Dora stood by her bedroom window with hands still wetly sore from washing up, and found that she was shaking. She had been seen.
There was evidence there in the world. It wasn’t just in her poor discomposed mind. They had been seen together and the sight of them had bemused their witness. Elisabeth had put her hand on her back out there in the dangerous air, and then they had agreed that they should attempt to minimise such contact and return to the care of their families. It was only when she was inside the school building again that Dora had stood in the staff lavatories and let hot tears emerge. Such intimacy wasn’t sensible, and it wasn’t moral, yet already Dora was hauled in by any hint of indifference or rejection or even lack of persuasion from Elisabeth.
Infatuation had developed in a series of swerves and horrified retreats, but on pausing to consider, Dora realised that she had been mentally seduced for some time, denying all evidence to herself. Elisabeth Dahl had shaken her. She was a force of nature who, for all her severe and sophisticated womanliness, possessed, thought Dora, the mind of a man. It confused her; it excited her. She dismissed it, denied it, pushed it away; and eventually it took root.
‘Come with me to a concert,’ Elisabeth had said only five weeks before, and Dora, steadily trembling and unable to eat all day, had left the children with Patrick for an early supper, then driven back the way she had come: down the river gorge, back past the school to Wedstone where Elliott Hall floated on embers of autumn light. She was thinner. She hadn’t slept. She felt new speed to her blood. She had known as Elisabeth greeted her and they walked almost silently together through a series of doors to the concert barn, to the Rachmaninov followed by Lutoslawski, to the coughing, the bobbing heads and explosion of applause, to hot apple-juice scents, winding corridors, beamed medieval roofs; she had known that she was entering and accepting.
‘So,’ said Elisabeth after the concert, this creature who was so sure and so rarely expressed emotion. She was a shell of certainty: an elegant composition, shielded from mess or unwanted attachment by the fact of her tall husband.
She had guided Dora by the arm to a corridor that led backstage. There was no need to speak, though Dora feared that the speed of her heartbeat might prove fatal; and she had kissed her.
Dora could, even this evening, alone in her bedroom, be felled by recalled desire, images overlaying each other: mouths and hands, shocking little twists that made her weaken as sensations re-entered her body. The absolute self-disgust, the shock at what she had done in simply kissing a woman – and she would allow Elisabeth to do little more than kiss her – eventually followed the chilling of the fantasy, yet when she eased herself into her bed at night she wished with rigid hope that Patrick was snoring so she could hide under the blankets and think, embracing her allotted block of escapism. She shivered. Nothing like this had happened in her life. The sheer novelty of it shimmered through her guilt and shame.
Elisabeth’s fig scent was detectable now in traces on an old paper hankie that Dora placed in a drawer. Her face was hot as she pressed her forehead to the window and she cried soundlessly, aware only of liquid spreading over her skin, its flow effortless. The hush and rattle of trees scored the river. An owl called. She was beginning to understand that she would never see Elisabeth as much as she longed to.
Having decided that perfection was attainable and that she would, through self-denial, aspire to it, Cecilia restricted her food consumption as best she could, aiming for a willowy slenderness that might attract the attention of Mr Dahl. She could never develop anorexia, she thought with a twinge of regret, because she found a state of even semi-starvation impossible, but she was encouraged when her periods became less
There was evidence there in the world. It wasn’t just in her poor discomposed mind. They had been seen together and the sight of them had bemused their witness. Elisabeth had put her hand on her back out there in the dangerous air, and then they had agreed that they should attempt to minimise such contact and return to the care of their families. It was only when she was inside the school building again that Dora had stood in the staff lavatories and let hot tears emerge. Such intimacy wasn’t sensible, and it wasn’t moral, yet already Dora was hauled in by any hint of indifference or rejection or even lack of persuasion from Elisabeth.
Infatuation had developed in a series of swerves and horrified retreats, but on pausing to consider, Dora realised that she had been mentally seduced for some time, denying all evidence to herself. Elisabeth Dahl had shaken her. She was a force of nature who, for all her severe and sophisticated womanliness, possessed, thought Dora, the mind of a man. It confused her; it excited her. She dismissed it, denied it, pushed it away; and eventually it took root.
‘Come with me to a concert,’ Elisabeth had said only five weeks before, and Dora, steadily trembling and unable to eat all day, had left the children with Patrick for an early supper, then driven back the way she had come: down the river gorge, back past the school to Wedstone where Elliott Hall floated on embers of autumn light. She was thinner. She hadn’t slept. She felt new speed to her blood. She had known as Elisabeth greeted her and they walked almost silently together through a series of doors to the concert barn, to the Rachmaninov followed by Lutoslawski, to the coughing, the bobbing heads and explosion of applause, to hot apple-juice scents, winding corridors, beamed medieval roofs; she had known that she was entering and accepting.
‘So,’ said Elisabeth after the concert, this creature who was so sure and so rarely expressed emotion. She was a shell of certainty: an elegant composition, shielded from mess or unwanted attachment by the fact of her tall husband.
She had guided Dora by the arm to a corridor that led backstage. There was no need to speak, though Dora feared that the speed of her heartbeat might prove fatal; and she had kissed her.
Dora could, even this evening, alone in her bedroom, be felled by recalled desire, images overlaying each other: mouths and hands, shocking little twists that made her weaken as sensations re-entered her body. The absolute self-disgust, the shock at what she had done in simply kissing a woman – and she would allow Elisabeth to do little more than kiss her – eventually followed the chilling of the fantasy, yet when she eased herself into her bed at night she wished with rigid hope that Patrick was snoring so she could hide under the blankets and think, embracing her allotted block of escapism. She shivered. Nothing like this had happened in her life. The sheer novelty of it shimmered through her guilt and shame.
Elisabeth’s fig scent was detectable now in traces on an old paper hankie that Dora placed in a drawer. Her face was hot as she pressed her forehead to the window and she cried soundlessly, aware only of liquid spreading over her skin, its flow effortless. The hush and rattle of trees scored the river. An owl called. She was beginning to understand that she would never see Elisabeth as much as she longed to.
Having decided that perfection was attainable and that she would, through self-denial, aspire to it, Cecilia restricted her food consumption as best she could, aiming for a willowy slenderness that might attract the attention of Mr Dahl. She could never develop anorexia, she thought with a twinge of regret, because she found a state of even semi-starvation impossible, but she was encouraged when her periods became less
Similar Books
