by Annie Murray
‘I don’t think your friend liked it much.’ He gave a chuckle and she liked the way his face looked as he did it.
‘She’s not very keen on poems and that, I don’t think.’
He was watching her, listening to her words as if everything she said was of the utmost importance. There was another silence. Linda tugged on Violet’s arm.
‘It was nice, finding someone who wanted to listen,’ he said.
What she wanted to say was, please, come round again, read to me again, look me in the eyes the way you do. What she said was, ‘I’d better be going. Come on, girls.’
‘Yes, of course,’ he said, putting his hat back on. ‘Sorry to hold you up.’
‘No – you’re not!’ Why couldn’t she get the right things to come out of her mouth! ‘Only I’ve got to get these two to bed.’
As soon as they were inside the house, she said, ‘Go on you two, upstairs. Get undressed – quick!’
Muriel was out. As the girls clattered up the stairs, Violet sank on to a chair. It was only then that she noticed she was trembling.
He came round the next Saturday night.
‘I bet that’s our poem man,’ Muriel said, hearing the door. ‘I had a feeling he’d be back.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Violet said, but her heart went racing. And he was on the step, with his book, holding it out to her.
‘You said it was too quick – hearing it read out. I thought you might like to borrow it for a bit.’
‘Oh – thank you!’
She took the book from him, excited at feeling singled out, the way she had when Miss Green had told her she was good at something all those years ago.
‘D’you think his wife knows he’s coming round here?’ Muriel said when he’d gone. She was sitting by the window, knitting in the last of the evening light.
‘Um?’ Violet fingered the binding on the book. It had been in his hands. He had stroked that cover so lovingly. Her skin prickled at the thought.
‘I said, dreamboat, d’you nae think his wife might find it a bit peculiar him coming round here to visit a couple of women on their own?’
‘No!’ Violet said. This wasn’t what she wanted to hear. More than anything, she wanted him to visit. He filled her thoughts, him with his longing, soulful eyes. It was getting so that she scarcely thought of anything else. ‘He didn’t stay, did he? I don’t think she’s interested, that’s all – in the things he likes.’
‘Vi –’ Muriel put her knitting down. ‘Can you nae see he’s after you? That’s why he comes round here – not to read his poems. I’ve seen him looking at you – it’s written all over his face. And it’s written all over yours, too. You’re going to have to be careful.’
‘Oh, don’t be so stupid!’ Violet erupted. At that moment she hated Muriel for turning all worldly-wise on her, for pointing out these hard truths. What did she know? She was younger and wasn’t even married!
‘How the hell can he be after me? He’s got a wife and three kids – and he’s not that sort, I can tell.’
‘Really?’ Muriel spoke in such a flat tone of disbelief that Violet lost her patience altogether.
‘Oh, for goodness sake leave me alone.’ She stormed into the kitchen and picked up the kettle, shouting, ‘You’re worse than my flaming mother!’
She took Muriel’s words to heart, even if she wouldn’t admit anything to her. Was it really so obvious the effect Roy Keillor had on her? She was even more struck by Muriel’s observation that Roy was sweet on her. Could that be true? Could it really?
But she tried to stamp the feelings out in herself. She just mustn’t feel like this! They were both married people – Harry was off somewhere fighting a war, in danger! She ought to be ashamed of herself. And sometimes she really was ashamed of how she felt and managed to put the thought out of her mind for a while, especially if she didn’t see Roy. He would have forgotten about her by now, wouldn’t he? And then sometimes it all came surging back, the simple longing to see him, to look into his eyes and see him look back.
She knew, as soon as she heard the knock at the door that evening after Muriel had gone out. It was only half-past seven, and she could still hear Joyce and Linda giggling upstairs, little monkeys.
Feeling strangely calm, she opened the door. The mild June air came in and the sounds of older children playing. It was the first time, she realized, she had seen him without a coat. He wore only a waistcoat over his shirt, and a cap.
‘I saw your mate walking along – thought she must be going out.’
Violet wondered who was watching. Were the neighbours peering at them, wondering if there was some arrangement between them? And why did it already feel as if there was?
‘Come in,’ she said quickly.
He didn’t hesitate. Taking his cap off, he tucked it under his arm. Once she had shut the door she turned to him, still calm. Somehow the fact that he had come to her made it easier for her.
‘Did you want your book back?’ She nodded towards the black volume, stowed safely on the mantel. She had tried to read some of the poems and liked a few of them, though most she found hard to understand.
‘Not if you want to keep it for a bit.’ But he went and picked it up, thumbing through it as if reacquainting himself with an old friend.
There was a pause.
‘I like knowing it’s here.’ He looked across at her.
Where does your wife think you are? She knew she should say it, but that she would not.
‘The girls aren’t settled yet, but they should go to sleep soon. D’you want a cup of tea? Or there’s a drop in here – ’ She held up Muriel’s Scotch bottle. ‘But it’s not mine.’
‘No – none of that,’ he said abruptly. ‘I want to keep my head.’
She avoided his eyes, but felt her heart rate quicken. Oh God, she thought. What’s happening to me?
He stood by the table as she began to make tea, busying herself with teapot and cups.
‘Sit down if you want.’ She smiled across at him but kept her tone light. ‘How’s the family?’
‘All right,’ he said quickly, then in a more considered way, ‘Yes – they’re all right.’
‘What’re you going to read me today then?’
He stared at her for a moment, then with a more gentle expression said, ‘I don’t hold with religion, do you?
Religion? Violet thought. Dark churches, boredom. She had barely ever been in church. Bessie had sent them to Sunday School, Sunday afternoons, to give her some peace and she’d sat through most of it in a dream. Otherwise it was funerals, the odd christening.
‘No – not really,’ she admitted.
‘“Dover Beach” then,’ he said. ‘By Matthew Arnold. I didn’t want to, sort of offend you, you know, if you’d been at all religious.’
‘I don’t know if I’ll understand it.’
‘You will. Some of it, anyway.’
They both sat at the table, and he started to read. She liked him reading to her, because she could look at him, at his brown eyes and thin, sensitive face. Now he had his cap off, a lock of his straight, black hair hung over his forehead. As he spoke, she saw the slight dimple in his left cheek. For three lines she was transported:
‘The sea is calm to-night.
The tide is full, the moon lies fair
Upon the straits’
The sea again! And her mind wandered and soon after she was lost, as his gentle voice moved on, too fast for her to follow the thread of meaning. Instead she just followed the musical sound, beautiful because it was his voice. She didn’t know why he thought she might have been offended by it. As he finished reading she sat quietly.
‘Beautiful, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘And I think that’s how it is. There is no God, at least, not of a judging sort anyway.’
Violet didn’t know, not about God. All she knew was that sometimes she felt lifted, that she could circle over everything, free and high as a bird but somehow part of all of it too. And it made
her grateful.
She didn’t realize she was smiling.
‘Violet –’ His words seemed to come out under pressure. ‘I can’t stop thinking about you. You’re all I ever think about – ever since I first saw you. I don’t know what to do.’
He sounded desperate. She lowered her head, her cheeks burning hot, hearing words from him that she longed to hear, could scarcely believe she was hearing, and yet was so frightened by what they might mean.
What about your wife? She never used man’s name, not in her head. It made her too real. And my husband?
Then she looked across at him and they sat, locked in each other’s gaze. He stood up and came to her, taking her hand from her lap and drawing her to her feet. There was nothing she could do to resist. Nothing else mattered or seemed real. The girls could wander downstairs, but even knowing that, she could not stop herself.
‘You’re shaking,’ he said.
‘Yes,’ she whispered.
He just stood looking at her, as if he could not stop.
‘Will you do something? Take your hair down for me?’
She had it pinned back, quite simply, and as she began to take the hairpins out he helped her, tugging them gently and laying them on the table until her pale hair was hanging all round her cheeks. He stroked it back from her face, then put his hand on the back of her head. She felt the warmth of his palm pressing her scalp, drawing her nearer to him, and his eyes never left hers. She could see nothing but his eyes.
‘What’re you doing?’ She tried to protest.
‘I don’t know.’ He stopped for a moment and she saw the struggle in his face. ‘You’re just . . . I can’t seem to see anything but you.’
‘I didn’t know I could feel like this,’ she said, looking up at him. ‘I shouldn’t feel it, but I do . . .’
He sighed, relieved. ‘It’s not just me then?’
Solemnly she shook her head, and he pulled her close to him, his body slim and strange to her as her arms wrapped round him. His lips were warm and hungry on hers and she felt as if she had come home.
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was something she couldn’t stop now, as if she was falling and there was nothing to break the fall. She kept going over and over that evening in her mind, the way he had held her, their kisses, that look in his eyes. When would they be able to see each other again? That was her one longing.
The week passed, somehow, in waiting.
‘How’re things with Dickie?’ she asked Muriel, in a light, teasing voice.
‘Very nice, thank you,’ Muriel said coyly. She wasn’t letting on much, not as she had done before with some of her boyfriends. This made Violet think this one was more serious.
By Saturday, Muriel admitted that she was going out with Dickie once again.
‘You’re always going out!’ Joyce accused her.
Muriel laughed. ‘Only once a week! Tell you what – you can have my sweetie ration – how about that?’
She didn’t see Roy to let him know. Although she had the day off, he was at work. But she knew he’d come – at least to see if she was alone.
All afternoon she was aflutter with expectation.
‘Mom – Mom! You listening?’ the girls kept saying. And mostly she wasn’t. In her mind she was already with him, seeing him come through the door, to be with her.
And at last he did. She’d put on her favourite frock, pale blue, sprigged with small, dark blue flowers, and brushed out her hair. As soon as she closed the door, they were in each other’s arms. Now he was here she almost felt as if her legs would give way.
‘Today’s been so long! I thought it was going to go on for ever.’ She pressed him to her, loving the smell of him, the warmth of his body.
Roy made a low sound of pleasure. ‘I thought I might not get here. I couldn’t really believe I would!’
‘Roy – what’re we going to do? I feel as if everyone’s watching.’
‘No – course they’re not.’ She felt his breath on her hair. He was stroking it as they talked. ‘I’ve thought about you – all week . . . I’ve never felt like this before. I can’t think of anything else . . .’
It was as if he didn’t hear her question. They never mentioned his wife, her husband. It was as if they were insulated together in a place that outer realities did not touch, where life’s responsibilities had no meaning. This was all that mattered.
They spent their few, snatched hours talking and holding one another. It became a pattern, every time Muriel went out. There were so many risks – who might see, the children coming downstairs – but they did not care about risks. Their passion for each other was too urgent. It was some time before they made love completely and then they had not planned to. She was sitting in his lap in the big armchair. It was just dark outside, but the window was open to let in the breeze as it was a sultry night.
Roy’s eyes were fixed on her as she cuddled up to him, arms round his neck. She ached to stop the time speeding by before he would have to hurry off, back down the road. The clock said just before ten.
‘We’re safe for about another hour.’ She sighed.
Roy gently ran his finger down her cheek, then wriggled it between the buttons of her blouse. She felt him stroking the little cleft between her breasts.
She undid the top button of her blouse, but he stopped her. ‘No – let me do it.’
His hands looked dark in the dusky light, especially against the white of her breasts once he had removed her little camisole. He let out an excited rush of breath.
‘God, woman, you’re beautiful . . .’
She had never been touched like this before. Not with this gentle attentiveness. Harry was quite rough, keen to get his own pleasure over with. Roy took his time, stroking her nipples, his pleasure found also in hers.
Without a thought she whispered, close to his neck, ‘Come upstairs.’
And they crept upstairs, holding hands like children, as if unable to let go of each other, and once inside he pulled her close, enveloping her, kissing her neck, her shoulders, his body taut with desire against her. When they made love it was a revelation to her, her own excitement, because of what she felt for him, the way every part of her, her body, her feelings, responded to him all at once. She lay with him afterwards, wrapped round him, awed.
‘I’ve never known it like that before,’ she whispered, eventually.
He made a low, joyful sound.
‘It’s amazing, isn’t it? If you do it right.’
‘It’s not doing it right. It’s you.’ She nuzzled against his neck. ‘I need it to be you.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
It was such a little time they had together, those precious hours in the summer months.
Violet had never been so happy. Her gaze, uplifted by love, saw everything differently. The old street which Harry had so longed to leave, with its sooty-faced houses and chimneypots, was now the most beautiful place ever, because it was Roy’s street, and the place where they loved one another. She put out of her mind the fact that it was Iris’s street as well.
‘You look nice,’ the other girls at work said. ‘What’re you taking – can I have some of it?’
Violet often wondered whether Muriel guessed. If she did, she never said a word. She was in any case courting with Dickie, a jolly, freckle-faced Catholic boy from Armagh who’d come to England to work in munitions. Even so, sometimes Violet caught Muriel looking at her with her candid blue eyes in a way which made her think, she knows. She didn’t like keeping secrets from her, but what else could she do? All that she had with Roy, the talking, his love, was the most wonderful thing she had ever known.
And then it all began to go wrong.
Her two neighbours, Mrs McEvoy and Mrs Smith, were out that morning, aprons on, kneeling by their front steps with pails of water and scrubbing-brushes. Neither of them went out to work. As Violet came out with the girls, their talk stopped abruptly and there was a silent, frosty atmosphere. Mrs McEvoy p
ut her head down and went to work vigorously with her scrubbing-brush, but Mrs Smith stared up at her. There was a spiteful, knowing expression on her face.
‘Morning,’ Violet said, shooing Joyce and Linda ahead of her.
There was no reply, and when she glanced back Mrs Smith was still watching her, saying something to Mrs McEvoy.
She knew then. Whispering had begun in the neighbourhood. But she didn’t want to admit it. The next evening, after dark, a note was slipped under her door. It had obviously been written in a hurry:
Dearest Vi,
See if you can meet me tomorrow night by the bandstand in the rec. I must see you.
Yours, Roy.
The time was coming when she’d have to tell Muriel. If tongues were wagging she would hear something anyway, and Violet desperately needed someone to be on her side. Already every time she stepped out of the house she felt as if everyone was watching and the street was full of prattling tongues and pointing fingers, all condemning her.
She was in such a state the next night, knowing she was out to meet Roy later, that once the girls were upstairs she poured out the whole story to Muriel, who was standing by the table, washing up. She took this outburst quietly.
‘I just can’t help it,’ Violet sobbed. ‘I love him so much . . .’
Muriel laid a cup on the table to drain and wiped her hands on her apron, looking gravely across at Violet.
‘I know you do. It’s always been written all over your face.’
Violet wiped her eyes, sniffing. ‘Did you know he’s been coming here?’
‘Not for sure. I had a feeling. How did you . . . I mean what about the girls?’
‘It was all right. They never saw.’ She shrugged. ‘What else could we do?’
Muriel came over to her and with unusual tenderness put her arms round her.
‘I know. I can see. I mean, you and your husband, Harry – I could see there was not much between you. But he is your husband. And Roy’s got a wife . . . You’re heading for trouble, darlin’.’
