The Winter Folly

by Taylor, Lulu

  Robert came up and stood close to her, his shoulder almost brushing her as he leaned forward to examine the presents. ‘Quite a haul. A respectable amount to start married life with.’ He tilted his head so that he was looking up at her from one pale blue eye. ‘Don’t you think?’

  She nodded. His nearness made her uncomfortable. ‘They’re very nice,’ she said politely, although she had no feelings for the pile of glittering glass, silver and china.

  ‘Look at this.’ Robert lifted up a large blue and white china vase, something in the style of Chinese porcelain but with department-store sturdiness. ‘Quite charming.’ He held it out to her. She let the train fall from her arm and took the vase. It was heavier than it looked and she felt her arms sag under its weight.

  ‘Here, give it back.’ Robert reached out, his hands closing over hers. He smiled at her. ‘I should have known a little thing like you wouldn’t be able to manage it.’

  She stared back at him, aware of his hot hands on top of hers, and then released her grip. The vase slid awkwardly away. Robert scrabbled for it but it resisted his clammy fingers and fell to the floor with a heavy thump. They both stared at it as it rolled back and forth on the carpet, like a fat baby unable to turn over because of its round belly. It was unbroken, its solidity too much of a match for the floor.

  ‘No harm done,’ Robert said with obvious relief. He bent down to pick it up and when he rose again, his blue eyes were reddened with the effort. He put it back on the sideboard.

  Perhaps his trousers are too tight, Alexandra thought. His whole suit seemed to be straining a little as though it had been fitted some years before when his frame was altogether slimmer.

  Robert was breathing heavily from his exertion, the air whistling through his nostrils. She noticed tiny dark hairs shuddering within the caverns. He was pushing his face closer to hers, and his expression was changing from politeness to a kind of wolfish hunger. ‘You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?’ he said, his voice suddenly low. ‘You’re rather wasted on Laurence. He’s never been a ladies’ man, never had the eye. Never been able to read those little flirtatious games you like to play.’ His rubicund face was approaching, his eyes like those blue and yellow swirly marbles in the jar in her room. ‘But I can. You’re being very naughty, aren’t you? You know exactly what you’re doing.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ she said, confused.

  He was breathing a little faster. ‘I like it, and you know it. I know about women. All you want is to excite a man and make him desire you. You’re damn well succeeding.’ He thrust his face at her and reached out with his large red hands, pawing at her chest.

  Horrified and repulsed, she only knew she had to get out. She whirled around, heading for the dining room door. There was a fearful rent and she felt herself jerk back.

  ‘Christ!’ exclaimed Robert. She turned to see he was staring down at the floor, where his black shoes were standing firmly on a remnant of the train. He had torn it clean off. She gasped, picked up her skirts and ran out of the room, leaving him there with the puddle of white silk at his feet.

  It had been almost a relief to leave after that. She’d run trembling to her room and slammed the door, leaning against it and biting her lip hard not to cry.

  He’s a beast, a beast! she thought. The idea that she wanted to excite him, to make him pant and turn red like a fool, was ridiculous and hurtful. Was it because she was married now? Was that why men might think she was teasing them? It was baffling and horrible. She looked around. The sight of her old books and pictures, and the suitcases standing by the door, the whole place looking empty already, was almost too painful.

  I mustn’t tell Laurence, she thought. I know that would be very wrong. He might believe Robert, he might think I did want to . . . to . . . She couldn’t quite imagine what anyone might think she wanted to do with Robert. The idea of his face touching hers made her shudder. Pushing it out of her mind, she concentrated on taking off the spoiled dress, a difficult task without help, and putting on her going-away costume: a blue wool dress and matching coat edged in white, with a small white hat and white pointed shoes. When she’d come down, cold and calm, there’d been general amusement.

  ‘She can’t wait, old man!’ cried a male voice from the back, amid the laughing. ‘You’d better get on your way.’

  She’d stood there, awkward in her smart, grown-up clothes, and wondered why they were laughing. Then Laurence came up to her and twenty minutes later she was pressing her lips to her father’s cold cheek and then Aunt Felicity’s powdery soft one, and they were saying goodbye. She glimpsed Robert Sykes in the crowd that came to wave them off with a cheer, and looked away with a concealed shiver. Then the car roared away from the house and she was alone with her husband at last.

  ‘Mr and Mrs Sykes? Yes, I have the booking here.’ The lady, her hair set in lank curls that looked at least a fortnight old, peered through her glasses at the register. ‘That’s right. Sea view. Room eight. Arthur will show you up.’ Then she shrieked loudly, ‘Arthur! Arthur! Come and carry some luggage.’ Her voice returned to its normal tone as she said with a smile, ‘Honeymooners, are you?’

  Alexandra looked about. This was nothing more than a cheap seaside boarding house, the kind with pretensions to gentility, with gaudy old master reproductions on the walls, crocheted covers on every surface and carpets that were tacky underfoot. Why had Laurence brought her here? Couldn’t he think of anything better than this?

  Arthur appeared, a tubby man wearing his braces over his shirt, and took the two larger cases while Laurence brought the smaller bags, and they followed him up the staircase and along a hall to room eight.

  When they were left alone in their bedroom, Alexandra noticed that there were two beds separated by a slim night table with a pink china lamp on it. She stared at them. What did this mean? Were they going to be sleeping apart? A shimmer of relief went through her and she let out a long, slow breath. She’d been holding it, she realised, as they’d come through the door.

  Into the chamber, she thought, obscurely wondering if she were quoting something. A bridal chamber. And then she wanted to laugh. This was her bridal chamber! A greasy-walled, shabby little room with a view of a patch of shingle and an inky smear of sea. Laurence was standing by the window staring out at it. As her gaze landed on him, he took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one, turning to face her as he exhaled a cloud of grey smoke.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  It was the first thing he’d said to her for a long time. ‘I . . . yes . . . Yes, I am.’ She realised that she’d barely eaten all day. Her breakfast had been lost down the lavatory and she hadn’t had the stomach for asparagus rolls.

  ‘So am I,’ Laurence replied. He took a small strand of tobacco off his tongue and then smiled at her. ‘I don’t think they do dinner here. Let’s go and see what we can find.’

  They went out into the already darkening evening and found a small restaurant where they ate fish and chips on china plates as they talked politely about the day, and then a dry, dusty-tasting strawberry meringue. After they’d both had a cup of coffee, they walked very slowly back along the road towards their boarding house. Laurence reached out and took her hand, putting it over his arm and holding it in his. His mood seemed to have turned tender.

  ‘You looked very pretty today,’ he said in a confiding tone, his gaze sliding over to her.

  ‘Did I?’ She was surprised. It hadn’t occurred to her to wonder if he had responded to her in that way. She had just hoped that she looked right, rather than pretty.

  ‘The other men were jealous, I could see that.’ He sounded pleased about it.

  She remembered Robert Sykes’ face pressed up close to hers, the sight of the inside of his nostrils, and felt a wave of nausea. She clutched Laurence’s arm tighter and looked up at him. He was suddenly handsome to her, with his fair hair carefully combed and his pale face. He seemed clean and neat and honourable, not like his brother in the le
ast. She felt safe with him and a rush of affection for him coursed through her.

  My husband, she thought, still wonderingly. This is my husband. She smiled back up at him. ‘I’m glad I made you proud,’ she replied.

  ‘You did. Very.’ He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. His mouth was cool from the night breeze. ‘And here we are.’

  She wanted, in this moment of sudden intimacy, to ask him why he had chosen this strange guest house but before she could frame the question, they were walking up the steps and Laurence was saying, ‘Let’s hope Mrs Addington isn’t on the desk,’ as he pushed open the front door.

  But there she was, watching them as they came in. ‘Good evening, Mr Sykes!’ she trilled. ‘If you and your wife would like a drink, the bar is open to guests.’ She nodded to an open door leading off the hallway and Alexandra turned to see a plushly carpeted room set up with a polished counter and easy chairs around small wooden tables. It was empty except for a man holding a newspaper, peering out from around it to see who was in the hall. When his gaze caught hers, he quickly disappeared behind his paper.

  ‘No, thank you,’ Laurence said. ‘I think we’ll go straight up. It’s been a busy day.’

  ‘Indeed,’ the landlady said with a sugary smile. ‘And a very special one, too. Congratulations on behalf of us all, I’m sure.’ She watched with a knowing smile as they walked up the stairs.

  Alexandra stared at herself in the mirror. She’d come along the hall to the shared bathroom, with her night things over one arm. The idea of changing in front of Laurence was horrifying and she had no wish to see him begin to take off all the things that civilised him and made him a gentleman – his jacket, waistcoat, shirt and cufflinks, his belt and trousers and then . . . what would he reveal underneath? She felt appalled at the idea that he would humble himself by undressing in front of her. She wasn’t sure if he’d be vulnerable beneath, a kind of helpless child, or reveal an animal maleness, like a bull or a stallion with its shameless, swinging organs – a strong and strident difference that she would have to contend with as best she could. It didn’t seem right, not at all.

  Her face was pale and her eyes frightened. She combed out her dark hair so that it fell long over her shoulders. She stared at her high-necked nightdress and, after a moment, undid two of the buttons at the top. Then she quickly did them up again.

  ‘I don’t know what to do,’ she said to herself. Her cheeks looked hollow with fear. What was she doing here, in this strange place with this strange man? And what was about to happen?

  There was no help for it. She couldn’t stay here forever. Other guests might be waiting. And besides, it would look odd if she were too long. She picked up the pile of her clothes and shoes, her washbag and hairbrush and made her way back along the hall. To her relief, Laurence had already changed into his pyjamas and cleaned his teeth in the room’s washbasin. Now he was in one of the beds, a newspaper resting on the blanket.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, smiling as she came in. ‘I took this one, is that all right?’

  ‘Of course.’ She turned back the covers of her bed and slipped between them. They were chilly and she rubbed her feet to warm them up, as she did at home.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Laurence was watching her.

  ‘Yes, thank you.’ It was disconcerting. Her bedroom had always been a private place before now. The only person who had ever come in was her mother. Alexandra could still remember her mother’s weight as she sat on the bed, one hand stroking Alexandra’s hair, the other holding her hand as they talked about the events of the day. Then, a gentle kiss, the footsteps, the pause in the doorway as she turned to smile, and the sudden change from a person to a silhouette as the light went out. Since the accident, no one had come to turn out the light – she had to go to the switch herself and scamper back over the cold floor to her bed. There were no bedtime kisses and no gentle words. Until now, perhaps.

  She lay down and closed her eyes. Events of the day scudded through her head and before she knew it, she began to sink into sleep. A click made her eyes open wide to blackness; Laurence had turned off the lamp. Her heart began to pound beneath her nightgown, thudding against her chest.

  Nothing happened for a while and then she heard him get quietly out of his bed and walk around to hers.

  ‘Alexandra?’

  She said nothing but squeezed her eyes shut, lying as still as she could.

  ‘Are you awake?’

  Honesty had been drummed into her since girlhood. ‘Yes.’

  ‘May I . . . I’d like to . . . join you.’ His voice was low, almost pleading.

  ‘Of course.’ She did nothing to help him, though, lying stock still, one fist clenched with tension. She felt the blanket and sheet lift, and cold air waft in. He climbed in behind her, squeezing onto the narrow mattress, pressing his body to hers.

  She was holding her breath, she realised, and she released it slowly, pulling in another as quietly as she could. Laurence wrapped one arm around her, tucking his legs up under hers. He began to nuzzle at her neck. She stayed utterly still, her eyes open wide against the darkness, wondering what she was supposed to do.

  He was rubbing himself against her body, she realised, and one hand was stroking her behind, following the curve of her buttocks down and then up again, softly at first and then with more force. Then he began to move his hips against her. Something hard prodded her in the buttocks as his stroking grew rougher, and the heavy breathing in her ear where he was pressing his face into her neck louder.

  ‘Help me, can’t you?’ he muttered.

  ‘What shall I do?’

  ‘Pull up your nightdress.’

  She hesitated. So this was it. That thing they had talked about was going to happen to her now. It was hard to imagine that it might possibly be heaven, but there was still time, she supposed, for the bliss to begin. If only she weren’t so frightened. Reaching down, she slipped her nightgown up as best she could and lay still again, feeling exposed. Now Laurence’s hand was on her bare bottom and he was stroking and pinching her there.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he murmured in her ear between his panting breaths. ‘Is this nice?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said miserably, and he responded by pinching her a little harder and saying, ‘Good, good.’

  Now his hand moved suddenly around her hip and onto her belly. She gasped but managed to stifle it. No one had touched her here since the doctor had pressed her to check for appendicitis when she was twelve. Aunt Felicity had given her hot-water bottles to press against herself when her period pains came, but had never looked. And now this man’s hand was on her – not just any man, her husband – and to her horror, it was heading downwards, towards the private place between her legs where no one but she had ever been.

  Long thin fingers that felt like knobbly sticks probed her. She bit her teeth down into her lip and concentrated on letting no sounds escape her, though she wanted to say Stop! Don’t do that! and push him away. But the hard scrabbling on her tender flesh went on, as though he was searching for something underneath her. She realised that the prodding in her buttocks was getting more pronounced and then a moment later, after Laurence had fumbled with his pyjama bottoms, she knew with a hot, appalled certainty what was poking at her.

  What am I supposed to do? she wondered, agonised. She had no idea. She had never imagined that this might happen with her facing away from her husband. Now he was sliding his hand between her thighs and trying to press them apart. It felt vaguely ludicrous.

  ‘Can’t you help a bit more?’ he panted in her ear, and she obediently raised her leg. The hot-tipped prodding thing was at her buttocks, prying between them. She was in a curdle of mortification and confusion, afraid of whatever it was that was supposed to happen next.

  ‘Turn around,’ he said.

  She wriggled round, hampered by the nightdress twirled around her waist, until she was on her back.

  ‘Move your legs apart and I’ll go between them.’
r />   ‘All right,’ she said in a small, fearful voice. She was grateful for the cloak of darkness as she let her legs fall open, revealing the soft heart between them. She couldn’t see him at all but she could smell Pears soap and a musty oil scent that might be his hair cream, and she could feel the warmth of his body, though his skin was still cool to touch. He was kneeling between her thighs now and as she glanced down, she saw something long and thin rearing out from his groin, and quickly looked away, her breath coming in fast, frightened pants. Surely this would hurt her, it must.

  ‘I’m going to try now,’ he said.

  She shut her eyes as he lay down on her. He was not much taller than she was and almost as slim. His cool skin was virtually hairless and he didn’t weigh much as he let his body rest on hers. Then she felt it.

  ‘Why . . . can’t . . . I . . .’ He spoke through clenched teeth. ‘What’s happening? What’s wrong?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she replied anxiously. ‘What’s supposed to happen?’

  ‘Don’t be a goose, you must know that! You’re supposed to let me in. You’d better guide me.’

  Guide you where? she thought, but she put out her hand, moving it in the direction of the insistent prodder. Then she touched it, screamed and pulled her hand back as though it had burnt her.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ he hissed. ‘Why the blazes did you do that? You’ll wake everyone up!’ He was evidently angry.

  ‘I’m sorry . . . I was startled.’

  ‘Come on, let’s try again.’

  She put out her hand again, gathered her courage and seized the rod. It was hot and smooth and slender, like its owner.

  ‘Ow, don’t pinch it, you clumsy idiot,’ he snapped. ‘Now, put it in.’

  But he might as well have asked her to conjure a coin from his ear. She had no idea where to manoeuvre the thing, or how she was going to take it in. There seemed to be no earthly way that could happen. They carried on for ten fruitless minutes, Laurence getting more agitated and Alexandra more despairing at her stubbornly resistant body. At last, he swore hard under his breath and sighed. She noticed that he was limper now, eventually shrinking away to a small, soft, curled snail of a thing nestled in the coarse hair at the base of his belly. He climbed off her and out of the little bed, saying, ‘I give up. It’s a waste of time. Just work out what you’re doing wrong and we’ll try again another time.’