sleeping quarters. This suited everyone. Paul and Ondine, as soon as they became familiar with the layout, moved about their own part of the house with an increasingly careless freedom, while Anna and Winton could carry on with no fear of being intruded upon.
When the doctor turned sixty, a few years after his wife and the children had moved in, Anna arranged a lavish birthday dinner. She wanted to preside over a bigger, more public function, but the unusual circumstances of her relationship with the doctor made this awkward in a society still labouring under a morality that had survived the previous century and that, despite its moribund character, seemed destined to survive her as well. Winton didn’t care in the least. As he concentrated his attention on his wife, he’d also shed many of his old acquaintances. A private celebration was entirely in keeping with his own inclinations.
When the four of them sat down at the table, Ondine couldn’t help but notice her mother’s devotion to the doctor. She had never seen her so radiant in his presence. Anna glowed with satisfaction and Ondine felt uneasy in their midst.
At twelve, when they’d first moved to St Vincent Place, she had an inkling of what it meant to live as man and wife. But back then her sense of this was abstract, innocently astray. She still looked up to adults as if they were faultless, semi-divine creatures unsullied by the elements. Her own father, of course, was an exception, but even there the mystery of a grown-up’s motivations, unfathomable to a child, preserved her idea of adulthood as an unassailable state. Now, at fifteen, she had begun to see her mother and Winton quite differently. There was nothing in particular that she could put her finger on, no one thing that could account for it. Rather it was the slow accumulation of detail that revealed to her intimations of their sexuality – intimations that were increasingly graphic and estranged.
It was not merely the thought of Winton being so much older. It was her awareness of his calm, confident possession of her mother, his easy command of the dinner table, and the rich, overpowering smell of his cologne. She imagined that such a pungent, artificial scent could only be used to mask the hot, musky odour of bodies frantically groping and pawing like animals. She imagined them languishing, swooning in each other’s arms, or rutting away at each other like the dogs she’d seen behind the Punch and Judy show on St Kilda beach. Her vision of their enjoyment might well have cast the familiar dinner gathering in a changed and disturbed light, but it couldn’t explain her sense that she was being pushed away from herself. It was a surreal feeling, as if the self she were used to was falling away, leaving her exposed, vulnerable.
For a moment there was an awkward silence. Anna smiled sweetly at Winton. The flickering candles cast a warm reddish glow over the room. The polished oak table, the chairs upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the gleaming silverware, the crystal glasses and the decanter imparted a heaviness to the proceedings which pulled against her mother’s incongruous lightness of manner. Ondine was startled by this contrast. It was as if the room, which had become so comfortable and familiar, were suddenly foreign, hostile even, as if it were questioning her presence in it. Her mother’s attention concentrated around the doctor, who seemed intoxicated by it and proud of the little gathering. For a second, an expression, partly of anxiety, partly of loathing, disturbed Ondine’s serene demeanour. Paul noticed the change and when she saw him staring at her she immediately resumed her customary prettiness, sipping the half-glass of claret she was permitted in the interests of cultivation and breeding.
After they’d finished the first course of watercress soup, Mrs Norris served a dish of glazed duck, the preparation of which Anna had supervised that afternoon.
“May I have some more
When the doctor turned sixty, a few years after his wife and the children had moved in, Anna arranged a lavish birthday dinner. She wanted to preside over a bigger, more public function, but the unusual circumstances of her relationship with the doctor made this awkward in a society still labouring under a morality that had survived the previous century and that, despite its moribund character, seemed destined to survive her as well. Winton didn’t care in the least. As he concentrated his attention on his wife, he’d also shed many of his old acquaintances. A private celebration was entirely in keeping with his own inclinations.
When the four of them sat down at the table, Ondine couldn’t help but notice her mother’s devotion to the doctor. She had never seen her so radiant in his presence. Anna glowed with satisfaction and Ondine felt uneasy in their midst.
At twelve, when they’d first moved to St Vincent Place, she had an inkling of what it meant to live as man and wife. But back then her sense of this was abstract, innocently astray. She still looked up to adults as if they were faultless, semi-divine creatures unsullied by the elements. Her own father, of course, was an exception, but even there the mystery of a grown-up’s motivations, unfathomable to a child, preserved her idea of adulthood as an unassailable state. Now, at fifteen, she had begun to see her mother and Winton quite differently. There was nothing in particular that she could put her finger on, no one thing that could account for it. Rather it was the slow accumulation of detail that revealed to her intimations of their sexuality – intimations that were increasingly graphic and estranged.
It was not merely the thought of Winton being so much older. It was her awareness of his calm, confident possession of her mother, his easy command of the dinner table, and the rich, overpowering smell of his cologne. She imagined that such a pungent, artificial scent could only be used to mask the hot, musky odour of bodies frantically groping and pawing like animals. She imagined them languishing, swooning in each other’s arms, or rutting away at each other like the dogs she’d seen behind the Punch and Judy show on St Kilda beach. Her vision of their enjoyment might well have cast the familiar dinner gathering in a changed and disturbed light, but it couldn’t explain her sense that she was being pushed away from herself. It was a surreal feeling, as if the self she were used to was falling away, leaving her exposed, vulnerable.
For a moment there was an awkward silence. Anna smiled sweetly at Winton. The flickering candles cast a warm reddish glow over the room. The polished oak table, the chairs upholstered in Utrecht velvet, the gleaming silverware, the crystal glasses and the decanter imparted a heaviness to the proceedings which pulled against her mother’s incongruous lightness of manner. Ondine was startled by this contrast. It was as if the room, which had become so comfortable and familiar, were suddenly foreign, hostile even, as if it were questioning her presence in it. Her mother’s attention concentrated around the doctor, who seemed intoxicated by it and proud of the little gathering. For a second, an expression, partly of anxiety, partly of loathing, disturbed Ondine’s serene demeanour. Paul noticed the change and when she saw him staring at her she immediately resumed her customary prettiness, sipping the half-glass of claret she was permitted in the interests of cultivation and breeding.
After they’d finished the first course of watercress soup, Mrs Norris served a dish of glazed duck, the preparation of which Anna had supervised that afternoon.
“May I have some more
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