Rosie (54 page)

Number 41 was near the end of the street, no worse or better than the other houses. Gareth opened the front door with a key, paused in the narrow hall to listen, then beckoned her in.

The entire house was silent and it smelled of fried onions. Perhaps it was as well Gareth didn’t switch on a light. The banister felt gritty under her hand and the stairs were just covered with oil cloth or lino.

His room was right at the top, at the back of the third floor. Rosie had braced herself for squalor, so she was quite taken aback when he switched on the light. It was a very small room but clean and tidy. A single bed covered with a pale blue counterpane, a chest of drawers and one easy chair. The window was open wide, there was a rug on the floor, and even the blue and white striped curtains were decent and looked as if they’d been starched.

‘It’s a nice room,’ she said with some surprise, looking at his well-ironed shirts hanging from a small rail fixed to the wall. She guessed his mother still washed them for him. ‘I imagined something much worse.’

He seemed bowled over that she approved. ‘Mum thought it was awful when she came here once. We had a row about it.’

‘It’s clean and comfortable,’ Rosie said, sitting down on the bed experimentally. ‘What more could she want?’

‘For me to live at home,’ Gareth grinned. ‘Mrs Kent made the mistake of telling Mum she liked a drink. That’s what really did the damage. She thought I was going to be led astray.’

Rosie knelt on the bed and looked out of the window while Gareth went down to the kitchen to make them a cup of tea. Darkness had finally fallen and blotted out the ugliness. This house was taller than the one behind it, so she had a panoramic view of thousands of lights. After Mayfield it was very noisy: music coming from several different directions, people shouting and laughing, and the sounds of train doors slamming and guards calling out from the station where Gareth worked.

She remembered then how back at Carrington Hall it had seemed so important to become a real Londoner. She wasn’t sorry she’d moved to Mayfield, she loved it there, yet a small part of her still longed to widen her experience, satisfy her curiosity and explore every part of the city.

Linda had often spoken of the East End. Sometimes she made it sound like one big party where everyone knew everyone else; at other times she spoke darkly of the filth in the slums, the overcrowding and the stink of the docks. As Rosie looked out on all the lights she realized that this area, Linda’s East End and the West End were the real London, and if she was ever to find out what really made the city tick, she had to study them and the ordinary people who lived there. Places like Hampstead, St John’s Wood and Highgate were not the city’s heart.

This afternoon Gareth had given her glimpses into that heart. He’d spoken of the pubs, greyhound racing and football matches. All his workmates lived around here – some in this house – they went out together at night, and it sounded like great fun.

She was just trying to picture herself living in a little room like this, getting dressed up smartly to work in an office, going up to the West End on Saturday nights to a dance with a crowd of other girls, when Gareth came back, interrupting her thoughts. He was carrying two mugs of tea and a plate of sandwiches.

‘Good old Mrs Kent,’ he said, smiling broadly. ‘She might be a boozer and a dragon when you cross her, but she always leaves us lads a snack.’

By eleven they had turned out the light. Rosie was in bed in her nightdress, with Gareth, still fully dressed, lying on top of the covers cuddling her. It had begun to rain again and it was growing a little quieter outside. It felt so good to be along together, holding each other.

‘Are you sure Mrs Kent won’t come up here?’ she asked sleepily. Gareth had shown her where the bathroom was on the floor below, but she hadn’t lingered in there for fear of being caught. She just hoped she wouldn’t need to use the toilet during the night.

‘She can’t manage one flight of stairs when she’s been drinking, let alone three,’ he laughed softly, kissing her neck. ‘Besides, she never comes up at night, not unless someone’s making a noise. We’re quite safe.’

A little later a door slammed. ‘That’s her now,’ Gareth said. They both half sat up to listen and heard her stumbling down the passage towards the kitchen. There was a rattling of china, some running water, then the back door opened and she went outside.

‘She uses the outside lav when she’s like that,’ Gareth chuckled. ‘One night she fell asleep out there. It was a good job she left the whistle on the kettle – I heard that and went down and woke her up.’

‘What does she look like?’ Rosie asked. She liked to picture people.

‘Fat, forty and bleached blonde,’ he said. ‘Mum thinks she’s a bit of a floozy, but she isn’t. She’s just a bit lonely. Her husband was killed in the war.’

Mrs Kent came back indoors and they heard her speak to someone else who’d just come in.

‘That’s Steve. He’s on the first floor,’ Gareth reported. ‘He works for the railways too.’

It was after one before the house finally sank into silence. Until then there had been doors banging, the toilet flushing and someone coughing. The rain was lashing against the window and it was very snug in the bed as they lay there whispering to one another.

‘Can I get right under the covers? I’m cold,’ Gareth said.

‘Of course you can,’ Rosie replied without any hesitation. She had been a bit cramped with the covers pinned down by his body, and besides he’d been as good as his word and hadn’t attempted to take any liberties with her. He took his clothes off, all except his pants, and crept in beside her.

Rosie realized the moment she felt his bare chest that it wasn’t going to be so easy to prevent any intimacy now that his skin was touching hers. They just seemed to melt into each other as they kissed, and each kiss was longer and more passionate than the one before.

When his hand stole under her nightdress to fondle her breasts, she did attempt to stop him but it was half-hearted, for she was getting as carried away as he was. Next the nightdress came right off and he moved down the bed to kiss and suck at her nipples.

She felt as if she was being drawn into another world, where nothing but his lips on hers, the touch of his hands and the pressure from his body counted. She had lost all will to stop this game, even though she knew it was dangerous. When he pulled off her knickers and touched her there, all she could think of was caressing him too to make him feel as good as she did.

She felt no shame when his fingers probed deep inside her. It was like a thirst which had to be quenched no matter what. She put her hand round his penis and they rocked together, pleasing and teasing each other at the same time. Nothing had ever felt as good as this before and she wanted it to go on for ever.

Until now Rosie had always believed that sex before marriage was instigated and probably forced by the male, and she had no real sympathy for girls weak enough to let it happen. But as she found herself fondling and exploring Gareth’s body, her own writhing beneath his in equal passion, she lost all her inhibitions. She wanted him so much that all reason was gone.

It was Gareth, not her, who stopped short at the point of entering her.

‘We mustn’t,’ he panted. ‘You might have a baby.’

The word ‘baby’ was enough to cool her down, bringing with it memories of Heather and her father. Her legs closed involuntarily.

‘I want to, so much,’ Gareth whispered, his penis as hard as a rock against her. ‘I never wanted anything more. But we have to wait, at least until we’re engaged.’

Rosie held him to her tightly, loving him even more because of his strength of character, and more than a little ashamed of herself at letting things go so far.

Exhaustion made them sleep eventually, and Rosie awoke to find the room full of sunshine, with Gareth leaning up on one elbow just looking at her.

‘You look so beautiful,’ he whispered. ‘I get a lump in my throat just looking at you.’

Rosie giggled. She didn’t believe she was beautiful. She thought he was. His brown curls were damp with perspiration, his blue eyes like the periwinkles out on the moors; even the dark shadow on his dimpled chin was oddly attractive.

‘What time is it?’ she asked.

‘Nearly eight. We ought to get up before anyone else does.’ He pushed the covers down and looked at her breasts. ‘I wish we could stay here all day.’

It seemed funny that during the night Gareth had explored every inch of her body, yet now she felt embarrassed by him looking at her. She blushed and reached over the side of the bed for her nightdress and hurriedly put it on.

‘One day when you’re really mine I’ll take all your clothes away and keep you naked all day!’ he said with a smile.

Rosie was scared when she was washing in the bathroom. Someone tried the door and she froze, thinking that perhaps they were waiting outside. But whoever it was had gone by the time she got out, and she hurried back to the comparative safety of Gareth’s room.

It was just before nine when they crept downstairs. The house wasn’t as bad as Rosie had imagined last night in the dark: it was clean and bright, though a little stark. Snores came from behind the closed doors and with every step Rosie was sure Mrs Kent would appear at the foot of the stairs.

Everything sparkled as they walked down to the tube station. The heavy rain in the night had washed the dust off trees and scrubbed the pavements clean. Even dogs out on an early morning cruise of the neighbourhood looked happy.

‘I wish I’d taken my bike from Mum’s yesterday, we could’ve gone for a ride today,’ Gareth said. ‘I’ll have to go home tonight and collect it. I’m not looking forward to that.’

Rosie was so happy this morning she felt big enough to even feel a little sorry for his mother.

‘Tell her I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’d better write her a little letter too?’

‘Leave well alone,’ he said with a shrug. ‘She’ll come round eventually. Now, how about going to Petticoat Lane Market and afterwards I’ll show you the Tower of London?’

It was a wonderful day. The sun shone, the Thames glittered, everyone in the market seemed to have a smile on their face. Rosie tried on fancy hats on one stall, making Gareth laugh as she posed and pulled faces. He tried first a bowler and then a trilby, and she laughed until she had a stitch. They ate huge bacon sandwiches from one stall, then tried jellied eels from another. She told him how down in Somerset the eels came slithering out of every ditch and river at a certain time of the year when they had to mate. Gareth said he would slither on his belly all the way to Mayfield next time he had the urge to mate with her.

Late in the afternoon they caught a bus to St James’s Park and lay on the grass to cuddle and kiss, along with countless other couples. A band was playing to a large audience in deckchairs, while children fed the ducks and played hide and seek around the trees. A stop-me-and-buy-one man came round on a bike and Gareth bought Rosie a triple-sized cornet.

It was just about six, an hour before her train was to leave from Victoria, and they were sitting in the tea house in St James’s Park. Gareth was relating a story about his first day at school in London, when Rosie was brought up sharply, remembering that she’d intended to tell him the truth about herself today.

His face was crinkled up with laughter, his eyes so tender, and she knew she couldn’t spoil the day by telling him now.

On their way to the station they stopped to look at Buckingham Palace. Bright sunshine made the scene so much more beautiful than it had been on Coronation Day. The Guards’ red jackets and black busbies stood out in sharp relief against the white of the palace, and every window twinkled. It was peaceful too, only a handful of tourists looking through the railings and so little traffic passing by.

‘I knew you were meant for me even then,’ he said, looking across at the spot where the police had tried to bundle Donald into the Black Maria. ‘My heart sort of lurched when I saw you.’

He turned to her, cupping her face in both his hands, and his eyes weren’t laughing now but were filled with tenderness. ‘I love you, Rosie,’ he said.

Rosie felt winded. She knew without any doubt that what she felt for him was love too. ‘You don’t know enough about me,’ she blurted out. ‘You mustn’t say such things until I’ve told you everything.’

‘I know everything I want to,’ he said, kissing her on the nose. ‘You are bright and beautiful, you’re kind and giving. All I want to know now is, do you love me?’

Her head was telling her to make a joke, break the spell and then make him listen to the whole truth before he committed himself any further. But she couldn’t. She didn’t want that tender look to fade from his eyes. She wanted him to kiss her and convince her they really were made for one another.

‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I love you too.’

As he kissed her she knew she had passed the point of no return.

Chapter Fourteen

Thomas slumped down on to the grassy path around the edge of the recently cut wheatfield. It was the end of August and he’d come down to Mayfield to stay for the weekend.

‘Is your leg hurting?’ Rosie was instantly solicitous, although she’d been forcing the fast pace on this walk across the fields. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t think. I just so much wanted you to see everything.’ She put two fingers in her mouth and gave a very unladylike whistle for Donald, who had gambolled on ahead of them to climb a haystack.

Thomas thought Rosie was priceless. Since his arrival yesterday she had shown him so many different sides to her character. The zealous gardener who went down to the greenhouse to water her seedlings even before breakfast. The little mother fussing over Donald because he had a splinter in his finger, then immediately after the shrew who shouted at him for knocking over the cat’s milk. The cook who’d made a superb steak and kidney pie for dinner last night, and the loving, caring companion who guided Donald’s hand so carefully when he tried to write his name. She had come in from picking runner beans for lunch today with mud-streaked legs, hands and face, and even before she’d washed it off spoke of cultivating a more sophisticated image because she thought Gareth liked girls like that.