After the Honeymoon (12 page)

‘It’s all right, thanks.’ She gave her friend a quick hug. ‘I’ll find something to wear.’

When she got back to her own house, a little voice inside told her to go to Mum’s wardrobe – breaking another of Dad’s rules – and leaf through the curious array of jumpers, blouses, trousers and dresses which her mother had left behind so suddenly when that vicious cancer had torn through her body, giving little notice.

It was surprising really that Dad hadn’t just bundled them all up and sent them to a charity shop. Maybe he was more sentimental than she’d given him credit for.

Instinctively, Rosie buried her nose in a lavender-coloured dress at the back. A mixture of talcum powder and roses drew her back through time, recalling a dim memory she didn’t even know she possessed. ‘Mum,’ she murmured, drawing the dress out of the wardrobe and holding it up against her as she stood uncertainly in front of her mother’s old barley twist mirror on the wall.

Mmm. It might look quite good if she took the sides in and maybe shortened the hem. One skill that Rosemary had inherited from her mother was the ability to sew and make something out of nothing. Even her father, who was so fussy, always handed her his shirts when they needed mending.

She’d just have to see what she could do with this dress, thought Rosemary, shutting the wardrobe door behind her and going back into her bedroom to tackle the Romantic poets essay. It might just work.

When Rosemary came downstairs the following Saturday, ready to meet Gemma, her father was sitting as usual in front of the telly. She’d already cooked his supper (pork chops and mash) which he was eating now on a tray in front of a quiz programme that he loved to revile. Usually, they ate at the dining-room table, but Saturday nights were an exception. It was the one evening off when Rosie was allowed out, and that was only because the youth club was run by the local church. The same one where her mother had been christened, married and buried.

Unfortunately, there were far more girls than boys where they lived, which meant that so far neither Rosemary nor Gemma had managed to get a boyfriend. If they didn’t hurry up, they often told each other, they’d be left on the shelf.

‘I won’t be late, Dad,’ she’d said lightly, dropping a kiss on the top of his head and hoping that he wouldn’t look up from the telly.

Just her luck. ‘What’s that?’ His eyes took in the lavender dress which now had more of a waist. It was set off too by the matching tights that she’d found in a drawer and by the little mauve ribbons, twisted in her hair as a last-minute thought. The shiny black shoes looked good, too, even though they were a bit high. It hadn’t surprised Rosemary to discover that she was the same size as her mother.

‘It’s a dress,’ she faltered in answer to her father’s question.

His eyebrows met in a frown. ‘I can see that. It was your mother’s, wasn’t it?’

Rosemary nodded, waiting for the cutting criticism that would follow. How dare she go through her mother’s wardrobe? What right did she have to mess about with something as sacred as her clothes? Didn’t she have any respect for the dead?

Then the frown seemed to melt away. ‘You look …’

Rosemary waited, holding her breath.

‘You look very pretty,’ continued her father. Then he actually reached into his pocket and handed her a note. ‘Buy yourself a fizzy drink with that. And have a good time.’

His eyes were wet. Overcome with emotion, she bent down and gave him a cuddle. There was no response. At the same time, the doorbell went.

‘You’d better go,’ her father had said gruffly. Then he added something as Rosemary went out of the room to get her coat from the hall. It sounded something like ‘Your mother would have been proud of you.’

Rosemary could hardly contain her excitement as she and Gemma made their way through town to the youth club building, a rather boring looking red-brick hall during the day which took on a far more exciting air at night when there was music inside and boys(!), sauntering casually past the wide-open doors.

When you went to an all-girls school, it seemed weird to have people of the opposite sex around, thought Rosemary, shyly making her way towards the cloakroom. Usually, there weren’t that many: only a couple of boring ones from her old confirmation class and a gaggle of youths who hadn’t stayed on for A-levels, with whom she had little in common.

Still, as Gemma often said rather wistfully, they would hopefully find someone when they finally got to university.

Tonight, however, was different. Gemma had been right! There were lots of new boys here: clean-cut, tall ones who looked more like men. ‘Just look at those muscles,’ nudged Gemma.

Rosemary began to feel nervous. She and Gemma might snigger in private at the confirmation lot who hogged the ping-pong table, but there was something comforting and non-threatening about them. This new lot were more like men. They were looking at her and Gemma in a way that made her feel a bit shivery inside, a peculiar mixture of nerves and also excitement.

Rosemary felt an elbow in her ribs. ‘I like the look of him, don’t you?’ Gemma was eyeing up a very tall boy who was talking to his friends on the other side of the room. He was what Dad would have called ‘coffee-coloured’ and – amazingly – quite bald. It was difficult not to stare. Rosemary had never met anyone, apart from an old man at church, who had a head that was shiny all over. Yet, perhaps because it was brown, it seemed inexplicably attractive, as did his bold, handsome, striking face which reminded her of a picture of a Greek god in her Classics textbook.

Briefly, as the music stopped, Rosemary heard a deep laugh, an infectious sound which made her automatically laugh out loud herself.

As she did so, he looked up, caught her eye, looked away and then back again at her. Rosemary felt a tingle travel down from her neck to the base of her spine. ‘He’s coming to ask you to dance,’ Gemma whispered excitedly.

Rosemary’s mouth went dry as this impossibly good-looking boy strode confidently across the room. Maybe it was Gemma he was interested in. But no. He was actually stopping right in front of
her
.

‘Would you like to dance?’ he asked, his eyes on hers as though they’d already met.

Unable to talk, she nodded. His hand was large and warm as he led her out to the floor. Rosemary was aware that all eyes were on her, and not just because they were the first couple to dance. Very tall, bald, coffee-coloured young men weren’t particularly common in this part of the world.

Oh my goodness! The music had changed now. Instead of the loud, jaunty tunes, it was a slow record. That meant you had to move closer instead of jiggling with a safe distance apart. ‘I like your dress,’ said her partner, looking down at her.

She blushed. ‘Thank you.’

Then they proceeded to move round in small circles, his arms around her. Thanks to her diminutive height, she barely reached his chest. It was tempting to bury her nose in his shirt, simply for comfort, but of course that would have been far too forward.

Rosie could hardly breathe with the newness of it all. A man! So close! A man she knew her father would never approve of because of the colour of his skin. A man who seemed to draw her in as though she had no choice.

‘My name’s Charlie,’ he said when the music ended.

‘I’m Rosemary,’ she volunteered nervously.

He smiled. ‘I know. I asked someone who you were when you came in.’

Rosemary hardly knew where to look. So he’d actually noticed her, even though there were so many pretty girls around. Unused to compliments, Rosemary didn’t know what to say. Luckily, he was talking instead.

‘I’m only here for a month,’ he said, feeling in his pockets and bringing out a small piece of paper and a pen. ‘But I’d like to see you again – that is, if you want to. May I take your number?’

Then he held her hand and Rosemary knew she never wanted him to let go.

Looking back, as she did again and again over the years, Rosemary couldn’t explain why she had allowed herself to break all the rules that she and Gemma had set for themselves – including nothing above the waistline unless you’d been going out with a boy for at least six months. (As for below, that was inconceivable!)

The only excuse she could come up with was that being with Charlie felt so right that it couldn’t possibly be wrong.

It wasn’t just that she felt physically drawn to him. It was the way he talked to her that made her feel special: something that she hadn’t experienced since Mum had died. He felt the same.

‘Sure you don’t mind me being bald?’ he’d asked one evening when they’d been sitting on the beach, their arms around each other, watching the waves edge further out. He took her right index finger and ran it over his head. ‘I’ve always wanted to ask girls,’ he added tentatively, ‘but never had the courage to do so until now. Yet you … you make me feel I can say anything.’

His head did feel odd, all smooth and shiny. But it was part of him, and frankly, anything that was part of Charlie was fine as far as Rosie was concerned. More than fine, in fact. ‘You wouldn’t be the same if you had hair,’ she offered.

‘Thanks.’ He began to tickle her, which made her scream with laughter. Together they rolled on the pebbled beach like puppies before catching their breath. The mock play-fighting was, she instinctively knew, a distraction for both of them. Otherwise they might so easily do something else, something that should be saved for marriage.

‘You know,’ said Charlie, gently positioning her so that she sat between his legs, ‘I lost my hair by falling out of a tree at prep school when I was ten. The shock made my hair fall out.’

He said all this in such a matter-of-fact manner that she almost didn’t take in the significance.

‘How awful,’ she breathed.

‘Better than being paralysed, which is what the doctors said might have happened.’ His arms encircled her, pulling her gently backwards into his warm body. ‘My grandmother, who brought me up, told me that I could either spend the rest of my life feeling insecure about being bald or I could make it into one of my strengths. So I did. When I came back to school, one of the kids said something spiteful.’

His voice was hard, harder than she’d ever heard it before. It spoke of pain and also anger. ‘So I took him by the scruff of his neck and told him that my baldness gave me a special strength. If he wasn’t careful, I could make him lose his hair too.’

The gleeful way he said this disturbed her. It didn’t fit with the kind, warm Charlie she’d come to know in the last few weeks. ‘What happened after that?’

Charlie grinned down at her. ‘I got made head boy. The same happened when I went to senior school.’ He shrugged. ‘Ended up as head boy there too.’

Then he began to massage her neck, so deftly that she felt herself melting.

Somehow, she managed to keep their relationship hidden from her father, with the help of Gemma and her mother, who both thought it was very romantic. Her English teacher wasn’t so approving. ‘You’re going to have to do better than this,’ she told Rosemary disappointedly when her next essay – on Shelley this time – was a week late and not up to its usual standard. ‘Is everything all right at home?’

Rosemary would have liked to have confided in her young English teacher, but something held her back. What she and Charlie had was precious, something that she didn’t want to share with anyone else. Besides, how could she describe that feeling adequately? That fear in the throat if he was a few minutes late for a secret meeting. That hot wave that passed through her when he kissed her, making her feel as though she hadn’t lived before they’d met. That awful heavy anticipation because he was going to be sent away soon.

They’d agreed to spend their last evening together, sitting quietly in the park. It was summer: a wonderful warm July when it was acceptable for her to make excuses to Dad about needing ‘a breath of fresh air’ and slip out after dinner. Purposefully, she wore her mother’s lavender dress, to remind him of their first meeting.

‘I’m going to miss you so much,’ said Charlie, his arm around her waist as they got up from the bench and walked down to the harbour. But as he spoke, she could see that his eyes were fixed on the cluster of boats bobbing around on the water and she knew he was also desperate to go.

‘I’ll miss you too,’ she murmured, burying her head in his chest. They stood there for a few moments, rocking gently back and forth. She could feel a hardness against her. Was that what she thought it was? Suddenly she felt very bold.

Naturally, they’d kissed. And his hands had explored her breasts – initially above her jumper and then next to her skin, which made her go all hot to think about. Once he had suggested that he explore down below her waist but she had guided his hand away and instantly he had apologised.

But tonight, it was the other way round. Right now, it was
her
hand which was guiding his, as though it belonged to someone else. ‘You are sure?’ asked Charlie, his voice thick with surprise.

She nodded: shocked, herself, by her blatant daring; prompted perhaps by the bottle of wine they had shared and the awful searing pain of their imminent separation. He was being posted to somewhere in Europe, he’d confided, although he wasn’t even meant to tell her that. He certainly wasn’t allowed to reveal where, exactly. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking. They had to make every minute count.

‘There’s a boat, down at the harbour.’ Charlie was walking alongside her, his hand stroking her arm and giving her electric tingles. ‘On the west side.’ He sounded embarrassed. ‘Some of the men use it … It might not be empty.’

But it was.

She should have – could have – said no. But that night, another girl was in her body. One that didn’t heed rules any more because, as Mum had shown, you didn’t live for ever.

‘Oh God,’ he breathed as he sank into her. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

The day after that, his ship sailed. Two months later, she and Gemma had nervously gone into a chemist on the outskirts of town where no one knew them, to buy a pregnancy testing kit.

‘You’re up the duff?’ her father had roared when she’d summoned the courage to tell him. ‘With that coffee-coloured sailor you’ve been seen out with?’ He slammed his fist down on the kitchen table. ‘Don’t think I didn’t know, but I’d hoped you’d come to your senses. I suppose you expect me to allow you to stay here with some black kid, do you?’