by Judy Nunn
‘Not quite up to Godfrey’s standards perhaps.’ Wolf raised his glass to the light, swilled its contents, then inhaled the aroma, adding, in an excellent imitation of Godfrey’s fruity tones, ‘But a fine bouquet nonetheless,’ and Jane felt herself smile.
Finally, when Ronnie was tucked in his cot, fast asleep, she prepared herself for bed. She left the door open should the child cry out in the night, and went to the spare room where Wolf was waiting for her.
He was naked, clearly visible in the light from the bedside lamp, and he stood unashamed, watching her hesitate for a split second, before he reached out his hand.
She joined him, and meekly raised her arms as he slid her nightdress up over her head. Then, when he eased her panties down over her buttocks and they slid to the polished wooden floor, she stepped out of them, pushing them to one side with her foot.
Jane had not seen a naked man before. Her husband had always come to bed in his pyjamas. And she herself had never been seen naked. If Martin had accidentally come upon her undressing, he’d averted his eyes to save her embarrassment. She had always accepted such behaviour as the essence of propriety, the very backbone of her upbringing. So why was she not confronted by this brazen exposure? Why did their nakedness seem so perfectly natural? More than natural, complementary, she thought a minute later as they lay on the bed, the first of his gentle touches striking chords that reverberated through her whole being.
Then, when he entered her, never had she felt so in tune with the moment, so centred. Her body was a symphony of pure sensation, her mind transported by the melody. It built to a crescendo, only to recede and then build again, and again, until she was close to exhaustion.
Wolf held back each time, even as the fresh waves of her excitement threatened to engulf him, but finally he was no longer able to control the dictates of his body and at the crucial moment he once again withdrew.
They lay on their backs, their chests still heaving, the sheets damp with their mingled sweat.
Then after a moment or so, having regained her breath, Jane said, ‘You’re very experienced, aren’t you?’ and he was taken aback. She sounded so clinical.
‘Yeah, I guess so.’ It was true, but he would have liked to have told her it was different with her. That he’d never been really in love until now. He said nothing.
‘I’m not. I’m not at all experienced.’
He’d thought as much. He’d sensed it the very first night. She’d been shocked by her own sexuality. But the admission of her inexperience was also an admission of Marty’s, and Wolf didn’t want to go down that road.
She seemed about to say something, then stopped and rolled away from him onto her side.
‘What’s the matter?’
‘Nothing.’ She was about to turn off the bedside lamp.
‘Don’t, Jane.’
Her hand faltered upon the switch.
‘Please look at me.’
She rolled back to face him.
‘What is it?’
She knew she’d sounded brittle, and she knew he was awaiting an explanation. Well, she owed him one, didn’t she? If she was going to use his sexual expertise to escape the pain of her husband’s death, she owed him that much surely.
‘You’re angry,’ he said. ‘Why?’
She was angry, but at herself, not him. ‘I’m feeling guilty, which is hardly surprising.’ Her voice was still brusque, and he waited silently for her to go on. It was a while before she spoke. ‘I’m guilty because I respond to you sexually in a way I could never respond to Marty.’ Her anger was gone now, replaced by bewilderment. ‘Why is that, Wolf? Is it just because you’re experienced? Shouldn’t love mean more than expertise? I loved Marty with all my heart, and I don’t love you.’
The words hurt, even though he was aware it was not her intention to be brutal, that she was simply desperate for the truth. But she had brought Marty into the room. Perhaps she was right to do so, Wolf thought. For all of his avoidance, perhaps it was important to include Marty, even in their intimacy.
‘Marty was a priest, Jane, sex would have held a very different priority in his life.’
‘Different from a man of experience,’ she said with a faint smile.
‘You got it,’ he grinned. Let his past be the scapegoat, he thought. Let him be the butt of the joke if necessary, it didn’t matter. She was talking and that was good.
‘I tried to change that priority for a while,’ she said, her smile fading. ‘It was wrong of me. I hurt him. I undermined his belief in himself.’
Having just scaled the heights of sexual delirium, Wolf found it ironic that he would have swapped every erotic moment to hear her speak about him the way she spoke about Marty.
‘You didn’t, Jane.’ He pushed her damp hair gently away from her forehead. ‘He knew how much you loved him. He told me you were his life. Just like you told me he was yours. And you know what? I envy him.’
She looked at his face on the pillow beside her, so close, and the thought suddenly occurred to her.
‘Are you in love with me, Wolf?’
‘That’s exactly what Marty asked.’
‘Did he really?’
‘Uh huh.’ He nodded, aware that the immediate vitality of her interest lay in Marty’s question, not his own response to it. But, a second or so later, she made the enquiry anyway.
‘And what did you say?’
‘I said “who isn’t?”’ This time his reply was glib, and she smiled. She hadn’t taken him seriously, which was just as well. Strange how her husband had seemed to know that he was telling the truth, Wolf thought.
Jane turned away, relieved. She didn’t want the burden of his love. She looked up at the ceiling, at the captured insects in the bowl of the central light fitting; she’d been meaning to clean them out for months now.
‘I’m using you,’ she said.
‘I know. Do you want to stop?’
‘No.’
‘That’s good.’ He leaned over and kissed her gently. ‘I like being used. Go to sleep now.’
She turned off the light, and in the dark he heard her voice, soft now, vulnerable. ‘Good night, Wolf.’
‘Good night.’ It took him a long time to get to sleep.
The conversation was not mentioned the following morning and, as Jane made breakfast, the atmosphere was relaxed. There was a new understanding between them, Wolf thought, as if somehow they had Marty’s permission.
Ronnie barged around the kitchen trying to catch him in a game of tag, but as Wolf dodged the child, his mind was on other things. He would embrace the situation, he decided. Despite his love for Jane, he would provide the escape she needed. If their time together was to be merely a distraction, then he would show her a good time. In any and every way that he possibly could.
‘Fancy a joy-ride?’ he asked.
‘A what?’
‘A flight in a Dauntless. I can show you the whole island from the air. What do you say?’
Her eyes lit up, the prospect obviously excited her, but she hesitated.
‘Come on, Jane,’ he urged, ‘it’s Sunday. You don’t open the clinic on a Sunday, and Mary can look after Ronnie.’
The Reverend Smeed would consider it shocking if she didn’t attend the church service, but she didn’t want to go into the church without seeing Marty at the pulpit. ‘I’ve never been in an aeroplane,’ she said.
It was thrilling. She’d never experienced anything like it and, through the headset, her screams of terrified delight spurred Wolf on to greater heights in his aerial gymnastics.
They careered through canyons, then up and over volcanic mountains and ridges, to dive again into the deep valleys below. Just as it seemed there was no way out, that they were hemmed in by mountainous rainforest rearing on all sides, the aircraft would soar like a bird high into the patch of blue that had been invisible to Jane. And then suddenly they were out over the clear blue sea, so high that the patterns of the coral reefs and the changing colou
rs of the water over sand and weed looked like a giant patchwork quilt. Another dive, and they were skimming across the surface beside the broad stretch of white sand, then a sharp turn to the right and they were heading directly for the island.
Jane craned her head around in the rear seat as the coconut trees loomed alarmingly close. Closer, and still closer.
Wolf’s voice through the headset, ‘I don’t reckon we’re going to make it,’ then her scream and his laughter as they banked sharply to zoom above the trees and up, ever up, into the burning blue, her laughter now mingling with his.
They returned to Quoin Hill, and as soon as they landed Wolf leapt from the pilot’s seat to assist her.
‘That was the most extraordinary experience I have ever had,’ Jane said, still in a state of amazement, as she climbed out onto the wing and took his hands.
‘Were you scared?’ He grinned.
‘I was terrified.’ She jumped to the ground, tumbling into his arms. ‘I’m not sure I can walk.’ She was breathless with excitement. ‘Oh Wolf, that was astonishing, truly astonishing.’
‘We’ll do it again. Next time I’ll take you to Espiritu Santo.’
He drove her back to the cottage where Mary was babysitting Ronnie, and they all had a cup of tea, Wolf spiking his with bourbon, much to the two women’s horror. Then he took his leave and returned to Reid’s Hotel.
Jane allowed Mary to prepare dinner for her that night. It was Sunday, and Mary usually prepared dinner on a Sunday. She’d been so hurtful to Mary, she thought, dear, ever-loyal Mary, who only wished to help.
‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ she said, ‘I didn’t mean to close you out, but I needed to be alone. Do you understand?’
‘Oh yes, Missus.’ Mary glowed, all was forgiven in that split second. ‘I unnerstan’. I sure do, you bet. I unnerstan’ very much.’ It was good to see the Missus smile again, she thought. Going up in that aeroplane with Masta Wolf had done wonders for her, although Lord only knew how. Nothing in the world would get Mary into an aeroplane.
The two women ate together and Mary left at half past eight, agreeing to meet Jane in the morning at Mamma Tack’s. She now happily accepted the fact that her presence wasn’t required at the cottage during the mornings. The Missus still needed to be alone, and Mary understood that.
As arranged, Wolf arrived at ten o’clock. The door to the cottage was shrouded by trees and bushes, out of view from the street; no-one would see him enter. And he had walked from Reid’s, along the main street and then up the hill, so that no vehicle would be in evidence outside. In the morning he would leave discreetly, circle up over the brow of the hill, behind the church, and return to the hotel from a different direction. They must be very careful, they agreed.
They made love, and slept in each other’s arms. The bed in the spare room was not large, but their bodies fitted perfectly in the confined space. In the morning Jane made them breakfast – fruit and toast – which they ate at the kitchen table, Ronnie beside them in his highchair.
‘You can’t start the day on an empty stomach, Wolf,’ she’d insisted when he said he only wanted coffee.
‘You sound like my mother.’
‘And my father,’ she smiled. She could still hear Ron Miller. ‘Now you sit right down there, girl, and you eat,’ he would say when she was impatient to run off and meet Phoebe, ‘no good startin’ a day on an empty stomach.’ It had been porridge then.
Jane was preparing Ronnie for his day at the clinic, and Wolf was about to leave when there was a knock on the door. They looked at each other.
‘Godfrey or Hilary,’ Jane whispered.
Wolf looked about guiltily. Should he hide in the kitchen? Should he leave via the verandah, the only other exit from the cottage? But the verandah’s side steps were in full view of the church and the Reverend Smeed’s house.
Jane glanced at the clock on the wall and curbed her own quick flush of panic. It was nine o’clock, a perfectly respectable hour, particularly if someone wished to call upon her before she was due at the clinic at nine thirty.
‘You came by to see if I was all right,’ she said quietly, ‘like any good friend would. It’s exactly what Godfrey or Hilary are doing right now.’
He nodded. Of course, it was stupid of him to panic. He sat in a lounge chair, and she opened the door.
But it was neither Godfrey nor Hilary who stood on the front doorstep. It was Jean-François Marat, an enormous bouquet of flowers cradled like a baby in his arms.
‘Jane,’ he said, his face a picture of concern, ‘I was so sorry when I heard the news. My dear, you have my deepest sympathy.’ He held out the flowers. They were truly magnificent. Far too magnificent, she thought, encircling her arms about them, and she resisted a ridiculous impulse to smile as she heard Marty say, ‘Rather tasteless, my love, under the circumstances.’
‘Thank you, Jean-François. Please do come in.’
‘I deliberately delayed calling upon you to offer my condolences,’ he said, following her inside. ‘I did not wish to intrude upon your grief.’
Savi’s words exactly, she recalled. How different they sounded coming from the Frenchman.
‘Most thoughtful,’ she said through the flowers.
Marat quietly closed the door behind him. He had allowed several days for her to get over the worst of whatever hysterical reaction might have resulted from the news of her husband’s death. He could now offer himself as her dearest friend, a tower of strength, a man she could lean on. Who else did she have? Old Godfrey Tomlinson? Her girlish middle-aged friend Hilary Bale? No, Jane Thackeray needed a man in her life. And she seemed in control of her grief. His timing was perfect, he thought.
‘I believed it wiser to call upon you at your home. I hope you don’t mind, but Mamma Tack’s, I have noticed, is always so crowded.’ He turned from the door as a figure rose from a lounge chair.
‘Yes, Wolf was of the same opinion,’ Jane said. ‘I don’t think you two have met, have you?’
‘Nope,’ Wolf said with a lazy grin.
Ronnie, thrilled at a new presence in the room, barged his way over and collided with the Frenchman’s legs, but Jean-François barely noticed, the smile of sympathetic concern freezing on his face as he stared at the American.
‘Lieutenant Baker, M’sieur Marat.’ Jane made the introduction from behind the flowers that all but obscured her face.
‘Howdy,’ Wolf offered his hand.
Jean-François tried to resurrect his smile to one of courteous greeting, with little success.
‘Lieutenant Baker,’ he said as they shook.
‘I’ll just put these in some water. They’re certainly magnificent.’ Jane disappeared to the kitchen, dumped the flowers in the sink and quickly ran the tap on them, bent on returning as soon as possible to rescue Wolf.
But no form of rescue was necessary. Wolf chatted away, quite at ease in her absence.
‘A terrible thing,’ he said. ‘Did you know Marty well? He was a great guy.’
Marty, Jean-François registered. Of course. Baker was a friend of Martin Thackeray’s.
‘Oh yes, a very fine man indeed,’ he agreed, looking the American up and down. Handsome bastard, he thought. It had been a shock seeing him with Jane, and his suspicions had run foolishly rife.
‘I flew him out to the Wasp, you know. Christ, who would ever have believed it!’ Wolf shook his head in genuine consternation. ‘Aboard the Wasp you always felt like you were on land, you know? Hell, she was a floating city, no-one expected her to go down.’
The Frenchman was now totally assured. ‘A tragedy,’ he said, ‘such a tragedy.’ He wished the American would shut up. He didn’t give a damn about the Wasp, and he had welcomed the news of Martin Thackeray’s noble death, it was most convenient to his cause. Why didn’t Baker just leave?
‘You bet,’ Wolf agreed. ‘193 dead, and 85 wounded.’
‘Shocking, most shocking.’ Jean-François nodded sympathetically, wishing that the whole t
iresome war was over and that the disruptive Americans would go back to their own country so that business could return to normal.
Jane reappeared from the kitchen, and he turned his full attention to her.
‘How are you, my dear?’ he asked. ‘Is there anything I can do? Anything at all, I would so like to be of assistance.’
‘Thank you, Jean-François, it’s very kind of you to offer, but I’ve had many friends rallying around. There’s Godfrey and Hilary, Mary of course, and Wolf.’ The glance she cast at Wolf was one of gratitude and friendship. It was quite obvious that Jean-François was trying to ingratiate himself and she wanted him to know that she was surrounded by friends and didn’t need his help.
Something was wrong, Jean-François thought. Why was she so strong, so assured? He’d expected a frightened, broken woman. And there was something else too. What was it? There had been nothing untoward in her glance to the American, but there was something different about her, a confidence that glowed from within.
‘I’d better be off, Jane,’ Wolf said. ‘Glad to see that you’re coping. Any time you need me.’
Good, Jean-François thought, he’d be left alone with her, and he watched her closely as she shook hands with the American. She was still giving nothing away. Surely it was his own imagination running riot.
‘Thank you for your concern, Wolf. Oh my goodness, look at the time,’ Jane had no intention of being left alone with Jean-François Marat, ‘I’ll be late for the clinic, poor Mary will be waiting. I’m so sorry, Jean-François.’
What was the rush? Marat thought. The black woman often tended to the clinic on her own. That’s what servants were for.
‘We’ll all leave together,’ Jane said, slinging her large cloth bag over one shoulder and bending to gather Ronnie in her arms.
It was as she bent down that Jean-François caught sight of the expression on the American’s face. Apart from registering the man’s good looks, he’d been too busy studying Jane to pay any real attention to Baker. But Baker had dropped his guard as he watched Jane pick up the child, and his look was one of far more than friendship.
