by Lizzie Lane
He rained kisses on her face, his ardour intensifying as his hands covered her breasts. His fingers went to the buttons of her blouse. His loins pressed tight against her and she felt his pulsating hardness.
‘Damn,’ he said as one of her buttons popped off. It rolled off the rug and beneath the dressing table. Mary sprang after it, getting down on her knees to fish it out.
It crossed her mind to stay there under that dressing table. A silly idea, as though she could hide under there or, better still, suddenly become invisible. Her fingers curled over it, but still she stayed there, running her free hand over the floor as though still seeking its whereabouts, putting off the dreadful moment when …
‘Is it that important? It’s only a button.’ He sounded impatient.
Her fingers tightened over the button. This was stupid. She could hardly stay under here for ever.
‘I’ve got it.’ She backed out and got to her feet. Her face was flushed. She held up the button between finger and thumb. ‘It rolled away.’
She placed it in a small glass dish on the dressing table. She caught sight of their reflections in the dressing-table mirror, a large mirror in the centre flanked by two smaller ones. Three Michaels and three Marys were reflected back at her from three different angles.
He reached out to finish where he’d left off.
‘Let me.’ She reminded herself that she was a wife. She was his. She managed to smile, but something within her wasn’t accepting this. It was hard to put it into words. If she’d been able to do that she would have confided in her sister. But she couldn’t. She was emotionally tongue-tied.
Her fingers trembled as she unbuttoned her blouse.
His head was bent over hers. She kept her eyes lowered, concentrating on the buttons of her blouse. She felt his hands around the waistband of her skirt. The zip being undone set her teeth on edge. She tensed as his hands pushed the lightweight skirt down over her hips.
She pushed his hand away. ‘I’ll do it!’
‘Okay.’ He sounded surprised, even hurt as he stepped back from her and there was a puzzled look in his eyes as though he were seeing her for the first time and trying hard, very hard, to understand. Seeming to come to terms with her behaviour, he took off his jacket, one finger hooked in the loop, his other hand tugging at his tie and unbuttoning his shirt.
Even though he had a vest on beneath his blue shirt she averted her eyes. A single curl of hair sprouted over the top of his vest, under which were the contours of his well-developed chest muscles.
Her face felt as though it was on fire. The calves of her legs tensed in readiness to run away. It was suddenly difficult to breathe.
‘I’ll just get my things …’ She spun swiftly away from him, reaching for the small brown case he’d placed on a chintz-covered chair.
‘Things?’ He sounded surprised and she knew that if she did dare look at him, he would probably look quite astounded too.
She pulled out the white silk and lace nightdress she’d brought with her, scattering rose petals over the floor as she did so.
‘Frances put those in there.’ She laughed nervously and for a moment stood very still holding the silky nightgown with both hands. ‘They’re from Charlie’s rose bush.’
A wave of sadness flooded over her. If there had been no war Charlie would still be alive and perhaps, just perhaps, she would never have met Mike and therefore she wouldn’t be here now.
Mike frowned as he watched her place the silky nightwear on the bed, rearranging its folds again and again, fussing and pulling at the lace with nervous fingers.
She turned her attention to his kitbag. ‘Do you have your pyjamas?’ She kept her eyes averted as though unpacking was the most important thing in the world.
Mike stood silently watching her, his jaw firm, his mouth set in a straight line and his eyes narrowed. His shirt was totally undone now fully exposing the white vest that clung to his muscles, enhancing his well-toned body.
He pointed at the nightwear she’d pulled from his kitbag. ‘Mary, do you seriously think we’re going to wear these things?’
Mary hugged his striped pyjama top against her body. She couldn’t bring herself to look at his face. ‘I’m shy,’ she said softly. ‘I didn’t think I would be, but I am.’
For a moment they said nothing to each other. She wondered whether he too was now realising the enormity of what he’d done, marrying an inexperienced girl he hardly knew. From the very first there had been an extreme sense of urgency in his pursuit of her. Why hadn’t they waited?
The answer of course was always the same: because of the war, the bloody war!
She felt such a fool. Here she was on her honeymoon and feeling more like running out of the room rather than leaping into bed.
She heard Mike sigh as he reached for his shirt. ‘Tell you what. I’ll head along the landing while you undress. I’ll take these with me.’ He picked up a packet of Craven A and headed for the door where he stopped, his hand on the doorknob. His expression was grim. ‘Take your time.’
Then he was gone. She heard his footsteps stomping along the landing and then off down the stairs. The front door down in the hallway opened and then slammed shut. He was angry. That much was obvious. He had good reason to be.
Discarding the pyjama top, Mary slumped down on the bed and threw her hands over her face.‘What have I done?’
A shiver ran across her shoulders and she hugged herself.
Everyone had been so happy at the wedding, the day that should have been the happiest of her life. Her father had laughed, chatted and smiled with and at everybody. His daughter was getting married.
She raised her head and swiped at her nose, her gaze falling on the silk nightdress. Perhaps she wouldn’t have reacted as she did if he hadn’t suggested it was stupid to wear nightclothes. That part of it was his fault. He had to be patient with her. He had to understand.
She checked her watch. He said he would only be gone for a few minutes. He’d been gone for fifteen already. She felt guilty she’d upset him. He really didn’t deserve her treating him like that.
The sun had set and the room was getting darker; a shaft of moonlight highlighted the shape of the silky nightdress on the bed.
She got up from the bed, reached for the bedside lamp, an extravagant bronze lady holding up a marbled globe of orange and white glass, and turned it on. The room was lit by a muted amber glow. Tentatively she touched the soft material of the nightdress, sucking in her bottom lip as she thought things through. Somehow she had to make amends to Mike. Somehow she had to accustom herself to being a wife.
Taking a deep breath she turned off the bedside light, took off what remained of her clothes and reached for the nightdress. The room remained lit by moonlight.
A glimpse of her body in the dressing table mirror surprised her. Her nightdress bundled in one hand, she stood still for a moment looking at her reflection, her body bathed in the silvery glow filtering through the window. The material of the nightdress felt cool and soft against her skin. The material was so sheer that her nipples and the patch of dark hair between her thighs showed through it.
This, she thought, is the vision that Mike, as a husband, would see and of course he would want her.
She closed her eyes and took deep breaths, willing herself not to be frightened.
Pretend to be somebody else.
The thought seemed to enter her head from out of thin air. Her eyes flicked open just in case there was somebody else in the room. There was no one except the moonlight and the sound of the sea sucking at the rocky shoreline. But the idea had taken root. There was only one person she would choose to be at this moment in time, one person who could deal with this situation without fear and probably with the greatest enjoyment. Ruby!
Mike Dangerfield sucked on the cigarette he was smoking, his face turned towards the sea. A warm breeze toyed with his hair sending tendrils of it across his face. His narrowed eyes were fixed on the dancing water, the
path of moonlight running over it.
Usually he enjoyed a quiet smoke, but tonight, tonight of all nights, the taste of the cigarette was bitter. What the hell was she playing at?
He’d expected her to be shy; after all, she was a virgin and he deeply appreciated that she was. He’d thought he’d known how to proceed – slowly and gently. It hadn’t worked and he was damn sure he hadn’t made a wrong move. He was the one with the experience. Not that he’d disclose to her just how many lovers he’d had, it just wasn’t done. He was a man. It was expected that he was the one with the experience and that was the way it should be. As for her, she was exactly the kind of woman he’d resolved to marry, the total opposite to what his mother had been.
He scowled at the memory, her first marriage, the affairs, the second marriage, yet another stranger in her bed. As a young boy it had sickened him. As his aunt Bettina, his father’s sister, had said, ‘Some people can’t help gambling, some can’t help drinking. and in your mother’s case, she can’t stop taking different men into her bed.’
The moment he’d seen Mary he’d known she was the one for him, self-assured, yes, but untouched, virginal.
Taking the cigarette from his mouth, he eyed it briefly, considering whether the tobacco had been contaminated by something and that was the reason it tasted so bitter. His jaw tensed, eyeing it accusingly as if it were more than just a half-smoked cigarette. On deciding the taste was off he flicked it between finger and thumb. Faint sparks trailed from its red glow as it flew down on to the rocks between the promenade and the sea.
He shoved his hands in his pockets feeling both disconsolate and disgruntled. What to do next? He could go back and force the issue, but Mary would never forgive him if he did, and besides, it wasn’t his way. Or at least, he didn’t think it was unless there was another man lurking deep inside him, a different man to the genial person everyone knew so well. It had surprised him that he’d felt so angry, so let down. He’d imagined things being so different – her acting so differently.
The breeze strengthened as he walked back along the promenade, tousling his hair and numbing his cheeks. The sea air dried his lips. He badly wanted a drink.
Halfway back to the guesthouse, he heard something creaking away to his right. Buildings of various ages and sizes lined that side of the road. By virtue of the blackout, no lights shone from either windows or doors, though nobody could black out the moon. The buildings shone like silver.
Thanks to the moonlight, Mike spotted a wooden sign depicting a bewigged man wearing a patch over one eye and a sign saying The Nelson.
He was an aviator, a member of the boys in blue, the Brylcreem boys, as some called them, and the RAF boys knew a pub sign when they saw one. Mike was no exception.
Yes, he thought, I could do with a drink, in fact more than one.
His toe stubbed against a pebble lying on the pavement in front of him. With one angry kick he sent it flying over the railings of the promenade to join his unfinished cigarette. Then he was off, across the road and into the pub.
Once she’d changed into her nightdress, Mary brushed her hair, telling herself with each stroke that she had to go through with this and that there was nothing to be afraid of. Once that was done she got into bed, shivering as she slid her bare feet down between the cotton sheets.
The night was warm, but still she found herself shivering. Her eyes began to flutter, but she didn’t want to fall asleep, not until Mike was back. She wanted to apologise for acting like a foolish girl. She was his wife and would start acting like one.
The breeze rustling the curtains, the clear beauty of the moonlight and most of all, the fact that it had been a long hard day finally took their toll. No matter how hard she tried to keep her eyes open, Mary fell asleep.
It was late when, his shirt newly unbuttoned, Mike entered the room where his wife was sleeping. His hair was awry, he’d had too much to drink and he was too tired to think straight.
The moment he saw her, he knew she’d believed he was only going to be gone for a few minutes. He wished now he’d kept his word. She looked so lovely lying there.
She’d pushed the bedclothes down to her waist. Her arms were flung above her head and she was facing the window. The moonlight caused the thin material of her nightdress to become transparent.
He could see the darker colour of her nipples, the spherical contours of her breasts rising and falling in time with her breathing and all touched with a silver light.
Instead of taking her in his arms and showering her with demanding kisses as he had planned, he sat himself down in a tub chair, the sort that had been fashionable back in the twenties. Like the rest of the room it was dated, but it didn’t matter, certainly not to him.
The crowning glory of this room was the iron work of the veranda, which framed the seascape on the other side of the road. Or it had been. The best view was now Mary, sleeping soundly, her body clearly visible beneath the flimsy gown.
He sat there watching her for some time as he gathered his thoughts, made bleary now by the amount of drink he’d consumed.
The landlord of the pub had been a convivial host, proud to serve an honest-to-goodness Royal Air Force bomber pilot. Once all the other customers there heard he flew bombers, they all wanted to buy him a drink, and now … his head ached.
He frowned to himself, unsure of what to do next. One thing he was sure of was that Mary would not welcome a man stinking of booze into her bed. Plus he was tired. He hadn’t told her he’d dashed down the night before immediately after landing his plane, fresh from bombing the enemy. He hadn’t wanted her to know how tired he was.
Thoughts blurred by drink came and went and he almost fell off the chair when he pulled off his boots. It was something of an achievement that he actually managed it.
His head drooped as he lay back in the chair, telling himself he would be fine soon. A few minutes and he’d be full of beans.
I’ll just close my eyes … His chin sank to his chest. A few minutes’ sleep and he’d be right as rain.
The faint light of early dawn flooded the room with a pale grey light. On hearing the sound of snoring, Mary believed she was lying in her bed back in Oldland Common. She snuggled deeper into the pillow telling herself that it was either her father or Charlie snoring. For that moment at least she was back in her old room at home. It came to her suddenly that it couldn’t be Charlie. Charlie was gone. And Dad …?
Her eyes snapped open. She took in the unfamiliar surroundings, the curtains billowing into the room from the open doors and the smell of the salty Bristol Channel.
Her eyes alighted on the man slumped in the chair, head lolling over his shoulder, mouth wide open.
Mike!
Last night, their wedding night, had not been the wondrous experience she’d been told to expect and she blamed herself.
She looked at him, her big Canadian with the strong chin and tough-looking body, a man who could cook and bake and didn’t mind admitting it. He seemed so vulnerable sprawled in the chair like that, too tired to notice she was awake. It couldn’t have been a comfortable night in that chair, for a start it was much too small for his muscular frame. He should have been in bed, beside her. That’s what married couples were supposed to do. Normal couples, anyway. So why couldn’t she? The very thought of what they were expected to do terrified her. It didn’t terrify him. She’d felt his need – that hardness had scared her most of all. It couldn’t be possible that a woman could possibly endure being penetrated by that … that … thing!
She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Other women must be different than she was, otherwise why would they end up getting married and having babies? If her marriage was to endure, she had to go through with it. Now! Right now before her courage failed her.
‘Mike.’ She said his name softly.
He stopped snoring but didn’t stir.
‘Mike.’ A little louder.
His head rolled off his shoulder. He winced, rubbed
his neck with one hand and slapped his other hand against his forehead. It went some way to bringing him round. He groaned and leaned forward, his arms falling between his bent knees, his head hanging over them.
‘Oh, God. I’ve got one hell of a hangover.’
‘Mike,’ Mary said again, swallowing her fear though her heart was beating like a drum. She was ready for what had to be done. ‘Come to bed.’
He rubbed his eyes with finger and thumb, palm over the bridge of his nose before looking at her bleary-eyed.
‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. Using the chair arms for support, he got to his feet, staggering as he pulled off his trousers. He tried to take off his underclothes, but gave up, crashing on to his side of the bed where Mary had had the foresight to turn down the bedclothes.
His beery breath fell over her as his head hit the pillow.
‘Sorry,’ he said again, then closed his eyes and was dead to the world.
Once he had woken up, they spent the rest of the day walking along the seafront, though they hardly spoke, each attending to their private thoughts. Arriving back at the guesthouse at around midday, Mike was given a telegram.
‘Back to base. It’s a special mission,’ he said gravely, his eyes failing to meet hers. ‘I have to go.’
Mary guessed otherwise. If he’d really wanted to stay, he could have protested that he was on his honeymoon. But he didn’t. It was hard to say whether he was embarrassed to try again or merely disappointed. Nobody liked rejection.
They barely spoke to each other on the journey back except to make comment about the view, how long the journey was taking and when they were likely to get back.
There was a parting of the ways when they got into Temple Meads Station in Bristol. Mike was changing trains to go eastwards back to the airbase. Mary was catching the branch line train to Oldland Common.
‘I’ll write,’ he said to her.
‘Telephone, if you can. I’d like to hear your voice …’ She looked down at the small suitcase containing her lacy underwear and pretty nightdress. Her fingers tightened around the frayed handle. What was the point of such pretty things if nobody saw them?