Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  “I might have,” Annie said, “but I could be pretty obstinate, too. I don’t suppose I’d have done what I was told any more than you have. But I wouldn’t have minded the chance.”

  “Have you ever been in love?” Ophelia asked.

  Annie eyed her sharply. “What makes you think I wasn’t in love with your grandad?” she asked.

  “Well, were you?” Ophelia asked. “Of course, you don’t have to say. It’s a bit impertinent of me to ask, really.”

  Annie sighed. “Well, no,” she said, sitting down at the table. “I wasn’t in love with Ernest. I — had to marry him.”

  “Oh, Gran! You are a dark horse!” Ophelia said admiringly. “I never knew that. Does Dad know?”

  “Well your grandad didn’t want him to know. Didn’t want anyone else to know, either, so you’re not to go spreading it around. But you can’t hide that sort of thing for ever, what with marriage certificates and birth certificates and things like that. Especially from someone like Billy. He was a bit shocked when he found out,” she added.

  “I bet he was.” Ophelia reached out and gave Annie’s hand a squeeze. “Poor Gran. You’ve not had it easy, have you?”

  “No worse than a lot of folks,” Annie said briskly. “Anyway, what’s all this about love? Are you in love? Is that it?”

  Ophelia blushed, hesitating. “Perhaps,” she said. “Well, not quite. Not yet. But there is someone. Sort of.”

  “No good chasing after a married man, especially that married man,” Annie said. “It’ll lead to all sorts of trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” Ophelia looked startled.

  “I wasn’t born yesterday, young lady. I’ve seen the way you are with Andrew. All those cups of tea, and walking him out to the car every time, and running downstairs whenever he calls. In fact, I’m beginning to wonder whether your staying here is such a good idea after all. It’ll only give you more ideas.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, please, Gran! Don’t make me go home. I really like it here with you.”

  Annie noticed with surprise that there were tears in Ophelia’s eyes. “You don’t deny it, then,” she said. “About Andrew.”

  Ophelia shrugged. “No. There’s no point, and in any case, it’s nice to have someone to talk to about it. I know it’s silly, Gran. You probably think it’s just a childish crush. But being with Andrew is like — like coming home. I can’t explain it, I don’t know why it’s like this, but that’s how I feel.”

  “Your trouble is, you’re lonely, like me,” Annie said, after a moment. “Maybe that’s why we get on so well.”

  Ophelia nodded, wiping away a tear with the back of her hand. “I can’t remember a time when I wasn’t lonely,” she said. “I’ve had friends — some — and, of course, Mum and Dad, but we’re not that close. You know, I don’t think I’ve ever really felt understood. I always seemed to be fighting a battle against someone or something. And yet, I don’t think I’m that difficult. I certainly don’t mean to be.”

  Annie looked at Ophelia and her heart ached for her granddaughter. How could Billy and Sheila be so stupid? They had hoped that Ophelia would be beautiful and clever; that she would turn heads and win prizes; even Annie knew that. Instead, they had something so much better; a daughter who was genuine, who longed to love and be loved, and above all, who was kind. Yet it would seem that they utterly failed to see it. And now, here was Ophelia imagining herself to be in love with someone who was not only married but probably hadn’t even noticed her.

  “I’d like you to stay on here. Of course I would,” she said now. “But if having Andrew around is going to be too hard for you, then you’ll have to go home, because I can’t stop him from coming here. He’s been my lifeline these last few months. In any case, what would he think if I told him not to come any more? It would seem so rude. So ungrateful.”

  “I’ll try to be good,” Ophelia said. “If you let me stay, I really will try to keep out of his way.”

  “That’s all right then,” Annie said. But she had her doubts. It was true that she had never been in love herself, but if the opportunity had ever arisen, she knew she would have grasped it with both hands.

  Could she trust her granddaughter not to do the same?

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Annie’s Story

  When Billy was six months old, Ernest told Annie that he wished to sleep with her.

  “But you do sleep with me, Ernest,” Annie said, hoping beyond hope that he didn’t mean what she thought he meant.

  “You know what I mean, Annie. Sleep together. Properly. Like husband and wife. I’ve given you time. Many men wouldn’t have left it as long. But it’s only right, with us being married. It’s time we — got together again.” He spoke almost shyly, but there was no doubting the tone of his voice, and Annie’s heart sank.

  It was the moment she had been dreading. Sometimes, in her more optimistic moods, she had thought that maybe Ernest had forgotten about sex altogether. He hadn’t mentioned it since their wedding night, and there had been virtually no physical contact between them since. Or it could be that he had gone off the idea as much as she had, for certainly Annie could think of few things less pleasurable than their antics in the cornfield.

  She could imagine — just — wanting to have a sexual encounter with someone she loved; someone who was tender and caring, who would hold her and be gentle with her. She could even imagine that it might be possible to enjoy it. But with Ernest? She thought of Ernest’s moustache, Ernest’s white hairy legs, Ernest’s clammy fumbling fingers, and worst of all, Ernest’s Thing (she could only think of it as a Thing. She had never actually seen it, of course, but she certainly hadn’t forgotten its startling size and even more startling effect).

  “When?” she whispered. “When do you want to — do it?”

  “I think tonight,” Ernest said, folding his newspaper. “No time like the present,” he added, as though they were about to embark on a household chore rather than what was supposed to be an act of love. “I’ve got to be up in good time in the morning, so we’d better get to bed early.”

  With trembling hands Annie washed and brushed her teeth, and put on her best nightdress. Frightened as she was, she wanted to please Ernest if it was possible, and the nightdress was a birthday gift from her mother and nearly new.

  “You won’t be needing that,” Ernest said, coming into the bedroom.

  “Needing what?”

  “The nightdress. You won’t be needing it. Please take it off. I want to look at you.”

  “Oh, please, Ernest! Let me keep it on. Please. Just this time.” Annie was appalled. No one had seen her naked since she was a small child, and besides, while she had always been slim, she was aware that childbirth hadn’t done her figure any favours. What if Ernest didn’t like what he saw? What if it made him angry? Annie would go to considerable lengths to avoid Ernest’s anger.

  “I’ve allowed you your — modesty, Annie, up until now. But I’m entitled to see you. I’m your husband.” He undid his tie and started to take off his shirt. “You should be flattered that I want to look at you.”

  Was Ernest entitled to see her naked? Annie was sure her parents had never seen each other’s bodies. They had always been very modest around the house, and she knew for a fact that her father always undressed in the bathroom before joining her mother at night.

  “Must I? Oh Ernest, please. I really don’t want to.”

  Ernest took off his shoes. “I haven’t asked much of you, Annie. I want you to do this now. I want to look at you.”

  Slowly, her heart full of dread, Annie began to undo her buttons. She could feel the blood flooding her face and neck, and her legs shook. How was she going to bear this humiliation? If the prospect of sex had been bad, the idea of standing in front of Ernest without a stitch was almost worse. She undid the final button and hesitated.

  “Come on.” Ernest was staring at her, a half-smile on his lips. “Get it off properly. Hurry up, Annie.”


  There were tears in her eyes as Annie finally let the nightdress slip to the floor. Too embarrassed to look down at her body and too ashamed to meet Ernest’s eye, she fixed her gaze on a point above his head. And waited.

  “Well.” Ernest was smiling now. “That’s nice, Annie. You’ve got a nice body. Very attractive, I must say. Come here.”

  Annie walked towards him, biting her lip. She wouldn’t cry. She mustn’t cry. Crying always irritated Ernest, and whatever happened, she mustn’t do anything to upset him.

  Ernest reached out and touched one of her nipples. “Very nice,” he repeated, as though her breast were a cake she had just baked rather than part of her body. “Very nice, Annie.”

  Although she didn’t dare look, Annie was aware of movement below Ernest’s belt, and suspected that the Thing had awoken and was preparing to join in the proceedings. She swallowed. “You can get into bed now, Annie. I won’t be a minute.” Gratefully, Annie threw herself under the covers, and drawing the blankets up to her chin, turned her face away. She heard Ernest going into the bathroom, flushing the lavatory, running a tap. He appeared to be humming to himself. Annie prayed that the baby might wake up; he represented her only chance of a reprieve. But, for once, Billy, usually a light sleeper, slept on in the tiny bedroom next door.

  She heard Ernest come back into the bedroom, close the door and walk over to the bed. The mattress dipped as he got into bed, and she heard him place his glasses on the bedside table, just as he always did, and switch off the bedside light. Annie waited.

  What would happen now? Annie’s memories of her sexual initiation, unpleasant as they undoubtedly were, had been blurred by the effects of cider, and now, with no such assistance, she wasn’t at all sure what to expect. Was she supposed to do something to initiate the process, or should she leave everything to Ernest? Despite the bedclothes, her nakedness made her feel horribly vulnerable. She wondered whether Ernest too was naked, but there was no delicate way of finding out.

  Ernest reached across and put a hand on her breast. Annie tried not to shudder. The hand smelled strongly of the carbolic soap Ernest favoured, and felt damp. She could feel Ernest turning towards her in the darkness. The hand moved downwards, touching her belly and thigh. Annie froze.

  And then suddenly Ernest was on top of her, his breath hot in her face, his body pinning her down, his free hand roughly exploring between her legs. And Annie screamed.

  Long afterwards, Annie wondered whether her life might have turned out differently had she managed to contain her fear. After all, she knew Ernest; she knew, more or less, what was involved. Ernest had never tried to hurt her before, and so she most likely had nothing to fear. But the suddenness of Ernest’s approach, the roughness, the feeling of helplessness compounded by humiliation overwhelmed her totally. Hers was a cry not only of fear, but of desperation and hopelessness, for in that moment she realised as never before that this was what she was condemned to endure quite possibly for the rest of her life: sex without affection, desire without any consideration for how she might be feeling.

  Annie’s scream enraged Ernest, as she might have known it would. He hissed at her to be quiet, while the pawing and the thrusting became increasingly violent, and when he entered her body the pain was worse than it had been before. Annie bit her lip and braced herself, praying for it all to be over. Whatever happened, she mustn’t scream again. If she kept quiet, she might be able to redeem herself just a little. But let it be over, she kept thinking. Please let it be over.

  Abruptly, Ernest finished, and for a moment his body seemed to collapse onto hers. He sounded out of breath, and she could feel his heart pounding against her own. She turned her head towards the window. Some people passed in the street outside, talking and laughing. Annie had no idea who they were, but she wished she could have changed places with them; at this moment, she would gladly have changed places with anyone who wasn’t married to Ernest.

  “Well, Annie,” Ernest said, after he had regained his side of the bed. “You’ve displeased me, I have to say.”

  “I’m sorry,” Annie whispered.

  “And so you should be. Making that disgraceful noise. Supposing someone had heard. What then, eh?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No. I don’t suppose you do. That’s your trouble, Annie. You don’t think. And you never gave a thought to my feelings, either. It’s not as though you haven’t done this before. More than once, I shouldn’t wonder.”

  “What?”

  “That’s what I said. I thought that first time, I wonder whether she’s done this before. You certainly didn’t make much fuss at the time.”

  “But I never — I’ve never — I never even had a boyfriend before you, Ernest! You were the first. I swear to you, you were the first.” Did Ernest really mean what he was saying, or were his words simply designed to hurt her? Annie had upset Ernest, and she was genuinely sorry that she had, but surely she didn’t deserve this?

  “I only have your word for it,” Ernest said now. “And after tonight’s performance, I’m not sure I can trust you, Annie.” He turned on his side away from her. “And now I’m going to sleep. I’ve got work in the morning.”

  Within minutes, Ernest was snoring, leaving Annie feeling perhaps lonelier than she had ever felt in her life before. Very quietly, she slipped out of bed and retrieved her nightdress. Not until she had done up the last button did she feel safe enough to get back into bed, and it was some time before her heartbeats subsided and she was able to breathe normally.

  Tonight, Annie knew, would almost certainly mark a change in her relationship with Ernest, and she feared it was not going to be a change for the better.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Ophelia

  “No one wears hats to church any more, Gran.”

  “We always wore a hat to church.”

  “How long ago was that?”

  “Doesn’t matter how long. That’s not the point. Anyway, what do you know about it? When did you last go to church?”

  “When did you last wear a hat? Some time ago, I should think, considering the state of this lot. This one’s got little holes in it.” Ophelia held up an ancient fawn beret.

  “Moths,” said Annie, selecting a straw hat with a rather tired ribbon and trying it on in front of the mirror. “Do you think this is too young?”

  “It looks too old to me,” Ophelia said.

  “No. You know what I mean. Mutton dressed as lamb.”

  “It might look quite good on a sheep.”

  “I wish you’d be serious, Ophelia. We’re going to be late.”

  “This then. Wear this.” Ophelia picked up a navy felt hat and gave it a shake. “It’s quite respectable.”

  Annie put on the hat. “I suppose it’ll do. I’ll have to get a new one, though.”

  “Are you making this a habit, then?” Ophelia’s spirits rose. Annie had taken up her suggestion of church with some reluctance, and had only agreed on the condition that they didn’t “hang about afterwards”.

  “Don’t you trust me, Gran?” Ophelia had asked.

  “No,” had been the terse reply.

  And rightly, Ophelia thought now, as Annie secured the hat with a vicious-looking pin. For while she had meant it when she said that she would try to avoid speaking to Andrew, she also knew that if the opportunity presented itself she would find it very hard to resist.

  Ophelia herself hadn’t been too sure what to wear to church. She had been with Annie now for three weeks, and was still wearing the clothes she had brought to last her four days. The gypsy skirt would have to do. Annie had said that jeans were out of the question for church, and Ophelia was anxious to keep on the right side of her grandmother.

  In the event, they arrived at the church in plenty of time, and chose a pew near the back. This, it transpired, was hardly necessary since the church was large and the congregation sparse.

  “What a lot of grey heads,” whispered Ophelia, as they sank respectful
ly to their knees. She omitted to say that only one other sported a hat.

  “Mind who you’re saying that to,” retorted Annie.

  “Sorry, Gran. But everyone is rather old.”

  “Probably preparing themselves for the life to come,” said Annie piously. “Memento mori and all that.”

  “Memento what?”

  “Memento mori. A reminder of death I think it means. I read it somewhere.”

  “How useful,” Ophelia murmured, regaining her seat and looking around her with interest. She wondered whether Andrew’s wife would be here — Janet, wasn’t it? — and whether she would know her if she saw her. She would probably be about Andrew’s age and sit by herself near the front. Ophelia had vague and rather traditional ideas about churchgoing, and imagined people sticking jealously to their own seats, with the village squire (or equivalent) and his family taking up the front pew. Today, the front pews were empty, with everyone huddled in the middle or towards the back; a bit like school, with no one wanting to be too near the teacher. Ophelia would dearly have loved to be near the front, but hadn’t dared suggest it to Annie.

  “Here he comes,” whispered Annie. “Now, you behave yourself.”

  What on earth did Annie think Ophelia was going to do? Was she afraid she might rush down the aisle and fling herself into Andrew’s arms? Ophelia had a brief and heavenly vision of herself doing just that, but perhaps more slowly, wearing a breathtaking white dress and carrying a bouquet of lilies, leaning on the arm of a very proud father (the proud father was almost as unlikely a part of the scenario as the waiting bridegroom, but a girl could dream, couldn’t she?).

  The service passed in a haze for Ophelia, as she struggled with emotions ranging from joy to despair. Andrew looked quite different in his vestments, but undeniably handsome, Ophelia thought, noting how well white suited him and wondering whether he kept his trousers on underneath. His voice was commanding but gentle, and the sermon (something about St Paul) delivered with authority, although Ophelia had difficulty in concentrating on the words. During the course of the service she dropped both her hymnbook and her collection money, earning herself a nudge in the ribs from Annie, and was too flustered to join in any of the hymns (although years of school assemblies had insured that she knew them all well).