Fallen Skies

by Philippa Gregory

  The room was very quiet, wrapped in a deep blue darkness. Lily at his side was sleeping deeply, breathing softly. She had rolled over in the night and was sleeping on her back with one arm flung above her head. She was smiling in her sleep.

  Stephen shifted the bedclothes slightly and then fumbled with his pyjama trousers and took out his erect penis. He moved on to her and thrust himself steadily and slowly inside her.

  Lily’s eyes flew open and she opened her mouth to scream as his hand came down, gagging her.

  “Please let me,” he whispered very softly, his mouth furred with sleep, his nightmare still driving him. “Please let me, Lily. It takes the bad dreams away. Please let me, I won’t hurt.”

  Lily closed her eyes to shut Stephen’s flushed determined face from her mind. She felt her bruised body being hurt again. She bit her lip and turned her face away as Stephen, as gently as he could, pushed himself inside her uninviting body and took his relief. But he did not pull away as he used to do. Lily felt him gasp and then grow limp inside her.

  It was minutes before he rolled over to his side of the bed and, purged of his fears, fell asleep at once.

  Lily lay on her back as he had left her, looking at the ceiling which grew paler as the sun rose over the quiet ebb sea.

  22

  THE NEXT DAY MARKED THE START of a new routine for Lily and the household which now revolved around her work—as before it had revolved around Stephen alone.

  Breakfast was still at eight thirty sharp for Mr. Stephen but now the house had to go on tiptoe until ten thirty, when Browning would take a pot of tea and two slices of toast to the young Mrs. Winters’s bedroom. Only after eleven could noisy housework commence. The young Mrs. Winters had to have her sleep.

  Stephen took to coming home for lunch to be with Lily before she went to the theatre so Cook had to be warned that the skimpy little omelettes and reheated left-overs, which had sufficed for the women lunching alone, now had to be expanded to suit the man of the house. Cook managed by the inventive strategy of exchanging dinner menus with luncheon menus so that poor Lily’s hated parade of oversalted soups, overcooked meat and damp vegetables was now served at midday, and she went to the afternoon matinée with the weight of Cook’s cuisine heavy in her stomach. The food seemed even more indigestible at noon, with the sunshine beating through the dining room windows, and Lily wilted in the heat before her well-stocked plate.

  Muriel ate lunch with them and then took her dinner at the usual time of seven, when she was served Cook’s lighter offerings of a boiled egg, soufflé, omelettes, veal and ham pie, or overcooked fish. Stephen and Lily, late home after the theatre, would have soup left hot for them, or sandwiches or a limp salad. As often as not, as the weeks went on and Stephen and Lily adapted to the new freedom, they went out to dinner after the theatre, sometimes with other members of the cast.

  Even Charlie joined them in the second week of the run. He had barely spoken to Lily for a week, but when she included him in the general invitation to dinner he had looked up and given her a grim little smile. “Yes, I’ll come,” he said.

  There had been eight of them, a jolly rowdy party in the respectable Southsea restaurant. But much could be forgiven to actors; and when Lily consented to sing a song and Charlie sat at the piano and accompanied her, there was a round of applause from the other diners. They knew of Lily’s name, she had been praised in the Portsmouth paper and even one of the national papers had named her as a young singer of promise. Stephen glowed at the praise for his wife and kept a proprietary arm along the back of her chair.

  He watched Charlie narrowly for any signs of jealousy. He had not forgotten him, lounging in the stage door at the start of the Midsummer Madness tour, making sure that Lily was back on time. But the man was no threat, Stephen decided. Lily barely looked twice at him and he was relaxed and friendly with everyone at the table. If anything, he was attentive to Madge. When the band started to play again after their break he danced only once with Lily, but twice with Madge. Stephen, holding Lily close as they danced, knew himself to be with the prettiest woman in the room, in unquestioned ownership of her.

  When the bill came, he paid for them all—he felt like paying. The chorus girls kissed him on the cheek for gratitude and the men smiled and said thank you. Then Stephen swore that he could drop everyone at their digs in the Argyll. Six of them squeezed in the back, and Lily sat on Stephen’s lap in the front. They sang and giggled all their way to every quiet lodging house and noisily whispered good night on the pavements. Then Coventry drove Lily and Stephen home to number two, The Parade.

  “That Charlie, he was in the show, wasn’t he?” Stephen asked, tossing his shirt into the laundry basket in the corner of their bedroom.

  “He’s musical director,” Lily said from the bed.

  “Not your little show,” Stephen said. “The show. The war.”

  “Yes. Not for long. I think he was a gunner. He was invalided out.”

  “A blighty?”

  Lily shrugged. “You know I don’t understand soldiers’ slang,” she said pettishly. “What’s a blighty?”

  “A blighty is a wound which gets you shipped home—back to Blighty. Not so bad that you’re in too much pain, but bad enough so they can’t patch you up and push you back which, God knows, they did. Half of them shot themselves. Was he one of them? A convenient wound in the knee?”

  Lily thought of Charlie’s stitched and scarred body, of the secret wound which he had showed to her, and of his hands which had touched her and moved her in a way that a whole man like her husband could not. “Why?” she asked. “Isn’t that what you had? A blighty? A bullet in your ankle?”

  Stephen flinched. “That’s damned insulting, Lily,” he said. “I got my wound when I was leading an attack against a f . . . f . . . farmhouse. The H . . . H . . . Huns were . . . in there . . . with the v . . . village women . . . they had raped them and then stabbed them, the place was like a b . . . b . . . butcher’s sh . . . sh . . . shop . . .”

  “Stop it,” Lily said suddenly, with her hands over her ears. “I don’t want to hear about it. Don’t think about it! You’ll only give yourself bad dreams. Forget it, Stephen! Pretend it never happened!”

  For a moment he was angry, and then his face cleared. “Yes,” he said. “Let’s pretend it never happened.”

  He moved to the bed and Lily could tell by the curiously intent look on his face that he would want her again. He put his arms around her; Lily’s skin was icy, as welcoming as cold water. He slid the little straps from her shoulders so that he could see her breasts. “They were whores,” he said clearly. “They deserved to die. It wasn’t even rape.” He pushed her gently back on the bed and thrust into her.

  • • •

  On Saturday night there was a birthday party for one of the chorus girls and Stephen and Lily went along. It was held after the show in the upper circle bar. There was a piano and Charlie obligingly played dance music so the girls could Charleston. They all went on to a nightclub later, piled two deep into the Argyll. One of the chorus girls begged that Coventry should go in with them, so at Stephen’s nod he left his cap in the car and went dancing too.

  “Don’t mention it to Mother, Lily,” Stephen warned.

  Lily nodded. Charlie was dancing with Madge again, and with one of the chorus girls called Isabel. They had started a line and other people were joining at the end, a repetitive easy dance step, two forwards, a kick, and two back.

  “Come on,” Lily said. She dragged Stephen’s arm and broke into the line beside Charlie. When the music changed Charlie caught her up and danced her off, while Madge and Stephen partnered each other.

  “All right, Lil?” Charlie said quietly.

  “All right,” she said.

  Marjorie Philmore strolled on to the floor and tapped Madge on the shoulder as she danced with Stephen. “Ladies’ Excuse Me,” she said and took her place.

  Stephen looked surprised. “Oh God, don’t say you don’
t even remember me,” Marjorie drawled. She took a puff of smoke from her cigarette holder and blew it out over his shoulder. “We had tea, at your mother’s. My mother was there, and Sarah Dent and her mother. It was the wildest of fun. Don’t you remember?”

  “Oh yes!” Stephen said. “Forgive me, I had forgotten. I’ve been married since then, you know.”

  “I heard,” Marjorie said indifferently. “Chorus girl, ain’t she?”

  Stephen’s teeth went on edge. “She’s a soloist. A singer. That’s her over there.” He nodded his head to where Lily and Charlie were dancing together. Lily had dressed up for the party in a turquoise silk dress cut on the bias so that it floated outwards from her whenever she moved. It had a short tightly fitted bodice with two tiny beaded shoulder straps. It was delightfully obvious that she had nothing on under her dress but her pale peachy skin. Charlie had one hand resting lightly on her bare back and his face set in an expression of pleasant indifference.

  “A baby!” Marjorie exclaimed. “You’re a cradle-snatcher, Stephen!”

  “She’s the most beautiful girl in the room. That’s good enough for me,” Stephen said levelly.

  Marjorie stepped back a little from him. “Touché,” she said. “But I’ve never thought of myself as more than passable so you don’t hurt me.”

  Stephen flushed with embarrassment. “I beg your pardon . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

  Marjorie shook her head and smiled and moved closer to him so that he could feel her down the length of his body. “I’ve always relied on being the sexiest girl in the room,” she whispered very softly in his ear. “I think it’s just as effective. And besides, pretty women have such off days, don’t they? Whereas a sexy woman is always sexy.”

  The music stopped with a flourish and Marjorie abruptly stepped back and clapped. “Thank you,” she said to Stephen. “Now I have to go.”

  “Won’t you come and meet my wife? Have a drink with us?”

  Marjorie narrowed her eyes and smiled at him. “Ask me another time,” she said. “I don’t really go in for wives. Ask me another time when you’re alone.”

  Stephen let her go, but he watched her threading her way through the tables. She moved with a sensuous self-conscious slink.

  Stephen went back to their table and ordered another bottle of champagne. He felt as if he needed it.

  • • •

  On Sunday morning Lily and Stephen had to go to church and take the obligatory walk around the harbour walls. At least one of Muriel’s friends snubbed her. A daughter-in-law on the stage was a major social disadvantage. But all the friends who had children of their own, especially those with surplus young daughters, were pleasant enough. The girls thought that Lily was unspeakably glamorous and they nudged their mothers for an introduction. The boys of sixteen and seventeen merely gaped at Lily as if she were a goddess descended to walk on the sea walls between her mother-in-law and her husband by some special dispensation. There were no young men at all.

  Lily ate Sunday lunch—cream of mushroom soup, roast chicken, stuffing, bread sauce, roast potatoes, boiled peas strangely dry tasting and limp carrots—with polite enthusiasm. She folded her napkin, put it carefully through the ring and then left it by her place. They would not have clean napkins until Monday. Lily thought that clean linen once a week was simply disgusting. It would have been better to wipe your mouth on both sleeves and change your shirt every other day.

  Before Stephen could retreat to his study she said, “Shall we take Mr. Winters for a walk? It’s a lovely day.”

  Muriel hesitated.

  “The doctors did say it was doing him good, didn’t they?” Lily demanded. “Nurse Bells has been taking him every day. We could take him today.”

  “I don’t mind,” Stephen said. “I’ll read the paper for half an hour and then we’ll go.”

  “I’ll go up and tell him,” Lily said.

  Rory’s face was more alert. When she came in the door his whole head turned to see her and his mouth widened in a slow smile.

  “Hello,” Lily said. “I’ve come to see if you would like a walk?”

  The head on the pillow moved slightly forward indicating “yes.”

  “Stephen and I will take you,” Lily said. “He’s just reading the paper. I’ll tell Nurse Bells to get you ready.”

  She turned for the door but a little noise from the bed made her turn back. Rory’s cavernous face was working, he was trying to speak. Lily came back to his bedside and took his hand.

  “Do you want to say something?”

  Shaking with effort he put his hand out towards her. Lily at once bent nearer. Gently, like the brush of a feather, he ran the tip of his index finger across her cheek where the bruise was a pale blue shadow.

  Lily’s face was grim. “I fell,” she said.

  Rory’s hand dropped back on the counterpane. Slowly he shook his head.

  “Did you hear?” Lily asked directly.

  He nodded.

  “Was that why you fell out of bed?”

  His expressionless imprisoned face turned towards her and she saw his eyes were filling with tears.

  She put her fair head down and kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said softly. “You made him stop. He hasn’t hurt me since. He won’t hurt me again. He was angry, and it was partly my fault. He won’t do it again. We’re going to try harder. We’re going to make our marriage work.”

  • • •

  The show at the Kings had a second successful week and then packed up for the move to Southampton. It was the tail end of the season and there was no time for a full-scale tour. It had been the failure of a company going bankrupt which had meant that Charlie had thrown a show together at short notice. They played two weeks at the Royal Southampton, to good houses, and then came back for two weeks at the Kings.

  Lily slept later while she was working in Southampton but Stephen still met her every evening from the theatre, and Coventry drove her to the theatre every morning. The chorus girls had taken to calling her Duchess, and Stephen they called the Duke. Stephen loved it. At least once a week he treated them all to dinner. Those nights the chorus girls all kissed him good night on the cheek. Stephen flushed deep red. “I say!”

  At the start of the first week back at the Kings, Lily felt queasy in the mornings and found her morning cup of tea sour-tasting. She was sick on Wednesday morning and did not get up until midday, to lunch with Stephen. She refused to see a doctor and went in to the afternoon matinée a little early.

  “Madge,” she said, walking in to the dressing room.

  Madge was creaming her face in front of the mirror, wearing her dressing-gown grown more disreputable than ever and greying with dirt at the hem.

  “Madge, I think I’m pregnant.”

  Madge paused, her mouth an “O” of horror, a globule of cream poised on her right hand, “Oh my God,” she said and scraped her fingers clean on the side of the pot. “Why? Have you seen a doctor?”

  “Not yet,” Lily said. “I’m a week late with my little visitor and I was sick this morning. I’ve felt sick every morning since Sunday.”

  “Could be a tummy bug,” Madge said hopefully. “Could be something you ate?”

  “And my breasts feel all tender,” Lily said.

  Madge gave a little moan and opened her arms to Lily. The two girls hugged each other for a moment and then Lily stepped back. “You think I am too,” she accused.

  “Doesn’t make any difference what anyone thinks,” Madge said abruptly. “If you are, you are. What are you going to do?”

  “Is there any way of getting rid of it?” Lily asked, her voice very low.

  Madge glanced behind Lily to see that the dressing room door was shut. “I knew a girl who did it once but she was terribly ill, Lil. You wouldn’t want to do it.”

  “If I don’t, it’s the end of my career,” Lily said. “It’s curtains, isn’t it? I’ll be stuck inside that house forever with a string of babies one after another.”
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  “It’s not safe,” Madge said. “Some women die, and if you’re sick and they have to take you to hospital then it’s a police matter and you’re in real trouble.”

  Lily closed her eyes for a moment and then sat down in front of the mirror with her head in her hands. “I have to get rid of it,” she said. “What d’you do?”

  “There is medicine you can get, but I don’t know what it’s called,” Madge said. “It makes you throw up really bad. It makes you so sick that you lose the baby. My sister did it that way but I don’t know the name of the medicine. She got her boyfriend’s mum to get it for her. She didn’t dare get it herself.”

  “How can we get some?”

  “The girls might know, we could ask around.”

  “And then everyone would know,” Lily said. “And it would get back to Stephen and he would murder me. It’s got to be just you and me.”

  “There’s another way,” Madge said hesitantly.

  “Well?”

  “It’s really dangerous, Lil. You can rupture yourself and bleed to death.”

  “For God’s sake, tell me! You’re like an old hen, Madge! Get on with it!”

  “You put a buttonhook up inside you—you know—up your fanny. And you wedge it there with handkerchiefs all rolled up, and you walk around like that for a whole day with it sticking into you. And the hook scrapes round and round inside as you walk—see?”

  Lily had gone white. “I can’t do that,” she said.

  Madge shrugged. “That’s how it’s done,” she said bleakly. “All day with the hook tearing away at the inside of you. And it can hook on to your stomach or your lungs, or anything.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Well you’d much better not,” Madge agreed. “It’s too dangerous. And anyway, even if you get rid of this one, you’re still married, aren’t you? Can’t do it every month, can you?”

  “He used to pull back,” Lily said slowly. “But then he stopped.”

  Madge nodded. “He wants a baby,” she said. “He wants a family. “He’s your husband, Lil. You shouldn’t have married him if you didn’t want to live with him and have his children.”