A Mother's Love (12 page)

Their last night was the culmination. She was acutely aware of his trying to be patient with her, his touch upon her bosom so light, so gently coaxing, as one might coax a wild bird to the hand. And she tried so hard, telling herself angrily that there was nothing to fear: Matthew would behave properly, would treat her with care. In marriage, this had to be done.

She steeled herself as his hand, gaining confidence from her continuing non-rejection, moved cautiously down towards her lower parts. This time she wouldn’t shrink. Matthew’s kisses on her cheek remained like the flutter of bird wings, so gentle were they. She could hardly feel his hand as it moved, but knew it did move, ever closer to the moment when she knew she must respond to him.

She felt the soft brush of her nightdress against her legs, the warmth of his hand on her bared flesh, and gritted her teeth. She loved him so much, yet this … this … She felt her breath suck into her lungs, held it there until she felt she would burst. His hand went no further, but now he moved so that his body lay lightly on hers. No, she would not flinch. She would try to be a good wife. Try …

Something touched her between the thighs, sent a sensation through her. Before she could stop herself, she gave a short, sharp scream of fear and doubled up beneath his lightly held weight.

‘Oh, Matthew! Oh, Matthew – I’m sorry!’

The weight was no longer there. He was sitting up beside her, his dark brown eyes, visible in the moonlight pouring through the gauzy curtains at the window, like deep, angry hollows.

‘My God!’

‘I know,’ she sobbed, shamed at her behaviour. ‘We can try again.’

‘No we will not try again! I’ve had enough, Harriet. This is becoming quite idiotic. I’m beginning to believe you’ve no love for me at all.’

She was mortified. ‘I have, Matthew. I have. Don’t say that.’

‘Then what is wrong with you?’

‘There’s nothing wrong.’

He flung back the bedclothes, got up and roamed about the room. The moonlight through the gauze curtains revealed his long narrow frame beneath his nightshirt. But she could see only anger in his stance. She had never known him so angry and she was afraid.

‘I don’t know what’s the matter with me,’ she tried to excuse, her voice trembling. ‘It’s jut that … it’s all strange to me …’

‘Strange?’ he threw at her, his voice hollow with frustration. ‘How in God’s name can it be strange after a week together? Every time I breathe on you, you cringe. I couldn’t have behaved more gently with you then I have. If you really loved me … Harriet, you make me feel I’m an animal.’

She was crying now, her hands to her lips. Matthew ignored the weeping, the first time she’d ever known him do so.

‘I think I’ve been more than patient, Harriet.’

‘I know.’

‘Then tell me what’s the matter with you?’

‘I don’t know.’ How could she tell him?

‘You must know. We can’t go on like this. How long am I expected to put up with this? I’m flesh and blood, Harriet, not some …’

‘Don’t shout at me.’ She was out of bed, clasped hands raised in front of her, beseeching the forbearance that was no longer forthcoming.

‘I shall – so long as you behave as if I’m about to rape you.’

That was it. She broke down completely. ‘You’re being horrible to me. You’re being horrible.’

Weeping copiously, she fled to the cavernous bathroom. Locking herself in, she threw herself down on to the tiled floor. Its chill struck like a knife through the fine lawn of her nightdress, but she welcomed its discomfort as a flagellant would the whip. Rather than calm her, it impelled her to a greater need to hurt herself, to be hurt. Then, when she finally emerged, shivering with shock from the cold pain Matthew had indirectly inflicted on her, he would be sorry.

Her racking sobs echoed pathetically from the white tiled walls, until near exhaustion finally made them cease and she got herself up off the chilly floor and sat on the soft fluffy towel draped over the huge iron bath, glad of its warmth. In a while she must let herself out, face Matthew. But how could she? Warmer now, she felt ashamed of her outburst. She’d have to let herself out, beg his forgiveness. He would forgive her, that she knew, when he saw how abject she was feeling.

She heard his gentle tap on the door.

‘Harriet?’ His tone was soft, questioning, concerned. ‘Are you all right?’

The words only prompted hiccupping sobs. ‘I – I don’t – Oh … Matthew. I’m – so – so – unhappy!’

‘Don’t cry, darling. Come out. Let me cuddle you better.’

He spoke as though he were talking to a child. Indeed she felt like a child, wanting his arms about her. Swallowing her pride, she made herself get up from the edge of the bath. She was about to let herself out when suddenly the image flashed into her mind of his hands around her, his grasp becoming intense. He would grip and sigh and bring her to him, and take her, use her.

‘I’m not coming out!’ she cried in terror. ‘I’m staying in here!’

For a moment he didn’t reply. When he did, she couldn’t believe it was Matthew speaking, his voice was so harsh and sibilant. ‘Then stay there!’

Listening intently, she heard him moving about the room. It sounded as though he was getting dressed. But it was almost the middle of the night. How could he be dressing? She heard the bedroom door open, then close gently. She felt suddenly frightened. Where was he going in the middle of the night?

‘Matthew?’ she called. Then, more loudly, ‘Matthew!’

After unlocking the bathroom door, her fingers hasty and fumbling, she flung it open and ran into the room. It was quiet and empty, only the moonlight shafting on to the bed. Propped against his crumpled pillow was a roughly scribbled note.

‘Gone down to the bar for a drink. Go to bed.’

Nothing more, no loving word, no tender message, no scribbled goodnight. She had a vague thought of getting dressed and going after him, but that would have looked improper.

Her pretty face creased with anguish, she could only do as he had ordered. She got into bed, her eyes stinging from all that weeping. When he came back, this time she really would behave as a proper wife should. He wouldn’t hurt her – not as Will had. Matthew was far too gentle a person. With all this in mind, she lay waiting, ready for what lay ahead.

But he didn’t come up for a long time. When finally he did, she, worn out by weeping and waiting and the normal need of the body to sleep, was unaware of it.

Sunday afternoon tea had been enjoyed and cleared away in the Wilson household. The two boys had gone out – George with several mates to ogle the girls in the park, John to the same place but to gaze at one special girl he had seen walking with her parents the previous week, in the hopes that she might favour him with a glance or two of her own.

Mary and her sister retired upstairs to the front parlour to allow the housemaid, Violet, to clear the tea table downstairs before having the rest of the day to herself. Jack had taken himself down into the yard to smoke a quiet cigar and to glance in at his factory.

Situated at the rear, its entrance opening on to Old Ford Road and taking up the rear of several other yards, it was quite a tidy-sized place, accessible to main roads for bringing in wood and taking out the finished product: well-made sideboards, fine tables, well-turned chairs. Today being August Bank Holiday, it was, naturally, deserted. Jack loved the smell of his factory when it lay silent – the raw tang of sawn wood and sawdust, the heavy lingering odour of glue, the acrid invasion of French polish. And of course his cigar. He particularly enjoyed the aroma of his cigar in this quiet place. It was one of his keenest pleasures to stand here at ease, puffing away. And it got him away from the chatter of Mary and her sister.

In the front parlour, Sarah sat near the window for extra light, keeping her hand in embroidering some new handkerchiefs with her initials, SM, in pink silk entwined by deep green vine leaves. Her brow was furrowed into a frown, but not over her work.

‘I’m beginning to wonder about Harriet and Matthew,’ she said with her usual blunt approach to any matter about which she felt strongly.

Mary was gazing down at the street below, enjoying her usual Sunday afternoon pastime of watching families drifting in droves towards the park to take a breather from the soot and smoke that, even in August sunshine, hovered over London roofs. Now she turned enquiring eyes to her sister. ‘Wonder about them? What’s there to wonder about?’

‘Something’s not quite right.’

‘They seem all right to me. Matthew’s journal’s doing quite well, I think, and Harriet’s fine. They’re forever out and about, though I wish Harriet would give more time to Sara. The child always seems to be with that Mrs Hardy. By the time she starts to talk she’ll have picked up their way of talking. Lord knows, I did my best to bring my children up to speak as correct as it’s possible around here. I think I made a decent enough job of it, considering. Jack’s never felt the need to move away, but sometimes I wish …’

Shrugging off the unspoken wish, she returned her gaze to the scene below. She’d probably have been bored somewhere else anyway. No one could say Approach Road wasn’t an interesting place to live. There was always something to watch, especially in summer with the comings and goings of people. She could spend whole afternoons taking stock of the world passing by below this window. Like today.

As always there was a sprinkling of silk toppers mingling with the cloth caps, and smart feathered toques were noticeable among the cheap straw boaters. At intervals a hired hackney cab would be held up by a trundling old barrow, the driver with no time to spare and in need of his next fare yelling abuse at the barrowman to get out of his way. But more often the droves passing below were the products of grubby poverty. Some obviously strove to bring themselves above the normal hand-to-mouth existence, being tidily but cheaply dressed, and trying to keep their kids clean. But there were others who either couldn’t care less or had been submerged by circumstances, not bothering or unable to dress any better, taking their ragged kids for a blow, escaping some sunless basement flat reeking of damp and dustbins; a couple of chamberpots their only convenience, a communal pump in the yard their only means of washing so that they seldom bothered to wash properly. Children with lice and scabby mouths; bedbugs and cockroaches lurking behind wallpaper while sick babies huddled beneath ragged blankets – Mary often thought of it from the comfort of her parlour and felt guilty that her life
was
comfortable while others were so wretched.

But this late afternoon, her mind was more on her granddaughter’s upbringing than on what was going on outside.

‘It’s the Hardys that worry me – that child picking up that aht-an’abaht way they talk. I’m sure Matthew wouldn’t want that for her. He dotes on Sara. It’s wonderful for a stepfather to be like that. She really is fortunate to have a father like him. Harriet is, too, finding a good man like Matthew. And he does talk so nicely. Sara could pick it up, so long as Mr and Mrs Hardy don’t influence her too much.’

Sarah drew in a deep breath, indicating an intention of not being sidetracked from her original purpose.

‘Yes, Mary, that’s all very well, but what I’m worried about is how her parents have been behaving.’ She breathed an even deeper intake of park air, then came to the point: ‘I’ve got to say it, that marriage has never been consummated – I’m almost certain of it.’

Mary turned again, this time with a look of amazement, horror and downright effrontery.

‘Has never … What an awful thing to say.’

Sarah ploughed on determinedly. ‘You only have to look at her. Surely you’ve noticed. She came back from that honeymoon looking as if she’d been flung in prison rather than the glow you usually see on a bride’s face. You saw her. You must have noticed
something
wasn’t right.’

‘It didn’t even dawn on me to look.’ Mary’s small back was up, or, rather, stiff as a ramrod, as it always was whenever she was put out. She sat on her chair like a small pouter pigeon. ‘I think that’s being very out of order, Sarah, saying things like that.’

‘You think so?’

‘I do. Where’s your proof for saying such an awful thing?’

‘You wouldn’t exactly say Harriet was in raptures as you would’ve expected when they came back. As for him, he looked positively …’ She searched desperately for a word to fit Matthew’s thunderous face when she, Mary and Jack had met them off the boat train at Victoria station, and failed. She finally ended: ‘… and still does.’

‘It
was
a long journey,’ Mary excused hotly. ‘And they
were
tired.’

‘And still tired two months later, I suppose. Even you must have noticed that – or something like it. Perhaps nothing did come off during their week away, but it should have by now. The thing is, I’d be willing to stake my last farthing that nothing’s happened – not on their honeymoon, and not since.’

Mary smothered her natural urge to defend her daughter and laughed disparagingly if a little apprehensively.

‘That’s ridiculous! You do think up some funny things, Sarah! Whatever makes you imagine …? Anyway, that sort of thing’s private. It’s nothing to do with anyone but them.’

But the truth was, she
had
noticed something peculiar about her daughter and son-in-law that until now she hadn’t been able to put a finger on; even now she didn’t want to admit something was wrong. Harriet wasn’t happy, nor was her husband, anyone could see it, though until now she wouldn’t have dreamed mentioning it. ‘What do you imagine’s the cause? If it is that, of course. Which I don’t think it is.’

‘You ask me!’

The offhand shrug immediately nettled Mary. ‘I
am
asking you, Sarah. You’re the one who’s supposed to have all the intuitions – or so you say. You should know.’

‘I don’t know. I’m just saying what’s in my mind – what I …
feel
in my mind. And I’m saying, I don’t think that marriage has clicked. I don’t think he can produce the business, if you want it bluntly.’

‘Sarah!’

‘Well, what other word would you use? Either he has or he hasn’t. Either he can or he can’t.’