Women of Courage (10 page)

As they came closer her son nudged his pony into a trot. He halted on the drive just below the verandah and looked up, beaming. She smiled down at him.

‘Did you have a good ride?’

‘I’ll say! Mother, I jumped the three hedges down by the copse, and the ditch! He never stopped once — ask Father if you don’t believe me!’

She glanced at Charles as he drew up, grinning, beside Tom. Charles Cavendish was a tall, lean man, ten years older than his wife. He had a thin brown face with a hooked, aquiline nose, high cheekbones, and a short dark moustache. Over the years the face had become thinner, more leathery with exposure to wind and sun. When he smiled, as he was doing now, the smile always rose more to the left of his face than the right, giving an engaging, boyish look. But I see it so seldom, Deborah thought.

‘Quite true, m’dear, every word! And you needn’t be frightened, either — the boy’s got a seat like a trooper and the pony’s a genuine smasher! We’ll have him out with the hunt this autumn!’

‘Well done,’ she said, gamely. The thought of her little boy flying through the woods with the hunt appalled her, but only briefly; she had far too many other worries now. And besides, if Tom was happy, that was the whole point of this holiday. To bring them together as a family again. Before it was too late.

A stable lad ran up to take the horses, and Charles dismounted. But Tom stayed on his pony.

‘It’s all right, Harry,’ he said. ‘I’ll ride him down to the stables and untack him. I can, can’t I, Father? I like doing it, and you always say a good soldier has to be able to do everything for his horse.’

‘Yes, of course. Be sure to walk him round until he’s cool, then rub him down. Harry’ll show you.’

Charles smiled, watched them go, and came up the steps to his wife.

‘It seems that the present was a success, then,’ she said.

‘Certainly. He’s a grand little pony.’

‘I’m glad. Tom will have something to boast of, at least, when be goes back to school.’

‘Yes.’ He paused just below the top step, and looked at her, still smiling. I remember he smiled at me like that on our wedding day, Deborah thought. Nine years ago this May, in the church in Downpatrick. Sarah said I was a fool to marry so young but I defied her. We came back here afterwards in a black shining landau and stood on the steps of this house to welcome our guests to the reception. The photographer from the
Belfast Times
took a picture and printed it next day, saying we were the handsomest couple in Ulster.

Now the smile looks more like that of a general, a commander. Weighing you up even as he looks at you. Yet there is that haunting loneliness somewhere deep behind the eyes, too. It’s been worse these past two months than ever before. I wish he would let me in to touch that. Ease the pain of whatever it is that gnaws him . . .

‘Well . . .’ As she spoke she thought she sounded almost flustered, not quite knowing how to deal with the unexpected intimacy of such a short, friendly moment. He had been away so often in their married life, they had spent so little time together. If I’m not careful I’ll blush, she thought, and that would be really foolish. It’s so important. ‘I’ve spent all the afternoon getting Tom’s clothes packed. I think he’ll find they’re in apple-pie order.’

It was Tom’s third term at boarding school, and tomorrow she was to take him back for the start of the summer term. It seemed that an eight year old boy needed a quite extraordinary collection of clothes and kit to last him through the next twelve weeks — cricket flannels, house blazer, rowing strip, straw boater, black gown, house tie, house cap, and a complete selection of new shirts, knickerbockers, socks, boots, stiff collars, and suits, to replace those that his wrists and ankles were suddenly poking out of. Deborah had spent most of the last week buying and labelling these things, and was heartily sick of them all.

‘Good. Let’s hope he keeps them like that. He can be a scruffy little beggar if he wants to. Not with the pony’s tack so far, but with his own things. Would never do in the army.’ Charles stepped up onto the verandah and strolled beside her into the house. They went up the main staircase together, to the first floor where their two suites of rooms opened one off the other. He said: ‘The fields are looking good, too. If this weather holds we should have a good year.’

‘I hope so. We’ve had a good crop of daffodils anyway. And a few early tulips — look.’

He glanced at the basket she was carrying over, her arm. ‘So I see.’ They reached his bedroom door and he turned to go in. ‘You’ll want to be arranging them, I suppose. I’d better get out of these clothes and change for dinner.’

‘Of course.’ He was wearing his riding boots and jodhpurs, and she could smell the scent of leather and horse-sweat on him. As he opened the door she said: ‘Charles.’

‘Yes?’

‘Do you — mind if I come and talk to you while you change?’

As soon as she had said it she felt her hand shaking; it was not the sort of thing that happened between them once in a year, even. But then, it was the sort of thing that other married women must say, all the time; and she had a feeling, growing in her, that today was going to be different, lucky. It had to be, if their marriage was not going to fall apart for ever.

Charles hesitated, then shrugged. ‘Why not? I have a screen, though I don’t use it very often.’

As she came into her husband’s bedroom she noticed, as she always did, how bare it was, devoid of almost all the things that give a room comfort. There was a faded Persian rug on the floor, but it only covered a quarter, perhaps, of the floor space. There was a desk and a chair by the window, with a selection of framed photographs of his army career on the wall around it, and one or two of him with elephants and a tiger he had shot; but none of her, or his parents, or even of Tom. There were no other pictures at all; just a couple of crossed African assegais over the mantelpiece. Other than that, there was a bookcase, a wash-stand with a jug and ewer, two leather armchairs, and a bed.

A small dressing room opened off the main bedroom. Charles went in there, hunted around a moment, and then brought out a faded screen, painted with incongruous Chinese scenes, which he erected in front of the ewer and washstand. Deborah put the flower basket down on one of the chairs and sat on its arm.

‘Yes, my dear, what is it you want to talk about?’

Again the smile, briefly, but now from a disembodied head that glanced politely at her from over the top of the screen. Deborah heard the sound of a belt and buttons being undone, and the head moved out of sight for a moment into the dressing room.

‘Oh, I don’t know. Nothing in particular. Just to talk, that’s all.’

She felt foolish saying it, but there was no rebuff. He grunted, in a way that might have meant amusement, and then there was the sound of water being poured from the ewer into the basin, and splashing.

‘Talk away then.’

Deborah felt nervous, but also determined. There was nothing unusual about such a scene really, she told herself; in some marriages husband and wife must often be together like this. He has been back in Ireland for two months now, training his wretched Ulster Volunteer Force; he must take notice of me sometimes. He has to, if our marriage is to be saved. It’s almost too late already . . .

She stood up and walked towards the window, suddenly conscious of how her clothes restricted her. She was still wearing hat and gloves, and was encased from neck to toe in a dress with a corset beneath it, whereas Charles, splashing in a basin a few feet away behind the screen, must be stripped — to the waist at least. She wondered what his body looked like. She had not seen it for . . . so long.

She peeled off the gloves and flung them on the bed.

‘It’s a beautiful day, isn’t it? I was watching the swallows — do you know they’re back, building a nest in the stables again.’

‘Are they?’ Charles grunted, and there was more splashing. ‘I didn’t look.’

‘Well, they are.’ Charles’s windows looked out of the back of the house, across the park to the south-west. Here, too, all the oaks, elms, and horse chestnuts were bright with new leaf, and the crisp spring sunlight sent a gleam of hope over all the world. There were fallow deer in the park, and away in the distance, towards the hills, what must be new lambs dancing madly around their mothers.

She turned back to the bare room, unpinned her hat. A tress of hair fell loosely down the side of her neck. ‘I was thinking of the day we were married.’

There was no response. The splashing had stopped and there was the sound of brisk towelling. A tousled head glanced over the screen at her briefly. ‘Oh, were you? Why, for God’s sake?’

‘Because — it’s a happy memory, or it should be. I always think of it at this time of year. And especially with Tom being here. Here am I sorting out cricket flannels half as big as yours, and it seems only yesterday he was in nappies and little dresses. I’ve still got all those baby clothes, you know.’

The towelling had stopped. Charles turned round and leaned over the top of the screen, looking at her. He must still be naked, at least above the waist; she could see his arm and shoulder muscles flexing under the pale smooth skin.

He frowned and shook his head. His mouth twisted, as though he might smile again. ‘You’re in a funny mood today, Mrs Cavendish.’

She met his eyes, and hope fluttered inside her. ‘Oh yes, I suppose I am, Charles,’ she said. She took two steps towards him, and put up her own hand, timidly, to touch the hard smooth muscle of his upper arm. For a moment they stood there, either side of the faded Chinese screen. She looked into his eyes and they did not turn away. Something dark fluttered behind them.

The screen was still between them. With her left hand, she tried to push it aside.

‘Charles,’ she said. ‘Let me come in.’

It was difficult to move the screen. There was a hinge in front of her, and as she tried to drag the screen aside it bent between them, pushing them apart. Then, as she stepped behind it, it tottered and collapsed on the floor.

She put her arms on his shoulders. He had not begun to dress, he was quite naked. His shoulders felt hard and smooth beneath her hands. She wanted to look at his body but she was too embarrassed, nervous. She was shaking all over with excitement and fear and she did not know what to do next, not at all. They had not made love for over a year and never in his room, certainly never like this in the afternoon. But you
must
, a voice inside her cried. We have been married for nine years and I need him. If I have another child it has to be his! I want us to stay a family.

She slid her arms around his neck and put her mouth up to be kissed, and when his lips did not move towards hers she found them with her own and then — thank God! — his arms went around her waist and pulled her hesitantly towards him. The kiss was clumsy, hesitant too, but it was a kiss for all that, and the shaking in her faded and was replaced by a soft, melting sensation throughout all her body and in her loins especially. She pressed her loins against his and there was a slight answering pressure but nothing hard there, not yet, oh but there will be Charles, there must be soon my lover, my husband. She slid one of her hands down his spine, over the firm, smooth muscles of his lower back, down to the rise of his buttocks, and then . . .

There was a knock at the door.

Charles jerked away from her as though her dress were full of needles. She stared at him, her face flushing. Don’t answer it, Charles, she thought, please! Just this once, tell whoever it is to go away. Her eyes met his. She saw the doubt in them, and shook her head, ever so slightly.
Please.

The knock came again, discreet, insistent, intrusive.

Charles hesitated for another long moment, watching her. She saw something fade in his eyes. He picked up a towel, wrapped it round himself, and turned away.

‘Yes,’ he called. ‘What is it?’

A man’s voice answered from outside the door; Charles’ ADC, Simon Fletcher. ‘Telegram for you, sir. It looks as though it’s from UVF HQ. I thought I’d bring it up straight away, in case it’s urgent.’

‘Bring it in for me, Simon, would you? I’m just getting dressed.’

‘As you like, sir.’ The door opened and a tall, fair-haired young man came in. He wore well-tailored khaki battledress and had a cap under his arm. He came into the room without hesitation, as though he knew it well, and walked straight towards the screen in the corner. Then he saw it lying on the floor, and at the same moment realised Deborah was there. He stopped, and blushed.

‘Oh, excuse me, Mrs Cavendish. I didn’t know . . .’

‘Never mind her, Simon,’ Charles said irritably. ‘Give me the telegram now.’

Simon Fletcher held the envelope out and Charles ripped it open. While he was reading, Deborah stood quite still, shattered, staring at Simon. For the moment she could not bear to look at Charles. Simon Fletcher was an unusually fair-skinned young man, whom she had first met two months ago when Charles had returned to Ireland and taken command of the local UVF unit. Simon was unfailingly polite to her, and seemed devoted to her husband. But somehow she had never liked him. He always seemed cold to her, self-centred, like a walking statue conscious of his own beauty. But it was gracious of him to blush, at least, when he walked in on the scene of her humiliation.

Charles held out the telegram. ‘You were right, Simon, it
is
urgent. Here, read it yourself.’

Simon Fletcher took the telegram and pursed his lips in a slow, elegant whistle. It seemed to Deborah an odd, strangely familiar thing for a young man to do in front of his commanding officer. Especially when the commanding officer was dressed only in a towel.

‘Yes, sir, I see. Will it be a big operation, do you think?’

‘We’ll soon find out. Go down and order the motor, will you. Then come back up — I may. need to send a reply.’

Even when Simon Fletcher was gone Charles did not look at his wife. Instead, he picked up the screen and began to get dressed behind it.

She heard the hurried movement of trousers being pulled on, and asked: ‘Why did you let him come in?’