Pacific

by Judy Nunn

  She took a tentative sip and winced at the taste.

  ‘Okay, you don’t like it. But then I can’t understand your passion for tea. Now take a proper swig, it’ll do you good.’

  She downed half the glass in one gulp, then gasped as the raw liquor assaulted her system.

  ‘See?’ he grinned. ‘Very effective.’

  Jane wasn’t at all sure whether it was the effect of the alcohol, or the presence of Wolf, but she could feel her panic recede.

  ‘Marty was right. It’s filthy stuff.’

  ‘I bet you haven’t eaten.’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Right. I’ll see what I can rustle up.’

  ‘No.’ She took his hand as he rose from the sofa. She didn’t want to eat, and she didn’t want him to leave her. ‘I couldn’t. Really.’

  ‘Okay. At least let me get you some water. You’re not used to that stuff.’

  He returned from the kitchen with a tumbler of water and she sipped it as they sat in companionable silence, until finally she said, ‘I don’t know what to do, Wolf.’

  ‘About what?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘Everything. Marty was my life. I don’t know what to do without him.’

  She seemed quite calm now, and he remained silent. That’s what Marty would do, he thought. Marty would wait and listen before offering advice. Although Wolf was unsure about what advice he could possibly come up with.

  ‘I don’t know whether to go back to England.’ Her father would expect her to, she thought. She pictured Fareham. And the Royal Victoria Hospital. She had enjoyed working at the Royal Victoria. She pictured her life the way it used to be. And of course there would be Phoebe. They still corresponded regularly and she longed to see Phoebe. It all seemed so safe. And yet so foreign. ‘I don’t know whether I’d fit in there any more,’ she said.

  She was speaking her thoughts aloud, Wolf realised, so he said nothing.

  ‘But without Marty, I’m not sure if I fit in here either.’ She finally turned to him. ‘I don’t know what to do.’

  This time it appeared an answer was called for. A practical answer. ‘Why would you not fit in here without Marty?’ he asked. ‘You worked without him all the time. Marty was away from Vila more often than he was here, you told me that yourself.’

  He was trying to be helpful, she knew, but his response was naive. She was in the New Hebrides as Marty’s wife, the wife of the missionary doctor, she had no official position. She didn’t point that out, though, and responded to his ingenuousness instead.

  ‘Oh yes,’ she smiled, ‘Marty was often away. But only in body, never in spirit.’ It was good to see her smile, he thought. ‘In spirit Marty was always right here with me.’

  It seemed to Wolf that she had answered her own question. ‘And isn’t he still here? Isn’t that what Marty himself would say?’ She looked at him blankly. ‘Wouldn’t he say he’s still here in spirit?’ Her smile had faded, and her face looked drained, but Wolf was sure he was on the right track and he didn’t let up. ‘He is, isn’t he, Jane? He’s still here.’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘Yes, he’s here. He’ll always be here.’ In his innocence Wolf had answered all of the questions she had asked herself. She knew she must stay.

  ‘Then this is where you belong,’ he continued to urge, aware that he’d made some sort of breakthrough. ‘You belong here with Marty and everything you’ve worked for.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I do. You’re quite right.’ She raked a weary hand through her hair. ‘I suppose it’s the practicalities that are frightening me.’ She tried to sound constructive, but she felt so tired. ‘I mean I’ll have to leave the cottage, the Mission Committee will appoint another minister …’

  ‘Oh.’ He hadn’t thought of that. He’d simply wanted to inspire her. The situation was more complicated than he’d assumed. He felt rather stupid.

  ‘… and I can’t seem to picture the future … I can’t seem to …’ Her voice trailed off, she looked utterly exhausted.

  ‘Don’t think about it now,’ he said as he stood. ‘Come on, you need to sleep.’

  ‘Yes.’

  She took his hand and allowed him to lead her to the bedroom, but she halted at the door.

  ‘You’ll stay, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course I will. I’ll be right next door in the spare room. Now you get yourself ready for bed, and I’ll come back in ten minutes to tuck you in.’

  For all of his rakish charm the paternal role suited Wolf, and Jane, childlike, did as she was told. She performed her nightly ritual without thought, washing her face, brushing her hair, cleaning her teeth. She checked on Ronnie, fast asleep in his cot; he rarely woke during the night. And then, in her light cotton nightdress, she slipped between the sheets.

  Surely sleep would come easily; she had never felt so tired. Like dripping water sucked into parched sand, all energy and emotion seemed to have leaked from her body. But it had not leaked from her mind. Her mind was refusing to obey the dictates of exhaustion. It was telling her how empty the bed was, how empty it would always be. In the many months of Marty’s absence from home, the bed had never felt like this, there had always been the knowledge that he would come back. Now the realisation that he would never lie beside her again made the bed the loneliest place on earth. A crisp white desert of cotton.

  She wished she hadn’t washed the linen this afternoon. Why had she done that? Just to keep busy. Just because it was Wednesday and Wednesday was washday. How stupid! She might still have been able to smell him on the sheets, or at least to feel the shape of his body in the crumpled linen. He had left last Thursday, early in the morning, and they had made love the night before. Wednesday night, washday night, Marty always commented on the feel of fresh bed linen. It was only a week ago, she thought. One short week since he’d left. Just one washday to the next, that was all. And now she lay in this sterile, meaningless bed with its meticulous hospital corners of which she was so proud. How stupid of her to have washed the linen. She buried her head in his pillow and smelt the fresh soap powder. It angered her, and anger lent her energy.

  She threw back the covers and crossed to the wardrobe where his clothes hung in a neat row. There was his favourite jacket, the threadbare one with the houndstooth check, a little frayed at the cuffs. He’d refused to relinquish it, despite her regular requests. ‘It’s a good fabric, my love,’ he’d said, ‘and it doesn’t matter if a good fabric is a little shabby.’ She took the ‘good fabric’ in her hands, it wasn’t a good fabric at all, it was simply Marty’s excuse to hang on to the jacket, and she buried her face in it, breathing deeply. She could smell him, her Marty. He was there.

  A tap at the bedroom door. She turned. It opened just a fraction.

  ‘Jane? You okay?’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  He peered in. ‘Hey, you’re not in bed.’

  ‘I was. It’s just that …’

  ‘Come on now. There’s a good girl.’ He crossed and took her hand, leading her to the bed. ‘I’ll tuck you in.’

  But she didn’t want to get into the bed, not that lonely place. Perhaps she’d take Marty’s jacket to bed with her. Perhaps that would help.

  ‘Come on, Jane,’ he sensed her baulking, ‘you have to sleep, you’re exhausted.’

  His hand on her shoulder, he gently tried to coax her to lie down, but suddenly her arms were around his neck, her face reaching up to his and she was kissing him.

  Jane didn’t know how it happened. She didn’t know what made her do it. But she couldn’t stop. She felt such longing. A longing to be held, to be loved, to be safe, to belong.

  Wolf was shocked, but unable to resist. He returned the kiss, his arms around her slender body, feeling the ache of his own love. He remembered Marty’s shock question, not long after they’d met: ‘You’re in love with my wife, aren’t you, Wolf?’ Marty had said it light-heartedly, without accusation, a statement more than a question really, but his expression had been enigmati
c as he’d awaited an answer, and Wolf had felt jarringly confronted. ‘Who isn’t?’ he’d said. But he hadn’t sounded glib, and his admission had been as much to himself as to Marty, he’d realised. Marty had smiled, respecting the honesty of the reply. It was apparent that Wolf had passed some sort of test, and they’d become good friends after that.

  Wolf took her head in his hands, feeling the soft texture of her hair between his fingers and, even as her lips continued to urge him on, he eased her gently away.

  ‘Go to bed, Jane,’ he said quietly, but authoritatively, fighting to disguise the strength of his emotions. And this time she obeyed him.

  Silent, breathless, she climbed between the awful crisp sheets. She knew she should apologise, she could tell he was shocked. She was shocked herself. But never had she felt so lost, so utterly deserted and, as she lay there, still and compliant, she wanted to scream, ‘Don’t leave me! Please don’t leave me!’

  He pulled the coverlet up under her chin. ‘Good night,’ he said and kissed her on the forehead. Then he quietly closed the door behind him.

  In the spare room he lay, elbows crooked, head resting on hands, staring up at the overhead light fitting, studying the glass bowl of its encasement. The shapes of the dead insects captured inside were clearly visible in the lamplight that spilled through from the lounge room. He’d left the door open and the lounge room table lamp on, in case she should call out during the night. Then he would go to her, and he’d comfort her as he’d comfort a child having nightmares.

  Twenty minutes later, when the storm that had been threatening throughout the afternoon broke, he was still staring up at the light fitting. The first crack of thunder was swiftly followed by rain, a deluge smashing relentlessly upon the tin roof. Angry wind buffeted the cottage until it rattled, and jagged streaks of lightning flashed through its windows.

  The storm was not of cyclonic proportions. The solid little house would withstand its force, and it would vanish as abruptly as it had appeared. But its anger was enough to provide a welcome distraction for Wolf as he stared sleeplessly up at the ceiling.

  Then, in a flash of lightning that illuminated the room, he saw her standing there, silhouetted in the open door, a fragile figure in her light cotton nightdress. He rose and went to her.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  She was sleeping soundly when he awoke early the next morning, her breathing deep and rhythmic, fanning his shoulder. Twice during the night she’d slipped quietly from the room, and he hadn’t expected her to return. But both times she had, and wordlessly she’d snuggled against him, assuming he was asleep. She’d been checking on the child, he realised. He had presumed she would go back to her own bed and that, perhaps, in the morning she might even pretend it had never happened.

  If that had been her intention, Wolf would have played along. He would behave however Jane wished him to behave. But now as he watched her, fair hair strewn carelessly across the pillow, one lithe tanned arm draped possessively over his chest, he hardly dared move. He didn’t want to lose the moment. He didn’t feel guilty. He couldn’t. He didn’t think of Marty. He didn’t feel disloyal. He could think of nothing but the love he felt for this woman beside him, whose breath caressed his skin.

  She stirred, and her arm trailed from his chest as she rolled away, turning in her sleep. Her breathing was shallower now. She would wake soon.

  The moment broken, Wolf wondered what to do. It might be easier for her if she awoke on her own. He’d get breakfast, he decided. Well, at least toast and coffee. No, tea, he reminded himself. Tea. And then he’d figure where to go from there. He rose very gently, careful not to disturb her, then he pulled on his trousers and silently left.

  In her half sleep, Jane sensed movement in the bed. Marty? She’d been dreaming. Beautiful dreams, of Phoebe and her childhood. She would tell Marty about her dreams, she thought, as she felt herself drifting off once more, she wasn’t ready to waken yet. She didn’t know how much later it was when she rolled onto her back and the fog of sleep lifted. Ten or fifteen minutes perhaps, and the dreams were still in her mind. She opened her eyes and blinked up at the ceiling. But it wasn’t her ceiling, and it wasn’t her bed. And she realised that the movement beside her had not been Marty.

  Wolf! She was instantly awake. She sat bolt upright. He’d gone, and the dull, numbing knowledge of Marty’s death returned. The empty nothingness of her life was still there. But it had disappeared last night. How could that be?

  She knew she should feel guilty, traitorous. She had betrayed Marty. It had been the storm, she’d told herself. The storm had frightened her. But in the clinical light of early morning, reason suggested otherwise. She’d experienced cyclones of alarming ferocity during the monsoon season, so why had a quick tropical storm driven her to his bed? Surely she had known what she was doing when she came into the spare room. Hadn’t she? No, she couldn’t believe that. She’d needed to be held, comforted in her intolerable isolation. But it had been more than that, and she knew it.

  She lay back on the bed. She’d wanted him to make love to her, she’d wanted to lose herself. And she had. In a way she’d never thought possible. Her restless cravings, her wild imaginings of the raptures Phoebe had described, all had been answered last night. She’d been transported to a world of physical sensation where nothing had mattered, where her mind had been blank to all but the delirium of her body’s responses.

  She’d felt no shame after they’d made love. She’d been too distracted, too overwhelmed to feel shame. She’d dozed off, and when she’d awoken she’d returned to her own room. She’d checked on Ronnie, and it was only when she’d climbed between the crisp, white sheets that everything had felt so terribly wrong. It was wrong to be lying in this bed with the smell of Wolf Baker on her body. She could get up and wash herself, she thought. She could scrub herself clean and pretend it had never happened. But she didn’t want to do that. And she couldn’t stay in this lonely place. She’d returned to the spare room and snuggled up beside him. And later, when she’d again gone in to check on Ronnie, it hadn’t even occurred to her to stay.

  As she lay there, she could still feel his warmth in the crumpled sheets. But he’d gone. He had the decency to be ashamed. She’d shocked him with her wantonness, and she couldn’t blame him. She pulled her nightdress up under her armpits and ran her fingers down over her breasts, her belly, to her thighs, aware of new sensations. Her familiar body, to which she’d previously paid scant attention, now seemed foreign and exciting, as if newly discovered. She remembered his hands on her, gently exploring, charting fresh territory, opening fresh horizons. God forbid, she wanted him to make love to her again.

  She sat up, forcing her mind back to the real world, wondering why Ronnie wasn’t yelling out to her; he normally woke her around now. She pulled her nightdress down over her knees, refusing to think about the shame she knew she should be feeling, and was about to get out of bed when the door opened.

  ‘Breakfast.’ Wolf was there with a tray. ‘Tea, and toast with marmalade.’ He put the tray on the bedside table, toppling the lamp that sat there, but he rescued it in time and sat it on the floor. ‘I warmed the pot just like you always do,’ he said with his irresistible grin. ‘Don’t get up,’ he added, although she’d made no move to do so; she was simply sitting there staring at him. ‘There’s no need. Ronnie’s had his breakfast, and made one helluva mess, I can tell you, and he’s back in his playpen now.’ Wolf, unsure of how she might wish him to behave, was covering extraordinarily well.

  ‘Good heavens, look at you!’ she said finally, her eyes fixed upon his bare torso. She was staring at the mottled purples and blues tinged with yellow that formed a rainbow across his chest. She hadn’t registered the bruising as they’d made love in the half light.

  She jumped out of the bed. ‘Stand up straight, Wolf,’ she said as he bent over the tea tray, setting out the cups, ‘let me look at that.’

  The nurse had taken over, and he did as he was told,
watching her as she placed her hands on his ribcage.

  ‘Breathe in,’ she ordered, and he did, feeling her trace the outlines of his ribs. ‘Does it hurt when you breathe?’ she asked.

  ‘Not much.’ The touch of her fingers on his skin was exquisite.

  ‘There could be a hairline fracture. I think I should strap your ribs.’

  ‘No need, Jane,’ he smiled, ‘really.’

  ‘I’ll get some ointment for the bruising then.’

  ‘No, don’t,’ he stopped her as she turned to leave, ‘have your tea instead.’ She hesitated. ‘It looks a lot worse than it is,’ he insisted. ‘Honest. It doesn’t hurt nearly as much as it did a couple of days ago.’

  ‘I bet it hurt last night,’ she said.

  It was the first reference to their lovemaking. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not at all.’

  It had. It had hurt quite a bit, but he’d used the discomfort. It had kept him in control, each stab of pain hauling him back when he’d threatened to lose himself in her. He’d been free to relish every quiver of her pleasure, to savour her final abandonment, so much so that, as he’d taken the precaution to withdraw safely, he’d barely been aware of his own release.

  He was lying, she knew. It had hurt. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  They were both aware that her words were all-encompassing. She was sorry for far more than his bruised chest.

  ‘I’m not,’ he said, and he kissed her.

  As their bodies melded, he realised, thankfully, that there were to be no pretences.

  Their lovemaking was gentle to start with, Jane wary of his bruised ribs but at the same time revelling in her lack of inhibition, exploring his body as he explored hers. But once again she was soon lost. Her own pain, the emotional rawness that consumed her, was obliterated in a sea of sensuality.

  Wolf, too, lost himself. Carried along with the tide of her pleasure, oblivious to all but the feel of her, he no longer fought to keep himself in check. At the last minute, however, he was mindful enough to once again withdraw. Wolf Baker was a very experienced lover, and there must be no mistakes.