So was I, once, she thought, sadly, looking at her depleted figure in the comforting, obfuscating steam of the bathroom mirror. Tits, of course, famous for her tits, straining at a T-shirt and well able to pass the pencil test first tried at school. A girl had good tits if she could move around easily with a pencil held beneath each. She sank into bubbles, arose in front of the mirror, the top half of her festooned with foam, which she wiped off, using her hands, to save the towel.
‘You’re a highly attractive, healthy woman, yet, Mrs Connor; hardly a wrinkle. You could mother children if you wanted. You can do whatever you want, but from what you tell me about your lifestyle, maybe that could be improved … if you’re worried about your own appeal, don’t. That’s not the problem, is it?’
So said that fine-eyed doctor, and she supposed that her appeal, as he put it, defined her existence. Being handsome, or not, was what dictated life and got one married out of a poor life into a rich one with a bathroom like this. She held the newspaper cutting over the steam and wondered again who had sent it. Whoever it was might have been kind, or, equally, malicious.
The print blurred in steam as Mrs Brigid Connor read, yet again, about the woman who claimed her husband had raped her, buggered her, generally messed her about. Asian names, therefore not applicable to herself, even if the result of the case had been hopeful, which it wasn’t. All very well, they said, this business of marital rape, but it was difficult to prove. Almost impossible. Brigid had set a little store by this piece of paper, watched herself squash it in one fist and pull the lav chain with the other hand. She was a kind of hostage in here, dreaming of ways out. Using the law was unthinkable: she’d never dare and Aemon would always win. In the heat of the water, she cleaned her fingernails with a toothpick and removed some imaginary dirt from between her toes. There might have been a faint hope that Aemon preferred his wife less aggressively clean in the same way that he would like her to be dressed in something other than an apron – her standard uniform when she was cooking. She was a woman kept, in a certain style, maybe, but still kept, in a towelling robe which took the damp off her skin and smelt, vaguely, of rose petals, with the underlying musk of moisturizer. Perhaps all these ablutions made her smell of a tarts’ parlour; she didn’t care.
Brigid was hovering round the drinks in a flurry of delight, towelling robe knotted tight, perfumes in order, with at least an hour to spare and the first big gin down before there was any chance of himself being home.
Speaking for herself, she couldn’t understand why anyone bothered with the tonic. Lemon and ice out of a silver bucket, that was fine. She was standing with the second tumbler cooling her palm when the doorbell rang. Modest in the towelling robe which clutched her throat and reached her ankles, she moved to answer it. There was a porter downstairs who was supposed to deter Jehovah’s Witnesses and double glazing people. Brigid never hesitated about answering the door, in fact she often prayed for it to ring. As far as she was concerned, the only danger in her life already lived here, and he was not expected for a blessed interval yet.
There was the man with the nice eyes, the one who had understood all she had tried to avoid saying between the lines of expressing non-existent symptoms. It seemed like a long time ago, but it could only have been a matter of days. He smiled, of course, that is what any visitor does, and stood on the threshold, waiting for the invitation to come further. ‘Oh,’ was all she could say. ‘Oh, it’s you; do come in.’ Flustered and a little unsure whether she was pleased, embarrassed, puzzled. Brigid’s thoughts would have been clearer, except for an overriding guilt of the most obvious kind. She was still holding a tumbler of neat gin in one hand. Amply covered, but not properly dressed, at four-thirty in the afternoon did not give a good impression either; the most she could say for herself was that she did not look like a slut and she was, at least, thoroughly washed.
‘All alone?’ he said politely, not needing a response. The place somehow smelt of someone who was all alone in it far too often; there was not a dint in a cushion to show where anyone had sat. ‘I was passing,’ he added. ‘Thought you wouldn’t mind if I called. It seemed to me, you see, that you were rather unhappy. It stuck in my mind that that was the case. Forgive me if I intrude.’ He had moved to the picture windows. ‘What a lovely view.’
The threatened storm had not emerged and the summer skies were clearing, leaving a sky of non-uniform grey and patchy cloud. Brigid knew every detail of the view; she had stared at it for hours. Knew that they stood at the tallest point of Clerkenwell and from here, the best apartment in the place, she could see the huge buildings which only looked poetic from a distance. From car level, driving round those streets, they seemed treeless and depressing; from here the amount of greenery was surprising. There was even a glint of canal water, and the sweet umbrella of St Pancras Gardens.
‘You aren’t intruding,’ she said.
‘I thought you needed … therapy, Mrs Connor,’ he said softly, still facing the window.
‘Therapy?’ she echoed, watching his hands, held behind his back, the fingers on one hand tapping the knuckles on the other. All of a sudden she felt slightly woozy, the effect of a large shot of booze on an empty stomach and the first still doubtful sensation of fear. Such nice eyes.
He did not answer and his silence was unnerving.
‘Would you like a drink?’ she asked, noticing the quaver in her voice.
‘No. Put it down and come and sit beside me.’ He motioned to the shiny leather sofa; a long, deep, squashy piece of furniture which sighed noisily as they both sat, a further cause of embarrassment.
‘Therapy, Mrs Connor. For a lovely mistreated lady.’
There was no expression of appetite on his face, only neutrality; the bland look of a scientist examining a specimen which has aroused interest rather than passion. He had seized the lapels of the rose-scented robe, pulled it down over her shoulders and pinioned her arms before she had an idea of what was happening. The knot of the tie belt was neatly unlooped; he pushed aside the volume of thick soft flannel. She stared down at herself, mesmerized, helpless, then closed her eyes in protest at her own exposure. Her mouth was dry. Carefully, he released one full breast and took the nipple into his mouth. There were the soft gurgling sounds of a baby at the breast; she had a dim memory of that, the most erotic experience of her life. First the right teat, then the left, like a child feeding, wet and warm until the mouth withdrew, leaving the nipples hard and pointed. She felt the brush of his slightly shiny shirt against her skin, his mouth trailing a moist line down her abdomen, his delicate fingers pushing apart her thighs without much resistance, although her fists clenched and she gritted her teeth. In a state of paralysis and profound shock, it was all she could do.
‘Hush,’ he murmured. ‘Only therapy, Mrs Connor. You poor darling.’
The endearment, spoken so softly before he buried his mouth and she felt his tongue, was as shocking as his actions. Brigid had not heard a term of endearment, however vague and anonymous, in many months, only hoarse words of encouragement; hissed instructions, such as, move yourself, no, not that way; grunts of approval or discomfort. The uttering of the word ‘darling’, simply increased the paralysis. I should be screaming, she told herself, and braced herself for the effort of the shriek which failed to emerge. All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and all she could register were his hands beneath her buttocks, raising her with supreme gentleness to his mouth. She kept her now wide-open eyes fastened on the ceiling light above her head, an elaborate thing of glass and chrome, as new as the sofa. A wild confusion of thoughts made her dizzy again, among them the knowledge that the scream would not be heard, that in a moment she would wake from a nightmare and find herself still warm from the bath, that her nipples were not erect and that this man was not a virtual stranger, but her husband. Or that he was that other boy, from all those years ago; the one she first loved. The ceiling light moved back into focus; she was counting the bulbs, six of them, a
nd their shininess reminded her that she was in the present and that what he was doing to her was monstrous and if she was still alive she must shout or move, summon some power to resist, spit out that bile which rose in her throat.
She struggled to free her arms; moved one leg, ready to kick; raised her head, the better to scream; arched her back and felt him pressing on the inside of her thigh, so that the leg she had bent was pinioned, the calf hanging loosely over the side of the sofa, his fingers pinching muscle. And then, to her own horror, she ceased even these pathetic attempts to stop him. Tingling warmth spread as far as her hips, sparkling sensation concentrated in her groin, making the mouth of the orifice feel enormous. She tried to close her legs, squeeze sensation into submission, suppress it, ignore it, wrench back control for her own treacherous body, but it was too late and the mind would not co-operate. Brigid Connor shuddered into sexual climax, moaning, biting her lip and drawing blood.
‘Ice in your drink?’ he asked. His face, with the nice eyes and the skull the colour of the polished walnut banisters which led up from the foyer downstairs, loomed above her and she closed her eyes, unable to look at him. The sofa exhaled as his weight left it. There was the sound of soft steps and a tinkle of glass, then he was back. ‘Cool you down,’ he muttered, or at least, there were words she only remembered later. She had been flushed hot, still fluttering. Then she felt the cubes of ice he rubbed between her legs, the ice melted from the bucket she had so carefully prepared, so that the ritual of the drink was less disgraceful and more like the ceremony of tea; it was then, and only then, that she screamed.
Later, the door closed behind him softly. There was fresh ice in the container. There were gifts on the table she had never noticed: flowers and chocolates. The crackly leather of the sofa was cleaned with detergent and Mrs Brigid Connor was back where the whole episode had begun: in the bath, weeping softly and numb with shock which the gin he had poured did not lessen. She tried to gather her far-flung, never-too-sharp wits to eradicate from her mind what he had looked like, what he had worn. A smart shirt of some shiny man-made fabric; trousers, beyond recall; nothing he had removed. No jewellery, no hair, no traces.
Brigid Connor had wept for imagined sins all her life, but she had never ever known such terrible, excoriating shame.
Rose Darvey had made intermittent efforts with the internal décor of the house she shared with Michael, and the various attempts at creating harmony showed the influence of Helen West. Helen’s basement flat had been transformed into a sunny place full of yellows and blues; Rose liked it so much, the colours had become stuck behind her eyeballs. She was not a dedicated housekeeper any more than Helen, but she was still a compulsive nest-builder, wherever she had lived, and Rose had lived in many places since running away from home. She had made each of them clean and respectable; she was a devil with a paint brush which she used to put her mark on a place, but that done, enthusiasm waned. Frills, ornaments and dolls had disappeared from her life since Michael had arrived. She had adopted a minimalist attitude to furniture out of necessity; kitchen equipment was rudimentary because she refused to accept cast-offs. The walls were pale yellow, the blind blue-and-yellow striped and the mugs and plates echoed the theme. Rose thought that having a wedding present list for her friends and Michael’s relatives was both absolutely gross and patently greedy. All she told everyone was buy something blue or yellow, and, if anyone could afford it, an electric drill for him.
They were lucky with this house. Rose had the low salary of an apprentice and a little nest egg from her granny; Michael’s police wages were respectable; they weren’t so badly off and it would get better, which meant that home improvements were not much of a priority. There was nothing which could not wait. The real priorities in Rose’s life were loving him, working hard, getting on and having as much fun as possible. The paintwork would wait and the plants could die.
‘Are we all right then?’ she asked him as soon as she came in from work and saw his broad back at the kitchen sink, washing up the dishes from her breakfast. It was the nature of his shift work that they did not see one another every day, not when he worked nights. Sometimes three days passed. He did not reply. She put her arms round his waist; he flicked detergent foam onto her nose; she squealed and punched him lightly in the ribs. Then they were in one another’s arms, hers scarcely reaching round his torso, the pair squeezing the breath out of one another, with enough oxygen left for a deep and endless kiss which seemed to involve every muscle and raise Rose’s toes off the ground. When they withdrew, by an inch, she reached up and pulled his hair, looked at him with bold, questioning, playful eyes.
‘Not leaving then?’
He held her head steady with two damp hands, kissed her again on the forehead, the nose, the lips.
‘Thought I might postpone it. You know, think again, maybe in forty years, unless it upsets the grandkids.’
She looked at him seriously. ‘How many do you think there’ll be by then, Daddy?’
‘Dozen or so. Give us a kiss.’
The reconciliations after disagreements were always thus. She had grown up in a house full of growling silence and threat; she could not bear bad feeling to persist. It got into the brickwork, she told him; then your house falls down. They fell to chattering. There was an accumulation of news on the days when he had come home after she left for work. A policeman’s partner had to learn independence. Rose knew it already.
‘Speaking of children,’ he was saying, resuming the washing-up. ‘Did you go to that clinic?’
‘Yup.’
‘How much did that cost?’
‘Not much. I told you. I wouldn’t have gone there unless Anna had persuaded me it was the best and she could get me a discount. It’s very posh, but she was right. It’s more comfortable than the doctor’s – and there’s no queue.’
They kidded on about children, wanted them madly, but not yet. So far, Rose had taken her pill, didn’t like it any more than he. The idea of anyone spending much of their youthful life taking strong drugs of any sort struck him as fundamentally flawed; Rose teased him that it was his talent as a sportsman that made him think of all drugs as poisonous steroids. She giggled.
‘Come upstairs, lover, I’ve got something to show you. You won’t believe this.’
There was a bathroom and one and a half bedrooms at the top of steep stairs, their own room faced the road. Once the junk was cleared out of there they would move to the back, for the sake of greater privacy. There was a railway line shrouded by trees at the rear, a road with houses facing them in the front and no urgency about making the switch. The curtains in the front room were also blue and yellow. The offending dead plant, the ostensible cause of a row which had really been about something else, no longer dwelt on the window-ledge.
‘This is what they gave me,’ Rose said. ‘A cap, like we said I ought to get. Anna told me how to put it in and said I’d got to practise with it for a week … and then go back, but I don’t think I’ll bother. There’s a doctor there, asks all these questions … And you do feel a prat, trying the thing. I was glad it was Anna.’
‘You mean she shows you, or you show her? Funny thing, isn’t it?’ He was trying to hide his distaste at the sight of a round rubber sphere nestling in a blue plastic box. It was the most unsexy object he had ever seen, reminding him of his baby cousin’s teething ring.
‘How on earth do you get it in?’
‘Well, I’m not about to do the whole demonstration,’ said Rose indignantly. ‘And it isn’t easy, I’m telling you.’ She picked up the tube of jelly which came out of the same bag as the box. ‘You put this stuff down the middle and round the edge,’ she did so as he watched with some fascination. ‘Then you squeeze it in the middle and, well, you know, insert it up your what’s-it. Oh, shit.’
Rose had begun to giggle again. The cap was slippery, difficult to handle; a comic object with a wired rim, skipping out of her hand as she stood by the window, flying through the warm ai
r with sudden momentum, resuming the spherical shape she had been trying to contain, landing, bouncing and finally rolling to a halt on the pavement below. They looked at each other and dropped to their knees like a pair of combatants evading a sniper, hiding their heads below the level of the window, desperate not to be seen. Michael raised his chin up to the ledge and peered over; Rose followed his example.
The cap lay slightly to the left of their front door, glistening slightly and looking like an accusing eye. Both heads: hers dark, his fair, ducked down again. Rose turned to slump against the radiator, clutched him and howled. ‘Shh,’ he said. ‘Shh.’ Great gulps of laughter consumed them. ‘You go and fetch it…’
‘No, I can’t, I can’t…’
Entwined again, comfortable on the floor with the old blue carpet and the dead plants and the curtains fluttering in the breeze. It was a quiet street, rarely deserted; there would be eyes in the opposite windows. The kiss was resumed where they had left off in the kitchen, turned into something soft and sweet and urgent; the only sound was the rustling of clothes until there were no clothes, and Rose saying, I love you, I love you, I love you … Him, saying the same.
The evening sun was lower in the sky by the time Michael next looked out of the window. He stood, this time, with the coverlet from the bed round his waist, looking down into the street once, then again. He nudged her.
‘Hey, Rose … it’s gone … it has, someone’s nicked it.’
The doorbell chimed. Rose scrambled to her knees.
‘Do you think it’s someone wanting to give it back?’ he hissed.
Without Consent Page 10
