Sin (12 page)

TWENTY-EIGHT

We live in Lexington now. We sold the studio flat in London. My home with Dominick. And William.

Elizabeth's studio is rented. For a nominal sum. To a young artist, Beatrice, I forget her second name, who had … a look about her. We never visit. All financial matters are handled through an agent.

Charles has given Frimton to his son, Christopher. He returned to England. A married man. With a young family. Two boys. I do not visit.

I came back to Lexington, for my mother. A sudden kindness. Or was it penance? Elizabeth had said goodbye to her. Extraordinary, her late cruelty. But my mother will not hear a word against her, and always says, “I understand.” So do I—in a way. But it is a long road from understanding to acceptance. And I haven't even begun the journey.

There is no question of divorce from Elizabeth. Irrelevant, Charles says. She says nothing. To my knowledge. So we live in Lexington, this man and I. The bodies work together. Still move together—in a manner perhaps programmed in us before we were born. Afterwards, he turns from me. Still. In his sorrow. And his pleasure.

Drugged, in a way, we continue. The surface of our lives is tense. But we're familiar with that now, and it is less distressing than might be supposed.

When he looks at me with hatred, as he sometimes does, I accept the blow. And when my nakedness offends him, I cover myself. There was a time when I was a goddess.

Where once I searched for clues to understand her, now I have all I need to study her. Pictures. Letters. Clothes. Perfumes. Soaps. Books.

And her husband.

And still I do not know her.

When Charles is away—less often now—I sit in her room. I look in the mirror, and I use her small array of beauty aids. I bought a blonde wig. Metamorphosis.

Sometimes I wear her clothes and her face and hair for hours. Gazing endlessly into the mirror, I remember a teacher at school who had warned of the devil who looks back—if you gaze too long at yourself. The devil does not look back at me. But then, would I recognise him? Elizabeth does not gaze back at me, however closely and falsely I resemble her. And Ruth does not gaze back either. For I am neither Ruth nor Elizabeth. Just a reflection. Bits of me. And bits of her.

I never thought to lay this mutant out for Charles. I feared he would have seen the horror of it. And might have killed it.

But my creation, like Frankenstein's, discovered a life of its own. Once, when I believed Charles was away, as I did my essential, daily penitential walks around the lake, once for William, once for Stephen, he … encountered it.

And weeping fell upon it.

All was different. The movements. The sighs. The rhythm.

Afterwards, I felt I knew her better.

As he walked in silence towards Lexington, I left the golden hair and blue jeans and white shirt on the bank. And, wet before I ever touched the water, swam through the bitter April waves to the other side and back again.

There were visions of course. Of the human adolescent statue. But I knew it well.

I still have my own times. When I am magnificent, voluptuous. When I—Ruth—rise and fall on sheets or on the ground for him.

But less often. I feel no resentment.

Dominick? Well, Dominick left. Not quietly either. With as much anger and bitterness as his exhausted soul could muster. I do not blame him. He went to California. Back into academic life. He is much feted. Perhaps you've heard of him? There was a brief period of intense promiscuity. He wrote to me—about this aspect of his new life. I burned the letter. In case he has another child. In his new life.

A few years ago he married a tall, blonde, brainy cliché—fifteen years his junior. I smile sometimes to think of it. He is adored, I gather, as once he adored. A proper harmony. Balance achieved at last.

No doubt he has a tale he tells. Tales of me. And who knows. He may be telling the truth.

TWENTY-NINE

I am an excellent driver. I drive fast, with intense concentration. I disdain automatic models, believing that an essential rhythm is lost. Charles, now more deeply involved in his charity work, had to attend, as a member of an advisory committee, a weeklong EC investigation into the rights of refugees.

I chose this week to drive to Scotland to see Elizabeth. I had to see her. The memory was fading. After two years. My own disguise as Elizabeth was no longer satisfactory.

Although I was certain that Charles had her address, it was unseemly, I felt, to ask him. After some lies and subterfuge, I got it through the gallery, which was having increasing success with her painting. She was now taken more seriously by everyone. Her tragedy enhanced her reputation. And living alone in Scotland also rather added to it. As did her consistent refusal to be interviewed. It's not enough to produce the work. Very important also to live the life prescribed for the artist. Loneliness. Suffering, if possible. And poverty. Elizabeth remained deeply disappointing in this last respect.

I risked her anger. And Charles's. Would she tell him? I hoped that enough of the old Elizabeth remained to make that unlikely. I had to do it. Perhaps I would just look at the cottage. I was desperate for a physical background against which I could place her current life. In my thoughts, for I thought of her daily. Hourly perhaps. An old obsession.

I arrived at twilight. Her cottage was three miles outside a small village, dominated by a grand sweep of mountain. A vast playground for the light, racing against the clouds as if to see who would win. Good spot for Elizabeth the artist. Beautiful and obvious.

I believe in surprise. I simply drove unannounced to the front of the cottage. There were low windows on either side of the wooden door. I knocked. After a few minutes, standing there in the silence, I tried to look in through a window.

“Yes?”

I turned. Embarrassed. Caught in an act of … peeping? What an ugly word. A tall young man in his early twenties stood in the doorway.

“Is Elizabeth here?”

“Who are you?”

“Her … sister.” Well said, Ruth.

“She doesn't have a sister.”

“Really? Who are you?”

“I don't have to answer that. ”

“Full of charm, aren't you? Where's Elizabeth?”

“Not here.”

“Will she be coming back?” I suppose detective work is like this. I would probably have been good at it.

“I don't know.”

“Now, listen. I clearly must look extremely threatening to you. A strange five-foot-eight female confronting your six-foot-two muscular frame. It's possible I'm intent on robbery. Even rape. I fully sympathise with your terror at my arrival. But I am Elizabeth Ashbridge's sister. My name is Ruth Garton. I would like to come in and wait for her. I do not expect tea or wine and certainly not a welcome from you. May I?” I walked towards the door.

“No. You may not.”

“Let's start again. How do you do?”

“How do you do?” He repeated the words.

“You're not English?”

“Certainly not.”

“Good accent, though.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Where did you polish what I assume was once a drawl?”

“In London.”

“Doing what?”

“Studying. ”

“What?”

“Art.”

“Aha. Where?”

“St. Martin's.”

“Really. I'm impressed. So. You love Elizabeth's work. Decided to come and worship the artist?”

“Yes and no.”

“No? Let's deal with the no first.”

“Do you always do that? Deal with the no first.”

“Yes. Saves time.”

“I'd never heard of Elizabeth. I was on a walking holiday—came into this valley and saw her. Standing in the river, thigh-high waders …” He paused for a second. “But I do admire her work. Though not deeply.”

Well, that's a start.

“And yes?”

“I worship Elizabeth.”

He said it so suddenly, so sweetly, that, for a second, emotion cut into the repartee, wounding it slightly.

“Worship her?”

“Yes.”

He smiled slowly. Sexily. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ruth.”

“Well, Ruth, I think you should turn and leave now.”

“Why?”

“Because you have an air about you. I recognise it. ”

“What kind of air?”

“Oh. I don't know. Something disturbing. Nothing very major. I don't like your style. I don't like the way you speak.”

“Ah, Elizabeth must have spoken of me then. About my style?”

“Elizabeth has never mentioned you. I can just sense it.”

“Which sense?”

“What?”

“Which sense? Sight? Smell? It can't be touch?”

“You never change, do you, Ruth?”

On the skin of my back, her voice seemed to beat out the words. I turned to look at her. My face felt frozen. I could not rearrange it.

Oh, I change, Elizabeth. All the time. Sometimes, Elizabeth, sometimes, I am you. But I'm losing touch. And I need to study you again.

And I did. She was still recognisably herself. Body still thin, tall. A creamy sweater over white shirt. The jeans. Heavy Wellington boots instead of loafers. Beaten, weathered almost, but still herself.

“Well, Daniel. You did your best … but Ruth is …”

I waited for a clue to myself. From her.

“I've been expecting you in a way. I suppose you must do this.”

“I suppose I must.”

“Well then. Come in. Fill your eyes.”

“Elizabeth! That sounded a little bit like me. Almost mocking.”

She shook her head in disbelief.

I entered. It was a long, low white room. Large stone fireplace. Logs, of course. A heavy wooden table, off-centre. Grey armchairs scattered around, covered in paisley shawls. All as one would have expected. Running along the entire back wall of the house was a kind of verandah, with a high glass roof, a stone back wall, a heavy door. A studio, I suppose. For her.

I filled my eyes.

“I'd love some wine.”

Elizabeth sighed.

“Red?”

The boy … what was his name? Daniel …yes. Daniel took a bottle from the cupboard and poured us all a glass of Burgundy. At least he drinks.

Stop it, Ruth. I killed the vision of William as the young man he never grew to be. Stop it.

“Elizabeth, you never mentioned me?”

“No.”

“Does he know nothing?”

“Nothing.”

“How extraordinary. But then it's all extraordinary.”

“Yes, it is. Daniel, Ruth is … absorbing you. Be careful. ”

Had she lost a kind of innocence? Perhaps the good should always arm themselves. Against an excess of innocence.

He smiled.

“Well, why did you come?” he asked.

“To see Elizabeth. That's all.”

“Ruth and I share ghosts,” Elizabeth explained. “And a knowledge. Which no one else could ever understand. Even I don't understand it very well. Even after …”

“It's a very strong bond, Daniel. I hope you never find out.”

“Can't you defeat them? The ghosts?”

“Oh, no. It's they who have defeated us. We're like wounded soldiers. On a battlefield they have deserted. ”

“Deserted? They left willingly?”

“We'll never know. Last moments. What goes on in the mind in last moments? No more questions?” I turned to Daniel.

“No.”

“Why so reticent?”

“Why not? It's a habit.”

“You're very young to have such … discipline.”

“It's not discipline.”

“What then?”

“Love.”

I looked away. Elizabeth sat down, in a large armchair close to the light. She laid her head back, and spoke quietly. “You know, Ruth, it's useless to fight you. Do you understand that was why I decided to love you instead?”

“No. Decided to?”

“It wasn't natural. I told you this before. I think I guessed, early on, that to fight you might be dangerous. Might enrage you further.”

“Enrage me?”

“Yes. You were full of hidden angers. Against me.”

“You never said anything.”

“What could I have said? I hoped, in time, that if I was quiet and careful with you … I tried to be separate from you. But you were always there on the edges … in the background.”

“I didn't think you noticed.”

“You were wrong. It didn't seem to matter. Then … with Hubert. Well, we almost made a life together, in France. Ah. But that's a life I never got to live. I sometimes live it, you know … in dreams. A parallel life. In a dream. Like I dream of the boys. Still. ”

“Yes. I know that dreamworld too.”

I looked at Daniel, sitting so calmly, opposite Elizabeth.

“Elizabeth. You haven't asked about Charles.”

“Who is Charles?” Daniel turned to Elizabeth.

“My husband,” she replied.

“Ah.”

“He lives with Ruth now.” She paused.

“Is he … the man? The one who comes?”

She passed a hand across her mouth, as though she had been the one to pose the painful question.

“Charles comes here? Does Charles come here? I must know.”

“Must you? Ruth, that's so very like you … that ‘must.' And with it goes your belief that I will answer. Why?”

“Because you are … you're Elizabeth.”

“Yes. And you always expect a certain behaviour from me. I've flirted with … I've flirted with your way. But I'm set in my own.”

I realised her strength again. Why she would linger forever in people's lives. And why the loss of her was hard.

“Charles comes to visit me once a year. It's a private thing.”

Daniel stood up and moved towards Elizabeth.

“I didn't know he was your husband.”

“You've met?” I turned incredulously to him.

“No. I saw him once. Through the window. I came back … too early. I had agreed with Elizabeth to leave them alone. I didn't know who he was.”