A Pure Clear Light
PRAISE FOR
The Women in Black
‘Seductive, hilarious, brilliantly observed, this novel
shimmers with wit and tenderness.’
HELEN GARNER
‘A knock-out—ironic, sharp, alive, and then you’re stopped
in your tracks by the warmth of her insights. Australia
as we suddenly remember it…’
JOAN LONDON
‘A major minor masterpiece, a witty and poignant snapshot of
Sydney the year before yesterday.’
BARRY HUMPHRIES
‘This book is like the perfect, vintage little black dress.
It’s beautifully constructed, it evokes another time while
being mysteriously classic and up-to-date, and it makes you feel happy. I love it.’
KAZ COOKE
‘In
The Women in Black
, Madeleine St John evoked the collision of
modern European history and the still-awakening Australian culture
with an economical intensity that no other writer has quite matched.
The reader could start with any page of her brilliantly compressed
dialogue and realise straight away that this is the work
of an exceptional writer.’
CLIVE JAMES
‘A delicious book. Funny and happy, it’s like
the breath of youth again.’
JANE GARDAM
‘An exquisite novel that has been lost to us for far too long—you’ll
find yourself re-reading it every time you need to be reminded that, in
Camus’ words: Happiness, too, is inevitable.’
DEBORAH ROBERTSON
‘A comic masterpiece…acute, touching and very funny.’
BRUCE BERESFORD
Madeleine St John was born in Sydney. She graduated from Sydney University in 1963 and lived in London for most of the succeeding years, until her death in 2006. Her novels include
The Women in Black
, 1993,
The Essence of the Thing
, 1997, and
A Stairway to Paradise
, 1999.
A Pure
Clear Light
is her second novel.
A Pure
Clear Light
MADELEINE ST JOHN
The paper used in this book is manufactured only from wood grown in sustainable regrowth forests.
The Text Publishing Company
Swann House
22 William Street
Melbourne Victoria 3000
Australia
textpublishing.com.au
Copyright © Madeleine St John 1996
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons
,
living
or dead
,
is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright above, no part of this publication shall be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise), without the prior permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
First published in Great Britain in 1996 by Fourth Estate Limited
This edition published by The Text Publishing Company, 2010
Cover and text design by WH Chong
Cover illustration by Heather B Swann
Typeset in 12.5/18.75 Granjon by Midland Typesetters
Printed and bound by Griffin Press
National Library of Australia
Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
St John, Madeleine, 1941–2006.
A pure clear light / Madeleine St John.
ISBN: 9781921656699 (pbk.)
Married people–Fiction. Adultery–Fiction. London (England)--Fiction.
A823.3
For my sister
Contents
‘Simon, there’s a woman over there who keeps looking at us.’
‘Surely not.’
‘There
is.
For God’s sake; take a look yourself. It must be someone you know.’
‘Hardly likely, darling. Just your imagination.’
‘I haven’t
got
any imagination, as you perfectly well know. Look, there she goes again. Hurried, furtive glances. Oh my God.’
Simon shrugged. ‘It’s probably Flora,’ he said.
Gillian pulled her hand away from Simon’s. ‘That was despicable,’ she said.
And so it was: for Flora was Simon’s deceived, betrayed wife, and Gillian was his mistress, and whether or not their liaison itself was in poor taste (as some might have averred) flippant or jesting remarks very surely were. Simon’s expression was all contrition; shame filled his heart. ‘Sorry, darling,’ he said. ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry.’
Gillian said nothing. It was Flora to whom the apologies were actually due: strange that it should be she who should apparently be more conscious of this. She picked up her glass and drank, glancing across the crowded brasserie as she did so. Simon saw her sudden startled glance. ‘There she goes again,’ she hissed. ‘For heaven’s sake, Simon, take a look yourself. Look in the mirror.’
Gillian was sitting with her back to the wall, which was lined with mirror glass; Simon, opposite her, peered into its depths. ‘Such a lot of people,’ he said. ‘Where is she sitting, exactly?’
‘Over by the door. In a black hat. You should spot her easily.’
Simon looked again, and this time he saw the hat: he saw the hat, he saw—briefly, dreadfully, and just sufficiently—the face beneath it. ‘Oh my God,’ he said. And he seemed to shrink down in his chair, as if wishing to extinguish himself entirely.
‘Who is it?’
‘Of all the putrid, idiotic bad luck.’
‘Who
is
it?’
‘Don’t look now,’ Simon said, ‘for God’s sake, don’t look now—in fact, don’t look again, ever. She mustn’t know we’ve seen her. There’s just a chance that she won’t be sure it’s me. After all, she’s only seen my back.’
‘Unless she’s seen your face in the mirror,’ said Gillian. ‘Who the hell is she, Simon?’
Gillian was terrified that it might, indeed, be Flora, whom she had never seen, whom she hoped she might never, never see; she was appalled at the idea in any case of their having been seen, she and Simon together: that some innocent explanation might just conceivably be offered and accepted for their presence here, now, was almost beside the point. And what, so far, had the unknown woman seen—their clasped hands? the veil of intimacy which enclosed them here in this crowded place? Who, in any event,
was
she?
‘Well, it isn’t Flora,’ said Simon.
‘Thank God for that.’
‘But it’s almost as bad. Almost.’
‘Which is?’
‘It’s Lydia. It’s Lydia Faraday.’
‘And who,
exactly
,’ said Gillian, ‘is Lydia Faraday?’
When Simon had first known Flora—a decade and a half ago: how time flew!—she had still been a professing Roman Catholic, but he had soon talked her out of it.
‘I can’t believe no one has told you all this before,’ he said, having itemised the horrid ingredients in that scarlet brew—moral blackmail, misogyny, cannibalism and the rest. ‘At Cambridge, or wherever.’
‘Oh, but they have,’ Flora assured him.
‘But?’
‘I didn’t really care,’ said Flora, ‘what the others said.’
‘Ah,’ said Simon. He was home and dry. They got married, when the time eventually came, in an Anglican church, causing sorrow and consternation to Flora’s parents, who knew in their bones that this was not a proper marriage ceremony, and joy and satisfaction to Simon’s, whose bones told them that no other— truly—was; although of course by ‘proper’ they meant something rather different from what Flora’s parents meant; but since the bride’s mother is expected to cry, anyway, everyone looked as happy on the occasion as they ought.
When they had been married for several years, and Flora began to get a brooding look now and then, and to ask rhetorical questions about spiritual growth, Simon took a stern line. ‘For heaven’s sake,’ he said.
‘Exactly,’ said Flora.
‘Look,’ said Simon, ‘we’re not going to have to go through this again, are we? It’s hocus pocus. You agreed. And there are the kids to consider.’ They had two girls and a boy.
‘Yes,’ said Flora. ‘I’m considering them.’
‘They can be Anglican if they like,’ said Simon expansively. ‘You too, for that matter. Further than that I’m not prepared to go. Honestly, Flora. I mean it, the Pope and Days of Obligation and plastic Virgin Marys with light bulbs inside them and all the rest of it—no way. Not in my house.
Please.
It’s just too effing
naff.
’ Flora looked down at the floor to hide her smile, but despite herself, she began to laugh. Yes, Days of Obligation, the Pope—it was naff, all right. But then—what could you expect? Simon was laughing too, relieved and glad. But then Flora stopped laughing. ‘That’s not the whole story,’ she said. ‘After all.’ Simon didn’t want to go into the rest of the story, the part that wasn’t naff, because that was something even worse.
‘Be an Anglican,’ he reiterated. It was the lesser of two evils. In fact it was hardly evil at all; it was probably completely harmless. ‘No naffery there.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure about
that
,’ said Flora.
She let the whole thing ride for another year, but when the mood once more came upon her—or was it the Holy Ghost speaking to her? Probably—she looked again at the noticeboard in the porch of an Anglican church not too far from where they lived in Hammersmith, and judging it rightly to be High (another, nearer, was Low) she found herself noting the times of the masses. Hmmmm, she thought. She had no present intention of attending; she was just sussing it out. In any case, she was too busy to brood very often, because she had gone into business with a woman friend importing and selling third-world textiles; and the children continued to be highly labour-intensive: Janey was thirteen, Nell was nine, and little Thomas had just turned five.
Simon was not beset by brooding questions about spiritual growth—the Holy Ghost, it appears, was content to leave him to his own devices—but he had reached a point of vague disquiet with the givens, that was a fact. Simon had meant originally to become the Jean Renoir
de nos jours
, but actually he directed television plays and not especially meritorious ones at that. He was gritty and impatient and competent and personable and always had plenty of work; there was never time to sit down quietly and write the script of another
Grande Illusion.
He had a family to care for after all, Flora’s income notwithstanding: and that was earmarked for the school fees, anyway. So Simon just got on with it—and it wasn’t such a bad old life; there were lots worse. Flora was looking a bit seedy these days, but you had to expect that. The children were pretty, and clever: they argued a lot—you had to expect that, too—but he could tell from the manner of their arguing that they had sharp wits, so their futures in this jungle of a world seemed (as far as they could be) secure.
He nevertheless believed that one of these days, soon, he would find a window in the schedule, and would fly through it into a warm well-lighted place in which that script (a production certainty) could and would be written; or at any rate, started.
It was just six months or so after Flora had noted—and then forgotten—the times of the Sunday and weekday masses that something resembling a window seemed to appear in the wall around Simon, in that he found he would not after all be able to accompany Flora and the offspring to the
gîte
in the Périgord which they had taken with some friends of theirs—the Hunters, and their two sons—during the summer holidays. It had been intended that he would join them for a fortnight of the scheduled month but this was now impossible: a job which ought to have been finished in time had had to be deferred, and Simon was therefore, as he explained to Flora, ‘Fucked.’