Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘The trouble is,’ he said, as they sat there, smoking, her head on his shoulder, ‘the trouble is, I want you very much. I think you’re lovely. But—’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘yes of course but. I’m married to someone who needs me.’

  ‘And whom you love.’

  ‘And whom I love. Yes. And your – well, Florence is my best friend. And whatever you think, it might still work out between you. So—’

  ‘So yes, of course, it’s unthinkable.’

  ‘Yes of course.’

  ‘Best get back perhaps?’

  ‘Yes. Perhaps.’

  He stood up, put his hand down and pulled her to her feet. ‘I still don’t like being called an episode,’ he said, and laughed. ‘Aren’t I anything more than that?’

  ‘Absolutely not,’ said Clarissa firmly.

  That evening he was on duty. She went to meet May.

  ‘You look pretty pleased with yourself, Duchess,’ she said. ‘You getting on well with the commander then?’

  ‘Oh – yes,’ said Clarissa. ‘Yes, pretty well. He’s charming. Sweet. But only an episode, May. Only an episode.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ said May.

  Grace, arriving at the Priory with some eggs for Muriel and Florence, found them both in tears; she stared at them in horror, thinking, assuming that it might be Charles, that they had by some dreadful official mistake been notified before her.

  ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What’s happened?’

  ‘It’s Laurence,’ said Muriel. ‘Dear Laurence. We’ve known him since he and Charles were at prep school. He’s been killed. Out in India. His mother just phoned me. Florence, for heaven’s sake, do stop that child whining. I simply can’t stand it.’

  ‘I’ll take her for a walk,’ said Grace.

  She wandered round the garden, holding Imogen’s small hand, crying herself, not so much for Laurence, whom she had after all scarcely known, but for all the dead and dying that the world seemed to be filled with.

  Jack had seen his face. He was in a state of total despair – and something else. Something ugly, something worse.

  ‘It’s shock,’ said the doctor to Clarissa. She had gone up to Cambridge for two days. ‘Literally shock. It’s been appalling for him. He’s reacted very badly. Try to be patient with him.’

  She tried. It was very difficult. He was alternately angry, hostile, noisily full of self-pity – and suddenly frantically, fearfully dependent on her.

  ‘If you leave me,’ he said, clinging to her hand, tears coursing down his face, ‘I shall die. I shall kill myself. It seems that simple. Don’t, don’t leave me.’

  ‘Of course I won’t leave you,’ said Clarissa, trying to smile, to soothe him, raising his hand to her lips, kissing it. ‘Never ever.’

  ‘Kiss me,’ he said suddenly, ‘kiss me. Go on. On the lips.’

  ‘Jack, I—’ She tried; she looked at his lips, his odd half-lips, curled in, tried to look at the rest of his face, swallowed.

  ‘Go on,’ he said, ‘kiss me. Kiss me, damn you.’

  ‘Jack, I—’

  Her courage failed her. He got up suddenly, turned his back, walked over to the corner of the room, stood there, his back turned to her. ‘I revolt you, don’t I?’ he said, his voice very low. ‘I disgust you. Well, I’m not surprised, I disgust myself.’

  ‘Jack, darling—’

  ‘Don’t say that,’ he said, turning round, savagery in his voice, ‘don’t you darling me. You can’t make it right with words, Clarissa. You’re disgusted, and that’s all there is to it. Go away, go on, just get on back to Dartmouth. I don’t want you here. Get out, get out –’

  He was shouting, shaking; she sat there helpless, not knowing what to do, knowing the one thing she should do, knowing she couldn’t do it.

  ‘Get out,’ he said and it was a great roar of anguish. ‘Get away from me.’

  She got out; went back to her hotel, lay awake nearly all night, trying to come to terms with the horror that was her life. Next day she went back to the hospital; he refused to see her.

  She travelled back to Dartmouth in a state of total despair; the next night she was in bed with Giles Henry.

  She hadn’t meant to, of course; she had meant only to talk to him, to try to rid herself of some of the misery.

  ‘Poor, poor you,’ he said gently, reaching out, touching her cheek. They had left the town, he had walked up towards Warfleet with her, they were looking out into the lovely mouth of the Dart, beyond the creek, her creek. It was a clear night, the moon was full, the frosty air had brought out the stars.

  ‘Look, how the floor of heaven,’ he said suddenly.

  ‘Sorry?’ said Clarissa absently.

  ‘Shakespeare, my darling. Merchant of Venice. Look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid with patines of bright gold.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said, ‘oh Giles, say that again.’

  ‘Look, how the floor of heaven is thick inlaid—’

  ‘No, not that. Say my darling again.’

  ‘My darling.’ He smiled at her. ‘I think the Shakespeare is nicer actually, but each to his own.’

  ‘It is, it’s wonderful, but—’

  ‘I know. My darling is more relevant.’

  There was a silence, then she said, ‘Oh Giles, it’s so awful. What am I going to do?’

  Tears began to spill over from her eyes, roll down her cheeks; she brushed them back impatiently. He reached out, took a tear on his finger, then put it back on her face. ‘Lovely you are,’ he said quietly, ‘lovely and so very, very sweet. Your Jack is lucky. In spite of everything he’s lucky. To have you.’

  ‘Oh no,’ she cried, ‘he’s not, he’s not, I’m rotten, useless to him—’

  There was a silence; then he bent his head and kissed her.

  Clarissa had been kissed hundreds of times by dozens of men; never had one affected her so. For there was not just passion in that kiss, not just tenderness, there was kindness, sympathy, absolute understanding. His mouth was gentle, careful, yet infinitely hungry for her at the same time; the kiss was lingering, endlessly arousing, yet comforting, calming. She responded slowly; first relief, then happiness, and finally, ripping into her, desire, harsh, desperate desire. And suddenly that was all that mattered: that she should have him. She did not forget Florence nor did she cease to think of Jack; she simply set them aside as being of no possible importance. It was Giles she wanted, Giles with his lovely face and his graceful body; and he wanted her and it was all perfectly simple.

  ‘There’s somewhere we could go,’ she said very quietly, seeing that he too recognized the time had come. ‘A little hut down at the creek. We use it for changing in the summer, when we want to swim. It’ll be cold, but—’

  ‘We can keep each other warm,’ he said, his face intently on hers. ‘Is there a key?’

  There was a key: hidden under a stone. She let them in, shivering. It was quite clean, the little hut, but as she had said, freezing; he took off his coat, found some towels as well.

  ‘This bed thy centre is,’ he said, smiling at her. ‘These walls thy sphere. Donne,’ he added.

  ‘What’s done?’ asked Clarissa.

  ‘John Donne, you lovely, lovely ignoramus.’

  ‘Never insult a woman when you’re about to seduce her,’ said Clarissa. ‘You should know that, I would have—’

  ‘For God’s sake hold your tongue,’ he said gently, reaching out, starting to unbutton her shirt, ‘and let me love. Also Donne.’

  ‘All right,’ said Clarissa.

  It was absolutely wonderful. She was starved of sex anyway, her body not just hungry, but fretful, frantic for release; beneath his skilful, probing, thoughtful hands it leapt, soared into life. He entered her quickly, sensing her need, she felt the sweet pushing heaviness within her, rose to meet it, cried out, would have come almost at once had he not said, quite sternly, ‘Be still. Be quite, quite still.’

  And she lay there, feeling the stirrings, the
bright movements towards orgasm still pulling at her, but controlled, most wonder fully; he worked on her and in her then, drawing her slowly, slowly forwards, pushing her gently back, moving her, moulding her round him, making her his, taking possession of her depths. And finally she could stand it no longer; she rose right to the top of her pleasure, her body reached into it and then she felt herself falling, falling around it, around the endless delight, each peak higher, fiercer, and she heard a great roar and knew it was her voice. And then she felt him come, on and endlessly on, and he too cried out, and then finally they were still, lay looking into one another’s faces, and at once, unbidden, she heard Jack’s voice: ‘The only thing that will come between us is some tall, dark and handsome naval commander.’

  At least Giles was fair.

  ‘I’m going to write to Giles,’ said Florence. ‘I’ve decided.’

  She was sitting in the garden at the Mill House with Grace, gazing enraptured at Imogen who was being swung by her small arms between Daniel and David. ‘They really do adore her, those two, don’t they?’

  ‘Oh they do,’ said Grace automatically. ‘Er – what are you going to say to Giles? That you’ve changed your mind?’

  ‘I can’t say that,’ said Florence, ‘because I haven’t. I can’t.’

  ‘Then why write to him?’ said Grace slightly irritably. ‘There doesn’t seem a lot of point.’

  ‘Of course there’s a point,’ said Florence, equally irritable. ‘You never seem to grasp these things, Grace. The point is he doesn’t know why I didn’t meet him that day. He still thinks I just stood him up. I ignored his letter as well.’

  ‘Why did you do that?’ said Grace, ‘I really don’t understand, Florence.’

  ‘I thought it was best,’ said Florence, ‘I thought if he knew I still loved him, that I’d only given him up because – well, because of Imogen – he’d go on and on trying to persuade me. And I couldn’t stand it.’

  ‘But why did you give him up because of Imogen? And don’t tell me I’m stupid, please, I don’t like it.’

  ‘All right, all right. Promise you won’t – well, laugh or anything?’

  ‘I wouldn’t dare,’ said Grace.

  ‘I – well, I made a promise to God. I said if He’d let Imogen live, I’d give up Giles for ever and ever. And He did. So I didn’t have any choice. You see.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. The stark uncompromising courage in this simple, rather primitive bargain touched her; she had never felt nearer to liking Florence. ‘Yes, I do see.’

  ‘But lately, I’ve thought I should write and tell him at least that I still love him. Think if what happened to Jack, or to Laurence, happened to Giles and he – well, he thought I hadn’t cared about him any more. It would be too awful. I don’t think it would be breaking my promise to tell him, do you?’

  ‘No,’ said Grace, ‘I don’t.’

  They had only two weeks; Clarissa would never forget a single hour of them. She swung from joy to wretchedness, laughter to self-reproach, caution to recklessness. She and Giles made love in a number of wildly unsuitable places (the boathouse, the icy woods, her office), fear of discovery giving their pleasure a sweetened intensity; and in some suitable ones as well, a very grand hotel in Exeter, a lyrically charming inn on Dartmoor, lying, plotting, wangling to arrange time and opportunity. May knew of course; she had known, she said, from the first moment she set eyes on the commander as she continued to call him, and Giles had a fellow officer who covered for him, but for the most part they simply took the opportunities as fate offered them; and fate was kind to them, they were never discovered.

  As the days went by, and they knew each other better, they liked immensely what they knew. There were no illusions about love, no question of commitment; the whole thing was about pleasure, pure, uncomplicated, selfish pleasure. And guilt. Clarissa lay in Giles’s arms looking at his face, listening to his voice, fighting, struggling to blank out the other face, the other voice, and that too, that effort, increased in some perverse way her pleasure, forcing concentration on the moment and what it was offering. And it offered a great deal. After the first day, they did not mention Jack, nor Florence; they set them aside, not carelessly, not thoughtlessly, but gently, most carefully indeed, knowing that was the best, the only way that they were safe from harm, both of them, so long as silence was maintained, the secret untold.

  When Giles’s ship sailed out of the harbour, that would be that; the story over, the end written. There would be no promises, no agreements, no arrangements; they need never, Giles said firmly, meet again.

  ‘This has been a feast,’ he said, on their last but one evening, ‘a most sumptuous feast of nectared sweets – Milton, don’t ask – and I shall never forget it.’

  ‘Nor shall I,’ said Clarissa soberly. ‘And I thank you for it from the bottom of my heart.’

  ‘My darling, you’re getting quite poetic.’

  ‘I feel poetic,’ said Clarissa. ‘You have saved me from the most wretched time in my whole life. God knows how I’m going to get through the next fifty years or whatever, or even the next fifty days, but I feel I can now. In spite of the guilt.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Giles, ‘at least I don’t have any guilt.’

  The next morning found him racked with it.

  ‘Why?’ he said, his eyes hollow, his voice hoarse. ‘Why couldn’t she have done it before? Written before? I don’t understand.’

  ‘Doesn’t she give a reason?’ said Clarissa, her own guilt intensified by the news of Florence’s letter (telling Giles she still loved him, begging his forgiveness: ‘My forgiveness?’ he said wildly, pushing his hair back, ‘How can I ever ask for hers?’).

  ‘Now listen, Giles,’ said Clarissa firmly, realizing that here might lie danger, ‘you will not be asking Florence for forgiveness, because she mustn’t know there’s anything to forgive.’

  ‘But you don’t understand,’ he said, ‘she’s so honest, so straight, I couldn’t have this lie between us.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake,’ said Clarissa impatiently, ‘what lie? What does it matter? As long as she doesn’t know. What we’ve had has been lovely, lovely wonderful fun. It’s done us both lots of good, and tomorrow it will just be a gorgeous memory. Two of us have been made much happier. For heaven’s sake don’t make four of us miserable.’

  ‘But you know you felt guilty too,’ said Giles, looking at her reproachfully.

  ‘Of course I did. I do. I feel horribly ashamed as well. But we can’t undo it. And we’ll make it a lot worse if we talk about it. Remember your poster, Giles darling. Careless talk costs lives. There now, I’ve managed a quotation finally. Cap that if you can.’

  ‘All right,’ he said, grinning rather weakly at her, pulling out his cigarette case. “‘A truth that’s told with bad intent beats all the lies you can invent.” Blake.’

  ‘Clever old Blake,’ said Clarissa. ‘That’s much more like it. Now, Giles, are we going to have our last evening together or not?’

  ‘Well,’ said Giles, ‘no turning back now, is there? And I do feel most wonderfully, rapturously happy. She still loves me. And I’m going to get her back.’

  ‘Good,’ said Clarissa, and was interested to find not a shred of jealousy within her.

  Their last evening was immensely memorable.

  Clarissa cried as she watched HMS Vigour steam out of the Dart; and she sent up a small prayer, not only for his safety, but that he would manage to maintain a silence about their time together, whether he got Florence back or not.

  Then she walked soberly down into the town to her small office, sat looking at the threadbare rug on the linoleum which had suddenly acquired rather interesting memories, and knew it was time to get back to her real life and to try once again to cross the great gulf that lay between her and her husband. Who, interestingly, she realized she did still most dearly love.

  ‘David, I know you don’t want to be Joseph but I really am stuck,’ said Grace. ‘Robert Go
ss has broken his leg, and there’s no one else who can do it in the time. It’s only ten days off and you know the part perfectly. Please, David, please don’t be awkward.’

  ‘Why can’t Robert do it with his crutches?’ said Daniel. ‘It’d be good, Joseph could easily have broke his leg on the way to Bethlehem, fallen over behind the donkey or something.’

  ‘Daniel, we can’t start rewriting the Gospels now,’ said Grace. ‘And anyway, poor Robert won’t even be back at school – it was a very bad break.’

  ‘What about Daniel then? He knows the part as well as I do.’

  ‘I’m not doing it,’ said Daniel.

  ‘Daniel is too small, much smaller than Gwen. You can’t have Joseph six inches shorter than Mary.’

  ‘Well, have another Mary then, Gwen’s hopeless anyway, she can’t sing for toffee apples.’

  ‘David, that’s just not true. Gwen has a very nice voice. I know you think I should have given the part to Elspeth –’ David at this point went scarlet – ‘but she had it last year, and it just wouldn’t be fair.’

  ‘Don’t see why not,’ said David.

  ‘David, please! I’ve had enough of this.’ Grace did not often lose her temper, but she was very tired, and she had heard from neither Charles nor Ben for some weeks. The Battle of El Alamein, so decisive a part of the campaign for the Western Front, had been won, and Montgomery’s Eighth Army had pushed forward into French North Africa, but casualties had been considerable; she knew, common sense told her, that she would have heard if either of them had been killed, but in the absence of any real news, worry gnawed at her night and day. ‘Now you’re going to be Joseph and that’s that. There’s the postman, go and get the letters before Charlotte does.’

  ‘I’ll go,’ said Daniel. He came back bearing a letter with the army postmark.

  ‘It’s from my dad,’ he said.

  Grace took it from him, read it quickly, then again more slowly; then she sat down rather suddenly.

  ‘You’ve gone a very funny colour,’ said David. ‘Is Dad all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘he’s all right. He’s coming home, David. Your dad’s coming home.’