Missing Scene, Cecilia's departure.
Cecilia packed her trunk in a frenzied whirlwind of coloured fabrics, books and half- packets of cigarettes. There was no order; no pristine, time-consuming folding of one who was to endure a leisurely family holiday. There was a frantic need to rid herself of the house, as if merely residing within its walls was an insult to him; there was a race to be free. Items and objects were picked up, only to replaced, in a different spot. Day-frocks were tossed into the pile and retracted, dragged out again from the crowded mess. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the cascade of green slither onto the carpet –she must have dislodged it. She gathered the satin in her hands and held it, lingering in the memories that still clung to its silky, surface. She could almost feel the heat of the air, the salty tang of perspiration that had endured. She heard the quickness of his breath and the feel of his chest rise and fall against her own, it was a pressure, not quite comfortable, that pushed her deeper into the crevice. She glanced down and saw a small tear on the back of the bodice, likely from the passionate struggle amongst the shelves. A fraying reminder of their frenetic struggle. The small imperfection was proof of their adventure.
Cecilia took up her cigarette, which lay smouldering on the crystal ashtray, a line of smoke danced in spirals towards the ceiling. She inhaled deeply, letting the smoke fill her lungs, and felt the relief of her blossoming craving – It had been hours since her last. She leaned back against her dresser and finished her cigarette; the corner of Clarissa digging into her back. She had spent hours propped on her elbow wasting away the daylight, absorbed in the novel at Robbie's request. She had persevered, even though the she found the plot somewhat depressing- she preferred Fielding- and was only realising now why she hadn't left it to collect dust on the shelf. The feel of satin against her skin was intoxicating; she wondered whether she would ever wear it again without thinking of the library. Their one moment, shattered by the whims of an infantile and silly creature. The memories needed to be enclosed and preserved, every detail memorised, for each one was as momentary as a sound, swift as a shadow, short as any dream. It was their secret. And she would wait for him.
Cecilia knew who it was before she heard the timid knock. The footsteps had betrayed her presence.
"Cee?"
Cecilia walked across the room and turned the lock with a significant click.
"Cee, will you let me in?"
She waited until the soft footsteps faded into the hall before carefully wrapping the heavy book in the green material, and placing it atop the chaotic pile in her suitcase. Briony had tried to position herself next to Cecilia that afternoon. Her bright little eyes gazed imploringly and adoringly at her elder sister. There was an excitement pouring from her, she had been talking about the trial for days. The thrill of the game was ending and she had won. Perhaps she would write about it, not realising the taboo and the divide it would soon become, and would present it to her mother as a memento of the vitality of the house that summer - one does love a good scandal- and there would be a tangible and uncomfortable silence. Perhaps then she would realise that something was not quite right.
Cecelia had removed herself without a word; disdain and revulsion etched into every feature of her long, beautiful face and crossed over to the adjacent bench, to settle closest to where the accused would be seated. They hadn't let her speak to him; she was allowed only to sit in the cold, hard and unwelcoming pews while the magistrate delivered his opinion. Not even a smuggled letter could penetrate the defence. Their only communication was under the intruding glare of the accusatory audience. And Briony. Her eyes would flick continuously back and forth between Cecilia and Robbie, and occasionally to mummy, who would look on sternly, never giving encouragement.
Seated in opposition they shared oblivion, immersed in each other's eyes. In Robbie's small half-smile was their voyage into the unknown, mirrored in Cecilia's. She marvelled in his confidence. Had he picked it up at Cambridge? Or had he always been so blasé and she had just never noticed? He was confident enough that he could attend his own trial and smile cheekily at his lover. She blushed and mouthed the three simple words that no amount of bad art or bad faith could ever quite cheapen. The heat rising to her cheeks could almost be the broiling summer air. Robbie mouthing them back could almost be the whisper of his breath on her skin. Everything that was anything around them could, and would always come back to them being together, joined and united, as equals.
The soft afterglow of sunset had reached the window, and was dimming the room. Without lighting, it was just a navy smear on the wall of the house. Cecilia patted her pockets in search of a packet and lit up, the end of her cigarette a glowing ember in the gloom. The end of the day was reminiscent, but without the extreme heat. That day was a rarity and instead of unbearable hotness there was a cold clamminess that was foreboding, just as the heat had been promising. Cecilia's eyes adjusted to the dusk and she made one last trip around the room. It no-longer felt like hers. Not because it had vetoed her, she simply didn't want it. She wanted nothing to do with the snobbery and stupidity of the people who had turned on him. She swept her make-up and perfume into her bag and with not a little effort forced the lid closed. There, it was done. There was finality in clipping it shut. She picked up her hat and looked into the mirror. She had done the same thing before, and adjusted her green gown that had taken so long to choose. She loved him and she had not known. But now there wasn't any choice. She felt as if she were standing upon a great precipice, with Robbie on one side calling her forward and her family on the other. He would come back and she would leap with him into the abyss and together, they would live without shame.
In the icy courtroom Briony had given her speech. She wore a pale dress, and with her dark hair tumbling around her bony shoulders she looked sickly, or perhaps it was the light casting off the stone walls. The hard leather book beneath her palm was comforting and she felt a thrilling urge to tell all. Beholding the congregation she felt excitement rise within her, she could see everyone and they could see her. She held the stage. When she spoke, her voice was clear and rehearsed. She held the attention of the whole assembly, and in her moment she shone.
"I know it was him, I saw him"
"Do you mean to say that you know it was him, or that you saw him?" The solicitor looked up towards her. There was a window behind Briony and the afternoon sun pushed its golden glow upon them, he squinted up at her figure, but Briony was annoyed; he was ruining her monologue.
"I saw him. Plain as day. It was him. " she replied tersely, breathlessly. The solicitor nodded and retreated to his bench where a hushed conversation was taking place among his associates. He shuffled some papers and looked back at her.
"Thank-you Miss Tallis, you may step down."
A confused look passed over Briony, There should have been more questioning, more answers. She would have to plead her case, perhaps with Lola tearfully agreeing with everything she said. And Robbie would burst in trying to attack her because she had exposed him as a maniac and he would accuse her of lying and there would be uproar, followed by a heroic struggle in which Briony would receive a small cut upon her cheek as Robbie was dragged howling, like a demented wolf, to prison. Briony the hero. Heroine, one ought to say.
"Don't you want to hear anymore?" eagerness permeated her voice. She looked to the only being above her, the Judge himself; regel and imposing in his off-white wig and spectacles.
"No, thank-you Miss Tallis, you may retire. We've heard all we need."
Briony stepped down, her shoes echoing through the chamber. Although she felt agitated still, she was struck with a sudden melancholy. Small and hardly noticeable in the back of her mind as she watched Lola ascend. It must be the chill of the courtroom.
The hallway was dark and cold. The green hall carpets provided some stealth as she hurried away. Someone had neglected to turn the lights on. Perhaps everyone was just too busy. Betty would be preparing tea, screeching in her lower-class cockney that Leon was so fond of imitating. Emily would be lying useless in her bed, her exertions of the day prompting one of her migraines. The Old Man hadn't even returned for the hearing. Perhaps Leon would be playing a jolly game of tennis with Paul while discussing events or listening to boasts about chocolate and war. He would be leaving in the morning. How disgustingly shallow they all were, a pack of grinning, spineless idiots. Particularly Leon. And she refused to even think about the two silly, hysterical, little girls. She wondered how she had never noticed their snobbery. They had never forgiven him his first and for all his education he was still treated as little better than a servant, and certainly not one to be trusted. How ignorant she had been to expect fairness. How naïve to think she could dissuade everyone that Briony was a young thirteen and rather fanciful and not to believe all she said. Cecilia had travelled back to the house with Grace. Darling, dear Grace Turner, who had sobbed on her shoulder for a good half hour; they had never been so close before.
With a knock of condemnation the hammer had fallen and Robbie was escorted into the corridor. At once there was an outbreak of excited conversation.
"Thank goodness for that!"
"Oh, the poor child!"
"Jolly good, Judge!"
Cecilia stood to watch him leave, her hands gripped the railing so tightly that they were white bone against the wood. She paused for a moment, her eyes dark and wide, staring at the opening through which the guards and their prisoner had just exited. She reeled and attempted a quick dash for the door. In the chaotic aftermath of the trial there was a struggle to reach it and Leon was the first to notice Cecilia's flight.
"Cee! Stop!" Leon's voice was weedy and high pitched, something Cecilia had never noted before.
"Cecilia!" Emily's voice ricocheted off the marble and her hand whipped out to latch onto Cecilia's arm. Heads turned to witness the spectacle.
"Wait, darling. Don't ignore us. Let's talk about it." Emily looked beseechingly into the pale face of her daughter. Perhaps she knew of what existed between her child and the gardener. Perhaps she was realising that she had encouraged everything by giving no room to turn back.
"No, I don't want to. Let go!" Cecilia knew she sounded childish but for the moment she didn't care. She was cold and sharp and adrenaline was still coursing through her. She needed to be free; it was sickening to be near them. She wrenched her arm away and was lost in the throng; half the town seemed to have made an appearance.
Cecilia had called the taxi service as soon as she returned and a car would arrive at half six. She didn't want to see her family, but at the same time, she wanted them to witness her departure. She wanted them to know that they had ruined her life when they ruined his. With difficulty, she hauled her trunk down the stairs and out the arched door. The journey itself had been awkward and clunking, and her arms burned from the labour. She sat on her case in the dusk on the front steps, and watched the evening fall, caressing the countryside with its chill. She gazed over the crumbling bridge where once, Robbie Turner would have strolled, brimming with nervousness and hope, in his best suit to meet her. She watched the black cab grow from a smudged, blue-black blur on the horizon into a hulking, rumbling machine crunching to a halt on the gravel. A young man stepped out, his uniform slightly crumpled from the ride. He stared in astonishment at the magnificent house, his mouth hanging open a little, before noticing Cecilia sitting solitary in the twilight; he almost bounded towards her. He was blond and slight with bright sapphire eyes that held their own little twinkle. Cecilia longed for Robbie's eyes, to lull her into insensible happiness. A gentle breeze of contentment in his orange-flecked, emerald eyes. But that would have to wait.
"Miss Tallis? Shall I take your case?" His voice was very young, without the deep rumble she loved. There was an awkward shuffling as she stood aside for him to take it.
"Sorry. Yes, thank you."
As Cecilia watched the dark house roll by she caught a glimpse of a figure by the window. It was only a silhouette; but it was utterly recognisable, the house was darker than usual. As she watched the figure, she realised that there was something sombre in the house's appearance now. A morose mysteriousness. There were secrets in that house; scandal and mischief and lies. Briony was the only one who would witness Cecilia's departure. Perhaps she had been the only one watching for her and perhaps it was fitting. She could tell the others all about it. She, the cause of all the distress. Then the scene was gone, replaced with flashes of the dim countryside, the bungalow, the lake. The road into town would be quick, she knew she hardly needed the cab, but for her case. But it was her last trip, her last farewell and she wanted to observe it all. And there was relief with leaving as well; she had wanted it for an age, but had never found the right reason. She drew out a packet and she lit up. She felt that she could breathe now.