The Blood Upon the Rose (46 page)

23

CATHERINE LAY IN the bath and thought of her mother.  The three bathrooms on the first floor at Killrath had been fully equipped and installed at the turn of the century under the orders of her mother, who was then in her early thirties. The bath Catherine was in was a massive iron tub eight feet long and nearly three feet deep, which had been specially commissioned from an ironworks in Belfast. It had feet like lion’s claws, and a fitted shower cabinet made of teak and brass at the tap end, with its own special mirror, taps, and a shower head a foot wide at the top. The rest of the room was of matching magnificence. There was an equally massive washbasin, cork matting on the floor, bamboo and cane easy chairs, a large mirror decorated with twining stained-glass leaves and flowers, and a sculptured ceiling where dolphins and mermaids could be seen sporting gaily.

Catherine lay back in one and a half feet of steaming, soapy water, and looked at them. People had confidence in those days, she thought.

She remembered how she and her brothers had admired the tall, distant, beautiful figure of their mother. She had been one of the most striking women in the west of Ireland. People had come to Killrath to write poems and songs about her, paint her portrait, vie for her attention. Catherine and her brothers had been brought in by their Irish-speaking nanny to sing at the parties, ride on the picnics, stand by their mother’s side in the photographs.

When did it all end? By the time she was twelve the parties were fewer, her mother more erratic, sometimes even dishevelled in her dress. Doctors began to come more frequently than artists. And by the time the war began her mother was clearly going insane.

Why? Because Father rejected her and took up with another woman. She must have been as lonely and unhappy as I am now, Catherine thought. And there was nothing she could do.

Catherine wondered if her mother had felt the same about her father as she herself did about Sean. Objectively, there ought to be no comparison. Her mother had been rejected for another woman; she, Catherine, had been rejected for …. what? A soldier’s life? Sean’s heroic vision of himself? The attractions of a secret brotherhood? The glory of assassination? Of secret murder?

It was the first time she had thought of Sean as a murderer. She knew and loved all the arguments - the fight against the foreign oppressor, the service of the old woman of Ireland, the
Shan Van Vocht
, the Fenian vision, the torch handed down over the generations, the unending struggle, the glorious rhetoric of the Republic. But the look of triumph on Sean’s face as he had shown her his gun had besmirched it all. Perhaps because he was rejecting her at the time. Perhaps because of the way he had used it - to blow away half a policeman’s face on a dark night before the man had time to fight back.

The worst of it was that she still loved him. That was it, that was the link with what her mother had felt. Sean did not need her any more, but she could not get him out of her head. And now that he did not want her, the world was an empty desert.

When Mother felt like this she gave up, Catherine thought. The fog of depression entered her brain and she went mad. That won't happen to me. I'm not like Mother, I won’t let it. There must be other choices.

She slid down to the tap end of the bath to turn on the hot tap, and then, on impulse, stood up and looked at herself in the mirror. She wiped the condensation away with her hand, and saw a nude girl with steam rising around her, like Venus. I am as beautiful as Mother once was, she thought. Men could make poems and paintings of me. Other men. Not just Sean.

She turned the tap off and lay down again to soak. She had read somewhere that a woman would always love the man who took away her virginity. Later she had thought: That can't be true, it wouldn’t be fair. What if you’re attacked, raped by a monster? Yet here she was, obsessed by the memory of Sean, her own first lover, when it was all over between them.

How could she break free?

Maybe there’s some truth in this myth. Maybe you can’t forget your first lover so long as he’s the only one. Maybe it’s a sort of medical problem of the mind that needs treating. How?

By taking another lover.

The thought appalled and thrilled her. She believed strongly in the idea that women should be as free to take lovers as men, and that no harm was done so long as no one was hurt and there were no unwanted babies. As an idea it seemed simple, translucent, obvious; but it was turning out harder than she had expected. The memory of Sean was like a bacillus that had invaded her bloodstream, and needed to be cleared out.

She thought about Andrew Butler.

He was an arrogant, supercilious pest, but he was obviously attracted to her. He must be, to stand up to all the rebuffs she gave him. Perhaps he is actually suffering, as I am suffering about Sean, she thought. The idea amused her. She did not love him, but he fascinated her. And men use women who fascinate them, she thought. They exploit them for their own pleasure, to get whatever they think they need. Why shouldn’t a woman do the same?

Could I?

It would be an utterly unprincipled, wicked thing to do. But then, perhaps such values are old-fashioned, out of date, blown away in the tempest of the war. Women who stick to them turn in on themselves and go mad, like my mother. That won’t happen to me.

She stepped out of the bath and stood on the cork matting in front of the large decorated wall mirror, watching the soap suds trickle down her body to the floor. I look nervous, she thought. I look like a sacrifice. But that’s what I was before.

This time it’s different. I’ll be the one who’s in control. Because I don’t really want him as much as he wants me.

I
won't be the sacrifice. He will.

Andrew remembered the pattern of the past three evenings.

They would meet in the drawing room, she would drink more sherry than him, they would begin an argument which would carry on throughout the meal, and she would leave him early to go to bed.

Every evening he would try to gauge whether she liked him a little more. And he would be transfixed by her beauty, and wonder what he could do about it.

Tonight it was different. She poured herself a sherry but she didn’t freeze him out or start a quarrel. She didn’t sit down on the window seat as she usually did. She sat down in a chair by the fire and smiled at him.

‘That’s a change,’ he said. He was quite taken aback.

‘What is?’

‘A smile.’

‘Don’t I usually smile, then?’

‘Not until you’ve told me to leave the house, or tried to ride me over a cliff, no.’

‘I’m sorry.’ She took a deep breath. ‘I’ve been very shut up in myself. It makes me rude and - what did you call it? - prickly.’

There was a certain speculative amusement in the way she looked at him, he thought, as though she wondered what effect this new approach would have. He wondered himself. He said: ‘Well, I’m glad that I shall see you with your hackles down for once, before I leave. It should be an interesting sight.’

‘You’re leaving?’ Her plan would fail completely if he left.

‘Are you so concerned? Yes, on Wednesday, if I can get a train. My leave doesn’t last for ever, you know.’

‘No, I suppose not.’ Wednesday. The day after tomorrow. There was still time, then.

Their meal was curiously subdued. They talked a little about the fishing, the inevitable rain, the awful news from Russia and Poland, the introduction of Prohibition in America, and the proposed attempt to cross the Atlantic in one of Zeppelin’s airships. When they had finished they went back to the drawing room. Brophy, the butler, served them coffee and brandy, and Catherine thanked him and said he could go to bed.

There was a steady rattle of rain on the windows, and an occasional gust of wind blew smoke back down the chimney. Andrew was surprised that Catherine had not gone to bed immediately after the meal, as she usually did, and he wondered again at the curious way she looked at him. She knelt on the rug in front of the fire, watching the flames through the brandy glass. Her skin glowed, her short dark hair was smooth, soft in the firelight.

He said: ‘I still haven’t had a straight answer.’

‘To what?’

‘My proposal.’

‘Yes, you have. The answer is no, Andrew, the same as it was yesterday and the day before. I can’t help it if you’re deaf.’

‘You're a cruel woman.’

‘I’m sorry. Why don’t you just forget about it? There are other ways for people to relate to each other, without getting married, after all.’

‘Such as?’

Again that strange, speculative look. There was a hint of mischief in her eyes, a ghost of a smile around her lips. ‘I don’t know. You’re older than me, and a man of the world. Surely you must have been on friendly terms with other women.’

On friendly terms. That was not quite the phrase he would have used. ‘One or two, yes,’ he said.

‘But you didn’t marry them.’

‘Of course not. You may think I’m just being flippant but I’ve never met anyone I wanted to marry before.’

‘All right then, tell me about it. I’m interested in the psychology of it. What does a man think when he has an affair with a girl who he’s not going to marry?’

He was used to her frankness and unpredictability by now. It was part of her, but tonight it annoyed him. She thinks she can mock and refuse and tease without realizing the effect it has, he thought. She’s a virgin; she’ll grow up to be an old maid.

‘He thinks, I suppose, about her body, and the pleasure she can give him. And whether she’s exciting and fun to be with.’

‘And don’t you think women think like that about men?’

‘Some do, perhaps. I don’t know.’

This isn’t working, she thought. He looks too morose, angry almost. She put her brandy glass down carefully on the hearth, and got to her feet, holding out her hands to the fire. Without looking at him, she said: ‘If I ever married a man I would want to know everything about him first.’

‘I could get an accountant to draw up a list of assets, such as they are; show you a copy of my war record, if that would help.’

‘Idiot. I don’t mean that at all.’

‘Well, what then?’

She turned round to face him. He was still sitting in the chair, nursing his brandy, scowling. She took a deep breath.
Oh, Sean, Sean, forgive me.
Trembling slightly, she said: ‘Stand up.’

‘What?’

‘Please.’

He put the glass down and stood up, facing her. If ever a man was made a fool of, he thought, it's me. ‘Is that all right?’

‘Kiss me.’

He did. She slid her arms around his neck and it was very tentative at first; his lips were sullen, frozen. Oh, come on, she thought, I can't do this all alone. His moustache tickled, there was a nice, bristly feel to it. She put her hand on his cheek, and without meaning to, touched his scar. It felt hard, inanimate, gristly. Then suddenly his resistance snapped and he crushed her to him, kissing hard, earnestly.

A long time later they paused for breath. She loosened his hands gently, saying: ‘There. Now I know how you kiss.’

He said: ‘My God. I don’t understand.’

‘No? And you a man of the world, too.’ Now we'll see, she thought.
Oh, Sean, Sean
. Forget him.

‘I’m going to bed,’ she said. ‘Stay there alone if you like.’

It was a long, lonely walk to the door. Catherine must have walked those ten yards across that room hundreds of times before in her life but this was the first time she could ever remember feeling self-conscious about every step. It’s not going to work, she thought, that was an utterly cheap and crazy thing to say, I’ll never be able to face him again, I must look a complete fool walking like this ...

‘Catherine.’

‘Yes?’ She turned, her hand on the doorknob.

He crossed the room, put his hands on her arms. ‘Do you know what you’re saying? Do you mean it?’

‘Of course.’

He bent forward and kissed her, more gently this time, almost reverently, as though she were a child. His moustache tickled, his breath smelt of brandy. The kiss ended and she stood in front of him, very cool and quizzical, trembling like a leaf inside.

‘Wait here, then. Come up in five minutes.’

Andrew had imagined several ways that it might happen but none of them had been like this. He had thought he might surprise her after a ride, all flushed and warm in the stable, and lay her on her back in the hay; he had thought he might go into her room when she was asleep in the middle of the night; he had considered getting her really drunk, and seducing her on the sofa in the big drawing room when all the servants had gone to bed.

It had never occurred to him that she might seduce him.

When he came into her room, it was lit by a soft oil lamp in the corner, and a wood and peat fire in the grate. It was a large room, with two pink armchairs near the fire, a carved dressing table and a screen in the corner, a vast wardrobe with a full-length mirror, and a four-poster bed with pale yellow curtains. At first he did not see her, then he saw she was leaning against the pillows in her bed, wearing a cream-coloured nightgown with buttons down the front. She smiled.

‘Hurry up. These sheets are cold. I need you to warm them.’ He took off his jacket and flung it over a chair. Then he hesitated. This was all too cool, too deliberate.

‘If you’re shy you can get undressed behind the screen. It’s over there.’

‘All right.’ He picked up his jacket and went behind it. I don’t think I’ve ever done it like this before, he thought. It’s all wrong.
I’m
supposed to be in charge, not her.

Her clothes were behind the screen too; a dress, a brassiere, soft silk camiknickers. He realized he would have to walk across the room towards her, quite erect and naked.

Her eyes widened slightly when she saw him.

He was not used to being looked at. Since his face had been wounded he had been ashamed of his body. But there was no look of horror on her face; more of excitement, determination. She was right, the sheets were cold.