Dark Oasis

by Dulcie M. Stone

  The sea, silent as death, was jet black all the way to the unseen horizon that melded with the jet black sky. There was not even the faintest sign of either life or light.

  “It’s not even nine o’clock,” she protested. “Everything’s dead.”

  “The sunsets are spectacular. I’ll bring you tomorrow evening.”

  “Have you been here before?”

  “A couple of times.”

  “I hate it.”

  “Rick loved it.”

  Already his brother’s name had become his tool.

  “I’m sorry, Gail,” he reached for her hand. “I thought you’d like to know.”

  “Anybody could be out here. Take me back.”

  They made their way back to the artificial security of the walled resort and the privacy of their cabin.

  By the weak light of the shaded bed lamp, Jake poured fresh drinks.

  “I don’t drink,” she protested.

  “You liked it.”

  “I don’t drink!”

  “You do now. Tonight, you drink.”

  “Why tonight?”

  “Guess.” He threw her nightgown at her. “Put it on.”

  She dared not rebel. They were alone, she was alone. Obediently, while he watched, she changed.

  “That’s a good girl.” Fluffing the pillows on the bed, he set the full glass on the bedside table. “Lay back and relax. Drink up. You’ll sleep better.”

  “I don’t …”

  “Tonight you drink.”

  She obeyed.

  He changed into light cotton pyjamas, and refilled her glass.

  “That’s a good girl. Drink up. You’ll feel better.”

  Again, she obeyed.

  “You must not be frightened, Gail. Trust me. I won’t hurt you.”

  She stiffened.

  “Lie down.” He removed the supporting pillows, eased the empty glass from her rigid hands. “Lay down. That’s the girl.”

  Heart pounding, she endured the familiar beauty of his face.

  “I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to do. I promise.” He switched off the lamp, sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m just going to talk, Gail. Just talk. Don’t be frightened. You must not be frightened.”

  In the heavy darkness the too-familiar voice whispered long-secret plans. He would be successful in Belleville. He would make a home for her and for the Campbell child. From the very first night, after the excursion on the Paddle Steamer Gloria, he’d wanted her. But Rick had got her. Clever Rick, he’d used her. He’d been very ill and he’d used his illness to seduce her.

  “No!”

  “Sh.” His knowing hands, soft and practised, were on her body, her breasts. “He hurt you. I won’t do that. Sh … relax …”

  Her body quickened, moved with his.

  “Sh … I won’t hurt you. Relax …”

  At the moment of climax, body to body, she cried.

  “Good girl. Good girl.” He eased his weight from her.

  She held him. “Don’t leave me …”

  He turned again to her, as he always did.

  Body to body climaxed.

  Again, he rolled from her. “My God! You’re something.”

  She’d won him.

  “Are you sure you were a virgin?” Reaching across her sweating body, he switched on the lamp. “I need a drink.”

  The light exposed smug face, and sated body. Jake’s face. Jake’s body. She pulled the sodden sheet around her.

  “Don’t!” He yanked the sheet from her. “You’re a goddam surprise. Do you know that?”

  He fell asleep quickly. At her side, his breathing was light and untroubled.

  It was over. It was beginning.

  The outside sounds of late people faded. Distantly an island dog yapped; occasionally the faint pad padding of servile feet told of the resort’s night staff at work. Standing by the low window, she bathed in the cool breeze from the soundless sea. She should sleep. Rick had slept.

  Again, she’d betrayed him. Tonight her body had betrayed him.

  The sweat dried. Her face was wet. She was crying. How long had she been crying? As her body had joined with Jake’s? Had she been crying then? Was it tears? Was it sweat?

  Jake stirred, grunted, re-settled.

  Sobbing, she fell to the floor. He must not hear! Quickly, she pulled on shirt and shorts, snatched her sneakers and left the room. He must not hear.

  By the light from the ankle-high lanterns, she found her way through the gate to the beach and lay on the sun-warmed sand. Reflection on the last hour was not bearable. This place was not bearable. The future was not …

  Wait! She’d told Rick to go to hell. She’d not meant it. Or had she? Because he had left her. Even before his death, he’d left. Had he loved her as she loved him? She’d never know. Because Jake had suggested another truth. Clever Rick? She’d been young and innocent and vulnerable. It was not bearable. What she’d just learned about herself was not bearable.

  Crossing the beach, she walked towards the unseen horizon. Her sneakers, heavy with water, dug into the sea’s shallow floor. There were no lights, no distant shore. No moon, no stars. There was black night. There was peace.

  Gail Campbell removed the water-logged sneakers and swam back to the private beach of the luxurious holiday resort where her sleeping husband waited.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  BELLEVILLE

  The two-year-old three-bedroom triple-fronted cream brick house was located in a Belleville street of triple-fronted cream brick look-alikes. Jake knew people who knew people who’d expedited plans already in hand. Though he was not happy with living in a look alike, it was another step up the high ladder he intended to climb.

  The interior was comfortable but not luxurious and nowhere near the standard he was aiming at. He’d pointed out its failings, every single one reversible; hard work and use of personal tradesmen contacts would transform the house into a salesman’s dream. The triple fronted cream brick house, a post-war novelty in Belleville, would prove to be a profitable investment.

  They’d driven to it directly from the airport. He’d promised better things. He expected to keep his promise. This house, infinitely better than where she’d come from, had spacious rooms and high ceilings, new furniture and tasteful furnishings. Amy had been here. Barbara would be envious. Though she’d probably never see it. By the time she came back from London, and if she ever travelled this far, Jake would almost certainly have taken more steps up his ambitious ladder. Where-ever that might eventually take him.

  He was a superb lover, a grand provider, a devoted husband, and often absent. She needed the absences. Guilty, ashamed, confused, and undermined by her own body, she needed time. What was the truth? Jake’s accusation that Rick had seduced her? Amy’s declaration of the depth of Rick’s love? And what was the truth of his two-fold desertion? When she’d told him she might be pregnant, he’d brutally advised abortion. Why? When she’d cursed him, he’d taken his own life. Because she’d cursed him? Because he was insane? Because … What was the truth? She needed time. But time was giving no answers.

  Week days, Jake was too preoccupied to be overly interested in her comings and goings. Week ends, he and his tradesmen friends worked on the house. The heavy house-work was done by a weekly cleaner, the gardening by a monthly gardener. She was expected only to do light cleaning, buy food from the nearby corner store, and prepare snacks for the workers – as his mother had always done.

  Much of the time she slept, especially in the last few weeks of what was proving to be an uneventful pregnancy. Though each month seemed like a year and the discomfort was increasingly difficult to endure, she’d remained healthy; despite all the warnings. Each tiny movement of the baby in her womb bolstered hope. She would love it as she’d loved its father. She would learn how to care for it. She would be a good mother, as her mother had been. As Amy was.

  So far the marriage pact was working smoothly. The single hitch came
in the seventh month when, planning a week-long absence, Jake arranged for her to stay on the farm with his family. She refused to go, or even to think about going. She gave no reason. Jake had to know she could not bear to revisit the farm, could not again sleep in Phoebe’s bedroom, or be anywhere within miles of Rick’s cottage.

  Though Jake was unhappy, he quickly readjusted the plan. It was what he did; think quickly, react immediately, and move on. The weekly cleaner was employed for a few hours every day, the neighbours were persuaded to check every evening, Amy telephoned regularly, and an alarm system was installed in the cream brick house.

  In the ninth month the plan was refined. Amy moved in. Jake viewed the full-time personal presence of his mother as essential. Gail was erratic, her health fragile and her preference for isolation a worry. As Doctor Walker warned, his patient was inclined to instability and the chemistry of pregnancy was unpredictable.

  February 24th 1949

  The new silver grey Mercedes reversed from the driveway of the triple front cream brick house, purred through the back streets of Belleville, and joined the early morning High Street traffic.

  “I wish Jake was here.”

  “Maybe it’s better he isn’t.” Amy eased past a slow-moving truck.

  “You did telephone?”

  “He’ll be here! Stop worrying.”

  “I told him to.” Another spasm wracked her body. “Hurry! Please hurry!”

  “Hang in there, dear,” Amy was pragmatic. “It’s your first. You can expect hours of this yet.”

  “I can’t!”

  “You’re going to have to.”

  Nearing the hospital, the pains escalated and the intervals between them decreased. “We won’t make it!”

  “Don’t panic! It won’t help. Take deep breaths. Hang on.” Amy calmly slid into the parking lot, calmly removed the case from the back seat, and finally opened the passenger door. “Don’t panic, dear.”

  “Where’s the stretcher?”

  “You can walk. It’ll be good for you.”

  Heaving her bulk from the car, she obediently followed her mother-in-law across the car park, around the front drive-way, up the steps of the small private hospital and along the sun-lit passageways to her room. Amy helped her undress, slip into one of the silk nightgowns Jake had brought back from a business trip, and climb into the high hospital bed. Familiar with illness, she was unfamiliar with hospitals.

  After promising to contact Jake, Amy left, the nursing staff took over and she submitted to the will of strangers. Though the intensity and frequency of the pains mercilessly escalated, she screamed inwardly, where no one would hear.

  In the early evening Dr Jim Walker, white coated and with stethoscope, breezed in. “Hullo there, young lady! Doing fine they tell me.”

  She swallowed yet another scream and endured further prodding of the body she no longer owned.

  “All’s well.” Jim Walker left the bedside.

  He was leaving! “Doctor! Don’t go!”

  “Hush, Gail.” He was impatient. “You’re doing fine.”

  “Don’t go!”

  “My dear. Everything is as it should be.”

  “What about?” Don’t scream! Don’t.

  His hand was on her forehead.

  “Please … the pain is …”

  “Come, child. You know better. It’s a perfectly healthy delivery.

  Everything is coming along nicely.”

  “It hurts …” Don’t scream!

  Hand on her wrist, eyes on his pocket watch, he monitored the contraction until it ceased. “You’re doing fine. Fine.”

  “Please … can’t you give me something?”

  “Absolutely not. The infant would be affected.”

  “How long?”

  “Oh my goodness!” He dropped her wrist. “There’s a long way to go yet, my dear.”

  At midnight she screamed. Though born of impossible pain, she was deeply shamed.

  At dawn, following a nightmare cycle of agony and semi-consciousness, she was beyond exhaustion.

  At 8 am Dr Walker returned, felt her forehead, assessed her pulse-rate, and told the attending nurse. “Give her a break. Knock her out for a while.”

  Midday – screaming consciousness.

  “I can see the head.”

  “Turn her.”

  De-humanised. Not human. Animal. Ears to hear and pain to endure. Someone was screaming.

  “Doctor.!”

  Eddying down. the dark abyss of oblivion.

  A mewling cry.

  “It’s a girl, Mrs Campbell. You have a girl.”

  “Poor kid. It was a long labour.”

  The voice woke her.

  “You’re awake. Good.” Doctor Walker was happy. “How do you feel?”

  She re-closed her eyes.

  “She’s a beautiful baby, Gail.” Jake. Jake was here.

  His lips were on her forehead. “Well done.”

  “Where were you?”

  “It’s not important. I’m here now. I’m here with you, Gail.”

  “Was it a girl? I thought I heard someone say it was a girl.”

  “You heard right,” Jake’s beautiful face was close to hers.

  Jake’s face … Soft. Could Jake really be happy about the baby, Rick’s baby? “Can I see her?”

  “Soon … soon.” Jake exchanged a furtive glance with Jim Walker.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hush. Hush. Lie back. You mustn’t upset yourself. You’ve had a hard time.”

  “What’s wrong with the baby?”

  “Nothing. Nothing’s wrong, Gail. You have to rest.” The doctor pressed her back against the pillows. “She’s a good weight. You have to accept it. The child too has had a hard time. It’s been a long ordeal for you both.”

  “The baby’s tired, Gail. That’s all.”

  At dusk she woke again.

  The beaming nurse placed the tiny bundle in the crook of her arm. “Isn’t she beautiful!”

  Squeezed shut eyes, round face, fuzz of blonde hair; a Campbell. How to hold a baby?

  “Here.” The nurse, unbuttoning the fresh silk nightgown, set the small searching mouth to her breast. “She’s still a little tired. Be patient.”

  The unfamiliar tug at her breast, the vulnerability of the tiny body, the nurse’s expectancy. What was she supposed to do? “I don’t know …”

  “Of course you don’t,” the nurse smiled. “Your very first. Here … put your hand there. Like so …”

  She knew nothing. There’d been no babies in her life, not even young children. There’d been love and illness and sadness and regret and grief – and anger. Anger at the premature loss of her parents, at the mystery of Rick’s desertion, at the price of war, at a future that promised more war and more loss. There’d been love.

  There’d been no babies and no experience of babies. Terror immobilised her. She couldn’t even hold the baby properly to feed her. How was she supposed to physically care for her?

  The room was heavy with perfume, bouquets of hot-house flowers decorated every shelf. Though she knew almost no one, the family and the friends of the family had been generous. The bouquets were accompanied by small gifts for the new baby – jackets and booties and bonnets and bibs and rattles. There was a card from Phoebe. Written in the same hand as the note in the opera book it simply read, ‘Welcome to the new baby girl. Love and best wishes from Aunty Phoebe.’

  When she next came to visit, bearing more gifts, she showed it to Amy.

  “Ah!” Amy’s eyes lit up. “I phoned her. She promised to send something. Now she knows it’s a girl, she’ll be knitting something pink. It’ll arrive in due course.”

  “I’d like to meet her. When does she …?”

  “I’ve brought something you should see.” Amy arranged a cream lace baby gown across the bed. “They’ve all been christened in it. Boys and girls.”

  “It’s beautiful!”

  “The family brought it out
on the ship. Jake’s great-great-great grandmother was a fine craftswoman. You must look at the family line one day. Unless I’ve already shown it to you?” Carefully refolding the gown, Amy settled into the visitor’s chair. “No? But then I’d have remembered that.”

  “It’s very tiny. Will it fit?”

  “Tiny? Do you think so? No, not really, the boys were quite big.

  And this time … have you decided on her name yet?”

  “Jake wants to talk about that tonight.”

  “Surely you’ve got something in mind? All these months. Don’t tell me you haven’t talked about it?”

  “He won’t …”

  “But you’ve thought about it.”

  The baby should have been a boy. His name would have been Richard, whether they approved or not. “If she had been a boy.”

  “You must have thought of a girl’s name, dear.”

  She flushed. “I want to talk to Jake. He said he’d talk tonight.”

  “Sister tells me you’re managing breast-feeding,” Amy smiled approval. “Poor thing. It was such a difficult labour. Jim anticipated problems there. But you’ve coped well, it appears. Though we must keep continuing watch over your health.”

  “I’m very tired.”

  “Of course you are!” Amy started from the chair.

  “No! I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to …”

  “If you’re sure? Quite sure? I know you want to consult Jake. But, really, Gail, this matter of a name. Women are much better at these things. Take my word for it.”

  “Jake will have a name in mind.”

  “And what about you?” Amy patted the christening robe. “We can’t keep talking about the baby. She must have a name, poor lamb.”

  “Why do you say that!”

  “Say what? Oh! Poor lamb. A figure of speech only. My goodness, Gail.”

  “What are they not telling me? They keep saying the baby had a hard time, too.”