by Nancy Carson
The next day, Tuesday, Stanley finally called on Lizzie and Ben, and took with him a selection of Christmas gifts, which further enhanced his standing with the children. He gave Ben a box of fifty Black Cat cigarettes, and Lizzie a bottle of Shalimar perfume, with instructions not to open them till Christmas Day. He took along, as well, some of the Christmas decorations he’d bought the day before, and delighted the children by getting them and their mother to help him put them up, while Ben offered jovial words of encouragement from his sofa. Henzey, ten years old, asked if her Uncle Stanley could stay for tea, and she smiled when her mother said of course he could, if he wanted.
So Stanley stayed for tea and played with the children until it was their bedtime. They kissed him in turn on their way upstairs, sorry to be parted from him. He was such good fun, Uncle Stanley. Ben invited him to stay for supper as well and he gladly accepted, so they played cards and drank beer. Occasionally, as they passed cards from one to the other, Lizzie’s and Stanley’s fingers would touch briefly, and it was difficult to avoid flashing secret glances between each other. Then they sat in front of the fire and talked, watching the coals burning in the grate. Ben was tired and fell asleep on his sofa and, when Stanley glanced up at Lizzie and smiled, she smiled back knowingly, feeling that familiar, warm glow of desire that had not been sated for months.
He offered to go so that she could get Ben to bed, and took his greatcoat from the back of the cellar door. As he put it on, Ben roused and opened his eyes.
‘I’m just on my way, Ben,’ Stanley said, picking up his cap. ‘It’s been good to see you again and looking so well. I’ll try and get to see you again over Christmas.’
Ben yawned, thrusting his arms out in a feeble stretch. ‘Come any time, Stanley … Come Christmas night if you want … I daresay Joe and May’ll be here with their daughter. I don’t suppose we’ll be short of drink.’
‘Thanks, Ben. But I think Mother and Father’ll be expecting me to spend the night with them, worse luck. If I do get the chance though …’
‘Well a merry Christmas to you whether or no. And thanks for the Christmas boxes. It was a kind thought, Stanley.’
‘You’re welcome, Ben. Merry Christmas, both. Goodnight.’
‘I’ll just see Stanley off, Ben. I’ll only be a minute.’
As Lizzie and Stanley turned into the entry he immediately grabbed her and pressed her against the wall. She sought his lips urgently in the darkness, and sighed as she tasted him again after so long. God, this longing was like a disease.
‘I thought this Christmas was never coming,’ she breathed when their lips eventually parted. ‘And when you didn’t come to see me on Sunday, nor yesterday, I thought you weren’t interested any more.’
‘I got waylaid, Lizzie,’ he answered easily. ‘Couldn’t be helped. Sorry. Anyway, I’m here now.’
‘When shall I see you? … If you still want to.’
‘Yes, ’course I want to.’ He pecked her on the lips once more.
‘When?’
‘Now.’
The cold breeze soughed through the entry and she felt its chill under her fashionably short skirt as he lifted it. She’d bought it specially for when Stanley came home.
‘No, not now, you dope … stop it,’ she giggled, wriggling away. ‘Not here.’
‘Thursday, then. Listen, our Sylvia’s going to stay with her in-laws tomorrow. She’ll be gone a week. She’s asked me to stay at her house and keep it aired. I’ll be in residence for a whole week, just like royalty. All by myself.’
‘But I couldn’t go to Sylvia’s house, Stanley. It wouldn’t be right. I haven’t spoken to her for years. If ever she found out … God, no, I couldn’t.’
‘Don’t be daft. I shan’t tell her. How could she find out? She’ll be in Sedgley. It’ll be perfect. It’ll be private … Whenever we want.’
She did not particularly relish the venue, but he’d said it would be all right. And she so desperately needed him. ‘I suppose night would be best then. I’ll try to slip out after the kids are in bed. Would that be all right?’
‘Couldn’t be better, my love. What time?’
‘About nine. Earlier if I can.’
*
Sylvia waited till Jesse called before she left for Sedgley on the Wednesday morning. She had a Christmas gift which she wanted to give him before she went away, because Christmas boxes given after the event always seemed like an afterthought. She must also tell him that Stanley would be staying there over Christmas and that he would need milk delivered. Stanley must pay him, too. She must stress that. She saw no reason why she should pay for his milk when he was getting the comfort of her house for nothing, and burning her coal, and using her gas. She knew what Stanley was like; he would always take what he could if he was allowed to get away with it; he never failed to take advantage. That he was to do some odd jobs for her was neither here nor there.
*
On Thursday it rained all day. Grey clouds hung low and from dawn till dusk there was no break in them. It was cold, too, and windy.
‘Fancy going out on a night like this,’ Ben Kite muttered. ‘You must want your head looking. Surely Daisy Foster will never expect you on a night like this.’
‘I promised I’d go when I saw her in the town last week.’ Lizzie was ready with her hat and coat on. ‘I don’t like letting people down. You know I don’t like letting people down when I’ve promised.’
‘Well don’t be too late back. And take the gamp else you’ll get drenched.’
She kissed him on the cheek. ‘All right. I’ll see you later.’
She grabbed the umbrella and went out, thinking how, if Ben had been in their bedroom to see, he would be wondering why she’d changed her underwear just to see Daisy Foster. Over the months she’d bought some very alluring items; shorter white drawers, light, sensually smooth and frilly with wide leg openings. She’d invested in a new lace brassiere with elastic straps, and it was infinitely more flattering than any of her old ones, or the tight chemises some women still wore to keep their bosoms in check.
And she was wearing all these things on this cold, wet night; for Stanley’s benefit.
She knew where Sylvia’s house was situated. As she walked across the top of Hill Street and down into the Sixcore, with the rain squalling and almost blowing her umbrella inside out, she thought how grateful she was that Sylvia had not spotted her when she’d been to reconnoitre. A vindictive streak suggested there was something perversely appealing about going to Sylvia’s house now, to do what she and Stanley were going to do. It would be even more pleasurable to do it in Sylvia’s very own bed. Perhaps they would.
The Sixcore was poorly lit and it was difficult to see where to walk to avoid stepping into puddles and getting wet feet, so Lizzie was glad when she turned into Oakham Road. Oakham Road was no better lit, but it had a decent pavement at least. As she approached the house, she began to feel conspicuous, even in the darkness. She opened the front gate, looking round to see if anyone had noticed her. But there was not a soul in sight. Who but thieves and lovers were out on a night like this? She walked nervously up the path to the front door. There was a light inside. She tapped tentatively with the knocker, half fearing it might be answered by Sylvia herself; so was ready to turn and run, if need be.
At once Stanley opened the door and let her in. She shook her umbrella outside, and he took it to the sink in the scullery to drip before he helped her take her coat off. Lizzie looked around her, taking in the warm ambience of Sylvia’s home, and admiring the polished oak floor beneath her feet, now spotted with water that had dripped from her coat.
‘Oh, I do like this house. I really do like it.’
‘Come on, let me show you around,’ he said, hanging her coat on the newel post. ‘It’s very imposing. I’m glad our Sylvia suggested I stay here. I feel like Lord Muck.’
He showed her the sitting room, and she sat in each of the armchairs in turn to try them out, bouncing up and down
like an excited child. In the scullery she was impressed with the New World gas stove and the geyser, and the new white sink and hot water on tap; and uttered little gasps of admiration. It was so clean and fresh. There was lovely carpet up the stairs, gas lights and gas fires in the bedrooms, and a bathroom with the much vaunted water closet Jesse had mentioned.
‘Oh, I do like this house,’ she said again, but with greater feeling, deliberately re-entering the bedroom that was obviously Sylvia’s. ‘Are you sleeping in here?’
‘I don’t fancy sleeping in Kenneth’s little bed when this one’s available.’
He sat down on it and patted it to indicate that she should sit beside him. When she complied he put his arm around her and, when their lips met, he eased her backwards so that she was lying down. She felt his weight upon her at last, his hand sliding up the inside of her thigh. She smiled up at him, overflowing with tenderness, trembling with anticipation and the desperate need to make love.
*
The next day, Friday, Lizzie finished work early, since it was the last working day before Christmas. The rain had eased, but it was still dull, and by four o’ clock it was dark. She was aching for more stolen moments of illicit love. The previous evening’s eroticism was uppermost in her mind and had possessed her all day, nourishing her desire. She definitely was not in love with Stanley, she told herself, it was just that she could not get him off her mind. She was preoccupied by images of how he made love to her; how he made her toes curl; how she felt more like a woman than she could ever remember. Simply, she felt that she could not get enough of him. And since he was home for a few paltry days only, she had to make the most of whatever time was available. So, instead of going straight home, she made her way to Sylvia’s house again, her whole body tingling with anticipation.
He was sitting with his feet up, reading a newspaper but, as soon he saw her standing at the door wearing an unsure smile, he grinned reassuringly back and let her in. Within five minutes they were in Sylvia’s bed once more, writhing like two slippery eels.
On Saturday morning Lizzie made the excuse to Ben that she wanted to get some last minute Christmas things from the town and might not be back till the shops closed. Particularly she wanted to buy Stanley a Christmas box, she said, since he’d been so kind to them. Henzey and Alice both said they’d like to go with her to see the shops all lit up with fairy lights, to hear the carol singers and the Salvation Army band playing by the fountain in the Market Place. But Lizzie guiltily had to refuse. So she went to the town alone, rushed impatiently to buy what she needed and hurried back along Dixons Green, to Oakham Road. She and Stanley were to spend the rest of the afternoon together.
There was something about this clandestine relationship that was double sided. On the one hand it made Lizzie feel like a young girl again. She experienced the same exhilaration at making love with Stanley in secret as when she and Ben used to do it on the hearth, or on the sofa before they were married when her mother was in bed. It was forbidden then, but even more so now, and all the more exciting for it. But on the other hand, there seemed to be a worm of lust within her that, once awakened, would not be sated. It was like a disease that eroded her will. It provided excuses for what was inexcusable, driving her to seize every opportunity to placate it; for it to have its way. And after this worm was appeased she felt relief; she felt so much better; so much more at peace with herself and with her lot. She felt a return of warmth and tolerance, and these feelings reflected on Ben, rendering him more at ease in turn. But only for a while. For when the balm that soothed this arrant wantonness ran out, as it must when Stanley left, so her discontent and lack of fulfilment would return with increasing rapidity and intensity until it could be sated again.
Worst of all, she could not help it. She had no antidote for it. She no longer felt any guilt. She had this licentious flaw in her character, and she was stuck with it.
They stood in front of the fire in the sitting room that Saturday afternoon before Christmas. Stanley’s arms went about her and he began kissing her passionately. This crazy longing must be the same for him, she thought, as the touch of his lips heightened her aching desire. These last three days they’d both seemed insatiable, and lost no opportunity, wasted no second, to enjoy each other. He unfastened her skirt, her heart thudded and her head was filled with a strange humming; and at once they slumped in a fervent wriggling heap to the hearth-rug.
*
Saturday was the busiest day of the week for Jesse Clancey, since it was the day he not only delivered his milk to all his customers, but also collected the money. Since it was Christmas Eve tomorrow everybody wanted extra milk, and here and there he’d taken a nip of whisky or port, and stopped to wish his customers a merry Christmas; so he was even later than usual, and not entirely sober. He arrived outside Sylvia Atkinson’s house at about half past three, remembering Sylvia’s comment that he must collect his dues from Stanley Dando. Jesse walked up the path, having decanted a quart of milk for Stanley into the galvanised jug from which he sometimes filled customers’ own containers. The path headed for the side of the house, and then turned at right angles towards the front door, passing the sitting room window. Inside, the gas mantle was lit and he instinctively peered through the window. When he saw two naked bodies writhing animatedly on the floor he thought at first that one of them must be Sylvia. His first impulse was to turn away before they saw him watching. But he could not. He was like a block of stone, cemented to the spot, petrified like a statue on a plinth, eyes staring, fixed. His grip on his jug slackened, and the sound of milk trickling onto his shoes brought him back to awareness. He looked again, scarcely able to believe what he was seeing. This was certainly not Sylvia. It was difficult to determine who she was from this angle; and her face was contorted with either ecstasy or pain, oblivious to everything save what she was experiencing.
But it was not Sylvia.
The man, however, was certainly Stanley Dando.
Then the woman moved her head to the side, almost facing Jesse. He saw her intense, open mouthed expression turn to a smile of fulfilment, her eyes closed, her colour high from exertion, her forehead glistening with perspiration.
It was Lizzie Kite.
Please, God, let it be anybody but Lizzie Kite.
Chapter 18
On the evening of Boxing Day, Stanley Dando called with a bottle of whisky to celebrate what remained of Christmas with Ben and Lizzie. Only then did he make it known that he was being seconded to Southern Rhodesia and would remain there for the rest of his army career, including his furloughs. Lizzie was taken aback, but said nothing, keeping her own counsel, wondering why he’d chosen not to tell her before. If Southern Rhodesia was anything like South Africa he might be inclined to stay there, he said, deliberately avoiding Lizzie’s eyes. He extolled the virtues of life there, and commented that if Ben had been fit they should definitely have considered emigrating to that fabulous land of boundless opportunity and wealth.
When it was time for Stanley to leave, Lizzie escorted him down the entry. This occasion ought to appear to Ben no different to any other night Stanley called, she thought, and she made it look as casual as she could, though inside she was as tense as a baited mousetrap.
‘It was nice of you to let me know in front of Ben that you’re going to Southern Rhodesia for good, Stanley,’ she said acidly as they halted at the bottom of the entry. Lizzie’s arms were folded across her bosom, her eyes burned into him and she tilted her head to one side to indicate her disdain.
He gave no answer.
‘I suppose you were afraid I might be awkward if you told me while we were by ourselves?’
‘It crossed my mind, Lizzie.’
‘Then you flatter yourself if you think I care that much … And you’re a coward. I hope you’re braver in battle.’
‘It’s not a question of bravery. It’s more a question of expediency.’
‘More a question of me not going to bed with you when you fancie
d it, if you’d told me sooner,’ she said sullenly.
‘Look, Lizzie, I’ve enjoyed our times together, and every time I leave you to go back to my regiment I feel it more acutely than the time before. I’m loath to leave you at all, but what can I do? I’m a professional soldier. My job takes me all over the world. I can ill afford to be … to be emotionally trapped. More especially by a woman who’s already married.’
‘But it’s all right to sleep with me from time to time?’
‘I can’t help it if you’re married. But I wish you weren’t. I wish to God you weren’t. Things might be different.’
‘Oh! You’re not saying you’re in love with me by any chance, are you, Stanley?’
‘Well … I … if I let myself be, yes, I could be … if I lived at home … If I lived at home it would be easy to fall in love with you. If you weren’t already married. But I don’t want to lose you, Lizzie. We could still write. There’s no good reason why we shouldn’t write. It might be for the best to keep in touch.’
‘And what earthly good would that do if you live on the other side of the world?’
‘Well, you never know, do you, Lizzie?’ he said pointedly. ‘You never know what might happen.’
Lizzie decided to make no comment. She knew he was referring to Ben’s dubious health; that he might die at any time. Deeply she resented his inferences. But, inside, she was seething that he’d informed her so unconcernedly, in front of Ben, as if by so doing he could receive no reproach. It seemed to underline an immaturity in him she’d not really noticed before. He was like a little boy confessing to his mother, in front of the local vicar, that he’d agreed to trim grass in the churchyard for sixpence when she wanted him to run an important errand, knowing he couldn’t be chided. It told her how heedlessly he regarded their affair; what little consideration he really had for her despite his constant innuendo; how easily he released himself from the half promises and suggestions he’d mooted about the future.
