While these thoughts troubled Ernest’s mind, his sister Grace peeped through her fingers at Philip Saville, the vicar’s sixteen-year-old son who, having been educated at a public school and therefore out of sight during term time, had suddenly turned from a freckled schoolboy into a handsome, golden-haired youth as tall as his father. Grace wondered idly if he had kissed a girl yet, and her mouth curved in a satisfied little smile as she remembered Nick’s kisses when they met at the Everham crossroads on her way home. She stood her bicycle up against the ancient oak tree there, and took her place beside it for ten delicious minutes or more to enjoy Nick’s kisses and his increasingly bold hands – she almost gasped aloud at the memory, but checked herself in time. Oh, what would she do after he was sent to France?
Beside her Tom Munday echoed Mr Saville’s prayers for peace. The news of a battle on the river Marne sounded confused and indecisive, though it seemed that this time the Germans were in retreat; but the shock of Mons lingered in the minds of the public, and Tom Munday was becoming less sure of an early victory as the days went by. A hundred thousand men had enlisted to fight for their king and country, yet the recruitment campaign went on, and Lord Kitchener was demanding a hundred thousand more, which surely meant that he must be expecting a longer war than had been predicted. Suppose, just suppose that Ernest was persuaded – or compelled – to join the army and be sent to France to halt the German invasion, and suppose…but no, Tom could not allow such hideous thoughts space in his brain. He simply commended his wife and three children to the Lord’s care.
Violet Munday also prayed for peace in the world, especially in Europe. How tiresome this war was, just as Isabel was about to be married, the first of her circle of friends! Their neighbours would stare at her clergyman bridegroom, whose father was also a man of the cloth, and as the bride’s mother, Violet would reflect her share of the glory. But… Violet had been truly shocked on her one visit to Bethnal Green and Mark’s East End parish. What a dirty, disreputable place for her daughter to live in, with people like that rattletrap Mrs Clements whom Violet had disliked on sight. The mean streets, the pubs and pawnshops – and that ugly school building where Isabel taught, though the girl insisted that she loved her work – had upset Violet and brought back her earlier doubts; now her chief hope was that Mark would soon be transferred to a more respectable parish. Old Mr Storey seemed to think it likely, though he’d gently reminded her and Tom that Christ came into the world to save sinners, and that Mark must answer that call. Mrs Munday had agreed, but was glad the wedding was to be held here at St Peter’s, so nobody need see where Isabel was going.
On Sundays the bar of the Railway Hotel opened at three in the afternoon, with the man known as Tubby in charge; Charlie Coggins did a little under-the-counter selling of pies and pasties, as the restaurant had to be closed all day. The undersized young man who usually assisted at the bar was allowed Sundays off, and with the surge of uniformed men seeking refreshment, Tubby resented the extra work involved.
‘Pity young Ratty can’t come in an’ lend a hand, CC,’ he grumbled to the boss who had come to help serve at the bar.
‘The poor lad’s got to have some time off, same as the girls,’ replied Coggins, giving out two pints of bitter with a pork pie. ‘They work jolly hard, do Madge and Grace, and keep the place cheerful!’
‘Huh! They certainly do their job well, when it comes to keeping the lads entertained,’ returned Tubby spitefully. ‘’Specially that one from North Camp – I s’pose you know she meets ’em after hours?’
‘Does she? Are you sure o’ that, Tubby? Have you caught her at it?’
‘Don’t need to, I ’ear ’er layin’ ’er plans – “see yer by the usual tree”, that sort o’ thing. And mark my words, when she gets knocked up, it’ll be your fault, my fault, anybody’s fault ’cept ’ers. Ye’re too trustin’, CC.’
‘And you’d better watch your mouth, Tupman, with ears open all around,’ answered the boss sharply, distancing himself by giving the man his proper name, which infuriated the barman.
‘Couple o’ sluts,’ he muttered under his breath, wiping a glass so vigorously that it broke in his hand and cut his thumb. ‘Bugger!’ he said aloud, to the amusement of the young servicemen waiting for their drinks; they were new faces, for Grace’s lieutenant Nick had been sent to France.
Charlie Coggins privately decided to have a quiet talk with the two girls at some time during the coming week, but he suspected his barman of jealousy rather than true moral indignation.
The October wedding more than fulfilled Mrs Munday’s expectations, and gave North Camp a midweek treat to take their minds off the war for one afternoon. The sky was clear, and a mild autumnal sun shone down on Isabel in her virginal bridal gown and veil, accompanied by her sister Grace in pink, clutching a garden posy of Michaelmas daisies and bestowing her merry glances on all and sundry.
St Peter’s Church was well filled, and Violet Munday’s heart swelled with pride when the bride arrived with her father in Lady Neville’s own carriage, lent for the occasion by that beneficent lady who arrived at the church with her daughter a full quarter of an hour early, and then despatched the carriage to 47 Pretoria Road. Tom Munday had done some intricate woodwork in the drawing room of Hassett Manor, and this was his reward. Mrs Goddard would never be able to match that when Betty married, thought Mrs Munday, giving her neighbours a condescending nod. On the groom’s side of the aisle sat Mark’s parents and his sister Mrs Reynolds with her husband and four children; they had offered the couple the use of the bailiff’s cottage on their farmland for a two-night stay after the wedding, and this had been gratefully accepted.
The service opened with the Twenty-third Psalm, and when the time came for Mr Saville to ask, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ Tom Munday, who had held his daughter’s arm tightly on their walk up the aisle, now led her forward to stand beside Mark Storey in his black cassock and surplice, an ordained priest in the Church of England. Both bride and groom made their vows clearly in the silence that fell upon the packed congregation, and as Mrs Munday wiped away a tear, Tom felt a tremor go through him, a moment of apprehension, almost of fear, for the future of this beautiful woman who was his daughter, leaving her parents’ home for whatever her husband could provide for her.
When the couple had been legally joined in matrimony, and signed the parish register, their radiant faces as they progressed down the aisle were a measure of reassurance to Tom. To the strains of Mendelssohn’s ‘Wedding March’ they looked upon a sea of faces, all beaming goodwill towards them, from Lady Neville to Mary Cooper who sat with Mrs Yeomans on the groom’s side of the church, the bride’s side being filled to overflowing. Mr and Mrs Eddie Cooper and their little boy sat at some distance from Mary, with the Birds, Lansdownes and Goddards, and Miss Daniells was given a place of honour beside the gentry. Ernest, dressed in a well-cut grey suit made by Mr Bird, was grateful for Aaron’s presence at this Christian ceremony; Mr and Mrs Schelling had sent their polite regrets, but a pleasant surprise awaited Ernest when Mr and Mrs Woodman entered with their son the Rev. Paul Woodman and his wife, daughter and young baby, all the way from Bristol. There were smiles and handshakes, and Ernest reflected on his past devotion to Paul which had led him eventually to Aaron, and was happy to see the two of them talking in a friendly way.
A family group photograph was taken by a professional man from Everham, and the wedding reception was held at the Jubilee Hall, North Camp’s recognition of Queen Victoria’s Diamond Jubilee in 1897; it was used for assemblies of all kinds: weddings, funerals, parties and public meetings, though as church property it was not hired out for dances, only such dancing as might end a private party like this. A substantial cold buffet was laid out, at its centre a two-tier cake made by Mrs Munday and decorated by Mrs Lansdowne with edible white roses made from icing sugar and inedible silver leaves arranged round a silver horseshoe. Isabel and Mark were assured that this was North Camp’s w
edding of the year, and their parents were congratulated, though Mr and Mrs Storey senior were gazed upon with a certain amount of awe. Grace stood at the centre of a group of young people that included handsome young Philip Saville, clearly impressed by her looks and pretty manners. (And now that Nick had gone to fight for his country, where was the harm in a little innocent flirtation?) Tom noticed that Eddie Cooper had left his wife and son for a few minutes’ talk with Mary and Mrs Yeomans, and hoped that it might be the start of a reconciliation.
When it was time for the bride’s father to give a speech, Tom’s was brief but straight from his heart, referring to the ‘precious treasure’ that he and his wife had today given in marriage to a worthy husband. When his voice began to shake a little, he sat down abruptly to loud applause. The bridegroom’s speech fully echoed this sentiment, and Mark said that the Lord had blessed him indeed. Making reference to the two-year separation required of Isabel and himself, he said that it had only served to deepen and strengthen their love, culminating in this day of days. There were enthusiastic nods of agreement and more applause.
At five o’clock the newly-weds left for their brief honeymoon, travelling with the Reynolds family in their open carriage. Taking leave of their daughter, Mr and Mrs Munday kissed her, and Tom silently echoed the words of the psalm sung at their wedding: Thy loving kindness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life. Let it be so for them, O Lord, let it be so!
Daylight was fading on their arrival at the farm, situated between Hook and Dogmersfield in the quiet Hampshire countryside. The cottage usually occupied by the farm bailiff and his wife was a quarter of a mile from the farmhouse, and Sylvia Reynolds unlocked it for her brother and sister-in-law.
‘There’s a fire laid ready to be lit, and the bed’s aired,’ she told them. ‘There’s bread, milk, butter, bacon and eggs in the larder for your breakfast, and you can come up to the house any time you like,’ she said with kindly tact.
‘Good old Sylvia, she knows we want to be left alone!’ said Mark, smiling.
‘Yes, alone together at last, dearest Mark!’ Isabel exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. ‘Husband and wife!’
He held her close, and kissed her forehead. ‘Dear wife, your happiness is everything to me. Your father gave me a charge, to…to care for you as he has done, and to make you happy.’
She laid her head on his shoulder. ‘Dearest Mark, I’ll be happy as long as we’re together – you need have no doubts about it, you solemn old thing!’ She smiled up into his worried eyes. ‘Let’s have supper – bread and butter will be fine, and I’ll light the fire and get a kettle on the hob. After that, we’ll be ready for – well, it’s been a long day, and…’ Somehow she could not bring herself to utter the word bed, though she longed to lie in his arms and yield herself to him completely.
And Mark knew that it could not be. He knew her to be a virgin, like himself, and that she might not expect their marriage to be consummated on this first night, but sooner or later she would wonder why he did not possess her fully as his wife. She was so innocent and trusting, and he could not bear to lose even a part of that trust; he thought of her father and the practical counsel his own father had given him, but was fearful of upsetting or offending her. He tried to pray for guidance, but it didn’t seem a proper subject for prayer, and the words wouldn’t form in his head.
And yet his plea was answered, above all that he could hope for or imagine.
They agreed that they didn’t want any supper other than a cup of tea, and took to the large, downy feather bed in which the bailiff and his wife usually slept. Mark caught his breath at the sight of her lying there in her white nightgown, her hair spread out on the pillow. He wore a new nightshirt, one of three that his mother had made for him, with the unusual feature of a good-sized pocket. With the nightshirts had come the gift of a dozen large white handkerchiefs, one of which now resided in the pocket.
He lay down beside her and put his left arm under her shoulders; she snuggled close to him, and with his right hand he stroked her body, marvelling at the beauty of her firm breasts under the cotton nightgown, the softness of her belly, the curve of her hips, thighs, knees, feet…
‘Oh, Mark, I love you.’ Words from the Song of Solomon came to her mind:
His left hand is under my head, and his right hand doth embrace me.
He felt himself becoming aroused; his heartbeat drummed in his ears, and his breathing quickened, though he checked himself from making any sound. She gave a little moan, and closing her eyes, she slowly began to pull up the nightgown, higher and higher until he could lay his hand on the soft fuzz of hair between her thighs and that secret place where no man had ever been. She too felt her heart racing, and caught her breath; she made no attempt to remove his hand, but spread out her legs and gave his forefinger entry, sighing as she felt it move inside her. There was one sharp stab of pain which made her gasp momentarily, but it was quickly overcome by an overwhelming sensation of pleasure as he put a second finger inside. She felt it as exquisite beyond description, this special bond between Mark and herself, between a wife and her husband.
My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door… I rose up to open to my beloved.
She writhed from side to side as a wave of pleasure swept over her, followed by another and another – and then a climax that tingled and shivered throughout her whole body; she found that she was sobbing, but whether crying or laughing she could hardly tell. And then Mark was kissing her, thanking her, murmuring words of love as their shared passion gradually subsided. After a few minutes she gave a long, contented sigh and drifted into sweet, deep sleep. She did not see Mark attending to himself with the handkerchief, or know of the relief which swept over him – for it had been a beautiful shared experience, untroubled by the possibility of conception, for which he knew he would be censured by his father, her parents and most of all by himself. She was safe from his lust, and if it meant another two years to wait for parenthood, so be it. And so he slept beside her, having breathed a heartfelt prayer of thanks.
Grace Munday was feeling distinctly out of sorts. She had received one postcard from Nick at what they were calling ‘the front’, which had told her very little about where he was or how he was, just that he was looking forward to seeing her again, but no indication of when that would be. Her work at the Railway Hotel continued to be demanding, and worst of all, Mr Coggins had summoned her into his office to ask if she had met any of their patrons, especially those in the armed forces, out of working hours. At first she had firmly denied it, but he looked unconvinced.
‘I’ve told you already, Miss Munday, that I can’t be responsible for your safety if you’re foolish enough to meet anybody outside. If anything untoward happened – and I’m sure you know what I mean – the Railway Hotel and its staff would bear the brunt of the blame, myself in particular. So I’m asking you again, have you met that lieutenant, what was his name, Nick somebody – or any other o’ the military who come in here?’
Grace burst into tears, and fished out a handkerchief to hold to her eyes.
‘It’s true that I met him once or twice, but he’s an officer and a gentleman, Mr Coggins!’ she sobbed. ‘And now he’s gone to fight for his country, and I miss him so much!’
The sight of her tears moved Mr Coggins, who coughed and told her not to cry.
‘Only just don’t let it happen again, Miss Munday – Grace – because if I hear of it, you’ll be dismissed without notice, do you understand?’
Full of apologies and promises, Grace persuaded Mr Coggins that he could rest assured it would not happen again. He told her to run along, and encouraged her to hope that Nick would come home safe and sound. She thanked him and left the office determined to find out which snake in the grass had been telling tales about her. It must be that sly blonde bitch Madge Fraser who was jealous because Nick hadn’t looked at her. Yes, that would be it – and everybody knew Madge was carrying on with a sergeant from S
outh Camp who’d already got a child by a housemaid at Hassett Manor. Wait till I get her alone, thought Grace, I’ll have her guts for garters!
But Madge soon answered her back in no uncertain terms. ‘Don’t start getting’ on at me, Grace Munday, I’ve already ’ad a dressin’ down from the boss. ’E says I’ll be sacked on the spot if ’e ’ears I bin meetin’ Sergeant Samms again!’
‘What, you as well?’ Grace stared back at her, open-mouthed. ‘Where did you meet him?’
‘On that bit o’ waste ground be’ind the ’Ippodrome.’
‘Did anybody see you?’
‘Nobody who’d bother about it. That boy Coggins got from the Union, ’e might’ve seen us, but ’e wouldn’t say nothin’ –’ardly ever opens ’is mouth.’
‘What, young Ratty? Did he see you? Good heavens, Madge, that horrible Tubby’s obviously been using the snivelling little beggar to spy on us! I can see it all now, Tubby’s never liked me.’
‘So there’s nothin’ we can do, Grace – he’s got us over a barrel, ain’t ’e?’
‘Don’t worry, Madge, I’ll find a way to stop his tricks.’ Grace’s dark eyes narrowed. ‘Only you’d better not have any more hanky-panky behind the Hippodrome if you want to keep your job.’
Madge grimaced. ‘No fear, not with ’im on me tail.’
‘Tell you what, Madge, let’s both do ourselves up this evening, as if we were going out to meet somebody – and we’ll meet each other behind the Hippodrome, say at half past six.’
‘But what good will that do?’
‘Just an idea. Meet me there at half past six, right? I’ll come a different way.’
The Carpenter's Children Page 11
