The Tender Night

by Lilian Peake

  Warmth enveloped her, of embarrassment, confusion—and humiliation. Because he did not move a muscle to follow up his victory. He must have known, he must have felt her response to the look they had exchanged. Man that he was, he must have guessed her feelings, her needs, the unbearable desire he had, by that narrow, assessing look, aroused in her.

  But he merely turned his head towards the boys. Moments later he joined them.

  It was evening and the boys had settled down to sleep. Shelley was scanning the sky and noting, for the first time since they had left home, that clouds were forming over the hills. They did not look ominous, so she was not worried.

  She had changed after tea into trousers and long-sleeved white top. It would be pleasant, she decided, to go for a walk. She had to do something to fill in the lonely evening.

  There had been no sign of Craig for some time and she assumed he was reading or writing in his tent. She glanced in that direction and saw that he was standing outside it. He had changed, too, into a roll-necked navy shirt and trousers. He made a splash like spilt ink against the once-white canvas of the tent.

  His thumbs were hooked over his belt and he was looking her over lazily. ‘Going for a walk?’ he asked. As she nodded and turned to go, he joined her without invitation.

  So her bid for freedom from heartache had been thwarted. The cause of it was going with her. She was glad they could not venture far from the children and that their shared walk would consequently be a short one.

  They were silent and Shelley wished she could find a way of breaking it. A sideways glance at his profile told her nothing. She hazarded, ‘Craig? What are you going to do about the school?’

  They had walked a good number of paces before he answered. ‘I’ve been doing a great deal of thinking this last day or so.’ Another long pause, with only the sound of their shoes brushing against the grasses to break it. ‘As yet I’ve reached no decision.’

  ‘Will you consult your mother first?’

  ‘No, why should I? She’s given me the school, put the whole damned lot on my plate.’

  ‘Would your—’ she looked up at him, ‘would your stepfather be able to advise?’

  ‘I don’t need advice.’

  Colour crept up her neck and over her cheeks at his terseness. ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘Talking of my stepfather,’ he spoke slowly and there was a hint of a smile on his face, ‘he has a daughter. I told you that, didn’t I?’ Shelley glanced at him again, wondering what was coming. ‘But I didn’t tell you that in the course of my conversation with my mother she told me she was looking forward to my meeting her new stepdaughter. Myra’s the name.’ He looked down at Shelley reflectively, and still there was that odd ghost of a smile. Was the turmoil she was experiencing, Shelley wondered, showing in her eyes?

  ‘According to my mother, Myra’s just right for me. She’s—let me try to remember the exact words. She’s sweet, placid, has all the social graces and is decorative into the bargain. Academically, it seems, she’s not too bright, but as my mother reminded me, I never did admire intelligent women.’ Now the smile, was tinged with malice. ‘What do you think? Should I take myself a wife, especially one with all those admirable qualities. I must admit I’m getting bored with being a bachelor.’

  His tone betrayed that he intended to goad and goaded Shelley was. She stood in his path and faced him squarely. ‘Sweet, placid, malleable, decorative—what more could you want? And dim-witted into the bargain. Yes, marry the girl. Although you swear you’re not the marrying kind, tie yourself to a lifeless, dumb, good-to-look-at socialite and spend the rest of your life regretting it. It’s no more than you deserve!’ she flung at him, and turned and raced back to the camp, leaving him looking after her.

  Shelley remained in her tent until she heard Craig go into his, then she gathered her towel, soap and flannel and crept down to the stream. It was dusk. The sun had gone below the cloud-laden horizon. There was a chill in the air, but it did not deter Shelley from taking off her white top. She knelt beside the stream and revelled in the soft, cool water, washing her arms, neck and face.

  She towelled herself, feeling with pleasure the glow the rough surface of the towel left behind. Something, it might have been a pebble disturbed or the brisk chafe of heather against shoe, made her tense. Over her shoulder she saw that Craig, hands in pockets, was watching her.

  She sat back on her heels. ‘Please go away,’ she said, but he did not move.

  ‘Why?’ was his cool reply. ‘A man may look at a beautiful woman. I’m not touching you.’

  But he was, with his eyes. She could almost feel them. I’m not a child, she told herself. I’m no coy young girl. I’ve been on the brink of marriage. So she forced herself to tolerate his gaze. She stood, preparing to make her way back to the tent. Because of the slope of the land upwards from the stream, she had to move along the path towards him.

  As she approached he deliberately blocked the way. ‘Please,’ she whispered, ‘let me pass.’

  ‘Give me one good reason why I should.’

  Panic rose, shortening her breath and tightening her muscles. For the second time that day she could not tear her eyes from his. Her belongings were clutched to her, but one by one he took them from her, dropping them to the ground. Wildly she looked round.

  ‘There’s no one about, my sweet,’ he murmured, ‘not a single soul. All the boys are sleeping. I’ve checked.’ Then his arms were about her, his mouth over hers. His hands were moving across her shoulders, running down her arms, finding the bareness of the soft flesh around her waist. Kiss followed kiss and she could do nothing but cling and respond and meet his ardour.

  Myra ... Or it might have been Sylva. Or Janine. All the women in his life, and who knew how many more? The words drifted about her mind like seeds blown by the breeze, but her mind was dulled by the joy of his touch and the hard reality of his body against hers.

  Myra ... Shall I marry her? he’d asked. I’m growing bored, with bachelorhood.

  So the last few days he’d been bored, perhaps, with Shelley Jenner’s company, her quietness, her intelligence which he so despised?

  With an energy born of desperation, she began to struggle and to fight him off. She succeeded in freeing her mouth from his ardent lips and pressed her head away from him. ‘What’s the matter?’ she cried. ‘Are you missing the charms of your other lady friends so much that you’re using me, the only woman in sight, to fill the gap they’ve left in your bachelor life?’

  He drew a sharp breath and his fingers bruised as he took her more securely into his hold. ‘You’re no prude,’ he said. ‘That much I know from the things your sister’s let drop about you. You know as well as I do this little interlude hasn’t been a one-sided affair. Why don’t you admit that I attract you as a man as much as you attract me as a woman? Your eyes are loaded with desire, I can see that every time I look at you. So stop accusing me of making all the running. Whenever I’ve kissed you, you’ve responded like a woman who’s wanted more—and more.’

  The truths he was flinging at her had her twisting with humiliation inside and with indignant strength against the circle of his arms.

  ‘All right,’ he muttered, his eyes brilliantly angry against the darkening sky, ‘if that’s what you want...’

  He gripped her agonisingly for a few seconds more, then thrust her away and she crumpled on to the heather. He left her slumped there with her face in her hands, and went inside his tent, securing the flap.

  It was the noise that woke her, the howling of the wind across the moors, the straining and dragging of the tent against the guy ropes, the hiss of the gale through grass and heather. And the pelting of the rain on the canvas, the worn, torn and in places tattered canvas, which had stood the test of so many years, but which because it was intended only for the staff had been overlooked by Mrs. Allard when she had ordered new camping equipment.

  Shelley felt the steady, heavy drip on her forehead as she stirred uneasi
ly and opened her eyes. It was pitch dark, but when she switched on her torch, she wished she hadn’t. Above her head was a tear through which the rain was steadily penetrating. Near to it was a hole through which it was possible to see the blackness outside. The edges of the canvas were flapping and the ropes were groaning against the pegs which struggled to hold them down.

  The boys! She must go across and see them. They might be scared or shouting, and if they were it would be impossible to hear them over the whine of the wind and the drumming of the rain.

  She sat up—too quickly, because her head hit the canvas and released a deluge all over her hair, face and neck. The tear above her had widened and water was pouring through. Other holes appeared and now rain was flinging itself underneath the tent. A few more minutes and she would be flooded out.

  Her torch flickered—it needed a new battery—but she groped about and found her coat. It was saturated with water. Her pile of clothes, pitiful in the dim light, had suffered a similar fate. The tent stretched and strained, ballooning out and caving in, and all the time there was the roaring fury of the wild elements outside in the darkness.

  At the moment the tent collapsed, Shelley heard Craig shouting. But she could not answer because there was a suffocating darkness all round her, and she fought to escape from the massive enveloping weight which pulled her to the ground which was itself squelching and sodden under her hands and knees.

  She shrieked in sheer terror, fighting for breath and freedom from the claustrophobia which had her in its grip. Her name was being called, over and over again and over the howling of the wind. Hands were tearing at the canvas, pulling, lifting and after a millennium of time penetrating the soaking shroud.

  In moments she was freed and being carried through the storm to dryness, safety and sudden peace.

  ‘The boys,’ she gasped, ‘the boys...’

  ‘Sound asleep,’ was the terse answer. ‘Tents as firm as rocks.’ She was lowered on to something soft and warm. ‘Who put up your tent?’

  ‘The boys,’ she murmured. ‘They asked if they could and I let them.’

  ‘I might have known! The pegs were pushed in, not hammered. The guy ropes were twisted round them like cotton and left unsecured.’

  ‘It wasn’t only that,’ she murmured, near to tears at his tone. ‘It was the holes—’

  ‘You needn’t tell me—I know. Thanks to my mother’s gross negligence...’

  A towel was thrust into her hand. ‘Dry yourself. You’ll have to take off those clothes. I’ll lend you a sweater.’

  She shook her head like a drunken man. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘You’re not catching pneumonia, girl. I’ve enough on my hands without that.’ He watched as she wiped the rain from her face.

  ‘Your hair—here, give me that towel.’ He rubbed until she cried out to him to stop.

  ‘Th-there’s no need t-to be so rough...’

  He heard the quiver in her voice and stopped at once, flinging down the towel and standing near the entrance. When she was ready to remove her wet clothing he pulled up the hood of the anorak he was wearing and said he would see how many of her belongings he could recover from the debris.

  By the time he returned she had struggled into his sweater and a pair of trousers he had taken from his rucksack. In his arms was a bundle of clothes and other belongings. These he dumped in a pile beside her.

  Shelley thanked him and started shivering. From somewhere he produced a vacuum flask and poured a cup of steaming milk. ‘I’d prepared it in case of emergencies. But at this moment you’re in greater need than the boys.’

  Her palms handled the mug lovingly, not shrinking from the burning heat. The liquid ran over her tongue and down her throat, ending her shaking and filling her with warmth. As she handed back the mug, thanking him, Craig poured a little more milk into it and tipped it down his throat, afterwards putting the flask away.

  ‘What’s the time, Craig?’ she whispered.

  He shone the torch on his watch. ‘One o’clock.’ He looked down at her. ‘Somehow we have to sleep. Your sleeping bag’s as wet as a sponge.’ He smiled, but his eyes stayed cool. ‘You’ll have to move over, won’t you?’

  His sleeping bag was underneath her and she looked up, unbelievingly. ‘You don’t mean—?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘That we share it?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘But we can’t, we can't...’

  He unzipped his anorak and threw it down. Shelley struggled to get away from the sleeping bag. ‘I’ll sit up all night, Craig, I don’t mind. Here,’ she took a handful of bag and offered it to him, ‘have it. It’s yours. I’m not sharing it with you. I’d rather—’

  ‘Exactly what do you think I have in mind?’ The tone was biting, the lips that mouthed the words tight and furious. ‘Don’t tell me, I know. But let me tell you something. I’ve got to be attracted to a woman before I can even begin to think in those terms, let alone anything else.’

  She could hardly speak for pain—the pain of rejection which fixed her like a revolver shot straight at her heart. But she managed to say, through trembling lips, ‘This evening, you—you kissed me...’

  ‘What’s a kiss?’ he tossed at her cynically. ‘You surely aren’t equating a meeting of the lips with a meeting of the—’

  She clapped her hands over her ears. ‘Stop insulting me, for pity’s sake!’ Her head rested on her bent knees. ‘You’ve said enough...’ Her body shuddered as her mind absorbed the full meaning of his words. Her lips were stiff as she muttered, ‘You’ll have to share the sleeping bag, won’t you? Since you hate me so much, I’ll be safe, quite, quite safe...’ Her voice faded away.

  ‘No, thanks.’ He lowered himself to the ground, which was covered by a waterproof sheet. ‘I’ve changed my mind. Keep the bag. I’ll sleep here.’

  ‘But it’s cold, bitterly cold.’ She gestured to the flapping, sucked-out sides of the tent.

  ‘I’ll survive.’ He lay full length and turned his back to her.

  She had no option but to slide down into the quilted warmth of the bag and lie still. She must have slept, but only fitfully, because when she woke only an hour had passed. In the intermittent lulls in the relentless battering of the storm, she heard the deep breathing of her companion. Cautiously she reached out for his torch and switched it on, covering the light with outspread fingers.

  He was lying half on his side, quite without covering. It would be terrible to leave him exposed like that all night. The least he would catch, she argued with herself, was a cold, and probably worse. Her conscience, no, her love would not let her rest until she had provided him with some kind of cover.

  There was only one thing she could do. Firmly she put aside propriety, shyness and constraint. Strange how, once her mind had surmounted the obstacles, it was so easy for her actions to follow. She scrambled out of the sleeping bag, unzipped it and opened it out until it became a doublesized quilt.

  In a few moments she was beside Craig and the cover was over both of them. Her warmth must have reached out to him because he stirred slightly and turned, although she knew instinctively he was still asleep. His proximity was more potent than she had in her wildest moments even dreamed. She started shaking again, but trying desperately to contain her shudders so as not to bring him to full consciousness.

  It was no use. With an almost compulsive movement—as though it was a primitive impulse outside his control—he took her into his arms.

  The .shudders persisted and now his whole body was shielding her, willing her to be still. His palm stroked her hair, pressed her face to his chest. A hand ran down her body, as if by the contact it would bring the shaking to an end. But to her dismay it increased. So bitter-sweet was his touch, the hardness of his limbs, his chest against which her cheek nestled, she was coming to glowing life within his hold.

  ‘Be still, girl,’ he whispered harshly, ‘be still, for God’s sake.’ Then he groaned and it was as if som
ething within him snapped and his mouth sought hers with an urgency which caught her up in its tide. She was swept along, almost going under, and like a drowning person, pictures passed through her mind—of his kisses on the edge of the sea, after the dance, by the stream that evening ... Waves bore down upon her, lifting her high, letting her go, lifting her again, only to break over her head.

  ‘Craig, please,’ she begged against his lips, ‘please...’

  She must not drown in the whirlpool of his desires ... At last she began, feebly at first, then with every muscle in her body, to struggle against the treacherous currents. Now she knew the imperative need for self-control, the absolute necessity for stillness and tranquillity.

  He was a man, and with every fibre of his body he was reacting to the feel of a woman in his arms. It was not her, Shelley, he was responding to, but merely the fact that she was female. Didn’t she know just what he thought of her?

  Hadn’t he told her so only this evening? Brutally, frankly he had let her know in so many ways. In these intimate circumstances any woman would have had the same effect on the masculinity in him...

  The thought saddened and sobered her and she began the fight to force herself to resist his demands and grope her way back to sanity. It was the way her body stiffened and drew away that must have told him what she was attempting to do.

  ‘All right,’ he said, in a rough, brittle voice. ‘I get the message. You can’t stand my touch. Maybe it reminds you of the man you were going to marry. You probably still love him and any other man’s lovemaking repels you. But, my God, you asked for it, putting yourself beside me...’

  She began to cry. Was that what he thought of her, that she was wanton? ‘It’s not that at all,’ she sobbed, ‘I only wanted to help you—’

  It was the wrong word and of course he made the most of it. ‘Help me? You couldn’t have chosen a better way.’ The voice was dry. ‘Now come on, relax.’ More softly, ‘Relax, Shelley. You’re safe from me. I won’t violate you, girl. I’m in control.’