‘I was listening… I’m sorry if I - Look, I’d better introduce myself properly.’ Hugh entered through the French doors, his hand extended. ‘Hugh Wentworth, vicar of St Edmund’s.’
‘And prospective brother-in-law.’ Unsmiling, Rory took the proffered hand without standing and shook it briefly.
Hugh noted the length of Rory’s fingers, warm and damp from playing. ‘Flora’s told you then?’
‘Not exactly. I know how she feels about you. But I don’t know why,’ he added.
Hugh laughed. ‘No, neither do I!’
‘Are you going to marry her?’
‘I’ve just been to see your father. To ask for Flora’s hand in marriage.’
‘What did he say?’
‘He wasn’t happy about it. Which is understandable of course. But I think we came to an understanding.’
Rory said nothing. He looked up from his seat on the piano stool, tilting his head back to take in Hugh’s full height. Scrutinised by this strange young man, Hugh once again felt at a loss.
‘How old are you?’ Rory asked.
‘Forty-one.’
‘You look younger.’
‘Thank you.’
‘It wasn’t intended as a compliment. I meant my father must have got a hell of a shock when he found out. I presume you told him?’
‘Of course.’
‘So - are you marrying Flora?’
‘We’re to become engaged next week, on her birthday. Your birthday,’ Hugh added with a warm smile which Rory did not return. ‘The plan is that we’ll marry when she comes of age.’
‘Well, that gives her plenty of time to change her mind.’
‘Yes… Which is what I want.’
‘You want her to change her mind?’
‘No, of course not! I meant, I want her to be certain.’
‘Are you?’
‘Of course!’ Hugh’s mouth was suddenly dry. He wished someone would offer him a cup of tea. He wished he could see Flora or even her mother - a friendly face. He braced himself and tried again. ‘Rory, I can see my relationship with Flora doesn’t meet with your approval, but I do hope that, in time, we’ll become friends.’
‘Why? You’re marrying Flora, not me. You and I have nothing in common apart from love for Flora - which is a fairly limited topic of conversation, if you ask me.’
‘I’m sorry you feel that way. But I think I understand why.’
‘I doubt it. Now would you mind leaving me in peace so I can get on with my practice?’ Without waiting for an answer, Rory turned his back on Hugh and rearranged his music.
‘Of course. I beg your pardon. I’m very sorry I disturbed you.’ Hugh retreated to the French doors, then added tentatively, ‘I’d just like to say… I enjoyed your playing of the Schubert. Very much indeed.’ Rory raised his head and looked into the mirror. Hugh’s eyes shifted to the reflection and met Rory’s impenetrable gaze. ‘That hardly seems adequate. It was… It was a revelation to me. I’ve never heard anything like it.’
‘No, I don’t suppose you have. But then you’ve led a rather sheltered life, haven’t you?’ Rory’s unblinking gaze didn’t waver. Hugh opened his mouth to reply, then turned and went out into the garden. He walked back to the vicarage with his head bowed, deep in thought.
Hugh knelt before the plain wooden crucifix in his bedroom and prayed for guidance. He’d expected the interview with Flora’s father to be difficult - more difficult in fact than it had been - but despite Flora’s warnings, he hadn’t reckoned with Rory. Hugh’s confidence was shaken, his previously firm resolve weakened. He wanted to do what was right - most particularly what was right for Flora - but he no longer knew what would be right.
Hugh clasped his large hands together tightly so that his knucklebones shone. He asked God what he should do and waited for calm to settle on his mind, for certainty to emerge from his confused and contradictory thoughts. Hugh waited until his knees felt numb, until his joints locked with tension, until the light at the bedroom window failed.
For a second time, God did not speak to Hugh. In the yawning silence all Hugh could hear was a faint echo of Rory’s sardonic voice saying, ‘You’ve led a rather sheltered life, haven’t you?’
Chapter 6
It was no whirlwind romance. Hugh and I took several years to come to the catastrophic conclusion that we should marry. It didn’t occur to me for a long time that what I felt for Hugh might be love. How would I have known? All I knew was, what I felt for Hugh was quite different from what I felt for Rory, who up till then had been the most important person in my life apart from me, so I assumed what I felt must be love.
Hugh negotiated the Dunbar family obstacle race with ease, which was only to be expected. As a parish priest his social skills were honed and he was naturally warm, humorous, unthreatening. Dora grudgingly accepted my choice, knowing he would be a steadying influence on me; Ettie approved of Hugh, if not my marriage to him; my father didn’t have a leg to stand on since Hugh was respectable, solvent and the age gap between us was not much more than the one between my parents. Archie would no doubt have liked to disapprove, but could find no real reason to do so apart from deploring Hugh’s religious beliefs. So he compromised by withholding his blessing, which seemed to him the act of a reasonable man and Hugh - likewise a reasonable man - agreed.
Rory was the only difficulty. Rory would not be wooed. He made no attempt to get to know Hugh, but made it plain he didn’t like him. I couldn’t see why. Hugh was - is - a cultivated man and was perfectly able to discuss music and musicians with Rory. Hugh made valiant attempts to befriend his future brother-in-law and appeared not to notice the snubs he received in return.
I was touched by Hugh’s persistence and furious with Rory for being rude and unkind. I asked him why he was so vile to Hugh and he either couldn’t or wouldn’t explain. Once when he’d had too much to drink, Rory told me Hugh was ‘a bloody hypocrite’, which didn’t make any sense to me since Hugh’s religious beliefs were sincerely held and he always acted upon them. (I believed Hugh to be a truly good man. I still do, if one accepts that it’s possible to be good without being honest; that in fact it’s sometimes necessary to be dishonest in order to do good.)
Rory and I drifted apart once I got to know Hugh, but we drifted much further than we might have simply because Rory refused to accept Hugh as a member of the family. Privately, Rory prophesied doom and gloom for the marriage which drove a wedge between us and upset me more than I thought he realised. But he did realise. He knew exactly what he was doing. (Rory always knew what he was doing, but we all preferred to pretend that he didn’t.)
Rory told me the marriage wouldn’t work - couldn’t work - and Rory was right.
It was a quiet wedding. My parents put on a brave face and made the best of it. I think Dora consoled herself with the notion that if I hadn’t chosen Hugh I might have settled on an even less suitable candidate. (A fear I later confirmed for her - in spades.)
My brother behaved abominably. I assumed he was angry with me for hijacking his twenty-first birthday. He scowled throughout the reception, avoided Hugh and snogged Grace at every opportunity. He was barely civil to me, but since he’d already told me he thought I was making a big mistake, I wasn’t surprised. I tried not to let his attitude spoil my big day, but of course it did.
Ettie wished us well and seemed genuinely pleased. Even though she clearly thought I was too young to be married (let alone to someone Hugh’s age) she told me I was very lucky and that she hoped we’d make each other happy. There was something about her wan smile that said she knew we wouldn’t.
Grace was thrilled. I think she hoped matrimony might be catching. She drank too much champagne, cried, hugged us both and said we were a beautiful couple. She giggled suggestively when we were in the Ladies’ together, talked knowingly about the honeymoon and asked whether we’d already ‘jumped the gun’. I didn’t understand what she meant - I too had drunk a lot of champagne - and must have
looked confused. She squeezed my hand. ‘Don’t worry about a thing, Flora,’ she said in a patronising whisper. ‘It really doesn’t hurt that much and once you get used to it, it’s lovely!’
Grace meant well and I was grateful for the reassurance, especially since my mother had been totally silent on the subject of my marital duties. But Grace was wrong, could hardly have been more wrong. It hurt like hell, I was never given the opportunity to get used to it and it was never lovely.
Not with Hugh.
Looking back, a few years later, I could see why things went wrong, or rather, I could find reasons why things had gone wrong. (They weren’t the right ones but I wasn’t to know that.) I was twenty-one, a virgin and thought myself very much in love with a man I scarcely knew. Hugh and I got off to a bad start and things went downhill from there.
My period started unexpectedly the day before the wedding. I was mortified and almost crippled with stomach cramps. Our wedding night saw me curled up with a hot water bottle while Hugh stroked my hair to soothe me. He didn’t attempt to stroke anything else and I was very glad. Despite Grace’s enthusiastic recommendation, I was frightened of what lay in store for me and was perfectly happy just to be held in this huge pyjama-clad man’s arms. I could hardly believe that sexual intercourse itself could bring me any more pleasure or excitement than the sensation of being surrounded by so much moral and physical strength, such quantities of bone, flesh and muscle. I felt safe, I felt happy. If Hugh was disappointed, he was too kind or good-mannered to let it show.
I was still a virgin at the end of our very short honeymoon. When we arrived home at the vicarage I went down with a virus. As I was recovering, Hugh succumbed, so we’d shared the marital bed for more than three weeks before Hugh ventured to lay a proprietorial hand on me. We’d developed a way of being together that was affectionate but deferential. It was loving in its way, but that way wasn’t sexual, wasn’t even physical.
From the beginning I looked to Hugh for guidance in all matters, especially sexual. He was after all a widower. It dawned on me only gradually that things were not quite as they should be, but I wasn’t about to break the habit of a lifetime. I assumed the fault was mine.
I was usually in bed when Hugh came upstairs and often asleep. He liked to read and write late at night. He said he found it easier to think when it was quiet. I think he meant when he was alone.
When we’d been married for about a month he surprised me by closing his book when I said I was going up. He smiled and said he was ready for bed too. The ambiguity of that remark didn’t strike me at the time, but as he followed me upstairs I began to feel a little flustered. I went into our bedroom to undress before going to the bathroom. Hugh followed. I had hoped he would go into the bathroom so that I could undress alone. I wasn’t used to Hugh seeing me in my underwear and I still didn’t feel comfortable undressing in front of him. When he started to undress in front of me I averted my eyes for reasons that I didn’t understand, didn’t even examine. I think I was afraid to look, even though I knew I wanted to. I suppose I was afraid of seeming brazen. I was unacquainted with my own body, which I never saw or felt naked except for the purpose of washing, so to look at a man in a state of undress seemed to me almost perverted. I couldn’t think of any reason why I should want to do such a thing, yet I knew I did. I refrained, but felt guilty nevertheless. Guilty for wanting.
Hugh sat down on his side of the bed and started to unbutton his shirt. He cleared his throat and said softly, ‘Flora… do you think we might—’ I must have looked alarmed as he added immediately, ‘Is it the wrong time of the month? I’ve lost track.’ He walked round the bed, laid his hands on my shoulders, bent and kissed me on the forehead. ‘We don’t have to, if you don’t want to. I don’t want to impose.’
‘It’s not an imposition, Hugh! I love you! I want us to be man and wife… properly. I’m just a bit nervous, that’s all. Especially after all this time.’
‘Darling, don’t be! I wouldn’t hurt you for the world’. He kissed me again, this time on the mouth but his hands didn’t move from my shoulders. ‘Let’s get ready for bed, shall we?’
We both undressed on our respective sides of the bed, I quickly, Hugh slowly, so that as I turned and drew back the sheets I saw him standing nonchalantly half-naked, his pyjama jacket in his hand, the trousers hanging loosely on his hips. Curling black hair sprouted from his chest. Straighter, silkier hair surrounded his navel and formed a sleek arrow pointing down below the waistband of his trousers. I stared at the shadowy valley between his belly and hipbone, following the miraculous curve, so beautiful I felt breath expelled from my body in shock.
I had no idea what men looked like. I’d never seen one. I had felt Hugh in our chaste embraces but I had never really looked at him, never seen the magnificence of him. Tears pricked at my eyes and I didn’t know if it was his beauty that moved me or relief that I felt what could only be desire. I was still terrified of lying beneath this great mountain of a man, but at least I knew it was what I wanted.
Hugh pulled on his jacket and looked across at me. ‘Darling, are you all right?’
‘Yes… I was just looking at you. Thinking how very splendid you are. In every way.’
He climbed on to the bed, crawled across the candlewick bedspread and took me in his arms. ‘I do so want us to be happy.’
‘We are happy!’
He laughed. ‘Yes, we are, aren’t we?’
I put my arms round his waist and slid my hands up inside his pyjama jacket, running them experimentally over his back which felt smooth and hard and quite unlike the yielding fleshiness of my own body. Hugh hugged me to him and through my thin nightdress I could feel the hardness in his groin. He kissed me again, this time with his mouth open. The bulge became harder and even more alarming.
Hugh reached for the switch on the bedside light. I was glad of the sudden darkness. I heard him pull back the covers, then he lifted me as if I were weightless and laid me on the bed. He lay down beside me and started to pull up my nightdress. Instinctively my hands pulled it down again and I felt him hesitate.
‘Flora?’
‘I’m sorry, I - I wasn’t thinking.’
He pulled up my nightdress again, very slowly, in a way that I imagine was meant to be reassuring. Then I felt his warm hand between my legs and I cried out in alarm. ‘Hugh! What are you doing?’
‘I’m trying to make you ready for me. If I touch you… down there… it will be easier. If you aren’t ready for me I might hurt you. And if I touch you, I will know when you are.’
‘Can’t I just tell you?’
‘Well, yes, of course you can! But I meant when your body was ready.’
‘How will you know that?’
‘You’ll feel moist, darling. It’s something that happens when a woman becomes aroused.’
‘Oh. I see… Don’t worry about hurting me, Hugh. I expect it to hurt. I know it does the first time. I really don’t mind,’ I said bravely, glad that he couldn’t see my face in the dark.
‘It might not hurt all that much, if we take things slowly. Look, are you sure?’
‘Of course I’m sure. Please—’ I was going to say ‘Let’s get it over with,’ but stopped myself just in time.
I’m sure Hugh was as gentle and considerate as it is possible to be and I know now that he was not so spectacularly well-endowed as to cause a woman discomfort, but at the time he seemed to me barbaric. I had never known such pain, such humiliating, animal pain and was not to know it again until I gave birth.
Hugh inched into me slowly and carefully but such consideration merely protracted the pain. I was rigid with tension, every muscle in my body braced to repel the invader. By the time he lay inside me I was weeping silently, my hand pressed to my mouth, hoping that he couldn’t hear me.
The pain of Hugh entering me had been bad enough but it was nothing compared to the pain when he moved inside me. I felt as if I were being sawn in half, as if I were being violated wi
th a carving knife. I couldn’t prevent myself from crying out, clutching at Hugh, digging my nails into the flesh of his shoulders.
‘Flora, my dear - shall I stop? I can’t bear to hurt you like this.’
I took several deep breaths. ‘No. I’m all right… Really. It’s just… the shock.’
‘It will be easier next time. I promise you, it will never hurt like this again.’
The pain seemed to ease off slightly as we talked but as soon as Hugh started to move again it returned. I threw my arms round his neck and pressed my lips together until I could bear it no longer, then gave way to sobs.
Suddenly Hugh was still, panting, his weight crushing the breath out of me. He rolled off me on to his back and the bed subsided with a creak of mattress springs. My insides seemed to be leaking out of me on to the sheet where I lay and I thought I must be bleeding to death. I sat up gingerly and switched on the bedside lamp. Hugh didn’t stir. My thighs were wet and sticky but there was not a great deal of blood. I didn’t know what to do to clean myself up and took a couple of handkerchiefs out of the bedside drawer. To my astonishment, Hugh appeared to be already asleep, lying on his back, breathing deeply. I got out of bed stealthily, took a clean nightdress from another drawer and went to the bathroom.
I locked the door and gave way to tears. I couldn’t stop myself crying - with pain, disappointment and something that felt like shame. I thought of what Grace had said and I hated her. I thought of Rory asking me if I’d already slept with Hugh and hated him. I sat down on the closed lavatory seat with my arms wrapped around my abdomen. My body felt battered, abused. I was appalled that such an event could occur, such an assault could be perpetrated in the name of love. I felt as if I’d been raped, but of course I knew I hadn’t. I couldn’t imagine feeling any worse if I had been raped, though of course I knew I would.
I rocked back and forth on the lavatory seat, staring into the abyss of my marriage.
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