Chapter Three
The drystone wall was high where the lane dropped. Elsie could not see over it and, red-faced and breathless, she ran the last yards to the lane end. The Alvis was there, facing downhill towards Bollington with the engine running.
Frank leaned over to open the door. ‘You’re hot and bothered! Hop in the back,’ he said. The cleft in his chin went deeper and his hazel eyes were blazing with love for her. He was rugged and virile and, as she hauled herself up, Elsie’s heart was hammering.
She lifted her skirt above her knees and clambered in. ‘Sorry I kept you waiting. Our Lil didn’t want me to leave.’ She had to cock one leg over the long front seat to get into the back and when she was straddled with one toe on the narrow back seat she heard him chuckle, felt his hand sliding inside her thigh until his fingers touched the soft skin above her stocking tops. Shuddering pleasure took hold of her as her insides went weak with need of him. ‘Stop! Don’t you get enough?’ she teased as she dragged her leg over the top and dropped lightly on to the seat.
‘I can’t. I can’t get enough of you.’ He roared with laughter, pushed the long gear lever and released the handbrake. The great, lumbering vehicle rolled down the hill. ‘Where to, love?’
‘Anywhere. I’ve brought a picnic. Have you a corkscrew?’ He laughed. ‘Don’t ask such questions. You’ll get a rude answer.’
‘Never mind the rude answer,’ she said, as if it were some clever quip. ‘You know what I meant.’ His humour lifted her out of herself, cheered her as much as a bottle of sherry. ‘Where are we?’
‘Palmerston Street. I’ll stop in Flash Lane.’
She saw his capable hands on the wheel, those hands that fired and mastered her body as no other man could. She had tried to feel for others what she felt for Frank. She attracted suitors easily, and when Frank had cut the ground from under her feet ten years ago – when he had shocked everyone by marrying Sarah – she had gone a bit wild. She could not bear to think about the time Frank had deserted her. Even when she drank too much to deaden the pain, it flooded back.
Yet it was not desertion. She had simply taken it for granted that the years and years of being first friends and then sweethearts would naturally lead to marriage. She turned down John Hammond because she expected Frank’s proposal. At that time John Hammond followed her everywhere. He invited her to look over his mill as if to say, ‘This could be yours if you marry me.’
John Hammond used to call at Lindow, to ask her parents, ‘Would you and Elsie like to go out for an afternoon’s motoring?’ She was twenty then, ingenuous, and she never suspected his intentions, though John asked her to Archerfield on any pretext. ‘Will you help me look at the silk pattern swatches and choose the curtains for the music room?’ he’d ask one day. ‘Would you like to see the new bathrooms we’ve had installed?’ he’d say the next. He was a photographer. Would she pose? She did those things. She was not shocked at John’s suggestion that she pose nude. She had no self-consciousness about her body but she refused to take all her clothes off in front of a camera. However, she giggled a lot and at last went halfway – stripped to the waist, she allowed him to drape her in a diaphanous silk, and stood for ages while he posed her this way and that and studied her until he got the light, the angles and the focus right. How naïve she’d been not to have expected John’s proposal. It came when Frank was away in training at Eaton. She refused him. She turned down the richest, most handsome man for miles around – the ‘catch’ of Cheshire. She was saving herself for Frank.
Now she studied the back of Frank’s head where his strong black hair, all curly and untamed, met in a point at his neck.
‘Are you too hot in there?’ He glanced quickly at her. His eyes went swiftly over her and he made a great in-drawing of breath as he faced the road again. ‘Phew, Elsie. I’m hot under the collar. Where do you want to go?’ He bounced his hands impatiently on the wheel.
‘Jordangate!’ she suggested.
‘It’s all right by me, love, but nobody would believe I came for the rent on Barnaby Sunday. How about that riverman’s hut by the Bollin? There’s nobody left in town. We can walk down separately.’
‘It’s a bit dirty.’
‘I’ll take my coat off. Play Walter Raleigh.’ he laughed at his own joke. ‘There’s a rug in the back.’
He stopped at Flash Lane and helped her into the front. ‘Come on. Quick,’ he said.
With one hand on her thigh he placed the other about her shoulder. ‘Give us a kiss.’
Desire came burning through her, blinding her to sense, to virtue, to everything she’d been brought up to be, blinding her to everything but this unquenchable thirst. Elsie put her hands about his strong neck, smelled his rough male smell and the flame burned faster as his mouth came down hard and bruising on hers. Then she drew back and playfully pushed him away; ‘Hurry, Frank. We don’t want to be all afternoon.’
‘I do.’ He grinned. ‘I’ll drop you off. You take the picnic and walk down the footpath. I’ll follow in five minutes with the rug.’
She did not speak until he stopped the Alvis. Then she hopped down to the pavement and said, loud enough for a bystander to hear, had there been one, ‘Thanks for the lift, Mr Chancellor!’ and down the shady sloping path she went through the ferns, her heels slipping on the rough stones. In five minutes’ time they would be together and she would possess him completely. He was the most virile, sensuous man God had ever created and he was hers. Had it not been for his one mistake, he’d be her husband today. There was nobody about on the way down to the river but she picked some late bluebells and mayflowers in case anyone saw her.
The hut was dark and cool when she reached it, and she waited, heart beating faster, for his footstep until he came crashing down the path, whistling like a man without a care in the world. Then he closed the door behind him and threw the rug on to the floor for her while he wedged a piece of wood under the catch so they’d not be disturbed.
Elsie laid out the rug and unfastened her blouse. She shrugged it off her shoulders and removed her camisole, aware of his eyes on her, pleased that the sight of her exposed breasts excited him. He loved her breasts. He often said, to make her laugh, that her breasts were his fixation – because he had never recovered from the shock of being weaned. Elsie now looked at him through narrowed, vivid blue eyes and put her hands out, inviting him.
He knelt before her and lifted her skirt until the pleats were folding all about his strong arms, and his hands were deft as he undid her suspenders and the button at the waist of her French knickers and let them fall. And his hands were sweeping round her thighs under the skirt and his face was nuzzling into the livid, gathered hysterectomy weal that he called her ‘battle scar’ as she swiftly unfastened the petersham band of her skirt and let everything go tumbling down until she wore only stockings. She was trembling from head to foot as she rolled down the stockings and slipped them off while Frank stood up and took off his own clothes.
The scent of the bluebells, discarded and loose on the rug, was heavy in the dusty hut. He was ready for her – a fine, big man, powerfully built, with a smooth, tanned chest, strong arms that could hold her shaking body, control, pleasure and eventually still her. ‘Come here,’ he said and reached out for her. Then they were lying on the rug, and his hands were on her hips and his lips on her breast, gently, wet and tugging as he stroked and teased until she moaned and felt herself running inside like liquid fire as he rolled her on to her back and pushed her legs apart, and in a voice that sounded rough said, ‘Hold me, Elsie. Hold me.’
She held him gently as he pushed into her, and his face was damp with sweat, rubbing into her neck, going from her mouth to her breast again until she was crying out softly, guiding him in as he slid inside her and filled all the narrow tube of her. Then she wound her legs about him and felt him moving deep inside her as her muscles contracted, pulling him higher and deeper. He made a hoarse sound and clamped his hands about her waist and held her
fast, his head up a little, holding himself back, watching her lovely face with the silky eyebrows drawing together. He heard her cries of pleasure as he went harder into her, grunting a little with the effort to control himself until he felt her tightening on him, grasping him inside; felt her involuntary movements and heard her breath speeding up until she was calling, ‘Oh, Frank … !’ and softly whimpering. She was almost there.
And then he let his weight down on her and covered her mouth with his own and went faster, spending himself, taking her with him as he gave a loud cry of delight in her and in himself and the oneness that he made of their bodies. At the height of her pleasure she called out, ‘Oh God! Oh my God!’ as they went flowing together, he running hard and deep into her and down … down … until it was over.
And he lay, heavy on her, for a little time before he eased out of her, looked into her face and laughed softly. ‘That was the best one yet, Elsie.’ He waited for her reply, and when none came, ‘That was for you. We’ll do it my way after our picnic. Put your clothes on. Let us go down to the river.’
She got up, put on her skirt and blouse and picked up the picnic bag, and hand in hand they went down to the little patch of grass where they could dangle bare feet or wade out, knee deep where watercress waved under the surface of the fast-flowing River Bollin. Today, with the mills closed, the river was crystal clear. Frank put down the rug and they sat watching the river swirling around the stones that had mossy caps where they stood proud of the water, until suddenly he said, ‘Elsie! Look! Over there. Dragonflies.’
He pointed to the far bank and she saw dozens of them; long, metallic-blue bodies with double transparent moonstone wings beating as they hovered and swooped over the water. She said, ‘I’ve never seen them before. Are they only out in June?’ Frank loved the natural world as she did. But he was clever. There was nothing he didn’t know.
‘They have just come out of the beetle stage and are feeding on insects,’ he said. ‘You won‘t see them go into the water but they lay their eggs on the surface in the little still pools by the bank.’
‘They were beetles?’ Impulsively she kissed his face.
‘An hour ago.’ He took her hand. His expression was boyish, eager to impress and teach. ‘It’s an amazing natural change,’ he said. ‘You only see them when the sun shines, but they last for weeks, months in their aerial stage.’ He smiled and quoted Tennyson to her:
Today I saw the dragon-fly
Come from the wells where he did lie.
An inner impulse rent the veil
Of his old husk; from head to tail
Came out clear plates of sapphire mail.
He dried his wings: like gauze they grew;
Through crofts and pastures wet with dew
A living flash of light he flew.
He was a complicated man. She would never know him completely. He’d hold her, look deep into her eyes and sing or recite Shakespeare or poetry after they made love. Elsie wished she knew what he expected from her in response. She knew so little, he so much. She said, ‘You’ll overtax your brain. Learning all that stuff by heart.’
He was surprised. ‘Don’t you like poetry?’
‘I love to hear you recite,’ she said. ‘I like poetry. I write poems.’
‘Show them to me?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
There was a catch in her voice. ‘They are about you. That’s why!’
‘Oh, hell!’ He was silent for a few moments and his expression was thoughtful, troubled. He said, ‘Don’t set too much store by me, Elsie. I’m weak. Not a good man.’
‘To me you are.’ She couldn’t pretend to flippancy. ‘I wish we were married.’
She had annoyed him. His face went dark and there was a hardness in his voice. ‘I’m married to Sarah.’
Elsie said in a soft voice, ‘If you were not married to Sarah … you’d have married me?’
‘l can never get divorced.’
‘People do,’ she said.
‘Not if they want to live here, succeed. I want to make things happen.’ War had changed him. He had come back angry – about the war, and the fighting men who returned to find untilled fields and empty factories and the money men who had taken over in their absence. The money men were giving the orders now, offering low wages, saying, ‘Take it or leave it.’ Frank came back from the war wanting to change the world.
Elsie said, ‘What can you do?’
‘A lot. I won’t have my name brought low, paying low wages, getting a bad reputation. I want to make the name of Chancellor respected.’
‘And associating with me would ruin your chances?’
‘Not you. Anyone. I’ve a lot to do. I’m treasurer of two charities.’
‘Why do you do all this charity work?’ she said.
He went quiet for a few moments, then, ‘I have done wrong by you, Elsie. I can’t marry you. The charity work is my way of making up.’
She said, ‘Charity begins at home, Frank.’
They were both silent. Then he said, ‘It was wrong, but you knew what you were doing when you got into this. I told you I don’t love Sarah. But I never lied. I never pretended I’d be free to marry you.’
It was true. She had gone into this love affair with her eyes wide open when he was twenty-three and had been fighting a war for two years. Her father found her a place in a church hostel in Macclesfield and she left Lindow with her parents’ blessing to do war work, making soldiers’ shirts. She’d shared a room with Minnie Cox, who went on to marry Bert Grimshaw. It was exciting, being a single girl, away from her strict father’s watchful eyes. Her father did not approve of display – dancing and painted women, but Elsie had painted her lips, bobbed her hair and danced with the few young men who were left and the convalescent men on leave. Men were drawn to the girl who helped them get through the dark days. She had countless proposals from young boys who went back to the Front carrying her picture.
Howard Willey-Leigh, a Manchester factory owner much older than herself, wanted to marry her too. But Elsie could not feel for any man the passion she had for Frank; try as she did to hate Frank for his treachery in making love to Sarah. And he came to her in 1916, on his first leave. He came to her in need, not in deceit, saying, ‘Sarah nearly died giving birth to Ray. Another pregnancy would kill her. All she wants from me now is conversation and companionship. She wants me to accompany her everywhere, to be her friend but not her lover. I can’t be with a woman day and night and only want to talk! I want to be a good father. I know which side my bread is buttered. My marriage is over.’
Elsie said, ‘It never was a marriage.’
‘I don’t know. I wasn’t brought up like you. All I want to know is– Do you still love me? Love me enough to … ?’
She knew what he was asking. Adultery. He wanted her to break the seventh commandment. She said, ‘I can’t do it, Frank. It’s the way I’ve been brought up. God will punish me. I’d be struck down if I committed adultery.’
Then he said, seriously and quietly, ‘I love you, Elsie. I wouldn’t ask you to go against your beliefs. But I’m the one who will be breaking commandments. Not you. You can’t commit adultery unless you are married. You are not.’
‘Then what will I be doing … ?’ she whispered, for she was already in his arms, being held close to his heart.
He was hard and muscular, and she felt the power in his hands as he lifted her until their faces were close. ‘You’ll be my mistress – my love – my wife in all but name. A wanton, not an adulteress.’
Then she had gone to him; gone willingly, and discovered a depth of passion in herself and in him that she had never dreamed was possible. And he was careful so she should not find herself with child.
When he went to France, to the trenches, there was war work and other suitors, if only she could enjoy being with them. But she had given herself wholly and completely to Frank. Frank was the only man she would ever love. She was still being courted
by Howard Willey-Leigh when Frank was given leave for the second time, before the last battle of that dreadful war.
It was Barnaby then too – a midsummer heatwave – when he asked her to come to him. He told her that Sarah had no room in her life for him. Sarah’s letters were brief and he gathered that she spent all her time at church or with the baby, Ray, and her close friends John and Catriona Hammond. John Hammond was in hospital recovering from a leg injury. Sarah had to visit him every day because Catriona had a haemophiliac boy who could die without his mother’s close attention.
Frank did not go home on that leave. He did not see Ray. He had four days’ leave only and he believed that when he went back to France he would not survive another ‘push’. He telephoned Elsie at the hostel, from the dock. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I can’t go on without you …’
He loved her. He could not go on without her. Would she come to him? Elsie, frantic now with love for him, went down on her knees to thank God for his life before she caught the next train to London. They spent four days of bliss in a small hotel overlooking Kensington Gardens where, in midsummer, before sunrise and under the rising Dog Star, Lily was conceived.
Elsie wanted to conceive. That way, if Frank were killed she’d have something of him. If he came back and found himself with two ‘wives’ then he would have to make a choice between herself and Sarah.
Now, with Lily five years old, Elsie was caught in the oldest trap. She loved a man who would not leave his wife. Many a marriage fell apart after the war. They could have run away when Frank came home, had he agreed. It would have been a scandal but with Frank at her side she could have borne it. Frank could not. He set his love for her and Lily, whom he called his ‘precious lass’, below duty to a loveless marriage.
Elsie now looked into his beloved face. ‘You haven’t deceived me but I can’t help it. I wish you were mine.’
‘I take care of you. Give you the shop rent-free. The rent book’s a farce. I pay your bills, buy food and everything for you and our Lil.’ He was deadly serious. ‘There is nobody else. I love you and Lily. But I have nothing but love and money to offer. I need your love but I won‘t stand in your way if you find someone else. You’ve known from the start that I can never give you the name of Chancellor.’
A Daughter's Shame Page 5