by Angela Huth
‘Not exactly a honeymoon suite, I’m afraid,’ said Joe, ‘but I don’t think we should use Robert’s room, which isn’t much more cheerful anyway.’ He sat heavily on the bed. The springs yelped. ‘Why don’t you get undressed?’ He bent down to untie his own laces.
Ag wanted to say that she had imagined a lover would help with this process. But then she remembered Joe wasn’t a proper lover, just a friend about to oblige her in her irrational request. So, in silence, she slipped off jersey, skirt, shoes, let them slide to a heap on the floor. She paused before raising her petticoat above her head. There would be something either comic or distasteful, she felt, in the sight of her knickers, suspenders and brassiere. But Joe must be used to such things. The glance he gave her did not indicate surprise.
‘You’ve the body of a ballet dancer,’ he said. ‘Degas would have liked to have painted you – the blue lights on your skin.’
Ag smiled politely, rolled off her stockings. A moment later she was completely naked. This time Joe’s look was appraising. She stood to attention, knees touching, a blade of light between her thighs. Her cold fingers curled about in small whirls over her thumbs. She told herself this would probably be the only time in her life any man would sit looking at her body, taking in the thinness of her legs, the smallness of her breasts.
But even as Ag enjoyed Joe’s silent approbation, a worrying thought came to her. What if she became pregnant? It would be a dreadful irony, that – to conceive a child in a single sexual experience designed (in a fit of madness, she now thought) to impress the stranger of her fantasies, Desmond, with her past ‘experience’. In some alarm, still not moving, she tried to remember what Prue had said. One night, just before Stella had gone to Plymouth, Prue had volunteered to advise them on the matter of birth control. Something about making quite sure the man either used a french letter or – a bit riskier – ‘unplugged’, as Prue called it, before the vital moment. But what was the vital moment? Ag hadn’t liked to ask Prue, and she certainly wasn’t going to ask Joe, displaying even further her pathetic naïvety. She remembered, too, Prue declaring that sometimes, at safe times of the month, she couldn’t be bothered with any of the whole boring palaver, and, touch wood, she’d been lucky so far.
Ag put a hand on the chest of drawers. When was the safe time? Anxiety clouded her swift calculations. She wished she had listened to Prue – whose advice was chiefly aimed at Stella – more carefully. But she’d fallen asleep, probably missing important details. There was nothing for it, now, but to take a risk. If this was to be her one and only sexual encounter, possibly ever, then it should not be complicated with technicalities. It should be as uninhibited and enjoyable as possible in the peculiar circumstances. Screw your courage to the sticking place, Ag told herself, privately relishing the aptness of the self-advice, and get through the whole business with as much dignity as possible. She gave the faintest smile of encouragement.
Joe rose from the bed, came towards her. The fact that he had taken off only his shoes seemed to Ag unfair. She was curious to see his body, too. The nearest she had come to the study of a naked man’s body was her study of Michelangelo’s David. She had judged that Joe, with his height, his broad shoulders, narrow hips and firm thighs, would be something like that. She wanted to see the private parts. She was curious to learn what happened when stone turned to flesh. But this she was to be denied.
Joe picked her up. In a concave position, slung over his arms, she knew he was studying the flatness of her stomach, the hands modestly placed over the Mons Venus. He laid her on the bed. It smelt of cat, like the sofa downstairs.
‘I’m going to put out the light,’ he said, ‘and we can pretend we’re somewhere better.’
A murky dusk clogged the room. Joe, his face a clutch of indistinct shadows, bent over Ag. He rested on stiff arms placed each side of her shoulders.
‘Are you sure …?’
Ag nodded. Joe moved to lean on a bent elbow. With one hand he began to unbutton his shirt. With the other he traced a gentle path from her neck to breast, to stomach, to thigh. Ag closed her eyes.
Later, lying stiff and cold in his arms, the experience reminded Ag of a visit to the doctor. It had been efficient, clinical, easy, swift. It had not hurt. Neither pleasure nor displeasure had been present: all Ag could think about, feeling the bulk of Joe upon her, was this is happening. It did not differ from the imaginings, because she had never been able to imagine exactly what it would be like. How it felt, in the end, was not very exciting. Perhaps, with someone you loved, it would be different. The only really curious thing about it all, she thought, was her lack of concern about what she called her wickedness. Thoughts of betraying Janet – for which she had berated Prue – existed no longer. Perhaps, it occurred to her, such callousness is a sign of maturity.
In a matter of moments Joe was swinging his legs off the bed, sitting up. He switched on the lamp, glanced at his watch.
‘We’ll be back in time for supper, complete innocence. You all right?’
‘Fine. Thank you.’
Joe patted her leg with an uninterested hand. ‘There,’ he said. There, she had heard him say, so many times, at the end of a task: milking, muck-spreading, parking the tractor. There, he would say, meaning a good job done, and now it’s time to eat.
He stood up and reached for his clothes, his back to Ag. Gone was her last chance to view the sight she had craved for so many years.
‘Hope it wasn’t too disappointing.’
‘No. Thank you.’ Ag shook her head. It wasn’t disappointing: it wasn’t anything. So she could not bring herself to say the deflowering had been either satisfactory or happy. It had been merely interesting. He had efficiently performed a function she wanted, needed, for her own esteem. And the best thing about it was that it was now over. The small web of deliquescence that had netted Ag as she lay in his arms, due more to fatigue than fulfilment, now broke. She leapt up and scurried to her pile of clothes, dressing with her back to Joe.
Ten minutes later they were in the Wolseley, on the way home.
‘Now that’s over,’ said Joe, ‘we can spend our time with more important things, like books.’
Ag smiled. Really, he had been – was being – very kind about the whole thing. Her only concern now was that her new status would not be observed.
Joe carried the basket of books into the kitchen. Mrs Lawrence was pouring soup into bowls, inspiring Ag with unusual hunger.
‘Very literary afternoon,’ Joe said, ‘advised by my tutor, here.’
He gave Ag an open smile.
Ratty spent the evening in the front room, smoking his pipe by an unlit fire. He wanted to listen to the news, imagine the war. Edith did not. She darned peacefully – it had been a strangely peaceful evening, not a single argument – at the kitchen table.
At ten o’clock, she opened the door, stood looking at Ratty slumped in his chair. She always liked to keep bad news till late, to ensure Ratty would have something to trouble him in bed.
‘There’s a stomach upset going round the village,’ she said. ‘Seven or eight down with it.’
‘Ah. Hope it won’t clobber us.’
‘Don’t suppose it will.’ Edith sounded oddly definite.
She went on standing there, not moving, arms folded defiantly under the bolster of her bosom.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ she said at last, ‘my batch of scones went like greased lightning, everyone wanted more. Fighting over them like cats and dogs, they were.’
They returned to silence. Ratty could think of no appropriate answer. He could hear the tick of the grandfather clock in the hall. Its rhythm set something off in his brain: a thought so vile he must quickly speak – say anything – to block its progress.
‘How many customers did you have, in the end, then?’ He tried to give the question lightness.
‘Seven or eight in all,’ said Edith, without hesitation. She moved away.
Fear spread over Ratty like a cold
dew. From now on, for survival, he knew he must keep a close watch on Edith. Driven by some cankerous demon, there was no knowing how far she would go in her bitter hatred of mankind.
Ag went up to bed early. She was almost asleep when Stella and Prue returned from the late bus, string bags full of Christmas presents. Prue, flinging herself on her bed, chattered excitedly about the outing. She hadn’t a penny left, she said, but had bought all the presents she needed. No: they hadn’t found a Barry replacement in the tea-shop or in the pub, but a friendly old farmer had bought them two gin and limes and told them there was to be a New Year’s Eve party in the town hall to raise money for the Red Cross.
‘So there’s hope there.’ She giggled. ‘Barry’ll do till then.’
She lay on her back on the bed, lifted her legs, admiring the rayon stockings and dove-grey suede shoes, with their neat little pattern of holes, and thick platform soles.
‘So let’s hear about your news, then, Ag. What were you and Joe up to?’
‘We bought a lot of books, we had tea,’ said Ag.
‘Come on. You don’t expect Stella and me to believe that, do you? Not with two hours on your hands, Joe plainly keen for you.’
‘It’s the truth.’
Prue sighed, mock impatient. ‘We don’t want details, do we, Stella? We just want to know how it was. What it was like.’
Ag imitated the mock sigh. ‘Don’t go on, Prue. I’m almost asleep. I tell you, it was shopping and books. If you don’t believe me, I can’t help it.’
Prue screeched with laughter, squirming on the bed, clutching her knees to her chest. ‘I can see by the look on your face. Okay, you go to sleep. But we’ll get it out of you one day, see if we don’t.’ She winked at Stella.
It wasn’t till 1947, their second lunch after the war, that Ag confessed. By then the activities of the afternoon had turned to such fine dust in her memory that secrecy was no longer of any importance.
Chapter 9
Stella had never intended to go home for Christmas. She had had her two nights away and her mother, who drove ambulances for the Red Cross, was to be on duty in London. Ag had planned long and complicated train journeys to King’s Lynn. She would arrive home, after many hours waiting on cold platforms, late on Christmas Eve, and have two days with her father. She, like Prue, would return the day after Boxing Day. Both promised to undertake unpaid overtime when they came back.
On the night before their departure, Prue lighted the candles on the tree. She had devoted an entire half-day off to finding them. After several long bus journeys, and a ride in a farmer’s cart, she had returned triumphant with two dozen small red candles, and tin holders shaped like daisies. General appreciation made her declare her terrible afternoon had all been worth it. Mr Lawrence produced a new bottle of ginger wine, which they drank, from the pink glasses, round the fire. Small presents were exchanged. Ag came in with a tray of white hyacinths – a single flower for everyone, in a pot tied with a red bow. Mrs Lawrence gave Ag a parcel to take home with her. To Prue she gave a flat white envelope.
‘I know I shouldn’t, now,’ Prue said, ‘but I’m that intrigued I can’t wait.’
She sat down and split open the envelope. Dizzy blonde curls jumped excitedly round the tinsel star, left over from the decorations, on her head. She pulled out a Christmas card. A page of clothing coupons fell to the floor. She leapt up, incredulous, scarlet with pleasure.
‘Oh, Mrs Lawrence – I don’t believe it! Better than diamonds, better than anything you could possibly have thought of. Thank you ever so much.’
Prue hugged her employer, who stood stiffly by the tree. Small shadows from the candles flickered over Mrs Lawrence’s brown dress, softening the rigidity of her thin body. Unused to such celebration – for years Christmas had been just the three members of the family – she smiled at Prue’s delight.
‘When I get back,’ Prue gabbled on, ‘I’ll be off to some great town, kit myself out with a whole new wardrobe – you wait!’ The others laughed. ‘Can you really spare them?’
‘What would I do with them?’ asked Mrs Lawrence, glancing at her husband.
Joe refilled glasses. There was the sound of a hand-bell ringing outside. Then, singing.
It came upon a midnight clear
That glorious song of old …
‘That’ll be Ratty and his carol singers,’ said Mr Lawrence, going to the door.
Ratty trudged in, thickly coated and scarfed, carrying a church candle.
‘No lantern again this year, blackout rules, blasted war,’ he said, ‘and only these members of the choir willing to come with me.’
He was followed by two young boys, also holding candles. Each cupped a hand round the flame, so that their palms shone pinkly as shells, and a visible incense of cold blew off all three of them.
‘What’ll it be, then?’ asked Ratty. ‘Come all this way up the lane, we got to give you your pie’s worth.’
“‘In the bleak mid-winter”,’ suggested Ag.
This time last year she had heard it sung at King’s College. She had spent every minute of the carol service looking round for Desmond. She did not see him.
‘In the bleak mid-winter,’ the small choir began. Ratty’s deep growl made an unharmonious base to the boys’ pure voices. After a line or so, the others joined in. They stood in a semicircle, eyes filtering from flames of the fire to the miniature flames on the tree. They stood very upright, as if for ‘God Save the King’, private thoughts hidden behind the familiar words. A particularly sweet female voice stood out from the rest. Mr Lawrence let his eyes glide towards Stella. Tonight, as on the night of the dance, she was so beautiful in her unadorned way that he felt his heart contract, and a pricking behind his eyes. He quickly dashed his look from her face, left the room to fetch more glasses.
The evening passed with more carols, and hot mince pies sprinkled with sugar that Mrs Lawrence had been saving all autumn. Two bottles of ginger wine were drunk. The room had never been so warm. The candles on the tree burned down to their stubs. Prue extinguished them with an expert pinch of her fingers dampened with spit. Brief wisps of smoke replaced the flames. Ratty, confused by several drinks, observed to no one in particular: ‘Look at that! The floozie’s gone and filled the tree with smoke!’
He swayed slightly, pleased to find laughter at his comment. Had he said anything so foolish at home, Edith would have struck him. Joe took his arm.
‘And leave me be, thanks, Joe. The boys here’ll see me home. Sober up in the midnight clear, I will.’
He smiled for the first time since his lecture on ratting all those weeks ago. And, heaven forbid, bless her lovely heart, the holy one smiled the sweetest smile back. That made his Christmas, that did.
Not till after midnight did Ratty and the boys leave. Mrs Lawrence pulled back a corner of the blackout to watch their departure. The girls crowded round her. They could just make out the trio – dark figures against dark – moving across the yard, the boys each holding one of Ratty’s arms. With their free hands, they held up their candles, which made firefly lights to guide their way under a sky devoid of stars.
Prue and Ag left early next morning. Janet arrived in the evening.
She came in the Austin Seven, carrying a utility suitcase and a string bag of presents wrapped in Christmas paper. Mrs Lawrence was shutting up the hens, Joe was out somewhere, Mr Lawrence was affording himself the rare treat of an evening bath. Stella found herself the one to welcome Janet, who looked cold, pale and tired. She led her upstairs to the attic, where Janet was to sleep in Prue’s bed.
‘Goodness me … Aren’t you frozen up here? And no privacy. I wouldn’t like that.’
‘We’ve grown used to it,’ said Stella. ‘In fact I think we’d miss each other if we had separate rooms.’
‘Well, well. Better than a hostel, I suppose.’
Janet took off her grey coat, to reveal a grey skirt and matching jersey – clothes no more alive on her dull body than they
would be on a coat hanger. She sat on Prue’s bed.
‘At least it’s comfortable,’ she said, with a grateful smile.
‘Why don’t you unpack your things? Prue’s cleared two top drawers. I’ll go down and make a pot of tea.’
‘I haven’t brought much. I’ll come with you. I’m not here to be waited on.’
‘Don’t be silly. You must be tired after the journey.’
‘Well, my goodness, I did get a little lost once it was dark, I must say. No signs make it so confusing. Don’t tell Joe: he’d think me so stupid. He’d never get lost.’
She pulled some hairpins from the roll of hair that coiled round the back of her neck. Shaking her head, she stirred her hair with cautious hands. Lustreless locks fell on to her shoulders, altering her face: the pale eyes seemed to retreat, while the nose gained prominence.
‘After I was here last time,’ she said, ‘seeing all of you … I thought maybe Joe would like me to let it loose over Christmas.’
Stella nodded kindly, unable to find an answer.
In the kitchen Mr and Mrs Lawrence were stuffing the turkey. Mr Lawrence held the bird’s thighs while his wife spooned in a coarse mixture of chestnut and onions. They greeted Janet without pausing in their task, leaving Stella to fetch the girl bread and tea.
‘What a lovely sight, very Christmassy,’ said Janet shyly. Stella observed a small shiver under the grey wool.
Then Joe came in, the dogs behind him. He did a swift double-take, for a second confused about the creature with forlorn locks. To mask his hesitation he hurried over to her, gave her a peck on the cheek.