'Cathbad. He says you and Erik had an affair on the henge dig, ten years ago.'
'Cathbad! What does he know?'
'Did you?'
Instead of answering, Shona twists her hair into a tight knot and puts the combs back in, their little teeth digging viciously into her skull. She doesn't look at Ruth, but Ruth knows the answer now.
'How could you do it, Shona?' she asks. 'What about Magda?'
She is shocked at the virulence with which Shona turns on her.
'What do you care about Magda, all of a sudden? You don't know anything about it, sitting there, judging me. What about you and Peter? He's married now, didn't you know?'
'Peter and I aren't…' stammers Ruth. 'We're just friends,' she finishes lamely. Inside, though, she knows that Shona is right. She is a hypocrite. What did she care about Michelle when she invited Nelson into her bed?
'Oh yeah?' sneers Shona. 'You think you're so perfect, Ruth, so above all those human feelings like love and hate and loneliness. Well, it's not as simple as that. I was in love with Erik,' she adds, in a slightly different tone.
'Were you?'
Shona flares up again. 'Yes, I bloody well was! You remember what he was like. I'd never met anyone like him.
I thought he was so wise, so charismatic, I would have done anything for him. When he told me that he was in love with me, it was the most wonderful moment of my life.'
'He told you that he was in love with you?'
'Yes! Does that surprise you? Did you think he had the perfect marriage with Magda? Jesus, Ruth, they both have affairs all the time. Did you know about Magda's toyboy, back home in Sweden?'
'I don't believe you.'
'Ruth, you're such an innocent! Magda has a twentyyear-old lover called Lars. He fixes her sauna and then hops into bed with her. And he's one of many. In return, Erik does what he likes.'
To rid her mind of the image of Magda with her twentyyear-old handyman lover, Ruth turns to the window. The Saltmarsh has almost disappeared beneath the slanting, grey rain.
'Did you think I was the first?' asks Shona bitterly.
'There are graduate students all over England who can say they went to bed with the great Erik Anderssen. It's almost an essential part of your education.'
But not of my education, thinks Ruth. Erik treated me as a friend, a colleague, a promising student. He never once said a single word that could be construed as a sexual invitation.
'If
you knew he was like that,' she asks at last, 'why did you go to bed with him?'
Shona sighs. All the anger seems to seep out of her, leaving her limp, like her silver jacket lying collapsed on the floor.
'I thought I was different, of course. Like all the other silly little cows, I thought I was the one he really loved. He said he'd never felt like that before, he said he'd leave Magda, that we'd get married, have children…' She stops, biting her lip.
And then Ruth remembers Shona's first abortion, just a few months after the henge dig.
'The baby…' she begins.
'Was Erik's,' says Shona wearily. 'Yes. I think it was then that I realised he didn't mean any of it. When I told him I was pregnant, he just went mad, started pressuring me to have an abortion. Do you know, I actually thought he'd be pleased.'
Ruth says nothing. She thinks of Erik talking about his grown-up children: 'You have to set them free.' Well, he hadn't wanted this one set free. As a fervent believer in a woman's right to choose, Ruth doesn't condemn Shona for having an abortion. But she does condemn Erik for his deceit, his hypocrisy, his…
'Poor Ruth,' says Shona, looking at her with a strange, dispassionate smile. 'All this is worse for you. You always admired him so much.'
'Yes,' says Ruth hoarsely. 'Yes I did.'
'He's still a great archaeologist,' says Shona. 'I'm still friends with him. And with Magda,' she adds with a slight laugh. 'I guess it's just the way he is.'
'I guess so,' says Ruth tightly.
Shona rises, picking up her silver jacket. At the door she turns. 'Don't blame either of us too much, Ruth,' she says.
When Shona has gone, Ruth sits down at the table. She is amazed to find that she is shaking. What is so surprising about finding out that two grown-up people have had an affair? Alright, Erik was married, but these things happen as she knows all too well. Why does she feel let down, angry, betrayed?
She supposes that she must really have been in love with Erik all these years. She remembers when she first met him, as a graduate student in Southampton, the way that he seemed to take her mind apart, shuffle it and put it back together a different shape. He changed her view of everything: archaeology, landscape, nature, art, relationships.
She remembers him saying, 'The human desire is to live, to cheat death, to live forever. It is the same over all the ages.
It is why we build monuments to death so that they live on after we d
And when she met Magda she had been so pleased. She had thought nobody could be good enough for Erik but Magda was. She had loved their relationship, that affectionate companionship, so different from her parents'
stilted formality. She could never imagine Erik and Magda calling each other Mummy and Daddy or driving to a garden centre on a Sunday afternoon. They lived the perfect life, climbing mountains, sailing, spending the winters writing and researching and the summers digging.
She remembers the log cabin by the lake in Norway, the meals eaten on the deck, the hot tub, the evenings eating, drinking and talking. Talking. That's what she remembers most about Erik and Magda. They had always talked, argued sometimes, but always they had listened to each other's views. Ruth remembers many times listening to Erik and Magda as, glasses of wine in their hands and the Northern lights shining above them, they had fitted their differing theories together so that they came up with something new, better, more complete. Not for them the moment described by Peter: 'We just ran out of things to say to each other.'
Ruth is not stupid. She knows that she created idealised parents in Magda and Erik and that is why she feels so let down now. And if she was also secretly in love with Erik, well that just makes a perfect Freudian hole-in-one. What upsets her most, she thinks, looking out over the rain sodden marshland, is that she had thought she was special.
Even if Erik had not fancied her, he had thought her an especially talented student. On the henge dig he had continually deferred to her. 'Ruth will understand this even if the rest of you don't' implied that he and she shared a special understanding. Ruth, he had said, had 'an archaeologist's sense', a quality which, apparently, cannot be taught. Erik's approval has carried Ruth through many difficult years, insulated her against Phil's patronising indifference, comforted her when she never quite seemed able to get that book proposal down on paper.
She knows it is childish, but Ruth feels that she needs to be reminded of Erik's good opinion, so she takes down her copy of his book The Shivering Sand. She opens it at the title page. There it is, in black and white. To Ruth, my favourite pupil.
Ruth looks at the words for a long moment. It is as if she has suddenly seen a gross misshapen shadow on the wall the horns and the tail and the cloven hoofs. Blindly, almost staggering, she gets up and goes to the desk where she keeps her copies of the Lucy Downey letters. Hands shaking, she leafs through the letters until she gets to the two that are handwritten.
She lays them on the table next to Erik's dedication. The handwriting is the same.
CHAPTER 22
