huge fan of gloves. She described them as possibly the most erotic part of a woman’s wardrobe. For to peel them away was to reveal the most delicate part of a lady’s anatomy, her tiny hands. With gloves you could remain mysterious, for who was to know whether the lady was married or not?

  I stood for an age in my underwear, looking out of my bedroom window at the perfectly blue sky, the seagulls wheeling about, the dress lying on a chair next to me, wishing I could be free like those birds.

  Min came into the room. ‘Come on, Juno, everyone is waiting.’

  ‘Oh, what the hell, it’s only the Sandersons.’ I grabbed the dress and pulled it on over my head.

  Min helped me with the buttons at the back. ‘Poor you,’ she said. ‘How is it our mother doesn’t have a maternal bone in her body?’

  I knew exactly what she meant, for what mother would wilfully try to make her daughter look like a fool?

  What made wearing the dress even worse was that it was such a hot day. The yellow material clung to my sticky body, and the high neck made me feel even more choked. I longed to rip it off and sit under the weeping willow tree, fanning myself with its long green fronds, dressed solely in a cool cotton petticoat. It had taken me so long to get ready, so much time begging Mother to be allowed to wear something else – anything else – that by the time I was walking across the lawn to the tea table the rest of the company were already seated.

  Horror of horrors, there was a stranger at the table; and not only that, but he was a boy! I stumbled forward, aware I was perspiring, and the panic of this making me redden. Min had gone on ahead and was sitting on the chair closest to me, her black hair tied back loosely with a pink ribbon, dressed in a plain white linen dress. She looked up at me sympathetically.

  ‘Well, I was wondering what happened to the birthday girl!’ said Father, standing up and pulling out a chair for me. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’ He handed me a small, neat package, which I knew instantly was a book, and my fear and embarrassment melted away.

  ‘Oh, thank you,’ I said, to my dear sweet father.

  I knew what it was. He had promised it to me months ago. Myths and Legends of Greece and Rome, an edition all of my own. It was my grandfather’s book, published in 1880, and illustrated with engravings from antique sculptures. Sudd
enly the silly yellow and orange dress was forgotten about, and all I could think of was getting back to my bedroom to open the package up and start reading it, all over again, like revisiting an old friend.

  My mother’s voice broke through my thoughts. ‘June . . . June . . . you haven’t said hello to our guests.’

  Captain Sanderson leaned forward and shook my hand. ‘Happy birthday, young lady.’

  He was so very tall he nearly blocked out the sun. Min called him Prince Charming because he was dashing, and handsome, with a fine moustache and chestnut-brown eyes. He was also young, much younger than his wife, who was a quiet, dumpy woman, completely in awe of Mother. She nodded at me now, and wished me a happy birthday.

  ‘This is Meryl and Charles’s nephew, and he is called Charles as well,’ said Mother. ‘So it will be a very confusing afternoon,’ she twittered.

  Charles Junior extended his hand and shook mine firmly.

  ‘Charles is about to follow in his uncle’s illustrious footsteps and join up,’ said Mother.

  ‘The navy, rather than the army,’ Captain Sanderson interrupted.

  ‘I hope I can live up to my uncle’s fine reputation,’ Charles Junior said earnestly, glancing curiously at Min, as she raised a hand to hide the smile that spread across her face.

  ‘Well,’ Captain Sanderson said, dramatically slapping his left thigh, ‘unfortunately I didn’t have the chance to serve my country for long.’

  Every time they came to tea, Captain Sanderson’s war story was brought up. His grim experience in the cavalry, and how he was only three weeks at war in Belgium when he was thrown off his horse in combat, and was lucky to survive with his leg still attached to his body.

  ‘I’m no good to anyone now,’ he said, looking at Mother.

  ‘Oh, that’s just silly, dear Charles,’ she replied, patting his wife’s knee. ‘You wouldn’t be without him, would you, Meryl?’

  Mother looked magnificent, completely outshining poor Mrs Sanderson. She wore a new Chanel dress with a matching bolero jacket, a striped sash and a small hat in the same material tilted on the side of her head. The overall effect was fresh and sporty, while at the same time remaining ladylike. On her hands were, of course, a pair of cream gloves. I watched Captain Sanderson ogling her; even Charles Junior could not keep his eyes off her. It was funny how Father never seemed to notice.

  Mrs Wyatt appeared with the tea, and because it was my birthday she had made my favourite cake – apple sponge, even though apples weren’t in season yet. She must have used some of the precious hoard, stored in straw in the cellar since last winter.

  ‘Quite delicious,’ said Father, cutting another slice of cake. ‘Quite, quite delicious.’

  We sat back in our chairs, bathing in the bright sunshine, and for a moment everyone was quiet.

  ‘June, open up that present, will you?’ Father asked impatiently.

  ‘All right.’ I ripped off the paper to reveal just what I had hoped for.

  ‘Myths and Legends of Greece and Rome,’ Captain Sanderson read as he leaned over and took the book out of my hand. I was annoyed, but said nothing, sitting demurely with my hands in my lap.

  Mother sighed. ‘How boring,’ she said. ‘I would think a girl of your age would rather have a novel of some sort.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Captain Sanderson. ‘I loathed Latin at school, but I did enjoy hearing all about the wrangles of the gods and goddesses – lots of passion there.’ He chortled. ‘And so very different from our religion.’

  ‘They are a reflection of our humanity,’ Father spoke up. ‘Everything the gods and goddesses did, or said, was a way of illustrating man’s condition to the Ancients.’

  ‘Whatever you say, old man,’ Captain Sanderson said, but Father was not to be put off. I could see his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. He was the most animated I had seen him in weeks.

  ‘Their stories can make us think of all our human foibles, in particular our moral dilemmas. It is the exact opposite of our Christian religion, which tries to suppress the human experience.’

  Yes, that is just so, I thought, but I did not speak up and neither did anyone else. There was a pause. Mrs Sanderson coughed, and Mother picked up the pot, offering more tea.

  My birthday always heralded the beginning of the summer holidays, when Min and I were at our most euphoric, for we faced day after day of freedom. Although we had schoolfriends aplenty, neither of us was fond of boarding school. But Father had high hopes, although Mother said a governess at home would do. He wanted his daughters to be pioneers in academia. He wanted his world of ancient ruins, dead tongues and pagan glories to live on through his offspring.

  But my sister Minerva, despite her name, had no interest in ancient history. She lived in the present. Her only interest in the past was inspired by art, her favourite painter Delacroix, and music, her great love, Strauss. Min refused to be weighed down by Father’s obsession, and many times, while I had my nose firmly in a book – I was spending the summer reading Virgil’s Aeneid upon Father’s instructions – Min appealed to me to come and dance in the garden, catch the sunlight through our fingers, accompany her on the piano while she sang, and abandon my studies. It was hard for me to refuse my pretty, dark sister’s entreaties, but burning inside me – shy, plain June – was ambition, which had nothing to do with the things I talked to Min about. I wanted to go to university, and spend my life studying the Romans. This was how I felt when I was sixteen. Min, however, was a romantic, and although a year younger than me she was far more interested in boys.

  ‘What did you think of Charles Junior?’ she asked me, that night after the birthday tea.

  We were both squeezed together on the windowsill, our feet hanging over the edge and dangling in the wisteria. It was so thick and high we were hidden from the road, and were able to watch people passing by, going in and out of other houses, sitting or working in their gardens. In the distance we could see the lights of Torbay winking at us, and imagine the inky sea, its promise of somewhere else other than home. To sit on the windowsill was a favourite hobby of ours since we were little. ‘Spying on the neighbours,’ Min called it.

  ‘Oh, Charles, he was all right, I suppose,’ I replied reluctantly.

  ‘Not for you then, Juno?’ Min swung her feet backwards and forwards. ‘Now you’re sweet sixteen, Mummy will want you married off as soon as possible so that she can save on the school fees, get herself a fur this year.’

  ‘She’s not that bad, Min.’

  I shuddered at the idea of being married. To have a husband, and to have to sleep in the same bed as him, horrified me. Actually I did like Charles Junior, but he had hardly noticed me. What was the point of even thinking about him, when he was, quite obviously, smitten with Min? He was a boy who wanted a beauty. Maybe one day I would meet someone like Father – a great mind whom I could admire – and help in his work.

  ‘But just think, if you were married you would have your own money, and you could have your own house, and never have to see Mother again, ever, if you wanted to,’ Min said.

  ‘Is that how you feel, honestly?’ I looked at my sister. Min remained staring ahead, her profile reminding me of a drawing of a Red Indian I had seen in one of my history books. Everything was perfectly straight: her forehead, and nose, her fine cheekbones, and her neat lips pressed together. Her black hair was loose, her baby curls had turned into languorous waves, which fell straight and then swept her shoulders.

  ‘Oh, look,’ she said pointing, ‘there’s Mrs Webster going off out, all dressed up to the nines, I wonder where she can be going.’

  ‘Min, do you really want to get married so young?’

  ‘Of course I do. I want to fall madly in love – that’s what artists do best, apart from paint.’

  ‘Oh, you are silly.’ I put my arm around my sister’s narrow shoulders.

  ‘It’s different for you,’ said Min, looking intently at me. She was smiling, but her eyes were black, hard. �
�Mother doesn’t actually hate you.’

  ‘But she doesn’t hate you, either.’

  ‘Yes, she does.’ Min leaned forward and plucked a tendril of buds out of the wisteria.

  ‘Of course Mummy loves you, Min. She adores it when you sing, and she loves your paintings. She is always praising you.’

  ‘I suppose,’ said Min, pushing wisteria through her bare toes. It was a warm night, with no breeze. I thought of the indigo sea, heavy beneath the night sky, thick as treacle, but deliciously cool. I shifted my hot legs.

  ‘I can’t bear to get into bed,’ I said listlessly.

  ‘Imagine being married.’ Min’s eyes were twinkling, her mood less serious. ‘I wonder what it is like . . .’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Vivien said it can hurt, and that it’s awfully messy—’

  ‘Oh, stuff Vivien. What does she know! I can’t wait to be kissed properly and to touch—’

  ‘Oh, do stop,’ I interrupted, irritated. I didn’t want to think about being kissed, or touching or being touched. I wriggled on the windowsill, bringing my knees up and hugging them. I wanted to stay where I was, firmly planted in the past.

  ‘Do you remember that time we saw Mr Gregory?’ Min whispered.

  ‘Of course I do!’

  It had been on a similar night to this, two summers ago, when we had watched our neighbour across the street taking a bath. It was like a strange vaudeville show. His curtains open, the bare light bulb on, and the silhouette of this middle-aged man, naked, climbing into the bath. We had convulsed in giggles, holding onto each other and nearly falling through the wisteria onto the veranda. But deep down inside I had been appalled at our voyeurism, and shocked at what I had seen. I had always wondered: did Mr Gregory know we were spying on him?

  Min loved bringing the story up, talking about the size of his thing, and did I think it was average, or big? I didn’t like to think about it at all. Yet I could never forget what it looked like, and it seemed strange that this body part belonged to half the population, yet was something I had never seen before. It was a secret to all the girls I knew.