by Janet Tanner
The Hillsbridge Mercury, starved of anything but war news for many months now, made the most of the society wedding with no less than three pictures, two of them on the front page. But it was the one inside which pleased Eddie. A group of guests, all dressed up in their best with champagne glasses in their hands – and right in the middle of them was Harry Hall! Eddie fetched his mother’s sewing scissors and though he knew she would ‘kick up hell’s delight’as he called it if she saw him cutting paper with them, he chopped out the picture and then neatly trimmed it round. Another piece of ammunition in his war to put Harry Hall right back where he belonged – nowhere! He tucked the picture into the back of his rounds book. He intended to show it to anyone who had missed it in the paper – and that included the Executive Committee who had made such a rash choice in selecting Harry for their prospective candidate.
Oh yes, I’ll get him, Eddie promised himself. He’s a sight too big for his boots, is Harry. One of these days he’ll find he’s put them down in just the wrong place. And when he does, I shall be right behind him, making sure that everybody knows about it.
Chapter Seventeen
On their return from honeymoon Barbara and Marcus moved into a suite of rooms in Hillsbridge House and Barbara soon discovered that marriage was not quite what she had expected it would be.
During the day Marcus was busy with his new job of managing the estates and she was left with time on her hands for the house was still run by a skeleton, staff of servants who somehow managed to cook, clean and do the work which had once been done by a small army. At first, Barbara relished the freedom to do exactly as she wished but soon she became bored with this enforced inactivity and begged Marcus to allow her to use her year’s training in business studies to help him with the estates. He refused. Spindler wives did not work, he told her firmly. They were supported by their husbands. None of Barbara’s arguments or pleas could persuade him to change his mind and she flitted about the house and garden feeling a little like a guest in a grand hotel.
The evenings were almost as bad. It was the Spindler family custom to have dinner at seven and afterwards they would sit for a while in the drawing-room listening to the radio or some of their large collection of classical gramophone records. Lady Erica would bring out her embroidery, working fine delicate stitches in shaded pastel silks, and Barbara wished that she could sew – it would at least give her something to occupy her hands. But sewing had never been one of her talents – Amy and Maureen had often teased her about her ‘long stitch and a lie flat’ – and watching. Lady Erica’s nimble fingers at work she blushed to remember the only thing she had ever made – a canvas bag worked in wool, so clumsy and garish that it had been relegated to use as Mrs Milsom’s peg bag. She quite liked knitting but knitting did not seem quite the thing amidst the grandeur of the Spindler’s drawing-room as it had in the cosy kitchen at Valley View, and in any case clothing coupons were required to buy wool and after buying her trousseau Barbara had none left. To make things worse Marcus and his father often retired to the study to talk business – very necessary, he assured her, since he was still so inexperienced in running the estates – and Barbara was left to make small talk with Lady Erica. Since the two women had little in common the conversation was less than stimulating and Barbara found the hours stretching away interminably towards the time when she could excuse herself and go upstairs to prepare for bed.
At least on this score the fact that she was newly married worked to her advantage for Lady Spindler never made any effort to detain her. She merely smiled understandingly – for a new bride to want to take time to make herself attractive for her husband was only natural.
If only she knew the truth, Barbara thought wryly as she said goodnight one evening in early September. She wouldn’t sit there smiling so sweetly if she knew just how unlike newly weds we are when the bedroom door closes behind us!
She climbed the sweeping staircase to their private suite. Spacious though it was Barbara had been surprised to find it also verged on the old fashioned, papered with a good heavy paper which had obviously been intended to last and which had darkened slightly over the years and furniture which looked as if it had been in the family for generations. The bathroom was basic white and would have been almost clinical were it not for the basket of luxury soaps and apothecary’s jar of bath salts which Lady Erica had placed on a shelf above the bath and the small touches Barbara had added – a hanging basket of her favourite maidenhair fern and a large gilt-edged mirror, a wedding present from Auntie Dolly.
Barbara turned on the taps revelling in the fact that at least here there was hot running water – no need to heat a boiler and dip it out as she had used to have to do at home – and tipped a handful of bright pink crystals into the mainstream. Then she went into the bedroom to undress.
Her nightdress was in its matching case on the pillow; she took it out and spread it across the bed. It lay there, frothy pink against the heavy dark candlewick and she found herself remembering the first time she had worn it – on the first night of their honeymoon in a small but exclusive private hotel halfway between Somerset and the Lake District. Marcus had booked it because the whole distance was too great to travel so late in the day and she had been glad. Honeymoons were not about places but about being together and after the excitement of the wedding she had been tired – and ready to be alone with him.
They had eaten a cold supper in the deserted restaurant and as she tucked into the ham and salad, accompanied by a bottle of wine, she had realised how hungry she was. There had been a wonderful spread at the reception, of course, but Barbara had been too excited to swallow more than a mouthful or two. Now, she ate hungrily and by the time cold apple pie had been followed by coffee and liqueurs she was beginning to revive, the tiredness dropping away as she contemplated her wedding night.
The dining-room was dim, lit only by candles, and in their soft light Marcus looked more handsome than ever, a fairytale prince who had ridden up on his white charger to take her away from the strictures of wartime existence. Under the table his hand found hers and as their fingers touched she felt the glow of anticipation suffuse her whole body. She smiled at him, her lips becoming mysteriously fuller as they curved upwards, and she saw the answering smile in his eyes.
Let’s go to bed! she wanted to say but it seemed an immodest thing for a bride to suggest and Marcus seemed in no hurry. He seemed quite content to sit there in the candlelit dining-room holding her hand.
Barbara was aware of the first small barb of puzzlement. Then he said: ‘You looked lovely today, darling. You are lovely. You’ve made me a very happy man,’ and she reasoned that he was simply taking things slowly because he was a gentleman.
‘I’m happy, too,’ she said and she was. With half the world plunged into darkness and uncertainty her own world seemed assured. Never had the war and all it meant seemed more distant. Even her fears for Huw had, for today, become part of the background of thoughts not to be entertained, though there had been a moment when she had been making her vows when she had seemed to see not Marcus’s face, but Huw’s. But only for a moment. She was Marcus’s wife now; nothing must be allowed to interfere with that.
At last he rose and as she saw him sway slightly she wondered if he might perhaps have had too much to drink – he had certainly demolished a great deal of whisky, diluted only with the merest drop of water from the carafe on the table, while she had been sipping her wine. But Marcus always drank a lot and she had never once seen him in anything but complete control. Most likely it was his leg letting him down after the strain of a long day.
The bathroom was along the corridor; while Marcus used it she undressed quickly, glad that she did not have to take her clothes off with him watching for she felt suddenly shy. She slipped on the rose-pink nightdress, caught sight of herself in the mirror and felt her confidence returning. She looked nice – provocative yet at the same time the virgin that she was. She sat down at the dressing table and removed
what make-up was still left on her face with puffs of cotton wool and brushed her hair until it shone like a bubbly golden cap. About to unfasten her necklace she hesitated. The gold locket had been Marcus’s wedding present to her; it was as much a symbol of their love as the narrow gold wedding band. She looked down at it remembering the moment he had placed it on her finger: ‘With this ring, I thee wed. With my body I thee worship …’
Where was Marcus? she wondered. He had been a very long time. She crossed to the bed and slipped between the cool cotton sheets to wait for him. Five minutes passed, another five, then … She was just beginning to be anxious when the door opened and he came into the room. He was still fully dressed except that he had undone his tie and top button of his shirt.
‘Oh, you’re in bed already,’ he said. There was a strained note in his voice.
‘Yes,’ she said, suddenly embarrassed.
He stood for a moment as if uncertain what to do, then he crossed to the bed and sat down beside her taking her very gently in his arms. She responded eagerly, wanting him to sweep away the awkwardness that was suddenly there between them. Beneath her hands his jacket felt smooth, stretched taut across the rippling muscles of his back, but it rasped a little against the bare flesh of her throat and something stirred deep within her, sending small quivering darts of desire through her veins. She turned her face against his cheek, drawing back slightly so that she could see him, just a little out of focus, see the strong clean lines of his nose and mouth, though his eyes were shadowed. Their lips hovered and touched and the very lightness of the kiss started a new response in her so that she felt that a tight cord had been drawn from her very core to the place where her lips met his. He kissed her deeply then, his hand sliding around to caress the curve of her breast and as his fingers touched the nipple, teasing it erect, it seemed to her that the silken cord was joined to that too. She unbuttoned his jacket, slipping her hands beneath it, almost sobbing with the longing that throbbed through her.
Then, abruptly, he moved away, sitting up.
Puzzled, aching with a sense of loss, she opened her eyes. His head was bent, his face in deep shadow, but she saw the expression on his face and could not understand it.
‘Marcus,’ she said, wondering what she had done wrong.
He raised his head slowly. His eyes were hooded. For a long moment he looked at her then he leaned towards her again, kissing her forehead and smoothing the curls away from her face.
‘It’s been a long day. You’re tired. And tomorrow we have to be on our way early. You had better get some sleep.’
‘I’m all right. Really.’
He ignored her, crossed the room and undressed with his back towards her. She lay mutely watching him. The lines of his back were clean and strong, his hips narrow, his legs long and straight, but she was too bewildered by his attitude to appreciate them. He couldn’t mean ‘goodnight’ … really ‘goodnight’ … could he? This was their wedding night. He had always treated her with tenderness and respect like the perfect gentleman he was, but it was different now. They were man and wife.
Marcus put on a pair of pyjamas, took time to hang his suit in the huge old wardrobe, turned out the light and came back to the bed. Neither of them spoke. As he climbed in beside her she lay waiting. Now surely he would take her in his arms again. She turned towards him expectantly, every nerve in her body once more aware of his nearness, even more so now in the soft unfamiliar darkness. But he only leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.
‘Goodnight, darling. See you in the morning.’
Then his back was presenting her with a hard line and she realised she had not misunderstood him. He was not going to make love to her.
The bewilderment ached in her and she longed to curl her body around his, make him want her as she wanted him so that there was no room for caution and consideration. But she did not. She was too afraid of rejection by this strange unknown Marcus.
For what seemed like hours she lay awake staring into the darkness. Why? Why didn’t he want her? Oh he must, surely! He said he loved her. The only explanation was that he was being generous, taking things slowly. It had been a long and tiring day. Tomorrow it would be different.
But it was not different. On the second night she was once again first in bed and when he climbed in beside her she put her arms around him and pressed her body close to his to show that tonight at least she was ready for him. He kissed her, caressed her and rolled on top of her and in the rush of desire she forgot her earlier anxieties. But after a few minutes, just as her need was almost at screaming pitch, he rolled away again.
‘Marcus – what’s wrong?’ she asked in desperation.
‘What do you mean – what’s wrong?’ His tone was bad tempered, unlike his usual smoothness.
‘Don’t you want me?’ she asked. She was close to tears.
‘Of course I want you.’
‘Then why …?’ There were no words to express her frustration.
‘We’re both tired.’
‘I’m not tired. And neither should you be now. Surely if you wanted me …’ The tears welled up. ‘What’s wrong with me? Have I disappointed you?’
‘No, of course not.’ He got up, sitting on the edge of the bed in the moonlight. ‘You don’t understand, Barbara.’
‘No, I don’t,’ she said.
‘Every time I try to make love to you all I can hear are those damned guns! They’re there – in the dark. And the faces of the men I let down. I keep seeing them, Barbara. I can’t think of anything else.’
‘Oh Marcus!’ She got up too, kneeling behind him and putting her arms around him. ‘You didn’t let them down.’
‘What do you know about it?’ he asked roughly.
‘But you didn’t. You were decorated for gallantry. No one could have done more. It was something that happens in war. You have to forget it.’
‘I can’t. I just bloody can’t.’
‘Marcus, please. Let me help you forget.’
He turned to her then, burying his face in her shoulder, and she stroked his hair gently. After a moment she felt the tension going out of him and she held him like a baby, hoping that now they could slip through the natural stages into the closeness that should be between them. But although she managed to ease him back into bed and lie with her body close to his, pressing gently until the hollows between them were squeezed away to intimate contact he made no move to reinstate their lovemaking. Her lips found his but now that she knew what was in his mind she could almost feel what he was feeling, see the same destruction and horror, and knew with a sinking heart that it was useless. They did not make love that night nor mention the conversation again. It was as if a barrier had been erected between them and with each day that passed it became that little bit harder to breach it.
Ten days they had spent in the glorious peace of the Lake District and still she was a virgin. During the day they walked in the green spreading countryside, swam when it was warm enough, and ate in the hotel dining-room, trying as best they could to ignore the awkwardness that was there between them now, spilling over from their sterile nights. Marcus drank a good deal and only then it seemed did he become the easy charmer who had courted her. But when the bedroom door closed behind them there was no escape from the knowledge that nothing was the way she had expected it to be.
I’ve failed him, Barbara thought, and the knowledge was a knife thrust into her heart. He thought I could make him forget death because I am warm and alive but somehow I only remind him of it. The horror is still too real for him; he suffered too much.
Would he ever forget? With warmth and understanding would he one day be able to put it behind him? She did not know. She could only try to be the strength and refuge he needed, try to understand and not be affected by her own sense of failure. That way perhaps they could overcome his personal demons and begin a normal loving relationship. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night as she lay beside him listening to the murmurs of his disturbe
d dreams, she wondered – and doubted her own ability. A more experienced woman would know what to do, how best to make him forget. But she had no experience, nothing to fall back on but instinct.
And so they had come back to Hillsbridge, to the pressing realities of everyday life. And no one, not even those closest to them, knew that relations between them were not quite what they seemed.
Tonight, as always as she bathed and prepared for bed, Barbara nursed the hope that perhaps tonight it would be different.
Marcus had not come up yet. For the last hour he had been closeted with his father in the study, consuming, no doubt, still more of the whisky which seemed to be his lifeline. She sighed, slipped into her nightgown and crossed to the window, pulling aside the blackout and looking out.
There was no view of Hillsbridge from here, nothing but the trees standing dark sentinel against the cloudy sky. A feeling of loneliness crept into her and she thought of home. It was two miles only across the valley yet it might have been half a world away. She imagined the family gathered there – Amy sharing a cup of cocoa with Ralph, Maureen already in bed with the alarm set to wake her so that she could catch up with unfinished homework. Maureen missed her – she had told her so. ‘It’s not the same without you here, Babs. Remember how we used to creep into one another’s rooms when we were supposed to be asleep for a chat? Remember the times we started giggling and couldn’t stop and Mum would come in and catch us and tell us it was time we were asleep?’ Barbara remembered and the remembering stirred a sad chord within her. Giving up the things of one’s youth would not be so bad if there was something to take their place. She had never dreamed that when she was a wife she would look back with longing to those foolish happy days. But then she was not a proper wife – just a girl who had moved into a different world, sleeping in a strange bed with a strange man by her side. A man who could not be the husband she needed and who had no need of what she had to offer him. The moon came from behind a cloud, throwing the scene outside the window into sharp relief and the bleakness inside her grew.