Chapter 53 - Messalina

Cedella 
A small amount of aeroplane turbulence wakes me from my slumber. I feel a chill and pull a blanket over me. I take my father's copy of Jane Eyre from my bag, and begin to read the nineteenth century bildungsroman. I meet the characters, Mrs Reed and her children once more. I remember the tragic life of Helen Burns. I think of my Helen, who did not walk until she was sixteen months. I would not let her touch the floor. I would carry her everywhere, for fear she might get hurt. Perhaps I have been over-protective over the years. My Helen is quite unlike Helen Burns. My Helen is disgusted with humanity and foists her misery and contempt on me. 

I close my book and then my eyes, to concoct a mix of fantasy and reality. I immerse myself in the undisputed beauty of nature, which temporarily suppresses my unhappiness, enabling me to escape my perpetual, unrelenting existence. I will soon return to unfulfilling, low paid drudgery. Squeezing myself onto an overcrowded London underground train, that will take me from work to a little rented flat that I share with Helen, a broken washing machine and possible rodent infestation. I still struggle to feel secure in work, just as I did over twenty years ago in Preston. This inability to succeed, to reach full potential, has made me tired of life, and like my mother, I want to be with Jake and my father. But Helen's dependency on me, coaxes me to return to the world once more. 

I look around the plane and see the young, with their designer clothing and MP3s. And the not so young, with heads buried in books, or perhaps bored of their own reading material, peering into someone else’s. Our belongings and attire communicate our identity, which is so important in modern life. Speed is equated with progression these days, and so first impressions endure. And occasionally, division, riotous or quiet, ensue. There is a desire to be distinct but also to converge. The biggest gulf, real or imaginary is the one between man and woman. 

I return to Jane Eyre, anticipating Mr Rochester entering the main protagonist's life. A man portrayed as fallible and yet heroic; and perhaps too simply. I think of the men in my life: Nathan, my father, brothers, even Fareed, and the architect of most of my adult life, Graham. 

To depict the vulnerability of my former husband is difficult. His reputation is extensive. His opportunism and subversion, a craving for success and prosperity, are mere stepping-stones to his greatest need; stability. I can almost hear him say, "How in the world is a semi-law-abiding man supposed to get on, if he does not wear these rather necessary characteristics and participate in certain activities?" His pursuit of alternative methods to finance himself and his children, often leads him to assessing how much he is worth dead. Strange how we both are attracted to death. 

Graham has many facades. For a short time he was my saviour and other times a man seeking redemption. I imagine these facades have been proficiently used towards those he feels he needs to attract. His whereabouts and activities are not my concern anymore. And each day, his once powerful omnipresence, seems less so. Although, I understand through Helen, that he is no longer with Molly anymore. If infidelity can become habitual, or addictive, then I can predict, but not guarantee, the outcome of most of my ex-husband's romantic relationships, but it's not for me to pry. 

I understand from Helen that Molly began to grow suspicious of Graham, once they returned to England. She regularly checked his mobile telephone when she could. They didn't have such technology when we were together, but I don't think I have the drive to undertake such research. I was told that Molly waited outside Penelope's house in a borrowed car with her eldest son. The two aspiring detectives had followed Graham for most of the afternoon. Their sleuthing led to Penelope's house. At eleven o'clock in the evening, Graham opened the front door of Penelope's home, dressed only in a dark blue thick towelling dressing gown. He was putting a few empty milk bottles on the doorstep. Molly rang the doorbell less than a minute later. Penelope opened the door. Molly introduced herself as Graham's wife. Penelope, also in a towelling dressing-gown, a pink one, said nothing. She just stared at the woman of a similar height and build. Penelope, the woman who had remained constant in my ex-husband's life for some time; more so than me, or our children, was apparently unable to talk. 

Graham had been caught out, quite easily. The powers of the aging man seem to be diminishing, and Molly, like me, and perhaps many others, have become a part of Graham's past. But Penelope, who has loved him for so long, continues to do so, and protects him from us, the Berthas and Miss Ingrams of this world. 

Successors to ex-partners may feel they are the new and improved version of those that have gone before; less plump, less dark or less fair. The superiority of the successor, often subtly communicated to the offspring of the new partner. But our confidence is deflated on discovering our partner's desires are not confined to us alone. Then we scream, "Why didn't you tell me?" to the children of the person we were once romantically attached to. I sense Penelope does not have these normalised expectations of fidelity. And yet she is still part of the less talked about chasm between women; a subject that few of us wish to broach. 

I am certain that not one of Graham's white female ex-partners would consider receiving advice from me. In their eyes, I am the most demonised female of all. I am Mr Rochester's first wife, Bertha Antoinetta Mason. The woman in the attic, his mad, African and/or Indian Messalina.