She wanted to cross her legs and slap his hands away, but the nurse had a firm hold of her knees.
‘Now try to relax.’
Amy thought she would never be able to relax, not in a million years, but he didn’t just push the awful thing into her without thought. He put some jelly substance all over her, stroked her with it, then very gently began to insert it. But every time it got partway, she would feel herself grow tense and it would slip out again. He went back to the stroking. Just as she was beginning to think the sensation was not too unpleasant after all, he stopped.
‘You’re very tense, your muscles are seizing up every time. Vaginismus, if I’m not mistaken.’
Amy was appalled. If she had something wrong with her which demanded such a long word to describe it, no wonder Chris had never wanted to make love to her. ‘Is that very serious?
When she was dressed again and seated once more before him, a miserable sensation of failure creeping through her, he gave her a kindly smile. ‘Is your husband not very patient with you?’
Amy said, ‘Oh, yes, of course he is, that isn’t it at all. It’s just that he never wants to try. Neither do I. We’ve waited so long, months and months, and we’ve been living with his parents and . . .’
‘Ah, then I should think the problem is guilt, and fear of failure. Anxiety is usually the cause of the vaginal muscles tensing. He is probably afraid of disappointing you, and you are worried about it hurting. And if you are both working hard, and you’re tired or your parents are nearby, that will make the situation worse. Didn’t you have a honeymoon?’
Amy shook her head.
‘Well, couldn’t you go away on holiday alone together somewhere nice?’
Amy thought of the months at Gretna which had felt very like a holiday, at least at first, and anything but by the end. ‘Not really. We can’t afford one.’
‘Then you’ll have to take up walking or cycling. Get as far away from these parents you mention as you possibly can, then catch your husband unawares. Vamp him. You can do that, surely, a pretty girl like you?’
Amy smiled shyly at him. He was being so kind. She really didn’t know what to say. How could she explain about the family feud, about the terrible things her mother and Chris’s father were doing to each other? It was quite unthinkable. ‘I’m not sure…’
‘Of course you can, dear. A good sex life is essential for a strong and healthy marriage so you must put your mind to making more of an effort. You must, as I say, seduce your own husband. Kiss him and encourage him to kiss you. Undress in front of him, allow him to see you naked, or better still half dressed. Nothing arouses a man more than a half dressed woman. And there are things you can do to yourself, to relax your own muscles. . .’
By the time he’d finished explaining, Amy was hot with embarrassment, itching to get out of the room and escape, if only from the open disapproval of the nurse. But the doctor was still talking.
‘Try to make time for regular love making, two or three times a week, or he might start looking elsewhere, and you wouldn’t like that, would you?’
As she sat on the bus going home, Amy thought about the doctor’s words. He had been very kind and gentle with her, had given her a book in a plain brown paper cover, which was supposed to help her. A mere glance inside at the diagrams made her feel utterly inadequate.
And shey simply couldn’t imagine herself deliberately undressing in front of Chris. Those happy, golden days of blissful, passionate ignorance when she’d peeled off her sweater and put his hands to her bare breasts seemed long gone. Going to see the doctor had done no good at all, only reminded her of what she had lost.
Fran was staying with Maureen, occupying her back room in her house just by the railway arches. At first no board or rent had been required, but then one day her landlady gently pointed out that she usually accommodated only working girls.
‘I do have a job,’ Fran said, anxious not to lose the only accommodation she could find right at this moment. ‘I work part time in a warehouse on the docks.’
Maureen chuckled. ‘That’s not exactly the kind of work I was thinking of. But if you’re set on going straight, this isn’t the place for you, chuck.’
She had known, of course she had. Fran wasn’t stupid. She’d heard the muffled laughter, the snorts and gasps, the heavy tread of men’s feet up and downstairs and the pounding of the bed head. She’d tried to imagine what it might feel like to have sex with a stranger, and, to her shame, the thought brought a flame of excitement to the pit of her stomach. They were just men, after all, like Eddie, most of them rather sad and lonely and in need of a bit of tender loving care. Where was the harm in giving them a bit of pleasure?
Fran thought she could do with a bit of pleasure herself right now. She wouldn’t object to a pair of loving arms and a randy young man.
She regretted trying it on with Marc though, since it had resulted in the loss of Patsy’s friendship. Fran had really rather liked her. She had spunk, that girl, and character, not like a lot of other namby-pamby wimps she could mention, her own sister included, Fran was sorry to say. Why Amy didn’t stand up to the whole blame lot of them, she couldn’t imagine. She was going to lose that lovely husband of hers if she didn’t watch out.
Keeping hold of a man wasn’t easy these days, there being plenty of predatory females on the look out. Patsy had over-reacted though, seeing her in that role, making a lot of fuss over very little. Nothing had happened, after all. It wasn’t as if she’d been to bed with Marc, just shared a couple of ice creams, tried, and failed, to get a kiss out of him. Fran had only given it a whirl because she was bored and lonely, had felt in need of the challenge and a bit of a laugh.
And there was no denying that Marc was good-looking and worth the effort. Only she hadn’t succeeded. She’d underestimated how besotted he was with Patsy.
What good was Fran now to any decent bloke, having had an affair with a married man and an illegal abortion? Spoiled goods, wasn’t that what her mother had called her? Tarnished, damaged, ruined. Fran pulled the covers over her head to blank out the sound of Maureen’s happy cries and whimpers. What of it? She’d never been one for half measures.
Anyway, there was money to be made in this game. Maureen said as much the following morning, when Fran asked her about it, and made no secret of the fact that she enjoyed her work.
‘There’s few men haven’t woken in a strange bed, a whore’s bed, at least once in their lives. The poor chaps have a hard time of it, trying to please their wives while still bringing home the bacon. It’s a tough world. Don’t they deserve a bit of fun? Where’s the harm in a bit of slap and tickle? And a girl has to find some way to keep the wolf from the door, eh? If you’ll pardon my pun. Want to give it a go, girl?’
Fran hesitated. ‘Don’t people look down on you? Aren’t you an outcast? Couldn’t you get arrested?’
‘Yes, yes and yes, in answer to your questions, but who cares what other folk think? I’ve coppers for clients so I’m safe enough. And with your looks and youth, you could make yourself a tidy sum. I’d be sitting pretty if I hadn’t been robbed of what was rightfully mine.’
Fran was agog. ‘Robbed? How? Who robbed you?’
‘It was my own fault, I should’ve known better. If you do decide to go on the game, girl, watch who you take on for clients. Don’t go for them with shifty eyes, or the odd ones who don’t talk.’
By the time Maureen had finished describing all the strange men a working girl might encounter, how to avoid the violent ones and to stay clear of pimps because they were the ones who robbed you blind, Fran began to think that maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all.
But Maureen only laughed. ‘It doesn’t have to be that way. Mostly you get young lads out for a bit of a laugh or eager to lose their virginity, and sad old farts who can hardly get it up. I’ve a sailor and his mate coming to see me later. Let me know if you’d like to try a taster. Without obligation, of course. Just help yourself if yo
u’re interested. Be my guest.’
She made it sound like a bite of cherry pie.
When the two sailors in question did turn up later that evening, one patiently waiting in the living room while the other was taken upstairs, Fran crept down the stairs to take a peep at him through the crack in the door. He was young with fair hair, little more than nineteen or twenty, and clearly nervous. She could tell that by the way he turned his sailor hat round and round in his hand, and kept glancing about him. It reminded her of her own first visit here, on less pleasant business.
Fortunately, Maureen had also educated her on how to avoid such a predicament happening in future. Given her a right talking to in fact. Never again would Fran forget to use proper protection, for any number of reasons. When the young sailor turned his head and she saw how good looking he was, Fran pushed open the door and strolled into the room.
He jumped to his feet, his handsome young face flushing crimson, and Fran’s heart went out to him. If this wasn’t his first time, she’d eat that flipping hat of his. She took it from him and tossed it on to the cluttered table. He watched it settle on the milk bottle and then his eyes met hers.
‘Sorry if I startled you, love, I was just looking for Maureen.’
‘She’s upstairs, with m –my m - mate.’
‘Course she is.’ Fran considered the young man, treating him to her most dazzling smile. ‘And poor you has to play second fiddle, eh?’
‘I – I d-don’t mind waiting.’ He paused, then as his gaze roved over her plump breasts and long, shapely legs, went on in awed tones, ‘I wouldn’t mind waiting a bit longer, if I could have you instead. I’ve nothing against Maureen but she’s . . .’
Fran laughed. ‘A bit old?’
The flush deepened, sliding the length of his throat right along his strong square jaw. His mouth was good too, wide and generous, the lips full and slightly parted. With excitement, she assumed. My God, the poor beggar was panting for it.
Fran could never have said afterwards, what made her do it, but one minute he was gazing entranced into her eyes, the next she had him by the hand and was gently leading him upstairs. The first time he came so quickly he very nearly missed his shot altogether, but Fran soothed his disappointment and told him that since it was his first time, he could have another go for free.
‘Any more for the roundabout?’ she said, wrapping her shapely legs about his skinny waist. ‘Ooh, that’s better. Good lad, push hard. Yep, there we go! Steady as she goes, m’boy.’
Before his allotted time was over he was growing really quite adventurous. Fran taught him how to explore her with his tongue, and carried out a similar service for him, which seemed only fair. And for his third and final effort she demonstrated a little trick using a chair arm, which proved to be both inspiring and challenging. Really quite good fun. Fran hadn’t had such a good time in months, not since her last encounter with Eddie, and even that had been a bit below his usual standard. This was certainly far more exciting than stacking boxes in that flipping warehouse, or serving steak and kidney pies on her mother’s stall.
Chapter Forty
Clara wouldn’t hear of Patsy leaving, not until she had found other accommodation and suitable employment, at least. ‘Just because things haven’t worked out quite as you’d hoped, is no reason to throw away all you’ve achieved this last twelve months. What about the hat making, and the customers who have come to rely on your skill and care? And we still need help on the stall. We still need you, Patsy. We’re very fond of you, you know.’
Patsy blinked, feeling the sting of tears at the backs of her eyes. ‘Why would you care about me?’
Clara smiled. ‘Because you’re you. What better reason could there be? You put yourself down too much, dear. Lets leave things as they are for a while, shall we? See how we get on. Annie and I have talked about this and we wouldn’t be able to rest in our beds at night if we thought you were out in the cold, without a place to lay your head. I’m still riddled with guilt that we did nothing to help Fran Poulson.’
So that was why they wanted her to stay: out of a sense of guilt, not because they liked her at all.
Carefully watching Patsy’s reaction to her words, Clara seemed to recognise her mistake and tried to put it right. ‘Not that we feel guilt over you. You’re different, Patsy. You’re almost family, even if you’re not.’
There it was again, that word. Almost. Never just ‘a part of’, never ‘belong’. But then, how could she expect that? The sisters were just being kind, and, thankful as Patsy was for the respite, to have this time to collect herself and to make proper plans for her future, yet she’d really no wish to discuss her own situation right now. It was too raw, too painful.
She gladly turned her attention to Fran’s problems, for all Patsy felt little compassion for her. ‘Fran Poulson doesn’t deserve any help.’
Surprisingly, it was Annie who disagreed with her. ‘She’s a fellow human being, a neighbour, and it was our Christian duty to offer help and succour in her time of need. I believe she’s living with harlots, rogues and vagabonds now, from whom we could have saved her.’
Patsy couldn’t help smiling at this picturesque language. ‘I very much doubt anyone could make Fran do anything she’d no wish to, but I’ll go and have a word with her, if you like? See if I can straighten her out.’
Clara said, ‘Goodness, are you prepared to do that, Patsy, after the way she chased after Marc?’
Patsy shrugged, not feeling half so generous or confident as she might sound. ‘Why not? It takes two to tango, as they say. If they did get up to something, which they surely must have judging by the triumphant glances she was sending me, then he was to blame too. Anyway, word has it she’s staying with that Maureen. I know the house, I’ve been there before.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Er, that time when Fran came down with a stomach bug . . .’
‘Ah yes, I remember. Well, do take care,’ Clara warned. ‘We wouldn’t want you catching such dreadful ailments.’
Patsy gave a wry smile. ‘I certainly intend to avoid any possible likelihood of that.’
Annie said, ‘I shall come with you, just in case.’
‘Oh, no! There’s really no need. Besides, she’d never talk to me with you present.’
‘Then I shall wait at the end of the street until you are done. Do not argue, Patsy. I insist, it’s my . . .’
‘Christian duty, I know.’ And shey smiled fondly at the older woman. ‘You’re quite a card, do you know that, Annie Higginson? Nobody can say you haven’t got spunk too.’
They made unlikely companions, the pair of them, and Annie an incongruous protector. Nevertheless, Patsy found herself glad of her no-nonsense presence as they made their way through this particularly disreputable neighbourhood.
The sight of Annie’s rigid, statuesque figure marching along in an ankle-length grey coat and hat, walking stick in hand, with Patsy doing her best to keep pace with her long strides, would be sure to keep the vultures at bay. Even the most notorious youths would think twice before tackling this familiar figure. Wasn’t she the one who used to them over the head with her hymn book if they sang out tune, when they’d been young enough to be bullied by their mothers into attending Sunday School?
Fifty yards from Maureen’s door, Annie stopped. ‘I shall wait here. If you’re not back in fifteen minutes, I’ll come looking for you.’
‘I think half an hour is more realistic. Fran isn’t going to be easy to convince, and she and I were hardly the best of mates.’
‘Very well then, thirty minutes, not a second more.’ Annie tapped her walking stick on the pavement, to show that she meant business.
Patsy glanced about her at the grim, impoverished maze of streets huddled together under a confusing canopy of railway arches; at the overcrowded back-to-back houses, half of them still lying derelict, bombed-out shells not yet cleared away following the war. Kids played amongst the rubble, using old air raid shelters as
hideaways, taking their lives in their hands as they explored brokendown factory buildings with treacherously unsafe floors. Fog from the canal roiled around the old fashioned lamplights, making the street look like something out of a Dickens novel Patsy had once been made to read at school.
She shivered. ‘Will you be all right here on your own, Annie?’
‘I’ve been in worse danger than this in my lifetime, Patsy. Be back in thirty minutes. I’m counting down from now.’
And as Patsy was ushered into that familiar living room with its well-remembered, nauseating smell, she felt really rather grateful for Annie’s support.
‘If you were looking for Fran, she’s not here.’
Patsy stared at the woman called Maureen in surprise. ‘Not here? Then where is she?’
‘Ah, that’s a good question. Cup of tea? Cigarette?’ Maureen moved to set the kettle on the stove but Patsy shook her head. The thought of eating or drinking anything in this house made her come over all queer.
‘No thanks. I have someone waiting for me at the end of the street. A friend, you understand.’ Making it sound as if she had a strong male in tow, rather than an old woman.
Maureen tossed aside a heap of dirty underwear and slumped down in a chair, darkly muttering something about not knowing why she stayed in this business. Patsy propped herself on the edge of a kitchen chair, waiting impatiently while Maureen lit a cigarette, took a long drag on it, letting the smoke drift out through her nostrils.
‘You were going to tell me about Fran?’
The woman focused upon Patsy with difficulty. Was she even sober? Patsy could see a half empty bottle of gin on the table next to a stinking milk bottle. At last she began to talk, to explain how Fran had wanted to give the life a try and had taken to it, apparently, like the proverbial duck to water.
‘But then, she’d had a good taster, a young sailor lad. No kissing, I says to her. Owt else you do is up to you. I think she rather fancied him, silly cow. Then she went out on the street last night, which didn’t turn out so well. She complained the bloke smelled and refused to deliver, if you take my meaning. It must have been Dell the Pong, who works for the council on the rubbish carts.’
Fools Fall in Love Page 33
