‘I won’t give you a baby, Isobel …’
She didn’t want to know. And she could not stop him, for his mouth was on hers again and now his fingers were sliding inside her and moving in a way that made her make a strange noise in the back of her throat. He forced his fingers wide, stretching inside her, hurting her. He stopped kissing her then, and leaned back a little and looked into her barely focused eyes, and in a low, husky voice he said, ‘This is going to hurt. It always does, the first time.’
‘Stop, please. Please. Stop! Don’t!’ she said. She wanted to cry out loud but his hands were holding on to her hair and a great heaviness was on her and every nerve in her body was stretched against the quick, sharp pain as he drove fast and hard inside her. Isobel felt him slide tight inside, filling her, and the pain was gone and only strength and a pushing higher into her was happening. Then came weakness with unbearable tension until he moved faster. And she heard herself calling out, over and over, ‘Oh, no! Oh, no! Please stop …’ until, just before she cried out again, he stopped, held back and looked into her eyes as if he were asking did she want him to go on. But he did not stop. Suddenly he made the grunting sound louder than before and roughly he forced her knees up wide about his muscular hips before he threw back his head and thrust himself, hurting her, hard, fast and deep until she cried out. Then it was too late to stop him, for it was all going so fast … so fast. He was taking her into that breaking, pulsing need that brought her, crying out with the force of it, into and over the edge of a pleasure that was all mixed up with pain, and Isobel was holding on to him for dear life as a desperate passion spent itself in wave upon agonising wave.
Then it was over and she was subsiding down into nightmares of violent pleasure and pain and bitterness and acid rising into her mouth and a dread of waking into the reality of tomorrow.
Chapter Twenty-One
She woke up on top of her own bed – naked, alone and cold. She pulled the eiderdown about herself and sat up, wide awake, as realisation dawned and last night came flooding back.
She must have dreamed it. Surely she had dreamed that Ray had done it again and again, and made her do all those things – made her kneel down, while behind her … Oh, no! They had behaved like beasts of the field. And surely she imagined that she’d let Ray out of the house at four in the morning and waved to him with not a stitch of clothing on? Then, in her dream, she’d staggered back upstairs, been sick in the lavatory pan, lurched into her own bedroom and fallen on to the bed. Her head was splitting. She was shivering with cold. Her thighs were stuck together; sitting up was painful. Then it all came back, and this time she crawled under the covers, closed her eyes and tried not to think. It was half past eleven and she had two hours for sleep before she would get dressed and ready for Sunday School.
‘Brightly gleams our banner, Pointing to the sky …’ The children were singing at the tops of their lungs as Isobel hammered away at the keys, feet pedalling like a pianola player. She looked at the innocent little faces all around her and prayed, not as they were for a ‘home on high’, but for Ray Chancellor to come to her. She wanted him to say that it was all right – he wanted to marry her, she had not behaved like a trollop. ‘Dear God,’ she prayed, ‘let him telephone tonight.’
When the children went home the teachers and Isobel stayed behind to tidy away the crayons and chalks and the stencilled pictures of the mud huts and brown children of the African mission. She worked fast as thoughts of all she had done came crowding in. She must clean the big bedroom, change the bed and put the soiled sheets in the laundry bag. She must have a bath. She went home fast, running past the cemetery and on flying feet into Bollinbrook Road – and she reached the gate just in time to see her stepfather closing the front door behind him.
For a full two minutes she stood, rooted to the spot in fear, while all the evasive actions she might take flashed into her mind. Could she persuade him to stay downstairs? With throbbing pulse and a sick sense of doom, Isobel went slowly to the front door and opened it.
He was coming down the stairs, in his hands the bloodstained, incriminating sheet. ‘Go upstairs at once. Remove that disgusting …’ He leered. ‘Dispose of your seducer’s rubber accoutrement from my bedroom. Then tell me who it was you spent the night fornicating with – in my bed.’
She ran past him, crying, to the bedroom. A wave of nausea came over her as she picked up the knotted rubber thing Ray had used. She went to the bathroom, put it down the pan and pulled the chain, then ran the tap to scrub her hands and wash her face. The thing was there in the lavatory. She flushed it again and saw it come bobbing back to the surface.
Her stepfather was standing in the bathroom doorway, leaning against the jamb, one arm barring the way. ‘I hope he did it only the once,’ he sneered. ‘Careless if you let him take his pleasure twice.’
‘Go away! Go away!’ she begged, ‘Please leave me alone.’
He stayed where he was. ‘All that mess on the sheets makes me think he must have been very careless,’ he said. ‘Who was the lucky fellow?’
She couldn’t speak.
‘Can I guess? Someone you picked up at the wedding?’
‘Let me get past!’ Isobel cried again, but as she went to the door he caught hold of her upper arm and held it in a pinching, bruising grip.
‘You’ll have something to cry for,’ he jeered. ‘You’ll be crying for more! Once you have tasted the fruits …’
She screeched and swung her other arm over, but he grabbed that one and, lifting her by the arms, carried her, kicking, to her room.
‘You’ll be looking forward to the next time. Is he coming again? Coming again tonight?’ He was strong and he pushed her down on to the bed but did not let go of her arms. His face came down close to hers and Isobel caught the full blast of that bad-cheese breath as he said, ‘I could have you put away, Isobel. That’s what they do with naughty girls like you. Reformatories and correction houses.’ His face was very near and his spittle was dropping into her mouth as she struggled to breathe.
He said, ‘Your daddy won’t have you put away, not if you give him a kiss – a little bit of what you gave to …’ His mouth came down over hers as she heard the telephone ringing.
It was ringing when she bit him and brought her knees up and kicked out with both feet, sending him reeling backwards, out of the door, to crash into the banister rail. It was ringing when she flew across the room to bang the door to and let down the brass snib to make sure she was safe. Then she leaned against the door, faint and sick, as she heard him speaking. ‘Who’s that?’
The caller spoke and her stepfather said, ‘Ray Chancellor indeed! So you’re the lucky fellow who’s–’
There was another pause before Isobel heard, ‘No, you may not speak to Isobel.’ Again a few moments of quiet while he listened to Ray, before, his voice rising with every word, he said, ‘Don’t come near this house again! There’s a law against entering a house without permission!’
He listened again, then, ‘Not worth all the damn bother? Who’s not worth all your damn bother? I’ll sue! You’ll rue the day!’
Ray must have put the phone down. Isobel heard the hiss of fury as her stepfather banged down the receiver. Then she heard the front door slam, heard an engine starting up and crunching tyres on the gravel. Would he go to the Chancellors and confront Ray and his father? Crying, she ran downstairs, dialled the operator and asked for Ray’s number. The operator answered. ‘The line is engaged. Shall I try again? Who is calling, please?’
All this had taken minutes, precious minutes but during them Isobel forced herself to quieten. Self-preservation – or the iron in her soul, was coming to the surface. Slowly, she put the receiver down. She could not speak to Ray about such things. He must be the one who came to her aid, not the other way round. She went back towards the stairs. Ray Chancellor was big enough to take care of himself.
Her stepfather did not return. Isobel knew that he was not ashamed of himself but rat
her he was afraid she would tell Mam and Nanna. Then, less than a week later, a letter came from him, addressed to her at the shop and delivered by hand.
Dear Isobel,
After all I have suffered at the hands of the Stanways you cannot expect me to say that I am sorry about the break-up of the family.
I have left Macclesfield for good and have returned to live in Southport where, as you have always known, I have a large house. However, I have sunk a considerable amount into the Bollinbrook Road property and I do not intend to maintain two establishments. I cannot continue to provide a home for you and your mother.
I expect that you and she will return to live in Jordangate. I intend to sell the Bollinbrook Road house soon and I ask you to remove any small items of personal property from the house. The furniture, linen and silver are mine.
Isobel packed all her stepfather’s clothes, then dragged out into the garage his sideboard and dining table, and on top she put the silver and his case. She nailed a notice to the garage door: Mr Howard Leigh. Your belongings are inside the garage, waiting for collection. Then she had the locks changed again and went to see a lawyer, who said that as long as she had possession, her stepfather could not turn her out.
Darling Nanna cried when Mam received the same letter from Howard and took to her bed for a week. But Isobel could not join them in tears over Willey-Leigh. In the space of a year Nanna had lost her husband and, almost, her daughter. Isobel was all she had left. And Isobel?
It was eight days since the night of debauchery, and it had taken all that time for her silly brain to accept the truth, that Ray Chancellor had no further use for her. They were eight days of shame when she asked herself, had she lost all sense? All her pride?
She had resorted to subterfuge, altering her voice if his father answered the telephone when she asked to speak to Ray; pretending to herself that all she wanted was a chance to explain that the threats her stepfather had made were idle. Ray had prevaricated at first, then finally he had made excuses not to see her. She had been used, abused. And cast aside.
Weeks later Isobel stood at the shop counter, counting the takings before locking up for half-day closing. It was the Wednesday of their May Fair week and all the mills had closed on Monday, when excursions by train left for Blackpool, Rhyl and Southport. Isobel had been to Southport yesterday.
She had stopped asking, ‘Have you given up your pride?’ Her pride was not a consideration any more. She had not had a period since the fifteenth of March and she had barely been able to swallow solid food since the day of Doreen’s wedding. Nausea washed over her as she thought about her pregnancy. She clutched on to the counter until it passed, closed her eyes and waited for the stomach-sinking sensation that would follow.
Ray must see her. She had telephoned his house yesterday and the housekeeper said she would pass the message on. If Ray’s call did not come this evening she would see his father and tell all.
Mr Chancellor had said, ‘If you want anything–’ She would throw herself on his mercy. Pregnancy could not be put out of her mind.
Through the back door of the shop she heard the lunchtime news: ‘Thirty thousand London bus workers have started their strike.’ She barely listened. She was looking out for Magnus, who wanted to take her to the fair in the afternoon.
Two pounds, seventeen shillings and eightpence was all she had taken. She might just as well close for the rest of the week. She wrote the amount in her cash book, slammed the drawer and locked it, then went into the kitchen and switched the radio off. She bolted the back door and turned the great iron key, and as she did so she caught sight of herself in the little cracked mirror that hung over the sink. She was pale. She was ill. There were dark shadows under her eyes. Her nose and cheeks were pinched. She shivered and patted her face to bring blood to the surface. But it was no use. Ice was growing in her heart, growing into a hard little stone. She went back into the kitchen and dropped down on to the chair by the unlit range, and went over and over again in her head the awfulness of the last two days.
On Monday, with the shop closed for the day, she had slept in at Lindow until half past ten, something she never usually did. Then, so as not to alert Nanna to anything unusual, she suggested they go for a long walk in the afternoon while Mam had a nap. It was one of those deep, sunny days when Nanna’s legs were at their most supple. The air was soft and still and the mellow colours of the hills fooled them into going a long distance before they turned back. They walked miles until they came to a country cafe where they stopped for tea, sharing a trestle table with a crowd of hikers. Then they walked home along the low road, and it was then that Nanna referred to her lie-a-bed. She said, ‘It’s not like you to get up late.’
‘I was tired.’
Nanna said, ‘It’s too much for you. The shop. The house.’
‘Mam’s in no state to go back, though,’ Isobel said. ‘I wish she’d pull herself together. She’s fretting, ashamed and disgraced. She can’t face everyone in Macclesfield.’
Nanna lifted her hand to stop her from saying more. ‘First things first, lass. Get up early tomorrow to get to Southport in time. Remember what you’ve to say to Howard Leigh?’
‘I’m to ask how much he wants for the house,’ Isobel said. ‘And how much he’ll reduce the price to, for a quick sale.’ She saw Nanna‘s determined face and added, ‘Are you sure you want to do it, Nanna?’
Nanna strode out firmly and her face showed no trace of doubt. ‘Your grandpa was a careful man. What are savings for any road? I allus wanted a house. I might come and live with you and your mam in Macclesfield. It’s not a big decision. There would be no need for you to work.’
Isobel got up early the next day to catch the eight-thirty train to Manchester, and there, in the post office in Piccadilly, she sent a telegram to her stepfather: Coming to discuss house sale today 2 p.m. Isobel. When that was done she went by tram down Oxford Street to Exchange Station, where she caught the ten-thirty to Southport so that it was noon when she arrived.
Leaving Chapel Street Station Isobel cut through the Cambridge Arcade on to Lord Street, and her spirits lifted a little as she walked in the sunshine down that wide, tree-lined street where shoppers strolled under flower-decked glass canopies that shaded the shop fronts. She wore a grey linen dress relieved by a wide blue belt and blue hat, and she tried to use her will and not think of the frightening prospect of pregnancy. She stared at the beautiful displays in the fashion house windows. There were long, cross-cut summer dresses, and lightweight coats with fancy linings that matched hats and skirts in the fashionable shades of maroon and eau-de-Nil. She tried to absorb the detail and not to dwell on what faced her being forced into marriage with Ray – shame and more disgrace brought to Mam and Nanna.
Afterwards she walked back along the other side of Lord Street, under trees beside the newly dug gardens with their pungent, earthy scent. She felt better for the walk. She hadn’t fainted or been sick this morning. Was it true, not an old wives’ tale, that you could miss your period because of fright? On a wave of hope she went into the Kardomah and bought herself a pot of coffee and a plate of biscuits.
At two o’clock she arrived at the Cambridge Road house where her stepfather’s Lanchester was parked in the drive. He must have been watching out for her because seconds after she rapped on the great oak door he opened it. ‘Come in, dear,’ he said, and made to peck her cheek.
Isobel side-stepped him. ‘I’m not here on a social call.’
‘Follow me.’ He went into a wide, tiled hall that had five great polished doors with pilasters and pediments. The place had a seedy air. There were no pictures, no curtains at the high, stained-glass windows. A threadbare carpet was laid on the splendid oak staircase. Her stepfather had gone down the hallway and was standing, holding open a door at the end of this corridor. And then Isobel noticed that all the doors had little nameplates, and realised that of course the house had been divided into flats. He took her into a big room where three l
arge windows overlooked a neglected garden. The room was crammed with furniture – a bed, dresser, table, chairs, wardrobe – all placed, as men place furniture, their backs against the walls of the room, leaving only a small space in the centre. There were no plants. Pictures hanging with deadly symmetry from the rail were of ships and maps. No feminine hand or eye had been at work in this room.
‘So this is your mansion?’ Isobel said. ‘Do you own the whole place? Do you get the rents?’
‘Yes. But the maintenance costs, my dear! I should sell if …’
She didn’t believe a word he said, and she was not afraid of him any longer. He was an imposter. He had no money, no big house and she had no interest in his life of pretence and deceit. ‘Nanna wants to buy our house. How much do you want for it?’
He had a far-away, calculating air. ‘It’s worth at least five hundred and fifty pounds.’
‘We can only give you three hundred,’ Isobel said.
‘I was offered five hundred for it yesterday.’
‘With me in possession? I’m not leaving.’
He said, ‘I could force you to go.’
‘I’ve seen a lawyer,’ Isobel said. ‘You can do nothing. Mam put in all but one hundred pounds to buy the house. It is four-fifths ours. Three hundred pounds for your share is a lot more than you deserve.’
Now he gave her the supercilious look that came so readily. ‘You can tell your mother,’ he said, ‘that I want a divorce. I will give her grounds. Then I will accept four hundred pounds for the house.’
Mam cried every day because she had lost face in Macclesfield. She believed that people were gossiping, asking why she and her husband did not live together. Now he was prepared to make an outcast of her. Isobel’s insides were churning but she gave a look of icy contempt. ‘You are prepared to shame my mother for the price of the house? You are contemptible. I hope I never see you again.’
A Daughter's Shame Page 38
