by Nancy Carson
God!…What was Brent doing? Her knickers and her stockings were around her ankles and he was licking between her thighs like a thirsty cat lapping milk. But it was unbelievably nice…So she parted her legs a little to allow him easier access and found the effort rewarding for the pleasure was all the more intense. She sighed at her own response to these delectable sensations and was surprised at her lack of resistance and shame at such an outlandish invasion of her most secret place. But why should she resist? Why should she feel shame when it was so, so pleasant? She ran her fingers through his hair with more urgency now and gently pulled his face into her, thrusting her pelvis forward.
Outside, more people were trudging through the snow, more motor cars were negotiating the streets, but gingerly, and one slithered into the kerb as it braked to slow down. Yet, she no longer saw the white, snowy streets of New York, the shimmering trees and the leaden lake. Her eyes were shut tight. Central Park and its white winter overcoat were just part of the unreality as the warm glow in her loins increased and demanded her concentration.
Then Brent stood up and she looked into his eyes again appealingly. He gently scooped her up into his arms as he would a baby and placed her across the massive bed. She lay there expectantly, hungry for him now, while he took off his own clothes. Then, as naked as she, he lay alongside her and their bodies touched. His skilful hands were all over her, touching her breasts, caressing between her legs agonisingly till she wanted to cry out for his weight upon her.
Pray for me, Howard…Pray for me…Howard…Howard…
Brent rolled onto her and she gasped with relief and pleasure as he entered her.
They slept till shortly after nine o’ clock. It was daylight and through the open curtains Maxine could see that it had stopped snowing. She snuggled up to Brent and almost at once felt him hard for her again. They made love once more, languidly, as if they had always been lovers, then slept again. At midday they were awakened by the sound of giggling.
‘Sounds like Dulcie is on the landing,’ Maxine whispered.
Then they heard Kenny’s unmistakable yelps of laughter.
‘Sounds like everybody’s up and about,’ Brent said.
‘Already?’ Maxine sounded disappointed. ‘I swear, I could sleep on.’
‘You’ll get precious little sleep from now on, Maxine.’
‘Oh?’ she uttered innocently.
‘Well, I reckon we should alter the sleeping arrangements on board ship…Don’t you?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, it’s obvious Kenny will be spending his nights in Dulcie’s cabin. That means you can move in with me and Toots can move in with Pansy.’
‘I see you’ve got it all worked out.’
‘Don’t tell me you’re objecting…’
Maxine smiled bashfully. Her innate modesty inclined her to pull the bedclothes over her naked breasts.
‘No, don’t cover yourself up,’ he complained. ‘It’s great to see you starkers at last. I always wondered what you looked like starkers…’
‘Well, now you know. Have I lived up to your expectations?’
‘Let’s put it this way – you are too good for that Howard Quaintance. I don’t think he was capable of appreciating you.’
She turned her face away from him. How could he possibly say that? How could he possibly give an opinion on how much Howard had appreciated her body? Just because he was a clergyman didn’t mean…
‘I’ll make you happy, Maxine,’ he said as if detecting her resentment. ‘You’ll not want for sex with me, that’s for sure.’
‘It’s love I want,’ she replied softly. But she smiled with contentment, for he had loved her capably enough.
Chapter 26
In the short time he had been in business on his own account in Birmingham’s Jewellery Quarter, Stephen Hemming had fared commendably well. The Depression had taken its toll of the area’s businesses, but the market had now turned round for the better and demand was healthy once more for the trinkets they produced. Stephen’s creative flair led him into designing exclusive and thus expensive jewellery that those manufacturers and retailers that served the more affluent consumers regarded as chic. It was a lucrative niche. Furthermore, it had not taken him long to appreciate that manufacturing these designs himself would be even more profitable, and the new workshop he had established was stacked out with work. Already he was earning a tidy penny and the future looked even rosier with the first commissions appearing as well from top couturiers in London, Paris and Rome.
Eleanor, of course, had watched this meteoric success with a shrewd, calculating regard and increasing admiration. Indeed, her own collection of elegant gems was growing by the week and she was keen to show them off when she escorted Stephen to the theatre and the growing number of dinner parties they were being invited to. This rapidly increasing affluence was reflected in the clothes she was amassing in her wardrobe, in the frequency of her visits to the hairdresser and the motor car they sported – a brand new Alvis Speed Twentyfive.
Stephen was turning out to be quite a catch.
Brent had always been debonair and his capriciousness, Eleanor readily understood, rendered him all the more intriguing, especially perhaps to younger women. Stephen on the other hand was predictable, earthy, reliable and, for the most part, relatively forthright. At first she had fallen into the trap of thinking him soft. But Stephen was not soft. He was no pushover and Eleanor had to use all her wiles to get her way when they did not see eye to eye. This quality attracted her now more than ever, for she enjoyed a challenge. Consequently, their relationship tended to be fiery with days on end when they would not speak to each other, usually over some petty disagreement. Generally, Eleanor caved in first…when she wanted money to pay for this or that intended purchase. And money was her first love, after all…
Stephen seemed to understand this and it inclined him to greater generosity. Whatever she wanted she could have, so long as he first sanctioned it and it did not incur a huge debt. In bed, however, he was demanding, and his sexual appetite surprised not only Eleanor but himself too. To prevent the ignominy of pregnancy, Eleanor had, after a nail-biting false alarm early on, been fitted with a new Dutch cap and there had been no frights since. But although she did not want children, she deemed marriage to Stephen desirable as a means of staking her claim to a share in his phenomenal success; indeed, she had contributed to it in no small measure. Besides, their living in sin could not be countenanced by the more conservative of their peers. It was impeding their advancement higher up the social ladder and thus their opportunities for greater wealth creation.
The problem was, she had always let Stephen believe she was married to Brent and explaining the truth was going to be difficult, if not impossible. However, her need to lay legitimate claim to some of the fortune he was making was blinding her to the potential hazards. Eleanor wanted to raise the issue one night as they were getting ready for bed. Ironically, they had been to a CBO concert at the Town Hall with business friends. It was not really an appropriate time to introduce the subject but impulsiveness and greed was driving her, as it always drove her.
‘I thought it seemed strange to be at a CBO concert and see neither Brent nor Maxine on the platform,’ she remarked, trying to sound casual as she sat in her dressing gown pulling a brush through her hair repeatedly.
‘Really? I hadn’t thought about it.’
‘You mean she never once crossed your mind while you were listening or watching the cellos playing? I don’t believe you.’
‘Oh, she might have crossed my mind fleetingly,’ Stephen replied nonchalantly.
‘See! There you are then.’
‘But it’s of no consequence.’ He was leaning on his pillow, his head resting in his hand, watching her. She was not the vulnerable, demure type he’d always been attracted to; rather she was the complete opposite. But after all these months, he still could not take his eyes off her. She was the complete woman; beautiful, el
egant, and such immense fun in bed. He hoped he would never tire of admiring her, of touching her, of making love to her. The only thing he was tiring of was the petty arguments that seemed to flare up all too often, especially at certain times of the month. And one might easily flare up right now if he did not veer away from the subject of Maxine Kite.
‘I wonder what they’re doing now?’ Eleanor mused, persisting with the thread.
‘Well, according to Pansy they intend to stay in New York when the Queen Mary thing finishes at the end of December.’
‘You never told me you’d had another letter from Pansy.’ Eleanor stopped brushing her hair and flashed him an annoyed look.
‘Does it matter? God! She’s my sister. Of course she keeps in touch.’
‘Of course she keeps in touch, Stephen. I don’t object to that. It’s just that you never told me you’d had another letter. You never tell me anything.’
‘Actually, I tell you everything, Eleanor. Not always in the same sequence as it happens, I grant you…Anyway, some things are too trivial to bother you with…Still, I can tell you the band’s doing well. They have a series of radio shows booked for a start and long engagements at quite a few of the top night spots in New York. Other cities, too, Pansy says. Chicago and Boston…Oh, and Brent and Maxine have quite a thing going for each other now, apparently.’
‘You mean…do you mean what I think you mean?’
‘Reading between the lines…I wondered how long it would take. According to Pansy, that vicar chap never contacted her again once she left home to join the Queen Mary…So Brent muscled in.’
‘Well, just fancy…Brent and Maxine…’ Eleanor mused. She slowed the tempo of her hair brushing, pondering the fact. If Stephen had been able to see into her eyes, he might have detected a look of disquiet. ‘Who’d have thought it?’ she added, as if it were the biggest surprise of her life. ‘I never thought she was Brent’s type. Never.’
‘Oh, come on, Eleanor, don’t be so naïve. Any female is Brent’s type. He’d lay a female frog if it would stop hopping.’
‘God, Stephen! You’re disgusting sometimes.’
‘Come to bed, Eleanor and stop fiddling with your hair – it’s beautiful enough. Come on, I’m as randy as a fiddler’s bitch.’
She turned to look at him, put down her brush and took off her dressing gown. ‘You’re always randy…I suppose I should be thankful…But I wonder if you’d be as randy if we got married? I mean, it’s all stolen fruits at the moment. Aren’t stolen fruits supposed to be the sweetest?’
‘I don’t see as it would make any difference,’ he said, his eyes glued to her breasts that were hanging lusciously free as she crawled naked across the bed to join him like a lissom young tigress stalking her prey. ‘Why do you mention marriage, though? Have you got the bug just because the King’s decided to abdicate and marry Mrs Simpson, or is it because of Brent and Maxine?’
She lifted the bedclothes and snuggled in beside him, borrowing his warmth. ‘Neither. Neither has got anything to do with it. The truth is, I’ve been thinking, Stephen. Us living together unmarried is scaring off a lot of important would-be contacts. It’s not tolerated by a good many and won’t be seen to be tolerated either, for fear of jeopardising their own good name in society. If we were to get married we’d be thought respectable and we could get to know more people. That way we’d get business that’s denied us now…Think about it.’
He thought about it – for about ten seconds – while he played with her breasts.
‘But how can we if you’re already married? Bigamy is a criminal offence, you know.’ He scoffed at the absurdity of the idea.
‘Oh, Stephen,’ she sighed, and paused.
‘What is it?’
‘Well…’ She hesitated. ‘I’m actually not married to Brent. Nor have I ever been.’
‘Not? Why on earth haven’t you told me before?’
‘Oh, I’ve meant to…a thousand times…I swear…I—’
‘I’m shocked, Eleanor. I’m flabbergasted you never told me.’
‘But you believe me, don’t you?’
‘Well forgive me if I seem a bit sceptical…’ Stephen moistened his lips. ‘If this is true it’s going to take a bit of getting used to, let’s face it. Are you sure it’s the truth?’
‘Of course I’m sure. We just wanted people to think we were married because it suited us. There’s nothing sinister in that, is there?’
‘I suppose it depends on why you wanted to fool people. Well, if it is the truth and we can get married, then, you’re probably right…We should. If the King couldn’t get away with it, I’m damned sure we won’t be able to.’
‘I know I’m right about us being more widely accepted, Stephen.’
‘Then let’s do it.’
Eleanor beamed with satisfaction. ‘As soon as we can.’
‘Let’s do this first though…’ He leaned over her and began by gently biting one of her nipples.
‘Ouch!’ she yelled. ‘Don’t do that! They’re sore.’
‘They’re always sore to hear you talk.’ He felt between her legs. ‘This isn’t sore though, is it?…’
She giggled like a schoolgirl and wriggled like an eel. ‘That hasn’t been sore for weeks. You must be losing your enthusiasm.’
Usually after he had made love, Stephen Hemming tended to drift into a contented slumber. Not so this night. Eleanor’s surprising suggestion that they should marry was niggling him, keeping him awake. Not because he was opposed to marrying her. He would like nothing better. He was the sort of person that thrived on order and convention, but he had always taken for granted that she was already married to Brent Shackleton and, at no time until tonight, had she allowed him to believe otherwise. To any rational person, of course, it would be obvious that if someone proposed marriage, as she had done, then they must, by implication, be free to marry. But why had she allowed him to labour under a false impression all this time? To what purpose?
Eleanor lay in his arms, sleeping contentedly. Funny creatures, women; illogical; unpredictable. They tell you one thing and mean another. Like the night before; she had said, no, she didn’t want to make love, but it turned out she was yearning all along to be loved. She’d just wanted him to fuss her first, plead with her. She’d wanted him to tease her into it. At other times she wanted reassurance that this or that new dress she had bought looked good on her. Yet she dressed and presented herself with such confidence and panache that it was obvious that she was going to look good enough to eat in anything. She would look fantastic dressed even in a potato sack; and she knew it.
He withdrew his arm from under her and turned over to face the other way. Eleanor licked her lips and grunted softly at this minor disturbance but remained sleeping. He tried to imagine her and Brent making love, unmarried, living in sin, and pictured her lying on top of Brent, her cheeky backside thrusting with the smoothness of a well-oiled pump as she drained him dry. Then his vivid imagination supplanted her with Maxine Kite whose actual naked bottom he’d never had the privilege of assessing. Disturbing images…He tried to shut them from his mind. Should he even associate with the kind of girl who was prepared to make herself a target for wagging tongues and contempt by living with a man when she was not married to him, as Eleanor had done and was doing again? He might appear a hypocrite for making it his way of life, but he did not necessarily condone it. Moral standards had slipped since the war. Nonconformists might deliberately flout convention in that way, but respectable society frowned mightily on such lax morality.
Yes. Of course they must get married if she was free to…
If.
Then the obvious struck him.
What was he thinking, for God’s sake? Of course she must be married to Brent. Why else would she have the same surname? He would tackle her on it…But that would end up with yet another argument…Maybe he should leave it a day or two…perhaps even a week or two. He would bide his time and make no further mention of marria
ge unless she did. He would make no arrangements for a wedding either. This question had to be sorted out first and he had to pick his time. Unorthodox as this current living arrangement might be, it was thoroughly convenient.
In the meantime, the King had been busy creating a constitutional crisis that only now the British public was becoming aware of. Over lunch with Winston Churchill on 11th December, he renounced the crown so that he could marry Mrs Simpson and sailed into exile in France. His brother, Albert, a dedicated family man, reluctantly assumed the throne as King George VI and instantly afforded much needed stability to the monarchy.
The Atlantic Ocean, during this time and for the rest of the winter, was the stormiest in living memory. Maxine Kite was grateful she had moved into Brent Shackleton’s cabin where he could protect her and reassure her that the ship was not about to sink under one of the massive waves that seemed perpetually to bombard it. On many stormy nights, music was suspended in all of the ballrooms, since only the most resilient of passengers were prepared to venture further than their cabins once they had eaten and thrown up for the umpteenth time.
Maxine received no letters from Howard Quaintance. She was disappointed and surprised that he had failed to write after his ardent declarations of love and his vehement apologies. So, with Howard well and truly part of her past, she applied herself with more commitment to Brent and The Owls and the Pussycats. Her future seemed to lie irrevocably with them now.
So Christmas 1936 came and went in an alcoholic haze of tinsel, crackers and partying. The Atlantic storms abated for a while and The Owls and the Pussycats set off on their final voyage from Southampton on 30th December, working their passage. They arrived at a bitterly cold New York that was still carpeted in snow. In addition to all his other successes on the band’s behalf, John Fielding had organised work permits and membership to the New York musicians’ union.
