by Vicary, Tim
‘No more have you,’ said Rankin quizzically, watching her through his cigar smoke as she paced up and down her sitting room in Mrs McCafferty's boarding house. ‘Not really now, have you? With your big house and fine clothes and rich husband.’
She stopped pacing, turned, glared at him, her head slightly on one side like a sparrow. She had been unpinning her hair and was brushing it as they talked. It hung in a shining rope over her left shoulder, lovely in the lamplight. She wore a pale pink ruffled blouse and light blue ankle-length skirt. Her face was flushed, her eyes alight with anger.
‘Of course I understand! I'm a woman, aren't I?’
‘Sure you are that. It was the first thing I noticed about you, so it was, now you come to remind me of it.’
She giggled, and stepped out of his reach. ‘And that means, James Rankin, that I understand more about bringing up children than any priest in black skirts ever will. Or you, come to that. Don't you laugh at me, now.’
‘Never in life would I dream of it, ma'am. Surely not.’
At Christmas her son Tom came home. For three weeks she devoted herself entirely to him. Because of the love James had given her, she felt better able to be a mother to Tom than she had for years. She took him to the theatre and the pantomime, rode in the woods with him and cooked sausages on fires of driftwood on the cold winter beach. She invited his friends round for the day to play rugby in the grounds, hide and seek in the dozens of rooms of the house, and cricket with a soft ball in the library when it rained. She listened to his stories of school and marvelled at the lanky, freckled, confident youth he had become at eight years old.
Charles sent presents from Egypt for Christmas — a jewelled necklace and bracelet for her, a complete boxed set of lead soldiers in the livery of the Egyptian army for Tom. She watched him play with them on the carpet by the fire in the library, with shoeboxes and logs under the rug for hills, and thought: will Tom grow up cold and distant to me too, like Charles? Or if I give him love and attention now, will that change things?
Deborah tried, sometimes, to explain to Tom what she had been doing for the strikers' children. He listened and nodded but showed little real interest, and she wondered: does he think his mother is mad? Or is he just polite and bored because it is too far outside his own range of experience and interest? I wonder what he'll think when he's older.
What would he think if he really knew . . .
Stop it! Don't even think that, ever.
If you make a mistake he'll have to know.
I'm discreet, I won't make a mistake. Ever.
Perhaps you already have.
Of course not. I'm careful. I do what the book says, don't I?
Since that first time, when she had taken herself by surprise and been lucky, Deborah had been most careful to avoid the chance of becoming pregnant. In her work for the Women's Guild she had realised the crucial importance of the forbidden idea of birth control, and had bought and read Charles Knowlton's book on the subject: The Fruits of Philosophy, or the Private Companion of Young Married People. At the time it had seemed to her ironic that she should spread this knowledge, discreetly, among poor girls who seemed to have no trouble having babies, while she herself, after nine years of marriage, had only one. But since that first night in September she had obtained a sponge and used it carefully, every time, without a word to Rankin.
Who had not asked.
So I am careful. We've been making love for three months and I'm still not pregnant, she told herself that December. And if I've fallen in love that's not a mistake — it's a blessing. I know it won't last but I'm in control, no one is going to get hurt. It's my life and I know what I'm doing.
Don't I?
Towards the end of the Christmas holiday there were moments when her body began to ache for him unbearably. Her breasts became hard and tender when she thought of him and when she was alone in her bedroom she ran her hands down her stomach and remembered what Rankin's hands looked like, felt like . . .
When Tom had been back at school for some weeks she had a letter from Charles.
It was dated 28th January 1914. From Cairo, where he had been for the past year and a half.
My dear Deborah,
You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I am resigning my commission in the Army forthwith. This is not through any disgrace or conflict with senior officers here, but simply out of a fundamental disagreement with Liberal government policy. A number of the Irish officers here have been following the Home Rule affair with considerable concern, and we have come to the conclusion that we can no longer stand aside when the government itself is intent on destroying the Union which is at the heart of our Empire. General Richardson has been kind enough to offer me a commission as colonel in the Ulster Volunteer Force, and I shall be returning to Glenfee on the next available boat.
I shall, of course, expect to find you by my side, doing such female work as will best help to assist the Union.
Your loving husband
Charles.
When she got off the train in Dublin, she was shaking with nerves, and guilt, and desire for comfort. She met Rankin outside the station and shook hands with him, smiling, as they always did, so as to give nothing away to anyone who saw them. But the touch of his hand made her tremble, and their fingers caressed each other as they parted.
She took Charles's letter from her bag and showed it to him as they walked west along Eden Quay. He laughed.
‘Well, what are you going to do then? Go home, like a good little woman, and iron his army shirts?’
‘Don't be silly, I can't do that! Anyway, I don't care one way or the other about the Union.’
‘Well, you could always defy him. Forbid him entry to the house unless he changes his politics.’
‘He is my husband, James. It's his house, not mine.’
‘Your husband . . . Yes. So he is.’
He sighed and put his arm round her, and for a moment, indiscreet though it was, she leant against him. Perhaps it was her own tension, but she felt that his flippancy disguised some change within him too, something not quite as she had expected. After twenty yards she broke away and said: ‘James, is there anything wrong?’
‘No.’ The sparkling green eyes met hers briefly, then looked away, into the distance. ‘Why should there be? Other than the fact that this strike is ending, and we have been beaten.’
‘I know.’ She saw the lines of strain around his eyes, and thought of the hundreds of speeches he must have made, the weeks and months of committee meetings, marches, pickets, food collections. All for nothing, in the end. He looked thinner than before and there were streaks of grey in his hair. She wanted to take him home to Glenfee, give him a week of decent food, hot baths, warm bed . . .
Not now. Not with Charles coming home. She could never have done it anyway because of the servants.
‘I'm so sorry, James. But you did your best; no one can do more than that. There'll be another chance, another time.’
For the transport workers' union, at least. Not for us.
‘Oh yes.’ That wonderful, magnetic smile came again, almost as she had remembered it. But a little fainter, more weary than before. ‘Always another chance. And there were good things that came out of this time too. Like meeting a fine English lady with a generous heart . . .’
He took her hand and they walked through the quiet streets to Mrs McCafferty's boarding house. On the way it began to rain, and by the time they got there her hat and coat were dripping, and they were splashing through puddles on the cobblestones. Inside, a fire was already burning. She took off her hat and coat and hung them behind the door, then stood facing the fire, spreading out her skirt and watching the steam rise from its hem. She thought: I have a week here at least. A week until Charles's boat arrives.
He slipped his arms round her, kissed her under the ear. ‘Come to bed, my lovely.’
She laughed, turned, looked up at him. ‘What, so early, James? We've only just arrived!’
‘Yes, I know. I need you.’
And looking into his face she could see it was true — and it was the same for her, more urgent even than it had been the first time. So they kissed, and he unfastened her damp skirt and blouse and laid her back on the bed straight away, with no precautions, like two strangers meeting in the night. And that is what he is going to become, she thought, starkly. Now Charles is coming home I will have to bring this to an end. This is one of the last times. Soon the smell of his skin, the rasp of bristles on his cheeks, the taste of his lips, his hands on my breasts, his penis swelling there inside me will be all gone, memories, dreams in the night.
Over, finished with, done.
Afterwards, they took off their clothes and got into bed and he lay with his head on her breast, asleep, while she listened to the rain rattling the windows outside and the crackle of flames from the coal fire. It was late afternoon; somewhere downstairs Mrs McCafferty was preparing the evening meal, and there was the murmur of talk from men in the bar.
When he awoke, they made love again, slowly, leisurely, unspeaking. Then he got up and began to wash in the basin in front of the fire. She lay back on the pillows, watching him. Sad, motherly, content. A lake of grief filled slowly inside her, with the thought of what she had to say.
She thought: I can't do it. I've changed my mind, I won't tell him. I'll run away from home and stay with him forever.
The idea flooded through her like a revelation. It would be simple, terrible, permanent. It was a huge relief to her. The problem of how she would deal with Charles receded, became tiny, insignificant. A ship hull down on the horizon. This is where I belong, she told herself. Here, now, in this room with the only man who has ever loved me. How could I ever have thought of leaving him?
As he pulled his trousers on he stood quite still and looked at her. The skin of his deep, hairy chest glowed rosy in the firelight. His face was dark, lean, his jaw shadowed with the afternoon's growth of stubble. His hair was still tousled by their lovemaking and the firelight flickered softly in his eyes. She thought: he is like a beautiful savage. A Celtic chief from long ago.
He said: ‘I shall always remember you like that.’
‘Me?’ She had not considered her own appearance. ‘Why?’
‘Warm and happy like that in bed.’
She smiled sadly. ‘And I you. Why do you talk of remembering, James?’
‘Ah well, you see. That's because . . .’ He came and sat on the side of the bed, took her hand. For a moment he stroked it, thoughtfully.
Then he said: ‘I have to go away.’
Five words. Once when she was a little girl she had been bitten by a snake. It was a very small snake, an adder only eighteen inches long with fangs like tiny needles in a jaw no wider than a man's thumb. Her arm had swollen like a balloon, her heart had thumped like a trip-hammer and she had been unable to move for hours. She had nearly died. Afterwards, her father had shown her the dead snake and she had thought: all that pain and paralysis came from a drip of venom half the size of a raindrop. She thought now: he means for ever.
‘Away? Where?’
‘To England. London, at first.’
‘Oh!’ Relief flooded through her. ‘Then I can come with you.’
‘No, Deborah.’
‘What do you mean, no? Why not?’
He bowed his head, stroked her hand in his. ‘It wouldn't look right. There's a big dispute blowing up in the docks there and I'm to help, if I can. Some of the boys in the union, they see affairs like ours as a — well, a diversion — but there are others with strict moral standards. The two of us coming would just create scandal. They would hold it against me and I'd never get started.’
She understood that. ‘I didn't mean I'd get off the train on your arm, of course not. But soon, when you've found somewhere to stay.’
‘Maybe. I don't know.’ He paused and looked up. She felt her heart beat fast, as it had when the snake had bitten her. ‘Listen to me, Deborah. The Dear knows we've had a fine time together and I wouldn't have missed it for the world. But I hope you've not imagined . . . it can't last for ever, you know.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course you're right.’ Her mouth was quite dry, the words did not come out as they should. She slipped her hand out of his and sat up straight in the bed. ‘James, I came here tonight to tell you the same thing.’
He stood quite still. ‘The same thing? What do you mean, woman?’
‘That we can't go on. My husband is coming back and — it is foolishness what we're doing, as you say. Only . . . I wasn't going to say it, because . . .’ Tears overcame her. She shook her head for a moment to be rid of them. Then looked up and said: ‘Like you, I wouldn't have missed it for the world, my lover.’
There was a silence. Some workmen's boots clattered on the cobbles outside and there was a laugh from downstairs in the bar. Deborah waited, her eyes blurred, smiling nonetheless.
He said: ‘You were going to leave me? To go back to your husband?’
She nodded. ‘Please don't be angry, James. But I can't.’
He picked up his vest and pulled it on, over his head. It was nothing, but the action seemed callous, unconcerned, as though she did not matter to him any more.
‘You have to accept it, Deborah. I know it's hard at first but it's . . . for the best in the end, believe me. You must have known. You're a fine lady with a house to keep up and a husband coming home, and me — what have I got to offer? A series of rented, secret rooms, the chance of prison or being beaten up in a strike, a scandal in the end. It's foolishness, Deborah! Plain foolishness, what we're doing!’
‘And you have other women?'
‘No!’ His back was to the window so she couldn't see his face clearly, and she was glad of that. She didn't want to know what he looked like when he lied.
There was a silence. Deborah waited, her eyes quite dry, weeping. She felt like a woman turned to stone.
‘Well, yes, of course there are one or two.’ He shuffled, turned back on her, to stare out of the window. Then whirled round again, defiant. ‘We're adult people, Deborah. I never made any promises, did I? We both knew what we were doing.’
‘Did we?’ Deborah spoke with an immense weariness, like one already dead. And I would have given up everything for you, she thought. Pointlessly, she asked: ‘What did you think you were doing, then, James?’
For answer, he came and sat down again on the bed. A faint trace of a smile crossed his face. Magnetic, gleaming, as before. Its insincerity terrified her. Under the covers, she moved her legs aside, to avoid any possible contact with him.
‘I thought I was making love to one of the most beautiful, generous women I had ever met.’
‘Oh, for God's sake!’ She flung the covers aside and got out of bed, naked. Took her coat off the hook behind the door and wrapped it around her.
Rankin continued, stubbornly. ‘A beautiful, generous, rich woman who needed an affair because her husband was away and unkind, but who knew what the rules were and would not make a fuss when it ended.’
‘Rules, James?’ She whirled round and glared at him. ‘You, a man who wants to turn society upside down, talk to me of rules? I thought you believed in the freedom of people to make their own choices in life, to become what they really want to be! Haven't I heard you say that, ten or twelve times a day?’
‘Of course. But . . .’
‘But what? But you've changed your mind, you don't like me any more, is that it?’ Even as she said it she thought: I sound hysterical. But it doesn't matter, I don't care, if he leaves me now there's nothing left at all.
‘But I want to be free to go away to London, that's what I'm saying. I want the freedom to go there without feeling obliged to you or any other woman. That's the freedom I need in order to lead the workers properly. Don't you understand? Deborah, I'm not a husband, I could never be that sort of man. For me the sort of freedom I was talking about means just that. Freedom from any permanent ties.’
Silence. A coal fell in the fire and Deborah noticed it was mostly smoke now, rather than flame. She shivered inside her coat.
‘And what about my freedom?’
He sighed. ‘That's a matter for you. But the world's not perfect, we both know that. Think what you have to lose — a husband, a son, money, a place in society. One day you may be grateful for what I'm saying now.’
It was true, she thought. The cruel truth she had come to tell him. But even more true if he didn't want her. Numbly, she asked: ‘When do you go to London, James?’
‘Tomorrow. There's a ferry to Holyhead at seven.’
She could still be hurt. ‘So you knew that all along and you still brought me here to bed before you told me. Is that it?’
‘So we had something good to remember from today. Yes. Why not?’
‘I see.’ There was a dressing table in the corner of the room, where she kept a hairbrush and a few items of makeup. She sat down on the stool in front of it and began to brush her hair, mechanically, like an automaton. As though her own face in the mirror was of paramount interest to her suddenly, and he was of no concern at all. If I concentrate on small things, now, I will not break down, I will get away with some surface pride, at least.
‘Look, James, I want to get dressed now. On my own. So if you don't mind, I'd like you to put your clothes on, go downstairs and tell Mrs McCafferty I won't be staying to dinner. Then send her boy out to call me a cab. I'll be going straight back to the station tonight.’
Like a whore, she thought. That's what they do, isn't it? Go to an hotel with a man for an hour or two in the afternoon, then take a cab on to their next appointment. Only I have nowhere to go.
Nowhere in the world that matters, any more.
When he had gone she stared into the mirror hard. Defying her eyes to mist over, refusing to let the tears come.
Not in front of him, she thought.
Not in the cab, or on the train.
Not until I get home, to Glenfee.
8
ON THE night she had left Rankin and come home to Glenfee Deborah had shut herself in her bedroom and cried herself to sleep. For the next few days she lay in bed until noon, staring at the ceiling, numb, unweeping. Then she got up and wandered through the grounds, or rode out on lonely bridleways by the lough.