Wives & Mothers

by Jeanne Whitmee

  *

  Elaine lay on Patrick’s bed staring at the ceiling. ‘You can always come here whenever you want to,’ he had said. ‘It doesn’t matter whether I’m here or not. The front door’s always open.’

  She found the Carnes’ house with its clutter and dust, its unwritten laws of privacy, totally seductive. Here no one asked questions. The family and boarders came and went as they pleased, bringing in their individual friends, throwing impromptu parties, organising panic-stricken cramming sessions at the end of term. Anything was possible at the Carnes’. One of the nicest parts was that although there was always something going on, no one expected you to join in unless you felt like it. To Elaine it was sheer bliss — the epitome of freedom.

  This evening she was waiting for Patrick. She knew he’d be home at seven and she wanted to surprise him. She’d thought long and hard about what he wanted her to do. She felt slightly ashamed of her initial reluctance. It was a tremendous compliment really. Patrick said she was still hide-bound by convention. He had gently teased her about that more than once. It was the kind of upbringing she’d had, she told herself. Her mother had never quite broken free of her Victorian background. But Elaine was trying hard to turn herself into a liberated young woman of the sixties with the freedom to do her own thing. And if anyone could help her do it, it was the Carnes and especially Patrick.

  Already she felt far more sophisticated than when she’d first met him. She still couldn’t understand what he had seen in her then. She must have seemed such a child in her prissy little dresses and bubbly hairstyle. As she lay there lazily gazing at the abstract mural on the opposite wall she listened to the sounds of the house. It was quieter now that most of the boarders had gone off for the vac’, but someone somewhere was playing records. The Beachboys; The Beatles; The Who. At the moment the soaring voice of Julie Andrews was proclaiming that the hills were alive with the sound of music. Elaine closed her eyes, smiling reminiscently. She loved that one. She and Alison had been to see the film and they had both wept buckets in the sad bits. Patrick’s taste in music was more sophisticated. He liked the folk groups; the ‘protest’ songs of Joan Baez and Bob Dylan. The music stopped abruptly and she heard Tom’s voice shouting down the stairs, demanding to know the whereabouts of his clean shirts. Zoe’s voice floated stridently back: ‘Find your own bloody shirts. I’m your mother, not your slave.’

  Elaine smiled. Poor Zoe, always trying hard to establish her artistic status; constantly fighting a losing battle against domesticity.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and she must have fallen asleep in the drowsy summer afternoon heat. That was how Patrick found her when he came home, lying on his bed, her tanned arms and legs spread, the thin cotton shift dress she wore making her look almost childlike. Her dark lashes fanned out on cheeks rosy with sleep and her mouth was soft and vulnerable. Very gently he sat down beside her and stroked her cheek with one fingertip. She woke instantly, the dark eyes dreamily unfocussed for a second as she looked up at him. Then a delighted smile lifted the corners of her mouth and she sat up and stretched luxuriously.

  ‘Patrick, you’re back.’ She slid her arms around his neck.

  Her trusting naivety never failed to touch him and he held her close, nuzzling his lips into her neck. ‘What a nice surprise. So you didn’t go to the charity concert?’

  She held her head back to look at him. ‘Do me a favour. Would you have done?’

  He shrugged. ‘I might. It did sound rather good.’

  ‘You haven’t met Bryan Bostock,’ she told him, pulling a face. ‘Mum might feel she has to butter him up, but I don’t see why I should. Anyway, I’d much rather be with you.’ She brushed her cheek against his. ‘I’ve got something to tell you — I’ve decided.’

  ‘Decided what?’

  ‘You know — what you asked me. I’ve made up my mind. I’ll do it.’

  He held her away from him to look searchingly into her eyes. ‘Elaine, that’s great. But are you sure?’

  ‘I told you, yes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Now if you like.’

  He hugged her tightly to him and kissed her. ‘Mmmm, you’re marvellous. Did I ever tell you that before?’ Getting up, he crossed the room and turned the key in the lock.

  ‘I thought doors were never locked in this house,’ she remarked.

  Turning, he grinned at her. ‘There are exceptions to every rule.’

  She watched as he began to prepare. ‘Shall I undress?’ she asked.

  *

  It was almost nine-thirty by the time Grace and Bryan arrive at The Palladium. Their tickets were for front stalls and the usherette wouldn’t allow them to take their seats until the act that was performing was finished. Standing in the aisle, Grace looked at the glittering assembly and wished they could have been on time. Ever since she had been to the local variety theatre with Harry all those years ago she had wanted to go to a West End theatre. Looking round she was sure she recognised one or two famous film stars. Bryan was muttering. His mood had deteriorated more and more since the business with the tyre.

  While they were waiting they had eaten bar snacks in the pub, as it was becoming increasingly obvious that there wouldn’t be time for the dinner Bryan had planned. Grace had felt embarrassingly conspicuous, sitting in the bar dressed in all her finery and eating chicken-in-the-basket. The locals had gazed at them curiously over frothing pint mugs, making her feel like some rare and exotic animal.

  The mechanic had taken much longer than even he had estimated and when they had at last reached London there had been terrible difficulty in finding a parking space. They had finished up miles from the theatre, looking for a taxi to get them there.

  ‘Now the blooming girl says there are no programmes left,’ Bryan fumed beside her. ‘I don’t know, I don’t really. This evening has been a damned disaster from start to finish.’

  Grace patted his arm. ‘None of it was your fault, Bryan. At least we’re here now, so let’s enjoy it. We don’t need a programme. It’ll be more of a surprise without.’

  The troup of acrobats from the Moscow State Circus finished their routine with a daring balancing trick and left the stage to thunderous applause. Very hurriedly Grace and Bryan took their seats. As the orchestra struck up again he leaned across to her.

  ‘I got you a box of chocolates and now I’ve gone and left the bugg — left them in the car.’

  She smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’m fine. Just relax.’

  The next act was a popular comedian, well known for his television programme. His patter soon had them both relaxing and Bryan laughed loudly and heartily at his jokes.

  The comedian brought the first half of the show to a close. The curtain came down and the lights went up. Bryan looked at Grace.

  ‘What about a drink? I don’t know about you but I could do with one.’

  The bar was crowded and Bryan had to shoulder his way through the crush to get served. When he returned with two lukewarm gin and tonics he was red in the face and his dress shirt collar clung limply to his perspiring neck. No sooner had they downed the drinks than the buzzer sounded for curtain up and the crowd began to wend its way back. Bryan looked at Grace.

  ‘All bloody go, if you’ll pardon my French,’ he said, taking her empty glass. ‘Better get back, I suppose — missed nearly half of it as it is.’

  Most of the audience had returned to their seats by the time Grace and Bryan arrived back in the auditorium. Apologising, they picked their way along the row and settled down. The orchestra had already started to play the signature tune of the act opening the second half and now the curtain was rising on a stage empty but for a white grand piano backed by a single black satin drape. A man in evening dress sat at the piano and a beautiful girl with honey-gold skin stood beside him, one hand on his shoulder. She began to sing in her melodic, husky voice: ‘Where Did Our Love Go?’ Grace froze. Her heart thudded suffocatingly, filling her chest so that she couldn’t breathe. The girl was
Stella Rainbow, the man Harry.

  *

  ‘I’m getting a pain in my back.’ Elaine shifted her position a fraction.

  ‘Another couple of seconds, that’s all.’ Patrick looked up. ‘You can come and look if you like.’

  Elaine stretched her stiffening limbs and sighed. ‘Phew! Thank goodness for that. I never thought posing would be such hard work.’ Completely uninhibited now about her nakedness, she skipped across the room to look over Patrick’s shoulder at the charcoal sketch on the easel.

  ‘Oh, do I really look like that?’

  ‘Does that mean you don’t approve?’ He turned to look up at her.

  ‘No. It’s lovely. But you’ve made me look so rounded. I’m skinny really, aren’t I?’

  He glanced up at her. She really had no idea of how attractive she was. In the short time he’d known her she’d matured — the coltish young body had filled out into curves that were, in their own particular way, voluptuous. He loved the small high breasts and the rounded curve of her hips; her tight little buttocks and gently moulded stomach. Finding her closeness irrestistible, he turned and put his arms round her, pressing his face into her waist.

  ‘Haven’t you looked at yourself in the mirror lately?’ he asked softly. ‘You’re a woman, Elaine. A very lovely and desirable one at that.’

  She twined her fingers in his hair. ‘It was nice — being drawn. Apart from the back ache, that is.’

  ‘It was nice drawing you. Will you let me carry on with it — turn it into a painting?’

  She frowned, biting her lip with indecision. ‘Then people would see it. They’d know...’

  ‘Okay. Anyway, we’ll stop for now.’

  ‘I’d better get dressed, hadn’t I?’

  When he looked up into her eyes he saw the tremulous invitation hovering there. She still hadn’t acquired the knack of hiding her feelings. Had her decision to pose nude for him included another more exciting decision? He didn’t reply. Instead he stood up, holding her eyes with his. Without a word he took her in his arms and kissed her; a long, slow, searching kiss. Her response told him all he wanted to know.

  On his bed under the sloping ceiling in the dancing haze of the late summer afternoon he took her as gently as he could. At first she was tense and apprehensive, but slowly under the sensuous coaxing of his hand and lips her inhibitions melted away and she began to surprise and delight him with her burgeoning passion. Afterwards they lay together, her head in the hollow of his shoulder, dreamily watching the shadows on the ceiling. The minutes ticked by, then suddenly Elaine rolled over, leaning on her elbow to look down at him.

  ‘Can we do it again, please?’

  He laughed. ‘Soon. Mustn’t be greedy, must we?’

  She bit her lip. ‘It’s just that I don’t think I — not quite... Maybe next time’ She traced the outline of his lips with her forefinger. ‘Patrick — was it all right? For you, I mean. Was I...?’

  ‘You were gorgeous.’ He pulled her over him and kissed her.

  ‘Patrick,’ she said after a moment.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Can I stay the night?’

  ‘What?’ He opened his eyes wide to stare at her. ‘What about your mother?’

  ‘She’s going to be late back. I told her I was staying at Alison’s. I was going to, but we had a row.’

  ‘That’s not like you and Alison. What was it about?’

  ‘The concert.’ She pouted. ‘I hadn’t told her about it till it was too late, you see. I think — well, I know — she would have liked to go.’

  ‘Oh, Elaine.’ He rolled her over and looked down at her, shaking his head. ‘What am I going to do with you? You’re getting a very devious little thing, aren’t you? Am I a bad influence on you?’

  She giggled and began to stroke his thigh, her fingers fluttering up and down seductively. ‘Yes, you are — and I love it.’

  Her caressing soon aroused him again and they made love for a second time. This time they were both more relaxed and Elaine wished it could go on for ever. She knew now without the slightest shadow of doubt that she was in love with Patrick. He had said she was a woman — a desirable woman — and she wanted to prove him right. She wanted so much to please him, to make him want and need her as she needed him. Arching against him she moved instinctively. The first time had hurt, but now it was wonderful, as smooth and sensuous as silk. She could feel the excitement growing inside her. The blood seemed to sing in her veins and her heart raced. As Patrick’s movements quickened her excitement grew, mounting until she felt it was almost more than she could bear. She clutched feverishly at his shoulders, arching her back convulsively and calling his name. Then suddenly, a great wave of sensation swept through her. It seemed to engulf her from top to toe, make her gasp and shudder with ecstasy. Feeling her climax Patrick thrust twice more, then lay still on top of her.

  ‘Clever girl. You got there,’ he whispered triumphantly. ‘You came. Was it good?’

  ‘Oh, yes — yes.’ She turned her head to look at him as he rolled away from her. ‘Oh, Patrick,’ she whispered. ‘I love you. I love you so much.’

  *

  In the taxi Grace shivered violently. Bryan didn’t know what to do. He took off his jacket and put it round her shoulders.

  ‘Are you all right? Do you think you ought to go to a hospital — see a doctor or something?’ he asked anxiously.

  She shook her head. ‘No. Please don’t fuss, Bryan. I’ll be fine in a minute.’ But in the darkness he could see the gleam of her eyes — like a frightened animal — and hear the uncontrollable chattering of her teeth.

  ‘What is is though, love? Have you had one of these attacks before?’

  She shook her head, turning away from him to stare out of the window. In her mind she could still see them, Harry and that woman. Stella had worn a skintight dress of flame-coloured silk; her shapely honey-coloured shoulders bare; her long dark hair caught back with a sparkling diamante clip. When she sang she had looked at Harry with a meaningful look in her eyes that was more than mere artistry. All Grace could think about was what they must do together when they were alone. The thought filled her with revulsion — strangely, for herself more than for them. Over the past five years her hate for the woman she had never met and her resentment of Harry had faded. She’d made a new life; a successful one. It didn’t matter any more. Both she and Harry had got what they wanted and that was better than making each other miserable. She’d even wondered lately whether she ought to divorce him after all. But seeing him — seeing them together like that — so suddenly and unexpectedly, had been a terrible shock. All the old agonising trauma had re-surfaced with more power to hurt than ever before.

  The taxi stopped and they got out. When Bryan had paid, they found the car and Grace climbed gratefully into the passenger seat. She took off Bryan’s jacket and gave it back to him.

  ‘Put this on, Bryan,’ she said. ‘You’ll catch cold. I’ll be all right with the heater on.’

  Without a word he opened the glove compartment and took out a silver flask. Unscrewing the top he passed it to her. ‘Go on, have a good swig. It’ll make you feel better.’

  ‘What is it?’ She sniffed at the flask.

  ‘Brandy.’

  She drank a little. It made her splutter, but he was right; it did help, calming her raw nerves and slowing her rapid heartbeat.

  As the powerful car ate up the miles on the almost empty roads she said nothing. Just stared out at the darkness trying to shut out the shameful images that tormented her. Bryan had been right when he’d said earlier that the whole evening was a disaster. Nothing had gone right from the beginning. The one thing she was grateful for was that Elaine hadn’t been with them. She never mentioned her father now. He sent cards at Christmas and birthdays, but other than that there was no communication between them at all. For that at least she was grateful.

  It was after midnight when Bryan brought the Jaguar to a standstill in the little lane behind th
e shop. The very least she could do was ask him in for a nightcap, she told herself reluctantly. He had the drive home again to face.

  ‘Come up and have a coffee, Bryan,’ she said. ‘I’ll see if I can rustle up something to eat too if you’re hungry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of putting you to the trouble after your nasty little turn, my dear,’ he said. But already he was getting out of the car.

  Upstairs in the flat Grace switched on the lights and filled the kettle. ‘If you don’t mind, I think I’ll just go and change,’ she told him. ‘I don’t want to spill anything down this dress. Make yourself at home.’

  By the time she re-emerged in her housecoat the kettle was boiling. She made coffee and quickly cut a ham sandwich for Byran. When she carried it through to the living room she saw that his jacket was draped across the back of the settee where he sat in his shirt sleeves. A wave of revulsion swept over her as she noticed the dark sweat stains under the arms.

  ‘Are you quite sure you’re all right now?’ he asked, sipping the coffee.

  Feeling she owed him an explanation she said: ‘Perhaps I’d better tell you what happened, Bryan. Stella Rainbow’s pianist is my husband. Until tonight I hadn’t set eyes on him for the past five years.’

  He stared at her, the ham sandwich halfway to his open mouth. ‘Your husband! Well! I knew he’d gone off with some singer, of course, but I thought he was abroad.’

  ‘So did I. But you know what these artists are — here today, the other side of the world tomorrow. If I’d known...’

  ‘Oh, my dear. If I’d known, I’d never have taken you. It must have been a terrible shock.’

  ‘It was.’

  There was a pause, then he put down his cup and edged closer to her on the settee. ‘It must be very difficult for a woman like yourself — managing without a man. I — er — I daresay you still miss him.’

  She shook her head firmly. ‘No. We’re better apart. We didn’t share the same interests.’

  His large face sagged dolefully. ‘Ah, I know so well what you mean. It’s the same with me and my wife. She’s not the slightest interest in me as a man. It’s been the great sadness of my life.’ He reached for her hand and squeezed it. ‘Now you — you’re a very different kind of woman; sensitive, intelligent...’ He cast a coy glance in her direction. ‘Beautiful too. Oh, yes...’ He took her shake of the head for modesty. ‘Yes, you are. Margaret now...’ He pursed his lips. ‘Good-hearted, I grant you, but she can be very crude at times. She hasn’t your good taste, Grace. No, she can be very crude, can Margaret.’