The Temptation of Hugh.
“The sun whose rays are all ablaze with ever-living glory.” Hugh was singing to himself in the garden. He had emerged from the growlery to take a little after-dinner (if you could call it dinner) stroll. From the other side of the holly hedge that divided Fox Corner from Jackdaws he heard an answering lilt. “Observe his flame, that placid dame, the moon’s Celestial Highness.” Which seemed to be how he had found himself in the Shawcrosses’ conservatory with his arms around Roberta Shawcross, having slipped through the gap in the hedge that the children had created through years of use. (Both he and Mrs. Shawcross had recently taken part in a local amateur production of The Mikado. They had surprised both themselves and each other with the vigour of their unlikely performances as Ko-Ko and Katisha.)
Sun and moon, Hugh thought, the masculine and feminine elements. What would he have thought if he had known that one day these would be the names of his great-grandchildren? “Mrs. Shawcross,” he had said when he reached the other side of the hedge, rather scratched by the holly. The children who used this short cut were considerably smaller than he was, he realized.
“Oh, please, it’s Roberta, Hugh.” How unnervingly intimate his name sounded on her lips. Moist, cushiony lips, accustomed to giving praise and encouragement to all and sundry.
She was warm to the touch. And without corsetry. She dressed in a rather bohemian fashion, but then she was a vegetarian and a pacifist, and, of course, there was the whole issue of the suffrage. The woman was a terrific idealist. You couldn’t help but admire her. (Up to a point, anyway.) She had beliefs and passions outside of herself. Sylvie’s passions were storms that raged within.
He tightened his hold on Mrs. Shawcross slightly and felt her respond in kind.
“Oh dear,” she said.
“I know…” Hugh said.
The thing about Mrs. Shawcross—Roberta—was that she understood about the war. It wasn’t that he wanted to talk about it—God, no—but it was comforting to be in the company of someone who knew. A little, anyway. Major Shawcross had had some problems when he came back from the front and his wife had been very sympathetic. One had seen some awful things, none of them fit topics of conversation at home, and, of course, Sylvie had no intention of discussing the war. It had been a rip in the fabric of their lives and she had sewn it up neatly.
“Oh, that’s a very good way of putting it, Hugh,” Mrs. Shawcross—Roberta—said. “But, you know, unless you can do very good invisible stitching there’ll always be a scar, won’t there?”
He regretted introducing the needlework metaphors. The overheated conservatory was full of scented geraniums, a rather oppressive smell in Hugh’s opinion. Mrs. Shawcross held the palm of her hand against his cheek, gently, as if he was breakable. He moved his lips nearer to hers. Here’s a how-de-do, he thought. He was in uncharted territory.
“It’s just that Neville,” she began shyly. (Who was Neville, Hugh wondered?) “Neville can’t… any more. Since the war, you know?”
“Major Shawcross?”
“Yes, Neville. And one doesn’t want to be…” She was blushing.
“Oh, I see,” Hugh said. The geraniums were beginning to make him feel slightly sick. He needed some fresh air. He began to feel panicked. He took his marriage vows seriously, unlike some men he knew. He believed in the compromise of marriage, he acknowledged its circumscription. And Mrs. Shawcross—Roberta—lived next door, for heaven’s sake. They had ten children between them—hardly a foundation for adulterous passion. No, he must extricate himself from this situation, he thought, his lips moving ever nearer.
“Oh, Lord!” she exclaimed, taking a sudden step back from him. “Is that the time?”
He looked around for a clock and couldn’t see one.
“It’s Kibbo Kift night,” she said.
“Kibbo Kift?” Hugh repeated, confused.
“Yes, I must go, the children will be waiting.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “The children.” He began to make his retreat. “Well, if ever you need to talk, you know where I am. Just next door,” he added, rather pointlessly.
“Yes, of course.”
He escaped, taking the circuitous route of path and door rather than the vicious gap in the hedge.
It would have been wrong, he thought, retiring to the chaste safety of the growlery, but nonetheless he couldn’t help but preen a little. He began to whistle “Three Little Maids from School.” He felt rather jaunty.