by Connie Monk
‘Good girl.’ He didn’t enlarge on exactly why she was a good girl. ‘Hey, Kathie, I reckon we ought to add something to our vows: that as we get older we won’t let ourselves get . . . get . . . well, soppy, lovey-dovey.’
Kathie started to laugh. ‘I’ll finish the carrots.’ Five minutes later they were pushing the loaded cart along the lane towards the village street. The brief and unsettling interlude with their visitors had left no scars.
It wasn’t until they sat down to the bacon and egg tea Kathie cooked for them that she opened the bulky envelope her mother had left. Even then it wasn’t the letter that gave her such a look of blank amazement.
‘What’s up, Kathie? Hasn’t she made it clear?’
‘The consent’s fine. She’s written something else. Here, you read it.’
Kathie watched as Dennis took out the contents she had crammed back into the envelope, his expression one of incredulity.
‘Fifty pounds! Did she tell you what was in the envelope?’
‘Not a word.’ This time she couldn’t blink back the tears that welled in her eyes. ‘It had always been my home. That’s what she says. Even with Cyril there, she didn’t forget it was my home. I feel so mean – about them both. She’s so besotted with him that if he’d told her he wanted her to keep all the money for themselves – and setting up fresh in America, I’m sure they can do with it – she would have done what he said. So he must have agreed to what she was doing. Fifty pounds! Can’t believe it.’
That same night, sitting up in bed she wrote to her mother, saying things she could never have been comfortable saying to her face and, above all, begging her not to let them become forced apart by the miles.
That was in September.
Kathie and Dennis were married in the village church on the first Saturday in November. The only people present were the Blackwell siblings, who had insisted they wanted to be there and had promised to sign the register as witnesses. So instead of making the journey on her bicycle, Kathie arrived at the church in style in the Blackwells’ car with her bike and two suitcases roped to the luggage grid on the back. Only after the ceremony was the rope untied and her worldly possessions stacked against the wall of the churchyard. Then the car moved off, leaving the bridal couple at the church gate.
‘I must have a guardian angel, Den. When I looked for a job it guided me to them. I shall really miss them.’ She’d known the Blackwells for hardly more than seven months but their simple kindness would stay with her. Waving until the car rounded the bend at the end of the village street, she and Dennis set out for home, he carrying a suitcase in each hand while she pushed the bicycle.
‘I should have insisted we at least had a weekend away. Kathie, you deserve something better than this. You ought to be wearing white and carrying flowers, not pushing your bike back home. You deserve a honeymoon in a first-class hotel.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ came her spontaneous answer, ‘that would just be a waste of time. We’d be itching to get home and start a proper life. Don’t you think that most couples grasp at the chance of a honeymoon just to get away by themselves; but we never have family listening and watching what we do and say. Now, Den, we shall have all day, every day.’
‘Every day and every night.’
They turned from the road into their lane that led to the common. Silently Dennis imagined the hours ahead of them, silently he begged that he would manage to do it right, right for both of them. Tonight he mustn’t rush at her and bungle the whole thing. She was as much a novice as he. She wouldn’t be shy, of that he was certain, but she wouldn’t be any more knowledgeable than he was. Together they’d find the way.
‘Let’s do that, shall we?’ He’d been so lost in his own thoughts he’d not listened to what she’d been saying.
‘Sorry, Kathie. I wasn’t listening, I was thinking about the sort of honeymoon I would like to have given you. Let’s do what?’
‘This evening, when we’ve finished outside, let’s get the bath in front of the fire. Not big enough for both of us at the same time unless we stand up. Can’t you just imagine, you and me standing in the water, lovely and warm, the curtains closed. Now what could a honeymoon give better than that? Mr and Mrs Hawthorne taking their first dip.’
Suddenly all his fears melted.
‘Come on –’ she tugged his arm in a most unbridelike fashion – ‘race you home.’ And she was off, pushing her bike – not cheating and riding it – and reaching her goal just ahead of him, propping the bicycle against the fence and leaning, breathless, on the gate.
‘I love you Kathie Hawthorne.’ At the sound of those softly spoken words her mood changed. With her lips parted she raised her mouth to his as he dumped the cases on the ground.
She had never lived without a bathroom and the novelty of the bathing ritual excited her. He filled two buckets with water and put them on the range, then an hour or so later he carried the bath in while she rolled away the rug in case it got splashed. She soon learnt that a four-foot zinc bath was hardly the setting for the eroticism she had half imagined – for more than half imagining was beyond her. With the buckets emptied into the bath, they undressed each other, the sight of her almost Dennis’s undoing. The moment was a big step for her too, for the sight of him was evidence of what she had only half understood despite their brief encounter with desire on the afternoon he had asked her to marry him. When she had encircled his warm flesh and been secretly thrilled that she had the power to make him lose control, she hadn’t imagined what she held to be as large and erect as what she now saw as he moved towards her.
This was a mistake, she thought. He wants us to make love, to do it, now. That’s what I want too . . . but not down here on a stone floor. The water looked temptingly steamy so she put one foot in, testing the temperature.
‘Lovely. Come on, Den, hop in.’ She scooped up the tablet of soap which, having no dish, was getting soft in the water. ‘I’ll do you first.’
They were on unknown territory, more exciting than anything they had dreamed. They rubbed the tablet of soap in their hands, and then lathered each other, not once but over and over until their hands slid over the surface of their skin. Even though they were still standing, the burning coals in the range kept them warm.
Reaching to where Kathie had put towels on the table, Den wrapped one loosely around her as without a word he stepped out of the bath and pulled the kitchen chair close. Then sitting on it he held out his arms.
‘Face me,’ he whispered, drawing her down to him. Following instinct, she sat astride him. She left dizzy with emotion, there was nothing but this, her damp body pressed close to his. Secretly they had both been frightened of failure, but now she knew exactly what she had to do as she guided him then lowered herself so that he penetrated deep into her. She had wondered and imagined, she had explored with a slender finger, expecting that when the moment came that would be what she would feel. But she hadn’t been prepared for this.
‘You’re deep inside me. It’s as if you fill me. Deeper, Den, harder.’ As she whispered, so she moved on him, lifting his hand so that his fingers caressed her telltale raised nipple. She had never known a feeling like this: joy beyond anything she had dreamed and yet she yearned for an elusive something that stayed just out of reach as with a stifled cry his climax came. In her innocence she didn’t know how near she had come to grasping that elusive something, but she felt weak and shaken with love.
‘Kathie,’ he gasped when at last his convulsive movements were stilled, ‘wonderful . . . God . . . never knew . . . could be so wonderful.’ He shivered, suddenly realizing that they were still wet and soapy.
Nuzzling against him she started to laugh. ‘What a pickle we’re in. We have to bale out the tub too. Oh Den, no one could have a better honeymoon than this.’
‘No one,’ he agreed.
‘You’re shivering. Best you hop back in that water and rinse the soap off. I ought to, too. If we stay soapy we shall get itchy.’
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‘Love you, Kathie Hawthorne, my practical wife.’
Five minutes later, rinsed and rubbed vigorously with their towels, there was no choice but to be practical. Each with a saucepan they gradually baled out most of the water until holding one end each they were able to carry the bath outside and drain the last of it onto the patch of grass. With bare feet and their towels wrapped around them, it was a good thing they had no neighbours.
She fetched his pyjamas and her nightdress and dressing gown.
‘I couldn’t find your dressing gown,’ she said as she put the things on the kitchen table.
‘Now what would I want with a thing like that? I always go straight to bed once I’ve cleared away the bath.’
‘We’ll do that too in a minute, but first what do you want to drink, tea or cocoa?’
‘Cocoa, please. I say, don’t we sound married! Cocoa at bedtime.’
While she made the drinks he raked the fire in the range and banked it up for the night. Had she been as apprehensive as he had about how they’d manage the first time? Yet it had been so easy, so right – so wonderful. What a moment for that haunting vision to come back to him: no man’s land, shrieks and cries of the wounded, then the moment when he had seen Ted blown to bits. Poor bugger, no wife for him, no life, no kids to look forward to. And here am I with Kathie, with everything, our future ahead of us . . . I thank God from the bottom of my heart.
The clean sheets were cold (and unironed too, but at least he had washed them ready to bring his bride to), but it would have taken far more than a cold bed to mar their first night together. Sex had never played a paramount part in Dennis’s life; he had usually been too physically weary to give it much thought unless it woke him in the middle of the night. But, relieved at the success of their first encounter, he was as ready as any bridegroom and this time with better control.
‘I didn’t know it could be like that,’ Kathie spoke in an awed whisper when he moved off her. ‘Like climbing to the peak of a high mountain, stars shining and twinkling around you.’
She was utterly sure that they were right for each other. So if what her mother had said was true, perhaps already they had made the beginning of a baby.
‘Den,’ she whispered, ‘are you awake?’
‘Um . . .’ More truthfully he was half awake.
‘When two people are right for each other the easiest thing in the world is to conceive; that’s what my mother said. That’s why she keeps having babies. Do you suppose it’ll be like that for us?’
‘Hope so,’ he mumbled, consciousness fast slipping beyond recall. ‘Need all the help we can get – an army of sons to dig and . . .’ Dennis slept but she was wideawake, eager for the future. With all the confidence of youth she saw it as cloudless; tragedies were things that happened to other people.
Two
They were both young and their busy lives were full of challenge so, at least in the beginning, it was possible to hold on to the expectation that the family they took for granted would be part of their future.
On a bright morning the following May a letter arrived from America with the news that Millicent, twice Kathie’s age and with their latest additions to the family only five months old, was expecting her fifth child setting the seal on the family’s commitment to their new country. If her belief about conception echoed in Kathie’s memory, she refused to listen. Of course she and Den were right for each other. Yet already that regular monthly disappointment was beginning to cast a shadow. Each time they made love she silently begged, ‘Let it happen this time. If it does, will I know? Will it be different for me?’ If only she knew a woman well enough to talk to, a woman with children. If only she could ask the things she didn’t understand. Occasionally as his passion mounted towards a climax something wonderful happened to her too but lately, even if she reached what she strived for, when it happened all she could think was, ‘This time! It’s got to be this time.’
She and Den worked together as partners whether it was outside on the land, or indoors where they hung wallpaper, or he built a cupboard for their clothes while she stitched curtains. Yet as the days of each month passed she came to dread the time her period was due. In the watches of the night she even imagined there must be something wrong with her that she couldn’t conceive.
They had been married nearly a year and a half when, for the first time, she dared to let herself hope. She was four days late, something that had never before happened. And with each passing hour hope took a firmer hold. She hurried through the essential work in the house and went out to help Dennis where she spent the rest of the morning planting out the cabbages they had brought on in the greenhouse he had built the previous summer.
‘When I’ve finished these, how about if I plant out another row of lettuce? Just feel the sun, Den. I bet there’s no one luckier than us.’
He looked at her affectionately. How pretty she looked kneeling there with the tawny lights in her recently bobbed chestnut hair shining in the sunshine. He supposed four days wasn’t very long, but there was something about her, a sort of inner glow. Never a demonstrative man, before he could stop himself he stooped down and kissed her forehead, a forehead that even so early in the season had lost its winter paleness.
‘Nor yet half as lucky. Kathie, don’t let yourself get tired. I mean . . . if . . . well, you know – if this really is the beginning, you mustn’t risk upsetting things.’
‘Silly,’ she laughed, grabbing his hand and rubbing it against her cheek, ‘I’m tough as old boots. If we’ve got the start of a baby, then I don’t have to worry. Having a baby won’t be a problem, as long as you’ve done your bit and given me one to work on.’
For a second he frowned. Was she inferring that their regular disappointment might be his fault? Of course it wasn’t anything to do with him. Sometimes he knew he came so quickly she hadn’t even got started; other times he managed to hang on until he could feel her rising excitement at what he was doing to her. Either way, when his moment came he filled her with what must be the makings of dozens of babies. If she couldn’t do her part, that was hardly his fault. Den felt his manhood had been challenged.
‘I hope you’re right. But it’s taken us all this time to get even a glimmer of hope, so don’t run any risks.’
She felt cherished.
They worked until about one o’clock then went indoors to eat bread, cheese and chutney, washed down with tea. In less than half an hour they were outside again. This was their regular routine; a plot of five acres with only two people to work it didn’t allow time to relax. Each of them gardened independently and yet with the comfortable knowledge that everything they did was a shared step towards their goal. As daylight started to fade he saw her put her tools in the shed then go in to start getting their meal.
‘I’ll knock off pretty soon,’ he called. ‘And Kathie, don’t you carry the coal. Leave me to fill the bucket.’ Bringing in enough coal for the evening and to bank the range to keep the fire in overnight was usually her job; they both understood the hidden message in his words.
That evening there was a feeling akin to celebration about their frugal meal of home-made rissoles and the jacket potatoes she had put in the oven of the range during the afternoon. Later, while he was raking the fire and banking it up for the night he hardly noticed that she disappeared upstairs.
‘What are you doing?’ he called after a few minutes. ‘The kettle’s ready for the cocoa.’
‘Coming.’ Yet, even from that one word he knew something was wrong.
‘You all right, love?’ he asked as she came back into the room (a room that, because the range never went out, had been given the name ‘the warm room’). A silly question, for he could see from her face she was anything but all right.
‘I thought this time would be different,’ she said, not able to keep her voice steady.
‘You mean . . . ?’
She nodded. ‘It’s not fair,’ she croaked, giving up the battle for control, �
��other people have babies easy as anything, even people who don’t want them. I’ve always been well. I’m normal and healthy. So why don’t I get pregnant? What’s the matter with us? Are we doing something wrong, Den?’
‘I guess we just have to wait. Don’t cry, Kathie. One of these days it’ll happen to you – then I bet you’ll be like your mother. I reckon he only has to hang his trousers over the bed rail for her to get like it. Come on, cheer up love, some people wait for years not months. Like you say, you’ve never had any trouble – with all that sort of thing – so you’ll manage it one of these days. Come on, let’s have our cocoa and get to bed. Tomorrow we’ll set up the poles for the runners, shall we?’
She nodded; she even tried to smile. But his words echoed: ‘so you’ll manage it one of these days.’ It was her fault. Hadn’t he as good as said so?
Lying in bed, staring out at the starless night and listening to his deep, even breathing, her mind leapt back to their wedding day and the sombre voice of the vicar declaring that ‘marriage was ordained for the procreation of children, to be brought up in fear and nurture of the Lord . . .’ Was this their punishment for not going to church on Sundays? No, she wasn’t going to believe it could be that. But how could anything be wrong with her? She was always so well, so full of energy. And yet when they made love Den always seemed to achieve the great heights of ecstasy that she never could reach; so the fault must be with her.
From the start Dennis had agreed that they should rear a pig, but before they built the sty they’d decided to erect a chicken run with nest boxes. Once chickens started laying they would never be short of eggs, an essential staple in the diet of those without much money; whilst a pig would certainly eat vegetation that had always gone straight to the compost, but it would be a long time before their table saw any reward for the work and expense.