by Janet Tanner
Oh Huw, Huw, where are you now? No! Don’t think of Huw! The last thing you must do is think about Huw …
The door opened and Marcus came into the room, putting the light on. Quickly, she drew the blackout, fastening it tight across the window. He looked tired, she thought.
‘Busy session?’ she asked.
‘Yes.’ He had a glass, half-full, in one hand and a bottle in the other. He set both down on the dressing table. ‘I just wish I’d had longer with Henry to get into the swing of things. Father seems to expect me to be able to take on exactly where he left off and it’s not that easy.’
‘Let me help,’ she said eagerly. ‘I’ve done business studies. I’m sure there must be something I could do to help you.’
‘For God’s sake, Barbara, I know I’m not much of a man. At least let me prove myself in one sphere.’ He upended his glass, draining the last drop of whisky and refilled it from the bottle.
‘Marcus …’ she pleaded.
‘No!’ he said irritably. ‘What’s the matter with you, Barbara? All I want from my wife is that you should be here and …’
‘I know that’s all you want,’ she retorted, stung. ‘I know you don’t want me for any other reason.’
‘So why can’t you at least make a decent job of that?’
The unfairness of it hurt; tears blinded her.
‘I don’t know why you married me,’ she cried. ‘I really don’t!’
‘Because I love you. Haven’t I told you so?’
‘Yes – but if you loved me you’d want to … you’d want to make love to me.’
He swigged his whisky. His face was hard.
‘We’ve been through all that.’
‘I know. And I’ve tried to understand and be patient …’
‘You’ve been patient?’ he snarled and she took a step backwards away from this aggressive stranger. ‘What do you mean, you’ve been patient? Good God, you’ve got everything you want – everything a woman could wish for. Can’t you be satisfied with that?’
She wrapped her arms around herself.
‘I want to be a proper wife to you. I want …’
‘Oh yes, I know what you want,’ he said. He was loosening his tie with one hand, still holding the whisky tumbler in the other. ‘I thought you were different, Barbara, but you’re not. You’re the same as all the rest.’
‘What do you mean?’ she whispered. She was beginning to be frightened. She had never seen him like this before. Perhaps it was the whisky talking, transforming him into this embittered, aggressive stranger. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘You are a whore,’ he snapped.
She took a step backwards, shock and horror freezing her every sense.
‘A whore!’ he repeated. His face was almost unrecognisable, twisted into a mask of hatred. He banged the whisky tumbler down on the dressing table so that everything on it rattled. ‘All right, then. If you want it so much, by Christ you shall have it!’
She tried to move away again but she could not. She stood frozen to the spot. He grabbed her, throwing her across the room. Her legs hit the iron frame of the bed, she lost her balance and fell backwards onto it. He followed, grabbing a handful of her frothy nightdress and hoisting it up to her waist. The hem was caught between her legs and the iron rim of the bedstead; she heard the fabric tear.
‘Marcus!’ she sobbed.
He towered over her, holding her pressed into the mattress with one hand while unbuttoning his trousers with the other. Then he was on top of her, roughly forcing her legs apart. The weight of him squeezed all the breath out of her; as he entered her pain shot through her like a knife. A scream gurgled in her throat and she pushed at him with all her strength, fighting for breath and to free herself from his angry rasping thrusts. But he was like a madman and he had the strength of the demented.
To Barbara it seemed it would go on forever; in reality it was all over within a few minutes. A few last frenzied thrusts that seemed to tear her in two and he lay on top of her panting and sweating. She freed her face and chest, sobbed air into her bursting lungs and he rolled off her.
‘I hope you’re satisfied.’ His voice was still ugly with hate. He got up, crossing to the window, wiping himself with his hands, and she lay trembling while the pain inside her subsided to a fierce burning throb. He went out of the room and still she lay motionless, unable to believe what had happened, too shocked to move or even, for the moment, to cry. The overhead light still shone down on the bed, glaring into her wide staring eyes and illuminating her half naked body and the moisture running in sticky rivulets down her splayed thighs. She raised her arm to shut out the light and tears began to gather in her throat.
She did not see him come back into the room, did not know he was there until he spoke.
‘For God’s sake cover yourself up! You look disgusting!’
She lowered her arm a fraction; he was at the dressing table, pouring still more whisky into his tumbler. She tried to move and could not. Her muscles seemed to have gone into cramp.
He tossed back the whisky.
‘You only got what you asked for.’ He sounded more sullen than angry now, as if the usual considerate Marcus was beginning to re-emerge and the animal he had become was attempting to make excuses for itself. ‘You wanted it, didn’t you? Well, you got it.’
‘But not like that!’ she whispered and the effort of speaking dislodged the tears in her throat. They began to run out of the corners of her eyes and down her nose. ‘It didn’t have to be like that!’
He did not answer and she lay sobbing soundlessly.
‘For God’s sake, stop snivelling!’ He crossed the floor towards her and she cringed back into the mattress but he only took her by the shoulders, pulling her up. The torn nightdress fell back over her legs. ‘Go and wash yourself,’ he said impatiently.
Dazed, she went into the bathroom. The bath was still full of scented water. She took off the ruined nightdress, let it fall to the floor, and got into the bath. The water was cool now against her burning flesh. She took the soap and began scrubbing herself, tears still running silently down her cheeks. She stood up, automatically drying herself with one of the large soft towels.
He appeared in the doorway and she wrapped the towel around herself protectively. Yet one glance at him and she could see his mood had changed again. He leaned against the jamb running his hand through his hair with a jerky repetitive movement. His shirt was unbuttoned, half in and half out of his trousers and his face was no longer angry but ravaged.
‘Barbara – I’m sorry …’ His voice broke. ‘I’m sorry. But you went on and on and I …’
She shook her head. There was nothing she could say.
‘Forgive me,’ he said.
She wrapped the towel more tightly around her and went past him into the bedroom, pulling open one of the drawers of the chest and taking out a fresh nightdress. It was one of her old ones, cool cotton, long and voluminous with big puffed sleeves. When she had put it on she felt a little better. Still sore, still used, still shocked, but a little safer.
Marcus had followed her into the bedroom. He stood between her and the bed.
‘Barbara, please. I don’t know what came over me. Say you forgive me – please!’
She pushed past him and climbed into the bed.
‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said and her voice seemed to come from a cold hard place deep inside her. ‘I’m your wife, aren’t I? At least I’m no longer your wife in name only!’
‘Barbara …’ He was following her now like a puppy dog or a naughty child seeking forgiveness.
‘I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said.
‘Well, you did keep on about it so!’ he persisted. ‘But I’ll never hurt you again, I promise. If only you’ll say you forgive me!’
He was on his knees beside the bed, reaching for her, burying his face in her breasts, and she realised he was crying now.
‘It’s all right, Marc
us,’ she said. Her voice flat, as if all emotion had drained away. ‘Come to bed. But for heaven’s sake, let’s try to lead a normal life from now on. And forget what happened tonight.’
‘Oh Barbara!’ he whispered. He undressed quickly, put out the light and climbed into bed beside her. But as she lay cradling him in her arms Barbara found herself wondering. Would they be able to forget? Would they ever be able to lead a normal life? She would like to think so but somehow, remembering the crazed animal he had become before he had raped her, she doubted it.
In the darkness fresh tears gathered in Barbara’s eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks.
Chapter Eighteen
During the long weeks that he was being nursed back to health Huw remained at the farm near where his Hurricane had crashed. At first, he was left holed up in his small ‘prison’of corrugated iron and straw, then, when Jacques, the doctor, felt it was safe to move him, he was supported across the muddy farmyard one dark wet night to the house, Jacques on one side of him, René, the farmer, on the other and Yvette and Raoul, her brother, keeping watch at opposite ends of the yard. Weak and dizzy from the long period of being cooped up with little light and air and no possibility of moving about, Huw gained only a fleeting impression of the farmhouse kitchen as they helped him through it – low roofed, sparsely furnished and lit by only a single oil lamp – then he was almost fainting with the pain as they manhandled him up the stairs to a tiny attic room where another makeshift bed was made up and ready for him. He collapsed onto it able to think of nothing beyond his own extremity and it was only when he awoke next morning and fought his way through the thick fog induced by Rene’s painkilling drugs that he took notice of his surroundings.
But for the bed and a heavy old chest the attic was empty, rough bare boards beneath a sloping roof which met the floor a foot or so to the left of his bed. Almost immediately above his head a tiny window allowed a certain amount of light to filter into the attic and in the pervading peace Huw could hear pigeons cooing nearby – on the roof above, perhaps, or in an adjoining pigeon loft.
He lay for a moment taking it all in and wondering why they had moved him. He was glad they had, of course; much more of that stuffy, stinking barn and he would have gone stark raving mad. But surely here in the house he must pose a greater risk to the family who had befriended him?
The thought worried him. He did not want to put them in danger. René presumably knew the risk he was taking as did Jacques. But Rene’s daughter, Yvette, was only a girl, no older than Barbara, Huw judged. What the Germans might do to her if she was found to be hiding him did not bear thinking about.
He mentioned this to Jacques next time he came to see him. His English was good enough to make conversation relatively easy and after he had dressed Huw’s burns he sat down on the chest, lighting a pungent French cigarette and resting his shoulder against the sloping attic roof.
‘You are more comfortable here, no?’
‘Yes,’ Huw said. ‘But what if the Germans come searching? Aren’t they more likely to find me here?’
The doctor shrugged. He was a thin man; the angular bones of his shoulders and elbows jutted out through his checked cotton shirt.
‘That is a risk we take, my friend.’
‘I’m not thinking about myself,’ Huw said quickly. ‘I suppose I’d just be taken off to a POW camp. It’s you I’m worried about, and the family.’
‘They wish to help,’ Jacques said simply. ‘They are not proud of the way some of their compatriots behave. Besides we think you are safer here for the time being than in the village. This place is out of the way. There is no reason for the Boche to suspect you are here. There have been no English shot down here except for you and we made them believe you died with your plane, I think.’
‘I see.’ Huw felt too weak still for much argument. ‘What will happen to me then?’
‘When you are well we will try to arrange for you to leave France. We know people who work to that end. You will be given papers in case you are caught, identity card and the like. Do you speak French?’
‘Very little,’ Huw admitted.
‘Then we will help you. Yvette will come and coach you, enough to fool the Boche at least. But we hope you will not be caught. English planes fly in sometimes to take out pilots like you and agents who work in the Resistance. We will arrange for you to go out with one. But that is not yet. You must be first fit or you will put us all in danger. I shall make you fit. That is my job.’
‘I see. How long …?’
The Frenchman got up, stubbing out his cigarette in a small tin he carried in his pocket.
‘Patience, my friend. We shall see. The war will go on without you.’
Huw tried to smile. The effort hurt his face and a new and disturbing thought occurred to him. Was he going to be scarred? He wished he could ask the doctor but somehow it seemed trivial and ungrateful. And his heavily bandaged hands made it impossible for him to try to discover for himself, by touch, just how badly burned was his face.
He thought of it again, however, in the long and lonely hours after the doctor had gone and he was alone. He had seen friends who had been badly burned. One, Buster Ford, had lost half his face after being shot down in flames during the Battle of Britain. Once he had been a handsome fellow, able to pull every girl who came his way; now in spite of the efforts of the plastic surgeons he resembled Frankenstein’s monster. The thought that he might be similarly disfigured was not a pleasant one yet there was an irony about it which might have made him smile had it not been so painful, both mentally and physically. To have discovered there was no reason why he should not love Barbara – marry her even! – and then find himself a repulsive freak was so unlucky as to be ridiculous and Huw cursed himself for his bad timing.
If only he had not flown that last sortie he would have been able to settle things with Barbara by now. As it was she was still ignorant of his true feelings – and probably even thought by now that he was dead. The knowledge frustrated him. If only he had been able to see her for just a few minutes, tell her he loved her and ask her to ditch that damned Marcus Spindler! Or that he had written while he was still free to do so. Even that would have been better than nothing.
Or would it? Supposing they had got together again, she had promised herself to him and then this had happened? If he was as badly burned as he feared Barbara might find him quite repulsive and yet feel honour bound to stick by him. Tied by loyalty to a freak. Much as he loved her, much as he wanted her, Huw could not bear the thought of her feeling nothing but pity for him. If she could not love him as a man he would rather not have her at all.
Through the long weeks that followed such thoughts continued to torment him and as he grew stronger and his periods of lucidity lengthened there was plenty of time for thinking. He was alone for so much of the time with nothing to do but nurse his increasing frustration.
Jacques still came as often as he was able and the two men would share a packet of the pungent cigarettes and talk about the war and regularly each evening Yvette came to the attic. She would give him supper – bread, cheese and wine, and sometimes a plate of thick stew made from potatoes and meat, and while he was eating it she would lift a loose floor board and take out the radio set that was hidden there. It was a tiny instrument, yet clumsy and old fashioned, but when she had fiddled with it for a while she could usually pick up the BBC news and they would sit in silence listening to it.
From the broadcasts Huw learned that the bombing raids were continuing over England and Germany, and Germany was getting the worst of it – though in his more depressed moments Huw wondered if this was a piece of propaganda designed to bolster the morale of the English under siege. He heard of the continuing fighting in North Africa where the Desert Rats were holed up and of the worsening situation in the Far East where the Japs were now on the rampage. Hong Kong it seemed was in particular danger, though that was nothing new – the women and children had been evacuated from the colony
months ago, long before he had been shot down. But the danger was more imminent now, whilst it was said that Singapore, with her battery of guns facing out to sea, was impregnable.
Yvette sometimes visited him at other times during the day when her duties about the farm permitted, to coach him in the French language as Jacques had promised. As he grew stronger he began to look forward to her visits. She was a handsome girl, her long dark hair counterbalancing her strong countrywoman’s features, and the fresh open air she lived in lent a healthy colour to what might otherwise have been a sallow skin. She was good natured too with a laugh which came easily – and Huw’s broken schoolboy French certainly gave her plenty to laugh about.
‘You pass as a Frenchman? Never!’ she teased him. ‘Only per’aps you could fool the Boche. They are – ’ow you say? – theeck!’ And her laugh rang out filling the attic so that he was afraid someone might hear.
He shushed her and she laughed again.
‘There is no one there – only the cows! Now – try again. Je m’appelle Maurice Valla. J’habite près de Paris.’
He repeated it, trying to concentrate on his pronunciation rather than on her dark eyes and thick sweeping lashes.
If it wasn’t for Barbara I believe I might fancy her, he thought, and then chided himself for a fool. It was simply that he had been here too long. Under the circumstances any woman would look attractive. But he wondered about her all the same in the long hours when he was alone. For a simple French country girl her English was good, much better than his halting French would ever be, and it did not seem feasible that she should have learned it in a village school.
He asked her about it one evening when the BBC news was over and the tiny radio set had been returned to its hiding place beneath the floorboards.
‘You make me ashamed that I speak your language so badly. Where did you learn such good English?’