The Boy I Love (51 page)

When Henry left that night, to return to his regiment, he squeezed Mary’s hand and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The spot burned from the touch of his lips. She was so young, but already
she felt the catch in her belly, the tightness in her throat – and the pain in her heart.

Henry Maclean was proved right. War did come – and it spread across Europe like a huge black cloud, covering everything in a net of death and destruction. Hundreds of thousands of lives
were lost. Stephen Charles was killed in battle, blown up in a German attack on his regiment, three months after he arrived in Passchendaele. Joseph somehow managed to survive but came home a
broken man. The carnage he had witnessed left him shell-shocked and staring into a bottle of whisky. Reginald took all the pain and suffering as a sign that he should follow his calling and enter
the Church – much to the delight of his father. The Reverend John Charles went straight to his wife’s grave to share the good news with her.

Although devastated by the news of Stephen’s death, John had somehow found a new strength during the war. He had worked tirelessly, travelling from village to village to take services in
times of need; many of the clergy had joined up to provide spiritual support for the soldiers and to work with the wounded. Often with Mary at his side, Reverend Charles would seek out bereaved
families and offer his help and comfort.

Mary herself felt that she had been pretty much deserted by everyone. She mourned her brother’s death and prayed for his soul to that same God who had taken her beloved mother from her.
She shed many bitter tears. But life had to go on and there was so much to do and so many people in need that she had to push her own hurt to the back of her mind and just get on with life. She
worked with the Red Cross, helping to care for wounded soldiers, and she also taught classes in the village school when necessary. She grew up very quickly, as did so many young people at that
time.

One summer evening in 1919, Mary was picking strawberries in the garden when she heard a motor car. This was a rare occurrence. She knew no one who owned a car except the
doctor. She ran out to the front of the house and saw Joseph, looking very much the worse for wear, slumped in the front passenger seat of a Bentley. At the wheel was Henry Maclean. He looked just
the same as always, if a little tired and lined around the eyes. Mary’s heart skipped a beat. Joseph stumbled out of the car and staggered up the garden path, waving his arms in the air and
attempting to sing ‘It’s a Long Way to Tipperary’.

‘Joseph, calm down! What are you doing here? Whose car is that?’ she asked, dancing excitedly round the two young men as they walked into the house.

‘Got any of that homemade sloe gin, Mary?’ Joseph hiccupped and fell into the nearest chair.

‘I think you have already had quite enough,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, come on, old girl, don’t be such a killjoy. Poor Henry here needs a drink. He has fought a war, for God’s sake!’

Mary turned to Henry, who was standing in the doorway with his hat in his hand looking rather bemused.

‘I am so awfully sorry,’ she said shyly. ‘Please do come and sit down. Of course I will fetch you a drink, and some food maybe? You look like you could do with a good meal
inside you.’

‘That would certainly be very welcome. Thank you, Mary.’ He gave her a huge smile and her legs went quite wobbly.

An hour later, Henry and Mary were tucking into homemade soup and bread and cheese, followed by bowls of strawberries just picked from the garden.

‘Oh my God, this is heaven,’ said Henry through mouthfuls of food. Joseph was sprawled on the sofa now, practically asleep. He was red-eyed and unshaven and stank of whisky.

‘I have made a bed up for you in Stephen’s room. If you don’t mind, that is, sleeping in his room because he . . .’ Mary stopped and felt the tears fill her eyes. She
hurriedly left the room and went into the kitchen to compose herself. She was leaning on the sink wiping away her tears with her apron when Henry came to find her.

‘Please don’t worry,’ he said gently. ‘It is so hard for everyone. We have lost so many of our friends and loved ones. Joe only gets drunk because he is grieving so
much.’

Mary looked into Henry’s eyes and could see the pain. ‘Was it very bad?’ she whispered. Henry didn’t answer for a long moment and seemed to be fighting
with himself for control.

‘Yes,’ was all he said, and then he took her in his arms and kissed her. Long and hard. Needing to feel her softness, her goodness and her innocence.

They stood absolutely still, holding each other. Mary wanted the moment to last forever, but it was broken by the sound of Joseph’s snores from the other room.

‘We’d better get him into bed,’ she said, gently breaking away from Henry’s arms. ‘Would you be kind enough to help me?’

‘Of course, come on.’ Henry led the way and the two of them hauled Joseph off the sofa and somehow managed to push and heave him upstairs to his room, where Henry virtually threw him
onto the bed. Joseph moaned and turned on his side and was fast asleep again before they had reached the door. They laughed and turned to go downstairs. A moment held between them. What now?

There was a bang from the front door downstairs and the Reverend Charles called out, ‘Hello? Anybody home? Mary, where are you?’

Mary quickly moved away and went to the top of the stairs, calling out, ‘I am here, Father. Henry and I have been putting Joe to bed.’ She ran down to give her father a hug and
turned to indicate Henry as he came down to join them.

‘Hello, my boy, good to see you home safe and sound,’ the minister said. ‘Terrible business – thank God it is all over at last. Are you staying the night? Has Mary fed
you?’

‘Mary has done us proud in every way, sir. She has kindly offered me a bed, and if you will excuse me, I will retire to it now. It has been a long day. Goodnight, Mary, and thank you for
everything. Goodnight, sir.’ He turned to go up the stairs and Mary put her hand on his arm.

‘Wait, let me get you a towel.’ She went to fetch it and her father moved off to the kitchen in search of his supper.

Mary came back with a clean towel and handed it to Henry, her eyes never leaving his face.

‘Thank you.’ He leaned in and softly kissed her on the lips before turning slowly and climbing the stairs. He might have been going to the moon. Mary felt so bereft. What could she
do to keep him close?

‘My dear, have you got my dinner ready?’

‘Coming, Father,’ came her reply.

After he had finished his supper, John Charles left the table, kissed his daughter goodnight, and retired to his study, where he shut the door.

Mary cleared away the dishes and went out into the back garden. It was a beautiful summer’s night. The sky was so clear she could see every single star.

‘Twinkle, twinkle little star . . .’ Mary whispered to herself and she looked up at the window of Stephen’s bedroom, as if she could transport herself to where Henry lay
asleep. At the thought of him, a tremor ran through her entire body. She felt as if she was on fire. What was happening to her?

Sensing movement behind her, she turned – straight into Henry’s arms. He held her very close and she could smell him. Touch his skin with her lips. She caught her breath and tried to
look at him but that meant pulling away, and she didn’t want to do that. She wanted to stay close to him forever. Oh, but what about her father? She let out a little gasp of fright.

‘What is it?’ Henry asked.

‘My father is in his study. He must not see me this way.’

‘He just went to bed. I heard his door shut. I was lying awake thinking of you. I couldn’t sleep, Mary. I had to hold you once again.’

Henry took her chin in his hand and slowly pressed his lips to hers. Oh so gently, did his tongue prise her lips apart, and play against her teeth. Oh so gently, did his tongue go deeper,
teasing her tongue to respond. She seemed to be melting into his arms her body pressed into his, as he lifted her up in his arms and carried her towards the little summerhouse at the bottom of the
garden. Never letting his lips leave hers for a moment, he lowered her onto the garden seat and started to unbutton her dress. Mary could feel nothing but the beating of her heart and a sound like
rushing water in her head.

As he kissed her, Henry’s hand moved down to touch her breast and then her nipple. He teased it between his fingers, making it hard, and Mary let out a moan of pleasure. Could anything be
more wonderful than this? Henry had lifted her dress now and was exploring beneath it. He ran his fingers, feather light, up the inside of her thigh, pausing to stroke the soft skin above her
stocking top. Her body jerked involuntarily as he found her secret place. She could not control the waves of ecstasy and opened herself to his fingers as they gently pushed into her warm moist
self. With this exquisite sensation, her head lost the battle for logic or reason; her innocent young body responded naturally to his touch, to his closeness, and her very being demanded to be
satisfied.

Her legs fell open to take Henry’s body between her thighs. Her hands instinctively found his hard erect penis and fondled it. The anticipation was unbearable. She was gasping with need.
And suddenly he was inside her, pushing urgently into her warmth and wetness. There was no pain, just the pleasure of being full up with his manhood. He moved and she moved with him. It was so
natural, both these young bodies wanting affirmation of life after so much death. As their passion grew, their lovemaking became more intense and he penetrated deep and hard into her, touching her
to the core. She followed his rhythm, and felt him spurt into her, her muscles clasping him as if her life depended on it. She let out a cry of pure joy and held him to her until they were spent.
He looked down at her and smiled to reassure her all was well. She took his face in her hands and kissed every inch of it, laughing and crying all at once.

Eventually, Henry got up and dressed himself, then helped Mary gather herself together. They did not speak a word as they walked back to the house, under the starry sky, holding hands. Henry
kissed her lightly at the kitchen door and went to his room. Mary stood at the kitchen sink drinking a cup of water and feeling every bone and muscle in her body tingle. This was what it felt like
to be alive, she knew it! She wanted it to last forever.

But it was not to be. The next morning, when Mary woke up, Henry had gone. Joseph explained to her that he had made his apologies, but said he had to drive back to London to attend a job
interview with a City bank. He sent his thanks to Mary for everything, and hoped they would all meet again soon. Mary had to run out of the room, so as not to give herself away. She raced into the
garden and was violently sick under a hedge. A terrible blackness swept over her as she seemed to understand her fate.

Three months later, she was sat in front of Dr Jeffreys, white-faced and trembling, as he gave her the results of her night of passion. A baby, due to be born in the spring. Mary left the
surgery in a daze. Despite the warm summer sunshine she was shivering and her legs felt weak; she had to sit down on the bench outside the doctor’s house.

‘Hello, Mary. Are you feeling all right, dear?’ Lorna Jeffreys was looking down at her. The doctor’s wife remembered so clearly their shared secret of all those years ago
– Mary’s ignorance of her body. Now she could see the naked shame in the young woman’s eyes and her heart went out to her.

Putting her arms round her and lifting her up, Lorna said quietly, ‘Come on, let’s go and have a cup of tea, shall we?’ She led Mary round the side of the house to the living
quarters at the back of the surgery.

Neither woman spoke until they were sitting at the kitchen table with their tea in front of them.

Lorna broke the silence: ‘Do you remember all those years ago, when I said that if ever there was anything I could do to help, you should call on me?’

Mary sighed deeply and searched Mrs Jeffreys’ face. The woman had obviously guessed what was wrong, but there was no reprimand in her voice. No disapproval in her gaze. Mary started to
cry. She felt so alone and so ashamed. What could she do? She was a fallen woman. This news would surely kill her father.

Charles had grown quite frail in the last few months, so much so that they had called Reginald down from his Theological College in Hendon in North London. The family hoped that it might be
possible for Reginald to do his curate training with his father, at St James’ Church in Allingham. The Reverend John Charles was highly regarded in the Diocese, and the Bishop of St Albans
was a close friend. The proposal had been discussed, and as things in the local parishes were still a little disordered since the war ended, it was agreed that John Charles could do with the help,
and to have his son close by was the best thing to do for all concerned.

It was a comfort to think that her father would soon have Reg to support him. As Mary’s tears slowly subsided, she was able to drink her tea and think more clearly.

‘Is there anything I can do to help you?’ asked Lorna, taking Mary’s hand.

‘No, not really. But thank you for all your kindness to me. I don’t deserve it.’ Mary stood up and made for the door. Turning, she told Mrs Jeffreys, ‘I am going to talk
to my brother Reginald; he will know what to do for the best. Thank you again. Goodbye.’

Mary walked home, consumed with her guilt and shame and fear. Her father must never find out. How could he ever forgive her? She thought of her dear mother and the tears sprang afresh. How could
she have been so foolish? Reg would be coming home in the next few days to make arrangements for his training, and until then, she would have to keep her own counsel.

On reaching the vicarage, Mary went straight to her bed, telling her father that she had a headache. She hated to tell him a lie but needs must. Yet another sin to add to her long list. Before
getting into bed, Mary prayed to her mother and begged her forgiveness. She held her prayer book to her heart and fell asleep with it in her hands.