An accommodating spouse, p.1
An Accommodating Spouse, page 1
Elizabeth
Jolley
An
Accommodating
Spouse
PENGUIN BOOKS
I would like to express my thanks to Curtin University of Technology for the continuing privilege of being with students and colleagues in the School of Communication and Cultural Studies and for the provision of a room in which to write.
A special thanks is offered to Kay Ronai for editorial advice and corrections. Special thanks as well to Nancy McKenzie who continues to type my manuscripts.
And to all at Penguin Books Australia: thank you.
Blame no one. Blame, if you must, the human situation.
W. H. Auden
The unexamined life is not worth living.
Socrates
Hazel and Chloë Pound, on their eleventh birthday, found Marie Stopes and Havelock Ellis in their wardrobe. To be more precise, in the brush and comb shelf which was, together with a little mirror, on the inside of the left-hand door. The two girls immediately hid them both, pushing them well down behind the shoes, and the jigsaw puzzles which neither of them wanted to make. They did not realise, at the time, that their mother must have planted Stopes and Ellis in order for them to be found.
Hazel and Chloë, with polite mirth, were explaining this laughable incident to the Professor and his mother, the Lady Delaware Carpenter, during a pre-wedding tea party when their mother, whose tea party it was, came untidy and rather late to the tea table, drawing off her gardening gloves and explaining how the girls read both books in what they thought was complete secrecy. Sitting down, she placed her gardening shoes beside her chair and reminded her daughters of the amusing fact that they were unable, at that time, to pronounce the word ‘mutual’. And, because this word occurred so often in both books, the girls naturally thought this word was the correct word for sex. ‘Mutual pleasure mutual happiness’, the word ‘mutual’ rolled roundly off her tongue as a part of a pealing laugh.
The Professor (who, of course, was not professorial then) often remembers that his mother had said how convenient it was that the girls were thus educated because, regrettably, she had completely overlooked this side of things in the upbringing of her own children though she supposed that both of them Delaware (the Prof.) and Delia, his sister, each in their own way being steeped in the Ancient Classics and in the study of Elizabethan (Renaissance) poetry and literature, could be looked upon as having encountered Stopes and Ellis but in different centuries.
She then, with a gracious smile, remarked on the excellent quality of Mrs Pound’s gardening gloves, asking if and where they could be purchased locally …
‘These two women,’ the Lady Delaware Carpenter said in her well-bred (county) resounding whisper, as they left Mrs Pound’s comfortable, shabby house, ‘these two women are so alike. It’s impossible to tell which one is which. I do hope, Delaware, that you can tell them apart. I do hope,’ she bellowed, ‘that you will marry the right one. You do … distinguish between them …?’ Her questioning voice was ringing like a village church bell when doubling as a fire alarm.
‘Ultimately, Delaware, you will actually have to be able to recognise which one is your wife.’
Certainly it is when he (Professor Delaware Carpenter), the father, considers shoulders he immediately recalls a night years ago when, inviting Hazel to accompany him to the opera The Marriage of Figaro, he discovered that the invitation had been understood to include Chloë, Hazel’s twin sister, and their mother. The Professor (this was before he was Professor), with surprising presence of mind, stood well-dressed and handsomely smiling while the usher – looking like an opera goer himself in evening dress (dinner jacket and black tie) – suggested, if they would accept it, they could take standing room, easily procured for them at the back of the dress circle, until the first interval when those who were simply putting in an appearance acknowledging the presence of others would be leaving the performance. He, with a little smile, noticing the notes crushed in the Professor’s hand, told them that, straight away, he could think of an expected four consecutive seats being vacant immediately with the first curtain.
It was during the occupation of the standing room that the Professor, immediately partly behind his lady guests, was able to study the substantial shoulders of his future wife, his future sister-in-law and, naturally, his future mother-in-law.
The three women in layered brocade – the raised pattern of the cloth enriched in the subdued lighting – displayed in the then fashionable backless dresses well-built magnificent shoulders, the outcome he thought of good breeding and early bedtime, horses and lots of open-air exercise at probably one of the better English boarding schools.
Without knowing then, as he came to know later, there was a tremendous dedication and skill required for the drafting of the block bodice, in the first place, on paper, and then there was the designing and the cutting out of the required style of the dress. Every new dress made especially for the particular occasion. And every design springing from the homemade pattern.
He admired, on this evening, as he breathed in the heavy drenchings of perfume, the courage needed to wear such ugly dresses which exposed so much splendid and intimate flesh … All this clearly having no special effect on those others who were standing close by during the waiting for the comfortable seats recently promised …
When the Professor discovered that his sister-in-law was called Chloë and not Clover, he, for once issuing a command, declared that she was always to be, in the future, known as Chloë, it being a special name with a delicate meaning. Clover, he said at the time, was suitable only for a pet cow or a rabbit. Rabbits, in particular, could be called Clover. Hazel had the difficulty of habit in making the change as it was her own inability, in the first place, in the pronunciation of the name which brought about the use of Clover. She found it difficult, as she said, to get her tongue round Chloë. But she would try.
Hazel and Chloë, twin sisters, have a whole list of promises, agreements and disagreements between them. The Professor, being a twin himself, even if lacking now the childhood proximity to his twin, knows and understands the bond between his wife and her rather plain sister. He knows there is no such thing as an ugly woman, his own father told him this great truth and he has kept it as a remark to be passed on whenever he is in the position of accepted mentor.
Neither of the sisters could be described as pretty or even good-looking, rather they possess a particular energy and an unusual sense of humour which takes over from time to time. Hardly humour, he tells himself whenever he recollects, if he has to, one of their frolics. There was one night when Chloë was in the bed instead of Hazel. She appeared to be asleep. He knew at once it was Chloë. Sensitive to the slightest roughness on his own delicate skin, he has always known that Chloë was of a more prickly material than Hazel. Gallant, and holding within his heart the noble qualities of service and chivalry towards women and, at the same time, not wanting to spoil their innocent little joke, he switched off the bedside lamp as usual and, leaning over, he planted his goodnight kiss on the almost familiar bushy head of hair. He followed this with a small, hardly noticeable sexual movement towards her … Chloë, so named, and in whom it might be possible to discover the exquisite, the unexpected, the pastoral delights of the romantically inclined shepherdess, beloved of Daphnis. And perhaps, as well, the possibility might even extend to the reaching of the famous yet tender green shoot, the cherished possession of Demeter herself, the goddess of the harvest and of fruitfulness.
Chloë, unsoftened by childbirth, was larger, heavier and even more solid than Hazel. As no erotic welcome was forthcoming he withdrew to his side of the bed to wait either for sleep or the morning, whichever should come first. But all this belongs to a time long past, when the three daughters were still mysterious bundles of wrapping cloths.
In subsequent balanced discussion they, the Professor, Hazel and Chloë, put this extreme playfulness down to the fact that they were all three under stress; in shock really, after the surprise of the multiple births. And they were, of course, housebound, confined like prisoners under house arrest, by the insatiable demands of the newcomers. The whole house was in disorder. The Professor, himself, was fortunate in that he escaped briefly every morning in order to deliver his nine a.m. lectures. These were sadly undistinguished, suffering from obscurity, since shortage of time caused them to be offered only in précis.
Over the years the Professor has developed the habit of retreating, without actually reading, into a literary work of his remembered choice. He is able to do this even when in the company of other people. He slips easily, while smiling at a little group of guests, into wishing for the experience of Flaubert’s legendary cab drive, or that he could be like Robinson Crusoe, all alone on a desert island writing his diary and strolling along the beach to shoot a small goat for lunch.
He has come to understand that this is because he is wishing to be removed completely from his established place especially since Dr Florence is very much, and sweetly, on his mind. Flaubert’s cab drive seems to claim every thought with the possibility of his being encapsulated and hidden within the confined space of a cab and moving at a tremendous pace, close to the passion-laden lips and subsequent kiss and the all-encompassing embrace, including the delicious little half-whispered confidences of feeling spoken with hesitation at first and then in little bursts of tenderness, with more confidence, being more eloquent and overpowering, as desire persists towards its more urgent and unrefusa ble stage. He, in his thoughts, attempts to put Dr Florence into a cab which resembles, in his imagination, Flaubert’s horse-drawn, discreet conveyance in which the travellers ride in complete seclusion. Theirs is a curtained privacy. The flight of the whipped horse takes them through one quiet street after another. The driver is seated on the box seat, whip whirling in readiness for the continuation of the wild journey, reckless in having no destination except that exquisite longed for moment which, ultimately, rewards the most urgent wish and desire.
Having taken Dr Florence like this into the wished for arms of love and complete seclusion, the Professor remembers that her clothes are tailored and severe, quite unlike the loose-flowing garments worn by Madame Bovary. He longs for simple muslin and soft lace which can be whispered and breathed aside as he approaches with reverence and suitable restraint keeping forever in mind Dr Florence’s lack of experience and her complete innocence.
In Cambridge once, years ago, someone said that his head resembled the beautiful drawing of Schiller, Friedrich Schiller in 1780, zugeschrieben, Ölgemäde Weckherlin. Schiller the writer of the famous ‘Ode to Joy’ (Ode an die Freude) and many other poems. The sensitive head, the drawing, was in the Nationalmuseums in Marbach and it was often suggested that he should go to Marbach to match his own aestheticism with that of the gentle poet. The Professor smiles when he recalls the remark. He always reminds himself that this was said often about many heads. He resumes his reading of an essay in which the writer has tried to bring literature, emotional needs, spiritual and psychological human development, social class, accepted rules and educational hopes all into one sentence. He looks up from the small neat handwriting, disturbed as usual. He is disturbed by the soft rhythm of sound, the soft regular sound which accompanies the male pigeon’s wooing of the female. The pigeons inhabit this side of the university, in particular the fourth-floor windowsills and a small balcony.
FOURTH FLOOR; DEPARTMENT OF ENGLISH. FOR MAIN OFFICE TURN LEFT. YOUR HEART THANKS YOU FOR USING THE STAIRS!
He sits in his chair, leaning back, pleasantly distracted and listening to the insistent persuasion. From his desk he can watch through his window and link the gentle but forceful vocal rhythm to the gentle rising and falling movements of the male bird’s head together with the particular strutting walk, to and fro, along the shabby rusted gutters opposite.
During this repeated proud exercise the bird seems to increase in size as his breast feathers are ruffled and flushed up, displaying an ardent anticipation of passionate courtship.
Listening to the soft coaxing speech, the Professor recalls easily the flutterings and shovings of these birds as they try at dusk, all of them together, to occupy for the night the same dirty window ledge high up, almost opposite his own window. There are several window ledges and there is no way of knowing why one particular one is so desirable. The Professor is often in his room at this particular time in the evening when students come by his open door hoping to be given an extension for a hopelessly late assignment, often offering an ancient medical certificate, an obsolete note from an exhausted and perhaps defeated practitioner.
He likes to be quietly in his room knowing that Dr Florence has a room in the same alcove, in the passage, and is probably there listening to the love song of the pigeons.
Shortly he will exchange his university study for his study at home where Hazel will bring the pinot noir and, perhaps, supply some music, something restful on cassettes. Some days, by invitation from Hazel, Dr Florence accompanies the Professor to take something which Hazel insists on calling ‘pot luck with the family’.
Sometimes, unexpectedly, the Professor remembers that once, years ago, he was walking across the fields, following Hazel and Chloë, he noticed then their short thick legs and the tender backs of their knees. At the time he resolved to remember, forever, the tenderness …
The change in the music always reminds the Professor of Dr Florence. There are many passages in music which recall Dr Florence. He does think about her often. It could easily be said that his mind is occupied with thoughts of Dr Florence, so much so that he experiences, sometimes, a small moment of physical excitement, a small thrill in the body brought about by the activity of the mind. Intrusive thoughts of his now grown-up daughters, returning for an important celebration, put an end for the time being to the intimate sweetness of his thoughts. It is something of a relief that his daughters are not yet on their return journey. In spite of this relief, he does love his daughters very much and would like them to know how much he has always loved them. The great test will be to see if they still accept this love, especially now, when returning after the freedom of travelling.
And once sent out, a word takes wing beyond recall … And isn’t this applicable to three small daughters who seemed, ‘over night’, to have become young women. Unfortunately there is no one present with whom the Horatian tag could be shared.
It is not impossible to recall his own father’s unending gift of unconditional love. He understands now that to begin with, in order to avoid the anxiety of acceptance, he chose stupidity and easy memory. Always his mind was vacant, only occasionally filled with some meaningless, half-remembered childhood escapade, until one day, when he was a grown man but not yet of professorial status, he was walking with his father, they passed a café with little iron tables and ornamental chairs practically on the pavement. His father made the comment that, at one time, it was always women laughing and chatting with other women there in that place. Morning coffee, he said then, or light lunches. Now, he went on, he had noticed it is breakfasts.
And, sitting opposite each other, are men in pairs in an embarrassing closeness, knees apart (possibly for intimate male reasons). Often a prematurely elderly man, plump, grey-headed and good-natured, is in some sort of control of the tete-a-tete (perhaps for having issued an invitation), but not quite, as it is a situation in which there is no prior knowledge, and which is entirely without any previous practical experience. The smooth complexion of the thinner and younger man is pale with a faint flush under the fine texture of his skin. This face can and does blush easily, revealing an inner, partly hidden pleasure and excitement, possibly the beginning of a confession or the special excitement which accompanies the realisation of a deeper understanding, and promising an approach to more intimate knowledge with an amazement, never spoken about, of the self and of the inclinations of the other, offered with a completeness, the understanding of which cannot be denied. His father, as if surprised at himself, became silent.
The surprise of his father’s unexpected observation, a sudden enlightenment, made a deep impression, widening in a dramatic moment, his own awareness and, at the same time, the recognition that his father, in his own right, because of his offering there in the street that morning, was never to be taken for granted or ignored.
And then there was Heraclitus, his father went on as if intent on clarifying, for his son’s sake, the possibility and the nature of friendship, the most intimate and lasting friendship between men.
They told me, Heraclitus, he began to recite, They told me you were dead. It’s a poem by a man called Cory, I think, it goes on like this:
They brought me bitter news to hear and bitter tears
to shed
I wept as I remembered how often you and I
Had tired the sun with talking and sent him down the sky.
‘Then there was the Greek philosopher himself,’ his father said after a pause. ‘Five hundred and forty BC to 480, Heraclitus who is reported to have said that everything flows and nothing stays and that it is not possible to step in the same river twice. You will know what is meant here.’
It is restful, the Professor admits to himself, to think of his father. His father, a little in awe of the rich well-bred accents, has always seemed fond of Hazel and Chloë as if grateful that his son is in capable hands.
‘What are you reading now?’ his father asked, changing the silence after his earlier remarks.
