by Guy N Smith
Ruth had been just the same when Gwyn was courting her and it all stemmed from her bloody mother. ‘No, Gwyn, I’m not going to let you do anything until our wedding night because it wouldn’t be right, would it? No, you can’t feel me because one thing leads to another and we don’t want to put temptation in our way, do we?’
Gwyn did, but it had made no difference. Ruth had been frigid on her wedding night and she hadn’t improved much since, he laughed to himself. Lie back and think of England; that advice had surely come from the old woman. And the cow was still alive, hanging on in a geriatric ward and making a bloody nuisance of herself with the other inmates. The sooner she popped, the better. Christ alive, Ruth had no idea how much they needed her money right now.
Things were clearer now and Gwyn pulled a wry face, felt an urge to wriggle right down the bed and stay there. Forever. He didn’t remember visiting the doctor, but with all the worry he had had recently that wasn’t surprising. But he did have a vague recollection of agreeing to this holiday. A kind of ‘eat, drink and be merry for tomorrow we die’. A last spree, money was no object because they didn’t have any anyway and the holiday camp could join the queue of creditors at the official receiver’s door. Gwyn had wanted to go abroad, Spain preferably. Perhaps stay there, start up an enterprise of some kind; the possibilities were limitless. But Ruth would not agree to anything so adventurous, particularly when Sarah was itching to go off with Norman. Born and bred in Britain, stay on British soil, that was her narrow outlook. So they had come to this camp. Fair enough, they were going to live it up, he’d see to that. Live for today and forget tomorrow. He would come up with something when they got home, he always did, there was no need to worry about that now. He was a survivor, he wouldn’t be around now if he wasn’t.
Ruth was desperately worried, and not just about Gwyn. Nor Sarah. A fear that grew day by day, was such that she dreaded waking to a new morning. Like her husband, she would have preferred to remain in bed, lie there covered by the sheets and escape the bout of sickness which hit her the moment she rose. Instant nausea, she braced herself for it now, tried to reach the bathroom with as little unseemly haste as possible, prayed that it would not be occupied by Sarah. Then her stomach erupted, she retched and vomited, clutched at the old-fashioned cistern, held on to it in case she fainted. Once she had been sick, the feeling passed and did not trouble her for the remainder of the day. Classic signs, there could be no doubt. She had gone through it all whilst she was expecting Sarah. Oh, my God, I’m pregnant, I’ve been caught on the change!
The prospect of childbirth was terrifying, particularly at her age, 46. There would be all kinds of complications and, in any case, she did not want another baby. Not after all she had been through the first time; she would either lose the child or else die in childbirth. Retribution, the Lord was punishing her. For what? For sinning in a variety of ways, everybody sinned. She could not think of any particularly major transgression on her part; she made a rule of never thinking or saying evil of anybody, no matter how they had wronged her. She had never been unfaithful to her husband. God, no! Gwyn was bad enough, virtually demanding sex of her, sometimes twice weekly, when she would rather have let that side of their relationship die.
She told herself over and over again that she found no pleasure in sexual intercourse. Never had. It was something you did because it was a duty to your man, all part of a woman’s role. Without it the human species would be non-existent in under a century. Ruth accepted that some women actually enjoyed it. Fair enough, everybody was different. But for herself it was unnecessary, you could love somebody without copulating with them. An orgasm was still something of a mystery to her; in the early days sex was sometimes vaguely pleasurable but that was all. She had grown out of it over the years, and when she suddenly went into the change at 45 she wished that in some way she could have terminated intercourse. But, in fact, it became worse.
Gwyn had insisted that there was no longer any need for him to take precautions and for some months he became more lustful than he had been for the last ten years. God, she hated it now that he refused to wear a sheath, so messy! And now she was paying the penalty for spurning the chance of a sterilization operation fifteen years ago.
Her mother had talked her out of that. ‘The best form of contraception, my dear,’ her mother had stated in a haughty but embarrassed tone, ‘is not to do it at all. Your father never pestered me much after we had you, simply because we did not want any more children and he realized the futility and degradation of subjecting me to his infrequent desires. If you have this operation then it is merely giving Gwyn the green light to take you on a whim. You take my advice, discourage him now and he’ll find other things to occupy himself with.’
Ruth’s hands shook as she buttered the toast on the Formica working surface. It must have happened that night after the champagne party Gwyn had given to open his new offices. He was drunk that night and she had almost been in the mood herself. He had persuaded her to do some disgusting things, she would never ever feel clean again. Acts that were outside anything which a husband had a right to expect. And God had punished her for it! Now she had to face up to the risks of childbirth, the mental and physical agony, and even if nothing went wrong then she was back to night-time feeding, sleepless nights, nappy changing and washing. It made her want to scream, to give way to hysteria.
She had even considered an abortion, she would get one easily enough at her age. No, it was murder, the Lord would punish her again and much more severely this time. So she had to have the baby. A sudden desire to run from this chalet, to flee screaming. Which wouldn’t solve anything because the foetus would still be there in her womb.
‘Hi, Mum!’ The door crashed open and Sarah came in, a slim dark-haired girl with a strong facial likeness to her mother, dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Ruth checked the impulse to reprimand her daughter for not wearing a bra; later perhaps. She looked provocative and that was how girls got themselves into trouble. If you gave men any encouragement they didn’t let up.
‘You don’t exactly look happy and that’s the understatement of the week. Cheer up, we’re on holiday, or had you forgotten?’
‘I’m all right. Your father’s not too good this morning, though.’ Pass the buck on to Gwyn, he deserved it. It was his fault.
‘Old misery guts. He’ll always have a long face if he can’t get up and go to work. Ignore him.’
‘Help yourself to toast,’ Ruth began loading a tray. ‘I’m giving Daddy his breakfast in bed.’
‘Trying to make him fat and lazy. He’s already fat so you’re half-way there, but God knows how you’ll ever make him lazy.’
‘Ssh! He’ll hear you.’
‘I don’t give a damn.’
‘Don’t swear please.’ A curt reprimand, then Ruth forced herself to change the subject. ‘I suppose you’re all bubbly because Norman’s coming tomorrow.’
‘Oh, him!’
Ruth stared in amazement, wondered if she had heard right. For months her daughter had talked of nothing but her boyfriend, it was quite worrying, and suddenly she was putting him down nonchalantly.
‘He’s getting to be a pain.’ Sarah bit into a slice of hard toast, crunched it noisily. ‘It’s like bringing coals to Newcastle having him here. There’s loads of fellers.’
‘Sarah!’ Better the devil you knew. At least she could keep an eye on the courting couple here, and Norman came from a respectable family. But she wasn’t having her daughter going off with the likes of holiday camp boys. That really was asking for trouble. You could end up like me! ‘Your father and I have gone to a lot of trouble and expense to arrange for you to have Norman here and we don’t want any nonsense to spoil our holiday. Understand?’
Sarah understood only too well. ‘All right. But I’m going out tonight, anyway.’
‘Where?’ A snapshot question loaded with suspicion and demanding an instant answer. The truth. Not that Sarah ever lied to them. Ruth was another
shade paler and she felt sick again.
‘Just out.’ Sarah casually spooned marmalade out of the jar, spread it on the rest of her toast. ‘I’m not thirteen any longer, you know, Mother. I just want to go out on my own. Is there any harm in that?’
‘No-oo-oo,’ Ruth pursed her lips, her head was thrust forward. ‘Only that Daddy and I wanted to see the film at the cinema tonight. Crocodile Dundee.’
‘I saw it two years ago.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t hurt you to see it again. I expect by now you’ve forgotten most of it.’
‘Except that I don’t want to spend a lovely evening in a stuffy cinema like a thirteen-year-old being taken to the movies by her parents. I am seventeen and most seventeen-year-old girls go to discos on their own. You’re years behind the times Mother. And another thing, I’ve outgrown this “Mummy and Daddy” nonsense. Got it?’
‘Very well,’ Ruth picked up the tray, headed towards the bedroom door, ‘but don’t go getting into any mischief. Dad … your father is in no condition to stand trouble, he’s got enough business worries of his own.’
Sarah concentrated on eating her toast. It was time she made a stand and one thing was certain, they weren’t stopping her from going out tonight. She had a date and the thought sent a ripple of excitement all over her young body. She had been to the pool for a quick swim and it was on the way back that she had met this huge bronzed man, muscles rippling all over his body and a huge unkempt beard that made it impossible to judge his age. She thought he was probably in his mid-twenties. Holiday camps were the only places where you could strike up a chat as easily as that.
‘Hi!’ He had dropped into step with her. ‘Fancy an ice cream?’
She hadn’t at that hour of the morning but she had let him buy her one all the same. So mature, Norman seemed like a secondary school kid by comparison. Small talk, innuendoes that had made her laugh.
‘Doing anything tonight?’ They had reached the newsagent’s shop and Sarah did not particularly want him to walk her all the way back to her chalet. Where her parents were concerned one had to be diplomatic.
‘Not really.’ She was nervous, tense. ‘I’m with my folks.’
‘Well, why not leave them to do what they want to do, and I’ll take you for a row on the boating lake?’ He deftly rolled a cigarette, put it to his lips and struck a match. His dark eyes were watching her keenly.
‘All right.’ She fought off a pang of conscience. Blow her parents, and Norman. He wouldn’t be coming until tomorrow anyway. He didn’t own her.
‘Fine. About nine, then. What’s your name?’
‘Sarah.’
‘That’s nice. Mine’s Al.’
‘I’ll look forward to seeing you tonight then, Al.’ She wondered idly if it was Alan or Albert. Or something obscure. Not that it mattered.
Then she was gone, hurrying, euphoric. And now, within the space of twenty minutes, she had a date for tonight and had successfully extricated herself from a boring evening at the cinema with her folks. It was going to be a long day waiting for this evening.
‘Your father’s been pushing himself too hard.’ Ruth Mace came back into the kitchen, closed the door behind her and spoke to her daughter in a hushed voice. ‘He hasn’t looked well since the first evening we were here.’
‘You don’t look so good yourself, Mother,’ Sarah said. ‘You’re as white as a ghost. You haven’t got a tummy bug or anything?’
‘I’ve been sick,’ the other sank down into a chair, buried her face in her hands. ‘Oh, Sarah, I’ve been sick every morning.’ Sudden shame, she could no longer bear it on her own. Her secret dread had been this in reverse, her own daughter frantic because she feared that she was pregnant. Years of over-protectiveness, schooled by her own mother, playing down the delights of sex until you actually found no pleasure in the act. Psychosomatic. And now it had come to this.
‘Mother, you’re not …’ Sarah did not know whether to laugh or cry. It was ridiculous, unbelievable.
‘I am.’ Ruth Mace stared out of black-ringed eyes, clutched the arms of the chair in case she fainted. ‘It’s all your father’s fault, Sarah. He’s got me pregnant!’
Whilst in the bedroom Gwyn Mace was dressing. Gone was his depression, his fears, forcibly pushed into the furthest recesses of his mind. To hell with tomorrow, he was going to live for today. This was going to be the holiday of a lifetime and he didn’t want Ruth spoiling it all for him. If she didn’t want to let her hair down then he’d soon find himself a woman who would.
Chapter Ten
Professor Morton had spent the first hour of the morning alone in his office reading through the latest updates of the C-551 experiments. Hunched over his desk, he smoked rapidly, knocking his pipe out in the ash tray and refilling it without taking his eyes off the sheet of paper. Fascinating, absolutely fascinating.
The Evanses were still planning their trek south in search of a warmer climate but so far they had not ventured outside their chalet. It would be interesting to see if they ever did; they were a typical example of the unadventurous working class, he decided, afraid to break with routine. But surely their supplies would run out soon and then they would have to do something.
Alan Jay and his girlfriend had resorted to venturing out into the camp separately. Surreptitious excursions when one of them was asleep. But they always returned to number 24. Because it was the only place where they felt secure. Two lovers who had become strangers and yet did not desert each other. He had got rough with her on one occasion, they needed watching carefully. At the moment, though, they appeared to be tolerating each other. She was convinced she was a whore, he wasn’t really certain what he was. So long as he got his drugs he didn’t care.
Dolman was still nursing his injuries, smouldering with hate for capitalists. Plotting silently, the bugging devices couldn’t pick up his thoughts unfortunately. Smith, the groundsman, was hanging around, trying to make contact. When eventually they got together something would happen, Morton was sure of it.
The Maces; the first family experiment. Gwyn was a rogue, a financial twister. The Inland Revenue had been trying to catch him out for years, they probably never would. But, deprived of clear thinking, the man was beginning to panic. Like the office embezzler who fears to go on holiday in case he is found out in his absence. Bent on a good time, and to blazes with tomorrow.
Mace’s wife was beginning to fall apart. A life of repression, parental over-protectiveness and an obsession for respectability, she was convinced she was pregnant. A lurking fear over the years had come home to roost. She wasn’t pregnant, the professor was convinced of that, but how would she act now? Morton whetted his appetite with questions.
And their daughter: a girl who had been deprived of normal teenage life, she was going to make up for it. All three of them were going to go out into the camp and do something totally in contrast to their normal behaviour.
Tony Morton paused, knocked out his pipe again but did not refill it this time. For some moments he sat there just staring at the closed file. His self-satisfaction disappeared, his expression was one of puzzlement, slight annoyance. Then, in one lithe movement he rose to his feet, padded silently across the thick pile carpet. He eased open the door, just a couple of inches, looked out into the ante-office.
Ann Stackhouse was bent over the word processor, her back towards him. She was wearing a thin nylon blouse through which a scarlet bra strap stood out starkly. So beautiful, he experienced a moment of hurt. Regret that it had turned out this way. It was his own fault, an affair that never should have been, something which would be impossible to erase from his memories. Heady nights, passion that had clouded reason, the human factor which was so dangerous to experiments like C-551. Now it was all over, he had no doubts about that, would not try to retrieve what had been his for a short time.
In those few seconds during which he observed unseen, his trained mind underwent a change, slipped from a personal gear back into a professional one.
His brain cleared and the slim sensuous body on the other side of the room became a working unit, one so vital to success.
‘Ann,’ he pushed the door wide, saw her start, turn. ‘If you could spare me a moment …’ A boss summoning his secretary for dictation, politely and yet commanding.
‘Oh, sure.’ She leaped from her seat just too quickly, enough to tell him that she was nervous, her conscience was troubling her. And that was bad for a set-up of this nature when the credibility of an elected government was at stake. When a weak link in any chain was detected it had to be either repaired or else removed and replaced with a stronger one. Personal feelings did not enter into it.
He was back seated behind his desk by the time she came into the office, filling his briar and taking his time lighting it. This was one meeting which could not be rushed. He motioned towards the chair on the opposite side of the desk, smiled. You never could tell with Tony; he was a past master at hiding his inner feelings, she thought.
‘On a personal note,’ his voice was even, the half-smile back again, ‘I suppose I’m correct in assuming that it’s all over between us?’
She swallowed, knew she was blushing; suddenly that chair was the most uncomfortable one in the world. She tried not to squirm in it.
‘Oh, no hard feelings.’ He waved a hand as though the matter of their recent affair was of no real importance. ‘I fully understand if it is. It’s just that I’d like to know. I’m sure you understand.’
‘Yes,’ she swallowed, there was a sinking sensation deep in her stomach. ‘I’m afraid it is all over. One of … those things.’