‘I don’t like you talking about me to her,’ said Grace. ‘And certainly not about Charles. All right?’
‘Yes, all right. Come on, I want to give you a kiss.’
He started to kiss her, but she was distant, withdrawn: partly from genuine confusion, partly because immediately he began, so did the longing, the throbbing frustration, and quite suddenly she could see that unless she made her decision, took her stand, it wasn’t going to get any better; it was going to get worse and worse, and they weren’t going to have a lovely warm protracted courtship as she had had with Charles, it was impossible, she was no longer a virgin, no longer innocent, and a relationship that denied that, denied sexual knowledge, sexual pleasure, just wasn’t going to be possible. Either she went with it, went forward into this new and lovely thing, this forbidden place, or she turned her back on it. She couldn’t have it both ways. Either she turned her back on Charles, who loved her, who was her husband, who was out there somewhere, enduring hardship, discomfort, danger, climbed into bed, made love with another man; or she finished with Ben, before any real harm was done, told him that the whole thing was unthinkable and wrong. Either way, she had to make a decision: take charge.
And she wasn’t ready to do so.
She pulled back from him, said rather quickly, ‘I’m sorry, Ben, I don’t feel – well, I don’t feel like it. Not just now.’
He sat back, looked at her. ‘Why not?’
‘I just don’t.’
‘You’re a bit mixed up really, aren’t you?’ he said after a pause.
‘I don’t think so. No. I mean you can hardly expect me to feel perfectly happy about all this. It’s too complicated. Surely you can see that.’
‘Of course I can.’
She was silent. Then, ‘Maybe we’ve taken it all too fast,’ she said.
‘Hardly.’
She was stung. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘It’s not supposed to mean anything. Just that. I’ve said I’d wait, that I’d be patient. I am being. It all seems quite simple to me.’
‘Well it is for you,’ said Grace.
‘Yes, I know that too. Come here, please, let me love you.’
‘No,’ said Grace, ‘no. I’m sorry, Ben. I’m going to bed.’
He looked at her. ‘You’re being a bit silly, you know,’ he said.
‘Ben,’ said Grace, ‘don’t start making judgments on me, please. Goodnight.’
‘Goodnight,’ he said. He had picked up a copy of Picture Post; he didn’t even look up.
Next day he left, things still strained between them. He had hardly gone when Grace heard a crunch of tyres on the gravel outside, and sighed; she didn’t want to see anybody. The back door opened. It was Clarissa. Her least of all, thought Grace.
‘Darling! All alone? Where’s your lovely man?’
‘Gone back to barracks,’ said Grace shortly. ‘And he’s not mine either.’
‘I left my cardigan here yesterday,’ said Clarissa ignoring this. ‘There it is. We’re about to leave,’ She looked at Grace piercingly. ‘Have you been crying?’
‘No.’
‘Yes you have,’ she said. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing,’ said Grace and then increasingly loudly, ‘nothing nothing nothing. Don’t interfere, Clarissa, please.’
‘You’re in love with him, aren’t you?’ said Clarissa.
‘No. No, of course I’m not.’
‘Yes you are. And he’s in love with you.’
‘Did he – did he tell you that?’
‘Not in so many words, no. But if ever a man was in love he is. He talks about you all the time. He watches you all the time. Darling, I’m not stupid.’
‘I know you’re not,’ said Grace with a sigh. She felt tears welling up again, blinked them back furiously.
Clarissa put her arm round her. ‘Don’t,’ said Grace, ‘or I shall really start crying again.’
‘So what exactly is the matter?’ asked Clarissa, sitting down, lighting a cigarette.
‘Oh Clarissa, I don’t know. Feeling so bad about Charles, I suppose. Guilty, terrible.’
‘Have you – well, been to bed with Ben yet?’
‘No,’ said Grace very quietly, too wretched to take exception to so personal a question. ‘And I’m not going to. I just can’t. It feels too wrong.’
‘I would say, darling,’ said Clarissa lightly, after a pause, ‘that you should.’
‘What?’ said Grace. She felt genuinely shocked.
‘I think you should go to bed with him. Quickly. Get it over, see it through. Listen, Grace. You’re in love with Ben. You’re in knots of love with him. Anyone can see. And him with you. That’s what really matters. That’s what is or isn’t going to hurt your marriage. Whether you’ve actually had sex with him or not is fairly immaterial.’
‘I just can’t see how you can say that.’
‘Well, I have said it,’ said Clarissa. ‘So let’s not worry about how. Look—’ She hesitated. ‘This is absolutely between us. But it’s important. All right?’
Grace nodded.
‘When – when Jack was in hospital, when he was first burnt, I couldn’t stand it. I really couldn’t. And do you know what cured me, made it all right?’
Grace shook her head dumbly.
‘I found him in bed with a nurse. Darling, don’t look so shocked. What it did was make me realize how much I loved him. It certainly didn’t wreck our marriage, because that was so strong. I love Jack so much it didn’t touch it. Don’t you understand?’
‘And what about you?’ said Grace.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Would you ever go to bed with – with someone else?’
‘Oh you know me,’ said Clarissa easily, ‘last of the bad girls I am. A quick little fling just might take place. Under certain circum stances. These are funny times we’re all living in, after all.’ She smiled at Grace; and Grace looked back at her and just for a second saw – what? Not even something, just the shadow of something, at the back of her eyes, something wary, something forbidden. And then it was gone and she dragged her mind away from it, back to what was important, what Clarissa was saying. ‘It’s what’s underneath that matters, Grace. Who you really love. And what I’m saying is that I think you don’t quite know. Now look, I must go. Jack’s in an awful bait already because I’ve held him up.’
She gave Grace a hug. ‘Lots of luck, darling. I think your Ben is heaven and I think you deserve him. Bye. Happy New Year.’
‘You’re very quiet,’ said Jack as he swung Bunty’s car onto the main London road.
‘Sorry,’ said Clarissa, ‘I’m thinking about something. I’ve just been handing out some rather strong advice to Grace, bossing her about really, and I just hope it doesn’t all go wrong.’
‘She needs a bit of bossing,’ said Jack, ‘poor little thing.’
‘I’m not at all sure,’ said Clarissa, ‘that she is quite such a poor little thing. Actually.’
Far from making life simpler, Clarissa’s advice put Grace into an even worse torment. She changed her mind almost hourly: she would go to bed with Ben; she wouldn’t; she would tell him what Clarissa had said and ask him what he thought; she wouldn’t tell him what Clarissa had said, but ask him what he thought anyway, presenting the ideas as her own.
There was so much to be afraid of: what being unfaithful would do to her relationship with Charles, what might happen if Muriel, for instance, found out, what might happen next. And suppose she got pregnant, then what? It was a possibility after all. And was she going to commit herself to Ben permanently, or simply have a fling with him, the sort of thing Clarissa might do? But she wasn’t like Clarissa, not in the least; if she went on feeling like this about Ben, she would want to stay with him for ever. And how could she? How could she possibly? She was married to Charles. And most of all, she supposed, she was afraid of being a disappointment to Ben in bed, of revealing her hopelessness, her lack of sexines
s. She was sure Linda had been wonderful in bed. The more she heard about Linda, the more she sounded like Clarissa. That really frightened her.
At times, when she was feeling particularly low, she would decide to finish the whole thing; at others she knew she couldn’t. Or she would decide to go to bed with him and then finish it, knowing at least they had extracted every last possible shred of joy and pleasure from it; and in her craziest moments she would decide to leave Charles, to run away with Ben, taking the boys with them.
In the end, fate made her mind up for her.
‘Eat your tea, Daniel,’ said Grace.
‘Not hungry.’
‘Now, Daniel, you said that last time we had this. Then I found you raiding the larder. Eat it up.’
‘I don’t want it,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a stomach ache.’
Grace looked at him. He seemed fine; he had been out playing all afternoon. ‘Then you’d better go up to bed,’ she said sharply. Her indecision, her anguish was having a bad effect on her temper.
‘But Grace—’
‘Go to bed.’
‘Can’t I have my Ovaltine?’
‘No. Not if you won’t eat your supper.’
She went to bed early herself that night; she felt permanently tired from sleeping so badly. As she passed the boys’ room she heard a faint groan. She pushed the door open. Daniel was lying curled up, clutching his stomach; he managed a smile when he saw her.
‘Are you feeling really bad?’ asked Grace in alarm.
‘A bit. It really hurts.’
‘And he’s hot,’ said David.
She took his temperature; it was 102. Alarmed, she called the doctor; while they were waiting for him Daniel was sick.
The doctor diagnosed appendicitis, said he should be got to the hospital without delay. ‘I’ll get an ambulance. Get him into Salisbury General, I don’t like the look of this.’
Daniel started to scream. ‘I want Dad. I want Dad.’
‘Daniel, don’t be silly. Dad’s away, you know he is.’
‘I want him. I want him here. I hate it all, it hurts, I feel sick’ – this accompanied by further vomiting – ‘I hate you, Grace, I hate the doctor, I want Dad.’
Without a great deal of hope, Grace phoned the barracks at Tidworth; Ben was still there as far as she knew. She left a message to say that Sergeant Lucas’s younger son was being taken to Salisbury Hospital, that his appendix had to come out, that there was no serious danger, but that if Sergeant Lucas could possibly get leave to come over, then she was sure it would be very helpful.
The ambulance came quite soon; they were in Salisbury by ten. The hospital doctor examined Daniel, said the appendix should come out straight away, told the young nurse who was standing by the bed to prepare Daniel for his operation. Daniel screamed on.
‘I’m surprised the pain is that bad,’ said the nurse to Grace, quietly. ‘And I have to give him an enema. Do you think he’ll be all right?’
‘Oh yes,’ said Grace, sounding more optimistic than she felt.
The nurse advanced on Daniel with a rubber tube and a bowl, and smiled at him uncertainly; he stopped yelling briefly. ‘What’s that for?’
‘It’s – well, it’s – it’s to empty out your tummy,’ she said uneasily.
‘How?’
She looked at Grace for support; Grace gripped Daniel’s hand and attempted rather nervously to explain the mechanics of an enema.
Daniel became hysterical, fighting them off, pushing the nurse, the tube, Grace away: ‘No! No, I won’t let them, I won’t. Leave me, leave me alone. I want my dad, I want my dad.’
‘I don’t know what to do,’ said the nurse. ‘He has to have it, they can’t do the operation without. Daniel, come on, be a brave boy—’
‘No,’ screamed Daniel. ‘No, no, no.’
‘Daniel, please!’ said Grace. ‘It won’t hurt, I promise. Not nearly as much as your tummy. Please, Daniel, For me.’
‘No.’
‘Daniel,’ said a voice, ‘behave yourself. When I was in hospital I had to have those all the time. The nurse is trying to help you.’ It was Ben. Daniel promptly gave in, submitted himself to the tortures of the enema.
‘Poor little boy,’ said Grace much later, as they sat by his bed while he lay motionless, still unconscious. ‘Poor, poor little boy. I feel so terrible, Ben. I was cross with him, sent him to bed for not eating his supper, wouldn’t let him have his Ovaltine.’
‘Just as well,’ said Ben, ‘or he’d have been even more sick. Don’t blame yourself, love.’
‘Thank goodness you got here. I don’t know what would have happened otherwise.’
‘I reckon’, said Ben quietly, indicating a hovering figure at the end of the ward, ‘that she would have dealt with him.’
She was the ward sister; a lady of such proportions that Miss Merton resembled a nymph by comparison.
‘Well, maybe. But he was so upset. Was it hard for you to get away?’
‘No. I’ve got a forty-eight.’
‘Oh,’ she said, hoping she didn’t sound as confused, as overwhelmed as she felt.
‘Mr and Mrs Lucas?’ It was the outsized ward sister.
‘Er – yes,’ said Ben. (It seemed simpler, he said to Grace later, to let her think that.)
‘You can’t stay here all night, you know. You shouldn’t really be here at all. This is a hospital, not a hotel.’
‘Yes,’ said Grace humbly.
‘Your little boy is perfectly all right. Perfectly. An absolutely normal appendectomy. A good night’s sleep and he’ll be fine. You can visit tomorrow, between two and three.’
‘Yes. But what happens when he wakes up all alone?’
‘Mrs Lucas, when he wakes up, he will not be alone. We will be here.’
‘But he may – want me. Us.’
‘In which case,’ said the sister, her face extremely stern, ‘he will be told you will be here between two and three. I really don’t see any problem whatsoever. He is not seriously ill. Now do please go home and get to bed. It’s the sensible thing to do.’
‘Well—’
‘Come along, Grace,’ said Ben, ‘you heard what Sister said. We should get to bed. It’s the sensible thing to do.’
He had an army truck outside; he drove it just a little too fast through the dark lanes. He didn’t say anything; neither did Grace. When they got to the Mill House, Clifford and David were waiting for them in the kitchen.
‘Shit,’ said Ben under his breath as they walked in, and then smiled at them. ‘No need to worry. Dan’s fine. We can all visit him tomorrow.’
‘Excellent news,’ said Clifford. ‘There you are, David, I told you.’
‘Honest?’
‘Honest. You go on up to bed now, I’ll come and tuck you up.’
‘All right.’
‘I’m turning in too,’ said Clifford. ‘Jolly tired.’
‘I’ll come and tuck you up too, Clifford,’ said Grace, ‘and bring you a hot toddy if you’re very good.’
‘Will you really, my dear? I would be grateful.’
It was an hour before the house was quiet. Ben looked at Grace across the kitchen and smiled.
‘Here I go again,’ he said, ‘saying thank you.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Grace. ‘I’m just sorry it had to happen like that.’
‘Don’t say sorry,’ he said, ‘and it certainly wasn’t your fault.’
There was a long silence. Then he said, ‘Shall we go and sit by the fire then?’
Grace looked at him and wondered what she had been making such a fuss about. It all suddenly seemed very simple.
‘No,’ she said, ‘no, let’s go upstairs.’
‘I love you,’ he said, as she lay beside him, looking at his face on the pillow, her hand in his. ‘I know you’re scared, and I am too. But I love you. Just remember that. That’s what matters. That’s all that matters really.’
There were other things that mattered: that he w
as gentle and soothing and calming in the beginning, when she was frightened and edgy and unable to believe she could be in any way what he wanted; that he talked a lot all the way through, told he loved her, that she was beautiful, that she felt lovely; that his body was at one and the same time demanding and gentle, skilful and diffident, powerful and anxious to please; that her body, reaching, wanting, responding to him was not at all as she had ever known it; that her head and her heart seemed to be as involved in her delight as the rest of her; that she could hear all the time murmurings, then moans, then soaring cries of pleasure (stifled by his hand over her mouth, his voice in her ear saying shush), and realized it was herself; that the gathering, the enfolding, the holding and then finally the great glorious thrusting of release was of a scale and a brilliance she had not ever imagined possible; that she cried sweet, sad tears as her orgasm faded and she fell into peace; and that the last thing she heard as she fell asleep in his arms was his voice telling her he loved her.
They woke early, went downstairs and drank huge steaming mugs of tea, watched by Charlotte and her puppies who fell on their bare feet with eager tongues and tiny sharp teeth; they were big now, scurrying about, messing everywhere, tumbling over one another, a relentless loving army, driving their mother mad. ‘I can’t wait for them to go now,’ Grace said, and ‘how could you,’ said Ben, ‘when they brought us together?’
‘Thank you for last night,’ he said suddenly, smiling at her, taking her hand.
And ‘was it really all right?’ she said. ‘I was so nervous, so afraid I wasn’t going to be able to – well, to do it. I think that was half the trouble really.’
‘You did it fine,’ he said, very serious. ‘Thank God for appendicitis, that’s all.’
‘Clarissa told me I should,’ said Grace. ‘She said it was the right thing to do.’
‘Thank God for Clarissa as well then,’ said Ben.
Later they went to see Daniel, who was fretful and difficult and sore, full of complaints and reproaches. Guiltily grateful for the end of visiting hours, they left and drove not home, for then they would have to be with Clifford and David, but into the countryside, and went for a long walk in the New Forest. It was very cold, but they did not care, did not even notice; there was so much to talk about (released finally from inhibition, shyness, awkwardness), so much to discover, to ask, to tell. The ground was stony-hard, the trees harshly bare, but Grace felt as if she had wandered into some kind of warm, golden place filled with flowers and birdsong; she took Ben’s arm, and hugged herself to him and told him again and again how much she loved him, and he smiled down at her and told her he loved her too, and there was room for nothing else at all just then, not for guilt, nor for anxiety about their future and whether they might be together in it; they were too new to happiness to feel anything else at all.
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