by Mary Mackie
‘It will be all right,’ he promised. ‘Nobody cares about such things any more. Everyone does it. We can be discreet. No one will ever know.’
‘Except us.’
‘And we…’ he murmured, ‘we shall be happy at last.’
Wanting to believe it possible, I gave him my mouth again, driving my hands into his hair to hold him down to me. Maybe he was right. Maybe we should take our chance of happiness before age and duty separated us for ever.
‘I love you,’ he murmured.
‘And I you,’ I replied, burrowing against him.
We stood together simply holding each other, enjoying being close and warm in the winter night.
On the periphery of my vision, down at the end of the lake, villagers clustered in laughing groups about their kindling fires, supping on beakers of hot-pokered beer supplied from a small stand under the trees, where a barrel had been set up. Beyond them, across the snow-covered park, under the flare of colour from the fireworks, more people were coming. Coming purposefully. A whole crowd of them.
‘Geoffrey… look – those people…’
Pale starlight on snow showed up the dark figures – a score of men, maybe more. A sudden burst of red light from the sky lent them menace, showing us the placards they carried, with slogans unreadable from this distance. A voice bellowed above the faint strains of the band and the laughter from the skaters: ‘Down with all tyrants! Down with injustice! Down with privilege! Give us work!’
They came on, striding through the snow, all of them beginning to shout out their grievances and their hatred of the prince. The villagers were milling in alarm, cries of, ‘Shame!’ and ‘No!’ coming clear on the night air.
‘My God!’ Geoffrey released me and turned away. ‘I must go and warn the prince. Stay here, Rose. Stay out of sight!’
I watched him go, wondering if there would ever come a time when – or a place where – we could be together without the world intruding.
‘They skate while we starve!’ the bellow came. ‘Down with privilege. Justice for the people!’
They were among the villagers now. Some scuffling broke out. The beer barrel went flying, rolling and bumping, and I heard a woman scream. The shouts became less coherent, imbued with hate and anger.
The prince’s guests became aware of the trouble. Voices cried alarm and a surge for the safety of the house began. From elsewhere, men started toward the intruders, who were staking their placards in the ground. A little knot of them grouped under a tree, struggling to hang something from a branch. One man brought a burning brand from a fire and set light to the object they had hung – a crude dummy, perhaps an old scarecrow.
The skaters were fleeing the lake. Guards came running from their posts, hastening to protect the prince. The trouble-makers scattered, some going back the way they had come, others making off towards the trees that bounded the church, two or three making up the slope towards me where shadows lay deep. One man, labouring in the snow, with a scarf coming adrift around his head, almost ran into me before he saw me, baulked, and dodged past. But not before I had recognised him. Another, a few feet away, deliberately changed course and charged into me, knocking me flat. He was disguised, wearing a knitted helmet that left only his eyes exposed. But I knew his tall thin shape – that balaclava hid a hideously scarred face.
The first man was Amos Chilvers. The second was Davy Timms.
Some of the folk from West Newton came to my aid and helped me up, leading me to where their fires still burned. The protesters’ placards, now stuck in the snow at drunken angles, carried various hastily-scrawled devices: ‘Game for all’, ‘Repeal the game laws’, ‘Their pleasures, our poverty’. The scarecrow, hanging with legs charred and smouldering, had round its neck a label on which was scrawled ‘HRH Fat Berty’.
* * *
The incident at the lake left a shadow of uneasiness over us all. If the agitators had dared to challenge the prince himself in the grounds of his own house, none of us was safe. When, a few days later, men came to enquire if I knew anything that would help them find the perpetrators of this outrage, I named Amos Chilvers and Davy Timms. This time I had seen them. There was no mistake.
A few of the malcontents had been apprehended at the scene. Half a dozen or so, including Amos Chilvers, were arrested later, making all of us feel safer. They were sent to Norwich prison to await trial, while enquiries went on and the newspapers speculated whether this was a new upsurge of republicanism or just another outbreak of unionism. Village opinion turned against the radicals, though there remained a core of bitterness in some minds and hearts.
Because of my friendship with the Chilverses, I felt badly about my part in Amos’s arrest, but when I saw Ben and Pam they reassured me.
‘I’d’ve done the same, had I seen ’im,’ Ben said. ‘Crazy old fool. Led astray by Davy Timms, that’s the trouble.’
‘Our Davy have never been the same since he came back from India,’ Pam argued, with tears in her eyes. ‘Don’t you lay all the blame on him. Your father never took much pushin’.’
Davy Timms remained at liberty, though in hiding. His sister Pam had no word of him, so she maintained, but from that time on there was awkwardness between us. It saddened me to feel a rift widening between me and a couple I had come to regard as good friends.
* * *
The incident at the lake caused a great deal of talk in the villages, and King’s Lynn too was buzzing with it. Basil heard some of the gossip on his way home; it caused him to arrive in a foul temper.
Hardly was he inside the door than I heard him shouting for me. I chanced to be upstairs and went to the landing, where I saw poor young Finch struggling up carrying Basil’s heavy valise. In the hall below, Basil was shouting, ‘And tell her to come at once! I’ll be waiting in the parlour.’
The maid looked at me unhappily, ‘Master says—’
‘Yes, I heard.’
He was pacing the room, hands deep in his coat pockets, his face red with both cold and anger. I wondered how I could ever have thought him good-looking; the years were coarsening him in many ways. When he saw me, his chin thrust out belligerently. ‘I won’t have this, Rose! Blast, that I won’t! Do you know what they’re saying?’
‘About what?’
‘About you and that… you and His Almighty Royal Highness the Prince of Wales, God rot him!’
‘No. What are they saying?’
‘That he’s got his eye on you – and I know that’s true, I’ve seen it for myself. I also hear you’ve been entertaining him here while I was away.’
‘He came once!’ I defended myself indignantly. ‘He stayed no more than fifteen minutes. Mama and Narnie were with us the entire time.’
He threw his hands in the air, ‘Well, it’s got to stop!’
‘And how do I stop it?’
‘You can stop encouraging him!’
That made me angry. ‘I’ve never encouraged him!’
‘No? Do you deny going there, all by yourself? Going to an ice party on the lake with all those fine fancy folk. Flaunting yourself. You think that’s where you belong, don’t you? Among the gentry. Oh, I heard all about it. I heard it from old Sam Rudd. “There’s me and my missus drinkin’ beer down one end,” he tells me, “and your missus up by the big house drinkin’ negus with the prince.” How do you think that makes me look? Like a prize fool, that’s what!’
‘Oh… don’t be so provincial, Basil!’ I snapped. But he was right: what might be all very well for an actress in London was scandalous behaviour in a respectable married lady from Norfolk. ‘If it bothers you so much, another time I won’t go unless you’re there.’
This mollified him, though he remained irritable with me. I had a feeling that he had been spoiling for a real fight. But I was in no mood for fighting with him. He didn’t really care what I did, so long as folk didn’t gossip about it. It was his good name he was worried about, not me.
* * *
When the boy J
ack covertly passed me a note from Geoffrey asking me to be at the Tuesday market in Lynn the following week, I knew it would be wiser not to go. I decided not to reply to the note. Nevertheless, I found myself working out reasons why my presence at the market was vital, and when the morning came I set out in the trap. Benstead and the boy had gone ahead with the bullock cart, taking a few of our beasts to the cattle fair.
The pens were noisy, cattle lowing and jostling on straw-covered cobbles, the warm stench of ordure filling the air. I encountered George Pooley and asked his advice over prices, then I instructed Benstead what rate to haggle for, promised him a bonus if he exceeded it, and left him to handle the business. Making my way through the throng, I came to an area where eggs, pickles, jams and winter greens were being sold by farmers’ wives and village women, from stalls or from the backs of carts. When I spied Geoffrey watching for me, I wove a discreet path among the market-goers, looking at the goods on display as if I were thinking of buying, though beneath my outward composure my heart was thudding, and perspiration prickled under my stays despite the cold wind.
‘Mrs Pooley,’ Geoffrey greeted me with a formal doffing of his hat and a slight bow. He enquired after my health, and that of my family, and I replied in kind, both of us playing a part for the benefit of any witness who might know us. Slowly we drew a little away from the crowds, where a railing surrounded a stand of young trees, and after some more inconsequential small-talk he leaned closer to murmur, ‘We can’t talk here. Come to Greyfriars Gate. I know a place there. I’ll go ahead and wait for you.’
Before I could answer, he was gone.
Six
Greyfriars Gate was a narrow thoroughfare between tall tenements on whose ground-floor shops – an ironmonger, a butcher, a haberdasher – stood shoulder to shoulder with dwelling houses. It was in a mean area of alleyways and yards near the docks, and there was a beer shop whose garish sign claimed it to be the Jolly Tar Inn. Children played whip and top, or sat in the gutters, unkempt and dirty, and the people I passed cast sidelong looks at my clothes, as if such finery was unusual among them.
Geoffrey was waiting in a narrow, badly-lit passageway down which he led me to a door. Beyond it lay a dark lobby, barely large enough for two of us, with a closed door either side of a flight of steep, uncarpeted stairs. We climbed the stairs, coming into a room whose single sash window looked out on the backs of other similar houses. It smelled of neglect and stale sweat. Some attempt had been made to make the room welcoming: there was a fire in the grate, a few cheap fairings for ornament, bright knitted covers on cushions and bed.
The bed – a single brass bedstead with a sagging mattress…
Seeing my feelings written on my face, Geoffrey said, ‘It was all I could find. I know it’s not…’ He glanced round the room, his lips twisting as if he was noticing its condition for the first time – the spotted mirror above the chipped mantelpiece, the stained, threadbare carpet. ‘I’ll understand if you prefer not to stay.’
It was a shabby room, used for shabby purposes. I knew I had made a mistake in coming. ‘I’m not this sort of woman, Geoffrey.’
‘I know that.’
‘Then why did you bring me here?’
‘Why did you come?’
I glanced at him, but couldn’t bear to meet his eyes fully. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Ten years ago you knew.’
‘Ten years ago it was different. Ten years ago I was a child. I hardly understood what was happening. Now, I know all too clearly. I’m risking everything.’
‘I know that,’ he said again.
‘I’m ashamed of myself. I know I shouldn’t be here.’ I let myself meet his gaze as I admitted, ‘And I’m afraid.’
He watched me for a silent moment. ‘Of what?’
‘Of myself, I think. I know I shouldn’t be here, but here I am.’
‘Here we both are.’ Stepping closer, he let his hand brush my cheek before, tentatively, he bent and kissed me, very softly, his lips lingering, not demanding but warmly clinging. When he lifted his head I saw the dark blue eyes smoky with desire. ‘The place isn’t important. We can be ourselves here. We’re together. That’s what matters.’
Disturbed by feelings that made my heart beat so fast I was breathless, I turned away and went to take off my hat, watching my reflection in the spotted mirror. I was aware in every nerve of being alone with him at last, and of the bed lying there waiting. I thought of making love with him, and the picture made my head spin so that I shut my eyes tightly, trying to blot it out, while hot blood flooded every vein, rippling across my skin, making my cheeks burn. I cooled them with my hands, and saw Geoffrey still watching me.
‘So…’ he said. ‘What do you suggest we do?’
I had to clear my throat before I could say, ‘We could talk. It’s been a long time since we were able to do that freely.’
‘Talk.’ His mouth quirked ruefully. ‘Yes, we could do that.’ He laid his hat on top of some old books on a shelf, tossed his coat aside too and settled himself in a sagging armchair. ‘What shall we talk about?’
My mind was empty of ideas. Searching for a coherent subject, I grasped at something that had been puzzling me. ‘That night at the lake… What did you mean about Lucinda?’
Geoffrey’s face went still. He didn’t reply.
‘You said she had forfeited your loyalty,’ I reminded him. ‘You said—’
‘I know what I said.’ He got to his feet and brushed past me, going to the window, his back turned to me. ‘I’m sorry, I’d prefer not to discuss Lucinda.’ When I didn’t respond, he looked over his shoulder, challenging, ‘Do you want to talk about Pooley?’
‘No.’
He turned away again, tense in every muscle, then, sighing heavily, he came and laid his hands on my shoulders, studying my every feature. ‘Perhaps this was a mistake, Rose. I should never have asked you to come. I thought you were ready, but if you expect me to make polite conversation…’ His glance settled on my mouth, striking sparks of response in me as he went on in a low, vibrant voice, ‘All I can think of is how much I want to make love to you.’
As I looked into his eyes the cold knot inside me came undone, melting into frank desire. My whole being was alive with need of him. Having come this far, how could I hold back? Unable to speak, I lifted my hands to lock them about his neck and draw his mouth down to mine.
As we kissed with aching tenderness, the room faded into insignificance. He had been right – surroundings didn’t matter. The only reality was Geoffrey, holding me, touching me, unpinning my hair to let it fall in crisp waves that played through his fingers. I felt myself trembling. The need in me was overwhelming. We had waited too long. Too long.
We said very little. Between us words had often been superfluous. Now we spoke with our eyes and with our hands, touching and holding and clinging, and with burning, aching lips that drank deep of forbidden wine and came back ever more thirsty.
He was warm and tender, gentle with me. The trembling became shivers of unbearable desire as, impatiently, we tore free of the final barriers of clothing. When we stood naked before each other I saw that in his eyes I was beautiful, as he was for me, all mature man now, tall and lean – with a new, hateful scar jagged on his chest. How near his heart! Seeing it, I let my shaking fingers trace its shape.
‘You might have died.’
‘But I did not. I’m alive. I’m here. With you. At last.’ As he spoke, he folded me in his arms and bore me to the bed. That sagging, squeaking bed with its thick feather mattress, rough blankets, knitted patchwork coverlet… It might have been a couch of softest pink cloud.
My senses were filled – the touch of him, the sight of him, the sound, the scent, the taste… He taught me the difference love could make. With him every part of me was stirred – heart, mind, soul… Such a sweet soaring need, such a blending, and then a raging torrent of feeling that blinded and deafened me to everything but my love and my need, lifting me ever higher
.
A wave of delight overflowed through all my being, spilling out in a flood so swift and complete that I heard myself moan aloud in despair that it was over.
Against my ear, Geoffrey breathed a shaky laugh and withdrew from me, expending himself with a groan into the sheet. Even in his extremity, he thought of me.
We lay entwined, sated with lovemaking, holding each other, lips meeting and sweetly clinging, flesh against flesh speaking eloquently. Comfort, such as I had never had from Basil. Comfort such as I needed most desperately. I felt like a desert plant, denied water for years, flowering in bright profusion at the magical touch of rain.
Slowly, slowly, the world re-formed itself around us. Somewhere a child was crying. A church clock struck the hour. I counted the chimes. Eleven o’clock.
I kissed his hot skin, letting my fingers enjoy the feel of flowing muscle. ‘I love you.’
‘And I you.’ He raised himself to look at me and stroke the hair from my face. ‘I worry about you. I know you’re unhappy, love.’
Watching him, loving him, I traced the dark line of his moustache. ‘Not now. Not here, with you.’
Dark eyes heavy with sadness stared at me as he smoothed my cheek, stroked my hair. ‘I’m sorry about the child.’
‘Child?’ I felt stricken. How did he know?
‘Your son.’
Georgie – how could I have forgotten my little monkey? Memory caught at me, cobwebbing my throat. ‘Yes.’
‘And Pooley?’
‘We live like strangers. We—’
His fingers stopped the words. ‘No, don’t. Don’t speak of him. I don’t want to know.’ He laid his head against mine and was silent, as if trying to master some strong emotion. After a while a heavy sigh escaped him and he rolled over to lie flat on his back staring at the ceiling. ‘What are we doing, Rose? There’s no future for us. There never was. Except for the intervention of death—’
