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This is Harborough, I think. Things like this don’t happen in Harborough. It’s crazy.
A woman comes through from a room behind reception, and when she speaks it’s in a clipped and measured tone, as though weather like this happens every day.
‘Can I help you?’
‘We need a room,’ I blurt out. ‘I mean, two rooms.’
‘We’re stranded,’ Ed says. ‘Do you have two single rooms?’
The woman, tight-lipped and cold-eyed, nods at the storm outside, through a window that trembles and rattles in its frame.
‘Everyone’s stranded. We’re booked up. Practically.’
‘What do you mean, practically?’
‘Just one room left. Honeymoon suite.’ A small smirk now tips the woman’s lips up at one side. ‘That’s all we’ve got.’
‘We’ll take it.’ I turn to Ed. ‘Won’t we?’
He blinks, and clears his throat. ‘If that’s okay with you … sis.’
For a moment I stare at him, then grin as I realise he’s trying to save me embarrassment. ‘Fine,’ I say. ‘We can afford it, can’t we?’ Looking back at the woman I catch a sly smile on her face. ‘My brother just won at the casino. Lucky for us.’
She narrows her eyes, not fooled for a moment, but not quite ill-mannered enough to say so. ‘Here’s the key, number thirty-three.’ With a sharp slap she places it on the counter. ‘Up those stairs, third floor.’ As we reach the stairs she calls after us. ‘Will you be wanting breakfast delivered to your room? It’s included in the rate. Or maybe you’ll be needing to get back home.’ She’s giving Ed a firm look as she says this.
‘No, breakfast please,’ Ed says. ‘Full English for both.’ He looks at me. ‘All right, sis?’
I nod, my lips clamped tightly together to stop myself from laughing. We climb three flights of thinly carpeted stairs, and when we reach the room and step inside, we just stand there, grinning at each other.
‘All right, bro?’ I say, and start to giggle, the relief of being safe making me giddy.
But Ed’s smile is fading. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘if you want, you can have the room, I’ll go downstairs and sleep on a sofa, or something.’
My stomach lurches. I’ve done the wrong thing. He’ll think I’m too pushy, even though it was Ed who came to the pub, Ed who suggested the casino, Ed who led us to safety in this hotel. ‘No, no, it’s fine. I mean, it’s just sharing a room, isn’t it?’
There’s a tiny pause, where I wonder if he’s thinking the same as me. Then suddenly I see what the wind has done to us, both of us, myself captured in the mirror behind Ed. ‘You look like you’ve had an electric shock! And I look like a crazy woman!’
He glances at himself, then back at me, and we explode into laughter, doubled up and helpless, until someone in the next room bangs on the wall.
But when the laughter subsides, and Ed moves to the window to look outside, I find I’m shivering. The room is cold, it’s true, but there’s something else, some mixture now of excitement and nerves, not helped by the foreign smell of the place; a harsh smell, of furniture polish or toilet cleaner. Better that than not having been cleaned, I think, and gaze around the chintzy room, with its flimsy four-poster bed and china figurines that twirl or posture on every surface. There are tasselled curtains at the window, which Ed is just closing, there are fringed cushions on the bed, invitingly plumped up, and there are little pink-shaded lamps on each table at the side. I find the switch for those on the back wall, and instantly the room seems cosier, friendlier, a haven from the wind that howls and shakes the old sash window until I think it might shatter like the one in the square.
‘Is that window safe?’
‘Should be. It’s got more give. It’ll just make a hell of a noise all night.’
I look back at Ed, to find him staring at me.
‘I know how this must look,’ he says. ‘It wasn’t meant to turn out like this.’ I’m about to joke that he must have seen the forecast and planned it all, but then I see that he is properly worried that he’s done the right thing, his eyes searching mine.
‘Don’t worry. We’re here. We’re safe.’
‘I’ll sleep in the bath,’ he says.
‘Don’t be stupid.’ I cross to where he stands. ‘Unless you really want to.’
When he doesn’t reply, and to make sure he knows I’m not just thinking of his comfort, I take his hands and kiss him on the mouth, slightly surprised at the risk I’m taking – of rejection, of getting it wrong. He returns the kiss, and I think there is some feeling in it; I haven’t got it that wrong. But afterwards he steps back a little. ‘This may sound ridiculously old-fashioned, but I don’t want to take advantage of you.’
I laugh. ‘That’s what -’ No, Eva, don’t bring your mother into this. ‘You won’t be,’ I say, serious now. ‘If we had two rooms I’d probably creep into yours. I’m not a virgin, Ed.’
He squeezes my hand. ‘That’s not the only consideration.’
‘What is then?’
‘You’re nineteen. I’m twenty-nine. Some might say I’m too old for you. Your parents, for one.’
I roll my eyes. ‘Let’s leave them out of it. My parents have nothing to do with this. I know my own mind.’
Ed stares at me gravely for several seconds. I think then that he will tell me about the divorce, and the ‘somewhere’ child, and that maybe he isn’t ready yet for another relationship. Stuff like that. But instead he pulls me to him, and kisses me sweetly. Then he tells me, straight out, that he doesn’t have any condoms. I find this reassuring in one sense – that he really hasn’t planned this – although worrying in another. AIDS is in the news constantly these days. Don’t take the risk, they say, be safe not sorry. I could though, take a chance …
‘I am on the Pill,’ I tell him, ‘but…’
‘I’ve not been with anyone,’ he says, ‘since I split with my wife, a few months ago.’ There, I’ve told you, now, his eyes are saying.
I give a tiny nod, and begin undoing the top button on my blouse. He takes off his belt, and unzips his fly. Slowly we undress, our mouths glued together, excitement building, then we fall onto the bed, its shiny satin cover momentarily cool on my bare flesh. Ed reaches down to caress me, gently at first and then more insistent, until I can hardly bear it. When he enters me his eyes are on mine, intent on each small movement; we are drinking each other in, that’s how it seems, the storm outside forgotten.
When we’re done Ed collapses slowly onto me, covering my face and neck with small, soft kisses, before rolling down onto the bed. He lies close to me, looping one arm over my stomach.
‘Eva.’ He says my name as if he’s just learning it, and looks up into my eyes; his own are flecked with gold in the lamplight. ‘You were lovely.’
I smile at him, a big, wide smile, my whole body still humming. ‘You too.’ Privately I’m saying thanks to the storm that stranded us here, that’s still howling outside.
Soon we make love again, this time a much longer affair, until finally we lie back, exhausted. Despite that, it seems impossible that I will sleep, what with the wind screaming like a banshee, and exhilaration pounding in my head.
But I do. A deep, dreamless sleep.
Kathleen
1964
We went on like that for weeks, me and Rick. I never knew when the next date would be. I tried so hard to be the sort of person I thought he would like, although the gaps in my knowledge were sometimes excruciating, like when he asked if I liked avocado, and I said what you mean the colour, and he said no, the pear. I looked at him gone out and he just shook with laughter. Then there was the time he said he’d got two tickets for the Rep to see a production of Look Back in Anger. He said something about the playwright being an angry young man and I said, how do you know? This time he shook his head in mock disbelief. ‘Don’t you know anything?’ he asked. I was so hurt I stalked off down the corridor. Much to my relief he called me back, said sorry, and promised I’d like the play. The only thing I was ever sure of was that Rick fancied me like mad. The second time we went out, he pulled me into a shop doorway on the way home, and we had a long, hot kissing session. By the time we’d finished my neck was aching from being pressed up against the corner of the doorway, but it was something I was prepared to put up with for the lovely, warm ache between my thighs. Rick didn’t touch me there, not that night, but I thought that I’d like it if he did; all my fears about ‘doing it’ with a boy were dissolving. Of course, I’m not going to go that far, I said to myself, but I was relieved to find I might want to. After that we always found a dark corner somewhere on the way home. I could see now that Rick had a winning combination. He’d keep me in suspense for days, not knowing when we might go out again, and then get me all worked up in the quiet dark of the doorway. I still thought of myself as a ‘nice girl’, but I let Rick’s hands rove until I was squirming and ready to explode, sighing when he stopped. He would laugh then, and give me a small, soft kiss. He knew what he was doing.
One night, when I was getting really steamed up, and I could feel him hard against me, he nibbled my ear and said, ‘We can’t go on like this, can we?’
‘What do you mean?’ I said.
His hand was up my skirt, fingers slipping inside my knickers. ‘You know what I mean.’
I saw my chance, and moved his hand away. ‘Not while it’s like this,’ I said. ‘Not when no one even knows we go out together.’ Rick had only been to my house once, calling for me one night when I’d insisted that my parents wanted to meet him, and getting away as quickly as possible before they had a chance to ask anything much. I’d never been to his. ‘Anyone would think you were ashamed of me.’
In the dark I sensed him thinking, weighing up what I’d said. I started to panic then, that he’d just turn and walk. But at last he said,
‘We’ll put that right then, shall we? Why don’t you come round on Saturday, meet my folks?’
‘Are you serious?’ I said.
‘Of course. Come for tea. Six o’clock all right?’
I just nodded, sure that if I spoke it would come out as a squeak. He told me the address and what bus to get. We fixed a time, then he gave me a long, hard kiss.
‘See you Saturday,’ he grinned, as he left.
Well, I walked home on air.
I got myself ready so carefully that day. Hair, make-up, new dress that I’d just hemmed up the day before, ladder-less stockings… all perfect. The last thing was to dab on some cologne, and then I ran downstairs, flung a cardigan round my shoulders, and shouted goodbye as I rushed off.
‘Make sure he walks you to the bus stop, later,’ my mother called, before I slammed the door. ‘And mind your Ps and Qs.’ She hadn’t said that to me since I was about twelve, but she knew where Rick lived, she’d got the measure of his family.
It was April, a mild, breezy sort of day. I caught the number twenty-one bus from the bottom of my road, and I sat up on the top deck, feeling slightly queasy. I was so nervous, it wasn’t like butterflies in my stomach, more like a bag of cats, all squirming around. I kept finding myself sucking in air and then having to let it out in a long, slow breath. I needed this evening to go right; I needed to not show myself up in front of his parents, not to say the wrong thing or show my ignorance. By now I had an image in my head of two rather grand people who lived in style, who bought brand-new cars and ate out at the drop of a hat. I was petrified of being somehow less than what was required.
‘Don’t be silly,’ I told myself. ‘He wouldn’t have asked you if he thought you’d let him down.’
Rick met me off the bus, as planned.
‘You look nice,’ he said, and put his arm around my waist. I thought then I was going to die and go to Heaven, walking along with my boyfriend, on my way to meet his parents. This was surely going to be the seal on our relationship.
We turned a corner onto Highbury Avenue, where every house was different – mock-tudor, red-brick, whitewashed, pebble-dashed – each one about three times the size of mine, and all of them nestling in their own grounds. It was so quiet; there was just the sound of a wood-pigeon cooing above us in one of the large conifers that stretched up to the sky everywhere you looked. I thought of Rick in our dolls-house terrace, with its handkerchief of grass at the front.
‘Here we are.’
He stopped, pointed. At the end of the drive stood a large house with latticed windows and gable ends, looking like something out of a movie – a Hollywood version of England. The sun reflected off the windows as we walked towards it, and gravel crunched beneath our feet. Rick unlocked the door and held it open.
‘Come on then, come in.’
The entrance hall was about as big as our front room. I stepped inside, onto polished floorboards and soft rugs. Rick took me into what he called the sitting room, a wood-panelled room with two sofas and a creamy, deep-pile carpet. It looked out over a garden whose end was hidden, but obviously some way off. By this point, before I’d even seen the leather three-piece suite in the lounge, the modern fitted kitchen, and the downstairs toilet with its quiet flush, I had gone very quiet. All my preparations for this evening seemed totally inadequate, because now I knew I couldn’t possibly live up to anyone who lived here.
Of course up to then I’d never been in such a spacious house, and maybe it wasn’t quite as large as I’m painting it. And the difference between us, me and Rick, I know now it wasn’t such a gulf as it seemed. But back then… I stood at that window in a state of awe.
‘Are you all right?’ Rick asked. ‘You’ve gone quiet. Do you want a drink?’
He walked over to a corner cabinet and began pulling bottles out. ‘Sherry? Vermouth? Whisky? What do you fancy?’
It wasn’t just me that was quiet. The house was too. It breathed silence.
‘Where is everyone?’
‘Oh, I forgot to tell you. My parents have gone to a charity ball. I’d forgotten when I asked you over. Sorry, but you won’t get to meet them tonight, they’ll be back late. You’ll have to come another time.’
My insides unknotted, very slightly. At least I wouldn’t have to make polite conversation now, and I wasn’t going to be judged today. ‘So there’s no one around?’
I knew his older brother was in the army, on a commission.
‘Nope. We can have a quiet evening in. And a bit of privacy.’
So now I knew. I wasn’t that gullible.
I sipped my drink, a Dry Martini, while Rick selected records to put on his parents big old gramophone, which looked like a sideboard till you opened the lid. He kept changing them, playing just one song from each and then moving on to something else. He kept that up until there was a pile of records on the floor, all out of their sleeves. ‘You’ll like this one,’ he’d say, each time. There were a few I’d heard – Connie Francis, the Springfields, Dean Martin – but now and then he’d lob a little jazzy number on. I didn’t really appreciate those. It wasn’t jazz like Acker Bilk who you saw on telly; they were names I’d never heard of and I couldn’t pick out the melody in half of them. I didn’t say I didn’t like them, but I think he could tell. By now I was sure I was flushed from the refills he poured every time my glass was empty. I hadn’t eaten, and the alcohol was rushing through my veins and invading my head, making me feel as though I was moving and talking faster than usual. Eventually I plucked up the courage to say,
‘Who’s going to cook us some tea then, if your mum’s out?’
‘Me,’ he said. ‘What would madam like?’
I giggled. ‘What have you got?’
We went into the kitchen and searched through the cupboards, ending up with a tin of meatballs and a pack of spaghetti. This, spaghetti, was something I had just persuaded my mother to buy, to vary our diet of meat and two veg, so I was pleased to be able to impress Rick in knowing how to cook it. The only problem was it was very messy to eat, so while Rick twirled it in a spoon with some success I chose to cut it up into small strands, and eat it that way. Rick laughed at me, but I didn’t mind. I was feeling far more sure of myself than usual, after all the Martinis and the bottle of red wine that he’d fished out of the pantry. The awe I’d felt earlier was shrinking by the glassful.
After we’d eaten Rick gave me a tour of the house, which was all as lovely as downstairs. When we got to his bedroom he pushed the door open, and I saw a very plain room, with regency-striped walls and a narrow, single bed, covered with a candlewick spread. There was a record player on the floor, and more LPs.
‘You like your music,’ I said.
‘Yeah. I’d like to have been a singer.’
‘Never too late,’ I said, and he started crooning loudly – ‘Who’s Sorry Now?’, or something like that. I pulled a face and put my hands over my ears.
‘Okay, okay, now I see why you aren’t,’ I laughed, and he suddenly stopped, put his arms round my waist and drew me to him. His face went all serious, and as I stared into his gold-brown eyes my whole body tensed. I waited.
‘You are gorgeous, do you know that?’
He kissed me, and it was different to before. Or maybe it just felt that way because I knew what was coming next. He didn’t waste time, undoing the zip on the back of my dress and unhooking my bra, then caressing my breasts and guiding my hands to his fly. Excitement caught in my throat.
‘Come on,’ he said. He pulled my dress right down, so that I stood there in my slip, then I stepped out of the dress and we tottered towards the bed. We more or less fell onto it, but as he began to run his hand up my leg I suddenly felt a little bit of panic. I wanted this to happen more than anything, I wanted him more than anything, and in my drunken state it seemed as though it would be a proof of his feelings for me. But all of that was pitted against my upbringing and the sort of talk I heard at work when the men had forgotten you were there – about girls who were ‘slags’, who ‘gave it out’.
‘Rick… wait.’ I put my hand on his.
He groaned. ‘What?’
‘You will still… I mean you don’t think I’m…’
He kissed my neck and his hand continued upwards.
‘I don’t think anything. I can’t think. You’re driving me mad, girl.’
‘But what about –’
‘I’ll be careful,’ he said, as his hand found its target. ‘Don’t worry.’
And I was lost.
It seems crazy now, from a distance of thirty years, to think that I would trust him. His parents were never there – he only asked me round when they were guaranteed to be out, with mine fondly believing I was having a nice family tea. Each time, we drank too much and played his records and then went up to his bedroom. We did use contraception. Mostly. Apart from that first time. And the day he didn’t have any. And then again when he said, please let me, it’s better without, I’ll pull out in time.
