by Julie Cohen
Afterwards, he filled up the bathtub with hot water and they climbed in together. He took the tap end and she leaned against the other end and they faced each other, their legs bent. Emily wet a flannel and ran it over his chest and shoulders. He was slender but strong, and he had dark hair in the centre of his chest. She had never seen a grown man’s body so closely: the play of muscles underneath the skin, the frank shape of his shoulders and the hair under his arms.
He had touched her with such tenderness and eagerness. He had whispered her name in her ear.
She scooped up water in her hands and dribbled it on to his hair, slicking it to his head. Wet, it was glossy as one of the dark pieces of black flint on the Lowestoft beach. She massaged shampoo through it, feeling the soft strands in her fingers, the hard shape of his skull. He bent his head so she could reach him better and she saw the nape of his neck. There was a white line of skin where his hair had stopped him from tanning as much as the rest of his neck and face. It was vulnerable, somehow: secret.
‘That feels great,’ Robbie murmured. ‘Nobody’s washed my hair for me since I was a child.’
She lathered white foam through all of it, and then rinsed it with water scooped in her hands. She wondered if the future held a child with dark hair, who she would wash in warm water like Robbie’s mother had washed him. The slender, pure back of a child’s neck, untouched by the sun.
He raised his head and wiped water out of his eyes. ‘Your turn. Come round here.’
She manoeuvred herself around, splashing water over the side of the bath, so that her back was resting against his chest.
Nakedness was surprisingly easy. Any self-consciousness she’d had was erased by how Robbie appreciated her body, how he made room for her in his arms and against him. He was comfortable in his own skin and made her feel comfortable in hers. He wet her hair the same way she’d wet his and she felt his fingers rubbing in the shampoo. He teased out the tangles that the wind and the pillows had made.
‘I’ve never washed a girl’s hair before,’ he said. Drowsy with warm water and his skin and pleasure, she thought of asking him how many girls he had taken to bed before her. He was clearly experienced. But the thought didn’t bother her as much as it could have, not nearly as much as it had bothered her when she’d first met him. She’d had no desire for her first time to be with someone clumsy and awkward.
It would have been that way with Christopher, she thought, and the idea was uncomfortable enough that she bit her lip. They both would have known the mechanics, and none of the reality.
‘What are you thinking?’ Robbie asked her.
‘I was supposed to be on a date tonight,’ she told him. ‘My best friend Christopher wanted to take me to dinner.’
He twisted her clean hair into a soft rope and laid it on her shoulder. ‘Oh no. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s all right. I’d rather be here.’
‘I wasn’t really sorry.’ He kissed her cheek and settled her back against him. ‘Is he in love with you?’
‘No, he’s . . . ’
But was he? Why would he ask her out, why risk their friendship, if he wasn’t?
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘I’m here with you.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘He’s sweet and kind. He’s studying medicine, too.’
‘Sounds like I’ll have to fight him when I get back from Italy.’
She laughed. ‘No. Please don’t.’
‘What was he like when he asked you out? Was he all cool and casual, or was he nervous?’
‘He was nervous. Unlike you, when you asked me to come here with you.’
‘I was nervous when I asked you. I’m just really good at hiding it.’
She hit his arm, splashing water. ‘You weren’t nervous at all. You’re a cocky sod.’
‘Cocky sod,’ he repeated, imitating her accent, badly. Then he kissed her ear. ‘I was nervous,’ he whispered.
Desire filled her, melting and new and clean. She leaned back against him as his hands smoothed down her body.
When she awoke she knew she was alone before she opened her eyes or stretched out her hand. They had fallen asleep wrapped around each other, his breath in her hair and his heartbeat in her ears, and he had become entwined in her dreams: bright sea, kind wind, warm skin, the soft touch of his mouth.
Sun leaked through the crack in the curtains. She sat up. His clothes were gone from the chair, his shoes from the floor. But there was an emptiness in the room that told her anyway. She reached for her watch on the bedside table to see what time it was, whether she could go after him to say goodbye before he sailed, and saw the piece of paper, carefully folded, beside it.
It was hotel stationery, written in biro. She’d never seen his handwriting before but she would have recognised it anywhere as belonging to him: it was neat and confident, with bold downstrokes and full stops that dented the page.
Emily, my sweetheart,
You are a beautiful sleeper. I didn’t want to wake you. And it’s better to leave this way anyway – this way I get to set off remembering you in this bed, with that sleeping smile on your face. Instead of watching you disappear behind me in the distance.
I’ve left some money on the dresser for your ticket back to Cambridge. I don’t think you’ll have as much fun hiding in the lavatory without me. Besides, in only two days, you’ve made me into a reformed character.
This isn’t goodbye, though. I’ll be back. I know you don’t want promises but this is one. I am not going to say goodbye to you, Emily. Don’t forget me.
I love you.
Robbie
Chapter Thirty-Two
August 1962
Blickley, Norfolk
August had rained and rained. Emily hung up her hat and shook the flowers she’d cut in the garden out the front door, to get rid of the worst of the water. In the kitchen, her mother was sitting at the table frowning at the crossword. She glanced up when Emily entered.
‘Men don’t care about flowers,’ she said. ‘You’re wasting your efforts, and my dahlias.’
‘You always put a bud vase in the spare room when Christopher comes to visit.’ Emily went to the sink to fill a vase.
‘Christopher is different. He appreciates the finer things.’ Mum put down her pencil. ‘You don’t even know this boy, Emily.’
‘I know him well enough. He’s only coming for a visit, anyway.’
‘You’re too young to throw yourself away on someone. All that work you did to get into Cambridge—’
‘I have no intention of throwing myself away. It’s a visit, Mother. He’s been in Italy and Malta and the Maldives and he’s coming to England for a little while.’
‘You don’t even know how long. He didn’t say, did he?’
Her cheeks flushed at this. ‘He won’t be any inconvenience to you. I’ll do all the extra housework.’
‘You’re dropping everything for him already. You have work to do, don’t you? For your medical degree that you’re so proud of? If you’re going to be a doctor, the summer isn’t meant to be gadding away with boys. Your father has been very generous—’
‘I’m not gadding. I’m not running away with him. He’s coming to visit. I’ve plenty of time to study.’
‘Because women get trapped, Emily. If they’re not careful. You can find all of your dreams disappearing, just from making one mistake.’
‘Mother.’ Her cheeks flushed harder. ‘I’m not an actual fool.’
‘Well. I hope not. Because it’s not just your career that’s at stake, it’s your entire future. You could throw away your reputation – everything. You hardly know this man, and after he’s gone you could find that no decent man would want to—’
Her father came into the kitchen, whistling, and Charlotte broke off. She picked up her pencil and wen
t back to her crossword.
Emily wished that she’d stayed in Cambridge for the summer. Some of the other girls from her college had rented flats and found jobs. She could be preparing her own room for Robbie’s visit, purely happy, instead of arguing with her mother about it. But Polly had wanted her home for the summer, and her father had offered to let her sit in with him on his practice.
He filled a glass of water from the tap. ‘Two o’clock, is it, the train?’ he asked Emily.
‘Yes, two.’
‘I’ll be ready with the car.’ He glanced at the crossword over Charlotte’s shoulder, and left the room again. Emily, rearranging the flowers, didn’t dare say anything to her mother. She finished and picked up the vase to leave.
‘It’s that you hardly know him,’ her mother said suddenly. ‘You know nothing about him. Whereas Christopher—’
‘Christopher is my friend. A very good friend, but nothing more.’
‘You’re both going to be doctors. You have so much in common. And he’s got wonderful connections, which—’
‘I don’t care about connections.’
‘You may not, but people do. He could make everything so much easier for you. It’s not something to be underestimated, Emily.’
‘I could never marry Christopher. Not even to please you.’
‘Oh well,’ said her mother, ‘perhaps all of this is for nothing, and this Robbie won’t even show up. From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t seem horribly reliable.’
Emily left the kitchen with her heart pounding and her fingers slick on the vase.
Emily huddled in her mac on the platform. The train was late. He might not have caught this one; his letter had been sent from France three days ago. Were winds predictable in the English Channel? Could you get lost there? Were the trains running properly from Portsmouth? Why hadn’t he rung her when he’d arrived in England? Maybe he wasn’t here yet. Maybe she’d spent three days in a frenzy of nerves for nothing; maybe she’d had her hair cut and bought a new lipstick and a new dress for no reason. Maybe it had all been a waste: all the careful preparation of the spare room, the flowers in the vase, the endless assurances to her mother that there wouldn’t be any extra trouble, that she didn’t know how long he was staying but it was going to be fine, that she was sure that he liked whatever she cared to cook, that yes, perhaps it was odd to have a strange man to stay but he had been writing to her for months, Mother.
She had not told her parents about how he told her in his letters that he loved her and he was going to marry her. She couldn’t quite believe those parts, anyway. They seemed a bit too much. She read the parts about Robert’s journey over and over again, picturing them in her mind. But the declarations of love she skimmed through, almost embarrassed, and then a sort of hunger would seize her minutes later and she had to reread them and murmur the words to herself, over and over again, until they were lodged in her mind. My sweetheart my darling my beautiful girl my love my only my treasured. Mine. I love you.
She touched the words with the tip of her finger and smudged the pencil and then saw how the smudge stayed on her finger. Words from his hand transferred to her skin.
Forty-eight hours, they had spent together.
Maybe he wasn’t coming. Maybe her mother was right.
She turned up her collar.
Polly was convinced that Robbie was coming. The letters came in packets, posted from whatever port Robbie happened to be at, and since Emily had been down for the summer holidays, Polly insisted that Emily read them to her as soon as they arrived. ‘From that man who rescued you in the river? That’s so romantic, Em. He was so swoony.’
Emily read Polly the descriptions of the journey and the places Robbie was visiting. She left out the words of love, even though Polly kept on pestering her to read out ‘the smooshy stuff’. She strongly suspected that if she hadn’t hidden the letters, Polly would have read every one. She had to make sure she intercepted the postman, or else Polly was liable to open them herself.
Emily checked her watch and then peered down the track. The train was fifteen minutes late and there was no sign of it.
Her father was in the car outside the station, waiting. He would have lit his pipe and be reading the paper. Would he like Robbie? He had to like Robbie. Dad liked everyone; he was a popular GP. He could hardly walk down the High Street without him being hailed by half a dozen people, at least, eager to talk to him, pass on news, chat about the weather. Sometimes they thanked him. When Emily was by his side, she felt, by proximity, that glow of being liked, of having well-earned respect. You didn’t get that by not liking people.
But she had never brought a boyfriend home before. Well, Christopher. Her father and mother both adored Christopher. But Christopher hadn’t visited this holiday. He had gone to the south of France with his family and she had only received very cautious letters. Very polite.
Polly hadn’t clamoured to read those.
Faintly, the sound of a train. Emily’s heart thumped and she started forward, leaning, desperate for the sight of the train. It was there, a black shape in the rain, growing too slowly bigger.
She stood on tiptoes and searched the windows as it pulled up to the platform. Where was he? The pause between the train stopping and the doors opening was years long, unbearable. An elderly couple alighted, tugging luggage: a mother with a child held by the hand, three men in suits, a woman carrying a small dog and then, at last, sure-footed, easy in movement, dark-haired, wearing the same battered jacket, same bag slung over his shoulder. It was him.
He spotted her at the same moment and they ran towards each other and then she was in his arms.
Why was this so familiar? When she’d spent so much more time away from him than with him? Two days, two nights, and he was imprinted on her forever?
He kissed her and all that rain fell on them and neither one of them noticed.
Her father got out of the car when they approached, Robbie’s arm around Emily’s waist. He knocked the plug out of his pipe.
‘Dr Greaves,’ said Robbie, holding out his hand. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, sir. I’m Robert Brandon.’
They shook hands heartily and Emily was relieved to see that her father’s smile was genuine. ‘Emily didn’t tell us you were American.’
‘Didn’t she? Afraid that you wouldn’t open your doors to a Yank?’
‘Not at all,’ said Emily’s father. ‘Let me take that bag for you.’
‘Wouldn’t consider it.’ Robbie stowed it in the back seat and made to get in after it, but Emily shook her head and pointed to the front seat.
Sitting behind him, not dizzied by his gaze or his touch, she could see that he was more tanned than he’d been the last time she’d seen him, and he’d had a haircut recently. Perhaps even since he’d come to England, in order to meet her.
He turned around and grinned at her as her father started up the car and she smiled back at him, her whole body beaming.
‘So you’re a sailor?’ her father asked, pulling away from the station.
‘A sailor and a boat builder, sir. I’m not good enough for your daughter. I’m sorry about that.’
‘Well, I think she can decide that for herself. You met her in landlocked Cambridge, I gather?’
‘Yes, sir. I was a tourist. We had a stop off in Suffolk on our way to Italy to deliver a yacht.’
‘And what are your plans for the future?’
‘That very much depends on Emily.’
She half-listened to their words as they chatted in the front seat about Robbie’s journey, the places he’d seen, recognising names from his letters. Her eyes were drinking in glimpses of Robbie, and her mind was listening to the tone of their voices, rather than what they said. She was her own woman; she was going to be a doctor; she should not care whether her father approved of her choice in boyfriends. But she did, a gre
at deal. And her father was so habitually polite and friendly to everyone that it was impossible to tell whether he really approved of Robbie, or whether he was just being himself.
Her mouth still burned from his kisses. She wanted to reach over the seat to sink her fingers in his hair, trace the outline of his ear. She woke sometimes thinking he was beside her in bed. She was glad she was riding in the back seat, so her father couldn’t see this desire lighting her up from within. She had no idea how she was going to hide it from her family.
She wondered if she’d be able to sneak into his room during the night. It was next to hers, at the end of the corridor. But the floor squeaked; she’d tried it already.
‘What a beautiful home,’ Robbie said from the front seat and she came back to her surroundings. They’d pulled up in front of their house, a Victorian flint and brick building with white-painted sash windows and a glossy green front door. She looked at it from Robbie’s point of view. It must seem boxy to him, clumsy, maybe, after spending months on board a sleek, elegant sailboat.
Polly came rushing out of the house, hair flying. ‘Hello hello hello hello hello do you remember me?’ she cried as soon as they got out of the car.
‘Of course I do, Paulina,’ said Robbie, and Polly squealed and gave him a hug.
‘Come on, come out of the rain, and I will give you a tour of the house. Mummy has a headache and she says she won’t be up before teatime, so we have to be quiet as mice.’
Robbie winked at Emily as he retrieved his bag from the back seat. Polly immediately grabbed his hand and tugged him into the house. As they followed, Emily restrained herself from asking her father what he thought. He didn’t speak until they’d gone through the front door. ‘Very cordial young man, isn’t he? He seems excited to be seeing the world.’
She didn’t quite trust herself to answer one way or another; she knew she’d give away how much it mattered to her. The fact that her mother had gone up to bed with a headache didn’t bode well, but if her father liked Robbie, he might be able to sway her . . .
