bitterly as the white spots danced in front of her stinging eyes. It’s my husband’s.
That night he came to bed earlier than usual. Stella was still reading – a novel about a nurse and an airman that she’d got from St Crispin’s informal lending library, which was a shifting population of tattered paperbacks on a shelf in the flower arranging cupboard – when she heard him come upstairs and go into the bathroom. She was instantly catapulted out of a drowsy dream-world halfway between waking and sleeping, where the airman (George) had just pulled the nurse (Marcia) against his hard chest and kissed her ‘with unrestrained desire’.
She heard the WC flush, water running into the sink, then the bathroom door opened. This time his footsteps didn’t pass her bedroom door. He came in, glancing at her uncertainly as he went round to his side of the bed.
‘I’m awake.’ She shut the book and put it, cover side down, on the bedside table. Charles had never said anything but she sensed his disapproval of her reading choices. Beside his pillow was a Bible, and a slim volume of poetry by Oscar Wilde, which Peter Underwood had given to them as a wedding present. It seemed an odd gift to Stella but she could tell that it meant a lot to Charles.
‘I thought it was time I had an early night.’
In the light of the green-frilled bedside lamp his face was unreadable, but she detected a faintly questioning note in his voice. Beneath the heavy layers of sheets and blankets her body leapt to life, the blood quickening and fizzing in her veins, heat spreading across her skin so that her flannelette nightie felt like a straitjacket. Was this it? She wished she’d had a chance to prepare; to dab on some of the scent Nancy had given her for her birthday last year. But maybe she was reading too much into his words – after her error of judgement on their wedding night she didn’t trust herself to read the signs. Maybe he was simply tired.
The bed rocked as he climbed in beside her. Stella lay perfectly still, not daring to look at him in case he read the longing in her eyes and despised her for it. She waited for him to pick up Oscar Wilde but he lay back on the pillows for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, turned and propped himself up on his elbow so that he was looking down into her face.
‘You’ve been very good about all this, darling. I know it hasn’t been easy, but I’m grateful. I wanted you to know that.’
‘I just want you to be happy. I want to be a good wife to you, Charles.’
‘You have been. You are.’
‘But . . . why . . . ?’
He sighed again, and she sensed something in him withdrawing from her. ‘I told you.’
It was true. That night in the kitchen he’d explained, with infinite patience, almost as if he was talking to a small child, that he could no longer align his conscience with a non-active role in the war; that he felt less of a man, as if he was hiding behind his Bible and his dog collar. That phrase, ‘less of a man’, had touched some resounding chord of pity and love deep inside her and made her long to reach out to him, to prove that in her eyes he was every bit a man.
Tentatively she touched his cheek then, growing bolder, raised herself up to brush her lips against his. She felt him stiffen and was about to pull away when he seemed to gather himself, resolve some inner conflict, and begin to kiss her back with sudden fervour.
His lips were hard on hers, and his tongue forced itself between her teeth. Her mind registered shock, revulsion even; there had been no mention of George doing such a thing to Marcia. And yet her body seemed to understand and to respond entirely instinctively. The feelings that had been squashed down swelled and surged. As he pressed her against the pillows her hips rose up to meet his, her fingers sliding through the short hair at the back of his neck, her mouth opening. The flannelette nightie twisted around her legs and she kicked and wriggled
That night he came to bed earlier than usual. Stella was still reading – a novel about a nurse and an airman that she’d got from St Crispin’s informal lending library, which was a shifting population of tattered paperbacks on a shelf in the flower arranging cupboard – when she heard him come upstairs and go into the bathroom. She was instantly catapulted out of a drowsy dream-world halfway between waking and sleeping, where the airman (George) had just pulled the nurse (Marcia) against his hard chest and kissed her ‘with unrestrained desire’.
She heard the WC flush, water running into the sink, then the bathroom door opened. This time his footsteps didn’t pass her bedroom door. He came in, glancing at her uncertainly as he went round to his side of the bed.
‘I’m awake.’ She shut the book and put it, cover side down, on the bedside table. Charles had never said anything but she sensed his disapproval of her reading choices. Beside his pillow was a Bible, and a slim volume of poetry by Oscar Wilde, which Peter Underwood had given to them as a wedding present. It seemed an odd gift to Stella but she could tell that it meant a lot to Charles.
‘I thought it was time I had an early night.’
In the light of the green-frilled bedside lamp his face was unreadable, but she detected a faintly questioning note in his voice. Beneath the heavy layers of sheets and blankets her body leapt to life, the blood quickening and fizzing in her veins, heat spreading across her skin so that her flannelette nightie felt like a straitjacket. Was this it? She wished she’d had a chance to prepare; to dab on some of the scent Nancy had given her for her birthday last year. But maybe she was reading too much into his words – after her error of judgement on their wedding night she didn’t trust herself to read the signs. Maybe he was simply tired.
The bed rocked as he climbed in beside her. Stella lay perfectly still, not daring to look at him in case he read the longing in her eyes and despised her for it. She waited for him to pick up Oscar Wilde but he lay back on the pillows for a moment, then, almost reluctantly, turned and propped himself up on his elbow so that he was looking down into her face.
‘You’ve been very good about all this, darling. I know it hasn’t been easy, but I’m grateful. I wanted you to know that.’
‘I just want you to be happy. I want to be a good wife to you, Charles.’
‘You have been. You are.’
‘But . . . why . . . ?’
He sighed again, and she sensed something in him withdrawing from her. ‘I told you.’
It was true. That night in the kitchen he’d explained, with infinite patience, almost as if he was talking to a small child, that he could no longer align his conscience with a non-active role in the war; that he felt less of a man, as if he was hiding behind his Bible and his dog collar. That phrase, ‘less of a man’, had touched some resounding chord of pity and love deep inside her and made her long to reach out to him, to prove that in her eyes he was every bit a man.
Tentatively she touched his cheek then, growing bolder, raised herself up to brush her lips against his. She felt him stiffen and was about to pull away when he seemed to gather himself, resolve some inner conflict, and begin to kiss her back with sudden fervour.
His lips were hard on hers, and his tongue forced itself between her teeth. Her mind registered shock, revulsion even; there had been no mention of George doing such a thing to Marcia. And yet her body seemed to understand and to respond entirely instinctively. The feelings that had been squashed down swelled and surged. As he pressed her against the pillows her hips rose up to meet his, her fingers sliding through the short hair at the back of his neck, her mouth opening. The flannelette nightie twisted around her legs and she kicked and wriggled
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