‘I hope you haven’t eaten.’
‘Only a sandwich. Why?’
She patted the lid of the wickerwork basket. ‘I’ve brought supper for us. Stay there.’
She was grateful he hadn’t instantly started mauling her, even though she would have responded; she wanted fulfilment to be reached gradually, not grabbed at like something available and cheap. In the dining room she opened the basket and spread the table with the linen cloth she had brought; everything was ready on plates and in dishes, protected by thin plastic film; crystal wine glasses were wrapped in fabric napkins. It felt like setting out a superior picnic, wine on an engraved silver coaster, cutlery gleaming.
‘Come and look,’ she called.
He gave the first real smile she had seen from him as he entered the door. ‘How did you do all this?’
‘Magic — and about two hours preparation this afternoon … Damn!’
‘What’s the matter?’
‘I’ve forgotten … It doesn’t matter, it’s silly, but … hang on.’ In the kitchen she searched in the cupboard under the sink for candles and matches supplied in case there was a power cut; only one candle was whole, and the battered pewter candlestick had been bought from a charity shop.
‘Not exactly moonlight and roses’ standard,’ she apologized as she returned, guarding the flame with her hand, ‘but the best we can manage. There. Would you like to pour the wine?’ Please smile again; I want this to be happy. She felt an overwhelming appreciation as he held the chair for her, then sat opposite, thrusting the opener into the cork.
‘I’ve missed you,’ she said. ‘It’s been a whole day.’ I need you inside me again so much, but I’m stupid enough to want to be wooed.
She placed her fingers on the base of the glass to steady it as he reached across, levelling the bottle. He should have been a craftsman, she thought, a sculptor or potter, beauty flowing out of those delicate hands. Crystal touched and chimed like the faintest of bells and she dipped her head in acknowledgement.
‘Had a good day? With the book?’
‘Yes,’ They began to eat. ‘And you?’
‘Oh, my days are all like each other … I’m meant to be at a meeting to discuss the Pegman Pageant tonight. I told Annabel … I said it would probably go on till late.’ So we’ve got hours now. Just talk to me for a while.
‘This is very good.’
‘Thank you. I took a cookery course once, but this is very basic.’
‘I didn’t expect it.’
There’s a great deal going on here that neither of us expected. How aware of me are you? Does this dress make me look sexy? Are you wondering what I’m wearing underneath it? Have you been fantasizing about me? I have about you. ‘I panicked at one moment that you might hate fish.’
‘No … and I love asparagus.’
For a few moments they ate in silence.
‘Will you tell me something?’ she asked.
‘What?’
‘I haven’t thought about anyone else but you since yesterday. I can’t remember thinking of anything else … So what have you thought about?’
‘You.’
‘Well, you would say that, wouldn’t you?’ It was a very gentle teasing. ‘I handed you that one.’
‘I was afraid you wouldn’t come back.’
‘Ooh, clever.’ The teasing deepened fractionally. ‘You’re a smooth talker.’
‘I mean it … I can’t explain … You’ll laugh if I say I love you.’
Not laugh, just feel a spasm of dismay. ‘You can’t. You’re very sweet, but we hardly know each other.’
‘Does that matter?’
It certainly hadn’t mattered yesterday, but he was adding unwanted dimensions. Was he like her brother had been, unable to keep control, insisting that almost every new girlfriend was a lifelong passion … until it ended and the next one came along.
‘Let’s just agree we’re very fond of each other. I’m not interested in analysing it … Tell me about yourself.’
‘What about myself?’
Oops, that was defensive. ‘Anything. Where you were born. Your family. Being at Cambridge. Your job. Your favourite colour. What music you like. What you read.’ I need a crash course; this thing won’t allow us much time to discover each other. ‘I want to know who Randall Jowett is.’
‘There’s nothing special about me.’
‘Nor me.’ This is like drawing teeth. ‘Come on.’
He pulled the bowl of strawberries towards him and picked up his spoon. ‘I was born in Bedford. My father owned a stationery firm. He and my mother died a few years ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right … I’ve got an older sister. Ruth … I’ve told you that.’
‘Yes. In Normandy. Do you go and see her?’
‘Not often … We’ve grown apart. I work for the Hong Kong and Shanghai Banking Corporation as a currency dealer and I’ve got a flat in the Barbican. That’s it, really.’
You’d give more information about yourself on an application for a credit card. OK. Back off for the time being.
‘My turn, then. I was born in Wiltshire — as you know — and my brother’s a headmaster at a school in Warwick. My father was a doctor and joined a practice in west London, which is why we moved. I wanted to be one too, but the nearest I ever got was private secretary to the chairman of a pharmaceutical company. You know everything else. Lived in Finch nearly twenty years, two children …’ She paused and looked straight at him. ‘And, of course, a bastard husband I’ve stopped loving. But I don’t make a habit of what happened yesterday.’
‘I didn’t think that.’
Then what did you think? Not that you’re irresistible to women, thank God. You’re too uncertain of yourself for that … Now finish your bloody strawberries — and don’t suggest coffee.
Joyce made the first physical contact, walking round the table and placing her hands on his shoulders, coaxing him to turn his head so they could kiss, then easing him up. She put her arms round his neck, fingers over her wrist to lock them and tilted her head, looking at him quizzically.
‘Does it really matter why?’ she asked. The question was for both of them. ‘It certainly doesn’t at this moment.’
Hunger of deliberate delay surged through her and she kissed him again, lips apart as though letting him bite into soft fruit. Her spine cracked faintly as his arms tightened, then his fingers were scrabbling at buttons running down the back of her dress. She became intent on seeking his nakedness, hands still fumbling with his belt as she stepped back slightly, rotating her shoulders to allow the dress to fall. Too impatient to wait for him, she thrust off her bra straps, shaking her breasts free as his belt came loose. She had refused endless requests from forgotten boyfriends and Ralph because she didn’t want to, but … Jowett slid his fingers into her hair as she knelt.
‘Let’s slow down,’ she whispered as she pulled away. ‘Believe it or not, I don’t want to hurry. Just lie here with me.’
The rug smelt dusty — and was really too thin for such activities — but he was a pliant lover, giving gentle strokes as he removed the last of her clothes, mouth soft on her nipples, pausing with her to enjoy simple closeness and a sense of savoured time.
‘We’ll be comfier in bed, darling,’ she murmured as their caresses became impatient, and he suddenly did something spontaneous, lifting her off the floor without effort, throwing back the hair she had playfully pulled over his face as he carried her out to the hall.
‘Ouch!’ she protested as her head bumped against the door frame.
‘Sorry.’ He turned sideways and she felt giddy as he swung round the turn of the stairs and into the bedroom. He was panting as he laid her down.
‘Get inside me.’ Arms and legs grasped him fiercely as he entered her, forcing him to stay still. ‘Wait, darling … slowly … oh, that is so good.’
It was like holding a child close against her, gently rocking with him, deep sensati
ons in warm, gripping channels spreading throughout her body, swelling the comfort of embrace. She imagined what she had long ago felt with other men — even Ralph — that the bed was some ultimate private place, a garden of total indulgence. His face was in the pillow beside her and she took hold of a handful of hair, pulling his head up so that she could look at him. His eyes looked apprehensive, as though this should be forbidden. She smiled an invitation then opened her lips, pressing him down to let other flesh mingle in wetness. Then it was happening too soon, but … Far off, she heard the bedhead tattoo against the wall as a burst of golden heat blossomed in trembling chambers. Arms and legs lost all strength and she was falling away from him so that she lay like a helpless starfish, battered and hurled on the sand by the sea. Then she belched.
‘I’m sorry!’ Her hand flew to her mouth as she laughed. ‘That never happens with Glen Close, does it?’ He was slipping out of her and she was aware of his weight, bony kneecap digging into her thigh as he slid aside; they lay and stared at the ceiling like exhausted runners seeking to recover what had been spent. A settling blackbird’s song was drowned by the noise of a passing car, then outside her closed eyes it was very quiet …
‘What time is it?’ She was startled into sudden consciousness.
‘It’s OK. You’ve only been asleep a few minutes.’
‘Thank God.’ She relaxed. ‘I’d forgotten that sort of sleep … Did I snore?’
‘No,’ he lied.
‘Good. I don’t want you to think me unladylike.’ She laughed again. ‘Although I’ve hardly been behaving like one.’ Limp and passive, his hand contained no response as she took hold of it. ‘I’m not going to say that was the best sex I’ve ever had — but it was the best for a very long time … I trust that you’ve got no complaints?’
His fingers squeezed slightly. ‘It was the best for me.’
‘Flatterer … but it will get you somewhere.’ She sat up. ‘I want another drink. Stay there. I’ll get it.’
There was a delicious naughtiness in remaining naked as she went downstairs, seeing herself in the mirror as she poured the wine, a satiated woman, blatant and released, hair tousled, hunger gorged.
‘Oh, Joyce Davinia Hetherington,’ she murmured to her reflection. ‘What would they think at Cheltenham Ladies’ College?’
Upstairs, Jowett closed his eyes as a shudder racked through him. Surely this was a greater lie, the deceitful smiling mask that hid the monster’s face. But trying to analyse it only deepened confusion. After her kindness and sympathy had warmed him, she had become the knowing woman, tempting because she was both experienced and forbidden … but there was much more than that. She offered him a connection with what he needed to touch; his ghosts had been her friends. So you fucked her … No, not that! They would all hate me in this village if they discovered who I am, but if one of them can share love with me, then … then it’s better. I’ve repaid something … haven’t I?
‘Here we are … Oops!’ Wine slopped over the edge of a brimming glass and splashed on the floor as Joyce came back into the bedroom. ‘Help me. I need another pair of hands … Here. Take this one. Thanks.’
Walking carefully, they stepped back to the bed and sat beside each other, pillows propped up to lean against.
‘I assume you’ve switched off for the moment,’ she said.
‘What do you mean?’
‘You know. I can hold on to what has just happened for hours, but men have a memory cell missing about sex. You’re only able to remember the pleasure for about ten seconds afterwards. Women get used to it.’
He looked down at his glass. ‘I wasn’t just … you know … there was more to it than …’ He shook his head.
‘Oh, please!’ The protest was mocking. ‘Are you trying to say you weren’t just fucking me? I do know words like that. Don’t treat me like the lady of the manor who thinks it’s really all too sordid.’ She squeezed his penis playfully. ‘I have been around the circuit a few times … but not for a while.’
Joyce frowned as he pushed her hand away. ‘For heaven’s sake, you’re not feeling guilty about this, are you?’ Hastily, she put her glass on the bedside table and took hold of his shoulders. ‘Don’t be silly! I’m not … I wanted you! I don’t know why, but that doesn’t matter. It’s … Oh, come here.’
It was like comforting a child again, but now distressed, not warm and contented in her arms. She felt tears against her skin. Please, all I was looking for was someone who’d … want me in return. Just for a while. Neither of us needs this, it’s too bloody dramatic. Gently, she pushed him away from her, still holding him, staring in concern at his face.
‘Can we just lighten it? You’re so … Oh, Christ! I’m sorry. The first thing I thought about you was that you might have lost someone. Is that it? I didn’t mean this to hurt you.’
‘It’s nothing like that.’
‘Then what is it? Can’t we just …?’ She ventured a small grin. ‘Enjoy it? I’m not going to start making demands … promise. It’s not a bad deal, is it?’
‘No.’ He swallowed. ‘I’m sorry, I just … got confused.’
‘Well, there’s nothing confusing about me, my love. I may be a standard issue frustrated woman, but I’m not carrying any baggage.’ She raised his head so she could see into his eyes. ‘I hope I’ll always remember you, but all I want for the time being is for you and me to make everything but babies. Don’t start looking for things that aren’t there. All right?’
She waited, then nodded when he told her it was. ‘Good. Now let’s finish this wine just to prove it can raise the desire without ruining the performance.’ Briefly but fiercely she kissed his mouth. ‘I want to find out how many of the things I used to do I can still manage.’
*
As she drove home, Joyce prayed that Annabel would have gone to bed; beneath her clothes she felt ravaged, convinced her body emanated odours that her daughter would detect and recognize. It had been hard work, but she’d finally made him laugh and … had she really lost control so much at one point that surely half the village could have heard her? Outside the house she remained in the car, knowing that the moment she went back inside the evening would be finished. She wound down the window and breathed in warm night air, craning her neck to peer at shredded moonglow cloud and one visible star … No, don’t throw romance at me, God. He’s young, sensitive, disgustingly good-looking, got some hang-ups I can’t understand and — she smiled to herself lasciviously — and can make my eyes open very wide indeed. I don’t need anything else.
Chapter Eleven
Trevor Godwin wept, suddenly and without effort; it was a long time since it had happened and he tried to identify what had triggered it. During the first two years, troubled, protesting ghosts had ambushed him in every room of the house, as though they had been dragged away so violently that they had not had time to take all of their personalities with them. In those days he had cried a great deal, weak until his anger had returned, stiffening his determination not to be broken. The first recorded Godwin had farmed these fields before Shakespeare was born, and the direct inheritance from father to son was traceable from Cromwell’s Commonwealth. Europe, out of which enemies had once come, now sent endless paperwork, regulations that dictated his yields and governed his prices; but it was only the latest change in a process in which the Godwins had been permanent. As a child his father had told him that Tannerslade Farm would one day be his, and he had promised it in time to Tim; savagery could not be allowed to destroy something so valued, passed on in blood trust. If it succeeded, he would have failed.
He realized that his tears had been prompted by nothing more than the grandfather clock, bought in Bury St Edmunds in 1877 as a wedding gift for Jacob and Henrietta Godwin. Normally unheard, for some reason a single tick had cracked one of the many dams built in his brain to hold back memory and a boiling cataract of images had poured out, the torrent dazing him: the metallic grind of the ratchet as his father had wound it every
Friday evening before dinner; checking his watch against it while waiting to leave for church on the morning of his marriage, self-conscious of his morning suit; the day four-year-old Tim had inquisitively opened the front, lifted the iron weight off the pendulum, then screamed in alarm as he dropped it. And the look on Tim’s face ten years later when Trevor had sat and gently told him that Grandpa and Nana were dead. And Aunt Cheryl. And boisterous Thomas. And chattering Mandy, who had told everyone that she was going to marry her handsome, adored cousin when she grew up.
Coming downstairs Janet Godwin saw him, rigid, eyes seeing nothing visible but all the horrors that imagination insisted must have happened. The helpless panic, screams, despair, pleas for mercy, the terrifying knowledge that here was death come …
‘Black dog?’ She stroked his hair softly as she reached the last step. ‘It’s a long time since he walked. What was it?’
Godwin shook himself. ‘Something stupid … the clock. It’s all right.’
She hugged him briefly, then they pulled apart; each had learnt that physical contact at such moments spawned emotions that could overwhelm and plunge them back into grief still with the power to tear open deep wounds.
‘Take a beer out to the boys. They’re practising in the garden.’
‘How long until lunch?’
‘About twenty minutes.’
Godwin heard them exchanging insults as he walked between the apple trees to the stretch of grass where family games of cricket had been played since before he was a child. As he appeared, Matt was running up, colt-like, trying to put spin on a worn, flaking ball; Tim saw his father and drove it fiercely.
‘Catch, Dad!’
Three cans of bitter fell with a clatter as Godwin instinctively threw out his right arm, flinching as the ball slapped into his palm.
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