Penmarric (73 page)

Since I had no close friends of my own class I eventually had to ask Jan-Yves to be best man. couldn’t think of anyone else to approach. The choice of a place for the honeymoon worried me for a time as I had no wish to be away from Cornwall for long, but Helena suggested Torquay, which I had heard was not unlike Penzance, and I agreed to that with relief. A honeymoon in the next county was hardly very adventurous, but I could always take her abroad later on when I felt more in the mood.

Not unnaturally I thought about the honeymoon a great deal. I wasn’t nervous, but I was undecided about how I should approach it. I was determined nothing should go wrong and confident that I could cope with the situation, but I could see that to make sure I knew what I was doing I should indulge in some discreet practice beforehand. The trouble was that there never seemed to be any time. I was occupied all through June not only by the approaching wedding but by the mine and hardly had a single free evening. Besides when I was free I was usually too tired to visit Penzance. I kept putting the moment off until finally it was too late and I knew I wouldn’t be able to find the time to go. I was annoyed with myself for not making more effort earlier, but not particularly worried. Any healthy man in his prime of life was capable of sexual intercourse, and since Helena was a virgin she would have no idea whether I was experienced or not when the time came for us to spend our first night together. I shrugged away the situation and spent no more time worrying about it. I was sure it would all sort itself out satisfactorily.

The night before the wedding Jan-Yves, William and all my friends from the mine joined me at the pub to cheer me up on my last evening as a bachelor, and the beer and cider flowed until there wasn’t a sober man in the house. Trevose even had to be carried home, a phenomenon never before witnessed in St. Just. Fortunately I managed to avoid such a humiliation, but I was more drunk than I had ever been before, so I must have come close to following in Trevose’s footsteps. At last when the evening was over, William tottered back to his new home on the outskirts of the village, Jan-Yves went to bed with Charity’s successor behind the bar, and I staggered back to Penmarric and fell asleep for the last time in my old room which faced the sea.

The wedding was set for two o’clock at Zillan. When Jan-Yves and I were ready the chauffeur Tredinney drove us there in the Penmarric car, and since we were early I prepared to idle away a few minutes in the front pew. But I wasn’t allowed to idle for long. The rector appeared for a word with me; Peter Waymark, who was an usher, arrived with his wife. Other guests began to appear, and, glancing over my shoulder, I saw Mariana and Lizzie with the Carnforths; they were both staying at Carnforth Hall with Sir Justin and Alice, who were just home from their honeymoon, Mariana’s husband, now a chronic invalid, had once again been left behind in Scotland. Rebecca came with my nephew Jonas, a tough two-year-old with Hugh’s eyes and Rebecca’s wide sullen mouth; Jonas’s sister Deborah, who was the youngest bridesmaid, was by that time at Polzillan House with Esmond, the page, and the two adult bridesmaids, Jeanne and a friend of Helena’s from Warwickshire called Charlotte. After Rebecca’s arrival I saw Helena’s other friends from Warwickshire enter the church; I had met them the week before while they had been staying at Polzillan House and now recognized each one in turn. The St. Enedocs came from St. Ives, the Trehearnes from Helston, the Kehellands from Lelant, the Tregothas from St. Erth; I lost count of the county faces I knew so well. The Penmarric and Polzillan servants, stiffly dressed in their Sunday best, tiptoed into the back pews, and at the far end of the church beneath the bell tower sat a few of the miners from Sennen Garth, the ones who had been successful in the lottery held to decide who should have the limited number of temporary seats available. Trevose by his own choice was not among them.

My mother arrived, looking beautiful as usual, and sat down between Mariana and Elizabeth in the row behind me. Something told me she was trembling with excitement, but when I turned around to whisper a greeting to her she seemed serene enough. Beyond by the doorway I could see the last of the guests arriving. William slipped in with Charity and a pace behind them, much to my surprise, came Adrian. I hadn’t thought he would bother to come down from Oxford for the wedding and had sent him an invitation only as a courtesy.

I thought of my father’s funeral and the truce we had reached afterward, but that seemed long ago now, long, long ago, and the memory of it was blurring in my mind. I wondered what my father would have thought of my marriage. I supposed he would have been pleased, although it was hard to imagine him being pleased with me.

It was good of Adrian to have come.

Two o’clock struck and the organ went on playing and more time slipped away but at last there was a murmur of excitement by the porch and I knew that Helena had arrived.

The organ changed key. We all stood up. I turned to look at her. The odd thing is that now I can’t see her at all; there’s a blankness in my memory so that when I try to recall how she looked or what she wore I can remember only a void in white, an emptiness behind a floating veil. I can remember Jeanne, Deborah and Helena’s friend Charlotte in long pale blue dresses. I can see Esmond, proud and dignified in his page’s costume. But I can’t see Helena. All I can remember thinking is that she looked even more striking than usual but the details are lost to me, lost and gone beyond recall, and even when I look at the photographs now years later they seem not only remote but unreal as well. But I married her. That much I do remember. I remember those words of the wedding service which everyone seems to think so gracious and which I’ve always thought merely embarrassing; I can remember Jan-Yves giving me the ring, remember the touch of metal cold against my dry fingers. I can remember the rector saying a few words to us in private before the altar, but what he said I’ve no idea, for that’s gone too now, gone with all the other forgotten memories of the past, and finally I remember walking down the aisle and out of the church into the faded sunshine of a cold June afternoon. All the village had turned out for the wedding. There were cheers and shouts and a storm of confetti, and I remember smiling and waving as I climbed into the car with Helena to drive to Polzillan House.

I can remember the reception, tables of delicacies, champagne in buckets, a wedding cake like an ivory tower. Jan-Yves made a witty speech, but I merely said a few words of thanks, and afterward there was only talk and laughter and the incessant clinking of glasses. I can remember talking to innumerable people about nothing, trying to talk to Esmond but never being able to say more than a sentence to him without being interrupted.

Esmond. Seven years old, tall and straight-backed with candid eyes and a strong mouth. That was all I wanted now, a son like Esmond, a son of my own whom I could bring up to love Sennen Garth as I loved it. Seeing Esmond made me realize fully how little the wedding meant to me. I loved Helena in my own way and I was glad to be married and I didn’t grudge her one minute of the celebrations, but the proceedings seemed so irrelevant to my way of life, such a waste of time and effort and money. But everything went well. Everything had gone well from the start, ever since I had decided to marry Helena. I had no cause to complain.

We left for Penzance at six o’clock. I had decided against traveling to Torquay on the first night of the honeymoon, so I had booked a suite at the Metropole which in Helena’s eyes had a number of sentimental memories for us. We had a hard time escaping from Polzillan, however. Everyone had to crowd out into the drive to see us off; everyone had to wish us goodbye. I kissed my mother, shook Jan-Yves’s hand to thank him for his role in the service, and made a point of saying goodbye to Esmond.

“Come and stay with us at Penmarric,” I said to him. “You won’t forget, will you? Don’t go back to Scotland and forget all about us.”

“No, Uncle Philip, I won’t forget. Thank you and Aunt Helena very much for letting me be a page and giving me the gold pen.” He was well-mannered without being unnaturally polite. I thought again how much I liked him and wondered as I had often wondered before how a woman like Mariana could have produced such a son.

We left at last, the chauffeur edging the car through the throngs of people, and within half an hour I was signing the register at the Metropole.

We were shown to our suite. The furnishings were the monstrosities one would expect in a place like the Metropole, but I supposed such grandiose luxury was not out of place on one’s honeymoon. At least there was a good view of the sea. We changed, she in the adjoining bathroom and I in the privacy of the bedroom, and when I was ready I wandered into the reception room and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the evening light on the water as I waited for her.

At dinner the conversation took a reminiscent turn as we recalled previous evenings in that dining room, and when the meal was over I escorted her outside for our traditional walk along the esplanade. At last, after the final edge of the afterglow had faded from the sky and the moon had risen, I suggested it was time to go to bed.

“Very well,” she said calmly, but I saw the faint color in her cheeks and knew that she was nervous.

I wasn’t nervous. I just wanted to get it over with. The prospect of my first night with her had been on my mind for so long that now I was more than ready to face it squarely and put it behind me.

As we reached the hotel I murmured, “I think I’ll have one more cigarette out here before I go in. Why don’t you go on ahead upstairs?”

She smiled, agreed, and walked quickly through the doors to the hall of the hotel. For the first time for several hours I was alone.

I lit a cigarette, walked over to the railings of the esplanade and watched the moonlight glittering on the dark waters. The sea was calm; I felt at peace. Finishing my cigarette, I ground it to ashes under my heel and walked back across the road to the hotel. Faint strains of music reached my ears from the dining room; the murmur of conversation floated to meet me from the drawing room close at hand. I mounted the stairs, my feet sinking into the thick carpet, and moved without hesitation down the corridor to the door of our suite.

She was ready for bed. She wore some pale floating garment and as I entered the room I could see her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. Her hair, thick and luxuriant, cascaded over her shoulders and stretched halfway down her back. I was about to tell her how beautiful she looked when she turned to face me with a smile.

“I was just taking off my make-up.”

I stooped to give her a kiss; “Do you wear any? I’ve never noticed.”

She laughed. “How like a man!” she said lightly and raised a slip of linen to her mouth to wipe off a trace of pale lipstick.

It was then that it happened.

I looked at her and went on looking. I stared at her and went on staring. It was such a simple little gesture, the linen pressed to her mouth, the trace of red when she took the linen away, but suddenly it wasn’t simple at all. It was complex—and horrible. The room blurred, the years fell away and my memory spun out of control in a crazy plunge into the past.

I was by my father’s corpse, my imagination making the blood run from his mouth just as the blood had run from Jan-Yves’s cut lip that same morning at the mine.

I was watching my own cut lip in the mirror after my worst quarrel with Hugh, pressing my handkerchief against my mouth and seeing the blood flare on the white linen.

I was at Mariana’s wedding as the stained-glass window made a scarlet gash of her mouth.

I was everywhere at once—Penmarric, the mine, London—but all the while I was somewhere else because someone was crying. I could hear low, harsh, choking sobs. They went on and on and on. Terrible, racking, painful sobs. I couldn’t get them out of my ears—I tried to stop my ears with my fingers but still I heard that dreadful weeping and suddenly my memory opened up like a chasm at my feet and I knew where I was.

I was back among the worst memories of my life, back amidst all the blood and violence and suffering I’d tried so hard to forget. I’d thought I’d never have to live through those memories again, but I was wrong. Time had been displaced, the clock put back.

And I was there.

I was at Brighton with my mother. My mother was all alone and she had no one to protect her except me. My father came and when she started weeping and shouting at him he took her by the shoulders and shook her. I tried to fight him but I was too small, so I couldn’t fight him, I couldn’t protect my mother, I had to stand by and watch while he took her away, and I knew he was going to hurt her, I knew he was, and I waited and waited for her to come back but all the time he was hurting her and there was nothing I could do to stop him. And then at last she came back. I heard her coming down the passage and she came very slowly and fumbled for the door handle as if she couldn’t see what she was doing and I was suddenly so frightened I had to hide my face because I was afraid she might have been disfigured. That was when I heard the sobs. She came into the room and they were all I could hear, and when I managed to look at her I saw her bright hair was disheveled and her neck was scarred with strange marks and her lip was cut and bleeding. She was pressing a handkerchief against her mouth and when she took the handkerchief away it was soiled and bloody.

“Oh God,” she kept saying. “Oh God, help me. Please help me.” But God didn’t lift a finger to help her; my father had hurt her till she was bruised and scarred and bloody and God had just stood by and watched. No doubt He was still standing by as she sobbed for help, and although I tried to help her I couldn’t. I couldn’t stop her sobs or ease her terrible pain. At last she went into the bedroom and when I heard the water running I knew she was trying to wash the pain away, but she couldn’t; it was stamped in her indelibly, and nine months later …

Nine months later Jan-Yves was born. I was ten years old. I didn’t know then what the word “rape” meant, but I damned well knew what had happened at Brighton. My mother had been raped almost under my nose and I hadn’t been able to do anything about it. No wonder I felt so guilty I wanted to forget Brighton by wiping the entire incident from my mind. My mother had been all alone in the world with only me to protect her and I had let my father rape her—I had stood by while he had hit and bruised and hurt her—and afterward I had felt that by the very act of doing nothing I had connived at his guilt until I was every bit as responsible as he was for my mother’s terrible suffering.