The Silent Tide

by Rachel Hore

  ‘For the blushing bride. Let’s hope the groom doesn’t mind,’ Stephen said mischievously, meeting Hugh’s eye across the room. Hugh merely raised one eyebrow and continued his conversation. He was talking, Isabel saw, to Jacqueline and her husband. She had already been introduced to Major Michael Wood, and wondered if she’d bored him, for he barely spoke to her. She was touched, however, by his solicitous way with Jacqueline, whom he looked for whenever she left his side. She’d thought Jacqueline quiet today, and tired-looking despite her pancaked make-up.

  Stephen was regarding her with a most serious expression. ‘My dear, I’m so glad it’s all worked out for you,’ he said. ‘My only fear now is that we’ll lose you.’

  ‘There’s no danger of that,’ she said. ‘I like my work too much.’

  ‘Hugh doesn’t mind then?’

  She sighed. ‘He knows it makes me happy. What would I do at home all day? Pull my hair out, I should think.’

  ‘I’m very relieved. You should at least have a shorter journey to the office from Kensington.’

  ‘I hope you won’t expect me quite so early in the mornings,’ she retorted, twinkling at him and he laughed.

  ‘Now that would be too much.’

  She and Hugh had made some adjustments to the flat. They’d acquired a big brass bedstead and a mattress, both second-hand. Hugh had told her she could redecorate as soon as paint and wallpaper became more generally available.

  ‘I’m very happy with everything as it is,’ she’d told him and when he looked surprised, added, ‘Why should we change it all simply for the sake of change? Though perhaps a dressing table would be nice,’ she said on further thought. ‘I’ve always wanted one.’ The only mirror was in the big double wardrobe and there was nowhere to put what he referred to as her ‘potions’.

  ‘What a shame your wife wasn’t able to come today,’ she told Stephen. They hadn’t spoken again about the matter he had revealed to her in confidence, all those months ago in the Fitzroy, although she knew that Grace had returned to live with him in London.

  He contemplated his glass. ‘She doesn’t always find these occasions easy. Too many people she doesn’t know.’

  As he said these words, it struck Isabel how one could work closely with someone day after day, and learn all sorts of things about them: how they reacted under pressure, what moved them to laughter or to anger, and yet one might not really know anything at all, not important deep things about their personal lives, their hopes and dreams. Stephen was one such. She felt so fond of him, so grateful, she wanted to hug him.

  Instead she said carefully, ‘I do understand,’ though she thought it very sad for him that he had to come alone. ‘I want to thank you, you know. It’s all due to you,’ she rushed on, ‘giving me the job. I know Berec was so clever and kind in introducing us, but you didn’t have to employ me.’

  ‘I did, you know. That speech you made in my office. And when I got your aunt’s letter—’ He stopped suddenly.

  ‘My aunt wrote to you?’ That envelope with Stephen’s handwriting in Penelope’s kitchen.

  ‘You must ask her about it sometime,’ he said. ‘Look, I think your husband wishes to reclaim you.’

  Hugh had disengaged himself from the Woods, and was coming across.

  ‘I feel it’s time to move things along,’ he said to Isabel as he joined them. ‘Do you think your father would be ready to say a few words?’

  They cut the cake first, then there were speeches. Isabel held her breath during her father’s, but Charles Barber spoke amusingly, and with affection, about her youthful rebellions and wished Hugh better luck with her than he’d had. Hugh replied with compliments to his bride’s beauty and intelligence and made a joke about having married an ‘insider’ to keep his publisher on his toes. She saw Stephen and Berec laugh at this, but Hugh’s mother, standing nearby, rolled her eyes.

  At this, Hugh turned to her and said, ‘I owe so much to my long-suffering mother,’ and invited a special toast for her before he toasted the bride, which for some reason she couldn’t fathom made Isabel feel slightly put out.

  Finally, James Steerforth gave a speech that Isabel didn’t enjoy at all, about cold showers at school, and unpleasant practical jokes. There was a story about a bawdy party, which the men in the room all laughed whilst the women looked uncomfortable. Then James was gallantly complimenting Vivienne, who blushed and smiled awkwardly.

  It was time for Isabel to withdraw and to change into going-away clothes. The plan was that they depart soon for Kensington, where they would spend their wedding night. The following morning they would take a train to Suffolk and spend a few days at a beach house conveniently owned by Penelope’s Reginald. Hugh’s mother was being driven home that evening by one of Hugh’s cousins.

  ‘It’s such a beautiful dress,’ Vivienne chatted, as she undid the buttons down Isabel’s back and helped her peel off first one long sleeve and then the other. ‘Such a shame that one only wears it once, though of course you could have it dyed and shortened.’

  The dress fell about Isabel’s feet with a rustling sound and she stepped out of it. Vivienne helped her pull the long petticoat off over her head then stooped to pick up the dress. As she gently shook it out, there came a knock on the door and the handle turned. Both girls looked up to see Hugh come into the room. He was still in his morning suit and smoking a cigarette. His eyes were bright.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Vivienne said, in mock admonition.

  Hugh ignored her. He seemed transfixed by Isabel, who reached shyly for her petticoat. How odd the smile on his face was. He didn’t look his usual self at all. Perhaps he’d drunk more than she knew.

  ‘We’ll be down in a moment,’ she told Hugh firmly. ‘Aren’t you going to change?’

  ‘All in good time,’ he replied. ‘I wanted to come and see my wife.’ He stubbed out his cigarette and said to Vivienne, ‘I’ll help her now. Why don’t you go downstairs?’

  ‘Hugh, darling . . .’ Isabel started to say, but he held the door open, waiting.

  Vivienne glanced at Isabel, who returned a regretful little smile, so she picked up her handbag and hurried out of the room, her face aflame. Hugh closed the door and locked it.

  ‘Darling,’ he whispered, and crossed the space between them. His hands were cold on her flesh, but when their lips met, his were warm, his kisses pressing and urgent. He kissed her face and her neck, and pulled her to him so she was almost lifted off the floor. His hands moved over her breasts and back, scrabbling at the straps of her petticoat. The buttons of his jacket scraped painfully on her skin, but she responded passionately to his kisses. They’d waited so long for this.

  He released her for a moment in order to take off his jacket and she, somewhat breathless, said, ‘We can’t, Hugh, not now. People will be waiting.’ But he was sitting on the bed and pulling off his shoes.

  ‘Blast them all,’ he said, rolling over to her. ‘Let them wait. I want my wife and I will have her.’ She gasped with pleasure as he seized her again. Gathering her up, he ripped the hooks of her brassiere apart and released her white breasts.

  ‘Ow!’ He’d scratched her collarbone with his nail. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as they watched the scratch redden and beads of blood form. He bent his head and licked at it, then his mouth was on her nipples and she cried out. And now he rolled her onto the bed and pinned her there as he loosened his clothing. She felt his hands between her thighs, pulling away her knickers, then he was jabbing at her softest parts. Now his full weight came down and she cried out in pain as he entered her.

  ‘Sorry,’ he grunted, but he didn’t stop. Instead he began to move violently back and forth, his hipbones grinding over hers and she was fighting against him, on fire with the pain. Tears came to her eyes and poured down her cheeks. She stared at his face above her, but he wasn’t looking at her, rather at the bedhead rocking behind her. The bed itself was rocking and creaking as though it would break, and the intensity of his expre
ssion turned to an alarming agony. He pushed harder and harder inside her, then gasped and cried out. Finally he collapsed on top of her, his heart pounding into her chest, his breath coming in sobs.

  ‘God,’ he whispered after a moment, breathing hotly into her neck, ‘my God, I needed that. I’m sorry.’

  She lay trapped under him, aware of him still inside her. The pain was still hot, but there was a warm tender feeling, too, not unpleasant.

  Carefully he withdrew, patted her rump, then got off the bed, reaching for a towel from the rail.

  The pain still burned, so she lay for a moment, her face turned to the window, watching rainclouds scud across a late-afternoon sky. She was shivering, she realised, though her body was burning. She started to sit up. At once she felt a little gushing between her thighs. She put down her hand to explore and when she looked at her fingers, they were red with blood. She sat up and saw her thighs were bright with it.

  ‘Hugh,’ she cried.

  ‘What is it?’ he said.

  She cried out again, for a great red stain was spreading across the candlewick bedspread.

  ‘Oh God, lie down,’ he said urgently, and helped her spread a towel beneath her hips. She heard the rush of water in the basin and then felt a plug of cold wet cloth. ‘Christ!’ he said, when he took it away. ‘What do I do?’

  She was sobbing now.

  'Shh, shh,' he said, hugging her clumsily. 'Shall I get your mother?'

  'No!' She shook her head furiously. The minutes passed. Eventually, the flow of blood stopped, and he helped her clean up. Her going-away clothes lay on the floor where he'd cast them. He did his best to shake out the creases and helped her to get dressed. They regarded the parlous state of the bedclothes doubtfully. Hugh balled them up to hide the damage.

  Isabel felt tired and shaky by the time they made it downstairs with their cases. Cold water and thick makeup could not disguise the puffiness of her face, and she moved carefully nervous of setting off the bleeding once more.

  The guests were clearly tired of waiting. Stephen and Berec had already had to leave. James looked pointedly at his watch, and gave Hugh a lascivious wink, which Hugh ignored.

  Someone had brought their car around. It was time to go. 'Where's your bouquet?' her mother called and she realised to her horror she'd left it upstairs on the windowsill. Before she could intervene, her mother sent Vivienne up to fetch it. When the girl came down again with the flowers, her face was unreadable. She didn't say a word as she passed the flowers to Isabel, standing by the car. Isabel looked down at the wilting blooms.

  'Goodbye!' everyone cried.

  'Throw it, then!' Joan Steerforth called. Isabel looked around the assembled guests and her eye fell on Vivienne. Swinging her arm, she tossed the bouquet lightly back to her bridesmaid, who lifted her hands automatically and caught it. Then stood there holding it, a look of bleak despair crossing her face.

  'No,' she said, taking it back to Isabel. 'It's not for me. Someone else must have it.'

  The guests murmured in disapproval and a man's voice said, 'Shame.'

  Profoundly embarrassed, Isabel looked about again and seeing Susan's eager face at one end of the line, threw it to her instead and was touched by the look of joy that spread across the girl's pinched features as she caught it and held it close.

  'Well, someone will probably marry Susan,' she told Hugh as they drove away. 'And no doubt be very happy.'

  'Funny girl, your friend Vivienne, though,' Hugh said, 'I don't understand her at all.'

  Isabel said nothing to that. She understood perfectly.

  Chapter 19

  Emily

  Isabel’s account finished abruptly after twenty pages, in the middle of a line, when she was saying something about Vivienne. It was puzzling and frustrating. Had there been more? There was no way to find out, since Emily had no idea who had sent this missive from the past. She sat and thought about this. Surely she’d only received all these mysterious packages because of her involvement in Hugh’s biography. There must be someone who wanted Isabel’s story to be told, but she’d not the slightest idea who.

  She wondered what she ought to do, whether to talk to Jacqueline about it, or Joel. Not her boss, Gillian, she was too busy at the moment. In the end she decided on Joel. He was, after all, the author and, anyway, she wasn’t sure what Jacqueline’s response would be. No, Joel would be the best person, then he could talk to Jacqueline if necessary and follow up the line of enquiry himself.

  The next day she rang his mobile and listened to his warm brown tones inviting her to leave a message.

  When he rang back she explained about Isabel’s writings and he seemed interested. ‘I’m a bit busy this week, though,’ he said. ‘Would it be all right for you to put them in the post?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I’d better take copies.’

  There was a brief pause before he said, ‘I don’t suppose you’d like to come and hear me at the South Bank Thursday next? I’m “in conversation”, as they say, about the Angry Young Men of the fifties. I did a documentary about them last year.’

  ‘I think I’m free, so yes. Perhaps we can talk about Isabel’s writing then.’

  The following Thursday, Emily followed the crowds out of Embankment station and up onto the pedestrian bridge from which she watched the river sparkling in the early evening sunlight, the trains rumbling across the rail bridge that ran alongside. The esplanade on the opposite bank was busy with people sitting at café tables, despite the cold, or rummaging through second-hand books on the stalls or simply passing through on their way home from work.

  Emily’s destination was one of the concert halls. She weaved her way between the loitering tourists, then went through a set of glass doors into a large foyer and followed the signs to a small lecture theatre.

  She was a little early and the room was still filling up, so she found a seat a few rows from the front, happy to wait. She loved events like this; there was often such a mix of people and she enjoyed watching them and imagining what their lives were like, and marvel how books could bring them together. Though, she had to admit that in this case, it might be because Joel had appeared in their homes on a TV screen.

  And now Joel himself came in, chatting to a trendily dressed young man, who stepped up on the stage ahead of him, clutching a notebook. They sat down at either end of a low table and clipped on microphones. ‘Good afternoon,’ the interviewer’s voice boomed out. Someone adjusted the volume, and everyone quietened. ‘My name’s Lucan O’Brien,’ the young man said, ‘and I’m going to be talking to Joel Richards here about writers who the media called the Angry Young Men. Joel has written a book which ties into the recent series that he presented and I produced. Between us, we hope to give you further insight into some of these fascinating writers.’

  Emily had been staring at Joel, thinking how nice he looked in his crisp white shirt and chinos, how composed. All of a sudden he looked directly at her and gave her a discreet smile, which she returned.

  The talk was informative and very funny at times, and the audience loved it. Joel spoke briefly and without notes about his book, then answered the interviewer’s questions with eloquence. Emily hadn’t seen this side of him before. It was good news for her professionally, of course, since he would obviously be in demand for publicity when the Morton book was published, but his assuredness made her consider him differently as a person, too. It gave him a dusting of glamour. She listened particularly closely when he described the masculine nature of the writers, and she wondered about the wives and girlfriends behind the scenes, what they had thought of their men’s views of sexual politics and what their own opinions had been.

  She was envious of anyone who could stand up and entertain an audience. She still felt a little clammy whenever she was asked to speak at sales conferences or launch parties. She was bursting to ask about the women, however, so when questions were invited from the audience, she put up her hand.

  'Yes, the girl with the
green headband,' Lucan said, pointing to Emily.

  'Were there,' Emily asked, 'any Angry Young Women in the fifties?' From the fact that several other women murmured agreement, she gauged that she'd asked the burning question.

  Joel smiled, but didn't embarrass her by giving away that he knew her. 'I've been waiting for someone to raise that,' he said. 'I'm sure there were behind the scenes, but hardly any of them made it into or onto the stage. There was one in 1958, Shelagh Delaney. Anyone heard of her play A Taste of Honey? Emily saw several people nod. 'She tried to write it as a novel first, but couldn't make it work.'

  'Time for one more question,' said the interviewer, who was glancing impatiently at his watch. Emily would have liked to have asked WHY there weren't more women, but it was someone else's turn.

  After the event had finished, Joel was led outside to sign books at a table in the foyer, and although the vast majority of the audience drifted off, happy to have been entertained for an hour, a few lingered, buying books and asking him questions. Emily waited nearby, reading.

  'Emily?' She looked up to see Joel was ready. 'Lucan's invited us out to supper. Pippa Hartnell's coming too. She's the one who's producing The Silent Tide for BBC. Would it be an awful bore?'

  'It certainly would not,' she replied, gathering up her things. I'd love to meet her.' Finding out about The Silent Tide adaptation was an opportunity not to be missed.

  They went to a Thai restaurant behind Waterloo station, not a grand place at all, but cosy and welcoming. Everybody was paying their own way and the atmosphere was informal and friendly. She sat with Joel on one side of the table with Joel's interviewer, Lucan, and Pippa, on the other. She secretly found Lucan a bit self-absorbed, for he hogged the conversation, showing off about his ambitions, ideas he had for books and television dramas, about plans to move to New York or perhaps Berlin, which was really cool right now. She must remember to give him her business card later, though. Just as with Tobias Berryman, you never knew where the next wonderful book might come from.