The Married Girls

by Diney Costeloe

  Wondering who on earth would be ringing him at the ministry, Felix said, ‘Wing Commander Bellinger!’

  He was answered by a woman’s voice, one he didn’t recognise. ‘Felix? Is that you?’

  ‘Felix Bellinger speaking.’

  ‘Felix, this is Avril Swanson, the vicar’s wife in Wynsdown.’

  ‘Mrs Swanson?’

  ‘I’m so sorry to phone you at the Air Ministry, but we didn’t know how else to get hold of you. It’s bad news, I’m afraid. Your father’s had a stroke, on Saturday afternoon, and is in hospital in Bristol. Your mother’s with him, of course, and she asked us to contact you and let you know.’

  ‘Saturday afternoon.’ Felix’s mouth went dry. ‘How,’ he cleared his throat, ‘how bad is he?’

  ‘I’m afraid he hasn’t regained consciousness since, and to be honest with you, it doesn’t sound very good. We think you should come as soon as you can.’

  ‘I see.’ Felix felt winded, as if he’d been punched in the solar plexus. His father, an ever-present, indestructible part of his life, was dangerously ill. He drew a deep breath and said, ‘Thank you for letting me know. Please tell my mother I’ll get there as soon as I can. Give her my love and say we’re on our way.’

  ‘Of course,’ Avril said. ‘And when you get here, if there’s anything we can do...’

  ‘Thank you.’

  The pips went and the call was over.

  Felix replaced the receiver and sat back in his chair. He must go at once, today. As he pushed his chair back and got to his feet, there was a quiet knock on the door and Miss Dixon came in.

  ‘Just to remind you, sir, that you’re due in the group captain’s office in ten minutes.’

  ‘What did you say?’ Felix looked at her blankly.

  ‘Just reminding you, sir, about your meeting with Group Captain Hague.’ As she took in his distracted air and pallor, she looked at him with concern. ‘Is everything all right, sir?’

  ‘Yes... no. While I’m with the group captain, will you please consult Bradshaw and find me the times of trains from Paddington to Bristol for the rest of the day.’ And with that, he strode out of the room and headed for Group Captain Hague’s office.

  The meeting did not go well. With Avril Swanson’s words, ‘We think you should come as soon as you can,’ echoing in his ears, he pre-empted whatever it was that Hague had been going to discuss with him and asked for immediate compassionate leave. His request was not well received, but Felix pressed his case and was finally granted leave for the rest of the week, starting at once. He returned to his office and having briefed Miss Dixon on what was happening, picked up the list of train times she had prepared for him and went home.

  11

  That Monday morning, Daphne lay in bed until she heard the door of the flat close, then she got up and peeped out of the window to watch Felix striding off down the street. She was filled with relief that he’d gone. It was his first day back to the Air Ministry after their week’s honeymoon in Paris; the first time she’d been alone since they were married.

  When they’d left the Savoy they’d taken a taxi back to the flat in Oakley Street where Felix insisted on carrying Daphne over the threshold, and without putting her down, he carried her through to the bedroom. The moment that they’d both anticipated, Felix with desire, Daphne with dread, had arrived.

  Felix set her down gently and as she stood still and silent looking at him, reached to remove the combs from her hair, allowing it to tumble free about her shoulders. Murmuring endearments, he began, slowly, to undress her, stroking her neck and shoulders as he unzipped her dress, letting it slip to the floor. She stood unresisting as he removed her bra, allowing her breasts to fall free.

  ‘You are so beautiful,’ he breathed as he bent to kiss first one then the other. Gently he removed the rest of her underwear until she stood, naked, her pale skin golden in a shaft of afternoon sunshine. Then he gathered her up in his arms and carried her to the bed. Quickly he stripped off his own clothes, tossing them aside, and slipped onto the bed beside her. He’d waited so long for this moment, dreaming of how her skin would feel against his own, how her lips would open to him, how her body would respond, how their passion would build, but now that he was holding her, kissing her, Daphne’s body was stiff and tense.

  Felix felt her tension and thought he understood. She’s frightened, he thought. It’s her first time and I’m rushing her.

  ‘It’s all right, darling,’ he whispered into her hair. ‘It’s all right, just try and relax.’ And with a great effort, he tried to restrain himself.

  Daphne was frightened, frightened that Felix would be able to tell that she wasn’t a virgin. She tried to respond to his lovemaking, returning his kisses and allowing his hands to rove all over her body, but all she wanted was to get it over with. She remembered little of her previous encounter with the subaltern, except that it had hurt and it seemed to be an altogether messy business. She’d pretended to enjoy it, but he was rough in his excitement and when he’d finished her whole body had felt bruised and she was extremely sore between her legs. He was an officer, she’d thought him a gentleman but when he returned to his unit the next day, her letters went unanswered and she never heard from him again. He’d left her aching, miserable and pregnant.

  Now it was all happening again. Even though Felix was a little more gentle, there was an urgency about his lovemaking that made her recoil. She kissed him as she had all through their courtship and tried to return his caresses, but when, thoroughly aroused, he tried to enter her, it was all she could do not to push him away.

  ‘It’s all right, my darling,’ Felix whispered as he drew away from her. Raising himself on one elbow, he looked down into her face, gently rubbing himself against her, smoothing her silky skin with his own. ‘Don’t be afraid, sweetheart, I won’t hurt you.’ He bent his head and kissed her neck, flicked his tongue into her ear and then made a trail of butterfly kisses down to her breasts, teasing her nipples with the tip of his tongue.

  Daphne felt a faint, answering arousal, but all she could think was, For God’s sake, Felix, get on with it. Get it over.

  This time, when he tried to enter her, Felix found no resistance at all. She lay almost quiescent in his arms as his need for her built and when he finally exploded, he collapsed against her, for the moment satisfied. After a minute she pushed at him.

  ‘Get off, Felix. You’re too heavy, I can’t breathe!’

  Felix slid off her but kept his arm around her, nestling against the warm curves of her body.

  ‘You’re beautiful, Daphne,’ he whispered. ‘My beautiful wife. Don’t worry, sweetheart, it’ll be even better next time. We’ll take it more slowly. We’ve got all night! Every night!’ At this thought Felix felt himself start to harden and he began caressing her breasts again.

  Next time? thought Daphne. All night? ‘Felix,’ she said with a sigh, ‘dearest, it was wonderful, but I must sleep, we’ve got a long day ahead of us tomorrow.’ She took his hand to remove it from her breast, but as she did so he grasped it in his and carried it downward to press against his throbbing erection.

  ‘No,’ she wanted to scream. ‘No, not again, not yet!’ But he was inside her again, gripping her behind with both hands as he raised her up against him, pushing deeper. His mouth found hers, his kisses deep, his tongue probing and she almost gagged.

  When he finally came, she couldn’t wait to push herself free of him, to curl up so there could be no further invasion of her body.

  They had lain side by side, bodies not touching but each aware of the other. Daphne afraid he might reach for her again and Felix afraid to do so. It was not an auspicious start to their married life.

  Next morning, they took a taxi to Victoria and caught the Golden Arrow to Paris. Neither of them mentioned the night before and there was an awkwardness between them that had not been there previously. As they crossed the Channel on the ferry, Felix went up on deck, keen to be out in the fresh air. Dap
hne stayed in the passengers’ lounge, happy to be alone with her thoughts. She had been surprised at her own reluctance in the bedroom. She found Felix attractive enough, but when it came to the act of consummation, she had shied away from the intimacy. The only good thing about their wedding night had been that Felix hadn’t noticed that she wasn’t the virgin she’d pretended. She knew she was going to have to get used to the sex, to make more effort to respond to his lovemaking, but the thought of him on top of her again, hot and sweating, made her shudder. On the other hand, she told herself, it was the price she was going to have to pay for the security of his name, the comfort of his home and freedom from financial worries. She had set out to catch him, and having done so, she couldn’t risk losing him by being cold and unresponsive.

  Out on deck, Felix stood looking over the ship’s rail. The crossing was calm and as he watched the French coast emerge from a bank of low cloud, he, too, was thinking about his wedding night. He couldn’t believe that Daphne had had no knowledge of what happened in the marital bed. True, she’d never been with a man before, but surely she must have realised what it entailed. Was she frigid, or was she just shy, needing to be wooed and gentled into enjoying sex as much as he did?

  I must be patient, he told himself. I must teach her to find pleasure in what I’m doing... what we’re doing... together.

  When they landed at Calais each had made a new resolution, and as the train steamed towards Paris, though still aware of the gap that had opened up between them, they began to talk to each other, the talk of acquaintances as they watched the French countryside rush by, but at least some conversation, and by the time they arrived at the Gare du Nord, communication between them had been somewhat restored.

  The days in Paris passed well enough, but after days of exploring the city, walking hand in hand along the Seine, climbing the Eiffel Tower, visiting the Louvre and taking a taxi out to Versailles, when they returned to their hotel Felix expected to take Daphne to bed and explore the magic of her body with as much delight as they’d explored the magic of the city.

  Daphne submitted, she could do little else, but though on occasion she felt an answering arousal, most of the time she simply waited for him to finish and then rolled over and went to sleep.

  Felix never expressed his disappointment, simply kept trying all the ways he knew to teach her to respond. She’s not used to this, he kept telling himself. I must give her time. Her occasional response encouraged him to keep trying.

  On the last morning in Paris Felix said, ‘Let’s go out for breakfast, Daphne. We’ll be on the train all afternoon and it’ll be a great way to end our time here.’

  They’d found a small café and had been served croissants, warm and buttery, with a basket of fruit and bowls of hot coffee.

  This is more like it, Daphne thought as they sat at a table in the window and watched the people going about their Sunday-morning business. This is how it’ll be, married to Felix. And she put her distaste for the physical side of her marriage out of her mind as she spread jam onto her croissant.

  ‘It’s been a lovely week, hasn’t it, Felix?’ she said, smiling across the table at him. ‘It’ll be hard to go back to dreary old London, won’t it?’

  As always, Felix responded to the warmth of her smile, still loving her, still wanting her, still prepared to wait. It had been a lovely week and reaching for her hand, he said so. She returned his grasp and they smiled into each other’s eyes.

  Being married will take some getting used to, Felix thought, but it’s surely worth the effort.

  Back in London they had fallen into bed, exhausted from their journey home, but in the morning Daphne was awakened by Felix’s lips on her neck and his hands caressing her as he began, gently, to make love to her. It wasn’t too bad this time, Daphne thought as she felt a short spasm of pleasure between her legs, perhaps she would get used to it and even begin to enjoy it in time.

  Now that she was sure he’d left, she went into the bathroom and removed her diaphragm, douching with soap and water just to make sure. Daphne had no intention of falling pregnant again. She and Felix had not discussed starting a family, but she had already decided that she didn’t want children and didn’t mean to have any.

  Today, she intended to go to Hackney to see her family; to tell them, at last, that she was married. She hadn’t mentioned the visit to Felix; he might have suggested that he should come too, but it was something she wanted to do on her own. She wanted to impress them with her new status: well-to-do married woman. She looked through her new wardrobe, clothes bought with the generous allowance Felix was giving her, and chose a pale lilac suit. The jacket’s wide shoulders and fitted waist emphasised her slender figure, three-quarter sleeves displaying the elegance of her arms. The skirt fell to below her knees, and as she stood before the bedroom mirror and considered her reflection, she twirled on her heel, enjoying the graceful movement of the skirt about her legs. She applied a little make-up and then smiled at herself in the mirror as she perched a small pillbox hat on the smooth sweep of her hair. She looked well dressed, sophisticated, and the knowledge that she would turn heads when she stepped out into the street gave her the confidence she needed for a visit to her family. One final glance in the mirror and she picked up her gloves and went out to hail a taxi.

  It was the first time she had actually flagged down a cab on her own, but when she stepped into it she said in a casual voice that hid her nervousness, ‘Barrack Street, Hackney, please, cabby.’

  If the taxi driver was surprised at her destination he made no comment, simply let in the clutch and set off. Daphne looked out of the window, and as she was driven through the once familiar streets of the East End, it was if she were seeing it all for the first time. She stared at the dirty, grey and still-battered buildings, the narrow streets with their shops and terrace houses. Open bomb sites cleared of rubble, but sprouting weeds, willowherb and self-seeded buddleia, had become playgrounds for the London children; once-handsome blocks of flats now dark with grime loomed above the crowded streets, and defiant spires of blitzed churches stood tall amid the slowly recovering city. Suddenly Daphne realised with new understanding just how far she had come from the girl she had been before the war. Now she had left all this behind her; she didn’t belong to these streets any more. She would never again know the poverty that had surrounded and regulated her childhood. She very nearly leaned forward to tap on the glass and tell the driver that she’d changed her mind, but something held her back and she allowed him to drive her to the end of the street where she’d been brought up.

  ‘This will do, cabby,’ she called and he pulled in to the side of the road. She got out and paid the fare, and as he drove away, she stood and watched him go, wondering if she should have asked him to wait for her.

  Too late now, she thought, and resolutely turned her steps towards the garage at the end of the street.

  She paused as she reached the end of the alley and looked up at the familiar sign, ‘Higgins Garage. Motor Repairs’, that still swung above the entrance to the yard.

  That needs repainting, Daphne thought. The whole place looks pretty run-down.

  She glanced into the yard and saw a car jacked up and the overalled legs of someone lying on his back underneath it. She considered going in, hoping to see her father before going indoors to face her mother, but, afraid that her beautiful lilac outfit might get dirty, she turned away and walked up the alley to the house. The back door stood open and without knocking, Daphne pushed it wider and stepped inside. Her mother, Ethel, stood at the kitchen stove, looking to Daphne as she always had done, her brown skirt, cream blouse and yellow cardigan covered with her old flowered overall, her greying hair scraped back off her face and tied in a scarf, turban style. When she heard someone at the door she swung round and when she saw who it was, her jaw dropped.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘look what the cat’s brought in.’

  ‘Hallo, Mum,’ Daphne said. She hadn’t been expecting a warm
welcome, but the ice-cold expression in her mother’s faded blue eyes chilled her. ‘Thought I’d come and see how you was all doing.’

  ‘How kind of you!’ replied Ethel, and turning back to the pot on the stove she said nothing more, leaving Daphne standing awkwardly in the doorway.

  At that moment she heard footsteps running along the alley and turned to see her daughter, Janet, now almost eleven, coming home from school for her dinner. She stopped abruptly when she saw Daphne on the doorstep. She hadn’t seen her for nearly four years, and the last time she had, Daphne had been in uniform. Seeing her now in an elegant lilac suit, it took a moment for her to recognise who it was.

  ‘Hallo, Janet,’ Daphne said, also surprised. She knew her daughter must have been growing steadily since she had last seen her, but somehow she’d expected her to be the same, shy child she’d been four years ago, not the confident eleven-year-old she saw now.

  Janet looked at her for a moment and then turning on her heel, dashed back the way she’d come, shouting as she did so, ‘Dad! Dad! Come quick. That Daphne’s come home.’

  ‘That Daphne!’ Daphne could hear her mother’s voice in those words. It must have been how she’d been referring to her and the child had picked it up. She stood, irresolute, in the doorway. Perhaps she should leave, now, before things got worse. Her mother was still ignoring her, stirring the pot on the stove, humming to herself as if Daphne weren’t there.

  Daphne heard the tuneless hum. Mum was humming! Mum didn’t hum or sing. Grumbling was what Mum did, all the time... about everything.

  ‘Mum...’ Daphne tried again; no answer and the humming continued.

  Janet reappeared again at the run, closely followed by her father.

  ‘See, Dad,’ Janet was shouting. ‘Told you, didn’t I?’ The girl pushed past Daphne into the kitchen and flopping down on a stool by the table said, ‘What’s for dinner, Mum?’

  The humming stopped and Ethel turned round to answer Janet’s question. ‘Hotpot,’ she said. ‘Go and wash your hands.’