by John Masters
‘Be …’ she began, meaning to ask him to be gentle with her. But there was a tide of excitement rising in her, and she bit her lips, and said no more, for she did not want him to be gentle. She was finding the answer to the riddle she had asked herself in the train – would she be in the body that would lie with Stephen? The answer was No. This body, responding, heaving, dripping, was not the Stella Cate she had lived with, and in, for eighteen years. It was somebody else, tense, lustful, desiring excitement above all …
His voice was thick – ‘Knees up … higher … wider … back!’ He knelt on the bed between her thighs, and pushed her legs back till her knees were at her shoulders. His eyes were fixed down at the opening of her body, his small moustache quivering and saliva dribbling from one corner of his lips. He leaned forward and the saliva dripped on to her belly; then his lips were fastened on to hers, his body pressing her down. A sharp spasm of pain pierced her as she felt him thrust into her. After a moment of pushing against her hymen, hurting her where the tegument held, it broke with an audible crack and his whole penis slid deep into her.
‘Christ!’ he cried. She half-stifled a scream. ‘Christ!’ he cried again, ‘I’m coming … now, now!’ His body jerked wildly and then he lay still. Her vulva hurt and she knew she was bleeding. He lay on top of her for a time and then said, ‘Wait,’ stretched out and took the hand towel from the wash-handstand, and gave it to her. She pushed it between her thighs. There was nothing she could do about the bloodstained sheet. The pain in her was less sharp now, but still there.
‘Sorry I was so quick,’ he said, ‘but I’ve been waiting a long time.’ He kissed her on the cheek, and she saw that now he was trembling, in utter exhaustion.
She put out a hand, marvelling that she had been able to reduce a man to such a state. Apart from the pain, she felt that she had not really started, and wanted to. The woman in her body was waiting for some fulfilment, and it had not come yet. She leaned over him where he lay beside her, and whispered, ‘Thank you, Stephen … That was wonderful.’
‘I hope I didn’t hurt you too much. But you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.’
‘Only a little … Did I do it right?’
‘Couldn’t be better,’ he said, ‘and I’ll be better next time.’
She stretched down to stroke the long white bands of scar tissue on his legs. ‘Did this hurt – when it happened?’ she asked.
‘Not just then, really … shock. Afterwards, it hurt like the devil. The operations weren’t any fun, either.’
He had a small head and narrow shoulders, some hair on his chest but not much; and the thicket where the thing grew wasn’t big either, not much bigger than her own, though differently shaped. She began to stroke his belly, wondering if she was not being too forward. After a while she asked him, ‘Where shall we have supper?’
‘In here. They’re sending it up at seven … with beer and porter. They don’t have wine here, not good wine, anyway.’ Her hand wandered down into the thicket and touched the limp penis. She caressed its damp slipperiness, holding her breath. Slowly it began to thicken and harden. ‘Go on!’ Stephen gasped. ‘Go on, suck it!’
‘What?’ she said, staring at his congested face under the bright light.
‘Suck it, put it in your mouth!’
A hand was on her vulva, a finger rubbing the little button at the top, where the lips parted.
She bent down, staring at the thing. Did he really mean it? Did anyone really? … His hand pressed down on the back of her head, but she was already bending, staring at the thing, now big and stiff, so close. She had never imagined doing this, or anything like it. She stretched her lips wide and took it into her mouth. For a moment she thought she would gag, or worse, bite convulsively … It felt strange, tasted stranger, like nothing she had ever put into her mouth before. She was losing the power to think, as though some drug to make her faint was emanating from it. She began to suck frantically, sliding her lips up and down the shaft.
From far away she heard him gasp, ‘No more! On your back!’
Hurriedly she scrambled back and spread herself, knees wide. Again he entered her, again she felt a sharp pang, overlaying the duller ache in her vagina. Her body seemed close, waiting for something greater to overcome the pain. His grip was crushing her, his face pressed on her, his loins pounding … groans, spasmodic final thrusts … She held her breath, waiting … a dead weight, still.
So near … her breath leaving her in a long sigh. The woman had not reached the core of any great secret. She, Stella Cate, felt rubbery, beaten, but nervous. Next time … or the next?
They were lying still again, side by side under the blankets and coverlet, for there was no fire laid in the fireplace. Stella had hoped that Stephen would make love to her again before supper came. She was still sore, but she had come here to reach the heart of the mystery of life, and had not been near it. She had made it as clear as she could, without saying so in so many words, that she was ready for him, but he had said he must be careful not to hurt her, and had spent a long time caressing her private parts with his fingers. That had felt pleasant, but it was not what she wanted, and his thing had remained limp.
Then a servant girl brought up a big tray loaded with roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, cabbage and roast potatoes, and they had eaten well; and afterwards the girl brought jam puffs and cream; and after an hour and a half’s digestion, Stephen seemed to have forgotten about his concern for her sore parts, for he had again undressed her – they both had dressed for supper, not having any suitable gowns or robes, and made the bed look as respectable as possible in the circumstances … and again, more slowly, his thing had grown stiff and red and he had made love to her, this time from behind, bending her over the bed and taking her as the dog took the bitch. It felt strange, but perhaps better than the other way … and for a while she had thought the mystery would be revealed, as stirrings of sexuality began to shake her; but they had gone away, leaving her in a state of uneasy calm.
Now he was smoking a cigarette, with her permission. He said, ‘Where’s your mother?’
‘Back in Ireland.’ She was about to add, ‘for good,’ but kept quiet. It was a family matter.
He said, ‘It must have been difficult having a Sinn Feiner in the house.’
‘Two,’ she said. ‘Laurence pretends to be nearly as rabid as Mummy about Ireland … He isn’t really, I think, but he wants to attract attention … Mummy’s, especially.’ She stroked his chest. ‘You won’t have to go back to the war, will you?’
‘Because of the wounds? I didn’t think so until a few days ago. But now I’m better than they thought I would ever be. I’m a regular officer, Stella. I couldn’t stay at home unless I’m crippled. Wouldn’t do at all.’
‘Those beastly Germans! And we have people who say they aren’t so bad. I was at a dinner party at the Park – Lord Swanwick’s – a fortnight ago, with my cousin Naomi Rowland and her friend Rachel Cowan. We were all talking about atrocities and Rachel said she didn’t believe the stories were true. Everyone turned away from her and I heard Lord Swanwick say to another man “What do you expect of an Ikey Mo?”’
‘Is she a Jew? I can’t stand Jews.’
‘She believes in conscription – it’s the only fair way, she said.’
‘She’s right there,’ Irwin said grudgingly. ‘We’ve got to get the shirkers out of their cushy jobs.’
‘Conscription of everyone’s money, as well, she says,’ Stella added. ‘She’s a socialist, and awfully brainy, Naomi says.’
‘I can’t stand brainy women.’
She kissed his cheek tentatively, and said, ‘You won’t have to worry about me. I couldn’t have got into a good girls’ school even if Mummy had wanted me to go to one. Our governesses used to burst into tears over my arithmetic … Did you see any atrocities, yourself?’
‘No, not myself … except some burning churches, but I was only in France two weeks, and fighting three days. Bu
t I’m sure the reports are true.’
She snuggled closer to him, and he said, ‘I’ll turn out the light now, and we’ll sleep a bit. To tell the truth, I’m tired. Later, if we wake up …’
She realized with surprise that she was stronger than he, more sexually potent. She had never thought it could be so, always having seen men as male animals, perpetually dominant, and perpetually on the hunt for females. Now, actually in bed beside a man, having taken all his strength three times, she realized that it was she who was the predator. She thought with wonder, I must be careful; if that thing failed to answer her invitation, Stephen would be humiliated … She, Stella Cate, with power over men!
He got out of bed, turned off the light, and climbed back, facing her. She kissed him on the end of his nose, and said, ‘When we’re married, there won’t be any hurry, will there?’
After a long pause he said, ‘No.’ She drifted off to sleep.
She lay awake, wondering. She didn’t know what time it was. No light seeped in through the curtains. She wondered whether she was very bad to have had a lover at eighteen. That young unmarried girls made love she knew from the number of times that she had seen a pregnant village girl go to the altar; and had even heard of girls who were not of that class, but of her own, in similar circumstances – though with them the marriage was usually held somewhere distant, and a long journey overseas arranged. She wondered what it would feel like when she first knew that she was to have a baby. She wondered whether she should pretend to cough to awaken Stephen, who was snoring beside her, his back now turned. She wondered whether Johnny Merritt would have made love to her differently from Stephen, if it was him she had fallen in love with. Perhaps what Stephen had done was caddish; she knew her father would think of it that way – ‘A gentleman doesn’t take advantage of a lady,’ he had said, many times. But she had wanted it, asked for it, really, she recognized that now. Stephen was thirty-six … a gap of eighteen years between husband and wife wasn’t unusual, though a bit more than with most couples. She wondered if … A strange sound intruded into her musings, that had moved from love to guilt, to fear, to desire, to shame, to love again. It was a sound like distant small drums, or a deep humming … the drumbeats now together, now gradually drifting apart so that the noise was not steady but went up and down, louder and softer. She had never heard anything like it. Stephen still snored. The sound grew louder. Should she awaken him? But he’d think she was demanding more sex … and he was tired.
She stole out of bed, tiptoed to the window, and pulled back a curtain. There was no moon, stars mostly clear, some masked by hazy cloud masses. The street light burned bright and a string of lights down river shone from Scarrow Wharf, where barges were loaded and unloaded. The noise seemed to be coming from every part of the compass, north, south, inside the room, outside …
She looked up, and gasped, for a huge black shape was blotting out some stars … moving steadily from north to south, coming directly overhead.
She ran to the bed and shook Stephen – ‘Stephen, wake up, wake up!’
‘Wha’ … wha’s the matter?’
She dragged him to the window. They reached it just as a heavy explosion shook the building and rattled the window panes, followed by another and another and another, the explosions marching closer, apparently along this side of the Scarrow.
‘What on earth …?’ Stephen muttered, rubbing his eyes. Then he gasped, ‘Bombs! … There must be a Zeppelin up there!’
‘I saw a big shape.’
He found his matches and lit the gas light, only to put it out again immediately, muttering, ‘They might see it.’ He was fumbling for his clothes, which had been more tidily folded away over the backs of chairs the last time they undressed. Stella flung the window open and listened. The sound she had heard before was louder now. ‘Engines,’ Stephen said. Then she heard a faint popping, and Stephen said, ‘They’re firing at it from the barracks, with rifles … miles out of range … Where’s my tie? For heaven’s sake, Stella, where’s my tie?’
She didn’t know, or care. More bombs were falling, to burst down the other side of the valley. Dim against the stars the monster up there seemed to be turning. She watched it with mounting excitement. At once she realized that this exhilaration, these coursing thrills, were for her similar to those she had hoped to experience a few hours ago with Stephen … but these were stronger, and seemed to be leading her even closer to the unknown climax.
‘I’ve got to go,’ Stephen said. He seemed to be fully dressed, as well as she could see him in the darkness of the room. Screams and shouts were coming through the window now, and the sound of running booted feet. Far to the north a searchlight bored vertically into the sky – perhaps from a warship in Chatham, she thought. The Zeppelin had made a full sweep round and was heading towards the searchlight and the naval dockyards. Perhaps there were two of them, she thought, but she could only follow the shape of one, and that dimly.
Stephen said, ‘They’ll be standing-to in barracks, and I’m supposed to be there. I’ve got to try to get back in before my absence is noticed … Where can I drop you? For God’s sake, Stella, get dressed! I don’t have a moment to lose.’
‘Have you paid the innkeeper?’ she asked.
‘Yes, yes! When I arranged this I paid for everything in advance.’
She was feeling for her drawers, pulling them on. She said, ‘You go, Stephen. I’ll find my own way home.’
He hesitated – ‘Are you sure?’
She felt calm. Stephen was frantic to get away, to avoid trouble. She understood, but she had no such desire herself. She wanted to stay here. It was exciting, and already she could see fires burning. It would get more exciting. He kissed her on the cheek, and hurried out, carrying his bag. Stella finished dressing in her VAD uniform, and packed away the rest of her belongings in her bag. Stephen never really looked at the pretty clothes I had, she thought – except to tear them off. She walked down the back stairs and let herself out. Stephen’s borrowed car was gone. Flames were pouring out of a house far down the street towards the north. She broke into a run, her bag in one hand, her long skirt gathered up in the other.
The dark of the night was no longer darkness, nor light, but a changing, moving blend of both. Tongues of fire, yellow and red, towered up from a house here, a warehouse there, a shop, a factory. Running past the black mouth of an alley, it was suddenly lighted for her by the headlight beams of a lorry, a man with a pipe in hand silhouetted by them. The sounds were as disjointed as the light – a wave of shrieks, dying away; the roar of a falling wall becoming silence, erupting into the splinter of breaking glass; men and women shouting, children crying – but she also passed men silent, downcast, seeming to be alone, reading their own minds. The people had fallen into the same indefinable lack of pattern – some running towards the nearest fire, others running away, yet others crossing their paths at right angles, darting out of one alley, crossing the main Rochester road, and darting into a street opposite, or into one of the dingy brick workmen’s houses that here lined the road.
She reached the burning house, and found half a dozen men and women outside, their faces lit by the flames – ‘Everyone’s out!’ a man cried.
‘No, they ain’t,’ a woman yelled. ‘My cousin Sal’s youngest … she ain’t ’ere!’ Children, huddled in the ragged clothes they had probably slept in – certainly escaped in – stood shivering at the edge of the firelight, hot in front, cold behind.
The flames were not very fierce or tall yet. The building was two-storeyed, and small. ‘Where is she?’ Stella asked.
‘Back, upstairs, right… unless she come down on her own and run away. She’s five.’
Stella darted forward, voices yelling meaninglessly behind her. For a moment her heart pounded, then seemed to stop, and a catch at her throat nearly took her breath. It was like the moment before Stephen had entered her the first time, but stronger, more terrible, and wonderful. She ran into the house through the op
en door. The fire roared loudly in the rooms to the right as she ran up the stairs. It was very hot, and the paint on the walls was peeling and charring, smelling vile. The flames below gave enough light for her to find the back rooms. She opened the door at the right. A rush of smoke met her, and forced her back. She picked up the end of her skirt, covered her face with it, and tried again. It was darker yet in the room, but some light from another fire coming in through the cracked window showed no one on the bed … She tripped over something, stooped, felt the small soft body, picked it up and dashed back, coughing and gasping, her skirt dropped for she needed both hands to hold the child. The flames were bursting through the lower walls and she had to take two long strides through them, her face momentarily brushed by their burning fingers, her hair singed and smelling. Then she was out, choking, but … she had reached the secret place, the unknown delirium, just for a few seconds. They were standing round her, crying out in admiration, until a man shouted, ‘Stand back, you silly buggers! Can’t you see she wants air? ’Ere, you, get some water out of that ’ouse there, look sharp!’
The woman addressed ran across the street. The man who had spoken was fat, red-faced, and full of energy. Before the woman came back with the water for Stella, he had gathered half a dozen men and run off up the street to a burning shop. Stella found herself alone with the cup of water. Everyone else had gone, taking the child she had rescued with them. She felt tired, now; but when she had drunk the water she got up from the step she had been sitting on, and hurried towards the next fire.
