Forbidden Places

by Penny Vincenzi

  ‘But why?’ said Grace. ‘Why? I just don’t understand. Surely, if you’d—’

  ‘Pride, darling. Male pride. Charles has – sorry, had – a super abundance of it. And what I’d say was an almost pathological need to be highly thought of. He simply couldn’t face telling everyone the engagement was off: it had been in the papers, the date had been set, about six or seven months off, but still, his best man had been chosen, everything. He was going to look a complete fool, whatever way we did it, as he saw it. If I broke it off, people would think I’d got tired of him, or found him wanting in some way, and if he broke it off – well, he’d either look a cad, or he’d have to admit he’d found me playing around. Which also made him look a fool. So I said why on earth couldn’t we just say the decision had been absolutely mutual, and leave it at that? He said he’d think about it, and left. And I thought I’d done it.’

  ‘And hadn’t you?’ said Grace. She was finding the story utterly enthralling.

  ‘Not quite. In the morning a note came through the door. He said he’d been thinking and he really couldn’t face the break-up. He said he loved me too much and if I didn’t marry him he’d kill himself. Of course I knew that was nonsense, he’d never do such a thing, it was totally out of character. And I told him so. But it was a measure of how desperately he cared.’

  ‘About you,’ said Grace quietly.

  ‘No, darling, you miss the point. About himself.’

  ‘Oh. Oh, I see,’ said Grace uncertainly.

  ‘Well, I hope you do. You don’t look quite convinced. But any man, Grace, who finds his fiancée in bed with someone else and still prefers marrying her to breaking it off – he’s a bit odd. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Grace, ‘a bit odd. And a bit odd of her to be in bed with someone else. Don’t you think?’

  She could hear the edge, the hardness in her voice; she was rather pleased by it. She didn’t want Clarissa to think she was upset. ‘And so then you sent him off to find me, did you?’

  ‘Sorry, darling?’

  ‘Find some sweet, lovely girl who’d make him happy. I think that was the phrase in your letter. Some dull, shy, sweet girl who’d never do such a thing again. Who’d never get into bed with someone else because there wouldn’t be someone else who’d want her. That was it, wasn’t it, Clarissa? And I fitted the bill pretty damn well. Sweet, safe Grace. Was there anyone else first, do you think, who you suggested maybe, or was I a bit hard to find?’

  She was starting to cry now, tears stinging her eyes; she was afraid she was going to start sobbing noisily, look ridiculous. ‘What about Jack, did he know about this, Clarissa? Did you tell him why Charles had chosen me? He must have been puzzled, knowing he’d been engaged to you. And Florence, I suppose she knew—’ She stopped suddenly; she had forgotten, briefly, about Giles, Giles and Clarissa. Her new awareness of Clarissa’s sexual pragmatism made that story even more shocking; earlier she might have given her the benefit of the doubt.

  ‘Grace, you’re being silly,’ said Clarissa. ‘Nobody wondered why Charles chose you, they could see he loved you, that you were absolutely perfect for him.’

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Grace bitterly.

  ‘Oh darling, stop being silly. And certainly Florence had no idea about Charles and me. About how upset he was. She believed the story, just like everyone else.’

  ‘She seems to be good at believing things,’ said Grace. ‘Lucky for you, that.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’ Clarissa’s eyes were brilliant suddenly, brilliant and sharp; her cheeks flushed.

  ‘I said it was lucky for you she was good at believing things.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  ‘I heard you on the phone just now,’ said Grace, ‘talking to that – that person, about Giles. I couldn’t believe it, not Giles, not when Florence is your best friend. It’s—’

  ‘Grace,’ said Clarissa, and she was very pale now, sweat on her forehead, ‘Grace, you simply don’t understand—’

  ‘Oh but I do,’ said Grace, ‘very, very well. It all fits together quite neatly. I knew there was something, something odd even at Christmas, you were – edgy. And then yesterday, that little slip about Imogen looking like Giles. I don’t understand you, Clarissa, I really don’t. Or perhaps I do. Anyway—’

  ‘You are not to tell Florence,’ said Clarissa, her voice very low.

  ‘I’ll decide that,’ said Grace. ‘Not you. I think I should tell her. Actually. If he came back to her now, and she was still madly in love with him, it would be – well, it would be horrible. She ought to know.’

  ‘You’re talking like a child,’ said Clarissa, ‘like an arrogant, self-satisfied child. You don’t understand half of it. Not half—’

  ‘I think I do,’ said Grace, ‘I understand that you’re not much better than a tart, Clarissa. That you can’t resist anything with a – a cock.’

  She stopped. It was so unlike her to talk like that she had shocked herself.

  Clarissa started laughing. ‘Darling Grace. What a thing to say.’

  ‘Don’t patronize me,’ said Grace and she stood up and hit her, hard across the face. Clarissa sank back on the seat, her eyes round with shock, her hand to her red cheek.

  And then Florence arrived. ‘What on earth is going on?’ she said. ‘Did I see you hitting Clarissa, Grace? Whatever for?’

  ‘She was upset,’ said Clarissa quickly. ‘I – well, I just said something a bit hard about Ben. It was wrong of me, Grace, please forgive me.’

  Grace was so taken aback by the swiftness and competence of the lie, the only one that Florence might have believed in the circumstances, that she stood silent, gazing down at Clarissa.

  ‘Oh really?’ said Florence vaguely. ‘I’m always upsetting Grace about him too. Telling her how difficult it would be if they got married or anything. With their different backgrounds and all that. I don’t know why you can’t see it, Grace, I really don’t. Is that your phone? Shall I get it?’

  For a very long moment Grace and Clarissa stayed motionless, staring at one another, their eyes taking in, sending messages. Then, ‘No,’ said Grace, ‘no, don’t, I’ll get it’ and ‘No,’ said Clarissa, ‘I’ll go, it might be that call from Dartmouth again, from May Potter—’

  But neither of them got there in time, for Mrs Babbage came out, saying it was for Mrs Compton Brown. ‘A gentleman,’ she said, ‘trunk call. Didn’t give a name, said she’d know.’

  ‘Must be darling Jack,’ said Clarissa. ‘Excuse me, please, both of you.’

  She came out looking very cool, smiling; she had powdered over her reddened cheek, proffered the other one to Grace.

  ‘It was Jack. Just wanted a chat. It’s been lovely, darling,’ she said to Grace, ‘really lovely. I’m sorry I upset you so badly. And please don’t do anything rash. I’ll go back with Florence now, I think. I’ll see you very soon.’

  And she slipped into Florence’s car. The last Grace saw of her was her small, well-manicured hand waving gaily through the window.

  ‘Grace,’ said Ben, ‘you haven’t heard a word I’ve said. Have you?’

  ‘What?’ said Grace.

  ‘I said – oh, it doesn’t matter.’ He sounded, for him, irritable.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Grace, ‘I’m very sorry. I’ve got – I’ve got something on my mind. Something that’s upsetting me. What – what did you say?’

  ‘Forget it. Doesn’t matter.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Grace again.

  ‘What’s the matter anyway? Want to talk about it?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, honestly. It’s not important.’

  ‘It seems to be.’

  ‘No, really. It’s not.’

  ‘OK.’ There was a silence.

  She struggled to realign her mind, to appear more sympathetic. Ben had troubles of his own, she knew; he was worried about what he was going to do after the war was over – now so real a prospect – and about David,
who was having problems settling at the grammar school, worn out by the long journey every day and by the additional burden of homework.

  ‘If it’s David,’ she said, ‘I really don’t think you should worry. It’s early days and he’s a clever boy, he’ll be all right. And I got his plimsolls at last, so there won’t be any more trouble about them, and—’

  ‘Grace,’ said Ben, ‘do stop talking. I’m not specially interested in David’s plimsolls, if you want to know. Not at the moment anyway.

  ‘Well, you ought to be,’ said Grace, stung. She had spent hours walking round the shops in Shaftesbury before finally going to Salisbury to find the white plimsolls the grammar school so arrogantly insisted on, and had had to part with some of her own coupons to get them. ‘He is your son, you know—’

  ‘I know he’s my son,’ said Ben, leaning forward, kissing her firmly on the mouth to stop her talking. ‘That’s not at issue. Now please, love, just be quiet for heaven’s sake, and listen.’

  ‘Look,’ said Grace, ‘I think I know what it is.’

  ‘Oh you do, do you?’

  ‘Yes. It’s about what you’re going to do after the war, isn’t it? I’m sorry, Ben, and I have been thinking about it. The thing is, if you still want to try for the teaching, you can leave the boys here while you go to college or whatever. I don’t mind a bit. In fact—’

  ‘It is about after the war, yes,’ he said, ‘but not what I’m going to do for a job. Well, that’s part of it. But what I’m trying to say is, well, you know I love you. And you love me. But we’re going to have terrible problems if we stay together. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Well – I don’t know,’ said Grace. She suddenly felt very sick. He was going to tell her it was over, that he was leaving her.

  ‘You should know. You should think about it,’ he said and he sounded worried, almost angry. ‘It’s all very well at the moment, everyone’s playing games, I come here to your big house and pretend I’m the same as you, and I’m not. And my boys aren’t either, and they’ve spent all this time thinking they belong here, in the big house, and it’s not right. And what we ought to do, well, what we’ve got to do, is get out and go on our way. Once the war’s over, anyway.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grace flatly, ‘oh I see. Yes.’

  ‘I’ll get back to work, and they’ll be fine, they’re older now.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course they will.’

  It hurt so much she could hardly bear it; the pain seemed to be moving around in the pit of her stomach. She put her hand there, as if she could push it away.

  ‘What my mum would say if she could see them now,’ he said, ‘I can’t begin to think. Spoilt, she’d say they were. Getting above themselves. And it’s true. She’d be shocked.’

  Grace began to feel irritable. She’d worked very hard on the boys; she didn’t like the feeling of being somehow criticized for it.

  ‘I’m very sorry—’ she began.

  ‘But then,’ he said, ‘my dad would be pleased. About the music and that. And the grammar school.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. She tried to sound bright, unconcerned. ‘And what about Linda? What would she say, do you think?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ he said, ‘to tell you the truth. I was wondering about that. I think she’d be – well, a bit surprised.’

  Grace had had enough of this. She stood up suddenly. ‘Ben, I’m sorry but I’ve got to go,’ she said.

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘To – to the church. To play the piano. I don’t suppose your mum would like that either, going out, not giving you your tea –’

  She couldn’t finish the sentence; she turned and half ran from the kitchen, upstairs to her bedroom, slammed the door, threw herself on the bed, burying her head in the pillow in case he heard her. It was over, nothing further to come of it, the war would end and he would go away, with the boys, leaving her behind, a rather charmingly odd interlude. Only of course he wouldn’t label it quite like that.

  There was a knock at the door; gentle but firm. She ignored it; it came again.

  ‘Grace! Love, let me in. I want to say something else.’

  ‘You’ve said quite enough already,’ she said. ‘I don’t think I want to hear any more.’

  ‘You might want to hear this.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘You’re being silly,’ he said, and he sounded irritated. That made her cross: that he could be so insensitive as not to realize how much he had hurt her.

  She got up suddenly, flung open the door. ‘Look,’ she said, ‘look, Ben, perhaps I should just explain a few things to you. I always thought – wrongly it seems – that you were a bit more sensitive than most men.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. He stood there, looking down at her rather uncertainly, clearly nervous.

  ‘Yes, well, for once you can say it,’ she said. ‘Years and years I’ve looked after those children, and it’s been really nice, I’ve loved it, but it’s been very hard work, and I’m afraid I didn’t have the time or energy to make sure they weren’t getting funny ideas along the way. I’m sorry, Ben, but I didn’t actually have the time to take them along to one of the smaller streets in Salisbury at regular intervals and make sure they knew that that’s where they really ought to be. Silly of me, I know. And I’m extremely sorry I taught David the piano. What should it have been, Ben, the banjo or something? And as for chess, well, that was unforgivable of Clifford. You’d better talk to him about that. You seem to be very worried about them all of a sudden. So you’d better take them off now, before things get any worse. Back to your barracks for a start, maybe, they might—’

  ‘Do stop shouting,’ he said, and he put out his hand gently and stroked her face. ‘Do be quiet. You’ve missed the point completely. I was only trying to—’

  ‘Well, you’ve succeeded,’ said Grace. She dashed her hand across her eyes.

  Ben smiled and gave her his handkerchief. ‘Here, use this,’ he said. ‘Your nose is running.’

  ‘Oh – go away,’ shouted Grace, and she had never felt more angry with anyone, more angry and miserable, ‘Just go away. I never want to see you again.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I seem to have made a bit of a mess of things. I didn’t mean to upset you. Honestly I didn’t.’

  ‘Well you have,’ said Grace, ‘and what did you think I was going to be? Happy? Grateful?’

  ‘You might’ve been,’ he said, ‘if you’d let me finish. Well, not grateful maybe. But happy.’

  ‘Why? What could you possibly have said that was going to make me happy? After giving me all that rubbish?’

  ‘Well,’ he said, and cleared his throat, seeming to gather himself together, physically as well as mentally, ‘well, you see, I was going to – to – ask you if you’d like to think about marrying me. Only think about it, mind. Take it very steady. Because of all the things I’d been trying to say. But it did come out a bit wrong. I can see that. I’m sorry, Grace. Very sorry.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Grace. She stood there staring at him, feeling rather faint suddenly. She put her hand on the wall to steady herself. ‘Oh, I see.’

  ‘But maybe I shouldn’t even have tried,’ he said, ‘maybe I should’ve seen it was an impossible idea. Anyway, sorry, Grace. Sorry for upsetting you so much. Maybe I’d better—’

  ‘Don’t say sorry,’ she said slowly, reaching out, touching his face as gently as he had touched hers. ‘And it’s not an impossible idea. It’s lovely. I’d love it. I’d love to think about it.’

  ‘You would?’ he said, and his long bony face lost its anguish suddenly, broke into its most triumphantly glorious grin. ‘You really would?’

  ‘Yes, I would. And I don’t see there’s that much to think about. Actually. I think all those things you were talking about are pretty silly really. I think you’re letting them matter a bit too much.’

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘not really. You see—’

  ‘Ben,’ said Grace, ‘now it’s my turn. Shut u
p, will you?’ She reached up and kissed him: gently at first, then very hard, on his mouth. He responded, exploring hers, fiercely tender, with his tongue. She took his hand, pulled him back into the room, shut the door behind him, turned the key. ‘Just in case,’ she said, ‘just in case they come back.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘Fishing. With Clifford. Is that suitable for them or not?’

  ‘Oh stop it,’ he said. ‘Just let me love you.’

  It was swift, as it never usually was: as if he needed to show her, urgently, how much he loved her. He was in her almost at once; aroused sexually by the waves of raging emotion she had experienced in the past hour, she was eager, hungry for him. She felt herself clenching, reaching round him, the sweet, urgent, overlapping fronds starting to stir almost at once.

  ‘I love you,’ he said, ‘I love you very much.’ And even as he spoke she started climbing, rising and rising, and he was forcing her up, into, through it, through the brilliance, the pleasure, the white-hot release. She lay there, almost detached, feeling her body knowing him, loving him, feeling him part of her, taking her, following her, leading her, and as he came, as he cried out, the long, vibrant sound of love, she called out, loudly triumphant herself, ‘I love you, Ben, I love you,’ and thought that never as long as she lived would she feel herself so perfectly happy.

  Later, they lay slightly dazed by what had passed between them, and he said, ‘Feeling better now?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ she said, ‘of course I am.’

  ‘You do,’ he said, and leant over and kissed her as he said it, ‘you do get things wrong, you know.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, and sighed. ‘I don’t stop and think enough. I never have.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  ‘Ben?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Can I tell you something? Nothing to do with us. Something that’s upset me.’

  ‘Of course.’

  She lay there, holding his hand, and told him about Clarissa. Giles and Clarissa. ‘What do you think I should do then?’ she said.

  ‘Nothing,’ he said, ‘nothing at all. For God’s sake, Grace, do nothing at all.’