What Was She Thinking? (12 page)
For all its omissions, it was a long narrative, which she told with many fastidious digressions. Listening to her, I had the impression that she was trying to be very, very scrupulous and accurate. Several times, she stopped to correct herself on tiny points relating to the exact time that a conversation had taken place or precisely what salutation she had used on a specific occasion. It was almost as if she were giving a police report.
“What day was it again, that he actually attacked you?” I asked, when she had finished.
“Oh no, it wasn’t an attack … ,” she said.
“All right, whatever it was. When was it?”
“Um, last Thursday.”
“Have you seen him or spoken to him since the incident?”
“He’s come to my studio a couple of times, but I sent him away.”
I thought for a while. “If the situation is really as you have described it,” I said, “your course of action seems to me quite clear-cut. The boy has been harassing you and needs to be stopped. You must inform the headmaster straightaway and have the boy disciplined.”
Sheba looked at me, horrified. “Oh no!” she said. “No, no. I couldn’t possibly …”
“But the boy tried to kiss you. It’s very serious.”
“No, no, Barbara,” she said. “I’ve given you quite the wrong impression. He’s the most harmless boy. When I say ‘kiss,’ you
have to understand, it was a terribly sweet, romantic thing—not at all aggressive—and the moment I protested, he stopped. He’s got a crush, you see. It would do nobody any good to make it a discipline issue.”
have to understand, it was a terribly sweet, romantic thing—not at all aggressive—and the moment I protested, he stopped. He’s got a crush, you see. It would do nobody any good to make it a discipline issue.”
We were both quiet for a moment.
“Sheba, I have to ask you this. Do you have feelings for this boy?”
She blushed. “Well, yes. What—You mean, do I fancy him or something? God, no. Absolutely not. I’m fond of him. He’s a sweetie. I just, you know, need to know how to handle this, without hurting his feelings.”
I nodded. “I’m going to tell you something now that you’re not going to like,” I said. “You’re new to this game, and you have a lot of worthy, completely impractical ideas about what your role as teacher should be. The fact is, it isn’t your job to be a friend to your pupils. When you blur the lines of the teacher-pupil contract—when you try to be soft and chummy and ‘one of them’—you are actually doing your pupils a disservice. I don’t pretend to know what ails this boy, but it would seem fairly obvious that he has formed an intense attachment to you. I strongly advise you to refer this to the head. If you won’t do that, you must at least make it clear to the boy that you’re prepared to do so. You have to tell him, firmly, that there is to be no further contact between the two of you.”
Sheba had been nodding vigorously as I was talking. When I was done, she said, with great fervour and determination, “You’re right, you’re right. I know you’re right. Oh, Barbara, I’m going to do just as you say. I’ve been a terrible silly. But I’m going to be very, very tough from now on. I promise.”
She went to a cupboard, took out some old newspaper, and began wrapping my bowl.
I took this as a signal that our conference was at an end, and I got up from my chair.
“I’m so glad I spoke to you about this, Barbara,” she said, handing me the package. “It’s been preying on my mind all week. I knew you’d put me right. You must think me awfully foolish …”
I shook my head, and then—a little tentatively, because casual affection is not my forte—I patted her on the shoulder. “Not at all. Not at all. These are difficult matters for a new teacher to deal with. I’m very glad you spoke to me about it.”
At the foot of the stairs, I turned to her. “Forgive me for asking, but have you told anyone else about any of this?”
“No. No, I haven’t,” she said.
“Not even Sue?”
“No. Why?”
“Well, no, I was just thinking it would probably serve you best not to tell Sue. She’s not a bad person. But she’s not …” I chuckled. “She can be a bit of a goose, can’t she?”
Sheba nodded. “You’re quite right. I shan’t tell anyone else.”
Much later on, when Sheba finally told me the truth about her relationship with Connolly, when I found out all that she had omitted from this first, bizarre faux confession, I was very angry. I couldn’t understand why she had gone to the bother of telling such a radically compromised truth. Just two nights before she had me over to her house, she had been rutting with Connolly in a public park. Had it given her a thrill to play at confessing to me? Or had she offered this innocent version of their relationship in order to counter any suspicions among the staff of something worse?
In the beginning, I was willing to attribute the worst possible motives to her deceit. But, as time went on, the more melodramatic
theories lost credibility. It is mad to describe a middle-aged adulteress as innocent, and yet there is something fundamentally innocent about Sheba. It goes without saying that she is capable of all kinds of sin. But she is not one of life’s schemers. She does not have the cunning that is required to connive and plot—at least not in any sustained, committed way. I am more inclined at this point to see her first account as the sort of quasiconfidence that young children impart when they want relief from the burden of a secret but are unwilling to face the ramifications of full disclosure. Down in that basement studio, I believe that she
wanted
to tell all. Her courage simply failed her. The queasy look that I mistook at the time for general anxiety was, in fact, a thwarted desire for absolution.
theories lost credibility. It is mad to describe a middle-aged adulteress as innocent, and yet there is something fundamentally innocent about Sheba. It goes without saying that she is capable of all kinds of sin. But she is not one of life’s schemers. She does not have the cunning that is required to connive and plot—at least not in any sustained, committed way. I am more inclined at this point to see her first account as the sort of quasiconfidence that young children impart when they want relief from the burden of a secret but are unwilling to face the ramifications of full disclosure. Down in that basement studio, I believe that she
wanted
to tell all. Her courage simply failed her. The queasy look that I mistook at the time for general anxiety was, in fact, a thwarted desire for absolution.
Upstairs, the children had disappeared to their rooms and Richard was in the kitchen making coffee. Sheba and I went to sit in the living room and, shortly afterwards, Richard came in with the coffee tray. He made a great song and dance about it—tootling a fanfare and wearing a tea cosy on his head. From this and from the extravagant gratitude with which Sheba thanked him, I gathered that Richard’s contributions to the domestic commonweal were rather infrequent.
The three of us sat and talked for forty-five minutes or so. The conversation was mainly about our plans for the summer holiday. Richard and Sheba were going to be in Provence for a month. “We go every year,” Sheba said. “My family has a house—well, more of a shack, actually—that my father bought a hundred years ago for tuppence halfpenny. It’s completely primitive but very pretty. Near Avignon, if that means anything.” I mentioned a tentative plan to travel to Madrid, and Richard, who had spent some time in Spain as a young man, had a great deal of advice about what I ought to do and see
while I was there. Then it was ten thirty and time for me to leave.
while I was there. Then it was ten thirty and time for me to leave.
On the way home, I stopped in at LoPrice, the supermarket at the end of my road, to get a pint of milk and some bread for the next morning. The man in front of me at the checkout laid his purchases on the conveyor belt with a terrible, shy precision: a jar of instant coffee; a single kaiser roll with a smudge of dirt on its hard crust; a tin of tuna; a large jar of mayonnaise; two boxes of Kleenex. I thought of the casually extravagant meal that I had just eaten at the Harts’.
They
surely never shopped at overpriced, unhygienic little supermarkets like this one. No, they would take advantage of their economies of scale and make jolly family expeditions to the flagship Sainsbury’s in West Hampstead. I could just picture them bouncing along the aisles, throwing economy packs of toilet paper into their carts and shouting, “What’s the rice situation, darling?” at each other. The man at the checkout watched his things being rung up with careful attention. Back home, he would make his grim tuna sandwich and his cup of sawdust coffee. He would eat in front of the television, as single people do. And then he would turn to his bounteous supply of tissues … . For what? Tears? Sneezes? Masturbation?
They
surely never shopped at overpriced, unhygienic little supermarkets like this one. No, they would take advantage of their economies of scale and make jolly family expeditions to the flagship Sainsbury’s in West Hampstead. I could just picture them bouncing along the aisles, throwing economy packs of toilet paper into their carts and shouting, “What’s the rice situation, darling?” at each other. The man at the checkout watched his things being rung up with careful attention. Back home, he would make his grim tuna sandwich and his cup of sawdust coffee. He would eat in front of the television, as single people do. And then he would turn to his bounteous supply of tissues … . For what? Tears? Sneezes? Masturbation?
There was a small confusion when the girl at the till mistakenly included my milk and bread as part of the man’s basket. “No, no,” the man murmured angrily. Shooting me a nasty look, he grabbed the little metal divider and slammed it down on the conveyor belt to section off my things from his. Lonely people are terrible snobs about one another, I’ve found. They’re afraid that consorting with their own kind will compound their freakishness. The time that Jennifer and I went to Paris together, we saw an airline employee at Heathrow ask two very fat people
in the check-in line where they were both off to. The fat people were not a couple as it happened, and the suggestion that they were panicked them. Leaping apart, they both shouted in unison, “We’re not together!”
in the check-in line where they were both off to. The fat people were not a couple as it happened, and the suggestion that they were panicked them. Leaping apart, they both shouted in unison, “We’re not together!”
I understood their horror. Even Jennifer and I were prey on occasion to a certain self-consciousness about the impression we made as a twosome. Alone, each of us was safely unremarkable—invisible, actually—as plain women over the age of forty are to the world. Together, though, I always suspected that we were faintly comic: two screamingly unhusbanded ladies on a day out. A music hall act of spinsterhood.
For a second, I had an impulse to shout at the man in LoPrice—to tell him that I was not like him at all, that I had friends. That I had just come from a warm and delightful family dinner at someone’s house. But of course I didn’t. I merely lowered my head and pretended to look for something in my handbag until he was safely out on the street.
Later, in bed with a cup of tea and Portia, I reflected on the evening with some satisfaction. Notwithstanding the bloody ankle, I had made a good showing, I felt. I had been mannerly and appropriate with the children. I had gotten along well with the husband. And, when asked by Sheba for advice, I had responded with wisdom and sympathy. Sheba had clearly been very grateful.
How deluded I was! But how happy!
L
ocation, I believe, was the predominant concern of the lovers in the early days of their romance. Where to meet. Where to do it. For want of any more agreeable alternative, they returned to Hampstead Heath many times. (Sheba is uncertain of the exact number, but she estimates at least twenty.) The alfresco aspect of their sexual relations has greatly exercised the press but, contrary to all the reporters’ salacious innuendo, Sheba and Connolly did not feel that there was any erotic bonus to their trysting outdoors. It is quite difficult, apparently, to disport oneself with convincing abandon on sodden London parkland. In early April, the evenings were so cold that Sheba would often lose all feeling in her lips and hands. And even in more clement weather, fear of insects and of dog shit made complete relaxation an impossibility. Once a man stumbled into the clearing where Sheba and Connolly were huddled together. Sheba panicked and screamed, causing the man to scream himself and run away. Afterwards, Connolly tried to soothe Sheba—assure her that the man wasn’t coming back. But she could not be convinced, and the evening was ruined.
ocation, I believe, was the predominant concern of the lovers in the early days of their romance. Where to meet. Where to do it. For want of any more agreeable alternative, they returned to Hampstead Heath many times. (Sheba is uncertain of the exact number, but she estimates at least twenty.) The alfresco aspect of their sexual relations has greatly exercised the press but, contrary to all the reporters’ salacious innuendo, Sheba and Connolly did not feel that there was any erotic bonus to their trysting outdoors. It is quite difficult, apparently, to disport oneself with convincing abandon on sodden London parkland. In early April, the evenings were so cold that Sheba would often lose all feeling in her lips and hands. And even in more clement weather, fear of insects and of dog shit made complete relaxation an impossibility. Once a man stumbled into the clearing where Sheba and Connolly were huddled together. Sheba panicked and screamed, causing the man to scream himself and run away. Afterwards, Connolly tried to soothe Sheba—assure her that the man wasn’t coming back. But she could not be convinced, and the evening was ruined.
Later, she discovered that she and Connolly had unknowingly set up camp in the area of the heath frequented by homosexuals.
The man who disturbed them had been not a Peeping Tom but a queer Lothario in search of a conquest. Still, Sheba remained sufficiently unsettled by the episode to arrange her next meeting with Connolly back in her school studio. She locked the door and drew the curtains, of course, but the school cleaners, who kept uncertain hours, had keys to the room. The risk of being caught was high.
The man who disturbed them had been not a Peeping Tom but a queer Lothario in search of a conquest. Still, Sheba remained sufficiently unsettled by the episode to arrange her next meeting with Connolly back in her school studio. She locked the door and drew the curtains, of course, but the school cleaners, who kept uncertain hours, had keys to the room. The risk of being caught was high.
It is hard, I tell her, to interpret such drastically incautious behaviour as anything other than sexual obsession. But Sheba objects to that phrase. She says that it places undue emphasis on the carnal aspect of the relationship. The remorseless vulgarity of the press coverage has made her defensively high-minded. She wants it to be known that she and Connolly were not merely engaged in “illicit romps” and “sex sessions.” They were
in love.
Just after the scandal broke, a
Sunday Express
reporter ambushed Connolly outside his house and asked him what had drawn him to his teacher. Connolly, in what is his sole public statement about the affair to date, replied, “I fancied her, didn’t I?” before being whisked by his mother into his father’s waiting cab. The line is now famous. I understand it has become a kind of humourous catchphrase in the media. For Sheba, though, it is a terrible humiliation. When she first heard what Connolly had said, it seemed to her that he was willfully belittling their romance—disowning his true feelings in order to gratify the coarse expectations of the tabloids. She has since forgiven him. (He didn’t know how it would sound, she says.) But the quotation itself—and the widespread perception that their relationship was just a lot of “shagging”—remains a very sore point.
in love.
Just after the scandal broke, a
Sunday Express
reporter ambushed Connolly outside his house and asked him what had drawn him to his teacher. Connolly, in what is his sole public statement about the affair to date, replied, “I fancied her, didn’t I?” before being whisked by his mother into his father’s waiting cab. The line is now famous. I understand it has become a kind of humourous catchphrase in the media. For Sheba, though, it is a terrible humiliation. When she first heard what Connolly had said, it seemed to her that he was willfully belittling their romance—disowning his true feelings in order to gratify the coarse expectations of the tabloids. She has since forgiven him. (He didn’t know how it would sound, she says.) But the quotation itself—and the widespread perception that their relationship was just a lot of “shagging”—remains a very sore point.
There were a few occasions, she will acknowledge, when the two of them only had time to make love hurriedly before parting again. But such encounters were unsatisfactory to both of
them, she says. They were always looking for opportunities to spend “real” time with one another. Connolly had a pager and, whenever Sheba found herself with an unforeseen spare moment, she would call him. It was difficult to arrange proper outings without arousing the suspicion of their respective families, but they managed it at least three times.
them, she says. They were always looking for opportunities to spend “real” time with one another. Connolly had a pager and, whenever Sheba found herself with an unforeseen spare moment, she would call him. It was difficult to arrange proper outings without arousing the suspicion of their respective families, but they managed it at least three times.
Once they went to the National Portrait Gallery. Another time, they went to a West Indian restaurant in Hammersmith. (Sheba made Connolly eat goat for the first time.) Once, for reasons that history does not relate, they visited Hampton Court. On each of these trips, they took taxicabs, she says, and always laughed with slightly hysterical relief when the cabdrivers pulled up, revealing themselves
not
to be Connolly’s father. Inside, they would press themselves into a corner and pretend that the driver could not see them while they groped and panted at each other all the way to their destination.
not
to be Connolly’s father. Inside, they would press themselves into a corner and pretend that the driver could not see them while they groped and panted at each other all the way to their destination.
I sense from what Sheba has told me that these dates, beneath their surface larkiness, were rather tense for her. In the classroom or on the heath with Connolly, she could believe that theirs was a beautiful, forbidden love—something sweet and fine and, if only the circumstances were tweaked, infinitely viable. Out in the world, she was forced to recognise their radical oddness as a couple. Once, as they were walking down St. Martin’s Lane together—this was their National Portrait Gallery trip—she caught a glimpse of their rippling reflection in a shop window. It was a long moment before she made the connection and understood that the bony, middle-aged housewife clutching the hand of a teenage son was
her.
her.
At the restaurant in Hammersmith, Connolly apparently requested a sickly cocktail to go with his curry. Sheba suggested he have a soft drink instead, or a lager, but he was insistent: he
wanted his rum and Coke. She did not press the matter. She could hardly hector the boy about the dangers of strong drink, she felt, when she was about to take him to the park for sex.
wanted his rum and Coke. She did not press the matter. She could hardly hector the boy about the dangers of strong drink, she felt, when she was about to take him to the park for sex.
Early on in the affair, Sheba started buying underwear for herself—nylon, flowery things intended for girls of Polly’s age. She kept them at the back of her underwear drawer and put them on only when she knew she would be seeing Connolly. Once, she says, while she was picking through a bin of thongs in the noisy basement of an Oxford Street boutique, she looked up to see Diana Selwood, the wife of one of Richard’s colleagues, approaching her. Diana was with her teenage daughter, Tessa. Sheba stepped back from the bin and folded her arms. She greeted Diana, and they chatted for a while about their children and husbands. Then Diana looked down at the bin.
“Golly, Sheba,” she said. “I take my hat off to you. I stopped bothering with fancy underwear years ago. How the hell do you wear these things?”
“God, I’ve no idea,” Sheba said, staring blankly at the floral scraps. “I thought they were head scarves, to tell you the truth.”
Connolly was always cooing over her beauty in those first months—stroking her hair, placing his beefy little arm around her waist and marvelling at its narrowness. Encouraged by his worshipfulness, Sheba took to wearing more cosmetics. Richard had never cared for makeup, but Connolly responded in the most gratifying way to the artifice. The first time that Sheba arrived for one of their assignations sporting red, glossy lips and kohl around her eyes, his mouth sagged in wonderment, she recalls.
“What?” she asked. “Is it the war paint?”
“You look just like a model,” Connolly whispered.
The affair did not have any immediate adverse effect on her
marriage, she claims. Her relationship with her husband actually benefitted at first. The nights on which she came home late from being with Connolly, she remembers being struck by how warmly affectionate she felt towards Richard. Picking up the underpants that he had abandoned on the bathroom floor, or gently retrieving a container of dental floss from his sleeping hand, she felt neither resentful nor guilty: just grateful for the cosy fact of her husband’s existence. It was comforting, after her strange, chilly assignations on the heath, to climb into the warmed marriage bed—to feel Richard’s body shift sleepily to clasp hers. When he wanted to make love, she always submitted without protest. It didn’t seem so awful at the time, she says, to go from her lover to her husband in the same evening. It seemed quite natural. She always showered before she got into bed. And she still liked Richard that way. These things don’t just switch off, she says.
marriage, she claims. Her relationship with her husband actually benefitted at first. The nights on which she came home late from being with Connolly, she remembers being struck by how warmly affectionate she felt towards Richard. Picking up the underpants that he had abandoned on the bathroom floor, or gently retrieving a container of dental floss from his sleeping hand, she felt neither resentful nor guilty: just grateful for the cosy fact of her husband’s existence. It was comforting, after her strange, chilly assignations on the heath, to climb into the warmed marriage bed—to feel Richard’s body shift sleepily to clasp hers. When he wanted to make love, she always submitted without protest. It didn’t seem so awful at the time, she says, to go from her lover to her husband in the same evening. It seemed quite natural. She always showered before she got into bed. And she still liked Richard that way. These things don’t just switch off, she says.
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