A Whisper to the Living

by Ruth Hamilton

  In his mother’s room, she re-positioned the long mirror so that it would reflect the bed, then she threw herself onto the pink flowered counterpane, small hard breasts thrust upwards like twin cones, one hand working between her thighs while the other reached out for him.

  For a split second, he wanted to run, but he knew he’d never face the mocking laughter that would result from such action, so he joined her on the bed. With practised ease, she peeled the clothing from his body, stimulated him to adequate hardness, then pulled him fiercely into her flesh, her head turned all the time towards the mirror so that she could watch their movements. She reached her peak as soon as he entered, the thin body rising from the bed to meet his loins. He followed quickly, shuddering as he spent himself without pleasure inside her hot moistness.

  There was no tenderness, no word of affection. She pushed him away, leapt from the bed and began to restore the room to its original order. Methodically, she straightened the bedcover, shook the pillows, moved the mirror while Simon stood, feeling foolish and very naked, at the side of the bed.

  ‘Not much of a gentleman, are you?’ she asked coldly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You didn’t pull out. A gentleman always pulls out.’ She laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Don’t worry, dear boy. My fault too – should have brought a towel for Mummy’s counterpane. Anyway, it’s fine – wrong time of the month for it to be a problem. But you should pull out. Everybody does.’

  Miserable and shamefaced, Simon dressed then returned to the recreation room. She followed, pulling on her clothes quickly, attacking her tapestry with renewed vigour as soon as she sat down.

  Simon stared at her. This had been his first encounter with sex and he had hated it. Seconds ticked by as a light began to dawn in his clouded mind. He didn’t like women, not in that way. He looked back over the last few months, knowing now why he had never been jealous of Martin and Anne. He was different. Yes, he knew what he was and the knowledge made him shiver.

  When Edna put her head round the door ten minutes later, he was at the table with his books. Susan looked up from her needlework. ‘Shall I help you put the shopping away, Mrs Pritchard?’

  Yes, she was a lovely girl, thought Edna as she went downstairs to make tea. Such a nice little friend for Simon.

  10

  Dénouements

  Annie opened the front door and steadied herself against the jamb as she stared into her own face. No, not quite, she reassured herself. The eyes were blue and she had to look down an inch or two to meet them. But in spite of the shorter hair and some slight differences in colouring, she might almost have been staring at her own twin sister. The girl looked as if she had been weeping too, just as Annie herself had wept these last few days.

  ‘Is . . . is this Nancy’s house?’ The voice wavered.

  ‘Yes. But she’s out, I’m afraid. Can I help? I’m Annie.’

  ‘Will she be long?’

  ‘Only a few minutes, I think. Come in, please.’

  They walked through to the living room where the girl perched anxiously on the edge of the fireside rocker. She stared at Annie, her hands picking nervously at a small clutch-bag in her lap. ‘We . . . we look alike, don’t we? I noticed that as soon as you opened the door. I’m a bit older than you, mind. But I felt funny then, when I first saw you.’

  ‘So did I.’ Annie smiled in what she hoped was a comforting way. ‘We’re all supposed to have a double, aren’t we? I read that once in a newspaper . . .’ She forced herself to sit down, determined not to prattle on.

  ‘I’m a friend of your mother’s. We sometimes had a drink in Barton’s tea-rooms when she was part-time. Only I’ve not seen her for a while, not since she went back to five full days. We write – she’s foreman now, isn’t she?’

  ‘Yes.’ Annie glanced at the clock. ‘She’s often a bit late with all the paperwork. And she does take the job seriously – if one of her girls is ill, she goes and visits – does what she can for the family.’

  ‘Yes, she would. She’s a great lady, your mother . . .’ The girl turned towards the range and rubbed a hand across her eyes.

  ‘I know that.’ Annie cleared her throat. ‘It’s alright, you can cry if you want to.’ She felt the need to draw this visitor out, to find out who she was and why she was here. ‘I’ve been doing a lot of that myself lately.’

  The girl blew her nose into a small white handkerchief then turned to look at Annie. ‘Have you, love? Why, what’s the matter?’

  Yes, she could confide, she sensed that. And such confidences would help this obviously sad young woman to open up. ‘Oh, I’ve let myself down in a big way, lost my temper, lost my boyfriend, clouted a big horrible girl across the mouth. I’ve got a problem with my temper, you see. I try to carry on like a young lady, the way the nuns have trained me – but you know what they say about silk purses and sows’ ears? Well, that’s me. You see – what’s your name, by the way . . .?’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘You see, Mary, I told him to get lost and he did. My boyfriend – he just disappeared. Of course, my mother treats it all as a big joke, probably to cheer me up. She keeps telling me to get the Irwell dragged, then not to bother because if he’s chucked himself in there, she says, he’ll likely have melted with all the rubbish they pour in. I mean, it wasn’t serious, not really, between Martin and me. But he was my best friend and I got rid of him just because he was . . . well, seeing another girl. Have you ever done anything as daft as that?’

  ‘Many a time, Annie. There’s plenty more fish in the sea, especially at your age.’ She smiled wanly. ‘Don’t worry, he won’t be in the river.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. He’s at the Evening News making a name for himself. But I should never have spat in his face. There I was, all done up in my best dress trying to look like Princess Margaret and what did I go and do? I’ve never been so ashamed of myself! So don’t bother about crying in front of me. I’ll probably join in and keep you company.’

  They heard the front door opening. ‘Annie? Get that kettle on, I’m as dry as a new sock. That Elsie Tunstall took one of her turns in the lav again – she’ll have to go in hospital and get it all taken away, she will. Are you there, Annie?’

  Annie smiled at Mary. ‘Here comes trouble now,’ she whispered.

  Nancy burst into the room. ‘Weeks ago I told her – fibroids, I said . . . oh, hello Mary. Well.’ She glanced quickly at Annie. ‘What a nice surprise. You’ve met my daughter, then?’

  ‘Hello, Nancy. Perhaps I shouldn’t have come . . .’

  ‘Don’t talk so daft. Get that coat off this minute, Mary Greenhalgh. I’ve told you before and I’ll tell you again – my door’s always open.’

  Annie jumped to her feet. ‘Mary? That Mary? The one who . . .’

  ‘That’s right, lass. Now do your job and get that kettle on. I’ve told you – my throat feels like its hand-knitted.’

  Annie fled to the kitchen and filled the new electric kettle. Moving automatically, she redistributed the ham salad so that it filled three plates, then, while she cut and buttered bread, she listened to the heartbreak as it poured from the next room.

  ‘I couldn’t, Nancy. I couldn’t. Every time he came home I made excuses. So he’s gone and married a German girl . . . I’ll never be able to . . . never get married . . . have babies . . . all I wanted, Nancy.’

  Nancy’s voice cracked as she answered, ‘You will. Give it time, Mary. Rome wasn’t built in a day, love . . .’

  ‘Terrified of men, I am. Even though I’ve left the sanatorium and gone over to geriatrics, I go to jelly if some old chap looks at me sideways . . .’

  ‘It’ll pass, it will . . .’

  ‘No! Look at me! Look at my hands – I can hardly change a dressing now, let alone handle a hypodermic. I can’t talk to anybody about it. Nobody knows except you and the people at the sanatorium – most of my friends have left now, got married and moved away. It’s as if I’ve done wrong, like I’m
a criminal or something . . .’ Her voice tailed away as she saw Annie in the doorway.

  ‘The only crime you committed, Mary, was that you were born looking very like me.’ Annie held back her own tears determinedly. ‘It was me he was after, not you.’

  ‘That’s right,’ whispered Nancy. ‘I’ve known all along, ever since I first set eyes on you, Mary. But it was Annie’s secret, hers to tell or keep. He’d been setting about my Annie for years, only I didn’t know till the night after he hurt you.’

  Mary stared across the room at this taller, younger version of herself. In that moment, a link was forged that would last a lifetime, a friendship born of pain, nurtured by total empathy, bonded through the tiny woman who joined them together now by welcoming them both into her open arms.

  ‘Mary will be living here from now on,’ Nancy announced. ‘We’re going to adopt her, Annie.’

  Annie nodded, incapable of speech.

  Using her native wisdom, Nancy left the girls together while she finished preparing the meal, wiping yet another tear from her face when she noticed how Annie had divided the food. Aye, this was a blessing alright. Now, Annie and Mary could talk, talk like she’d done with their Jessie. They’d say things to one another that they could never speak about to somebody Nancy’s age. It would hurt, aye it would that, she thought as she scalded the teapot. But once they’d got through the hurting, then the mending could begin.

  ‘I’m not condoning anything, Edna! I’m merely encouraging Simon to bring his friends home – would you rather he met them in the street?’

  ‘I’d rather he didn’t meet them at all. Especially that one. Her previous . . . arrangement seems to have been dissolved, so now she turns to Simon. And you are allowing them to use a room – an upstairs room – for goodness knows what purpose!’

  David flung his newspaper across the room. ‘What do you think they’re up to in that room? Would you care to elaborate on your statement – or rather your accusation – so that I might assess it, even comment on it?’

  Edna stiffened. ‘Don’t act stupid with me! You know exactly what I mean. There’s no need for me to produce maps and diagrams.’

  David stared up at the ceiling, shoulders raised in a gesture of frustration as he sighed deeply. He really didn’t understand this woman, hardly knew who she was. She certainly bore little resemblance to the person he’d married, the girl whose freshness and naivety had so enchanted him. Those qualities and not a little coercion from both families had led to this . . . misalliance.

  He turned on her now, his body rigid and poker-straight on the edge of the sofa. ‘Thank God for this generation!’ He waved a hand towards the upper floor. ‘Independent, strong-minded, adaptable. I can’t see them being forced by family into careers or marriages just because such plans are deemed by their elders to be suitable.’

  She looked down at her flawlessly painted nails. ‘I suppose this implies regret that you married me?’

  He took a deep breath. ‘Yes, I’m sorry that we married.’

  ‘Nobody forced you!’ There was a small catch in her voice and a raising in its pitch as she lifted a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her lips.

  ‘There were pressures.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware of them.’

  ‘Really? Then allow me to produce the maps and diagrams. Firstly, your parents set out their stall with you as centrepiece. Secondly, my family came along and bought their pitch, hook, line and sinker. Excuse any mixed metaphor, but this is hardly the time for perfect grammar. Thirdly, you were sent out to ensnare me. Fourthly, I got caught – the bait you used was your virginity.’

  Edna’s jaw dropped. ‘Would you rather I hadn’t been a . . . a virgin?’

  ‘I’d have been more pleased had you not used your intact status as a bargaining point.’

  He rose now and stood before the fireplace, legs apart, hands clasped behind his back. ‘Some women are honest whores. They go on to the streets, use their bodies to make a living. Other . . . prostitutes, for want of a better word, are more astute. They make a man pay for his whole life and with his whole life.’ He gazed around the room with the air of a man addressing a large audience.

  ‘These two categories of female have one thing in common – they don’t enjoy the sexual act. Streetwomen regard it as a mere commodity, something to be bartered for the price of a meal. Those in the latter and more respectable division tolerate it as part of a bargain, a thing they must endure, a price to pay for a roof, for a life of security and ease.’

  She stood, her eyes ablaze with fury. ‘And I am one of the latter group, I suppose?’

  He nodded, his face expressionless.

  ‘How can you say that to me? You know I’ve never been strong since Simon was born. If I’ve seemed . . . distant, it was because I was terrified of pregnancy!’

  ‘You need not have become pregnant again. I could have guaranteed that you wouldn’t. As it happened, I was not sufficiently interested in regaining your favours, therefore it mattered not at all that you shut yourself away from me.’

  She took a step towards him. ‘You moved out of the bedroom!’

  ‘That’s true. I saw no point in staying, you see.’

  Edna’s mouth quivered for a second, then her teeth were suddenly bared into a snarl as she spoke. ‘So you’ve satisfied your lust elsewhere with the other kind of whore?’

  ‘Come come, my dear – don’t be crude. Let’s just say I’ve been discreet. After all, my baser instincts – as you no doubt call them – have needed to be appeased occasionally.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ She flung herself into a chair, fingers clawing at the handkerchief. ‘What have you done? Suppose my friends were to find out – these things are always found out in the end – how shall I hold up my head?’

  ‘That reaction is exactly what one might expect of you, Edna. You cling to your good name as fiercely as you once shielded your precious virginity! You are a complete and utter sham! Did you imagine that I’d gone without the comfort of a woman for more than fifteen years? How gullible are you, for heaven’s sake? But you won’t discover who she is, nor will your friends. That is, if you have any friends. I imagined that they were mere callers or bridge partners.’

  She wept silently into her hands, her whole body shaking with shock and humiliation.

  ‘And another thing,’ David continued. ‘I want Simon to choose his own friends, his own career and eventually, his own wife. History must not repeat itself. If I were you, I’d be more selective about the people you encourage to call here.’

  She dried her eyes. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Susan Birchall.’

  ‘Susan? She’s a friend of Simon’s.’

  ‘Yes. A suitable friend in your book, I’d imagine. Well, her father is trying to marry her off. In fact, she’s being put up for auction by all accounts.’

  ‘She’s only a child . . .’

  ‘Ah yes, but a child with a problem. The first was the postman, or was it the gardener? No matter. She was discovered with one or the other in what is usually called a compromising situation. There was no question of prosecution – the family name and so on – I’m sure you’ll understand that aspect, Edna.’ He paused to light a cigar.

  ‘I’m certain none of that is true,’ wailed Edna. ‘It’s gossip – idle gossip. Susan is a lovely girl.’ She waited, teeth gritted, while he threw a spent match into the grate.

  David looked her squarely in the face. ‘More recently, she was found in the summerhouse with four boys. She was entertaining them in a variety of imaginative ways. I understand that the parents are virtually keeping her under lock and key until they can marry her off. So, if she’s being allowed to see Simon, he’s obviously on the shortlist. And we don’t want a nymphomaniac in the family. What would friends and neighbours say then?’

  Her mouth opened and closed, trying to frame words that her dry throat could not produce.

  ‘What’s the matter, Edna? You look like a gold-fish out of w
ater. Surprised, are you? Surprised that a girl of good breeding can be so disposed? I’ll surprise you even further. That girl upstairs, in spite of her “unsuitable background”, will not be the one to introduce Simon to the pleasures of the flesh. She has a higher moral standard than you could ever imagine or achieve, because she won’t barter her virginity or go under the hammer to the highest bidder for the sake of a wedding ring. And I’d be delighted if she married my son in a few years. Because Anne Byrne will arrive clean – not necessarily virgin, but definitely clean.’

  Her eyes, round with shock as she took in the news about Susan, narrowed now at the mention of Anne’s name. She rose from the chair and stood stiffly beside it, her hand straying to the edge of a table as if needing the encouragement of its inanimate stability. ‘I have several things to say to you.’ Her voice shook as she spoke. ‘I don’t believe all that about Susan. Furthermore, I will not have my standards – moral or otherwise – compared to those of that creature upstairs. And I demand to know the name of your . . . paramour.’

  ‘Why? Would you like a divorce? I’ll gladly get you some evidence. Certain women are happy to earn the odd hundred for the use of their names – and a little photography.’

  ‘I will not have a divorce! But I want her name!’

  ‘Really? Will you break all her windows? No, that’s too honest a response for you. You might send an anonymous letter – yes, I can imagine you pouring venom onto paper and not having the courage to sign.’

  She suddenly felt afraid and powerless. He had shattered her long-term hopes for Simon and Susan. Whether or not he spoke the truth, she could not risk having the girl in the house again. And he was positively nurturing Simon’s association with Nancy Higson’s daughter. Now, finally, he was admitting that he had another woman, someone he intended to protect.