Family of Women (18 page)

What about your wife?
She never used man’s name, not in her head. It made her too real.
And my husband?

Then she looked across at him and they sat, locked in each other’s gaze. He stood up and came to her, taking her hand from her lap and drawing her to her feet. There was nothing she could do to resist. Nothing else mattered or seemed real. The girls could wander downstairs, but even knowing that, she could not stop herself.

‘You’re shaking,’ he said.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

He just stood looking at her, as if he could not stop.

‘Will you do something? Take your hair down for me?’

She had it pinned back, quite simply, and as she began to take the hairpins out he helped her, tugging them gently and la
ying them on the table until her pale hair was hanging all round her cheeks. He stroked it back from her face, then put his hand on the back of her head. She felt the warmth of his palm pressing her scalp, drawing her nearer to him, and his eyes never left hers. She could see nothing but his eyes.

‘What’re you doing?’ She tried to protest.

‘I don’t know.’ He stopped for a moment and she saw the struggle in his face. ‘You’re just . . . I can’t seem to see anything but you.’

‘I didn’t know I could feel like this,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I
shouldn’t
feel it, but I do . . .’

He sighed, relieved. ‘It’s not just me then?’

Solemnly she shook her head, and he pulled her close to him, his body slim and strange to her as her arms wrapped round him. His lips were warm and hungry on hers and she felt as if she had come home.

It was something she couldn’t stop now, as if she was falling and there was nothing to break the fall. She kept going over and over that evening in her mind, the way he had held her, their kisses, that look in his eyes. When would they be able to see each other again? That was her one longing.

The week passed, somehow, in waiting.

‘How’re things with Dickie?’ she asked Muriel, in a light, teasing voice.

‘Very nice, thank you,’ Muriel said coyly. She wasn’t letting on much, not as she had done before with some of her boyfriends. This made Violet think this one was more serious.

By Saturday, Muriel admitted that she was going out with Dickie once again.

‘You’re always going out!’ Joyce accused her.

Muriel laughed. ‘Only once a week! Tell you what – you can have my sweetie ration – how about that?’

She didn’t see Roy to let him know. Although she had the day off, he was at work. But she knew he’d come – at least to see if she was alone.

All afternoon she was aflutter with expectation.

‘Mom –
Mom
! You listening?’ the girls kept saying. And mostly she wasn’t. In her mind she was already with him, seeing him come through the door, to be with her.

And at last he did. She’d put on her favourite frock, pale blue, sprigged with small, dark blue flowers, and brushed out her hair. As soon as she closed the door, they were in each other’s arms. Now he was here she almost felt as if her legs would give way.

‘Today’s been so
long
! I thought it was going to go on for ever.’ She pressed him to her, loving the smell of him, the warmth of his body.

Roy made a low sound of pleasure. ‘I thought I might not get here. I couldn’t really believe I would!’

‘Roy – what’re we going to do? I feel as if everyone’s watching.’

‘No – course tflodthhey’re not.’ She felt his breath on her hair. He was stroking it as they talked. ‘I’ve thought about you – all week . . . I’ve never felt like this before. I can’t think of anything else . . .’

It was as if he didn’t hear her question. They never mentioned his wife, her husband. It was as if they were insulated together in a place that outer realities did not touch, where life’s responsibilities had no meaning. This was all that mattered.

They spent their few, snatched hours talking and holding one another. It became a pattern, every time Muriel went out. There were so many risks – who might see, the children coming downstairs – but they did not care about risks. Their passion for each other was too urgent. It was some time before they made love completely and then they had not planned to. She was sitting in his lap in the big armchair. It was just dark outside, but the window was open to let in the breeze as it was a sultry night.

Roy’s eyes were fixed on her as she cuddled up to him, arms round his neck. She ached to stop the time speeding by before he would have to hurry off, back down the road. The clock said just before ten.

‘We’re safe for about another hour.’ She sighed.

Roy gently ran his finger down her cheek, then wriggled it between the buttons of her blouse. She felt him stroking the little cleft between her breasts.

She undid the top button of her blouse, but he stopped her. ‘No – let me do it.’

His hands looked dark in the dusky light, especially against the white of her breasts once he had removed her little camisole. He let out an excited rush of breath.

‘God, woman, you’re beautiful . . .’

She had never been touched like this before. Not with this gentle attentiveness. Harry was quite rough, keen to get his own pleasure over with. Roy
took his time, stroking her nipples, his pleasure found also in hers.

Without a thought she whispered, close to his neck, ‘Come upstairs.’

And they crept upstairs, holding hands like children, as if unable to let go of each other, and once inside he pulled her close, enveloping her, kissing her neck, her shoulders, his body taut with desire against her. When they made love it was a revelation to her, her own excitement, because of what she felt for him, the way every part of her, her body, her feelings, responded to him all at once. She lay with him afterwards, wrapped round him, awed.

‘I’ve never known it like that before,’ she whispered, eventually.

He made a low, joyful sound.

‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? If you do it right.’

‘It’s not doing it right. It’s you.’ She nuzzled against his neck. ‘I need it to be you.’

It was suc rowith a little time they had together, those precious hours in the summer months.

Violet had never been so happy. Her gaze, uplifted by love, saw everything differently. The old street which Harry had so longed to leave, with its sooty-faced houses and chimneypots, was now the most beautiful place ever, because it was Roy’s street, and the place where they loved one another. She put out of her mind the fact that it was Iris’s street as well.

‘You look nice,’ the other girls at work said. ‘What’re you taking – can I have some of it?’

Violet often wondered whether Muriel guessed. If she did, she never said a word. She was in any case courting with Dickie, a jolly, freckle-faced Catholic boy from Armagh who’d come to England to work in munitions. Even so, sometimes Violet caught Muriel looking at her with her candid blue eyes in a way which made her think,
she knows
. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her, but what else could she do? All that she had with Roy, the talking, his love, was the most wonderful thing she had ever known.

And then it all began to go wrong.

Her two neighbours, Mrs McEvoy and Mrs Smith, were out that morning, aprons on, kneeling by their front steps with pails of water and scrubbing-brushes. Neither of them went out to work. As Violet came out with the girls, their talk stopped abruptly and there was a silent, frosty atmosphere. Mrs McEvoy put her head down and went to work vigorously with her scrubbing-brush, but Mrs Smith stared up at her. There was a spiteful, knowing expression on her face.

‘Morning,’ Violet said, shooing Joyce and Linda ahead of her.

There was no reply, and when she glanced back Mrs Smith was still watching her, saying something to Mrs McEvoy.

She knew then. Whispering had begun in the neighbourhood. But she didn’t want to admit it. The next evening, after dark, a note was slipped under her door. It had obviously been written in a hurry:

Dearest Vi,

See if you can meet me tomorrow night by the bandstand in the rec. I
must
see you.

Yours, Roy.

The time was coming when she’d have to tell Muriel. If tongues were wagging she would hear something anyway, and Violet desperately needed someone to be on her side. Already every time she stepped out of the house she felt as if everyone was watching and the street was full of prattling tongues and pointing fingers, all condemning her.

She was in such a state the next night, knowing she was out to meet Roy later, that once the girls were upstairs she poured out the whole story to Muriel, who was standing by the table, washing up. She took this outburst quietly.

‘I just can’t help it,’ Violet sobbed. ‘I love him so much . . .’

Muriel laid a cup on the table to drain and wiped her hands on her apron, looking gravely across at Violet.

‘I know you do. It’s always been written all over your face.’

Violet wiped her eyes, sniffing. ‘Did you know he’s been coming here?’

‘Not for sure. I had a feeling. How did you . . . I mean what about the girls?’

‘It was all right. They never saw.’ She shrugged. ‘What else could we do?’

Muriel came over to her and with unusual tenderness put her arms round her.

‘I know. I can see. I mean, you and your husband, Harry – I could see there was not much between you. But he is your husband. And Roy’s got a wife . . . You’re heading for trouble, darlin’.’

‘Has anyone said anything?’

Muriel looked away, hesitating. ‘I’ve heard the odd whisper. You know what people are like. If he kept coming along to the house, what were they going to think? Honestly, Vi!’ For a moment, her exasperation flashed out.

‘We just couldn’t help it. Look, he’s asked me to meet him – tonight.’

‘Well,’ Muriel released her. Solemnly, she said. ‘Go on. You’d better get going then.’

By the time she reached the foundry round the corner from the recreation ground she heard footsteps, running behind her, and he caught up with her.

Without a word, they clung to each other in the dark street.

‘What’s happened? You’re in such a state!’ She could feel it before he said a word.

He kissed her face, feverishly, as if she was the most precious thing in rld.

‘Let’s go to the park – if it’s open. We can talk in there.’

The gate was unlocked and they slipped in, across the moonlit grass. The night park smelt lovely, of flowers, and she ached for this moment to be different, for them to be able to enjoy each other instead of being gripped by this cold fear inside her. When they reached the bandstand he took hold of her again, wrapped himself round her.

‘Iris knows, doesn’t she?’ Violet burst out. There was no point in waiting any longer.

‘I think the whole flaming neighbourhood knows.’ He gave out a sigh, almost a laugh. ‘Goes round like wildfire. God, Violet . . . How can we have been so stupid?’

‘You mean – ’ She felt as if he had punched her. ‘You wish you’d never met me?’

‘
No!
God, no – you’re the most . . . I don’t know what to say. You’re man I love. I know that. It’s about the only bloody thing I do know at the moment.’

‘What are you saying then?’

&l a"0"ighify width="2em" align="justify">‘We just should’ve been more careful.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know.’

For a moment they stared intensely at each other in the darkness, then Roy broke away from her and turned his back. She stood, bereft. A dog barked, somewhere outside the park.

‘I can’t go on like this, Vi, I know that. Lies, trying to be in two places at once. I’d leave, honest to God I would, if it was just her and me. She’s all right, Iris is. She’s a good sort really. But she’s not you. She and I – I don’t know – we’ve never had what we have, me and you . . . I’d leave now, for you. But there’s the kids – and your girls and your husband. It’s all too difficult . . . It’s wrong.’

He turned to her again and she was rooted to the spot. She didn’t want to hear what he was saying because it was true and therefore unbearable.

‘We’ll move,’ he said.
‘That’s what Iris wants. She can’t stand it any more. She can see it, see.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Her voice cracked.

‘That I’m different. Feelings that . . . She can see what I feel about you, however much I try to hide it. It’s no good.’

The last words were said with flat despair. He came to her again and drew her to him, pressing his cheek against hers. She was not crying, not yet. The tears were like a great wave, swelling deep inside her. Instead she felt shocked and cold. There was no hope now.

‘I’ll always love you,’ she said wretchedly. ‘Can’t you stay near somewhere?’

‘No. If I did I’d always be watching, hoping to see you somewhere, and it’d never end. I couldn’t stand it.’

They held each other for a long time, silently, as if each engraving on them the feel of the other’s body so it would never be forgotten.

The Keillor family moved out later that week and left the street.

For a few days number two was left empty, but by the end of the week another family had moved in and the whisperings and snide remarks to which Violet was subject died down for the moment. Muriel was her loyal friend throughout.

‘Folk can always criticize,’ she said. ‘But I think no one ever knows what something’s like until they’ve had to live with it. But now you’ll just have to get over him somehow.’

Violet did not
say a word even to Muriel during those anguished days after he left. She held the pain of it inside her in silence. It felt too much to put into words. And from across the world there was news of such terrible things, the human race
in a spasm of agony on a scale to which she would not compare hers. She bore it alone, all hamiu ser tears saved for night-time, clasping her pillow to her and aching for it to be him. She longed for him so completely that it felt like an illness. But after all, he was another woman’s husband. She didn’t deserve any sympathy, did she?