by Angela Huth
‘You’ll be a captain one day,’ said Stella. ‘Perhaps even a rear-admiral.’
Philip transferred his look of devotion from the White Ensign to Stella. He gave her the friendliest smile since she had arrived.
‘The future wife of the sub-lieutenant speaks,’ he said. ‘Look at those.’ He pointed up to a row of wickedly snouted guns – menace in waiting.
Stella shivered. ‘I can’t really imagine a battle at sea,’ she said. ‘A destroyer of this size snapped in two like a toy, burning, sinking. What I’d like’ – a sudden boldness gripped her – ‘is to know exactly what your life is like … I want to know your daily routine, all the details, so that when I’m back at the farm I can imagine you accurately. Up to now, I’ve just been guessing.’
‘I wouldn’t be very good at describing all that,’ Philip said.
They moved away from the shadow of the Apollo, walked hand in hand further down the harbour. Several ships were at anchor, unmoving on the flat water.
‘Awesome things, they seem, to someone not in the navy,’ said Stella. She thought that by making any observation, quickly enough, she would not have time to reflect on Philip’s lack of cooperation. ‘Whole, strange worlds.’
‘By the time we get to Hamilton Road,’ said Philip, looking at his watch, ‘it’ll be five o’clock.’
Mrs Elliot, the widow who ran The Guest House in Hamilton Road, was a woman of such deep suspicions that she was not ideal material for a landlady. Her pessimistic imaginings were fired at the very sight of strangers walking up the concrete path, and lingered long after they had gone. Her mind, filled with the possible activities of past guests, was thus always ready to come up with some point of reference. When Philip had come round to book the room, Mrs Elliot was able to inform him that not only had she had many lads from the forces staying under her roof but also, of particular coincidence, a sub-lieutenant from the Apollo had once stayed two nights. Her veneer of friendliness was calculated to make the new incumbent forthcoming with the sort of information she could pass on to the guests of the future.
As Stella and Philip walked in uneasy silence up the street of identical semidetached houses, Stella struggled to put aside her picture of a uniformed doorman ushering her through huge glass portals into a hotel lobby of rococo magnificence. Approaching Mrs Elliot’s establishment up the sterile little path, she had her misgivings – but then put them quickly to one side, because nothing, she told herself, now mattered except that she was here with Philip at last. While they waited for the door to open, Stella studied the grey stucco walls of the house, the windows veiled with thick net curtains, the highly polished brass knocker on the nasty green paint of the front door. She was aware that a kaleidoscope of material images was collecting in her mind where they would retain a significance for the rest of her life, simply because they were part of the weekend when, as Prue would say, she finally Did It.
The door opened. Mrs Elliot, from her superior position in the hall, was able to look down on Philip and Stella on the path. Her glance told them she was well appraised in all tricks of human nature – there was no point in any pretence. Stella was curious to know how Philip would deal with her censoriousness: silly old bat, she thought – what we are has nothing to do with her. The woman’s silent, instant disapprobation was intrusion into a privacy that meant much to Stella. She felt sudden anger, but said nothing.
Inside, they were greeted by smells that had never escaped the tightly closed windows: years of soup, cabbage, gravy, tea, had combined to thicken the airless atmosphere like invisible cornflour. The place was spotless, immaculate: the front room was crowded with a three-piece suite covered in rust rep, a material Stella’s mother had always sworn she would never resort to, no matter how long the war lasted. Starched white lace antimacassars hung over the back of the chairs and sofas indicating their owner was a connoisseur of such refinements, and woe betide any brazen member of the forces who dared lean his head against them. Despite the warm, claustrophobic air, Stella shivered. What on earth would they do, all evening, she and Philip, in this dead room?
Mrs Elliot was studying an appointments diary. ‘Sub-Lieutenant Wharton, that’s right, isn’t it? The two nights.’
‘That’s right.’
‘And …?’
Stella saw Philip turn pale. She saw his hands shake.
‘I’ll soon be Mrs Wharton,’ said Stella.
‘Soon as the war’s over,’ added Philip.
‘That’s what they all say.’ Mrs Elliot snapped shut the diary, waved a grey-skinned hand towards the window ledge. ‘You may be interested in my collection of corn dollies,’ she offered; ‘most of my guests are. You’ll have the opportunity to study them before the evening meal.’ She took them upstairs and delivered a little speech concerning house rules – blackout, locking-up time, essential economy of bath water, and absolutely no alcohol on the premises. Finally, in consideration of others, she would ask that they refrain from undue noise. This last rule, calculated further to inhibit young seamen bent on nefarious activities with a future ‘wife’, was accompanied by a bang on the bedroom wall: the dull echo of plasterboard proved its thinness. Perhaps to counteract such fierce warnings, Mrs Elliot pointed out that their window, thickly clouded with netting, overlooked the ‘front’.
When she had gone, leaving them with a knowing smile, Stella went over to the window, pulled back the net curtain. The view was of houses on the other side of Hamilton Road, identical to Mrs Elliot’s.
‘So where’s the promised front?’ she asked.
‘I think she meant the front of the house rather than the sea.’
Stella turned back to Philip who was sitting on the bed. She began to undo her coat. Smiled.
‘Nothing matters,’ she said. ‘Absolutely nothing matters except that we’re here at last.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Philip. He rose and came over to Stella, helped her off with her coat. ‘We’ll eat here tonight, but tomorrow night we’ll go to some big hotel.’
‘That would be lovely.’ Chandeliers began to retwinkle on some faint horizon: the possibility of champagne. Philip looked at his watch.
‘We’ve exactly an hour till Mrs Elliot’s gourmet feast at eighteen hundred hours. And what we’ve got to remember is no noise …’
They both laughed. Philip tipped Stella’s head back into the gathering of net curtains so that it rested against the window pane. He began to kiss her with an eagerness which Stella would have shared had she not been anxious about cracking the glass behind her.
Exactly an hour later they sat at a table in a back room eating corned beef salad and – speciality of the house, Mrs Elliot had assured them – baked potatoes.
The silence was stifling. Fatigue, readjustment and a sudden dread of things to come had deprived Stella of all ideas to entertain the blank-looking Philip. Joined only in mutual hunger, they ate their etiolated salads fast, and spread extravagant amounts of salad cream on their potatoes to counteract the tiny wafers of marge Mrs Elliot had laid on a small saucer. In the quietness, Stella contemplated for a long time the inspiration behind the salt and pepper pots – crude china mushrooms painted with identical spots. Whose idea had it been to create such objects? What pottery had agreed they would catch the discerning landlady’s eye, and set about their manufacture? Stella always enjoyed asking herself such unanswerable questions, and added the mushrooms to her list of memorable things in this unforgettable weekend. She smiled.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I was thinking about the salt and pepper pots.’
Philip showed no flicker of understanding her train of thought.
‘I was thinking we ought to get out of this place for a drink somewhere. We can’t just sit in that room waiting to go to bed.’
‘No.’ Stella finished her glass of water.
‘There’s a pub just down the road.’
‘There is,’ said Mrs Elliot, coming in from the kitchen, ‘but locking-up time
is nine thirty and I’ll not tolerate any incidents of drunken behaviour. They’ve been known to happen in the past, especially able seamen.’ She knew how to fling an insult: watched Philip stiffen. ‘There’s butterscotch shape to follow. They’ve quite a reputation, my shapes. I’ve not had a guest yet who’s not complimented me, that I can tell you.’
Philip and Stella, still hungry, could only accept her challenge. Mrs Elliot fastened the blackout across the small window, and switched on a dim central light. Scene set for triumphant entry of pudding, she brought in a beige mound on a cut-glass plate.
‘You’ll like that,’ she said, ‘or I’ll be blowed.’
When Mrs Elliot left the room, Stella gently moved the plate. The shape wobbled very slightly. They both laughed.
‘Come on,’ said Philip, ‘out of here as soon as possible.’
They smeared a little of the butterscotch stuff on the bottom of their pudding plates, spooned the rest into the two unused paper napkins, and stuffed the squashy package into Stella’s handbag.
Ten minutes later they were back at the harbour. In the winter dusk they threw the pudding ceremoniously into the black water, joined in laughter, relief, sudden new excitement. From now on, Stella knew all would be well. She took her future husband’s arm, rested her head against his shoulder as they walked. A full moon lighted their way to the pub.
It was warm, light, crowded with seamen and their girls. Too noisy for conversation, Philip and Stella had their drinks at the bar. They leaned against each other, the thrill of proximity piercing through their coats. Stella, on Prue’s advice, drank gin and lime. Unused to alcohol, she felt delightfully out of focus after two glasses. Philip chose neat whisky. But even in their alcoholic state of careless rapture, Mrs Elliot’s threats hung over them with a penetrating chill. They left at nine fifteen.
Stella’s steps were a little unsure. Philip supported her with a firm arm the short distance along the street. Back in the house, they braced themselves for a silent passage up the narrow stairs, determined Mrs Elliot – surely awake and listening out for the slightest sign of trouble – would be thwarted. In their stark little room they found the blackout had been drawn, and the vicious lilac walls were muted by the low-watt light.
Stella was grateful for Prue’s advice. The gin had done much to improve the setting for her seduction. She sat on the bed and longed for music, candles, dancing. But, thanks to the gin, the hideous carpet and curtains and the designed meanness of the room could not really touch her. These were merely another cause for laughter, should they dare laugh …
Philip left the room carrying a sponge bag and dressing-gown. Stella took advantage of his absence to undress quickly and put on her dressing-gown. In her slightly inebriated state the regular nightly duties of brushing teeth and hair did not occur to her. She climbed into the small hard bed with its scant blankets and firm pillows, and waited.
After what seemed a very long time, Philip returned. He slapped his jowls, a watery sound in the quiet.
‘Thought I’d better shave,’ he said. He hung his uniform neatly in the upturned coffin of a cupboard, and placed his shoes by the door in a strict to-attention pose, as if his feet were in them for the national anthem. Then he flung himself on the bed, smelling of toothpaste, aftershave and whisky. They drew quickly towards each other, wool dressing-gowns pulled open by the roughness of the blankets.
‘Remember,’ said Philip, ‘no noise, no cries, no laughing. We’ll have to save all that for the rest of our lives.’
Stella, in her eagerness to get on with the event in hand, would have sworn eternal silence.
‘Think we’d better put out the light,’ she whispered smudgily. ‘If I see you, I might cry out in wonder.’
In the absolute dark, they giggled nervously. As their hands hesitated over each other’s bodies, and their lips met and parted, met and parted, Stella was aware that the quality of their desire had shifted since the night in her old nursery. It was as if a premature familiarity, an unwanted sign of how it would be for untold future years, had emerged unbidden. A little afraid, but wanting more (more what? she kept asking herself), she lay wide-legged in the blackness, waiting for the moment in her life she had been taught was so important and must not be given lightly. She was glad Philip could not see her, glad she could not see him. The confusion in her mind was between the imaginings of how it might have been and how it actually was. This.
Here he was, very sudden, unexpectedly heavy. There was a moment’s pain. A burning in the depths of her. Then there was nothing. Just the emptiness of darkness.
It was over. She knew this because Philip rolled off her, panting. Now, not even their hands touched.
‘The first time, always …’ Philip murmured eventually.
‘I know.’
‘I didn’t hurt you?’
‘No.’
‘She won’t have heard a thing, bloody woman.’
Stella, puzzled by the extent of Philip’s concern about their landlady, heard him turn away, shift himself comfortably. He slept very quickly. She herself remained on her back. There was much she would have to ask Prue, she thought. There was also much she would have to keep from Prue, for fear of her laughter.
They were woken by a tapping at their door next morning: Mrs Elliot called out that breakfast was on the table.
‘Silly old cow,’ murmured Philip. ‘Her only pleasure in life must be spoiling others’ fun.’
Stella studied his sleepy face, less familiar than the photograph she looked at every morning. He drew her towards him, kissed her on the forehead.
‘Don’t let’s give her any satisfaction,’ he said. ‘Let’s get up.’ Ten minutes later they faced a scant breakfast. Philip seemed in much better spirits than the day before. He dabbed a knife in the minuscule ration of marmalade.
‘There are some economies not worth making,’ he said, ‘and this place is one of them. I’ve decided: we’re moving. We’re going to book in to your glamorous hotel. My godmother sent me ten pounds for my birthday. We’re going to spend every penny …’
‘The two nights we agreed, they’ll have to be paid for.’ Mrs Elliot, who had been listening behind the door, strode over to the table and picked up the empty metal toast rack with a vicious flick of her wrist. ‘I’ll not be replenishing the toast,’ she said, ‘neither.’
Philip produced a crumpled ten-shilling note from his pocket and slammed it on the table.
‘Keep the change,’ he said.
Mrs Elliot could not help gasping. ‘I dare say I could do another slice if you want one,’ she said.
Her offer was firmly declined.
They sat in the sun lounge of the Grand Hotel in wicker chairs, a tray with coffee laid on a wicker table between them. Outside, destroyers lay motionless on a sun-petalled sea: the cry of gulls was dulled by the domed glass roof, the palm trees in pots, the condensed warmth of the place. No one else was there. The hotel was so short of visitors that when Philip had asked for a double room and bath, the receptionist offered a suite for the same price.
In the lobby, Stella had found her chandeliers, her ruby carpet and swirling staircase. There was a wireless in their sitting-room, a vase of dried honesty, comfortable chairs, and a view of the harbour. Stella took so long to examine every detail of her dream that Philip had to urge her to hurry if she wanted coffee before lunch.
In the sun lounge, he asked her to marry him again.
‘But I said yes yesterday. Did you doubt me? What makes you think I might have changed my mind?’
‘I just want to be absolutely sure.’
‘You can be.’
Philip frowned, but still seemed to be in high spirits. ‘Then I have a confession to make.’ He was silent for a while. Stella waited, curious. ‘Those girls I mentioned when we first met – those girls in the past …’
‘Not that many of them, as far as I remember.’
‘Two. Two especially. The thing being … I may have exaggerated. Wha
tever I may have indicated, I was boasting. I didn’t actually … with either of them.’
‘Well?’
‘So … last night was the first time for me, too.’ He looked down.
‘Does that matter?’
‘I thought it might. I hadn’t the courage to tell you. I rather fancied the idea of your thinking of me as an experienced hand … I was ashamed of being such an amateur. I mean, I’m twenty-three. Most men, by then …’
Stella’s love, which had waned a little in the darkness of her lonely night, returned – a small poignant gust in her chest. She reached for his hand.
‘You don’t mind?’ Philip asked.
‘Of course not. I’m rather pleased.’
‘Rather?’
‘Very.’
‘It’ll get better. It probably wasn’t any good for you. It’ll get better and better, I promise. And also, I love you. I love the way you don’t mind about that awful café yesterday, the dreadful guest house. I don’t know why we didn’t come straight here. Mustn’t give into her dream too soon, I thought. Silly confused thoughts, something to do with showing who’s boss.’
Stella smiled. ‘I wouldn’t have minded where we’d gone, what we’d done. Though I confess this place is … the sort of thing I was rather hoping for.’
‘Good. Let’s give that bored waiter something to do. Let’s have sandwiches in our room for lunch. Let’s turn on that wireless—’
‘– and dance,’ said Stella.
‘Don’t imagine there’ll be much time for dancing.’ Philip grinned.
They spent the afternoon in the large double bed, a bright winter sun lighting their bodies, hours flying in the concentration of each other. They bathed together in the deep cast-iron bath, revelling in six inches of very hot water and Stella’s lavender soap. They dined, along with only two other couples, in the silent cavernous dining-room crowded with ghost tables of white napery. The underemployed waiters made much of trundling the meat trolleys to their table, pulling back the silver-domed lids with a grand flourish, and serving two minuscule cutlets with the kind of solemnity that must have applied to vast joints of pre-war beef. With a pudding of jelly, given status by a frill of imitation cream, they drank half a bottle of champagne. Stella made Philip laugh with stories of Hallows Farm.