by Maggie Ford
His apartment was on the top floor of a three-storey dwelling set behind railings and an ornate gate. It had two gabled windows and a long straight one giving an uncluttered view of the Thames, its flow here as gentle and sedate as the area itself.
‘It’s lovely,’ Eveline sighed, gazing about at the tasteful eau-de-Nil and fawn wallpaper that set off the brown and biscuit-coloured furnishings and furniture. Everywhere were beautiful vases, bowls, small, delicate statuettes, tasteful ashtrays, and lots of cushions which she felt she could have sunk down into for the rest of her life and never know the time passing. She watched as he threw open a window to let in the evening air.
‘You like it.’ It was a statement rather than a question and as she nodded, he went on like some excitable boy, ‘You should have seen it before. I’ve had absolutely the whole place done and refurnished. Come and look.’
Grabbing her hand he led her from the room into a smaller dining room, then to a bright little hallway to show her the immaculate kitchen. ‘I’ve been in this place eighteen months now. How I lived with the previous decor I don’t know.’
Taking her back into the hall he threw open another door. ‘This is my bedroom.’ As she instinctively held back, he laughed and closed the door again, leading her back into the first room.
‘Sorry about that,’ he said lightly. ‘Look, now you’re here, may I make you a cup of coffee or something? I could percolate some. Won’t take a minute.’
The only other time she’d ever tasted real coffee had been with him in that cafe the night of the rally at the Royal Albert Hall and she hadn’t been all that impressed with it then. It was all right, but …
He must have seen her expression, for he went on, ‘Tea then? Or there’s cocoa?’
‘I’d enjoy a cup of cocoa,’ she said, her dislike of coffee making her reply more spontaneous than she’d intended. She should have declined altogether and mentioned again about getting home. Too late, he was already on his way to the kitchen leaving her standing in the centre of the room.
Seconds later he was back. ‘Look, I’ve run out of cocoa. It’ll have to be tea. But I shan’t have any. I’ll get myself a whisky and soda.’
For a moment he stood looking at her, then cocking his head on one side in a whimsical, questioning gesture, he said. ‘Have you ever tasted whisky?’
Eveline shook her head. Beer was what she knew. Mum with her daily half-pint of Guinness and Dad with his evening pint of bitter. There was port and sherry at Christmas time, perhaps gin for the ladies, but only the men that she knew drank whisky. Her favourite was always port and lemonade.
‘Then you ought to try it,’ he was saying, already pouring his own and setting down a glass ready for her. He turned round to gaze at her. ‘On the other hand it could be far too strong for you.’
That was a relief, he was being considerate, but he followed it up with an enthusiastic, ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll make you up a whisky cocktail. It’s sweet and maybe more to your taste.’
‘I don’t think …’ she began, but he was already grabbing bottles and pouring a drop from each into a silver cocktail shaker, dropping in other bits of ingredients and shaking the container vigorously, pouring the colourful contents into a different glass to his, one with a wide mouth.
‘Here,’ he said, holding it out to her. ‘Taste this. You’ll like it.’
She did. It had a flavoured syrupy taste, sweet and hardly any kick as people said, though she didn’t quite know what kick would feel like except that she had seen some who’d knocked back a strongish drink choke and laugh.
‘Another?’ Larry asked.
‘I don’t think I should.’
‘It won’t hurt you. As you can see, it’s well watered down.’
Yes, it was nice, and as he said, harmless. She nodded and had him refill her glass, enjoying the smooth liquid.
‘No point standing,’ he said. Grabbing the shaker and his own bottle of whisky he dropped down on to the brown and beige sofa with its myriad of small fawn cushions. ‘You’ll find your legs aching before long. Here.’
He patted the place beside him and for some reason she didn’t decline, dropping down beside him with a little giggle. The cocktail was very more-ish and she let him give her a third refill. Then she really would have to be getting along home. But those cushions looked so comfortable and she sank back in them just to test their comfort as she downed her third refill. It was just like drinking very sweet, fresh orange juice, though not quite, there was such a lovely flavour to it.
Larry drove her home through the dark streets and she had no idea how long it took. It had been a marvellous evening. Larry had made love to her, for the first time ever, and she’d found it not a bit alarming, wondering why she had made so much fuss about their earlier kisses and cuddles becoming too serious. Not that she remembered much about it except that it was lovely.
The motor car had come to a stop. She looked out to see that they were right outside the door of her dad’s shop, all in darkness, the glow from the gas lamp on the corner making it seem even more dark and deserted. Upstairs a light glowed in one of the windows. Dad was up. Dad was waiting for her. The knowledge brought her senses partly flooding back through the maze in her head. She sat up from her half reclining position.
‘Oh, dear God! I must go. He’ll kill me.’
‘Who?’
‘My dad.’
Larry laid an arm about her shoulders. ‘Now wait, darling. You need to give yourself a few minutes. How are you feeling?’
‘I don’t know, a bit dizzy like.’
‘Then just wait a minute.’ He leaned forward to open the small compartment set in the dashboard and drew out a small paper bag.
‘Look, suck one of these.’ Something round and slightly powdery was popped into her mouth and she tasted its pepper mint flavour. ‘Helps clean the breath,’ he said. ‘Then I will help you to your door – to steady you.’
He was out of the car and was helping her out, she sucking furiously, knowing now that her dad might very well smell on her breath what she’d been drinking, that he might realise it had been potent, then became aware too of what she had done under its influence. But she couldn’t blame Larry. It was her fault. And it had been nice …
Larry had his arm about her waist. He was knocking on the side door by the shop. ‘You’ll be all right,’ he whispered as the sound of footsteps could be heard coming down the stairs. ‘Just leave this to me.’
The door opened. Her father stood there, his moustache bristling; the only visible sign of anger was his moustache completely concealing his mouth, but the eyes reflected that anger.
‘What in the name of—’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Fenton.’ Larry spoke fast. ‘I am Laurence Jones-Fairbrook. We’ve never met, and I’m sorry it’s in these circumstances, but your daughter had a small accident, slipped down an embankment at Brighton where we spent the afternoon. She’s not hurt but was badly shaken, and terrified of course, thinking she might be killed. She had to rest quite a long time, which is why we are so late home and she is still not quite herself. I brought her straight back the moment she seemed able to be moved. I have to admit I’m a bit shaken myself, thinking too that she was going to be badly hurt or even killed. I had to give her a small glass of brandy to help her recover. She hasn’t wanted to eat anything, but I gave her some peppermints on the way home. I think she ought to go straight to bed, don’t you, Mr Fenton?’
Eveline was near to giving way to tears. How could Larry be so gallant and so brave? Dad could have taken a swipe at him yet he had faced him with this story. So quick-witted to have thought it up. She wanted to hug him for defending her so, but Dad had reached out and was pulling her indoors. At least he wasn’t bellowing. His tone was heavy but not angry.
‘Thanks, Mr … er, Mr …’
‘Laurence. Larry.’
‘Yes, well, thanks fer looking after ’er. She’ll be orright now’
‘She should go
straight to bed.’
‘I know what ter do wiv ’er, Mr Laurence.’ Dad had never been good with names.
‘Larry. Larry Jones-Fairbrook.’
‘Yeah, I know, the one she’s said she met. Well, thanks again.’
He was obviously ill at ease, unused to moneyed people. Eveline, her head swimming as she stood slightly behind him, held on to the wall of the narrow hallway for support. Larry glanced past her father and looked straight at her.
‘I’ll see you next Saturday, after the—’ He stopped himself in time, obviously recalling her parents’ ignorance of her suffragette interests.
‘If that’s all right with you, Mr Fenton? I promise I shall look after her.’ He regarded Mr Fenton, who returned his regard in silence. He nodded.
‘I’ll say goodnight then. Sorry about the accident! It wasn’t steep, just grassy. She was walking too near the edge, I tried to stop her …’
‘Yeah, so you said. Well, thanks again, Mr Jones. Ev, say goodnight.’ She opened her mouth but the door closed before she could utter the word.
All week she had felt strangely torn between a sort of odd elation and churning misgivings wondering what he must think of her for allowing to happen what no decent girl should. Yet it hadn’t entirely been of her own free will. She should never have had those cocktails.
They sat in his lounge this Saturday evening. Coming here straight from her meeting, she had not eaten, so he’d taken her to a nearby restaurant and they’d sat gazing over at the river all calm and placid on this golden evening. Now they were in his flat, he with an arm round her.
But as she snuggled closer to him on the sofa, a gramophone record playing ‘I Wonder Who’s Kissing Her Now’ very softly, his arms came about her, his lips as she responded moving slowly and gently from hers to her neck, then to her throat, and she forgot to wonder what Connie might have thought. This was a declaration of his love, a commitment such as she could only ever have imagined until now. She was his and he was hers.
As she sighed with the joy of that realisation he began carefully to lift her in his arms. Automatically her hands went about his neck as he carried her through to his bedroom. This was so different to last Sunday. That had happened oh the spur of the moment and she’d been a bit drunk. This was gentler, sweeter, more purposeful, the start of a love that would continue for the rest of their lives. Into her head crept the words Mrs Laurence Jones-Fairbrook.
She felt herself being lowered on to his bed. Kneeling beside her he slowly removed her blouse, skirt, corset, the rest of her underclothing, while she lay with eyes closed, enjoying the sensation. She only opened her eyes as she felt his bare flesh against hers, sending a little shock through her that turned instantly to arousal.
He’d not spoken at all, neither as he took her, gently at first but rising to a climax, ignoring her little cry at the small pain it caused, nor as he finally left her. Not one word of love, but she knew he loved her, and she loved him.
Lying quietly and contentedly, her head cradled on his arm, her eyes closed, her mind wove her future. She had to be the luckiest girl alive; this time her lips silently formed those words, Mrs Laurence Jones-Fairbook. It sounded so wonderful that a delicious little shiver passed through her.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked, turning his head to look at her.
As she nodded, he got up abruptly and went out to the bathroom. Lying where he’d left her, she was surprised to see him return fully dressed.
‘You’d best get yourself dressed,’ he said evenly, moving away from the door towards the lounge. Wondering at his tone, she too got up and began dressing, feverishly, somewhat confused by the abrupt finality of what had been such wonderful moments.
‘I’ll mix us a drink,’ she heard him call from the lounge. She had expected him to come and cuddle her to him again, but it was as if nothing had happened at all.
It came to her that he hadn’t kissed her except for that once but it could have been that making love made it awkward to kiss. She couldn’t rightly remember now if they had kissed that first time, but maybe it was how it always happened between men and women.
As she came, uncertain and strangely shy, into the room he was lounging back on the sofa, smoking one of his fragrant cigarettes, a glass of whisky in his hand. Seeing her, he patted the sofa for her to sit beside him, handing her a delicate glass of pale wine from the coffee table in front of them.
‘Are you feeling all right?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ she said uncertainly, her voice sounding very small, everything now feeling somewhat unreal. There seemed little to talk about now, and the sense of ease had utterly flown.
‘Good,’ he said sharply and after a short silence, added, ‘You’d better drink up, then I’ll take you home. Don’t want to be out too late, do you?’
‘No,’ she said inadequately, taking a much-needed sip of wine.
‘So I’ll see you next Saturday afternoon, then?’
She put the half-empty glass back on the coffee table. ‘I have to go to my meeting first. I’ll see you afterwards, in the evening.’
It was his turn to sit up. ‘No, I want you to myself. We can have the whole afternoon together, here. You’re so sweet, so ravishing, I could teach you so much about making love, that one can make love more than just the once.’
She felt a little shocked. Was he expecting to spend the whole afternoon and evening making love to her? That didn’t seem possible and not quite right and it made her feel ever so slightly uneasy.
‘Larry, I do have to go to my meeting.’
‘Blast your meeting! You don’t have to do anything. Why do you want to bother with them?’
She stared at him. Why had he suddenly become so domineering?
‘It means a lot to me. It’s important that I attend as many meetings as I can so as to—’
‘Rather than be here with me?’ he interrupted fiercely. ‘You can forget all that suffragette business. I want you with me. We both enjoyed this afternoon. Surely you like what we did as much as I do?’
This was a side of him she didn’t know. She knew he wasn’t all that interested in the suffragette cause, had only gone there to please his cousin when she was in town, but now he was coming over all high-handed about her going. What was the matter with him?
‘So you can forget all that stuff,’ he was saying. ‘Or don’t you love me?’
‘Oh, Larry, of course I do.’ Her love for him had overflowed this afternoon. It was overflowing all afresh now. ‘But this is important to me too,’ she persisted.
‘More important than me.’
‘No, of course not.’
‘Then forget about them. I want you here next Saturday afternoon.’ He was looking at her most oddly. ‘I want you. You’re good for me.’
She felt a wave of anger pass through her. ‘I don’t belong to you, just because …’ She got no further.
‘Letting me make love to you rather commits you to me a bit, don’t you think?’
Eveline sat away from him. ‘I’m a suffragette first and foremost,’ she said haughtily. She wasn’t having him tell her what to do even though, as he’d said, making love had its commitments. Commitment was a word she had wanted to hear, but not the way he was saying it. For a moment it made her doubtful about what they’d done together, but seconds later she had dismissed the thought.
‘I’ve made a lot of friends there,’ she hurried on in an effort to make him see how she felt. ‘All of them brave in what we’re fighting for. I can’t let them all down by giving it all up. You must understand.’
‘I don’t think I need to understand anything,’ he said quietly.
She was upset and disappointed. Connie was courting a young man and she hadn’t been expected to give up her meetings. She got to her feet.
‘I think I should go, Larry. Are you going to take me home?’ For a moment he looked so annoyed that she thought he would tell her to find her own way. But no man would let a woman be out alone aft
er dark.
‘I’ll get your hat and coat,’ he said tersely. ‘I think it best I don’t take you to your door. The end of your street suit?’
She nodded wordlessly, unable to fathom this sudden change in him.
The drive home was strained but by the time they neared her home he was his old self again.
‘I’m sorry I behaved so heavy-handedly,’ he said as they came to a stop halfway down Finnis Street. ‘I had no right. You go off to your meetings. I know they’re important to you. I’ll see you next week, afterwards, and we’ll have something to eat.’
Deeply grateful she leaned towards him, their farewell kiss lingering. He still wanted to see her, despite their row. A small tiff was all it had been, but it was over now and might have made their love, their commitment to each other, all the more binding. She was sure of it.
She would try to do all she could to keep it that way, even though she could never give up her suffragette activities, not now. It was her one fear now – that it could tear them apart.
She would tread a careful path, give herself to him whenever he wanted her, learn not to press him with questions when he failed to turn up as often as she wanted and play down the suffragette cause as much as possible. She couldn’t lose him. He was far too precious.
She found herself looking forward so much to being with him next Saturday that it was like an ache, but in the middle of the week a letter came for her saying that he would be with his parents and wasn’t sure when he’d be back, a few weeks maybe. Short and terse though the letter was, she took heart as it ended, ‘Sorry about this but am counting the days until I see you again. Still loving and wanting you. Larry.’
She was disappointed of course, but at least she felt reassured at being told that he was in love with her.
Try as she might, she couldn’t stop her head filling with thoughts of the day when Larry would finally propose to her. But of course that day was in the future. Things like that couldn’t be rushed.
It was also far too early at this stage to start broadcasting it to her parents, who’d only scoff and ask who she thought she was thinking some toff like him would ask her to marry him. But they didn’t know Larry. She couldn’t wait for the day she would flash a huge and sparkling engagement ring before their eyes. Then let them scoff!
