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Authors: Rosie Alison
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never heard before. Guttural sounds which chilled her.
She crept away as silently as she could.
* * *
Elizabeth Ashton was drunk. She was walking up and down naked in her bedroom, swearing, sobbing, showing Thomas the menstrual blood smeared down her legs.
“I’m bleeding again,” she cried. “I’m bleeding.”
She swore at Thomas, gagging on a string of ugly expletives. It was a strangled voice, hysterical, before she doubled over with weeping, her breasts pressing against bare legs.
Another month and still no pregnancy. Thomas sat by silently on their bed, longing to soothe and pacify her, but knowing he could not reach her yet. Sometimes, when Elizabeth menstruated, her raving grief could not be contained. Drink unleashed this frenzy in her. She drained the room of any space for his emotions; he just had to wait for her to collapse onto the bed in a drunken sleep as he knew she eventually would.
Both of them were exhausted by her misery. There were times when Thomas longed to be left alone, but he felt responsible for his wife’s unhappiness. They were both damaged people now, both locked into their drama together. Some self-destructive urge made Elizabeth stay with him. She would neither leave him, nor would she adopt a child.
At last she sank onto the bed and her sobs ebbed into sleep. He covered her and switched off the bedside light. The door remained open till morning, when the kitchen maid spotted it on her way to the dining room. She shut it before the children came down to breakfast.
* * *
In the morning Anna saw Mrs Ashton stride through the Marble Hall, trim and elegant as ever, her face a mask of distant composure. Anna stole aglance at her breasts, so discreetly tidied away now behind the silky blouse. Then she felt ashamed and anxious.
Did all adults cry out in such pain behind their bedroom doors?
It was only once more that Anna wet her bed, and she allowed herself to be rebuked by the matron rather than go on her dark journey to the laundry room.
But whenever she saw Mrs Ashton now, she felt a strange bond with her. Because Anna knew she was unhappy, even if she did not know why. Mrs Ashton’s sadness was her secret now, too.
She found herself puzzling over an unfamiliar pang inside. Mr Ashton’s words came back to her, from his lesson. “Things are not always quite as they seem.” She thought of his smiling face, and his wheelchair, never mentioned. She thought of Mrs Ashton and her secret sorrow. She found herself troubled by a new twinge inside – an ache she could not quite fathom.
It was as if her heart had been suddenly tuned into a strange new wireless station for other people’s sorrows. And their vibrations would not quite let her go, even if they had nothing to do with her.
11
Soon after the evacuees’ arrival, Thomas began to dream that he could dance again. Whether the children had awakened something in him, he couldn’t say, but suddenly his dreams transported him into wide, bright rooms of flowing waltzes and swift, intricate foxtrots on sprung floors. Dreams in which he could feel himself dancing, yet watched himself too, both dancer and audience. So vivid were his sensations that he would awake with a pleasant ache in his legs, surprised to discover that he had only been dreaming.
The dreams took him by surprise, but did not sadden him: they were rejuvenating. As if the past was still inside him, within reach. Sometimes he whirled around a ballroom with Elizabeth, or he gazed into the eyes of other, earlier lovers, from the days when he was a young diplomat stepping out in Berlin.
There was one tender night in Berlin which Thomas would not forget. A ball at the French embassy, when he held Elizabeth’s waist and led her deftly round the dance floor, as if nobody else was there. When their marriage was only weeks old.
Her eyes were fixed on his, and she began to laugh, exulting in their moment together. “I am dancing with my wife,” he thought. “This is
She crept away as silently as she could.
* * *
Elizabeth Ashton was drunk. She was walking up and down naked in her bedroom, swearing, sobbing, showing Thomas the menstrual blood smeared down her legs.
“I’m bleeding again,” she cried. “I’m bleeding.”
She swore at Thomas, gagging on a string of ugly expletives. It was a strangled voice, hysterical, before she doubled over with weeping, her breasts pressing against bare legs.
Another month and still no pregnancy. Thomas sat by silently on their bed, longing to soothe and pacify her, but knowing he could not reach her yet. Sometimes, when Elizabeth menstruated, her raving grief could not be contained. Drink unleashed this frenzy in her. She drained the room of any space for his emotions; he just had to wait for her to collapse onto the bed in a drunken sleep as he knew she eventually would.
Both of them were exhausted by her misery. There were times when Thomas longed to be left alone, but he felt responsible for his wife’s unhappiness. They were both damaged people now, both locked into their drama together. Some self-destructive urge made Elizabeth stay with him. She would neither leave him, nor would she adopt a child.
At last she sank onto the bed and her sobs ebbed into sleep. He covered her and switched off the bedside light. The door remained open till morning, when the kitchen maid spotted it on her way to the dining room. She shut it before the children came down to breakfast.
* * *
In the morning Anna saw Mrs Ashton stride through the Marble Hall, trim and elegant as ever, her face a mask of distant composure. Anna stole aglance at her breasts, so discreetly tidied away now behind the silky blouse. Then she felt ashamed and anxious.
Did all adults cry out in such pain behind their bedroom doors?
It was only once more that Anna wet her bed, and she allowed herself to be rebuked by the matron rather than go on her dark journey to the laundry room.
But whenever she saw Mrs Ashton now, she felt a strange bond with her. Because Anna knew she was unhappy, even if she did not know why. Mrs Ashton’s sadness was her secret now, too.
She found herself puzzling over an unfamiliar pang inside. Mr Ashton’s words came back to her, from his lesson. “Things are not always quite as they seem.” She thought of his smiling face, and his wheelchair, never mentioned. She thought of Mrs Ashton and her secret sorrow. She found herself troubled by a new twinge inside – an ache she could not quite fathom.
It was as if her heart had been suddenly tuned into a strange new wireless station for other people’s sorrows. And their vibrations would not quite let her go, even if they had nothing to do with her.
11
Soon after the evacuees’ arrival, Thomas began to dream that he could dance again. Whether the children had awakened something in him, he couldn’t say, but suddenly his dreams transported him into wide, bright rooms of flowing waltzes and swift, intricate foxtrots on sprung floors. Dreams in which he could feel himself dancing, yet watched himself too, both dancer and audience. So vivid were his sensations that he would awake with a pleasant ache in his legs, surprised to discover that he had only been dreaming.
The dreams took him by surprise, but did not sadden him: they were rejuvenating. As if the past was still inside him, within reach. Sometimes he whirled around a ballroom with Elizabeth, or he gazed into the eyes of other, earlier lovers, from the days when he was a young diplomat stepping out in Berlin.
There was one tender night in Berlin which Thomas would not forget. A ball at the French embassy, when he held Elizabeth’s waist and led her deftly round the dance floor, as if nobody else was there. When their marriage was only weeks old.
Her eyes were fixed on his, and she began to laugh, exulting in their moment together. “I am dancing with my wife,” he thought. “This is
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