Hiding Game, The

by Brindle, J. T.

  ‘Can’t wait to get home and out o’ these bloody trousers!’ came the older warden’s voice. ‘Like bleedin’ strait-jackets, they are!’ He ambled past, still fidgeting with the crotch of his trousers. ‘G’night,’ he called.

  ‘G’night.’

  Beset by sharper and more tantalising images of Rebecca Norman, Ralph headed homeward. As he followed the route along by the tramway and on down William Street, he found himself smiling at the words she had murmured to him… ‘Tonight… in the dark hours. I’ll be waiting.’ Did she really believe he could be tempted? The smile slid from his face when back came his own answer. He was stirred by her, by the way she sensuously brushed against him, and by the enchanting look in her sultry eyes.

  Deeply disturbed, he quickened his step. The night was closing in, hot and humid, sucking a man’s resistance. The sweat trickled down his back, melting the shirt to his skin. Agitated, he loosened the neck of his shirt and nervously glanced about. This week he was working an eight-hour shift, two p.m. until ten p.m. Normally, at this hour of night people were still walking the streets, younger ones making for the coolness of the beach, more senior citizens hurrying home, ready for their beds. Tonight, though, the streets were deserted. The quietness and absence of other living souls heightened his pensive mood.

  As he turned into the High Street, the sound of a woman’s laughter startled him. He slewed round. There was no one to be seen. Swallowing hard, he went on his way, his footsteps pushing faster and faster until they were almost running. Down the High Street and into Henry Street, towards South Bay and the tiny terraced house that was home to him, his wife Maria and their three-year-old daughter, Agatha. Soon there would be another child. A son, maybe? The thought of his family had a sobering effect on him, lightening his heart and causing him to smile. ‘Pull yourself together, you bloody fool, Ryan,’ he said through clenched teeth. The older warden’s words came to mind and he laughed aloud. ‘Happen your trousers are too tight an’ all… squeezing what little sense you have.’ The thought had not occurred to him before, but suddenly he tugged at the crotch of his pants and felt the better for it.

  Hurrying along Henry Street, his quiet gaze scouring ahead, Ralph let out a delighted chuckle when he saw the familiar figure of Maria silhouetted at the door. At this late hour he was surprised to see little Agatha there, a fidgeting, laughing bundle who, until now, was restrained by her mammy’s hand.

  The child rushed forward on seeing Ralph, her little legs running fast, until, with a whoop of joy, she was caught in her daddy’s arms and flung high in the air. Maria watched from the doorway, her own delight obvious in the wide smile that shaped her pretty face.

  ‘You’re late, sweetheart.’ Maria looked up at his weary face. ‘Tired?’ Her love for this man shone from her eyes.

  He nodded his head, wincing when the excited child bit into his ear. ‘Hey! Haven’t you had your dinner yet?’ he cried laughingly as he gently put her to the ground.

  ‘We waited for you,’ Maria explained.

  Placing his hands on her small shoulders, he gazed down at her. ‘Sorry,’ he said simply, ‘I was a bit late getting away.’ How could he explain why he was reluctant to leave his place of work? Maria wouldn’t understand how Rebecca Norman’s eyes had touched his soul.

  ‘Well, you’re home now,’ she said, reaching her face up to him.

  When in a moment Ralph bent his head to kiss her, she made no mention of the feeling of dread which had invaded her day – a strange, lonely kind of feeling that even now, with his homecoming, had not altogether left her. Her need to confide in him was strong. She resisted. There would be time enough later, she told herself. Her man was home, no doubt eager to relay news of his day at the prison.

  Unhurried and with remarkable calmness, Maria set about fetching the meal to the table while, with his jubilant daughter hanging on his coat tails, Ralph went into the scullery, where he took off his jacket and peaked cap before washing his hands and returning to the tiny parlour.

  It was a cosy room, with an open fire-range that was daily polished to a high shine. From the picture rail hung many small portraits of long-departed relatives. There were numerous brass artefacts lovingly placed around the room – a trivet in the hearth, a jardinière on the small oak sideboard, two matching candlesticks on the mantelpiece and a marvellous old oil lamp standing proud in the centre of the table. The sideboard and table were constructed in the same light-coloured oak, its texture mellowed warm by Maria’s daily polishing; the sideboard was no more than four feet long, with a centre run of three deep drawers which were flanked either side by a spacious cupboard. The three drawer fronts and the cupboards sported sturdy wooden knobs, large and perfectly spherical in form. The table was also circular, small, but boasting the same handsome wood and reflecting the same loving care. It had one central leg, a thick bulbous thing which spread out at the base like the webbed feet of many frogs. For most of the time its surface was covered in a heavy green tablecloth, but for meal times, like now, the cloth was folded away and replaced by a pretty pink gingham square.

  The only other furniture in this tiny parlour consisted of four straight-backed dining chairs positioned round the table, and two beech rocking chairs, one either side of the fireplace, each dressed in deep, squashy cushions. Over by the window stood a narrow table with tall legs and a lower shelf containing bric-à-brac; situated on its upper surface was a magnificent pair of brown and white pot dogs. These were Maria’s pride and joy. The window was bedecked with fine lace curtains and many bright coloured flowers, springing from the numerous brass plant pots. The view from the window swept towards the beach and, by straining her neck whilst squashing her face close to the windowpane, Maria could just see the South Bay and the jetty there.

  ‘It’s good to be home.’ Ralph settled his long, lithe figure into the chair, the child clambered on to his knee and his warm, brown eyes observed Maria’s every movement. When she paused in her task to smile at him, his heart leapt; it had always been that way – the very first thing that had attracted him to her was her lovely shy smile. They first met on the steps of St John’s church. Later, their paths crossed again and he was bold enough to speak. Having each lost their closest relatives – any other still alive were not of these shores and consequently not known to them – a bond soon formed, love blossomed and marriage followed. Neither had ever regretted it and they were as much in love now as on their wedding day.

  ‘Will you be glad when they no longer need you at the prison?’ Maria dished out the broth, its warm, delicious aroma filling the room and making Ralph realise just how hungry he was. ‘Come away from your father now, child,’ Maria told little Agatha, at the same time pulling out a chair and pointing to it. ‘Come and sit here,’ she said, waiting for the child to scramble from its father’s knee and climb obediently into the chair indicated. Shaking her head, Maria explained how the child ‘has been restless all day’ – much like myself, she thought curiously. When all were ready, a short thanksgiving was uttered by Ralph, after which they began their meal. Presently, Maria’s question was answered when Ralph admitted that although he had suffered certain qualms about serving as a warder at the prison, he was now convinced that the experience was most useful. He was very careful not to mention the name of Rebecca Norman.

  Throughout the meal of broth, cheese and newly baked bread, he remained unusually quiet, not unaware of his wife’s curious glances, and acutely conscious of the excited feelings alive in him – excited not by his own adored Maria, but by another, a woman some six years his senior, a woman whose reputation was of the worst possible kind – sinister and evil, a convict, by all accounts destined to end her days behind bars or, worse, on the gallows.

  Rebecca Norman was all of these things and yet, and yet… He hardly dared let loose his thoughts. All the same, he could not deny her magnificence, nor that beguiling way in which she had come to him, laughing at him, bewitching him with her persuasive eyes and silvery tongue. H
e recalled Jacob’s warning, and though his every instinct told him to be wary of her, he indulged instead in the pleasure she stirred in him. He felt strangely uplifted, outside of himself… like a man drowning.

  When the meal was finished, Ralph sat in the rocking chair, gently pushing to and fro, sucking intermittently at his briar pipe, his handsome face set in a grim, thoughtful study. From the scullery he could hear all those homely sounds that normally filled his heart to brimming: the unmistakable clatter of crockery being washed and stacked, the busy chatter of the irrepressible Agatha and, in between, his wife’s soft, melodic voice uplifted in song. All of these sounds filtered through his uneasy mood, but, where they normally brought calm and great happiness, on this evening when he most needed peace of mind, the sounds brought only guilt, and a strange kind of pain.

  Outside, the wind rose with a vengeance, and the heavens opened to spill a deluge over the land. Like many quick fingers, the rain began relentlessly tapping at the windowpane, shivering over the rooftops until it seemed as though the house itself was alive.

  Astonished at this sudden, vicious weather in the height of summer, Maria came bustling into the parlour, hurriedly unrolling the sleeves of her blouse and glancing nervously at the window. ‘It’s like all hell let loose,’ she told Ralph, at the same time sweeping the child into her arms and going towards the narrow doorway which led directly to the stairs and the upper floor. ‘There hasn’t been a cloud in the sky all day… blue as cornflowers,’ she said quietly.

  ‘Not as blue as your eyes, though, I’ll be bound.’ Ralph came to her side, his loving smile gently searching. In this moment of awful uncertainty he needed her more than ever. For a long, wonderful moment they enjoyed each other, their hearts together, gazes mingling, he smiling deep into the blueness of her lovely eyes. Darkest blue, they were, like the ocean itself; and something else – they were refreshingly innocent, almost childlike in their starry quality. It suddenly occurred to him how different from another’s they were, different from the eyes that had looked on him earlier, dark and exquisite, murmuring with secrets and timeless things, incredibly beguiling. He visibly trembled.

  ‘Are you ailing?’ Maria was at once concerned that he might have caught a fever. After all, it was well known that the prison harboured more undesirable parasites than convicts.

  ‘No, no… just a slight chill, I expect,’ Ralph assured her. His gaze fell to the child. Satisfied that her daddy was home, and being content and warm with the small amount of broth she was allowed at this late hour, little Agatha was already heavy with sleep. ‘Here, let me take her,’ Ralph whispered, gently lifting the child into his arms. His reward was a quick, sleepy smile from a small, round face, and two twig-like arms wound round his neck. It was a good feeling, soothing the turmoil within him.

  On slow, sure footsteps he carried his daughter up the stairs and into the smaller of the two bedrooms. Here he laid her tenderly into the wooden cot which he himself had taken great pleasure in making. Gingerly, he tucked the thick grey blanket about her, afterwards stealing quietly out of the door, which he carefully closed; it was always a fear of Maria’s that the child might wake in the night and tumble down the stairs. Ralph’s answer was to move the door-sneck to a higher point, beyond little Agatha’s reach. He had it in mind to construct some suitable obstacle over the mouth of the stairs to prevent any possible accident, but so far his first measure had proved more than satisfactory.

  When he returned to the parlour, it was to find Maria relaxed in the chair, with two mugs of steaming hot cocoa standing in the hearth. This was the moment he loved best, when the child was sleeping peacefully and he could sit here, quietly rocking in the chair, gazing across at Maria and counting his many blessings. He did so now, his gaze reaching out to the figure of his wife. Tired and growing heavier with child, Maria had laid her head back against the chair, her eyes were closed, her breathing low and rhythmic as though any moment she would succumb to slumber. Ralph’s gaze grew tender, taking in every detail of the woman he loved.

  Dressed in long dark skirt and pretty cream blouse, with neck ruffles and pearly buttons, Maria made a handsome sight; the now obvious bulge of child across her midriff only enhanced her beauty. With almond-shaped eyes of darkest blue, and thick rich brown hair that wound into a shining coil at the nape of her neck, she was a woman any man could be proud of. In nature she was kind, loving but firm, and, above all, she was a wonderful wife and mother. Ralph counted her as his greatest blessing. Then came Agatha, and in four months’ time, he instinctively believed, his next blessing would be a son.

  ‘Oh! Goodness me!’ Maria’s eyes suddenly popped open and stared at him. ‘I’m sorry, Ralph… I didn’t realise how tired I was,’ she exclaimed, leaning forward to collect the two mugs from the hearth. With a small laugh she handed one to Ralph, before settling back in the chair and carefully sipping at the hot liquid.

  ‘It’s a fine thing,’ Ralph said with humour, ‘when a man comes home to find his wife bored with his company.’

  Her answer was a smile. ‘I could never be bored with you,’ she told him sincerely. ‘You can’t know how much I miss you when you’re not here.’

  When Ralph made no comment, she regarded him quizzically, saying, ‘You would tell me if the work at the prison was too depressing, wouldn’t you?’ Anxiety betrayed itself in her voice.

  ‘You know I would,’ Ralph quickly assured her, absent-mindedly rolling the mug in his large, tanned hands and making no effort to drink from it. ‘Wouldn’t do no good though… I’d still have to put up with it.’ He sensed her heightened apprehension and quickly assured her, ‘But no, Maria, I can handle it fine.’

  ‘But there is… something on your mind,’ she insisted. ‘Won’t you talk about it?’ She might have imagined it, but in that moment she sensed a fear in him, that was not unlike her own.

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ he told her, taking a deep gulp of the smooth, dark cocoa. ‘I do feel at odds with myself, though,’ he finally admitted, in the hope of putting her mind at ease. ‘I’ve no doubt it’s because of working shifts… never worked such late hours before. I’m used to starting early of a morning, and being home before little Agatha’s bedtime. Don’t worry, though, it won’t be long before I’m back at my duties at the asylum. One of the blokes who took ill from the prison is said to be reporting for work within the week. So you’re not to worry yourself. Everything’s just fine.’

  ‘You’re sure now?’ she insisted. When he nodded, a thoughtful look on his face, she persisted, ‘And there’s nothing else troubling you?’

  Avoiding the need to lie, he gave no answer, other than to rise from the chair and stretch his hand out. ‘If you’ve finished with your cocoa, I reckon we’ll be off to bed, eh?’

  Nodding in agreement, she put the half-empty mug into his outstretched hand. ‘I don’t want any more,’ she said, with a grimace, ‘or I’ll be in and out of bed all night.’ Patting the rise of her tummy, she laughed. ‘Lately, my bladder refuses to hold more than a cupful. There’s not much room in here for anything but the little one.’

  Ralph smiled with her. ‘I’m glad I wasn’t born a woman,’ he said thankfully. Taking the mugs into the scullery, he put them into the deep pot sink and came back into the parlour. Maria was waiting at the door of the stairs, candle in hand. ‘Funny,’ she said quietly, smiling up at him, ‘but I don’t feel tired now.’

  ‘Really?’ His voice was teasing, his expression suggestive. ‘And neither do I,’ he murmured, bending his head to kiss her. Afterwards, they mounted the stairs together, she in front, he behind; and a well of love between them.

  In the bedroom, Ralph stood by the window, his quiet gaze looking towards the ocean. The wind had abated, the rain still evident, though, on the small puddles that had formed within the dips of the window ledge, and in the occasional prick of raindrops which disturbed their black, shiny surface. He stayed a moment longer at the window, his brown eyes looking out yet unseeing, h
is thoughts captured in a strange kind of daydream. The sound of his name being called, softly, prompted him to look round. What he saw was Maria, already in bed and wanting him to lie beside her.

  ‘You dressed in a hurry this morning,’ she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Oh? And how do you know that?’ he asked.

  ‘Because you’re wearing odd socks.’

  He came towards her. In the flickering candlelight, her eyes appraised him as he undid his belt and laid it over the iron bedstead at the foot of the bed; then came his trousers, shirt and undergarments. Unashamedly he stood before her in all his glorious nakedness, his need for her so obviously proud in him. Drinking in his manhood, Maria’s blue eyes darkened, dulling with passion. The flush of embarrassment coloured her face. Coyly, she turned away, hiding her confusion in the depths of the bolster.

  Laughing softly, and loving her all the more, Ralph slid in beside her. A moment before, he had grown chilled, even though the room was stiflingly hot, with only the half-hearted breeze from the window to cool it. Now, with his bareness against her soft, silky skin, the warmth spread through him. As always when his need for her grew strong in him, he made himself be patient, wanting to please her also. He could never understand a man who was selfish in love.

  Gently, his fingers probed her body, moving slowly, teasing and tantalising, raising all manner of delight in her. Now, the flat of his hand traced the mound of her midriff, wonder rushing through him when he realised that it was his child curled safely there, his son, their son. The thought was like a giant fist squeezing his heart. ‘Oh, Maria,’ he moaned, wrapping his arms about her, pulling her trembling form into him. His mouth closed over hers; thrills raged through him like the fiercest storm. All restraint gone, he pulled himself up, leaning over her, instinctively pushing in anticipation. Returning his fervent kisses, she clung to him, softly moaning. When with a cry of elation he thrust himself into her, she groaned, half-laughing, half-crying; instinctively she opened her thighs, wound her arms over his thick firm waist and snatched him deep inside her, arching to him, sharing his passion, wanting him with the same deep-down urgency. He was her man, her beauty, her joy. And the unborn between them was a part of it all.