Such Sweet Sorrow (13 page)

Jenny lay on her bed and listened hard. She could hear footsteps on the hill. William and Tina, perhaps? She closed her eyes tightly, trying to fight a tide of jealousy that she knew from bitter experience would do nothing to ease her own pain, or terrible sense of loss at Eddie’s absence.

It was ridiculous! When they had been together she hadn’t wanted him except as bait to make his brother Haydn jealous. And afterwards, when Haydn had made it plain that he no longer wanted her at any price and she had allowed Eddie to make love to her, it had been nothing more than lust. A burning, all-consuming passion that had driven all thoughts other than when, where and how they could arrange the next time, from her mind. She had learned the hard way that passion and sexual fulfilment, no matter how exciting or pleasurable, was no basis for marriage.

But at moments like this, when she was totally alone and had time to remember the small things, she suspected that for Eddie their relationship had been based on more than simply lust.

Closing her eyes she pictured the bruises on Eddie’s face and the gleam in his eye when he had asked her to marry him after the last boxing match he had fought in Pontypridd. The pride with which he had showed off the expensive engagement ring he had bought her to his family and friends. That one magic night when they had gone swimming without clothes in Shoni’s pond and made love – for what had turned out to be the last time. Because after Eddie had seen her kissing Haydn in the wedding reception in a way no bride should kiss a best man, there had been no more lovemaking.

She longed to be with him. Ached for the feel of his naked body against hers, the cool touch of his lips on her bare skin, the sheer strength of his physical presence; a glimpse of his dark brooding eyes that could magically lighten at a smile from her. His quiet, undemonstrative dependability, that would have been such a good quality in a husband, if only she had given him a chance to be one.

She picked up the writing pad and fountain pen from her bedside cabinet. She had persuaded William to stop off at the shop on his way down the hill in the morning. If Eddie was still in the Guards camp ‘somewhere in France’, and she had no reason to think otherwise, William had promised to find a soldier bound for the place. Someone reliable and trustworthy who would seek Eddie out, and put her letter in his hand.

She knew that Eddie had been given embarkation leave, because every soldier was given at least forty-eight hours free between training and active service, and it grieved her to think that Eddie had preferred to spend that precious time somewhere other than Pontypridd. But there had to be other leaves. There
had
to. And in the meantime there were letters that she could send – but could never be quite sure he received.

She clung to the hope that Eddie would feel duty bound to answer one that was put directly into his hand, although he hadn’t replied to the daily missives she had sent since his father had given her his address. She looked down at the writing pad and read what she had written for the tenth time, wondering if these particular words would elicit a response when so many others had failed.

She had tried to make her letter light, appealing, wanting to make him miss her, and more important still, return to Pontypridd for his next leave. She stared at the paper, trying to imagine him unfolding it for the very first time.

My darling husband,

I thought it would be easier once you finally left Pontypridd and there was no chance of my seeing you, but, if anything, I love and miss you more with every passing hour. I try to keep busy helping my father in the shop, but every time the bell clangs on the door I look up, knowing it won’t be you, yet hoping against all reason that it will. Please, Eddie, come back to Pontypridd the minute you have leave. I have saved some money, enough for us to stay at a hotel for two weeks, if you can get that long. Perhaps we could go to Cardiff, or Swansea, or Porthcawl or Barry Island? I know it won’t be like having a holiday in the summer, but it would be so wonderful if we could spend time together, just the two of us.

She stared at the words until they danced before her eyes. Should she mention their disastrous honeymoon, the quarrelling that had led him to punch his brother, Haydn, through a plate-glass window in a jealous rage? How much she wanted to make up for everything he had suffered on her account? Or should she plead with him to give her one more chance?

Everyone said that soldiers’ letters were censored. Did that mean the officers read the incoming as well as the outgoing mail? Picking up the pen again, she unscrewed the top and held it poised over the writing pad until a large blob of ink fell from the nib, disfiguring the creamy white paper. Eventually she began to write, quickly, instinctively, without thinking too hard about what she was saying, concentrating instead on an image of Eddie. But it was no use. Every time she succeeded in picturing his tall, hard, lean body, his dark curly hair and handsome, bruised boxer’s face, the image faded before she could imprint it on her mind. It was worse than trying to catch water in her fingers. Elusive, quick-tempered, impatient Eddie. No different in her imaginings than he was in life.

Of course if you want to stay in Pontypridd, I’ll understand. I’ll get rooms for us somewhere. I just want to be with you, wherever that is. Please my darling, write soon, let me know how you are and if you need anything that I can send. I have saved every penny of the army wife’s one pound thirteen shillings a week allowance, as my father is still paying me for working in the shop. It is surprising how it’s mounting up. I don’t want the war to last a day longer than it has to, but already between your money and what I’ve saved from my earnings, we have quite a bit set aside to put towards a home of our own. I wish you were here, Eddie so I could give you a great big kiss goodnight, and a whole lot more. I long to hold you in my arms…

She stopped writing … was it wrong for her to feel this way? No one had ever told her that a woman could want a man this much. Naked and in bed, the same way men were supposed to want women.

Please my darling come to me the minute you can,

Your ever loving wife, Jenny

She’d written from the heart, she could do no better. Resisting the temptation to read what she’d said, she etched a line of crosses beneath her name, pressed blotting paper over the page and folded it into an envelope. Now it was up to William – and Eddie. If only she could be sure he’d open the envelope and read every loving word.

‘Tina I don’t think we should do this. What if someone sees us?’

‘You know anyone who can see in the dark?’ she whispered as she fingered the keys and the lock, scraping metal on metal in an effort to home in on the right one.

‘I promised your father I’d take you straight home.’

‘We’re checking his property to make sure it’s safe.’

‘A constable or an air-raid warden could come …’

‘So what? I’ve every right to be in my own family’s café. Open Sesame!’ The door swung open and she stepped inside. ‘Come on, quick!’

He followed her, standing in darkness while she checked the blackout. Only when she was satisfied that all the drapes were drawn across the windows did she finally switch on the light.

‘There, want a cup of tea or something?’

‘No.’ He moved behind the door and leaned against it, as though to emphasise the fact that he had no intention of remaining long.

‘Would you rather I switched off the light?’

‘I’d rather we went. Someone could come.’

‘Who? Laura’s in labour, Tony’s home with the children, Angelo’s in the café; Papa and Mama are with Laura.’ She moved behind him, rammed the bolt home on the door and switched off the light. Lifting her hands around his neck she kissed him. Unbuttoning his coat and jacket, she slipped her fingers beneath his waistcoat. ‘This is the way I wanted to say goodbye.’

As the warmth of her hands radiated through the layers of his shirt and vest, his defences weakened. Unbuttoning her coat he pulled her to him, holding her close, luxuriating in the soft, warm, deliciously feminine feel of her body against his.

‘I love you, Tina, but we shouldn’t be doing this.’ Summoning every ounce of willpower he possessed, he pushed her away.

She stood back and he heard the swish of cloth falling as she laid her coat over a neighbouring table.

‘Tina?’ he called softly, alarmed by her absence and the darkness that closed around him like a blackout curtain, dense, suffocating and totally blinding.

‘I’m here.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Trying to make a comfortable place for us.’

She switched on the kitchen light; it filtered through into the café, filling the room with a soft, subdued glow. ‘Don’t worry, it won’t be seen from the street. Here.’ She dropped a bale of blackout material into a corner. Unrolling it, she transformed it into an improvised
chaise-longue
, with the roll acting as a pillow.

‘I don’t think …’ His voice died in his throat as she sank to her knees and opened her arms to him.

He hesitated for barely a moment before discarding his coat and jacket. He knelt beside her and kissed her, his hands exploring her face as his mouth closed over hers. She clung to him tightly, fiercely.

‘There’ll never be anyone else for me, you do know that?’ She stared at him intently. ‘So no doing anything stupid when you’re away.’

‘No French girls, I swear it,’ he smiled.

‘Or English, or Dutch …’

‘No other girls, ever.’ He lay on his back and pulled her down on top of him, so he could kiss her again. Her breasts strained against the thin material of her dress. Reaching up he caressed them through the layers of cloth. She pulled away from him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he murmured contritely.

Her fingers set to work unhooking the row of mother-of-pearl buttons that ornamented the front panel of her dress.

‘No …’ he reached up and gripped her hands, imprisoning them in his own.

‘We’re engaged. I think I’m entitled to send you off to war with more than the memory of a few kisses.’

Tugging her hands free she slipped the dress over her arms and tossed it aside. As she knelt over him, shivering in an opalescent silk shift, his self-control dissolved. He fingered the thin straps of the petticoat. She pulled them down before unlacing and discarding her bustshaper. Slowly, tentatively he reached up and caressed her naked breasts, his fingers lingering over the perfect pink aureoles of her nipples.

‘You’re beautiful.’

‘All I want is to make you happy.’

‘You do, Tina and you will. But you’re going to catch cold.’ Reaching for his jacket, he draped it over her shoulders as she sank down on to his chest. ‘I love you.’

‘And I love you, which is why I want to be here with you like this.’ She gazed up at him, her eyes dark, bewitching pools.

‘And why I should never have come. I wanted our first time to be special. After a huge white wedding with my sister and all of yours as bridesmaids. We’d be in a sumptuous hotel room with a four-poster bed, there’d be flowers and champagne …’

‘Can’t you smell the flowers? They’re carnations and freesias.’

‘White ones?’

‘What other colour is there? And the champagne bubbles have gone up my nose, I’m going to sneeze at any moment.’

‘This is hardly a four-poster bed.’

‘It’s a little smaller than I would have wished, but just as comfortable.’ She closed her arms even more tightly around his chest. ‘So kiss me, and let’s make the most of this room while it’s ours.’

While he kissed her, she unbuttoned his shirt. She helped him to remove his waistcoat and draw down his braces. He pulled his vest over his head, and drew in his breath sharply as her naked breasts brushed against his bare chest. Trailing the tips of his fingers over her back and arms, he lingered over every inch of skin, every curve, imprinting the shape and feel of her into his memory. When he came to the flat of her stomach which was still covered by her petticoat, he rolled over, taking her with him, so he lay above her. He kissed her again, his senses reeling, lost in a kaleidoscope of colour, sounds, images, scents and jumbled memories. The sweetness of their first stolen kiss at the back of the Catholic Hall, the damp, cloying darkness of the blacked-out night when he had first told her he loved her and wanted to marry her. The parlour in the Ronconi house where he had asked Tina’s father for her hand, and her father’s and his own voice echoing back from the Lewises’ kitchen not an hour before.

‘And a good night’s sleep first, which means you take her straight home, young man.’

‘I will, Mr Ronconi.’

He sat up abruptly. Leaning forward, he sank his head into his hands.

‘Will!’ Tina was beside him, her hand on his shoulder. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘So help me, I can’t do this. I’m sorry, Tina, I can’t. It will be different when we’re married I promise you, but this isn’t the time or the place for us.’

‘I’m beginning to wonder if there’ll ever be a time and place for us,’ she cried angrily. ‘Will, I’m prepared to give you all I have to give. Everything! Why won’t you take it like any other man would?’

‘Because I’m not any other man.’ He was on his feet pulling his vest over his head. Scooping up his shirt, tie and waistcoat he flung them on top of his jacket on the table, and continued to dress.

Turning her back, Tina picked up her bust-shaper. He was dressed before her. Lifting the blackout material he re-rolled it and carried it into the kitchen. She pointed to a shelf and he stacked it on to it. Taking the keys from her hand, he walked her to the door, opened it and locked it carefully behind them. They climbed the hill in silence. Only when they stood outside her front door did he kiss her again, and this time she sensed it was a final goodbye:

‘I love you.’

‘I love you too, which is why I had to end that back there. I’m sorry, but if anything had happened between us I know I couldn’t have left you afterwards. Not even if it meant going to prison. And that wouldn’t have done either of us any good.’

‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’ She clung to him, her face pressed against the rough wool of his overcoat. ‘You’ll write?’