Song of Songs

by Beverley Hughesdon

  I slipped back and sank trembling on to the bed in my refuge – but it was a refuge no longer. I had known, of course I had known, that Ben would need to come to me sometimes in the night – but foolishly, unthinkingly, I had never dreamt that we would share a bedroom, let alone a bed. Another rush of blood drained out of my body and I thought, no – not now, not tonight, when I’m like this – how can he bear to do that? And he knew – but of course he had to know, I thought wildly, otherwise he would try to – a voice called up the stairs, ‘Are you in bed yet, lass? I’ve got a cup of tea made for you.’ I heard his heavy footsteps and jumped up and threw myself under the sheet and clutched it tight to my chin. He pushed the door open – he did not knock, but then why should he – since it was his bedroom too? But he barely looked at me as he put the cup down on the bedside cupboard and went out again.

  I gulped down the hot tea gratefully, then slid down into the bed, clutching the hot-water bottle to my belly. My mind was in a turmoil, but I was so exhausted I fell asleep almost at once.

  When I woke up the sun was already low through the lace curtains, and I knew it must be well into the evening. I lay still for a while, not knowing what to do. Where was he? Should I go downstairs and find him? I shrank from that but I shrank too from lying in my nightdress, waiting. At last my bladder decided for me so I got up and dressed in the summer frock that Norah had packed in my valise, then hung a towel over my hand to conceal the fresh pad I was carrying and crept softly down the stairs. Ben was sitting in the kitchen reading a newspaper; he glanced up as I came in and my face burned and he looked down at his paper again as I slid through the scullery door. He was out of the kitchen when I returned, and he reappeared only after I had closed the lid of the range again.

  We stood looking at each other until he said, ‘I’ll put kettle on. Mrs Scholes has left a pie and some bits and pieces. I’ll set table.’ He turned away and asked, without looking at me, ‘Are you better, lass?’

  ‘Yes, thank you, Ben.’

  ‘Good.’

  I told him I was not hungry, but he made me eat. ‘You had nothing at wedding breakfast – you’ll be wasting away at this rate – you’re too thin already.’ I remembered plump Emmie and hung my head.

  As we ate he said, ‘Lass, I’ll have to leave you tomorrow, but I’ll be back for the evening. Foreman’s played right fair – given me day shift all this week, since I were getting wed, and said he’ll try and make sure I don’t get caught with any overtime.’ He seemed to expect me to be pleased, so I smiled at him, and he appeared to be satisfied as he cut himself another slice of pie.

  The round-faced clock on the mantelpiece said half-past nine by the time we had finished. As I put my cup down Ben asked, ‘Would you like me to show you round the ’ouse now?’

  He looked at me expectantly, but I shook my head. ‘No thank you, Ben’. I felt very tired – besides, what would there be to see in a house as small as this?

  ‘Well – perhaps you had best get yourself straight to bed – you look as washed-out as an old dish clout. You go up now – I’ve got to run up plot to water me seedlings. I’ll not be long, but I’ll wash in scullery so as not to disturb you.’ He stood up and reached for his jacket, then stopped in the doorway and said, with his back to me, ‘By way lass – I know it’s our wedding night, but of course I’ll not be bothering you tonight.’ For a moment I hoped he meant that he would be sleeping downstairs, then he added, ‘I’ll come up quiet in case you’ve dropped off.’

  Up in the small square bedroom I lay rigid on the very edge of the mattress, my face to the window. When I heard him coming up the stairs I closed my eyes firmly – but they flew open again as he cannoned into the end of the bed. I heard the muttered, ‘Sorry, lass,’ and the sight of his large hairy maleness stayed with me even after I had screwed my lids tightly together again. I pulled the sheets up over my hot face.

  The bed springs creaked as he sat down to take off his socks, then the mattress dipped as his heavy body slid in beside me. The edge of the bed dug into my hips as I eased myself another half inch away from him, so that he need not touch me.

  ‘Goodnight, lass.’

  ‘Goodnight, Ben.’

  I slept, but I woke later with a crick in my neck from the unnatural position and I was chilly, because the bedclothes now barely reached me. Very gently I eased myself round. He was sprawled across the bed, giving the soft, grunting snorts of a man asleep, while I lay beside him in the dark, fighting the needs of my bladder and my womb. But at last I knew I had to give in so, very slowly, I inched my way out of the bed and fumbled in my bag for yet another clean pad. He snorted loudly and I dared not wait to find my slippers and wrap but fled down the stairs and into the warm kitchen. I saw with relief the glimmer from the range – he had made it up. Outside the stone flags of the yard were cold under my bare soles, and in the tiny closet I began to shiver.

  When I got back to the foot of the stairs I hesitated – there was a glow from the bedroom and, apprehensively, I realized he must have woken up and lit the gas. But I had to go back, so I went quickly up and into the room – skirting the end of the bed and climbing in on my side without looking at him. I felt very exposed and vulnerable in my clinging satin nightdress with barely a sheet to cover myself with, and I lay quite still with my back to him until he turned the gas out. Then I could not stop myself from shivering. In the dark I felt a large warm hand clasp my shoulder. ‘You silly lass - you’re starved. You should have used chamber – or leastways put summat round you.’ I tried to control my shivers, but I could not, ‘Oh, don’t be so daft – come here.’ And he hauled me bodily across the bed and into the warmth of his arms.

  He hugged me tightly to his chest until at last my shivering stopped. Then I lay with my cheek against the coarse fabric of his nightshirt and let my body relax against his – as I realized with overwhelming relief that he was not shrinking from my bleeding woman’s body – rather he was pressing me closer. And I gave a sudden start of surprise as I felt it – his swollen manhood full and throbbing against my belly. He chuckled in the dark. ‘Aye – I thought as how you’d like to know that there’s someone down below as wants to renew his acquaintance. But don’t fret – he knows he’s got to wait. But lass’ – his voice deepened – ‘you’ll tell me when you’re ready, won’t you? I know women vary like, so you mun tell me.’ Then I felt his lips on my cheek, and I turned my mouth to his and we clung together in the darkness. At last he pulled away a little and whispered breathlessly, ‘Aye, you’re a warm lass, you are – but I’ll have to let you go else I’ll never be able to drop off.’ He rolled away from me and I lay in the warm space left by his body and drifted easily into sleep.

  But in the bright morning light I felt very shy of him, and lay with my eyes closed as I heard him getting up. He must have guessed I was feigning sleep because he said, ‘I’ll bring you a cup of tea afore I go, Mrs Holden.’ As he ran down the stairs I realized with a jolt that he must think I had lost my title on marriage – would he be annoyed when he discovered the truth? I pushed the thought away from me and lay patiently waiting.

  When he came up again and put the cup and saucer down on the bedside cupboard I sat up without thinking, forgetful of my flimsy nightdress – until I saw how his eyes were fixed on the curve of my breasts as they hung forward against the satin. I sat still with my hand on the cupboard – seeing the blood rise in his face as he watched me. Then he abruptly turned and left the room. As I picked up the cup my hands shook.

  He was soon back, and now he was in his bibbed working overalls, with a dirty jacket slung over his shoulder. I felt a moment of revulsion as he came towards me, then I realized he was pushing something into my hand. ‘That’s for th’ousekeeping while Friday.’ I looked down and saw the three grubby ten-shilling notes – and felt very ashamed of myself. He had earned these with hours of sweating, back-breaking labour – and now he was giving them to me.

  I whispered, ‘Thank you, Ben.’

/>   He looked at me for a moment, then he sat heavily down on the bed and pulled me to him. I put my arms round his neck as his mouth came down on mine. But as he kissed me he freed one of his arms, and I felt him push his hand inside the low neck of my nightdress – and begin to fondle my breast. My skin tingled under his touch and slowly I opened my mouth under his until our tongues met. It was a long time before he raised his head from mine and then, with one hand still inside my nightdress, he eased me gently back on to the pillow. I lay there, gazing up into his intent face while both his warm hands slowly explored my breasts.

  At last he pulled himself upright and said thickly, ‘Mebbe it’s as well you’re on rags – else I’d be climbing back in bed with you instead of getting to work.’ He pulled the door to with a bang and pounded down the stairs. I curled up like a cat in the sun and fell instantly asleep.

  Part VI

  JUNE 1920 to DECEMBER 1920

  Chapter One

  When I woke up again the small room was already warm; I lay in a mindless contentment, unwilling to move – but my womb and bladder drove me out. I dressed quickly and ran downstairs and out through the small scullery into the sunlit yard. As I came out of the closet I heard children’s voices on the other side of the wall, and the blank windows of the neighbouring terraces seemed to be staring at me so that I felt suddenly exposed and bolted back into the small house like a frightened rabbit.

  The tea pot and caddy had been left out on the kitchen table, and the kettle standing inside the fender was ready filled, so I had only to lift it on to the top of the range and set the tea pot to warm. The milk jug was carefully covered with a little net hat, weighed down by a fringe of green beads – when I touched one with my fingertip it tinkled against the white china side. The morning sun came streaming in through the one window and the small kitchen looked bright and cheerful. There was a gaily coloured rag rug in front of the range; I bent down and lifted one corner and saw that the hessian backing was clean and new – someone had only just made it, and I wondered whether it was a gift from one of Ben’s sisters. To the right of the range the alcove was filled in with varnished cupboards; I opened one side and peeped in at piles of neatly folded linen, while on the shelves above there were basins and flat tins and a round wooden rolling pin. I took the rolling pin out and ran my fingers over its smooth surface – I had seen one used in the kitchen at Hatton, but I had never handled one before – everything was so new and strange.

  There were two straight-backed chairs at the table in the centre and two wooden armchairs with padded seats and backs, one at either side of the range. One was large and heavy, the other smaller and lighter, and when I touched it, it dipped forward and I realized it was a rocking chair. The big male armchair was obviously Ben’s – the small feminine rocker was for me. I sat down in it experimentally and rocked myself backwards and forwards and then laughed before I got up and crossed to the other one and sat in that. I felt as though I were playing in a doll’s house. The fairy story came into my head and I recited: ‘Father Bear, Mother Bear, Baby Bear’ – but I pulled myself up short; there had been no baby bear after all, and I had been given this doll’s house under false pretences. I jumped guiltily up from Ben’s armchair and took his used cup and saucer out to the scullery to rinse under the tap. The shallow sink was of yellow fireclay there was only the one tap over it and the window was set rather high in the wall above it, so that I could only just peek out through the lace curtain. There was very little to see – only the top of the yard wall outside and the lintel of the window of the scullery of the next-door house. I looked down at the sill inside: laid out neatly on it were a comb, a toothbrush and a tin of toothpowder. I picked up the comb and there was a light brown hair caught between the teeth – one of Ben’s hairs from when he, had last used it. I imagined him standing here in his grubby overalls neatly combing his hair and then inspecting it in the small mirror hanging on the wall above the draining board. There was a wooden box nailed to the window frame, containing a bar of soap and a nail brush, and I realized with relief that he must attend to his daily toilet down here – so I would have the washstand in the bedroom to myself – but how odd it must be to wash in a scullery.

  I bent down and peered at the shelves under the draining board. A deep wooden tray held blacking and a couple of brushes – of course, Ben liked to keep his boots brightly shining – then there was a dustpan and brush next to it and a galvanized iron bucket under the sink – presumably the one he had thought I needed last night. I blushed and stood up and swung round – and saw that what I had been taking for a long narrow table had iron claw feet. I grasped the wooden top and lifted it and there it was, a bath – set neatly against the back wall. I began to giggle as I dropped the wooden lid back into place – how very extraordinary – a bath in the scullery. Whatever would I find next?

  What I found next was a piano. It stood in the pride of place in the small parlour, against the wall opposite the window; I backed away from it as though it were about to explode. It was an upright, of course, but a good-quality upright and shining with newness – it must have cost Ben a lot of grubby ten-shilling notes. I had to force myself to walk forward and raise the lid – my fingers played a scale – it had a pleasing tone. He had obviously chosen it with care and I remembered his rapt face in the music room at Hatton – and wondered how I could tell him his gift was worthless. I looked down at the gold band on my finger and thought, poor Ben – your chivalry on the moors has cost you dear: a wife who has not the slightest notion of how to keep house, whose only talent, only skill, was her singing – and now she has lost her voice. The blood gushed between my legs and I began to laugh hysterically – my very body had thwarted him and I had been useless to him, even on his wedding night. My silly laughter turned to tears and I stood sobbing, hopelessly, until I heard the hiss of steam from the kitchen.

  Making the tea and drinking it steadied me: that at least I could do. I began to list on my fingers the tasks I could perform: I could make tea – and cocoa; I could sweep and dust and scrub lockers; and I could wash up. There did not seem to be a lot more that was of any use; then I thought, I can make beds, so I drained my cup and went up and made ours.

  It seemed strange to think of a bed as ‘ours’ – and yet the idea was not unpleasing. As I tucked in the blankets and shook out the pink eiderdown I remembered Ben’s warm strong arms hugging me in the night, and I felt calmer as I went downstairs again in my dolls’ house. This time I noticed another door at the end of the scullery, and when I opened it there was a larder, with a bread crock and the last piece of Mrs Scholes’ pie between two plates. Against the wall at the end of the bath was a mangle, and a built-in copper with a small grate underneath it – I would have to light it on wash days. Looking at the copper reminded me of the range; it would need attending to soon and I had always had such trouble coping with the coal and coke stoves on night duty in the camp hospitals. As I went reluctantly back into the kitchen I noticed how stuffy it was becoming, with the range glowing sullenly there. And I dreaded the thought of having to cook a meal on it – what little cooking I had done had been on the gas stove in Foldus Ward kitchen. Gas stove! Of course, that was the answer – there was already gas laid on in the house for lighting – it would be a simple matter to install a stove. I would see to it at once; then I could let the range go out and the kitchen would be so much pleasanter in this warm weather.

  I ran upstairs and rummaged through my boxes for hat and coat and gloves, and scrabbled in my valise for the new chequebook Papa had given me, and then set out for the centre of Ainsclough. It was a sunny day and I felt as though I were on holiday as I strolled down through the unfamiliar streets; they had a delightful air of foreignness about them – I could have been a thousand miles from Hatton. People were smiling and helpful, and I soon found what I wanted; I did not need my new chequebook, as apparently gas stoves were hired – I could pay monthly, and the cost of the installation would come comfortably out of m
y purse, so I left the bank for next time. But I was glad I had the chequebook – I would have hated to be dependent on Ben for every penny I spent – I would have felt trapped.

  I came straight back to wait for the workmen, and went to sit down in the small parlour – the padded armchair was surprisingly comfortable. I glanced up at the shelves in the alcove, and recognized the titles of the books from Ben’s bedroom in Clegg Street – they brought back memories, so I looked quickly away and concentrated on the three photographs placed neatly at one end of the piano top. I stood up and went for a closer look. I recognized the one of Ben’s mother; next to it two women smiled out of the frame at me. They were wearing their best frilled blouses and their arms were linked and the family likeness told me they were Ben’s sisters. They looked a lot older than he did – but of course, he was the Benjamin, the last child come late to elderly parents, arriving on the hearthrug, unheralded and unplanned for. I wondered which of the two women was Ada, who had been given ‘quite a turn’ – but had still gone on to have five of her own.

  I picked up the third photo – and felt a slight shock. It was of Ben, sitting in a chair holding a toddler in his lap. Although the child was so young Ben looked completely at ease with it, as if he were used to holding young children and liked doing so. Guy sometimes patted his sons on the head, but I never remembered seeing him pick one up – that was Nanny’s job, or Pansy’s pleasure. And then I looked closer at the two other children in the picture – a boy and a girl. The boy’s head was leaning trustingly against Ben’s shoulder, whilst the little girl was looking at him with adoration plain on her face. I wanted to know who these children were – the photograph had obviously been taken quite recently, since Ben was wearing the moustache he had been sporting when I had seen him in Manchester, so I opened the frame and eased the picture out. On the back was written in a child’s careful hand: ‘To Great-Uncle Ben, with all our love, from Benjamin’ then, more straggling, ‘Edie and Baby’ and three large wavering crosses. I pushed it back into its frame and replaced it on the piano. It disturbed me – he looked so very at home with those children, and they with him. I had not realized, but when I had believed I was carrying a child I had never thought of it as Ben’s child. Men were men and would take a woman if they could – and because he had broken my maidenhead and entered me he had done his duty and married me – but I had never thought of him wanting a child of his own. I shifted uneasily on my seat; the photograph had confused me.