by Allan Jones
He sat next to her, some distance apart. “You’ve been avoiding me,” he said flatly.
“Yes, I suppose I have.”
They were silent for a while, then she turned to him. “I needed some time, I needed to think.”
“You don’t hate me then?”
“Of course not, idiot!” She rested her head on her knee and looked sideways at him. “You don’t know much about women, do you?” she said softly.
“No, not really. Never had the time; duty, career, pleasing my father and all of that.”
“There have been women though?”
He sighed. “A few. Never seemed to last though. Then I guess I sort of stopped, just like that.”
“Why? Afraid you’d get hurt?”
“It never occurred to me. Looking back, I guess I was the one doing the hurting. I was the one who always finished things, or just walked away; it never happened to me.”
He fell silent for a while and she waited for him. “It was like it was something you were supposed to do, part of the schedule: grow up, get a career, have your first drink, your first cigarette, your first woman. You did it without thinking about it.”
“Yes, it’s like that for women too; before they know it they’re married, kids, house work and then they wonder how they ever got there.”
“You were married!”
“Oh yes, I went down that road. If it hadn’t been for the war, that would have been me. It’s what I’ve been thinking about. In a way I’m glad it didn’t happen all the way. It wouldn’t have been for me: I’d have eventually become very unhappy. Being tied to the kitchen sink isn’t for me. But I guess I would have stuck with it. I thought then that it was what I wanted, but now, looking back, I realise it was all a silly dream, an illusion. The reality of it is quite different. The passion cools, things begin to settle down, and you see the world as it is.”
She stared off into the distance and fell silent for a while. Then she spoke. “I’ve made a decision. I’m not going to do the grieving widow any more. I see now that getting married and wanting all those things was wrong for me. Shame he had to die for me to see it. And I won’t be guilty anymore; I won’t! He was as much to blame as me, and his death wasn’t my fault, not my fault at all. Why should I carry that burden? Why shouldn’t I carry on with my life? Why should I be the victim? I can’t let my life stop because of what happened and I won’t.”
Paul spoke up. “Sometimes life chooses for us, dictates what we do,” he said quietly, “especially now, with the world gone mad. I was trained for this war, ready for it; but, when it came, I couldn’t do it, so what did I do? I ran away. I ran and ended up here. And now I’m being trained again, to do what? More of the same? Us against them? Their thugs against our thugs?” Their eyes locked for a while till he looked away.
“We’re always in training, from the moment we’re born,” she said. “The difference is, what are we being trained for? This time words like freedom and tyranny have very real meanings. You decide where you stand, and you keep standing there till either you win or they do; it’s as simple as that.”
“I know. It’s as if the world has turned into black and white, like in the cinema. If you want to see colour again, then you have to intervene, do something about it. Knowing it doesn’t make it any easier, though.”
She leaned over so that their shoulders were touching and said, “But that’s the point: it is easy, not complicated at all like ordinary times, no argument. Fight or go under; there it is.”
He looked sideways at her. “So fight we will,” he said, and smiled at her.
“And we’ll win,” she said emphatically.
He tentatively put his arm around her shoulder and was relieved that she leant into his embrace. “Clarke tells me you’re a bit of a hellcat,” he said lightly.
“You’d better believe it, buster,” she said in her best Hollywood accent.
He laughed. “Carter gets me in his clutches tomorrow,” he said.
“I’ll give you a tip…don’t forget to duck.”
“When?”
“All the time.”
“Is he that bad?”
“Worse! He’s fearsome! Turns out he’s been a street fighter, a boxer and a wrestler. He knows every dirty trick going, and since his time in the Far East, he specialises in what he calls ‘chinee fighting’: Ju Jitsu, Karate, you know? I’ve a few bruises to show for it. He won’t go easy on you, mind; he put me through hell.”
“Yes, so I’m told.”
She shivered as a sudden cool breeze blew. “You’re cold,” he said. “Shall we go back inside?”
She huddled closer to him. “No, let’s stay a little longer; it’s so peaceful here, let’s make the most of it.”
He felt awkward as he held her, unsure of what to do next, and the silence and his unease grew until she lifted her head and whispered in his ear: “Kiss me then!”
She lay back on the grass, drawing him with her. He kissed her slowly and tenderly as her hands lazily played over his muscled back. His body was rock hard: no softness or flabbiness, well-toned, and she thrilled at his weight pressing on her, squashing her breasts. They exchanged kiss after kiss after kiss, holding tightly onto each other till she could stand his weight no more and she heaved him over on to his back. She was lying on top of him, her legs astride his, and she took his face in both of her hands and kissed him.
His hands roved up and down her back, feeling her contours, her slim waist, her bottom. He kept them there, gently fondling, while he returned her kisses, more passionate now.
She broke off, rested on her elbows and looked into his eyes. “You really are a very beautiful man,” she purred.
“Beautiful? Shouldn’t that be handsome?” he joked.
“No! You’re more than just handsome; there’s a kind of beauty in you, more than you know.”
“And you are a wonder,” he said softly.
She raised herself and sat astride him. She looked down at him for a moment, then in one swift movement she pulled her frock over her head and cast it aside. He gasped at the sight of her moonlit nakedness, as she began to work on his shirt buttons, kissing his emerging flesh bit by bit. She moved forward for him to undo his trousers and before long they were around his knees.
She moved back and took hold of his penis, pulling and squeezing it as she rubbed its tip into her cleft. His hands came up to her breasts as she found her clitoris with the tip and she used it for her pleasure. He watched her face, savouring what she was doing. She had closed her eyes, her mouth was open, she began to pant.
Ripples of pleasure flowed through him, beginning in his toes and gushing upward like a tidal wave to burst behind his eyes. He began to tremble, and held tighter onto her. She rose up and put him inside her in one fluid movement. His eyes opened wide and found hers, as she leaned forward and slid her arms under his shoulders, forcing his arms up around hers.
She began to rock, backward and forward, gently at first, then gathering pace. He wanted to look at her, but her head was buried in his shoulder; he tried to turn his head, but her grip on him prevented it. He felt helpless, controlled! Her hair fell across his face and he took some into his mouth, savouring the taste and the smell of it. She was moving on him much faster now, steady, relentless. He momentarily felt frightened of the control she had over him, unused to it, but the awesome sensation took him over and he went with it, sucking her rocking shoulder, then biting it, desperately focussing all his attention thereto stop himself from falling.
She held him tighter. He couldn’t breathe properly; the breath was being forced out of him by her now harder movements, as she quickened the pace. He was helpless, unable to move his hips to match her, and he could only lie there at her pleasure. It was a totally new experience for him and he relished it. He felt as if he was shrinking, falling, disappearing under her, melting into her as he held her tightly. He could hear animal gasps coming from her and this excited him still further. He tried again to match
her thrusts; he needed to, but she had him pinioned, dependent on her. He felt wetness trickling down his cheek and realised it was his tears.
She quickened her pace, faster and faster and faster, and he felt himself dissolving, falling helplessly; he feared he was losing consciousness, but could do nothing about it. Then she cried out, thrust on him even harder, furiously; cries escaped his lips as finally, mercifully, her body shuddered violently and she fell on him as she exploded in orgasm.
He caught his breath beneath her, grateful for the respite as she panted, her head resting on his chest. She raised herself up and was again kissing him furiously, postponing his recovery. He couldn’t breathe! He gently lifted her head away and gazed wondrously into her eyes. He saw mischief in them as she grinned salaciously at him. “Had enough?” she said.
He nodded his head, smiling foolishly. She let him slip out of her and put her hand between her legs to retrieve it: it was still hard! “Oh, poor boy, you poor thing,” she said, squeezing it hard. She slid down his body to lie between his legs and took him in her mouth. She could taste herself, and this inflamed her excitement. She sucked and licked and drew it in as far as she could manage. She looked up at him, wanting him to see her like this, but he was lost in his pleasure, one arm thrown over his eyes. She began a rhythmic movement, fluttering her fingers over his testicles. She moved slowly, paused to tease, then faster, then faster, till his body arched, and, with a despairing cry, he shuddered as finally he was finished! She let him fallout of her mouth, discreetly swallowed, then climbed up his body and collapsed on top of him.
They lay there till they caught their breath, then he twisted from under her till they were lying side by side, entwined in each other’s arms. She watched till he opened his eyes, then she kissed them lightly. “Happy?” she asked.
“Yes, very happy. My God! What was that? What have you done to me?”
“I’ve fucked you!” she said plainly.
He kissed her, his hands lazily stroking her back, until, finally, she sat up, reached for her dress and shrugged it on. He made himself decent while she searched for her shoes, then they sat as before, his arm around her. They sat in silence for a long time, just grateful for the moment.
An owl hooted nearby. “Hey, do you think that’s a real owl?” she asked him excitedly.
“Why shouldn’t it be?” he replied.
“Well… Clarke’s been teaching us all kinds of birdcalls; maybe that’s him now, spying on us, or maybe it’s the Germans!”
He laughed and hugged her tighter, then kissed her cheek. “Believe me, if he was spying on us, we’d never know it, and if it was the Germans I’d know it because German owls hoot with a German accent.” He demonstrated.
She giggled; a very sexy giggle, he thought. He felt very pleased with himself, proud that she was here, now, with him. She became serious. “Paul, how are we going to play this?”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, shall we be open about it, or keep it quiet?”
“What do you want to do?”
“I don’t know. I’d like to shout it to the world, but…maybe they frown on such things here. They may make it more difficult for us than they already are; maybe they’ll send one of us away!”
“They might,” he acknowledged, then thought for a while. “Tell you what, let’s ask Jack or Nobby; they’d know the score.”
“But then they’d know.” She felt herself begin to blush at the thought.
“They already know something’s up, remember. Nobby even threatened me earlier on; at least, I think he did.”
“Did he? What did he say?”
“Oh, he hinted that he and Jack would beat me to a pulp if I took advantage of you or hurt you in any way. You’ve really got to them, you know.”
“Oh, that’s so sweet!”
“Not for me it isn’t.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t let them hurt you.”
“Thanks very much!”
“Y’know, I often seem to have that effect on men: somehow they seem to get protective of me. I don’t need protecting, I’m a big girl now. It’s nice of them, but…I find it somehow irritating and a little bit insulting; it’s as if they’re not really seeing the real me, only what they want to see, what they think I am. They don’t try! They just make…assumptions.”
She paused, grasping for the right words, then turned to him. “Promise me you won’t do that. Promise me you’ll try harder than that to see who I am, treat me like… like an equal, like a partner, someone to share things with. Don’t treat me like your possession, like you owned me. I’m free now and I want to stay being free. Do you understand?” Her voice was animated as she spoke, then she added in a softer tone: “But I still want you… for as long as I can have you. I’m glad I met you and that you’re here.”
He kissed her, then said gently, “I’m glad too, and I do promise. I won’t cosset you, I won’t hold you back, and I’ll love you how you deserve to be loved, for who you are, and I’m looking forward to finding out just who that is.”
She sighed and kissed him. “Thank you,” she said, looking into his eyes; “and one more thing: if I place my heart and my faith in you, then you must do the same; you must trust me, no matter what, and I will you, or we’ll have nothing.”
“Honesty and truth are part of what we’re fighting for,” he said. “I swear to you now that you have my faith and my trust. I will place myself in your hands completely and utterly, but… please don’t break my heart.”
“I can’t promise that; no-one can. What if I die? What if you do? I’ve been there before, remember; but while we live we’re together, we belong together, remember that!”
“You’re right, and I will remember.”
She looked at him earnestly and said, “Whatever the future holds, whatever happens, let’s promise to never doubt each other. It’s all about trust; without trust there’s nothing. That’s what we can hold onto. That’s the precious thing, to completely trust and never doubt. That will get us through.”
He held her close and rocked her gently, gazing at the moonlit ripples on the lake; she felt a contentment she hadn’t felt in years, not even with Bill! Paul was very different, she realized; she’d been blinded, by the superficial resemblance, into supposing he was another Bill. She couldn’t have been more wrong: he was more complete somehow, not just a man, but someone who was, instinctively and unconsciously, a very real and very whole person.
They sat in silence for a while, savouring the peace, till Paul suggested they go back. Reluctantly, she agreed, and he helped her up. As they brushed each other down, Amelia noted with a little guilt that Paul’s white shirt had grass stains on the back.
“Better him than me,” she thought to herself, deciding not to tell him. They walked back, arm in arm.“Will you ask the sergeants then?” she asked him.
“I’ll go to the mess right away,” he declared.
They neared the house and, mindful that they could now be seen, they separated and Amelia walked beside him, her hands clasped behind her back. “I’ll go to my room,” she said.
“Yes, that’s best,” he replied. They walked on a little, then up the steps to the door.
“There isn’t a key to the lock on my door.”
“Isn’t there?”
“I usually prop a chair against it.”
“Do you?”
Turning to him, she kissed him lightly on the cheek, then whispered, “I won’t tonight.”
She opened the door and walked briskly through it, and raised her voice to say, “Goodnight then, thanks for walking me back; maybe see you tomorrow?” Then she was gone, striding up the staircase without a backwards glance.
An hour later, Paul joined her in her room. He’d found Carter playing cards with two others, and clearly winning. Paul had watched intently; he felt sure Carter was cheating, but he couldn’t see how. Finally, cleaned out, the men left and Paul broached the subject. There were no rules as such, it seemed;
as long as the work rate was kept up, then it would be no-one’s business but their own. Carter had growled a similar warning as Clarke’s, but Paul soon won him over with his assurances. After that, Carter had congratulated him and promised to square it with Clarke, much to Paul’s relief.
Paul and Amelia stayed up late into the night. Inbetween more lovemaking, they chatted like excited children on a sleep-over, telling each other their hopes and fears, likes and dislikes, and all other sorts of trivia. Then they moved on to the things that really scared them and the talk inevitably led to the war. They grew sombre and serious for a while; then, with an effort, shrugged it off and returned to lighter topics. Finally, they fell asleep entwined in one another, till Amelia’s alarm clock woke them, giving warning that it was time for Paul to pad back to his room to get ready for the day’s events.
CHAPTER 7
They met up as often as they could, spending every night together, sometimes in her room, sometimes in his. They coached each other in French and German, concentrating on accents, slang and idiom, and tested each other relentlessly. Clarke taught them everything he knew about poaching, setting animal traps, living off the land, constructing hides, laying proximity alarms and traps to warn of an approaching enemy. He taught them how to move at night with stealth, keeping to the shadows, avoiding sudden movement, avoiding being silhouetted against the skyline.
One time they were taken out in pairs in a lorry, their task being to get back past vigorous pursuit from the SOE instructors and the local Home Guard. Paul had naturally been paired with Amelia and they had come very close to being caught, almost walking directly into a patrol. They had sunk very slowly to their knees and then lay prone, very still, scarcely breathing, while the patrol passed them barely ten yards away.
They waited longer than necessary for the danger to pass since they had taken the opportunity to make love extremely quietly before carrying on, watching out warily for Clarke’s tripwires and alarms. They were the first back and, as they stepped through the gate and sanctuary, Clarke emerged from the shadows and congratulated them heartily.