Spare Brides

by Parks, Adele

  It was unbearable.

  It was everything she’d ever wanted.

  She sighed, the sound of release, and acceptance and longing. She felt him along the length of her; at last her body and mind opened.

  They forgot everything other than each other. They drifted beyond their pasts and did not need futures. They had all they required there on the thin mattress, on the iron bed, in the spartan bedsit. Neither lover was aware of anything beyond an annihilating consciousness and impression of the other, rousing and amplifying. There was no music to hide in. The only sound was the sound of bare skin slithering over fabric, as their arms, legs, bodies skated across one another in an impatient, intense grappling; that and the sound of the wetness of their lips and tongues as they landed, kissing and licking. Imperceptibly he inched her out of her clinging, silky underwear. She lay proud and pink. Exposed and exhibiting. His eyes fell from her face to her breasts, to her waist, to her bush of pubic hair. He reached out and placed a finger in there. Cold and smooth on her hot excitement. She thought of the marble statues in the museum and the snow they’d trudged through. He moved his finger leisurely, bit by bit, until pleasure swelled into a fat throbbing, so powerful it was almost painful. She shuddered and flinched; snatching at his body, she pulled him back on top of her, digging her fingers into the flesh on his back, his buttocks. At last she took hold of him. She had never had occasion to name the part before, even in her head, but now she took his beautiful penis, first in her hands and then in her mouth. She’d never imagined this was something she might do, and was surprised that, with her lack of experience, she instinctively knew how to please him, and that she was clear about her own desires.

  Selfless, they both worshipped. Raining kisses and caresses on each other until their lips and throats became dry, they explored and pleasured one another. She luxuriated in him. Forensically she investigated the different tones of his skin; from the smooth and tanned to the bristled red. She came to know how his freckles and moles were scattered, where his veins flowed like tributaries of a river and which hairs were smooth and glossy, which were coiled and unruly. She studied him as though he was the only and first man. She nuzzled his groin and armpits, inhaling the bitter strains of his sweat as though he was perfumed. She smelt his breath, his hair. He roamed over her with similar frank pleasure. He kissed her neck, breasts, shoulders, thighs, feet. Her body arched towards him, ached for him.

  The moment finally came when he was inside her. It was different from the time in the study. This time there was no distance; he held her tightly, he repeatedly kissed her face. Her lips, her cheekbones, her eyelids, her nose. Deeper. Closer. Backwards and forwards. In and out. Not too far out. Rolling, growing, plunging. It was impossible to know where she stopped feeling, where he began. Awed, she understood the concept of being as one. She understood life, death and loss whilst he came inside of her. Whilst she came out of herself.

  32

  AFTERWARDS THEY LAY side by side, breathing deeply. Exhausted. Sweat glistened on his forehead; his face was blotchy and bright with the attractive sort of colour that is raised through exertion. She wanted to lick the sweat, taste his saltiness again, but her body was spent; she couldn’t even summon the energy to roll on her side. She did not modestly pull the cover over herself but lay, magnificent, available. Complete.

  He fetched a mug of water for them to share, then got back into bed and lay beside her. He lit a cigarette, which they smoked in silence. Somewhat revived, she rolled on to her side and stubbed it out in the ashtray that was on the floor, then she pulled his arm around her for warmth and a sense of protection.

  ‘Where does he think you are tonight?’ There was no need to elaborate on who Edgar was referring to.

  ‘He’s in the country, at his parents’ place.’

  ‘That’s very convenient for you.’

  ‘And you,’ she reminded him. She closed her eyes. Sleep and rest were needed. Her body was being dragged into that comfortable moment just before a loss of consciousness when the world seems fluid, pliable and unthreatening in any way; he roused her.

  ‘Come on, you have to get dressed.’ He kissed her ear and then climbed out of bed.

  ‘What?’ She was bleary, drugged with loving and couldn’t understand his meaning.

  ‘You can’t stay,’ he said abruptly. He pulled on his underwear and stooped again to pick up his trousers. On the kitchen table the candles were still burning; just inch stubs remained. That and the fact that the sky, visible through the skylight, was still a deep blue-black suggested it was probably about four in the morning. She groped for the bedside clock and confirmed her guess.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ll have to go.’

  ‘No, there’s no need. I told you, Lawrence is away. The servants will assume I stayed with Ava. Come back to bed.’

  He ignored her request, sat on the edge of the bed. His broad bare back was blue like a silhouette in the moonlight. He started to put on his socks. ‘I never let anyone stay,’ he muttered. There had been so many? There were so many still? The thought slashed her. ‘You must get a cab.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous, I can’t get a cab at this time, how would I explain it? Why must I leave?’ She felt tears scratch her throat; she wondered if he could hear them in her voice. Fear and insecurity flooded through her body; she was going to drown in a sudden feeling of lacking. Was she a disposable conquest? Someone he’d had and finished with? Someone he could dismiss like a hire-by-the-hour whore? Was he an unscrupulous cad, an animal, after all? ‘Why must I leave?’ she demanded again. ‘How could you say such a thing to me?’

  Edgar’s shoulders were rounded. He did not look like a man who wanted to hurt. For the first time the shadow of defeat seemed to fall over him.

  ‘I’ll shout out, Lid. I’ll cry.’ She didn’t understand. ‘That’s why I took these rooms, high up away from other paying guests.’ He turned to her. ‘I get visions. Memories. When I sleep. I don’t know how to stop them.’ She realised for the first time what an enormous effort must be involved in being Edgar Trent, the hero. She now knew that every move he made hovered between arrogant swagger and a desperate vulnerability. He must try so hard, all the time, to maintain the stance, because it was striven for, not given up naturally. He was wounded and suffering even though there were no bullet holes.

  ‘I don’t mind.’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘But you mustn’t. Not with me. It’s fine, with me.’ Gently she placed her hand on his back. He was icy but she carried her warmth out from under the covers. ‘Sleep with me,’ she urged.

  He sighed and slowly crawled back into the bed. Suddenly he looked like a boy, not a man. Wary, reluctant, trapped. She knew he’d be vowing to himself not to fall asleep. He wouldn’t let her in yet, but he had not made her leave. She turned on her side and he cuddled in tight. Cupping her breast.

  Lydia woke in the night. Her bladder was full and she knew that sleep was impossible until it was dealt with. The chamber pot smelt ripe. There was no one to remove it and she was beginning to doubt whether there was any indoor plumbing. More likely there was a water closet outside in the yard. After what they had done together there ought not to be any shame between them, but she knew she could not urinate in front of him. She turned to him.

  ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked. ‘The piss pot?’ As she’d suspected, he had stayed awake. He’d propped himself up on a pillow and was now sitting bolt upright, like a guard keeping watch. She nodded tightly. Her body small and rigid again, quite unlike it had been when they made love.

  ‘Is there a lavatory?’ she asked hopelessly.

  ‘It’s outside,’ he confirmed. Rain battered against the window.

  ‘I might be seen, and it’s bitterly cold.’ She wasn’t sure which bothered her more. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ll wait.’

  ‘Until the morning?’

  ‘If I have to.’

  He climbed out of bed. The room was so col
d now that she could see his breath on the air: a blue cloud in a dark room lit by a grey moon. He shimmered, and despite her embarrassment, her only thought was how beautiful he was. He reached under the bed for the chamber pot. She listened carefully, getting used to the sounds of the house, and followed his footsteps down the creaky wooden stairs. The latch on the back door eased up and clattered down. The door swung wide. Urine splashed down a drain. Footsteps inside the house again. Water running in the stone sink. Lydia thought how thin the walls and floors were. The sheets, the curtains, covers. How thin poor people’s lives were, in comparison to her own. He washed the pot and brought it back to the room, setting it down on the rug in front of the chimneypiece. He poked the fire. Placed another log on it. Jabbed it again. Competent.

  ‘I’m going outside for a smoke,’ he told her.

  As she squatted by the flames, relieving herself – feet grey with the cold, bottom scorched from the heat of the fire – she giggled and thought of the gifts Lawrence had presented to her. The fine shawls he’d draped around her shoulders, the valuable necklaces he’d placed around her neck and, once, an exquisite tiara, presented in a navy blue velvet case, that he’d set on her head. She thought of the clean piss pot and knew she’d never felt so loved.

  SUMMER

  33

  THE HEAT YAWNED through the house, blasting the usually impervious marble floors and walls, the gravel driveways and the green lawns, breaking down even their cool indifference. It hung in the air. No one could find a comfortable way to sit or stand. The thing to do was lie down whenever an opportunity allowed itself, although it wasn’t possible now. The black garments seemed to grab at the heat, fastening it close to the exhausted bodies; it clung to thighs, brows and backs of necks. The Earl of Clarendale was dead. He’d rather unconventionally chosen a summer month to die, not a season for grieving.

  His wife would miss him. Theirs had been a union that was the very epitome of the standards of their day. They had respected one another, quietly but firmly supported one another and, when necessary, they had drawn a veil. But the countess was a woman who had lost two sons and therefore could not feel violent objection towards this loss. Lawrence, her only surviving child, and secretly – to her shame and relief – the one who had always been her favourite, had assured her that as dowager she would always have a home at Clarendale Hall, and her daughter-in-law, Lydia, was the compliant sort. Many dowagers were turned out of their homes on their husband’s death. They had to make do with a smaller house on the estate and a staff of three. At least that wasn’t to be her fate. She would have to hand over the jewels and tiaras; they weren’t hers, they belonged to the Countess of Clarendale. Yes, she’d have to give up her name too, but women were used to that; the moment the earl had closed his eyes she had started to refer to herself as the dowager, it didn’t do to linger. She could continue to play croquet on the lawn, to have bridge evenings, and no doubt Lydia would allow her to instruct the servants. She imagined she would be content enough, going forward, and contentment was all she desired. The dowager rather despised the younger generation’s obsession with chasing happiness and meaning. One read so much about it in the papers nowadays. She thought it was vulgar and unnecessary. Quite unchristian and demanding. Futile.

  True enough, the young people had been through so much; yet hadn’t everyone? She couldn’t understand why what they had witnessed and endured had led them to believe they had a right to happiness; for her it was quite the reverse. She believed one ought to nurture a hope for contentment, but that no one had any rights at all.

  The dowager was satisfied with how the private funeral had passed off. The service had been swift and serious; the time at the graveside had been kept to a dignified minimum. There was just the wake to endure – tea and an afternoon sherry for the men – then her close friends and neighbours would leave her to get on. The sandwiches were beginning to curl, a sure sign that it was time for everyone to go home and resume their normal business. The private funeral was always the hardest part. As she’d dreaded, the servants had become upset; they had a tendency to do so. Some undoubtedly would miss the old earl. He had been a fair master, a good man; their grief was genuine. Others cried because a funeral brought back difficult memories of their own losses. Poor souls. It underlined the fact that they’d never had the benefit of a service or a coffin for their men. She understood. Her middle boy had never come home. At least with her eldest they’d been able to give him the proper send-off; he and his father now lay next to one another, next to grandfathers and great-grandfathers. It was as it should be. No body to bury was hard. There was so much loss for everyone to deal with. It was tiring. The dowager was exhausted. Everyone was. The old women were ashamed that they’d been a generation of mothers who couldn’t look after their sons, couldn’t save them, and now, as some sort of punishment, they had to watch the bloom in the young women’s cheeks fade and wither.

  She had read recently that three million people in the United Kingdom were grieving for a close relative: a son, husband, father, brother. Besides her son, this household had lost two gardeners, three maids had lost beaus, the cook had lost her son and the chauffeur came home with only one arm. They kept him on, naturally; it was the patriotic thing to do, though he couldn’t actually drive them anywhere. He made himself useful fixing things around the estate and house. He managed very well. The dowager admired him. He fought his exhaustion, he was tireless; she saw him out on the estate at all hours, at the crack of dawn and as the sun set. She got the sense that he liked to be alone.

  There would be a formal memorial service in London for the earl; it was absolutely necessary so that the great and the good could pay their respects. She wanted the memorial to be notable, dignified and written up in all the broadsheets. She gazed out of the window at the flower gardens; there were carnations, roses, sweet peas. The roses were overblown and drooping. All the flowers looked drowsy and fed up. During the war they’d grown potatoes, onions and carrots in those beds and on every other spare inch of land. Practical foods that kept them going. In fact there had been more than enough; she’d had the excess produce sent into the village, sold to those who could afford it, given to those who couldn’t. The lawns had been turned over to producing hay for the horses. It was lovely to see flowers in the beds again and to know that peaches and grapes were growing in the greenhouses. The dowager’s peaches were a weapon in her hospitality arsenal; she always did terrifically well at the county fair. She would have to be careful to manage it so that things continued as they were in the gardens. She doubted that Lydia had any ideas of her own. Lydia could be managed, tactfully. Embraced, guided, supervised. Technically she would be the mistress of the house, but the dowager thought it was only a technicality.

  The vicar’s wife had been quite stupendously tactless this morning. By way of making conversation she’d commented, ‘So, what changes shall we see, I wonder? Do you think there will be a great many more parties? The young like to party, don’t they?’

  ‘I don’t anticipate anything too wild. Lydia is such a sensible girl,’ the dowager had replied in a tone she felt ought to have signalled the end of that line of conversation.

  ‘Children’s voices, it’s all the house needs,’ whispered the vicar’s wife. The dowager thought this a ludicrous and irritating comment; if there were to be babies, wouldn’t they be here already? Her daughter-in-law was barren. A terrible pity, but there you had it. Her husband’s nephew would inherit, ultimately. She cast a glance at him, hovering over the decanter, looking every inch the smug man a step closer to his goal. He’d always been a pasty, ghastly, sneaky child, and by the look of him he’d never grown out of it. And there was Lydia; she looked wan, peaky.

  Lydia noticed her mother-in-law smiling at her and she smiled back. It was a hesitant smile, because she wasn’t sure of the appropriateness of smiling too broadly at her father-in-law’s funeral. People were watching her, she knew it. She was a countess now, she supposed. Somehow tha
t made her more interesting to others. It was a nuisance; the last thing she needed, or wanted, was more scrutiny. She didn’t feel as though she was in the same room as the mourners; it was as though she was watching them, like one might view a picture hung in a gallery. She found it hard to engage, hard to concentrate at all. The intense heat was making her sloppy; Edgar was making her crazy. Often, nowadays, she found that she wasn’t in full control of herself, wasn’t quite conscious of herself. She spent her days remembering their last contact, anticipating their next. The sweltering sun, battering against the drawn curtains, seeped into every pore. The strange gloom of mourning lay like smog, and the scent of the fat white lilies was so sweet it was almost burdensome, but none of these things was to blame for her comatose state.

  It was only possible to stay in the moment when she was with him. Then she was alert, vibrant and lucid. She saw, heard, felt and thought things deeper and sharper than she ever had before. Just being had an almost painful clarity, like attempting to look straight at the sun: impossibly bright. It was as though she had lived her life looking through a telescope and he had suddenly come along and adjusted the focus. Ahh! Now she could see the horizon, now she could see it all! The meaning of life; the chance of happiness. But when she was not with him, everything became blurred and confused again. The normality that she had previously found adequate, even entertaining and fun, for all the years before she met him, now seemed dreary and pointless. When she was not near him she felt as though she was struggling under the weight of a relentless hangover. Groggy and dizzy, she stumbled through her days and conversations.