Secrets of the Tides (14 page)

‘Oh don’t be so melodramatic. Other women seem to balance work and family just fine – and I already told you just this weekend—’

‘Well perhaps you should have married one of those super-women then!’

And round and round they had gone, all the recent family niggles and annoyances rolled into one angry mess. She’d looked at Richard as he’d stood across the kitchen from her, his mouth opening and closing in a ‘Charlie Brown’
waah-waah-waah
, and all she could focus on was a small, irritating tuft of hair that had made a break from one of his nostrils and flapped helplessly in time to his words. It was then that she knew her feelings for him had faded beyond recognition. She didn’t know what she felt for him any more, but it was a long way from the early romance of their youth. She had stood there in a sort of daze, wondering how they had come to this.

She’d thought about it plenty over the years, wondering why she had accepted his proposal of marriage when they barely even knew each other. The only conclusion she had been able to draw was that he had seduced her with a false promise. Not a malicious one, but something sly and subtle. Because when Richard had sat across from her on the night he’d proposed, his eyes full of adoration and hope, it had seemed so romantic, so spontaneous that she’d convinced herself Richard might just be the man for her. He wasn’t merely attractive and intelligent and what her mother would have deemed to be a
good catch
, he’d seemed passionate and adventurous too.

But as the years passed, Helen’s simmering disappointment grew and grew as slowly she realised that Richard’s sense of spontaneity and adventure was a short-lived thing; a tiny, hot flame that had burned brightly for just a moment and then extinguished itself for ever. He’d acted in a way that had promised her something that she knew now he simply couldn’t deliver. He seemed aware of her disappointment – how could he not be when she was so frustrated, so spiky and volatile – but his cautious tiptoeing around her, his gentle, soft-spoken attempts to pacify and smooth the waters only served to irritate her more. Frankly, she would have preferred it if he’d shouted and raged and shown her a fiery, passionate spirit; but every day that she endured his cautious, wary glances, his dry, conservative views, the careful way he kissed her, his perfectly lined-up shoes in the wardrobe or his habit of folding the newspaper just so, she felt more and more angry, like a tightly coiled spring about to explode.

The truth was that they had reached a critical point in their relationship, a sort of stalemate that they just couldn’t move beyond; for now, whenever one of them tried to draw close, whenever one of them reached out to reconnect, they always seemed to put a foot wrong. His well-meaning attempts to lighten her load only made her feel defensive and guilty, while her attempts to swallow back her frustration and disappointment only seemed to make it spew forth more furiously when she did, inevitably, lose her temper with him. Their few clumsy efforts to reconcile only sent them spinning further away from each other, like two magnets repelling each other.

In essence, she mourned the life she thought she should have, the life she’d believed they would share. She wanted bright lights, culture, a bustling city landscape, travel and adventure. To have ended up cloistered away in a sleepy seaside hamlet of all places, rattling around the rambling old farmhouse of his childhood, seemed unfathomable. She’d told him from the start that she wanted a career . . . that she wanted to be in London . . . that the life his mother had lived wasn’t for her, and yet here they were, Daphne and Alfred Tide reincarnated. Thanks to his overblown sense of familial duty she’d foregone her dreams and traded her ambitions, all to service the legacy of his dead parents.

It always came back to that damn house! It seemed to stand between them, casting a huge, dark shadow over their faltering relationship. She was no fool; she knew now they were there for good. She knew that the only way he would leave Clifftops would be to be carried out in his bloody coffin; she just couldn’t bear to go the same way. She wasn’t yet forty, far too young to resign herself to a sedate life of quiet country pursuits. The thought made her shiver.

Helen sped onwards, solitary in her little car, winding down the window so that the breeze blew her hair loose from its clip. A warm weekend had been forecast and she was grateful that the holidays were nearly upon them, but for now it was just enough to be on her own, on her way to work, enjoying the sunshine. It was far too nice a morning to spend it dwelling on her unhappy marriage. Pushing all thoughts of her family from her mind, Helen began instead to think about the day that lay ahead. She had one lecture to give, a few papers to mark and then she would be free. She turned up the radio and put her foot to the floor. For once, she could feel her blood pumping and her skin tingle in the summer breeze. For once, she felt alive. It was going to be a good day.

A little over twenty minutes later Helen pulled into the faculty car park. Miraculously she was on time. She tried to resist glancing at the space opposite hers but failed. The little green MG was there already, its battered bonnet winking cheerily in the sunshine. She felt a sudden heat flood through her body and tried to ignore the sensation, instead grabbing at the books and papers that had spread themselves across the back seat and making her way into the Classics department. Just a silly housewife’s fantasy, there was no harm in that.

‘Last day with the buggers for a while eh?’ Dean Childs called out as she walked by his open door. ‘Are you joining us at the pub later to celebrate?’

‘Yes,’ she agreed, caught off guard. She had forgotten about the faculty end of year lunch.

‘Good, good,’ the grey-haired professor nodded. ‘Nice to have a respectable turnout and I’d be interested to hear how your module has gone this semester. I’ve heard good things from the students.’

‘Great!’ Helen exclaimed with false enthusiasm. ‘See you then.’

Eager to avoid any more chitchat she sped to the end of the corridor and unlocked the door to her office. She entered and closed it behind her with a sigh. That ruled out lunch in the staff canteen then, and any possible chance of bumping into
him
.

Just thinking of a possible encounter again made her stomach twist with lust. She glanced at herself in the little mirror she’d hung on the back of her door. Her shoulder-length hair was wild and curly after the car journey, and there was a pink flush to her cheeks where the wind had whipped at her face. She’d dressed carefully, eager to look youthful, but careful not to overdo it. She thought she’d struck just the right note in a brightly patterned calf-length skirt, a fitted white shirt and wide brown leather belt and boots. She didn’t look half bad for a mother of three, although she supposed it didn’t really matter now. She sighed. It was probably just as well.

The lecture theatre was half empty when Helen entered, just a smattering of unusually prompt students already in their place. She moved to the lectern, arranged her papers and ran through the slides one final time. By nine thirty she was ready and as the last stragglers slipped into their seats Helen dimmed the theatre lights, cleared her throat and began.

‘
The Iliad
. Of all Homer’s orations, this one is perhaps the most celebrated, the most popular. And at its centre, at the very heart of the tragedy lies one woman: Helen of Troy. Daughter. Sister. Wife. Adulteress. Victim . . . or perhaps . . . villain?’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘She has been called many things over the centuries . . .’

Helen looked out across the room. In the dim half-light a number of students had begun to scribble furiously in notepads. She could see one or two others leaning back in their chairs, arms folded, their eyes on the screen overhead. To the far right she saw another student with his head resting upon the desk, clearly settled in for an hour’s sleep. She pressed her clicker and flashed up a series of images, details of Helen taken from frescoes and vases, pausing on a slide showing Evelyn de Morgan’s famous nineteenth-century portrait.

‘Undoubtedly she is one of the most alluring women of ancient mythology. She was the face that infamously launched a thousand ships, and yet even before we meet her in
The Iliad
, she has experienced a life of tragedy and controversy.’

Out of the corner of her eye Helen saw the door to the lecture theatre open. For just a moment the figure of a man stood backlit in the doorway. He slid quietly towards the nearest empty chair and the door swung shut again, returning the room to darkness once more. The surprise entrance only took a second or two, but it was long enough for Helen to recognise the unmistakable silhouette of her uninvited guest.

‘We . . . we know . . . er, we know, of course, that Helen was a great beauty.’

Helen struggled to maintain her composure.
Focus on the lecture. Focus on the lecture
. She glanced back to the slide on the screen, swallowed back her discomfort and then continued. ‘But you have to delve deep into the text to really understand the essence of Helen and what it was she stood for. If we look at Euripides’ play
Helen
, which he wrote in the fifth century BC, we find a very different portrayal of the woman. In the opening scene Helen stands . . .’

She had soon forgotten the presence of her unexpected guest as she lost herself in the lecture and before long Helen found herself opening up the floor to questions. As usual the undergraduates were reluctant to step into the spotlight, but then, miraculously, one student stuck up her hand. Helen nearly keeled over with surprise. ‘Yes, Jenny, you have a question?’

‘Um, yes, I wanted to ask if there is any chance of an extension for our final essays?’

Helen’s heart sank. She’d been hoping for something a little more pertinent to the lecture. ‘Essays are due in the first day back next term. You’ll need to come and speak to me in person if you have a problem meeting the deadline. Does anyone else have a question?’ She was just about to wish them all a happy holiday when a deep baritone broke the silence.

‘I do.’

Helen’s heart sank. ‘Er, yes, Mr . . .’ She feigned ignorance.

‘Grey. Tobias Grey, Artist in Residence here at the university. I hope you don’t mind me sitting in on your lecture today. I found it fascinating.’

‘Thank you, Mr Grey,’ Helen replied formally. ‘You have a question?’

‘Yes. I was interested to hear you talking about the tension between duty and desire that Helen faces,’ he continued. ‘What do you think Homer was saying about her dilemma? Was it a warning to women of the follies of adultery? Or is he saying Helen was right to abscond with Paris to Troy? To follow her heart?’

Helen took a deep breath. She felt the beady eyes of her students gazing up at her. ‘Well, you raise a good point, Mr Grey. That very tension is one of the themes I’ve asked the students to explore in their papers.’ She forced herself to turn away from the heat of his gaze and look around the room. ‘I believe it’s more complicated than a simple “right or wrong”. There are other factors at play in Helen’s life, and other forces at work in the tragedy as a whole. Helen is a complex woman in a precarious situation and so, without giving too much away right now, let me just say I’m really looking forward to reading my students’ interpretations of her dilemma in more detail next term.’ There was an audible groan as the few still listening realised they weren’t going to be privy to Helen’s own theories. No easy pickings for their essays. ‘Now, does anyone else have a question?’

Nothing. Just the shuffle of papers and bags as students began to pack up their belongings.

‘Well, then. I hope you all have a wonderful break and I look forward to seeing some of you in my module next year on Sexuality and Gender in the Ancient World.’

There was a rush for the door and the room suddenly swelled with the babble of students, energised and excited by their impending freedom. Helen shook her head and gathered her belongings. She’d never understand undergraduates. She was certain they had been more responsive and interested in her day.

‘Wow.’ Tobias was bounding up the aisle towards her. ‘That was great, Helen.’

‘Hello.’ She was mortified to find herself blushing. ‘What are you doing here? I thought you’d be busy finishing up your own classes today.’

‘I finished yesterday. I just came in to tidy up my office and decided, on a whim, to come and check out what was happening in the Classics department. You didn’t mind did you?’

‘No. I just hope you didn’t find it too boring?’ She knew she was fishing for compliments, but his approval was important to her.

‘It was fascinating. You’re a natural up there, you know. Those kids were riveted.’

‘Ha ha! I don’t think so. Didn’t you see Kim Winslow fast asleep in the back row?’

Tobias shook his head with a smile. ‘You’re too hard on yourself. From what I know of Kim it’s a miracle she even turned up.’

Helen grinned and they fell into an awkward silence.

He cleared his throat. ‘Listen, do you fancy lunch today – a last hurrah before the holiday? I’m buying.’ She felt his eyes boring into hers and she turned back to the lectern, distracting herself with a stack of papers. ‘After all,’ he continued, ‘I don’t have to write your essay; you can tell me more about Helen’s conflict between duty and desire.’

She knew he was flirting with her. It wasn’t the first time either; but this
was
the first time he had invited her out. She felt the hairs on her arms prickle with excitement. ‘The faculty has an end of term lunch,’ she said, ruffling her papers.

‘Oh. That’s a shame.’ Tobias looked crestfallen. ‘I know the perfect little place . . . Another time then.’

Helen felt a terrible panic wash over her. ‘I suppose I could try to get out of it . . .’ She’d blurted the words before she could stop herself.

‘Really?’

‘Yes. It’s only the old fogies from the department. There will be plenty more lunches.’

‘That’s great, Helen. If you’re sure?’

Helen thought for a moment. ‘I’ll have to feign a headache, and then we can slip away once they’ve all gone. They might take it a bit personally, you see.’