The Open Marriage

by Flora Kidd

  Out of the Land Rover she jumped, opened the gate and drove through the opening, but she didn't stop to get out and go back to close the gate. She wasn't going to get any wetter than she needed, she thought, and drove right on along the stony road.

  By the time she could see her car her rage had simmered down, its place taken by a feeling of forlornness. How she wished now she had never come to see Alun. She should have guessed nothing would go as she had expected. But then what had she expected from him?

  As always she had romanticised the situation, she thought ruefully as she changed down to a lower gear ready to edge the Land Rover past her car, which had stopped, rather inconsiderately, right in the middle of the narrow road. She had imagined that once Alun had met her again, he would have asked her forgiveness for staying away from her and would have asked her to live with him again. She had hoped that he had suffered as much as she had during the time they had been separated and would have wanted her back immediately. She had actually imagined him kneeling at her feet and pleading with her not to divorce him.

  God, what a fool she was! She ground her teeth with rage. Instead of behaving in a civilised fashion Alun had tried to rape her. She forced herself to say the ugly word in her mind, because she hadn't been willing when he had kissed her and fondled her. Oh, no, she hadn't been willing, she insisted, conveniently forgetting how his kisses had aroused her and how she had longed to caress and arouse him. . . .

  Something was happening. The Land Rover was sliding sideways. It was tipping over. It had slid off the narrow grassy verge of the road, at least two of its wheels had, and it was tipping over towards the stream, and there was nothing she could do to stop it except turn off the engine quickly. Right over on its right side, it slid, slowly into the stream, and slowly also Jessica slid down the seat, unable to defy the pull of gravity.

  Thankful that she had been driving slowly even if her mind hadn't been on what she had been doing, she clawed her way up the seat to the closed door above her and tried to push it open. It took a lot of pushing to open it, and then when it was open came the hard part, keeping it open while she struggled to climb out.

  At last she was out, her nylon tights laddered, her narrow suit skirt having developed a split where there hadn't been one before, and, bruised and breathless, she was clambering up the rocky bank of the stream on to the road. Rain drizzled down on to her uncovered head as she stood for a few minutes looking back at the upset Land Rover.

  What now? Stagger to the main road, more than four kilometres, she suspected, and hope to get a lift to Dolgellau? Looking like this? She glanced down at her ruined shoes, her torn raincoat. Or stagger back the two kilometres to Whitewalls to tell Alun what had happened to his Land Rover and face his wrath?

  She realised suddenly that she hadn't got her handbag—she'd left it in the Land Rover. She looked over at the vehicle again. It was settling nicely into the stream, water rushing through it, she imagined. She couldn't possibly climb back into it to get the bag. If she climbed back in she would never get out again.

  So that settled the argument, didn't it? She had no option but to walk back to Whitewalls, because she didn't have any money to buy petrol if she did get to Dolgellau and she didn't have the keys to open her own car and stay the night in it until Alun came to collect the Land Rover.

  Sighing, she began to trudge along the narrow road in the direction of Whitewalls. The disaster with the Land Rover would teach her not to lose her temper and go off in a hurry. It would teach her too to keep her mind on what she was doing instead of mulling over what had happened between Alun and herself. But then if he hadn't lost his temper and been so nasty to her she wouldn't have lost hers. Yes, in a way she could blame it all on him. He was so damned unpredictable. Oh, God, why had she ever married him?

  She knew very well why. She had been in love with him, and Margian was right, she had seen him as her knight in shining armour rescuing her from a fate worse than death at the hands of Arthur Lithgow, believing him to be in love with her as she had been with him. But he hadn't been. He had only wanted her in one way, to be his bedmate when he returned from his wandering. He hadn't really wanted a wife but a mistress.

  On and on she walked stubbornly, her head down, her hands in the pockets of her raincoat. Through the gateway she walked, never thinking to close the gate after her, past the ancient slabs of rock that marked an old tomb, past the white cross under the apple tree which she could see now had the words In Memory of Huw Gower printed on it and the dates of his birth and death.

  Jessica reached the house and opened the door into the kitchen relieved to get in out of the penetrating drizzle into dryness and warmth. Kicking off her shoes, she went into the hall and opened the door of the writing room and stepped inside. Hearing her, Alun looked round from the typewriter and stared.

  'I ... I had to come back,' muttered Jessica. 'I ... I'm sorry, but I had an accident with the Land Rover. It... it—well, it sort of slid into the stream when I was trying to get past my car. I thought I'd better come back and tell you.'

  He continued to stare at her as if she were a ghost, and then, unpredictable as ever, he leaned back in his chair, put back his head and burst out laughing.

  'Oh, it isn't funny!' blurted Jessica, stamping her foot on the bare wooden floor. 'Oh, stop laughing at me, you cruel devil!' Lurching across the room towards him, she began to hit him with her fists anywhere she could until he caught hold of her wrists and held her hands away from him. 'I could have been killed,' she sobbed. 'There's nothing to laugh at—nothing at all!'

  'If you could see yourself all wet and bedraggled you'd know why I laughed,' he retorted, his hands tightening their grip as she attempted to free hers to hit at him again.

  'Oh, I wish I'd never come here! If I'd remembered how nasty you can be, how. . . how cruel, I wouldn't have come,' she cried. 'Oh, why does nothing ever turn out the way I want it to be? Why? Why?'

  'Possibly because you set your sights too high and expect too much of people,' Alun replied coldly. 'Now listen, girl, all this ranting and raving isn't going to do anything for you. You'll have to get out of these wet clothes and have a bath. So up the stairs with you.'

  Still holding one of her wrists, he pulled her towards the door, and she had to go with him whether she wanted to or not.

  'But . . . but what will I put on when I've had the bath?' she protested. 'All my clothes are in my case and that's locked in my car, and the keys . . . oh, the keys are in my handbag in the Land Rover. Oh, what am I going to do?'

  'You're going to do what I tell you,' he replied forcefully, urging her towards the stairs. 'Now go on, go and have a bath. I'll leave something for you to wear outside the bathroom door.'

  'Oh, all right.' Jessica gave in suddenly, and after giving him a final angry glare she tramped up the stairs.

  CHAPTER THREE

  LESS than an hour later, wearing a pair of Alun's pyjamas, made from fine pale grey cotton, and his woollen dressing gown, Jessica sat curled up in an old armchair by the fireplace in the kitchen and sipped the hot whisky toddy that he had made for her. A fire flickered in the hearth, making shadows dance on the walls of the darkening room, and she felt warm, cosseted and pleasantly sleepy.

  'I've made up the bed in Margian's room,' said Alun, coming into the kitchen. 'There's a hot water bottle in it. You can go up to bed any time you like.'

  'Oh, thank you.' She watched him pour a generous amount of whisky into a glass for himself. In the past hour he had done more for her than he had ever done during the time they had lived together in London. But then they hadn't lived together very much, he had always gone away so much. 'You've been very kind,' she added.

  'Make up your mind,' he said jeeringly, giving her a sardonic glance as she sat down in a chair opposite to her. 'It isn't so long since you were accusing me of being nasty and cruel'

  'Well, you are sometimes, nasty and cruel,' she retorted, tossing her head back so that the heavy wave of hair across
her brow glittered with golden sparks in the light of the fire.

  Alun gave her a derisive glance and then took a long drink of his whisky. Leaning his head back against the high back of the chair he closed his eyes. Across the space that separated them Jessica studied his face, wishing she could know what he was thinking about. Always he had shut her out like this. Never had she plumbed the depths of his thoughts. Never had she come near to knowing the essence of the man. Like Wales, his native country, his mind was a hidden, secretive place.

  He would be thirty-five now, she thought, and he looked his age. Handsome in a dark saturnine way, he was thinner than when she had known him and although he seemed healthy enough she sensed a tension in him. There was something bothering him. The book he was writing about his father, perhaps? Was he having difficulty in finishing it?

  'Alun, I'm sorry I interrupted you when you were writing,' she said. 'Please don't sit here with me if you'd rather be writing. I'll be all right. I'll go to bed when I've finished this drink.' She laughed a little, 'I'll need to! You've put a lot of whisky in it and I'm beginning to feel quite squiffy!'

  'Good,' he murmured.

  'What do you mean by good?' she demanded with tipsy belligerency.

  'I mean it's good you're feeling more relaxed,' he replied, opening his eyes. He tossed off the rest of his whisky, leaned sideways to put the glass on the table, then with his elbows on his knees, one fist supporting his chin, he leaned towards her.

  Firelight flickered across his face and was reflected in his eyes. 'Jess, about what happened upstairs this afternoon,' he began.

  'Yes?' She looked down quickly at the mug she was holding, feeling her pulses quicken.

  'I'd no idea you had divorce in mind, and having you there, close to me on the bed, excited me,' he said, his voice rasping slightly. 'I wanted you very badly. You've always had that effect on me, ever since I first saw you at the Fairbournes' house, in your riding clothes with your hair all loose on your shoulders. I still want you.'

  'Oh.' She flashed him an up-from-under glance. Now the blood was boiling along her veins and pounding in her ears. 'But you said . . . you said . . . that you agreed to a divorce,' she croaked.

  'No, I didn't,' he replied coolly. 'You didn't hear properly what I said. You never have. I told you to do whatever you want to do. If you're wanting to divorce me, go ahead and divorce me. That's not the same as saying I agree to a divorce.' He leaned back in his chair again, his face shadowy and enigmatic. 'Why do you want a divorce?' he rapped.

  The question confused her, because she wasn't really sure she did want one. Not looking at him, she muttered,

  'There . . . there's someone else. He ... he wants to marry me.'

  'I see. And what about you? Do you want to marry him?' He was leaning forward again, looking at her keenly.

  'I ... I'm not sure,' she said evasively, and lifting the mug drank the rest of her hot toddy, anything to avoid that bright intent stare.

  'You're not in love with him, then?'

  Lowering the empty mug, Jessica shook her head from side to side negatively, looking at the flames in the fire this time.

  'Then why the hell . . .' Alun exploded, broke off and sprang to his feet. The rocker rocked violently behind him. He took the mug from her, almost snatching it out of her hand, and she glanced up then, defensively. 'I think that toddy must have gone to your head,' he said dryly. 'You're not making sense.'

  'I might have to marry him,' she said. She was having difficulty in focusing on his face, on anything, in fact. Everything seemed a little hazy and kept on changing shape.

  'Why?' he demanded.

  'To get him to invest in Martin's. You see, we're nearly bankrupt again,' she explained. 'And he says he'll put up the money to save the company. But he won't make any commitment while I'm still married to you. I tried to tell him you wouldn't interfere, but he wouldn't listen. He said I'd have to divorce you ... and then he'll put up the money. He wants us to be equal partners.'

  'He wouldn't be Arthur Lithgow, would he?' Alun asked dryly.

  'No—oh, no. Wouldn't it be funny if he was?' Jessica found she wanted to giggle. 'You married me so that I wouldn't have to marry him, didn't you?' she muttered, gazing up at him owlishly, 'So it would be funny if I now had to divorce you so I could marry him, wouldn't it?'

  'Hilarious,' he remarked sardonically.

  'I know now you didn't really want to get married to me,' she went on, rambling a little. 'Margian said so. Marriage isn't your line, she said. No, it wasn't Margian' who said that. She said I ought not to have married you because you like to be free. She said I shouldn't have tried to tie you down. Then who said, 'Marriage isn't your line'?' She frowned in an effort to remember. Her head seemed to be stuffed with cotton wool now. 'Oh, I know,' she said triumphantly, smiling up at him. 'It was Sally. She said you were probably looking for a way out of being married to me. That's why you were staying away from me, she said, so I'd divorce you. But I didn't know where you were, so I couldn't.' She stood up to face him and swayed a little, catching hold of the chair back to steady herself. 'What did you put in that hot toddy?' she demanded, her words slurring a little.

  'Too much whisky for someone as abstemious as you are, apparently,' replied Alun, grinning at her.

  'Oh, now you're laughing at me again,' she moaned. 'You're always making fun of me. I never know where I am with you. Oh, now what are you going to do?' He had scooped her up in his arms.

  'I'm going to put you to bed, my tipsy wife,' he murmured laughingly, and as he stepped out into the hallway she felt his lips brush her cheek.

  She woke up at sunrise. Haunted in her sleep by the unfamiliar bed, vaguely aware of someone moving beside her, she half opened her eyes and saw apricot-coloured sunlight trickling around the edges of the uncurtained dormer window. She was lying on her back facing the window. She turned her head and saw a lean bare suntanned back, ridged with bone and muscle, curved towards her, topped by a head of curly black hair.

  Alun was in bed with her.

  Her eyes opened wider and she blinked up at the ceiling, trying to remember how she came to be in that bed in that room. After accusing her of being tight on the whisky toddy he had given her he had brought her up into this room and had laid her in the bed with the brass bed ends.

  She had complained.

  'But you said you'd made up a bed for me in Margian's room!'

  'I lied,' he had replied frankly and briefly. 'Goodnight, and pleasant dreams.'

  Before she had been able to make further protest he had left the room, switching off the light and closing the door after him, and she had been left alone in the dark. For a few moments she had lain there thinking that she ought to get up and find Margian's room, but it had seemed too much effort, and then the bed had seemed to whirl around and around, making her feel dizzy and drowsy, so she had curled up on her side and had seemed to slip over the edge of a deep dark precipice and had known nothing more until now.

  She turned her head again and looked at Alun.

  It was a long time since she had woken up in the morning and had found him sleeping beside her. Too long. She had been alone too long: She had been without a lover for too long. She had been without him for too Song because she hadn't ever wanted any other lover but him and had been hoping always that he would come back to her and claim her as his own, assert his rights as her husband, while at the same time asking her forgiveness for leaving her alone for so long and assuring her that she was the only woman for him; the only woman he had loved and would ever love.

  But it hadn't been quite like that yesterday afternoon. Being out of the habit of making love, she had frozen up inside so that when Alun had touched her she had been shocked and had behaved like a sheltered prudish virgin, fending him off as if he had been a rapist, denying him his rights as her husband after all, but most of all, denying herself her rights as a wife.

  And now, lying beside him, relaxed after a good night's rest, she wanted him, wa
nted him so badly that she was in pain, the desire to be close to him, to kiss him and touch him, to wind her arms about him and entwine her legs with his, stabbing through her.

  Without turning on to her side she stretched out a hand and ran the tip of her forefinger down his spine, lightly and suggestively, something she had often done in the past; her way of indicating to him how she felt. He didn't move, so she repeated the move, this time spreading her fingers over his back, enjoying the feel of his warm skin, luxuriating in the tingling sensations that were flickering through her body and urging her to get closer to him.

  At last Alun moved in response to the slow subtle caresses of her hand and he turned on to his back and then on to his side so that he was facing her. His eyes were still closed, lashes thick and black fringing the heavy lids and only the slight mocking slant of his lips indicating that he was awake. He put a hand on her waist. Warm and heavy, it lay there in a proprietary way and then he seemed to go to sleep again.

  From under her lashes, glancing sideways and downwards she looked at the dark dishevelled head, the lined high forehead, the devilish slant of black eyebrows, the aquiline nose, the hard mocking lips, the stubborn cleft chin, and felt a new sensation stir within her, a sort of pride because she was licensed to lie there with him, to be close to his naked body and become acquainted with its colour, its beauty and even its defects. She raised a hand and touched his hair. Curls twined around her fingers, trapping them. She lifted her other hand and stroked the slant of his shoulder, letting her fingertips trail delicately and tantalisingly in the hollow of his collarbone before they slid round to his nape.

  Slowly the hand at her waist began to move subtly, fingers sliding through a gap in between the fastened buttons of the too-big pyjama jacket she was wearing. One of the buttons popped undone and Alun was able to slide his whole hand through the gap. Gently his fingers stroked the soft smooth skin of her waist until delicious tingles danced along her nerves.