by Annie Murray
When Peter Stevenson asked Jess again that week whether she and her family would like to meet him, she tried to drag her thoughts away from Ned and take a little more notice. This time he came in late in the day, just as she was in the outer room of the Rumbling Shed, unbuttoning her overall. The other two women always left in a great rush and he had waited until they’d gone.
Jess hung her overall on the peg. Peter Stevenson felt ludicrously bashful just asking if she and her family wanted to take their children to the park, but this was not evident to Jess. To her he seemed calm and dignified.
At the thought of Sunday Jess felt a blush spread right through her and wondered if Mr Stevenson had noticed.
‘Oh dear, I’m sorry – this Sunday’s not much good either.’ She pulled off her mob cap, releasing her hair down her back. Peter Stevenson watched, longing to step forward and take her head, with the long, soft hair, between his hands and turn her face up to him to be kissed. Emotion twisted in him, an actual physical pang. She was so lovely, and she didn’t even see him: had no idea how he felt.
‘You having a busy time then at the moment?’ he asked carefully.
Jess put her head on one side. ‘To tell you the truth, Mr Stevenson, I’ve got my . . . my friend home from the Front. He was wounded before Christmas and ’e’s just out of hospital. Sunday afternoon’s the only time we’ve got.’
‘Oh I see,’ he said brightly. ‘Well of course you’re busy then. That’s nice for you – you should’ve said, then I wouldn’t’ve kept pestering you.’
Jess frowned, puzzled. ‘But you ain’t. And it’d be nice to take the lads out. Ronny and David got on like a house on fire, daint they? Tell you what.’ She shouldered her coat on, pulling her hair out over it at the back. ‘As soon as there’s a free Sunday I’ll tell yer. When it gets warmer, we could have another picnic or summat like that? I enjoyed the last one ever such a lot.’
‘Yes, me too.’ He hesitated, bathed in her smile. ‘To tell you the truth, Jess, Sunday hangs very heavily for us now. David misses his mother. It’s good to have some company.’
Jess saw suddenly how thoughtless she’d been, how lacking in imagination. Mr Stevenson looked so sad and dejected sometimes, and he was such a nice, kind man. She wanted to cheer him up. But nothing could stop her seeing Ned this Sunday, and any other Sunday she could.
‘I’ll talk to Sis and Polly,’ she said. ‘And we’ll plan an outing as soon as we can, shall we?’
Peter Stevenson smiled. ‘It’d be a treat.’
Iris gave her a surprisinglyf disapproving look when she went one evening and asked if she and Ned could come and be together in her front room on Sunday as they had used to do when he had leave.
‘Well you did say we could,’ Jess protested. ‘Like before.’
‘Yes – yes I did.’ Iris clumped along the hall and flung the door of the room open. ‘You do what you like – light a fire if you can find anything to light it with. Nothing to do with me.’ She stood back leaning on her crutch and sniffed. ‘I think my morals have slipped.’
‘Iris—’ Jess tried to appease her. Miss Davitt’s been on at her about us coming here, she thought. ‘We’re not here to plan a bank robbery. We just want somewhere we can be on our own for a bit.’
‘Well, as long as you both know how to behave . . . I shall probably go out to see Beatt. As for her—’ She rolled her eyes up in the direction of Hilda the stodgy clerk’s room. ‘You won’t have any trouble. You’d barely know the woman’s alive.’
Jess tutted at Iris’s contrariness and looked round the room. It was bleaker even than she remembered, but she and Ned had made do there before, barely noticing their surroundings in their hunger for each other. But now she felt more effort was needed. The floor was bare boards except for a little woven rug by the grate and the only furniture was two upright chairs and a worm-ridden chest of drawers in the corner. The window was shrouded by an old net and there was also a pair of limp curtains which had once been pink but were now almost grey.
I’ll have to do better than this, she thought. This has got to be as cosy and nice as I can possibly make it.
That Sunday morning, Ned agreed to go to church with his mom and dad. His father was a sidesman and Ned had grown up well known by the regular congregation. Still dressed in his convalescent’s uniform, he hobbled into the familiar building, taking in the smell of the place, a mixture of polish and old books and stone which had stood, unaired, for many years. His father, after he had shown people to their seats, sat at the end of the pew dressed in his Sunday suit and well-polished shoes, the green and gold collection pouches on the seat beside him. Ned sat between him and his mother. He felt like a child sitting between his mom and dad, but this time the feeling was welcome, as if all responsibility was taken from him, no decisions or commitments expected.
As they sang the first hymn: ‘Oh for a faith that will not shrink, though press’d by many a foe’, he felt his mother glancing anxiously at him. Her worry and concern had increased since he had come home. She had thought he would immediately be restored after so long in hospital, but he was withdrawn, silent. Perhaps it was only to be expected. It was his reaction to seeing his daughter which had really distressed her. She had thought at first that he was going to break down, but he had simply gone quiet again. Mary had brought the little girl a number of times since and the first time Ruth screamed and said she didn’t want to see ‘Daddy’ – she didn’t like him. But on these occasions he had been calmer, if not animated. He had talked to her, shown her a little wooden puzzle, tried to befriend her. Mrs Green and Mary had given each other nervous looks of relief.
‘It’ll take time, son,’ Mrs Green said to him afterwards. ‘It’s hard for her as well, the little lass. Growing up without yer. Not that that’s your fault,’ she added quickly. ‘That’s the war, done that.’
Ned could see their pain, their anxiety: his mother’s worn face and her constant fussing, his father’s attempts to have conversations with him, heart-rending in their awkwardness. He asked about France, but in such a sidelong way that Ned deduced from it that he didn’t want to know.
‘I s’pose you got through the winter all right there? They looked after you?’ Such questioning demanded the reassuring answer ‘yes’.
‘They gave us leather jerkins,’ Ned told him. ‘And goatskin jackets.’ He could not tell him how impossible it was ever to get warm day after day on an inactive part of the front where the ground was either stone-hard with frost and snow or thigh deep in water, and any careless raising of your head too high could result in your being shot.
But he recognized his parents’ agitation, their need to see things put to rights, for him to be well and back with his wife and daughter. He heard barely a word of the service, thinking of these things.
Afterwards, he was greeted like the conquering hero by the parish. A soldier, wounded, with a medal: he was their pride and joy. He smiled and shook hands. By their questions he saw that none of these people had any idea that he was the object of shame and trouble who had deserted his wife and child. Of course, his mom and dad had kept it to themselves. Partly the shame, partly because they believed it would not last, that he would come back to Mary and things would be smoothed over. To everyone else, things were as they had been before.
The church warden, a jolly, elderly man with a red face, pumped his hand up and down.
‘Very good to see you, Ned. I hope when all this is over you and your wife’ll move over closer to home again. We’ve missed seeing you – and the child.’
Ned nodded and smiled, murmuring, ‘We’ll have to see.’
Deeply ashamed, and desperate to escape, he edged to the door.
As they finished dinner later on, his mother said, ‘I thought we’d go and see Auntie Joan this afternoon.’
‘Oh – I can’t,’ Ned said. ‘I’m off out.’
‘Are you. Where?’
‘Just – out.’
He knew they wouldn’t ask. He saw the wa
y they exchanged worried glances, and a great weariness came over him. He stood up and forced a smile. ‘See you later.’
Jess spent the morning at Iris’s getting ready for his arrival, dressed in her old work clothes, a black skirt worn so threadbare that it was grey, and a scarf tied in her hair to keep the dust out of it. Her best clothes lay folded on a chair ready to change into later.
First of all she swept the front room out and dusted it. During the week, on her way home from work, she had bought a couple of bundles of kindling from a half-starved looking boy. They were obviously chopped up bits of orange boxes, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. She’d managed to scrounge a few small pebbles of coal and wrapped them in a newspaper which she used when she arrived, to twist into fire lighters. She swept out the grate and laid a meagre little fire.
With her she had also brought Louisa’s quilt and another blanket and she laid them on the floor, the colourful quilt on top. She took two candles and brass candlesticks from her bag and stood them on the mantel-piece. She’d also brought a twist of paper with some tea in it, and a bag of buns – one extra for Iris.
As she worked on the room she hummed to herself, imagining, as she used to do before, that this was her own house and she and Ned were soon going to live together and make it their home. Soon, she thought, please God. If only the war would end, we can all get sorted out and start our lives over again, together, where we’re meant to be.
She stood by the window for a while to get her breath back, hugging her arms across her chest, looking out at the pale blue sky. She pretended to herself that she was already married and was waiting for Ned to come home from work, his dinner in the oven. That’s all I want, she thought. Husband, babbies, just normal. Bring ’em up right. Family life, not like my childhood. Excitement bubbled in her, her pulse racing. Soon he’d be coming along that road, she’d see him, the tall, wondrous shape of him, be able to touch him, lie beside him . . .
‘Come on,’ she said to herself. ‘Daydreaming all morning ain’t going to get the babby bathed.’ She went to fill a bucket of water and wipe down the windows, singing ‘Keep the Home Fires Burning’ at the top of her voice.
Jess waited. An age seemed to pass. He’s got a long way to come, and there’s not a lot of trams on a Sunday, she said to herself, trying to contain her impatience. She’d waited so long to be reunited with him that these last minutes, once Iris had taken herself off across the road, were suddenly unbearable. She kept going to the window to look down the street, which remained sunlit but stubbornly empty.
She was becoming desperate when at last she saw him and ran to open the door. There he was on the doorstep, tall, handsome, here at last. Her first impulse was to throw her arms round him but she cautioned herself to be careful, and she stood aside to let him in. Once the door was closed they stood in each other’s arms.
‘So—’ he said eventually, looking about him. ‘Back ’ere again.’ Their eyes met for a second, each remembering other afternoons here, and the night he had come to her in the snow and they had lain upstairs, clinging to one another. ‘Not changed much, has it?’
‘Not at all, I shouldn’t think,’ she laughed.
For a few seconds they were at a loss.
‘Come on in – to our room.’ Jess opened the door. The colours of the quilt seemed to leap out at them in the bare room. ‘I can light a fire, but it won’t last long, so I thought we’d save it.’
Ned nodded, looking round the room.
‘What’s up?’
‘Oh – nothing much. It’s only that it’s still a bit hard for me to sit – on the floor like. I can lie down, or sit on a chair. I don’t think I could manage sitting down there though, that’s all.’
‘There’re chairs—’ she pulled one out from behind the door, wanting everything to be right for him. ‘Look – shall we see if we can breathe enough life into the range for a cuppa tea?’
Ned nodded. ‘That’d be nice.’
He followed her out to the kitchen, his presence seeming to burn through her back. He felt so distant from her. They needed time to get back to where they were again. She longed just to hold him, to lie with him and get back to the closeness they’d had.
They talked a little as she made the tea, the sort of polite, careful conversation she might have had with anyone.
‘Where’s Iris?’ he asked.
‘Over at Beatt’s.’ She decided not to mention that Iris had turned a bit sniffy about the two of them being there. Before she would have told him and they’d have laughed about it, but the situation felt delicate enough already.
‘How’re things at home?’ she asked.
‘Oh – awright.’ He was staring out through the back window. ‘Mom’s carrying on as if I’m made of bone china. With Fred out there an’ all she’s always worrying. I’ll be glad to get out though. Gets a bit much after a while.’
Jess tipped some of her precious tea into the pot. She looked at Ned’s pale profile by the window, the face she loved so much. She longed to know what he was thinking. There were so many questions buzzing in her head that she was afraid to ask. Where did he want to get out to? Had Mary been, and how often? Were they all trying to force him back to her, and if so, what chance did she stand in the face of all of them? And how did he feel – did he love her as she so desperately, devotedly loved him, so that he was all of her life? Tell me, tell me! her thoughts screamed, so that for a moment she felt choked by panic. She fought to speak calmly.
‘Must be nice for ’er though – being able to look after you.’
There was a long silence as she brewed the tea, that neither of them seemed able to break, and the tension grew until the very air between them seemed brittle with it. Jess fiddled with spoons, cups and saucers and poured the pale tea. He still stood at the window, hands in his pockets.
‘Ned?’ She held a cup and saucer out to him, but the tone of her voice asked him so much more.
As he took the cup and saucer from her his hands were trembling so much that he couldn’t hide it. He had to put them down. He stood by the table, pressing his palms against his thighs to try and control the tremor.
‘Ned – love?’ She stooped to look into his face. ‘What is it?’
He shook his head, unable to find words for the confusion inside him.
‘I so want to make things better,’ she said. ‘I want to be close to you.’ She took one of his arms and firmly helped him stand upright. He couldn’t look into her eyes. He was breathing hard, in panic, distress.
‘Love, oh my love – don’t! There’s nothing to worry about.’ Overwhelmed with feeling she pulled him to her, felt his trembling. Into his chest she said, ‘Let me love you . . .’
She looked up at him, needing reassurance herself, needing him to desire her. ‘I’m bad, I know. But I want yer so much – all this time I’ve waited and I love you more than anyone, anything . . .’
He seemed to relax, and smiled properly for the first time, gently kissing the tip of her nose. ‘I like your badness. Oh Jess, you’re what I need.’
‘Come with me.’
She led him into their front room and closed the door. As he stood watching she knelt by the grate to light the knotted twists of newspaper. The flames bit into them and soon they could smell smoke. She turned, and saw how intently he was watching her, his eyes moving over her.
‘That’ll help – for a little, anyhow.’ She drew the curtains, then sat on the quilt, her legs stretched out, hair falling over one shoulder. ‘Can you get down ’ere with me?’
He managed it, slowly. Once he was comfortable he reached out for her. ‘You’re so lovely.’ His voice held a desperate mixture of longing and regret.
They bunched up the edges of the quilt and blanket to rest their heads on. Ned eased himself down beside her, settling on his back, where he was most comfortable. It was only after a moment that he realized his body was so tense that he was holding his arms and legs almost rigid, and he tried to relax and let them
sink closer to the floor.
‘You awright?’ she moved her hand across his chest.
‘Yes – just stiff.’
Jess leaned up on her elbows beside him and looked down into his face. She reached round and pulled the ribbon from her hair and it fell in long, thick waves over her shoulders. Teasing, she took an end of it and tickled his nose.
He shook her off, still taking deep breaths, trying to calm himself out of a sense of panic that he didn’t even understand. He looked into her face, seeing the love in her dark eyes, a tiny freckle on her left cheekbone, her soft, radiant skin. She leaned down and kissed his lips and her hair hung over him, further darkening the room.
‘I love you,’ she said, her face close to his.
‘I love you too.’ He searched inside himself for the meaning of the words.
‘You lie still,’ Jess said. ‘And I’ll make it better.’ She knelt up and simply took charge of him. Stroking, circling her hands, she moved over his body – his shoulders, his neck, arms, smoothing and kneading with her palms over his clothes, stopping often to turn and kiss his face. She felt him watching her, submitting to her, waiting. When she reached his injured leg she softened her caress to a light, fluttering stroke. She confined her touch to parts of his body which showed she was not impatient to arouse him. She simply loved him with her hands, her face intent. At first he felt foolish, passive. Then, under the warmth of her hands, sensations flooded through him.
She heard his breathing change and smiled into his eyes.
‘Oh God, Jess,’ he whispered.
Seeing the longing in his face, Jess unbuttoned her blouse and took it off, then her vest, with neat, graceful movements. Her skin was naturally slightly sallow across her shoulders and down her outer arms, but her breasts were very white, the nipples pink.
Clumsily, he pulled off his clothes, then reached out to touch her, heard her gasp as his flesh met hers. She clung to him, laughing, lips, tongue, hair moving over his flesh. Seeing her desire for him increased his own and he urgently pushed her down on to her back. She looked up into his eyes, giving her wide, delicious smile.
