Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘I am. But a lot of the credit ought to go to Grace. And you. I haven’t done much for them the last three years.’

  ‘Well certainly to Grace, yes.’

  ‘She’s so nice, isn’t she?’ said Ben simply. ‘A really good person. Your son is a lucky man, I think. But I’m sure he knows that.’

  ‘I’m not sure that he does,’ said Clifford, ‘to be completely frank with you.’ He was rather drunk with all the whisky.

  ‘I hope he – and you, sir – don’t mind me being here. It’s only for a few days.’

  ‘He’s not in a position to mind,’ said Clifford, ‘and I can’t think why the devil he should anyway.’

  ‘I can’t believe that,’ said Ben.

  Clifford turned to look at him. ‘Well maybe. But I’m delighted to have you. And so is Grace. She’s been looking forward to it for weeks.’

  ‘Has she really?’ said Ben. ‘That’s nice. That’s really nice.’

  Later still they moved indoors, into the kitchen. Clifford had gone to bed too. Grace was darning socks and said, ‘Do you mind if I put the wireless on? There’s a nice concert. Mozart. Do you like music, Ben? Sorry, I ought to know.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ he said, ‘and yes I do. Very much. But how could you know? You hardly know anything about me. Or I about you, come to that.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All I know is, I like what I do know. Now put the concert on. Shall I do some darning? We learnt in the army, you know.’

  He took a sock and some wool and they sat together, darning to Eine Kleine Nachtmusik; she suddenly laughed aloud.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Us darning together. It’s so domestic.’

  ‘Nothing wrong with being domestic,’ said Ben. ‘It makes the world go round, being domestic.’

  Next day he said he’d like to go for a walk. ‘It’s one of the things I’ve dreamt of, used to dream of, in the desert. An English walk.’

  ‘Ugh,’ said David.

  ‘Double ugh,’ said Daniel.

  ‘I’ll come,’ said Grace. ‘Clifford, want a walk?’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘no thank you, my dears. I’m tired. I think I’ll just have another of those whiskies and a little snooze.’

  ‘Only one more,’ said Grace sternly. ‘Come on, Charlotte, we’re going for a walk.’

  They walked across the field and into the spinney – ‘David’s refuge walk,’ said Grace – and then cut along beside the stream. It was cool under the trees, the sun trickling down through the branches. Charlotte rushed ahead, barking furiously at moorhens, breeze-tossed leaves, a large log, and entirely missed a very self-confident rabbit sitting in the bracken.

  ‘Stupid animal,’ said Grace. ‘Charles said I should have got a labrador, and sometimes I think he was right.’

  ‘Do you miss him?’ said Ben.

  The question took her so much by surprise that she answered honestly. ‘No. Not really.’

  Then she flushed, horrified at herself, said, ‘I don’t mean that, of course I do, I miss him terribly, it’s just that—’

  ‘I know,’ he said.

  They walked on; Grace felt she should explain. ‘Ben—’

  ‘It’s all right,’ he said, ‘I understand. Sorry. Shouldn’t have asked.’

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ she said and they both laughed.

  ‘I feel,’ he said, ‘a bit as if I’ve known you for a long time.’

  ‘Well, you have.’

  ‘I know. But properly known you. You seem sort of – familiar.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ she said. ‘I feel a bit the same.’

  ‘Good. Can I ask you another question?’

  ‘Yes. I’ll be ready this time.’

  ‘Can you remember what he’s like, your husband? Really like, I mean.’

  ‘No. Not really. Not any more.’

  ‘That’s my problem,’ he said, ‘I can’t either. Linda, I mean. I know she was lovely, I know I loved her, I know she was everything to me, but I can’t remember her. Not what she was really like. Not to – well, to be with. And it makes me feel bad.’

  ‘Me too,’ said Grace. ‘Disloyal, somehow.’

  ‘Yes.’ He was silent for a minute, then he said, ‘Can we go up that hill?’

  ‘What, all the way? You must be feeling better.’

  ‘I am. Fighting fit.’

  They climbed Forest Hill. Out in the sunlight it was very hot; Grace knew her face must be going very pink, could feel the sweat on her forehead, her back, thought how unattractive she must look. Ben stalked ahead; she studied him, the long, long legs, the narrow hips, the long back, the dark head. He was – what? Not exactly graceful, but somehow very well ordered, tidy, carefully put together. He pulled his shirt off suddenly and tied it round his waist; his back was very brown and muscley. She suddenly remembered the morning in her kitchen when he had worn nothing but a towel, and smelt of sweat, and the memory was disturbing.

  They reached the top of the hill and he sat down suddenly. ‘Whoops. Feel a bit woozy,’ he said. ‘Overdone it.’

  ‘Oh Ben. There’s nowhere even we can get you some water.’

  ‘I’ll be OK. Just sit here for a bit.’

  She sat beside him, watching him anxiously; after a bit he turned his head and looked at her. His dark eyes were very intent, very serious; they held hers, she couldn’t look away. It was like a physical touch, that look, it drove into her, she could feel her entire body responding, a strange muffled disturbance somewhere within her depths.

  He half smiled at her, and she didn’t smile back, just went on staring at him, savouring the moment, exploring what she felt. He stopped smiling, put out his hand, very slowly, touched her arm, lightly, gently.

  ‘Penny for ’em?’ he said finally.

  ‘Oh – they’re not worth a penny,’ she said. ‘Not even a ha’penny, I’m afraid.’

  His hand moved up her arm, slowly, tenderly; they both watched it, that hand, in a sort of fascination, as if it was impelled in some strange way on its own. It reached the cuff of her sleeve and stopped; his thumb moved inwards towards her armpit, began to stroke her there. It was an odd, a totally oddly erotic gesture. Grace felt first awed, then shocked by the violence of her response. ‘You have lovely arms,’ said Ben, ‘lovely, graceful arms. I noticed them straight away, your arms.’

  It was hardly lover-like, hardly romantic, but nothing Charles had ever said had stirred her so; she went on staring at him, afraid to speak, afraid of what she might do.

  And then abruptly, suddenly, he stood up. ‘I’m all right now,’ he said. ‘Best get back.’

  Grace followed him down the hill, feeling ineffably foolish, rejected, fighting back heavy tears.

  The boys were waiting for them, with Clifford, claiming their football match; Grace went up to her room, joined them much later for supper, and then excused herself, saying she had a head ache. She lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness, hating herself for wanting to be faithless, for appearing foolish and most of all for not being Linda, whom he had loved so much and still felt so loyal to.

  In the morning it was raining; she said she had work to do, had to visit a land girl over near Shaftesbury who wasn’t well, that she would make a few more calls while she was in the area. ‘And then I’m going to do some shopping,’ she said, ‘and go to the library. I’ll be back at teatime.’

  ‘All right,’ said Ben. He was looking at her interestedly, as if she was in some way worthy of close study. In her misery it irritated her. ‘Can I do anything while you’re out?’

  ‘You could feed the hens. The boys will show you.’

  ‘OK.’

  ‘There’s bread and stuff for your lunch.’

  ‘OK. Sure you’ll be all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course I’ll be all right,’ she said shortly. ‘Why ever shouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, I don’t quite know,’ he said.

  She rang the Priory, asked Florence if she cou
ld get her anything in Shaftesbury. Now that Florence had a petrol ration too, they pooled shopping expeditions.

  ‘No thanks. I got most things on Saturday. Oh, some soap. If you see any. How’s the mystery man?’

  ‘He’s not a mystery man,’ said Grace irritably.

  ‘I hear he’s very good-looking. Careful, Grace!’

  ‘Who on earth told you that?’ said Grace.

  ‘Mrs Babbage. Golly, whatever would Charles say?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake,’ said Grace.

  ‘Can I come down and meet him?’

  ‘He’s not some kind of exhibit, Florence,’ said Grace.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so touchy.’

  The land girl was hostile, sullen. She said she kept being sick, it was the food, it was horrible. The farmer’s wife asked Grace if she could have a word.

  ‘She’s in the family way,’ she said, ‘I’m not a fool. No better than she should be. And it’ll be a khaki. Goes out with the Yanks. Well, she’s not staying here. She can go home to the wonderful Liverpool she’s always going on about.’

  Grace took a deep breath, went back to the girl’s room, asked if she thought she might be pregnant. The girl denied it indignantly for some time, then suddenly capitulated. ‘I might be, yes.’

  ‘Have you missed a period?’ asked Grace gently.

  ‘Well, I haven’t come on yet. Not this time.’

  ‘How late are you?’

  ‘Three months,’ said the girl and burst into tears.

  The father was indeed one of the GIs. The only problem was, she didn’t know which one.

  She said she couldn’t possibly go home, her father would beat her up. Grace managed to persuade her to see a doctor, and gave her the name of a local adoption agency who might help her. She felt it was a bleak outlook for the poor girl; as bleak as her own, she thought suddenly, and then hated herself for even thinking it, when she was so patently and ineffably more fortunate. What on earth was the matter with her? she wondered and went to do her shop ping. She couldn’t get anything, apart from Florence’s soap, which made her cross. Trust Florence to get what she wanted. She drove home feeling depressed.

  Ben was in the kitchen reading when she walked in.

  ‘Hallo.’

  ‘Hallo,’ said Grace briefly.

  ‘Good day?’

  ‘Not very.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh – one of my land girls is pregnant. She can’t go home, she says, she’s got nowhere to go.’

  ‘Who by, the farmer?’

  ‘No,’ said Grace, illogically indignant on behalf of her farmers. ‘One of three GIs it seems.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said,

  There was a silence. Then, ‘These are funny times, aren’t they?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Everything up in the air. No order in anything much. Everything out of place.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace. ‘Yes, I suppose so.’

  ‘It makes it hard, doesn’t it? For everybody.’

  ‘Oh I don’t know.’ She still felt perverse.

  The boys and Clifford took him fishing; when they got back, they were all tired. They had supper early, then Clifford and the boys sat playing ludo at the kitchen table. Grace picked up her sewing basket and went into the sitting room. Ben followed her.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Linda used to say that,’ he said, ‘just exactly the same. If there was something wrong, if I’d done something she didn’t like, and she’d say “nothing” just like that. Then I’d have to try and work it out.’

  ‘Really?’ said Grace, irrationally stung by this reference to Linda, by the comparison.

  ‘Yes. So I’d better try and work it out. Trouble is, I think I know, and it’s embarrassing.’

  ‘Better leave it then,’ said Grace. ‘If you know.’

  ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t like leaving things. I like sorting them out.’

  ‘Ben,’ said Grace, ‘there’s nothing to be sorted out as you put it. So let’s leave it. Whatever it is.’ She was aware that this statement lacked logic, to put it mildly, felt more irritated with herself than ever.

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘all right. If that’s what you think.’ He still sounded relaxed, cheerful even.

  ‘I do,’ said Grace and busied herself sorting out cotton reels, trying to thread a needle. She couldn’t do it, sat struggling, feeling foolishly furious.

  ‘Here,’ he said, ‘let me do that.’

  ‘It won’t go through,’ she said, ‘the needle’s too fine.’

  ‘Let me try,’ he said, and took it from her. His large bony hands were deft; the thread slid through immediately.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Grace shortly, and started hemming a skirt.

  He sat watching her for a bit and then said, ‘I’ll go and play ludo, I think. If you don’t want to talk.’

  ‘I – well, yes, that might be best,’ said Grace. ‘I want to listen to the Brains Trust.’

  ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘oh, right. The Brains Trust. Well, I’d best get to the kitchen then.’

  He smiled at her, apparently unmoved, and walked out of the room; but Grace looked after him appalled, feeling she had insulted him, implied he wouldn’t like the Brains Trust, wouldn’t appreciate it, that it was not the sort of thing he could possibly enjoy. And there was nothing she could say, nothing at all, that could put it right.

  The next day Florence appeared, with Imogen in a pushchair. Ben was in the garden, shelling peas with Clifford.

  ‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘hallo, Daddy.’

  ‘Hallo, my darling. Hallo, Imogen. How’s my best grand daughter?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Imogen, ‘thank you.’

  ‘My goodness, what beautiful manners all of a sudden,’ said Clifford.

  ‘Yes, it’s Nanny,’ said Florence with a sigh. ‘I have a horrible feeling Mother was right all along, that nannies are what babies need. Not their mothers at all. She’s eating better too, and using the potty.’ She turned to Ben. ‘How do you do. I’m Florence. Grace’s sister-in-law.’

  ‘Ben Lucas. Pleased to meet you,’ said Ben, taking her hand. ‘Pretty little girl,’ he added. ‘She looks like you.’

  ‘Do you really think so?’ said Florence, smiling her rather reluctant smile at him. ‘How extraordinary, you’re the only person who’s ever said that, but you’re right of course, she does, exactly.’

  ‘Well, mostly they look like a mix,’ said Ben. ‘I expect she looks a bit like your husband as well.’

  ‘No, not really,’ said Florence. ‘Not at all actually. He thinks so of course.’

  ‘How old is she?’

  ‘Two and a half.’

  ‘She seems very grown up for two and a half,’ he said.

  ‘She is. Very. Talking tremendously well, and do you know, she can count, right up to twenty. And Daddy, I was reading to her last night and when I got the book out she said “Ponce a time.” Isn’t that sweet?’

  ‘Enchanting,’ said Clifford with a twinkle. ‘No work today?’

  ‘No, I’ve got the whole week off. I was a bit tired and making a hash of a few things and the Dragon, aka Mrs Haverford, said I’d be more use to everyone if I had a rest. Only thing I’ve got to do is get the Home Guard’s hut ready for them on Thursday. I’ve been loaned out to them, isn’t that a hoot? You’d think they could get their own stupid hut ready, but it’s women’s work apparently. Where’s Grace?’

  ‘Inside,’ said Clifford.

  Grace was making a salad in the kitchen; she smiled rather wanly at Florence. ‘Hallo.’

  ‘I say, Grace,’ said Florence, ignoring the greeting. ‘What an extremely attractive man.’

  ‘Is he?’ said Grace. ‘I hadn’t thought of him like that.’

  ‘Grace, not even you could not think of him like that,’ said Florence. ‘You want to watch it, very Mellors I’d say.’

  ‘Florence, what are you talking abo
ut?’ said Grace wearily.

  ‘Mellors, you know, as in Lady Chatterley. The gamekeeper. Terrifically sexy. In that sort of way.’

  ‘What sort of way?’

  ‘Earthy. You know. It’s a class thing.’

  ‘No, I—’

  There was a sound from the hall; Grace looked at Florence, saw Ben standing behind her. He turned and walked away.

  ‘Ben,’ she said later, when Florence had gone, ‘Ben, now it’s my turn. Don’t look like that. I’m sorry. About – what you heard.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t your fault.’

  ‘It does matter. She’s a stupid, insensitive woman. I don’t like her anyway. I never did.’

  ‘Well, I liked her,’ he said, laughing.

  ‘What!’ said Grace. She was genuinely astonished.

  ‘Yeah. I thought she was nice. Honest. And attractive too. Maybe I should go and try playing Mellors with her. I do know about Lady Chatterley and the gamekeeper by the way. Thought you might think I didn’t.’ He grinned at her.

  ‘Oh Ben, don’t. Don’t joke about it.’

  ‘Why not joke about it? It’s funny. And it’s true.’

  ‘What’s true?’

  ‘I am – well, how can we put it? Not like you. Or her. No use fighting it really.’ He grinned again. ‘I learnt quite a lot this afternoon.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Oh, that babies need nannies. Not their mothers at all. Well, not if they’re to get brought up right, anyway.’

  ‘Did Florence say that?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’

  ‘Silly bitch,’ said Grace. Her voice was violent.

  ‘You really don’t seem to like her, do you?’ he said.

  ‘No I don’t. She had a sweet, kind husband and she’s – well, it doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Go on. I’m good at keeping secrets,’ he said.

  Grace hesitated. Then she said, ‘He’s not the father of that revolting child. And he thinks he is.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘Well, don’t you think that’s terrible?’

  ‘It depends,’ said Ben.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘On just how sweet and kind her husband is. You can’t really know, can you? Nobody knows what goes on inside a marriage. You don’t know about mine. I don’t know about yours.’