There was a brick fireplace, and opposite it a glass twenties-style cocktail cabinet tucked in under a dog-leg staircase. A sofa and two chairs were grouped around the hearth, and a floor-standing wireless and gramophone was under the little lattice window beside them.
A steady clunk-clunk came from a grandfather clock.
Enchanted, Bill took a step forward.
‘Say, this is swell – ouch!’
His head connected with a heavy oak beam.
Mary winced and went to him. ‘You all right? You Americans are so tall.’
‘It hurts.’ He rubbed the spot.
Mary lifted her hands to his head. ‘Let me see.’
She gave it a rub and a peck.
‘You’ll live.’
He brought in the string shopping-bags of food and cartons of cans to Mary, who had opened the french doors to air the room, and was now in the very basic kitchen, looking into the scullery beyond with its boiler and mangle. She shut the door firmly on them. ‘Well, I’m not going to use that room this visit.’
When he returned with her weekend case and his bag, and set them down at the foot of the stairs, she was on her knees at the grate, filling it with tightly rolled nuggets of twisted newspaper, topped with some kindling.
He strode to her, seized her around the waist and lifted her away. In a mock Red Indian voice he said: ‘Making fire – man’s work.’
Mary gave him a box of Swan Vestas along with a pained look. ‘Right Big Chief – carry on. I’ll get the kitchen straightened out.’
Bill lit a match – set it to the paper. It took very slowly then seemed to go out. He tried somewhere else, the paper charring but never bursting into flame. He was still concentrating on it when the heat from the burnt out match reached his skin.
‘Ouch.’ He shook his hand vigorously to fan it cool.
Mary, in the kitchen giggled at the yell and took a peek.
He lit another one, tried somewhere else, with only marginally better results. It slowly smoked. He called out: ‘This is never going to work. There’s no draught.’
Mary made a face, closed a cupboard and returned to the sitting-room.
She shook her head pityingly. ‘Don’t you have open fires in America, Sitting Bull? Here – give me one of those.’
He passed her a newspaper. Mary opened it out. ‘Move aside.’
Bill got out of the way as she spread it over the mouth of the fireplace, pinning it at the top corners and holding it in the middle of the bottom edge with her foot.
She spoke over her shoulder. ‘This is what you do.’
Immediately a draught started up the chimney, sucking the paper inwards so that she had to hold it tightly.
Bill saw the roaring glow that shone through the paper.
‘Hey, that’s brilliant.’
She jerked her head in his direction.
‘Come and take over.’
He crouched over her, taking the corners first, then getting his foot next to hers to replace it as she ducked away.
Mary made for the stairs, picked up her weekend case and climbed the twisting steps. It was dark at the top. She opened a wooden door with its latch, to be confronted by a small bathroom. The iron bath on claws and balls was water-stained, the taps corroded. She tried one. It wouldn’t turn. The other did, but nothing came out of it. She frowned, turned her attention to the wash bowl. Ice-cold water roared from one tap and trickled out of the other.
There was only one other door on the tiny landing. She opened it. Apart from a very small oak wardrobe and a kidney-shaped dressing-table, a large double bed filled most of the room. It was covered in a padded eiderdown, and had a dark, brooding headboard of carved mahogany.
Mary stared at it, feeling suddenly weak at the knees. This was where….
It would happen.
She put her case down, and tentatively sat on the edge of the bed. The springs gave such a groan that her nerves overcame her and she fled.
As she came hurriedly down the stairs he turned in consternation to look at her. She paused, hand to her throat.
But before he could say anything, she suddenly started to laugh.
Bill frowned. ‘Hey! What’s so funny?’
She pointed at him, but he had already started to feel the heat. He spun around and yelled as his hands were caught in the fireball that had been the paper. Bill jumped around, stamping at the fiery remnants.
Mary suppressed her chuckles and nodded at the roaring fire in the grate. ‘Well, you certainly got that going.’
Later, in the kitchen, after a cup of tea, they prepared the vegetables for the evening meal. When everything was done Mary wiped down the table.
‘Right, that’s finished. What do you want to do now?’
Bill put an arm each side of her, and gripped the table, trapping her against it.
‘How about this?’
He found her lips with his own. Mary responded, her hands sliding up his back.
After a while she broke off, and gently pushed him away. ‘Bill, let’s go for a walk before it gets dark.’
He smiled.
‘Sure. It’s beautiful around here.’
She wrapped a thick country coat around her, which she had found on a hook on the back door and they set off, feet crunching on the gravel until they reached the track. She led the way, nimbly climbing a stile.
Tentatively he broke the quiet that had descended on them. ‘It’s a lovely evening.’
She slipped her arm through his and squeezed, which made him feel better.
‘Yes.’
He grinned down at her. ‘Feels good – like we’re an old married couple.’
Mary flinched, took a deep breath. ‘Bill, I spent a sleepless night, agonizing about – about tonight. I want to – truly I do.’
She tried again. ‘You must believe me – but, well, to tell the truth I’m a bit frightened….’
Mary swallowed hard and continued ‘I haven’t done anything like this before.’ Feeling wretched she added: ‘I’ll probably be hopeless.’
Bill stopped, drew her into him. ‘If you mean what I think you mean – neither have I.’
She was incredulous. ‘You haven’t?’
‘No.’
Mary shook her head in disbelief. ‘But you’re American!’
Ruefully he chuckled. ‘I had a very sheltered New England upbringing.
‘Oh.’
She seemed relieved. ‘We’re both – new, then?’
Embarrassed, he admitted: ‘Yes.’
They resumed walking in silence. Bill glanced across at her. She seemed deep in thought, suddenly stirring to say: ‘I’m going to dress up for dinner – make an effort to be, well – special.’
‘You don’t have to.’
Mary shook her head fiercely. ‘I do. I want it to be right – just as if we were on our honeymoon.’
He protested. ‘But I’ve only got my uniform.’
‘That’s just fine. It’s the woman’s place to be – well as nice as possible for her husband.’
‘Aw honey – don’t worry about that. Anyway, where are you going to get more clothes from?’
Mary looked slyly up at him. ‘I asked my friend. She said I could borrow what she’s got here. We’re the same size.’
He stopped in his tracks. ‘I’ve got a hell of a lot to learn about you. So, would it be in order for me to give you some nylons now?’
Mary teased. ‘Oh, so that’s all I’m worth is it – a pair of nylons, eh?’
He protested. ‘No – no. I didn’t mean it like that!’
She poked him in the ribs, and said in mock cockney: ‘I’m rather thrilled – it’s naughty – taking nylons from a Yank.’
He gave her a gentle slap on the behind. ‘Good-time girl.’
Mary reached up and pulled his head down to her.
They kissed and she took his hand.
‘Come on, let’s go back.’
Bill, looking spruce in his freshly pres
sed and brushed uniform, put another log on the fire and slapped his hands together to clean them.
Mary’s voice carried down the stairs. ‘Fix yourself a drink.’
He made for the cocktail cabinet. ‘OK. You want one?’
‘Not just now, thank you.’
Bill checked out the bottles, found a whisky and poured a generous measure.
He called up the stairs. ‘We got any ice?’
She sounded exasperated. ‘No we do not. Drink it neat like the natives – room temperature, maybe with a little cold water.’
Grumbling, Bill took a sip, sniffed, took another sip, then poured some more. He moved to the gramophone, found a pile of records and sorted through them.
‘Hey, there’s some Glenn Miller records – can we play them?’
From the room above came: ‘Of course.’
He slipped one from its cover, placed it on the turntable, then lowered the arm to the undulating black surface.
A trumpet broke the silence.
Upstairs, Mary sat before the tiny dressing-table, her black petticoat straps dimpling her pale slim shoulders, her dark wavy hair brushed down close to one eye, like Pat Roc in one of her films.
By the light of two candles, one either side of the mirror, she applied a deeper than usual red lipstick which she had found in the drawer.
When she had finished, Mary sat back. A little shiver ran through her. There was no doubting the intent of the woman reflected back at her.
Mary’s blood seemed to be thumping around in her body. She stood up, thrust out one shimmering leg, cupped her hands around the wonderfully smooth nylon, and drew it up to tighten the seam at the back until she reached the top.
Her suspender was black, and contrasted with the white soft skin of her thigh. She did the same for the other.
From the wardrobe she took out a taffeta dress cut on the bias, stepped in and buttoned it up. With her shoes on she swung from side to side, making the material rustle seductively. Her tummy seemed to be floating free inside her.
Mary took a deep breath, touched her tongue nervously to her lips, and whispered to herself: ‘Here we go.’
He was sipping his drink, foot tapping to the rhythm of the music, and looking into the fire. He heard her heels on the stairs and turned.
Mary knew immediately that she had achieved the desired effect. He was speechless. She came down to the last but one step, gave a twirl, knowing that she was flaunting herself.
He caught a glimpse of a stocking top, and above, something lacy.
She came to rest, hands on hips.
‘Well?’
He still said nothing.
‘Bill?’
He got his lower jaw back up. ‘You look … beautiful.’
Mary blushed demurely. ‘Thank you.’
He suddenly remembered his manners. ‘Drink?’
She didn’t want anything that would distort her senses, not tonight of all nights, even though she felt like drinking a whole bottle of the college port.
‘I’ll have a soda on its own. There’s a siphon over there.’
As he went to oblige, the record finished, the scratching hiss of the needle repeating itself with a regular click. She lifted the arm on to the rest, turned the record over and gently lowered the needle back – just as a yell came from the corner.
Mary turned, saw that he’d managed to soak himself with the siphon.
Chiding, she shook her head in mock despair. ‘Honestly – and you fly an aeroplane? Here, take it off and give it to me.’
She went into the kitchen and got a dry tea-towel. Dejectedly Bill stood with his jacket in his hand. ‘Sorry – it just shot out.’
Mary took it, then saw that his shirt had a large dark patch down the front. She put the jacket over a chair. ‘Undo you top buttons.’
He did as he was told, then she reached in with one hand and held the material as she vigorously rubbed the damp area with the towel.
Bill was conscious of the touch of her fingers on his skin, of her perfume, of her body quivering with the effort. An unstoppable urge exploded in him.
His hands seized her around the waist, as his mouth closed around her sweet-smelling neck.
Mary gasped, responded immediately, abandoning the tea-towel and thrusting her hands on to his bare chest. Buttons flew everywhere.
Somehow they found themselves on the floor, struggling like mad people at their clothing. Mary helped him abandon his shirt, clawing feverishly at his bare back as his hand traversed the length of her leg, pushing up her skirt until he reached her knickers. When he pulled at them they snagged on a suspender. Impatiently she pushed his hand aside and tore them down, the threepenny bit she’d used as a stud spinning away across the floor. Kicking wildly with her feet scuffing the floor, she got them off one leg, leaving them to fly around on her other ankle.
Bill mounted her, Mary’s legs widening as his hard penis banged all over the place. Instinctively she grabbed it and guided it into her. With the next thrust Mary cried out at the fleeting pain.
Afterwards they lay side by side, she snuggled up in his arms.
Bill raised his head and surveyed the scene of abandonment, then let it drop back to stare at the ceiling.
In utter embarrassment he groaned. ‘God – I’m so sorry.’
She whispered, hardly daring to trust her voice, ‘It was wonderful.’
Moonlight Serenade, the record of which they had barely heard the opening bars, had come to an end, the record was scratching away again and again, many times a minute; minute after minute. Unmoving, they lay before the fire hanging on to each other, as if afraid of ever physically parting again.
They ate by candlelight, and later danced, holding each other closely as a man’s soft tenor voice came from the wireless.
‘At last my love has come along, my lonely days are over….’
Mary had abandoned her crumpled dress and was in her black petticoat, Bill only in his shorts and dog-tags.
And then it happened again, only this time they tenderly, unhurriedly, explored each other’s bodies, the glowing skin of their youth enhanced by the slumbering redness of the fire.
That night, in the bed where she had first thought she would become a ‘real’ woman, she lay beside him in the dark, only the faint patch of light coming from the stardusted heavens showing in the tiny window, and the red glow of his cigarette.
She kissed his naked chest. ‘I feel a happily married woman already.’
He played with her hair, his voice imploring, ‘You really will marry me, won’t you, Mary?’
She poked gently with her finger. ‘You try stopping me.’
The music coming from the Bakelite radio they’d found on the floor beneath the bed died away, and the booming stately chimes of Big Ben rang out. The announcer’s voice followed the last fading sound of the deep bell. ‘This is the nine o’clock news, read by Alvar Liddell.
Today, large formations of British and American bombers, escorted by fighters, have carried out raids in support of the Allied armies pushing up through Northern France and Belgium. They attacked….’
Hurriedly Mary rolled away from him, reached down and turned it off.
She wanted nothing of the outside to intrude into their little world, their peaceful world.
Out there was a terrible war, a great uncertainty; of life and death in the balance for so many. Inside the cosy little cottage with Bill there was certainty, and life … and love.
She went to sleep curled into his shape, feeling his warm breath on her neck.
CHAPTER SIX
Every time it was different. When they awoke, warm and entwined already in each other’s arms, it came so naturally that she thought for a moment that she was still dreaming.
Breakfast was special. She fried slices of Spam with eggs they’d bought from a farmer on the way there – miraculously, they’d survived her crash.
Bill helped do the dishes.
When they were finished,
and she was spreading the tea-towel so that it would dry, she said: ‘Bill – would you mind if we went to church today? There is a beautiful old one in the village.’
He raised an eyebrow quizzically. ‘If you want to – sure, but you’re not feeling guilty are you? I’d hate to think—’
She cut him off with a wave of the hand. ‘No – don’t be silly. It’s just, well, I love old churches, and the tradition. I’m not a great churchgoer – but I do get a feeling of peace, of timelessness. Oh.’ She had a sudden thought. ‘I’m not troubling you, am I – I mean I don’t know what persuasion you are?’
Bill grinned sheepishly. ‘Not at all. I guess before the war I was agnostic – at college anyway – but you don’t find many of them in the trenches, as they say.’
Relieved, she brightened. ‘Good.’
She waved at the window. Outside it was sunny with a clear sky, a light frost fast disappearing.
‘I thought we could have a picnic afterwards.’
Bill nodded, ‘OK. I knew you were mad the moment I set eyes on you.’
She gave him a peck on the cheek and skipped away before he could do anything. ‘Didn’t stop you having your evil way with me though – did it?’
An hour later they were ready. She packed the saddlebags as he closed the door, found his clips and applied them to his trouser legs.
Happily they cycled away. A couple of miles down the road they started to pass a few houses. Dogs ran out barking and running alongside. Bill kicked out his leg at one. When they went around a bend they were confronted by the church. To Bill it was like a picture off a chocolate box. There was a village green, and beyond it a Norman tower rising above a cedar-tree; beneath the tree was a graveyard of old weathered stones, some leaning at angles, overgrown and neglected.
They parked their bikes just inside the lichgate and entered St Gregory the Great through the doorway, collecting a hymn-book from the old man standing inside.
The church was half-full. When they found a pew and had settled in, Bill looked around at the congregation. They were mostly women, with a sprinkling of old men. There was a lot of coughing in the cold, musty atmosphere. Eventually the organ heralded the arrival of the choir and vicar. The first hymn was announced. The congregation stood to sing ‘All things bright and beautiful, all creatures great and small.’
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