He laughed. ‘She’s not a blooming fortune-teller.’
‘Isn’t she? Oh goodness, I’ve been coming to the wrong place for months.’
The dull wife had humour. He remembered the timid rabbit, the ‘rape’ victim, the aprons, a well-set table, gravy in a little silver-plated boat. These days, cutlery was piled in a shallow box on the sideboard, fight among yourselves, not enough napkins today because she’s done no washing. No longer apologetic about dried egg and meat-free dishes, she giggled and laughed during tasteless meals, and their twins were happier, too. Gloria was becoming seriously beautiful. Peter continued a star, while their father delivered his collection of near-risqué jokes along with mashed potatoes and home-grown carrots. ‘It would be easy to fall in love with you, Marie Bingley, but it’s forbidden. We must not touch. She is a cruel and heartless woman.’
‘Yes.’
‘What does yes mean, madam?’
‘How the hell should I know? I’m always under the spell of Mesmer when she gets stuff out of me and plants ideas. Ask her. I just know I’m different, that’s all. I’ve changed. Sometimes, I don’t know me.’ Norman didn’t matter any more. Marie wanted her marriage to work.
She was different, all right. Tom leapt from the car and ran up the stone steps of a rather grand Georgian terrace.
He was talking quite normally, asking questions, making comments about his wife; then, suddenly, he woke up. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘What have you done to me, Sally?’
Sally Barnes laughed. ‘You now know all you need to know about that wonderful, sweet woman you married. It’s been deposited in your mind and in hers, and it may surface, may not. From now, we go onward, not backwards.’
‘What use is that?’ he blustered. ‘I need to know her past and the reasons for her problems. Was she abused?’
‘Yes.’
‘By whom?’
The woman lifted her shoulders and raised both hands, palms upward. ‘Tom, I don’t believe in shock therapy. If I did, I’d have handed Marie over to some mouthy psychiatrist, and she’d be lying on a trolley with electrodes on her head. The Marie I found, the inner Marie, remembers everything. She’s a fine woman with a good brain, so just leave it. There are people all over this country whose brains are fit only for serving on toast after too many electro-convulsive sessions, and no one knows how much is too much, so I kept her away from bloody psychiatry. You both know all there is to know. The question you ask about her abuser needs no reply from me, because the answer’s taken root in your head. Shocks may come, though they won’t be electric. Find yourselves.’
‘But I don’t remember—’
‘You will if and when you need to. As will she. I do not use invasive treatments, and it is my belief that you will thrive. No sexual contact. Not just yet.’
Tom narrowed his eyes. ‘And I’m paying you?’
‘Handsomely, and I love you. But not enough to take my knickers off.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Buggery? Only if desperate, and don’t get caught.’
As he left the room, Tom realized that he felt lighter, happier. This had been the case with Marie for months, so there was wisdom in the hypno-psychologist. He sat in the car and studied his wife. The blue coat suited her.
‘Well?’
‘Exactly. She put me under, my dear. While I was not of this world, she probably told me all about you and all about my failings. When I emerged from the trance, I remembered nothing.’
Marie tutted. ‘So, if and when we do remember, we are to contact her, Tom, in case we’re traumatized. We should make sure we remember in the early hours of a cold morning, then we’ll get our money’s worth. And we should be extraordinarily traumatized. We might wear strange clothes and scream in the streets.’ A barrier had been taken down, and she no longer spent time thinking of Norman; instead, she thought of Tom.
‘The neighbours would die of shock.’
She grinned impishly. ‘It would make a change for them. Most have been no further than Southport, and hell could be illuminating.’
Where had she hidden for so many years? Marie had been one of those plain women who, when approaching middle age, reaped the benefit of having been ordinary in youth. She had good skin, pretty eyes and a generous mouth. And he suddenly knew that it was his fault, if fault could ever be the right word. He’d made no effort to coax and coach her, had failed to enliven a girl whose sense of humour seemed to have died. Until now. It wasn’t too late. Madam up-the-stairs Mesmer knew what she was doing, and he saw straight through her. Sex was off the menu. It was off the list so that they would disobey like naughty children. Was Marie ready? Was he ready to be rejected?
‘Let’s go home, Tom.’
He started the car. ‘I love you,’ he said.
‘And I love you, though I have to confess to having wanted to kill you.’
‘That’s normal.’
Her head shot sideways and she stared at him. ‘Rubbish.’
‘Females of all species get bogged off with being imposed upon.’
‘Sexually?’ she asked.
‘And darning.’
Marie went back to studying the comings and goings on Liverpool’s Harley Street. The corners of her mouth twitched while she composed in her mind a picture of a cow with a darning mushroom and an oversized needle. All species? ‘You’re incurable, doc.’
‘Yes. Let’s try to get fish and chips on the way home, eh? I can’t go another six rounds with your vegetable pie. It’s gross.’
‘Darn your own socks, then.’
‘Bloody hell, Marie—’
‘Take me home. Now.’ He took her home.
The next morning found a stark naked doctor sitting on the cushioned seat of a wicker chair near a bedroom window whose curtains and blackouts remained closed. Feeling slightly punch-drunk, he gazed at the form in the bed, a woman with whom he had lived for many years, a woman to whom he had made love just once. The experience had been . . . intense.
She hadn’t told him to stop, hadn’t cried or sighed sadly, but she had fallen asleep very quickly afterwards. And why was he sitting here like a child after a spelling test? Was he waiting for marks out of ten? Did he need a reference, a badge of office to sport on a lapel, I finally managed it? Had he managed it? Apart from one shallow scratch on a shoulder, he had emerged unmarked, so the token bite-back of the tigress hadn’t been employed. Nor had the Vaseline . . . It was progress, surely? Dear God, let it be progress, and don’t allow me to hurt her ever again. That had to become the eleventh commandment: thou shalt not damage thy wife.
She turned over, and he found himself biting the knuckles of a closed right fist. He was perverse, and he knew it, because he’d started desiring her as soon as she had stopped wanting to stay married to him. After failing to catch Eileen Watson, he’d commenced a search for treatment so that Marie might be resurrected for his sake. He was a selfish man.
Marie shot into a sitting position. ‘Tom? Where are you?’
‘I’m here. Switch on that lamp.’
She complied. ‘We shouldn’t have. She said . . . We’ll be in trouble.’
‘So?’ Her hair was tousled, and he found himself thinking of children on Blackpool beach, sand pies, tumbling locks of curly hair, shoes buried somewhere with Dad’s glasses and the Daily Express. ‘You could have told me to stop. I told you to tell me to stop.’
‘She’ll kill us. We weren’t supposed to . . . We had to wait until . . . Don’t you dare laugh. Laugh, and I’ll darn your mouth shut. As the leading light in the WVS, I am a dab hand with needle and wool, so be careful.’
She sounded happy. He wanted her to be happy. ‘You’d have to catch me first. Calm down. She told us not to have sex so that we would. Remember Peter when he was a terrible two? You forbade him to eat his vegetables, so he ate them. Then he ate Gloria’s, yours and some of mine. Simple reverse psychology. You see, the level at which Sally works on us is forever the child. In all of us, that two-ye
ar-old thrives and keeps banging its head on the wall of life. It’s petulant, disobedient and bloody-minded. She dug us out, Marie.’
‘Did she?’
He nodded. ‘Did I hurt you?’
‘No.’
Instinct forced him not to pursue this line of questioning. ‘We have half an hour before reveille. Move over, I’m coming aboard.’
She whispered her worry about screaming and disturbing the twins, and he told her that she could scream into his mouth, and that he would swallow her noise. ‘Why would you scream?’
‘Because something’s happening. Inside me.’
Tom Bingley would never know why he wept in this acutely erotic moment. Perhaps it was the sense of loss, of time wasted, of the pain she had suffered. Guilt settled like a rock in his stomach, and he was unequal to the task of serving her properly. He was useless, stupid, and filled with self-loathing.
‘I can hear her,’ Marie whispered. ‘She told me while I was under what to do if this happened. She’s right. What she tells us comes back when we need it. Clever woman. Don’t cry. I’ll be gentle.’
Tom blinked the saline from his eyes. Reverse psychology, now role reversal. Sally Barnes was worth every penny. And he was the one who screamed.
Mel fixed her gaze on Gloria Bingley. This same Gloria Bingley had been, until recently, a dumpy girl with sepia skin, dull hair and no discernible physical assets. Then she had blossomed. A small part of Mel was envious, because people with darker features were more clearly defined, while blondes lacked edges, since hair drifted into skin without showing a join. Gloria was going to be a stunner. She was also picking up on the academic front, because improved looks gave her confidence in several areas of life. ‘What’s wrong now?’ Mel asked.
‘It’s embarrassing,’ Gloria pronounced. ‘Isn’t it enough to have a brother who calls me Titty-Fal-Lal since I developed? Now I’ve also got parents who’ve gone from stalemate to at-it-like-rabbits. My mother’s an out-and-out trollop, and my dad’s a sex maniac. This is no way for an impressionable girl to live. I’ve been reading a bit of psychology, and the books say we should be nurtured mentally and physically. Well, all the nurturing’s going on upstairs and we don’t get a look-in. Just as well, since I’d hate to watch them at play.’
Mel delivered a raspberry. ‘At least you have a decent brother. All I have are three criminals in the brother department. Mind, I have to say, however begrudgingly, that the hellions have improved. Then there’s Mam, Gran and Keith the Kisser. My mother’s just married the man of her dreams, and it’s a full-blown nightmare. Miss Morrison seems to think it’s hilarious, but I’ve always suspected a bawdy side to her – something to do with a caretaker in a cellar centuries ago – don’t ask. Mam’s pregnant already, and they’ve been married all of five minutes. I could finish up with twenty siblings.’
Gloria hadn’t thought about that side of things. ‘Buggery,’ she spat.
‘Illegal, but buggers don’t produce brats, so that’s something in their favour.’
‘I don’t want any mucky-bummed infants parked in the hall. I keep my bike there when it’s cold or raining. Then there’s the coat stand. Yuk. Mel, what can I do?’
Mel shrugged. ‘If they were dogs, the vet would see to them. But as things stand, all we have is a rumour that Hitler plans to have undesirables neutered. Your mother and father aren’t Jewish, Romany or mentally retarded, so—’
‘My mother can’t count.’
‘Gloria, cling to that thought. If we lose the war, the invaders will have your mother spayed.’ She sighed heavily. ‘What’s come over them? Is the government putting something in the water so that we’ll have another generation to fight for us in twenty years?’
Gloria shrugged. ‘Dad says we’re programmed to cull ourselves. If we don’t kill each other, we have plagues instead. Bubonic, Teutonic—’
‘Titanic, but that was just a few people on a ship. Oh, Gloria. What have we done to deserve this?’
They burst out laughing simultaneously, because they realized that they were talking like parents. Delinquents in their families were from the older generation, and the only sense in two houses, one on St Michael’s Road, the other on St Andrew’s, was the property of two teenage girls and Peter Bingley who, being a mere boy, was not really up to scratch.
After tapping on the back door, said mere boy put in an appearance. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘But I had to get out. They’re drunk in charge of a gramophone. One more run of Ravel’s Bolero and I would have had to turn them in to the law.’
‘See?’ Gloria threw up her hands. ‘Even this ghastly person can’t cope. Now, if you and he were at it, that would be different.’
Peter punched his sister’s arm. ‘Shut up, Fal-Lal. Mel knows I like her.’
‘We shall marry after Cambridge,’ Mel said with mock seriousness. ‘And stop making him blush. He’s too pretty to have a stained face. So. We’re a quorum, the meeting is convened, and there’s nothing we can do. Any other business?’
Gloria insisted that Mel had no real problem, because Eileen and Keith would soon be replaced by her grandmother, who was hardly likely to start running around with a man. ‘We’re stuck with it,’ she grumbled.
‘Would you rather they split up?’ Mel asked. ‘Because people do separate, you know.’
‘Separate?’ shouted Gloria. ‘Separate? We’d need a fireman’s hose to keep our two apart. Where did we go wrong? We brought them up as best we could, didn’t we, bro?’
Peter shook his head. ‘I blame it on saccharine and Pasha. Mum was far better on real sugar, and Dad hates those Turkish cigarettes. But I think we should try to—’
The earthquake happened then. Although the siren had sounded, no one had bothered to go to the Anderson. People were becoming too blasé, too careless. Heinkels were suddenly overhead, that sick phut-phut sound of accompanying fighters making a backbeat for the bombers’ continuous drone. The three youngsters dived under the kitchen table. And they heard it, picked out easily the bomb that bore their names. It whistled happily, the pitch changing as it neared the target. ‘Mam!’ Mel screamed. ‘Get under something.’ She held on to Gloria’s hand. It occurred to her that she hadn’t finished her geography homework, that she might never finish it . . .
It landed eventually. The blast rippled through the house, and Peter threw himself on top of the two girls. Dad had told him about blast victims. They were lifted out unscathed, not a mark, not a drop of blood. But inside, major organs had been battered and broken through being shaken about, and Peter didn’t want that to happen to Fal-Lal or the beautiful one. All air was sucked from the room. With it travelled pots, pans and cutlery, every item following shards of glass from the over-sink window. When air returned, it brought with it dust, bits of plaster and debris that made breathing a near impossibility.
Peter crawled out, stood up, and dragged the two girls to the door. He doused all lights before depositing both in the garden. For a moment, he listened to the disappearing aircraft and watched a blood-red sky. Liverpool was burning. In fact, it was nearer, so it was probably Bootle. Nearer still, a newly released missile was doing its job. It had hit a house in the next avenue, was burning fiercely, and people were screaming. The bomb meant for St Michael’s Road had left a huge crater in the playing fields behind Miss Morrison’s house.
A believer in Christ, Peter bit back a prayer and replaced it with a curse. ‘God damn you for all eternity,’ he whispered. ‘May you rot in pieces.’ He ran into the house. Miss Morrison, dusty but unhurt, demanded a cup of tea. He explained that she might have to wait, because the kitchen needed checking for safety, especially where town gas was concerned.
Upstairs, Eileen and Keith emerged from a huge Victorian wardrobe that looked hearty enough to survive Armageddon. ‘Mel?’ Eileen asked Peter as he entered the room.
‘Outside.’ Peter sat on the floor, his legs suddenly frail. ‘We were in the kitchen and it caught the back-blast from a bomb in the fi
eld. The girls are all right, though they might be getting a bit cold. Kitchen’s a mess, and a bungalow at the other side of the playing field took a direct hit. I’ve turned the gas off at the mains just in case, and Miss Morrison wants a cup of tea.’
Keith muttered about a paraffin stove in the shed before going to check on the girls.
‘Are you sure my Mel’s all right, Peter?’
‘I put them in the fresh air. There was dust and stuff all over the place. I was all right. I was fine till now. There was no air, so I put Mel and Gloria on the path. Go and see them, Mrs Watson – I mean Greenhalgh.’
‘I’ll send Keith to help you down the stairs. You’re in shock, love.’
Alone, the fourteen-year-old crawled out to the staircase and finally allowed his tears to break free. He was at a strange place in life, neither man nor boy, a slave to hormonal invasion, insanely in love with Mel, not old enough for that, not young enough to be satisfied with a googly or a six at the crease. And his parents going all doolally wasn’t making life any easier. He knew what they were up to; the whole of St Andrew’s Road probably knew and, while Peter was glad that the separate rooms thing was over, he wondered why they had to keep reminding him that the only fun he could have was solitary, untidy and slightly embarrassing?
‘Peter?’
Through silly, girlish tears, he saw her looming over him. Although a couple of stairs lower, she was standing, and he felt small, mostly because he was sobbing. ‘Mel. There’s grit in my eyes.’
‘Yes.’ She squeezed in next to him and gave him a cuddle. ‘You may have saved our lives.’
‘Doubt it.’ Sometimes, she seemed almost glacial, but this was not one of those times. She cradled his head; he could hear her heartbeat behind the rise and fall of her breasts. ‘Mel . . .’
‘I know. We’re too young, beautiful boy. Just make your way to Cambridge. You’ll be right up there, top of my list after I’ve invented the ten-day week.’
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