by Annie Murray
Millie could hold back no longer. She burst into tears.
‘Oh dear – do tell me what’s the matter,’ Gwen said, worried. Millie was usually such a jolly soul.
‘Oh, what am I going to do?’ Millie cried desperately. ‘I’m so ashamed.’
It took her some time even to begin.
‘I feel so ill. I keep being sick.’
Gwen frowned. She was ignorant enough not to put two and two together.
‘Perhaps you’d better go and see a doctor.’
‘I’ve been to the doctor,’ Millie sobbed. ‘And he said . . . I’m . . .’ It came out in a great rush of emotion. ‘I’m going to have a baby!’
Gwen struggled to know what to say. She had only the haziest idea of how babies came about. ‘Well, how? Whose is it?’
‘Lance’s of course! What d’you take me for?’ Millie turned to her passionately. Her freckly face was blotchy from crying.
‘Does he know about it?’
‘No – I only found out yesterday. Oh, what am I going to do?’
Gwen was almost speechless. Once again she realized what a sheltered life she had led. ‘Well . . . surely he’ll marry you, won’t he?’
‘He’s going to have to, isn’t he?’ Millie sounded angry now. ‘I never meant for it to happen, Gwen. I didn’t even know what he was doing until it was too late. It was one afternoon when Mummy and Joanna were out. Lance came round and we were talking and having a cuddle and gradually . . . well, we got carried away. Or at least he did. I mean it was . . . it was quite peculiar to begin with. I never knew it would be quite like that. Lance got so excited and I couldn’t really stop him . . .’ She spoke haltingly. ‘I felt . . . afterwards I felt almost, sort of dirty . . . And now this.’
Gwen tried to digest this information. She thought of Edwin’s embraces.
‘Don’t you want to marry him, Millie? I thought you were mad about him.’
‘I thought I was.’ Millie stared along the cut with a desolate expression. ‘I don’t suppose I really have a choice now, do I? That’s if he’ll do the right thing. It’s just . . . oh, Gwen!’ Her tears began to flow again. ‘I’m such a silly fool. I’ve been in love with the idea of love but I don’t really want to marry Lance – not yet anyway. I’ve always wanted to be a teacher so much, and I shan’t be able to now. Lance can carry on being a teacher for his whole life if he wants to, but I can’t, can I? My life’ll be all babies and housework. Oh, I wish I’d never let him come anywhere near me!’
Eight
‘Gwen, darling!’
Edwin was waiting on the platform as the train chugged slowly into Worcester Foregate Street. Even in the gloom, under the dim lights, she easily spotted his pale hair. Seeing her through the window, he strode alongside her carriage beaming with delight. Gwen felt as if she had returned suddenly to another, childhood existence.
She stepped down into his arms, his cold cheek pressing against her warm one.
He drew back and looked down at her, full of merriment.
‘At last! How’s my brave little woman? It feels as if you’ve been away for months!’
‘It does to me too,’ Gwen said. ‘It’s another world.’
‘Well, I think it’s marvellous. Well – except that I have to do without you, of course. Come along, let’s get you home.’ Edwin picked up her case with his left hand and kept his other arm round her as they moved through the crowds on the platform. She could feel his hand between her shoulder blades, steering her. Gwen looked round. It did feel good to be home! Birmingham had already receded like a dream and now here she was back in her real life again, or at least for the half-term holiday.
‘Your father let me bring the Austin,’ Edwin told her.
‘Thank goodness,’ Gwen said, surveying the rainy dark outside the station.
‘You wait here – I’ll bring her up.’ Edwin ran zestfully out into the rain. Gwen smiled at the sight of his eager form, wrapped in his huge black coat, a trilby perched on his thick hair. There was something about Edwin that was somehow inevitable.
They drove from the middle of Worcester to her parents’ house, right on the edge. It felt cosy in the car, spots of rain on her coat, Edwin’s large, capable hands steering them along as they chatted. She gave him a fond sideways glance. She waited for her heart to leap in some way, to feel excited. It didn’t happen, but she felt safe, and at least affectionate. Surely even those two things were more than most people had in marriage?
‘How’s your mother?’
Edwin’s mother was in a wheelchair. Year by year her state degenerated and Mr Shackleton, a retired clergyman himself, battled on, looking after her as his own health faded. Edwin’s one sister, Judy, lived nearby with her family, and Edwin tried to visit as often as he could since they lived in a village a few miles away. Gwen knew they would visit sometime over the next few days. Edwin was a very dutiful son.
‘Well . . .’ He sounded gloomy and she felt for him. They paused at a junction, then pulled out, turning right. She could see the rain falling slantingly in the light from the headlamps. ‘I managed to get up there in the week. Dad’s arthritis is getting worse and his chest is bad. The nurse comes in, but of course he’s lifting Mum far more than he should be.’ He paused again. ‘It’s hard to watch. I feel pretty helpless.’
Gwen reached over and squeezed his arm. ‘They know you do all you can. And they’re so proud of you.’
‘I know. Almost makes it worse.’
In a moment he was cheerful again – Edwin was never cast down for long – and he was asking her more about things she’d told him in her letters, laughing at her description of Ariadne.
‘“Come into my parlour,” said the spider to the fly!’
‘Yes – just like that! And creepy Mr Purvis looks as if he’s going to explode with nerves every time she goes near him!’
‘What a pair!’
‘He scoots off to his room and plays the trumpet – same tune, over and over again.’ She was giggling now. ‘I think if I hear it again I’ll go mad. And he never gets any better at it!’
They both laughed. Gwen had decided not to tell Edwin much more about Harold Purvis. She tried to avoid any encounter now which could involve being alone with him. One evening, when Ariadne had left the room to fetch something from the kitchen, Mr Purvis had leaned over and placed his plump white hand over hers, gazing soulfully into her eyes.
‘Please,’ Gwen reprimanded him sharply, ‘don’t do that. I don’t like it and, as a matter of fact, I’m sure I’ve mentioned that I’m engaged to be married.’
She almost had to laugh at herself, at how prim she had sounded. But she knew she hadn’t imagined him fondling her on the stairs, and what with Ariadne drooling over him and the endless renditions of ‘I Dreamt I Dwelt in Marble Halls’, she was finding the household a trial. This was not, however, something she needed Edwin to know.
Gwen’s mother was listening for the car, and had the door open, waiting as they ran in through the rain in her usual tense stance.
‘Come on in, dears! That’s it. Thanks so much, Edwin.’
Gwen’s mother was always terrifically nice to Edwin. She stood back to let them in, holding her thick cardigan round her. Mrs Purdy was a slim, neat woman in her late forties. Mr Purdy, a few years older than his wife and with a permanent air of anxiety, was also hovering in the hall.
‘Hello, Gwen dear,’ he said.
‘Hello, Mummy, Daddy.’ Gwen kissed each of them briefly, struck by the fact that even after an absence of a few weeks they seemed different. Didn’t the remaining hair round her father’s bald head look greyer? And her mother seemed smaller, somehow, and more compact.
‘Come along.’ Ruth Purdy hurried down the hall. ‘The kettle’s boiled. I’m sure you must need a good cup of tea. Morris – take Gwen’s case up will you, dear? It’s cluttering up the hall.’ Her tone managed to imply that he was cluttering up the hall as well.
They sat by the fire in the back
room with tea and biscuits. The table at the far end had a huge jigsaw puzzle on it, partially complete, and on the mantelpiece were pictures of the three children: Gwen’s two brothers in a rowing boat off the Welsh coast as children, and one of Gwen when she was nine, a rounded, healthy-looking child with a wide smile, standing by the apple tree they had planted in the garden.
Though they didn’t say so, Gwen sensed, rather to her surprise, that her parents were pleased to have her home. As the youngest, she had left them with an empty nest, as Johnny was married and Crispin off in the RAF. Poor old Crispin, Gwen thought, looking at the younger of the boys in the rowing-boat picture. Never could do anything right compared with Johnny. No wonder he left home as fast as possible.
They exchanged news about the past few weeks. A neighbour had died a few days ago, a school friend of Gwen’s was moving away. Gwen asked her father whether everything was all right at the pharmacy.
‘Oh, yes.’ He nodded. ‘Everything’s going along nicely. Yes – ticking along.’ She could see him struggling to think of something else to tell her. ‘I, er—’
‘So,’ Ruth Purdy cut him short, staring appraisingly at Gwen, who thanked heaven that Edwin was there – he acted as an excellent buffer against her mother. ‘Your manners don’t seem to have deteriorated too much.’
She made a great joke out of this, eyeing Edwin to encourage him to join in and Edwin laughed with her, oblivious as ever to the undercurrents in the room.
‘Oh, I think I can still remember how to eat with a knife and fork,’ Gwen said. She suppressed a smile at the thought of meals in the smoky Soho Road house.
‘Well –’ Ruth Purdy gave another light laugh – ‘I’d think by now you’d have had enough of this silly little experiment of yours. You’ve proved your point, and Mr Jenkins said they’re missing you.’ Mr Jenkins was the head of the parish school where Gwen had met Edwin. ‘He’s very keen for you to come back. I don’t know if you realize how disappointed they were when you left.’
Despite her mother’s antagonism, Gwen felt temptation tug at her. In a way it was nice to be home, and it would be so easy to stay, to slip into the old routine, comfortably surrounded by the familiar, then slip easily into marriage. She thought of Millie Dawson, who wasn’t coming back to school any more. But already Gwen could feel the old claustrophobia coming over her. There was something about this house, about her parents’ marriage, that was so static, so dead.
‘Actually, I’m rather enjoying it where I am,’ Gwen replied evenly. She felt very tired suddenly. Her mother was keeping her criticism mild while Edwin was present, but was she going to carry on like this for four days? ‘Can we drop the subject now – please?’
‘It’s only that we’re missing you,’ her mother said tetchily. ‘That’s all. And Birmingham sounds so grim.’
Gwen watched her parents as her mother asked after Edwin’s family. Her father sat silent as ever, in his slippers. He leaned forward to poke the remains of the fire. She could sense him longing to be able to settle down with the newspaper. Her mother had evidently had a cold, which had left her nose pink and sore, and she looked tired. She was such a good woman, Gwen thought guiltily. At least as far as everyone else was concerned. She had a strict sense of propriety, and always did the right thing for her children with little thought for herself. That was how a virtuous woman was supposed to be, wasn’t it? Mummy must love her and Crispin because of all she did for them. So why didn’t it feel as if she did? And why did this kind of virtue feel so tyrannical?
They chatted about local events and Edwin’s work. Edwin had a go at fitting in some of the jigsaw pieces. Later, they all had cups of cocoa and everyone was yawning. Edwin got up.
‘Best be getting back.’ Gwen saw the warmth and approval in her parents’ eyes as they looked up at their son-in-law to be. Edwin, she thought, was the one thing she had ever really done right. She felt very low suddenly. The only way she ever seemed able to get along with her parents was to act as a version of herself that they had decided upon – pretty, biddable and conventional.
Mr and Mrs Purdy stayed tactfully in the back room as she went to see Edwin out. He put his coat on, and as soon as the sitting-room door was closed and they were alone he took Gwen in his arms.
‘Oh, I’ve been waiting for this!’ His good-natured face beamed down at her. It was a thoroughly English sporty face with a pink complexion and kindly blue eyes. ‘I miss you dreadfully, you know that, don’t you?’
‘I miss you too,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘But it’s fun being able to write. And it’s not for long.’
Edwin pulled her close and held his face against hers with a sound of pleasure. ‘It’s still far too long! It feels pretty bleak around here without you. I’m counting the days.’
She drew back and looked up at him. ‘Me too.’
He put his mouth close to her ear. ‘How about coming out into the porch for a moment?’
Sheltered from the rain, they kissed, holding each other close. ‘That’s my girl,’ Edwin murmured, his hands stroking her sides. ‘Those lovely curves!’ Then, very self-controlled, he drew back. ‘Must go.’ He kissed her cheek. ‘But we’ve got tomorrow. I’ll see you in the morning, darling.’
He stooped to put on his bicycle clips on, then went round to retrieve his bike. She waved as he swerved off along the road, then stood for a moment thoughtfully, looking at the empty path. Was she counting the days? she asked herself. She turned back into her parents’ warm, orderly house, preferring not to answer that question.
They walked out to the hills the next day. The rain had stopped, the air was damp and mild and ragged clouds moved swiftly across the sky. As soon as they set out, Edwin took Gwen’s hand, smiling down at her. They were both well wrapped up, Edwin in plus fours and thick socks, Gwen in slacks and both in layers of winter woollies under their coats. Edwin wore a little knapsack with a Thermos and their sandwiches in it.
‘Got you to myself at last!’ he said.
Gwen laughed. She felt rested and more optimistic this morning, setting out with Edwin’s big hand wrapped round hers. They squelched uphill through the mud, dark trees to one side of them. Edwin told her news about his work, the latest on some of his parishioners. There were people he was worried about: he had misgivings about his preaching. Was it relevant to anything? Once Edwin got talking there was no stopping him. She had always been his audience.
‘Tell you what I have done.’ He reached for his wallet. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About war and so on. There was a little meeting here last week – look – I’m going to send this off.’
He held out a little buff-coloured card. Printed along the top were the words, ‘I renounce war and will never support or sanction another.’
Gwen frowned. ‘Is this the white poppy people?’
‘It’s Dick Sheppard’s Peace Movement. Now there’s a priest setting a real example. He’s quite right,’ Edwin was becoming emphatic. ‘The whole thing is lunacy. The way things are going we’ll be into another war soon. And it’s utterly un-Christian! How can we ever justify such violence against other human beings? It says very clearly in Micah that we must beat our swords into ploughshares. Look at the Great War – do we want that again?’
‘No, of course not.’
Edwin put the card away. ‘Sorry, darling.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘Am I keeping on?’
‘No – it’s quite all right. I entirely agree with you. But you can step out of the pulpit now.’
He laughed, helping her over a stile. They climbed, chatting, to the top of the hill, where they rested, looking over towards the dark peaks of the Malverns. Edwin hugged her from behind, arms wrapped round her shoulders.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ His mouth was close to her ear.
‘Umm,’ Gwen agreed. For some reason, she found herself thinking about Lily Drysdale, wondering what she did at the weekend. She imagined her moving briskly from house to house, asking for clothes for her charges. At
the thought of returning to Birmingham on Tuesday evening she felt a pang of dread and excitement mixed.
‘We’ll be able to come up here every week, if we want to,’ Edwin was saying. He turned her round, looking deeply into her eyes and she could see the longing in his. ‘When we’re Mr and Mrs Shackleton.’
‘Reverend and Mrs,’ she corrected him, teasingly.
‘I’m so lucky, my love.’ He looked down at her and she could see he was moved. She smiled back, touched by the look in his eyes. Edwin was so good, so true and lovely to her. She loved him, she was sure . . . wasn’t she? How was anyone supposed to be sure about love? In church they sometimes said love was more about actions than just emotions. About caring for people: doing the right thing. But wasn’t it possible to feel more than this? Edwin took her smile as encouragement and leaned down, gently fastening his lips on hers. His tongue searched her mouth longingly and Gwen kissed him back, feeling excitement rising in her, and a great surge of relief that she could feel this way. Edwin’s desire, the constant conflict between it and his sense of duty to restrain himself until they were married, could move her more than anything. His hands pressed her close and she shut her eyes and ran her hands up Edwin’s strong back. It’s all right, she thought, with a sense of peace. It’s going to be all right. Then, abruptly, he pulled away, shamefaced.
‘Oh God, darling. I’m sorry. I mustn’t.’ He was blushing. ‘I don’t want you to feel that I’m – well, I don’t know. Taking advantage – or anything like that.’
‘It’s all right. I don’t. I know you wouldn’t dream of it.’ Released from his embrace, she felt suddenly cold.
Nine
They were kissing. She had never, ever felt like this before. Even as she saw his lips moving closer, her body seemed to shiver into life as if all her skin had been scraped raw. She was trembling, the touch of his hands throbbing through her, leaving her helpless, only able to surrender to sensation, the hard press of his lips and body against hers as their touching became more intimate. What had come over Edwin? was all she could think. Over herself, for that matter! The feelings became mingled gradually with a sound, a siren, and as sleep slid away and she surfaced into the day, she realized it was the ‘bull’ from a nearby factory. Desolate, she tried to hold on to the images, the pleasure of it. But it was fading and he withdrew from her, leaving her bereft. As she glimpsed the face receding away in the dream, her heartbeat quickened even further with shock.
