by Janet Tanner
‘How do you manage to get the fuel?’ he asked Viv, thinking of the sawdust and chippings his family were reduced to burning.
‘Oh, the Jerry officers get it for us,’ she replied airily. ‘They feel they owe it to us because they are living in our house, I suppose.’
She was looking especially beautiful tonight in a creamy sweater and wide legged pyjama style trousers in tobacco brown. Unlike most of the islanders the privations of the war seemed to have passed her by – another point which made people glance knowingly at one another as she passed. But again the suspicion was totally unfounded. Viv was almost exactly the same size as her mother and Loretta’s extensive wardrobe would easily have kept both of them well dressed for a dozen years.
‘I’ve made supper,’ Viv said. ‘But perhaps I should warn you I’m not much of a cook.’
There was a little tremor in her voice and suddenly Paul found himself wondering if she was nervous too. He found it hard to believe but one never knew. After all, he was a nervous jelly inside and he was managing to cover it up. But Viv … it was impossible to see her as anything but totally self-confident.
He followed her into the kitchen, though eating was the last thing on his mind. A pan was simmering on the stove; Viv lifted the lid and prodded at the vegetables inside with a fork.
‘Why do turnips take so long to cook?’ she asked, and again the edge of nervous tension was there in her voice. ‘The potatoes are done – look!’ As if on cue a potato split apart and disintegrated into a gooey mess. ‘Oh God!’ she moaned. ‘What a disaster! I told you I’m no good in the kitchen.’
‘I think you’re wonderful anywhere,’ Paul said, amazed at his own daring.
‘Oh Paul.’ Her green eyes were sharp and bright suddenly, her face embued with softness. Paul felt his stomach churn.
‘Come here,’ he said roughly.
She came, still holding the fork. He took it from her, putting it down on the table, and pulled her into his arms, kissing her. He felt the pressure of her body against his, the yielding eagerness of her lips, and began to forget his nervousness in an all-consuming rush of desire.
God, but she was beautiful, and he wanted her so much! As her body moulded to his he slid his hands beneath the creamy cashmere of her sweater and realised with another thrill of excitement that she was not wearing a brassiere tonight. So many girls seemed to encase themselves in acres of rigid elastic and rubber but Viv was wearing nothing but a silky camisole. He massaged her breasts, feeling the nipples, which were already hard and erect, rise even more beneath the touch of his fingers. She moaned, arching her back and pressing her thighs against his and he slid his hand inside her loosely cut trousers. For a moment he was puzzled; the cami top was longer than he had expected, covering her stomach and buttocks and meeting between her legs in a loose fold of silk but he was relieved to find there was still no restrictive corsetry.
Carefully, his heart beating so hard with the fear that she might still stop him that he could scarcely breathe, he slipped his fingers beneath the silk, inching across her smooth skin until they encountered the soft bush of pubic hair and the firm but yielding mound beneath. He probed gently into the moist folds and the excitement of it made his own body throb unbearably. Then, just when he thought he might climax there and then she eased away from him. Her cheeks were flushed now, her eyes still very bright. He tried to pull her back into his arms but she took him by the hand, leading him into the small cosy living room. There she took the cushions from the sofa and chairs, tossing them down in front of the fire. He tried to grab her and pull her down but she wriggled free, crossing her arms and lifting the sweater over her head. He gasped aloud as he saw her breasts for the first time, full and creamy in the flickering firelight, with the dark aureoles and thrusting nipples. He did not think he had ever seen anything so beautiful in his life.
She slipped out of her trousers, letting them and the silk cami fall to the floor, and stood there before him totally nude. Paul stood mesmerised, taking in every curve of her body, desire held for the moment in abeyance by sheer wonder. She reached for him, unbuttoning his shirt and sliding her hands inside. As her nails scratched lightly against his skin he buried his head in her breasts, kissing and sucking, scarcely aware that she was continuing to undress him until he too was naked.
Momentarily fear leaped in him again – fear of going too fast and grasping too greedily at this paradise within his reach, fear that he might hurt her, and the nagging realisation that somehow he must get out the French letters and put one on without either appearing foolish or spoiling the mood. In that instant he was once again the fumbling younger brother without Nicky’s experience or expertise. Then she released him, lying down on the cushions before the fire, and holding out her arms to him, and his rush of sudden urgent desire made it all easy. Nicky faded into the shadows, there was only Viv and his own insistent need.
All too quickly it was over. Even before the after-shocks had subsided he knew that in the end he had rushed it – he had simply not been able to hold back. Beneath him Viv still writhed and moaned and he continued to move in her though he knew his erection had faded, praying it would be over for her soon too while the French letter was still in place. With inspiration born of desperation he withdrew, working in her instead with his finger, and felt her body arch, felt the deep spasms begin. He was sweating, perspiration pouring down his face, but his excitement had transmuted from the throes of his own demanding need to the triumphant mastery that came from knowing he was giving her pleasure. As she reached her climax, her nails raking his back, one leg fastened around the hard muscle of his thigh, she cried out, an unintelligible strangled sound. He felt her begin to relax and rolled away, clutching at the French letter. Suddenly it seemed terribly important not to make a mess on the light-coloured carpet though a few moments ago the thought would not have so much as occurred to him.
‘Where is the bathroom?’ he asked, feeling clumsy and anxious again, as if the glories of the last minutes had never been.
She told him. Her voice was still thick with what he imagined was passion. He reached for his shirt, taking it with him. For some reason he was embarrassed now by his nakedness and he put it on in the bathroom before returning.
Viv was lying where he had left her, her lovely body still illuminated by the firelight. He knelt down beside her, leaning over to kiss her, but she turned her face away.
‘Viv?’ he said tentatively. And saw the tears glistening wetly on her cheeks.
Tenderness filled him then and the strength came flooding back.
‘It’s all right,’ he said, stroking her hair away from her face. ‘It was all right, honestly. It didn’t come off.’
She did not answer, just gulped deep in her throat. Another thought occurred to him.
‘I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
Still no answer. Just that stillness, the tears, and an occasional long shiver running through her body.
‘You’d better get dressed,’ he said. ‘You’ll get cold.’
Somehow his words seemed to release her frozen control. The tears burst in her throat and she rocked from side to side, sobbing.
‘Viv!’ he said, frightened. ‘ What is it? What’s the matter?’
At first he could not make out her words. They were nothing but a low whisper, lost in her tears.
‘How could I? How could I do it? Oh God, forgive me!’
‘Viv, don’t!’ he begged. ‘We wanted it, didn’t we, both of us? And you enjoyed it. Viv …’
She sat up suddenly, her eyes blazing through her tears.
‘You don’t understand, do you? You don’t understand what I did.’
‘You made love to me. Is that so wrong?’
‘Yes. Yes!’
‘But why?’ He was bewildered, hurt. ‘Why was it wrong?’
‘Oh Paul!’ She buried her face in her hands. ‘You just don’t understand, do you?’
‘Understand what?’
‘I
t wasn’t you I was making love to. It was Nicky.’
He went cold. He felt suddenly as if the ground had opened up beneath him and he was falling, falling, into a pit so deep, so dark, that he would never be able to get out of it again.
‘Don’t you see?’ Viv was sobbing. ‘I thought I could have it again, the way it was with him. I’ve betrayed you both. Oh Paul, I’m so sorry – don’t look like that, please!’
‘I thought you wanted me,’ he said woodenly.
‘I did. I did! Only … oh, it was all mixed up in my mind. You and Nicky – you’re so much like him.’
‘You mean you didn’t want me at all,’ Paul said in that same flat voice.
She looked up at him through her tears. ‘ No, that’s not true. I did want you … I think. Only …’
‘When it came to it I’m not Nicky.’ His pain was intense. He wanted to hit out, to hurt Viv as she had hurt him. But somehow he couldn’t do it, even now. He loved her too much.
‘No, you’re not Nicky,’ she said in a small wry voice.
‘So what did he do that I didn’t? How did I fail?’ He was turning the hurt and anger in on himself instead of venting it on Viv.
‘You didn’t fail, Paul. It’s not your fault …’ She had stopped crying now and was looking at him sadly.
‘Don’t try to make it right, Viv. Don’t spare my feelings. I know compared with him I must seem like a blundering …’
‘At least you didn’t make me pregnant,’ she said. ‘At least, I hope you didn’t.’
It took a moment for her words to sink in through the haze of misery and self-condemnation. He stared at her, open-mouthed, and she laughed suddenly, a small, harsh tearing sound.
‘Oh dear. I didn’t mean to say that. Well, the cat’s out of the bag now, isn’t it?’
‘Nicky … made you pregnant?’ He was fumbling for the words. They seemed to elude him. ‘When? How?’
‘I should think the how was pretty obvious.’ The old, wry Viv was emerging. ‘As to the when, just before he went away.’
‘Did he know?’
She shook her head. ‘No, I told you. It was just before he went away.’
‘So – what happened? If you were … what happened to the baby?’
‘I had an abortion. Oh, don’t look at me like that, Paul, there really wasn’t any choice, was there? I’m not proud of what I did but there it is.’
‘But I thought abortion was illegal.’
‘It is. But money will buy you most things, you know. And they didn’t call it abortion. They called it appendicitis, or grumbling appendix, or something. Look, really don’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have told you. It doesn’t seem right when Nicky doesn’t know.’
Paul brought his fist down hard on the floor. ‘Nicky – Nicky – Nicky! Nicky’s not here – I am!’
‘I know. And I said I’m sorry.’ She got up, matter-of-fact suddenly. ‘Look, I’ve got to see what’s happening to the stew. And I’ll put the boiler on so we can have a bath.’
She went out to the kitchen. Paul finished dressing in a state of shock. He felt as if he had been bludgeoned with a ten-ton hammer. He had had such hopes of this weekend and it had all gone dreadfully wrong. And not only on a personal level either. Two of his icons had been torn down – the brother he hero-worshipped had gone off leaving his girl pregnant, his goddess had had an abortion. Paul felt sick to his stomach. He did not know how he was going to stay here now. It crossed his mind that perhaps he might go home. It was after curfew but he didn’t mind running a few risks if it meant he could get some fresh air into his lungs and then shut himself away in his attic room where he could at least be alone with his thoughts. But he knew there would be questions to be answered if he did that. Charles and Lola would be bound to be suspicious if he suddenly turned up at the door.
Afterwards Paul was to wish with all his heart that he had followed his instincts that night and gone home. He couldn’t have saved Lola and Charles, but at least he would have been there. Instead he had stayed with Viv though the atmosphere between them was strained and awkward. They bathed, one after the other, in the big cast iron bath that had been installed in one of the bedrooms, they ate as much as they could of the unappetising stew, and they slept one in each of the twin beds in Viv’s room without so much as a goodnight kiss. Next day Paul went home, the misery still like a lead weight inside him, to find that his parents had been arrested and the guilt came rushing in, swamping him, drowning him. He felt as if he personally had condemned them by his deceit and at the same time condemned himself.
On the day that Charles and Lola were sentenced to deportation to a concentration camp in Germany, Paul demolished the entire bottle of brandy that the Russian prisoner had had just one sip of; it did nothing to make him feel better but at least for a time it gave him blessed oblivion. When he had recovered from his hangover he drank the bottle of whisky. And when there was none left he mooched around in morose silence feeling utterly, totally trapped.
When the idea first came to him he rejected it but it kept returning to haunt him and each time he thought about it, it seemed a little more possible and desirable. Jersey had become an island prison where he was trapped with his guilt and his misery; even being within a few square miles of Viv was torture to him now. Paul thought of his father’s little boat which had managed the voyage to Dunkirk and knew it could provide him with an escape. If he could get away, if he could get to England, at least he would be able to join the forces and do something positive to help the war effort. It would be better than sitting out die war here, helpless and impotent, and it might do something to ease the terrible weight of guilt and make him feel a little easier with himself.
One dark moonless night Paul crept out of the cottage whilst his sisters were asleep and made for the boathouse. The thought of the voyage held no terrors for him; he had been brought up with the sea in his blood, and he did not allow himself to think of what might happen to him if he was caught trying to escape. Besides, he told himself, it would be poetic justice if he too faced deportation or even a firing squad.
But he was not caught. By the time Sophia got up next morning and found the brief note explaining what he had done, Paul was well away from Jersey and heading for England. And for the first time since that terrible day when he had left Viv and returned to find his parents had been arrested, Paul experienced a measure of peace.
When Bernard heard that Paul had escaped from Jersey he was incensed. Under normal circumstances, he supposed, he would have applauded the courage it must have taken, but these were not normal circumstances. It was only a matter of weeks since Lola and Charles had been deported. Now Sophia and Catherine were quite alone.
Since the August night when he had taken her to the theatre Bernard and Sophia had seen a good deal of one another. They went for walks, they went to the cinema, where the films were mostly German with English sub-titles, they even attended dances in the Forum’s Golden Lounge, and if the romantic side of their relationship had not progressed as fast as Bernard might have hoped, he told himself he must be patient. The last thing he wanted to do was rush things and frighten her off. At least as it was he saw her two or three times a week and she seemed to enjoy his company. As long as he could sustain the relationship there was always the chance that friendship would deepen to love. She might even love him now, he thought in moments of optimism, and be too shy to let her feelings show. Yes, that must be it, otherwise why would she continue seeing him to the exclusion of any other boyfriends? But still he trod carefully because his fear of losing her was so acute. He couldn’t bear it, he thought, if she should tell him she did not want to see him again. Without Sophia life would simply not be worth living.
Bernard had done his best to be supportive through the terrible days that followed Lola and Charles’s arrest and deportation though he had wondered just how much help he had been. There was really nothing anyone could do or say to make it any less dreadful, and sometimes he had
the feeling that she wanted nothing more than to be left alone. Just so long as she knew he was there and that he cared, that was really the extent of what he could do. Anything else seemed like an intrusion on the family grief.
On the morning that Paul sailed away from Jersey however Bernard felt he could stand on the sidelines no longer. Paul’s departure changed everything.
The news was relayed to him by a roundabout source – someone from the Electricity Company had been to the bank and the whole place had been alive with it – Jersey had a brand new hero and everyone wanted to talk about him. Bernard, however, was shocked and indignant to think Paul could behave so irresponsibly towards his sisters. He informed his immediate superior that he was going out for an hour whether he was given permission or not and went round to the dentist’s surgery to see Sophia. She was not there – she had taken the day off, the senior receptionist told Bernard. He got back on to his bicycle and pedalled over to St Peter only to find no one in there either.
Bernard walked right round the cottage looking in through the windows and feeling utterly helpless. Sophia would be in a terrible state, he guessed, being left all alone with Catherine, and she would not know which way to turn. Besides this she must be very worried – the fact that Paul had managed to sail out of Jersey in a little boat without being caught did not necessarily mean he had got very far. He could have been apprehended by a patrol and shot, or he could have run into bad weather – at this time of year the Channel could be very treacherous. And who was to say that he had not been bombed or machine gunned from the air or blasted back out to sea from the land when he arrived unannounced in England? Any number of things could have happened to him and Sophia, who was no fool, must be aware of that and be going out of her mind with worry.