Mill Town Girl

by Audrey Reimann

  ‘Look,’ she said. ‘How clear it is. I can see the steps from here.’ She extended an arm towards the distant town.

  ‘I’d rather look at you,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Rose?’

  ‘Yes?’ She narrowed her eyes and leaned forward on the wall as if to get a better view. Alan put an arm across her shoulder. Maybe last night’s response had more to do with the magic of the occasion. But no, she was moving closer to him and turning her face to his. He wasn’t mistaken. He half-lifted, half-held her as his lips met hers, gently at first, then sensing the response in her, with urgency. She clung, eager and fiercely to him with a desire that matched his, a desire that was filling and beginning to overtake him.

  He pulled himself back, breathing deeply to regain control of himself. He must restrain himself; he meant to talk to her, to court her with words, though her nearness put thoughts and words from his mind. He assumed an air of authority he did not feel. ‘Let’s get moving,’ he said.

  The road ahead was straight and empty. Alan held the Riley at a lazy speed and fondled Rose’s shoulder inside the wide neck of the knitted jumper. She leaned towards him, letting his fingers fall on to the full roundness. She wore nothing beneath the jumper and he felt her breast firming under his hand as it strayed. He wanted to stop the car and hold her. He looked at her quickly, saw that she was aroused by the brief contact. Her breathing was faster and her eyes huge and dark centred. He took his hand away and put it back on the driving wheel.

  They headed away from the moors, through a deep pine forest that descended gently to the still valley. Alan drew the car in to the side of the road that ran along the riverbank. Under the trees the spring’s warmth had turned leaf mould and pine needles into a brown resilient carpet and pale new leaves caught the sunlight overhead, dappling the ground and the tumbling water.

  An ivy-covered ruin, surrounded by rhododendrons and laurel grown luxuriant with neglect, faced them across the quick, shallow river Goyt. They carried rugs and the picnic basket over the rotting bridge that had once served the old mansion. Alan led her to a tiny clearing, spread the rugs and lay, watching her as she unpacked the hamper.

  The crimson jumper had risen above the waistband of her skirt, revealing the pale skin of her back as she knelt and reached, placing crockery and napkins on the check tablecloth on the grass. He had planned to talk of love, of waiting, of a future for them when the war was over. But now, seeing her near, when every movement of her, every glance filled him with aching need he knew that they had no time for talk, for waiting, for a future that might never be theirs.

  He leaned back on his elbows and closed his eyes. ‘Leave that, Rose. Come here.’ He felt her light feet on the rug, felt her drop to her knees beside him.

  ‘What is it?’ Her hair brushed his face as she bent over him and he caught her scent of shampoo and young flesh.

  ‘Marry me.’ He sat up and looked into her startled eyes, inches from his own. Then his arms were around her and his face was pressing into her slender neck, He kissed her ears and throat while his hands slid inside the crimson jumper.

  ‘Will you marry me, Rose?’

  Her eyes gave him all the answer he needed. Her hands were clasped behind his neck and she was pulling him down on top of her, answering him with closed eyes and quick little cries.

  There was a hard, demanding need in him now and he forced himself to deny it. He felt the warm pressure of her breasts and he took her arms from his neck and laid her back gently on to the rug. ‘I love you, Rose,’ he said. ‘I always have. Say you’ll marry me.’

  ‘I love you Alan,’ she whispered. ‘So much.’ Her eyes were shimmering and her breath was soft on his cheek. She raised her arms to him and pulled him down until his mouth was on hers again and he was drowning in its warm sweetness, feeling the thudding of her heart under his hands. And again he lifted his face and looked into her deep blue eyes. ‘Rose? Will you marry me?’

  ‘Yes, I love you. Yes I’ll marry you,’ she answered, reaching out for him as if she could not bear to lose the feel of his mouth on hers; looking at him through dark lashes, making desire surge until he could hold back no longer.

  ‘I want you, Rose,’ he was urgent and insistent now in his need of her. ‘I want you now. I want to make love to you. Will you . . . ?

  She was trembling under his touch and he knew with sudden joy and certainty that he was going to take her, to make her his, here in this quiet, hidden glade, so far from war and the fear of death. She was charged with a passion as strong as his own. The eyes that were holding his were repeating the urgent longings of her body as it thrust itself against his, imploring him to fulfil it.

  ‘Alan, I love you so much.’ Her voice was soft and low and pleading. ‘I want to. I want you to. Don’t hurt me. Alan, love me.’

  Then he covered her face with kisses and his hands pulled away her crimson jumper and she slid her white arms from the restricting garment. And his own need was hard in him as he held her, his mouth moving to her firm breasts, making her call out to him.

  She needed him. She was moving her body, pushing into him as he raised her to her knees and slid the fawn skirt over the slope of her hips, her silk knickers falling away easily as he released the button that held them.

  ‘Alan, Alan,’ she whispered. ‘Now. Quickly.’

  Her breath was coming fast on his neck as he unfastened his clothes and pushed them aside. Her hands were moving over him, drawing him down until she lay, waiting for him.

  His fingers moved inside her hot, slippery body. Oh, God. He must be quick, for her sake.

  Every sense in his body was clamouring for her, yet she was a virgin and he knew he must be careful. As swiftly as he could he broke through, into her, taking unexpected pleasure in her sharp gasp of pain and the soft moan that followed his deepening movements.

  He watched her face, the fine beading of sweat on her upper lip, the tip of her tongue caught between her teeth, excited by her low murmurings as new sensations inside her grew stronger.

  Then her legs were up around and gripping him and he was pushing deep, deep into her as her movements matched his and their bodies were as one in sliding, flowing tension. Inside her he felt strong muscles pulling him in, heard the rasping breaths that were his own, and hers quickening in time with his. And when her cry came he covered her mouth with his, tasting her sweetness in the soaring abandon of her.

  At last she lay beneath him, relaxed, her breathing deep and regular, returning the little kisses he placed on her lips, on her chin and her half-closed eyes.

  He watched her face as he stayed inside her, stroking her white, lightly veined breasts, gently caressing her pink nipples until they rose and became rigid and she caught her breath. She was trying to conceal the signs. But her fragile control was going even as he watched. Her body was obeying his touch. He saw her eyes widen in surprise as she felt the stirrings of desire deep inside herself again and slowly he covered her open mouth with his own.

  Her hands moved over him. She whispered words of love to him, telling him she loved him, that she needed him and wanted him. Her hips were moving, circling around him, her fingers hard on his hips.

  And he was full again and needful and had no mind to play or take her gently. He thrust himself hard and furiously into her until she cried out. He wanted her to share this fast-ascending ecstasy. His fingers raked through her tangled hair as he called her name and forced her flat against the hard, grassy ground to still her wild cries as he came pouring and streaming inside her. And she gave a long-drawn cry and held him fast inside in her involuntary muscle contractions until they lay, damp and weak, his weight on top of her, his head on her breast and her hands light and loving on his arm.

  He looked slowly into her eyes and brushed his lips with great tenderness over her own. ‘Did you think it could be like this,’ he asked her quietly, ‘when you imagined love?’

  ‘No.’ She pushed him on to his back, spreading herself across his chest, he
r eyes soft and luminous. ‘And you? It wasn’t new for you, was it?’

  ‘Oh, yes. It was.’ He spoke the truth. ‘It was my first time. I’ve been near, been tempted, but I always found it easy to hold back.’

  ‘I’m glad,’ she said fervently. ‘I couldn’t bear to think you had. I couldn’t bear to think of you doing that with another girl.’

  Alan laughed softly at her serious expression. ‘Oh my!’ he said. ‘What a wife I’ve got! What an ambitious, fierce little female.’

  ‘Do you suppose that having a baby feels like that?’ she asked, teasing him, twisting little strands of his black hair in her fingers.

  ‘Like what?’ He sat up, smiling at the serious look on her face.

  ‘Like doing it.’

  ‘No. It would be much, much worse.’ He laughed, then asked seriously, ‘You didn’t think it was awful, did you?’

  ‘No.’ She made a satisfied, knowing smile.

  ‘Did it hurt when I broke the hymen?’

  ‘Oh, Alan!’ She was laughing. ‘You’re so damned clinical. You give everything its proper name. I’ll bet that all the time we were doing it you were thinking of those Latin words.’

  She sat back on her heels, her hair tousled and wild from her exertions. ‘No,’ she explained with the most preposterous piece of illogical thinking Alan had ever heard. ‘I just thought that if you get anything as wonderful as a baby for doing it, then having a baby must be like it but more so.’

  She was so beautiful. It sent a shiver of fright through him to think of leaving her. Alan put his arms around her and pulled her upright. ‘You are going to marry me, aren’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘How could I not? After today?’

  ‘You love me?’

  ‘Oh, yes, I do. So much. There could never be anyone else.’

  Love for him was lighting her face. He thrust his arms quickly into his shirt, sharply aware all at once of time that was slipping away from them. ‘Put your clothes on. We’ll go back and tell them. I’ll get a special licence. We’ll be married on my next leave.’

  She lay still, her face drained of colour. ‘Aunt Carrie will never give her permission. I’m under twenty-one. I’ll need her consent,’ she told him in a distant voice.

  ‘I’ll speak to her. I’ll make her see.’ Alan saw the quick look of fear that crossed her face.

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll ask her myself. It’s better that way. She’ll be angry if she hears it from anyone else.’

  ‘I must tell my father,’ Alan said. He was strong-willed but there was a reckless streak in him that made him impatient with delay. ‘They’ll have to know.’

  He looked hard into her eyes and gripped her shoulders to emphasise his words. ‘You’re mine now. My wife in all but name. I won’t let anyone come between us. Your aunt won’t stop us. I’ll not stand any opposition. She has to let you go. For your sake I’ll not speak. But you must. You will leave her and live in Lincoln Drive if necessary.’

  ‘I don’t want her to hear it from anyone else. I’ll go for the forms myself and ask her to sign them. We’ll ask for a special licence.’

  ‘Do it soon. God knows where I’ll be sent or when I’ll get leave. I want to get married.’

  ‘And you don’t mind that we might not have children?’

  ‘No. When the war’s over we’ll go to the best specialist in the country. If it’s possible we’ll put it right. If not, we’ll face it together.’ He rolled up the rugs. ‘Come on. We’ve only a few hours left.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  When Rose returned to the house Aunt Carrie was at chapel and Mary and the Gallimore girls were in the yard. They had placed stools and wooden lemonade boxes in a row and were seated there, in shadow.

  Rose saw them as soon as she pushed open the back door. ‘Come and sit here,’ Mary called. ‘Push up, Flo. Make room for our Rose.’

  ‘Where’s Viv?’ Rose asked.

  ‘Coming down in a minute. We’re giving a concert. We’re going to sing after Viv’s turn,’ Mary added cheerfully.

  ‘It’s getting dark. She’d better be quick.’ Rose sat on the box next to Mary. The seats were arranged against the rough brick wall. The two WCs at the far end of the yard were to be the backcloth. The girls had swept the cracked flagstones and draped tired-looking curtains over the doors of the old privies that were no longer in use since Aunt Carrie had had indoor lavatories installed.

  ‘Here she comes.’ Mary clapped encouragingly as Viv ran on to the imaginary stage.

  Vivienne’s hair, which she normally wore pinned into an untidy bun, was fanned out about her shoulders, a soft, moving flame of light bronze. She wore a long, black dress in the Spanish style, which clung to her slim, childish body until it flounced out in a froth of red net from a point above her knees.

  ‘Ooh!’ the girls sighed.

  Vivienne poised with her hands above her head for a few moments before snapping her red tap shoes against the stone. The girls, taking their signal, began to clap slowly as the youngest of them started to dance.

  Rose could not take her eyes off her sister. Vivienne’s body twisted and held in the defiant postures of the Flamenco. Her feet made the rapid-fire sounds rise and fall, offset against the slow handclapping of the watchers. The glowing hair leaped and swung as Viv, with half- closed eyes, moved in time to the music that sang in her head until finally, with a series of quick steps, she stopped, her body erect before them. Rose applauded as enthusiastically as the others.

  The singing and recitations of Mary and the Gallimore girls were good-natured and a little tiresome. They didn’t need an audience. They were pleased to amuse one another. Rose slipped back into the kitchen and pulled the blackout blinds before switching on the light. The girls had left the kitchen in a mess. She began to clear up but stopped for a moment when she thought she heard the sound of crying from their room, then continued when she decided she was mistaken.

  As she began to take away the dirty dishes that had been left from tea she listened again. There it was. And it was coming from their bedroom.

  She went to the bottom of the stairs. ‘Vivienne?’ she called softly. The crying ceased.

  No. It was louder. Rose ran up the narrow staircase and pushed open the bedroom door. Vivienne lay on the bed, still wearing the Spanish dress, her shoulders heaving as great sobs shook her.

  ‘What is it, love?’ Rose put her arm across Viv’s shoulders. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It’s Aunt Carrie. I hate her!’ Vivienne turned her face towards Rose; a red-eyed, angry face that was so different from the dreamy dancer of five minutes past that it took Rose all her time not to smile. ‘I shall hate the job in the mill,’ Vivienne cried. ‘The only thing I live for is dancing. Why can’t I go on having lessons? I want to be famous. I want to be a film star!’ She sat, dry-eyed, gripping Rose’s hand. ‘And now she says I have to give it up.’

  ‘Why?’ Rose knew how much it meant to Vivienne. Her sister had little talent for anything else. Dancing used all her energy. It gave her an outlet for the wildness that was in her.

  ‘She says we’re all going wrong and she’ll not have it.’ Tears began to fall again. ‘It’s your fault, Rose. She said she saw you slopping all over Alan MacGregor in the middle of the street where everyone could see you.’ She picked up the corner of the counterpane and dabbed her eyes before turning a pleading look on to Rose. ‘Don’t do it again, Rose. Don’t let her see you. She’ll take it out on us.’

  Rose felt a cold shiver run down her back. ‘She must really hate me,’ she said quietly. ‘She doesn’t want me to be happy.’

  ‘She does hate you. She’s always going on about you.’

  ‘Where has she gone? To chapel?’

  ‘She’s not coming home until late. There’s a meeting after chapel,’ Vivienne said. ‘Don’t annoy her, will you? Not until I get my dancing lessons back?’

  Rose forced a smile. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll say nothing to make her
angry. I’ll talk to her tomorrow.’

  ‘As if nothing’s happened?’ Viv added urgently.

  There was a weight on Rose’s heart. A certain knowledge that she dared not speak of marriage to Alan. ‘As if nothing’s happened.’

  Vivienne combed her hair and ran a cold, damp flannel over her face, standing at the sink in the corner of the room, all traces of tears gone. ‘I’m glad we’ve got this room,’ she said. ‘We can come up here whenever we want to. Imagine, Rose, if we were next to Aunt Carrie, or in an attic.’

  ‘I suppose we do have some privacy up here,’ Rose agreed. ‘Come down, Viv. Help me with the dishes before she . . . Before Aunt Carrie gets back.’

  ‘Will Cecil Ratcliffe bring her home?’

  ‘Oh, I hope not.’

  ‘He gives me the jitters,’ Vivienne said. ‘He gives me the creeps.’

  ‘Same here,’ Rose said. Vivienne followed her down to the kitchen where they found Mary piling cups and saucers to drain on the metal draining board.

  ‘Thanks,’ Rose said. ‘Mary?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Do you like Cecil Ratcliffe?’

  ‘I’m scared of him,’ Mary answered quickly.

  ‘Scared?’

  ‘Yes. He stands too close,’ Mary began.

  ‘And lays his hands on our arms, doesn’t he, Mary?’ Vivienne added.

  ‘Ugh!’ Mary said. ‘I try not to let him. I keep out of his way.’

  Vivienne didn’t want to let the subject drop. She tugged at Rose’s sleeve. ‘He only does it when Aunt Carrie isn’t looking,’ she said earnestly. ‘He’s cunning.’

  Mary tipped the water out of the enamel bowl, wiped it carefully with the dishcloth and propped it, end up, behind the brass tap. She said in a worried little voice, ‘He says things like, “I wonder if Mary would go to my car” and sends me chasing off for something.’

  ‘And as soon as she’s gone he asks Aunt Carrie for a cup of tea saying, “I’d like to hear what dear Vivienne is doing at school”,’ Vivienne said, curling her lip scornfully in a way that would normally have made them all laugh.