His instinct, to wait until what he most wanted happened so that neither would appear to think about how to begin what seemed impossible, had indeed been right. He reflected while holding her warm body that they had mindlessly given in to their need for each other. But all in their lives that had led to it had been by no means mindless. The transition was impossible to detect, a fusing spark that was never to be defined and isolated but which had brought them together.
His regard for her had bred the necessary patience, and had been the true guide of his action. The only value received from his orphanage schooling, and throughout a long age at sea, was to know when to wait and how to bide his time, and he considered that the power of this virtue had not disappointed him now that the first real call on it had been made. Thus every move was a combination of calculated choice and inherited need.
His shirt was wet with her tears, and she smiled at the thought that at least they were old enough to know what they were doing. He held her tight but his kisses were tender. He moved away. His cultivated indifference had succeeded, like everything else, at a cost. But his arms relaxed as he kissed the tips of her breasts. ‘It’s only a few days, but it seems that we’ve waited years.’
Her eyes opened. ‘There’s plenty of time now.’ She felt like a child, not yet a woman, an unexpected innocence which had nevertheless been hoped for. Was it only an infatuation which people often said such feelings were? She did not admit the word. There was too much cruelty in it, and for herself it was impossible to use. She smiled that she had only ever held her son with the same affection – when he had been a child.
He watched her bend at the bed in Clara’s room to pull down the covers. She was thin, flesh firm at her stomach. It was fitting that they should make love here. There was a small mole on her left shoulder. He held her from behind, and kissed the nape of her neck. She fought off the thrill, and turned. ‘I must go to the bathroom.’
She closed the door and sat down. She felt relaxed, yet the body was tense. Had she ever been in love, even when George had fixed her bicycle chain by Wollaton Church all those years ago? He had played the gentleman, and ever after called his bike ‘The Courtship Special’. Yet who could say what words had passed, or how much the atmosphere had been in control?
Later, when he had asked her to ‘be his wife’, they called it love. She couldn’t remember, but they must have done. The memory was a torment throughout her marriage. All was distortion. Their difficulties had been fixed and pervasive, nonetheless. There was nothing worthwhile to remember, and little to regret. When considering events from another life, memory was fickle and dubious, and hardly the word to use – or blame. The sensation that remained was one of damage. Being held by Tom could easily be called love, for it eradicated whatever might have been thought of as love yet could in no way have been. Love only came once in life, she had told herself while stroking his chest and shoulders under the shirt which tears had dampened. In those far-off days she had been taken up by the slavery of expectation and mistaken it for love.
A pull at the cord set a two-bar heater on the wall glowing at her back. She turned to the mirror, and though she looked pale, a smile held weariness at bay. Her breasts were small but shapely, reflecting the likeness of a skimpy model, she thought, in the long mirror.
He stood at the window looking towards the sea. The coppery midwinter glow drew back as a cloud closed off the sun. He didn’t doubt that it would show again. The sea looked after itself, he thought, as softened footsteps sounded on the carpet.
She came to him, her breasts flattening against the coarse hair on his chest. His expression seemed solemn. Did he already regret what had not yet happened? She hoped not. She was no longer that sort herself, and doubted that she ever had been. ‘We’ve landed ourselves in an unexpected honeymoon.’
He kissed her lips, and answered that they were in the perfect place. She wanted no tomorrow and, passionately kissing him, closed her eyes, legs weakening as if about to fall.
His gentle support moved her towards the bed. He kissed the delicate skin that closed over her eyes. The words that said he loved her were torn from him by forces beyond his understanding.
No loving had ever been so slow and harmonious, yet she still did not finally want it to happen. While knowing that she had committed herself, and that any further struggle was useless, and unjust to them both, she could not let go. It was like the objections to being born. Not to contest the change would have denied its value. She pleaded, and then fought, and closed her eyes to the lack of understanding in his expression.
But as if in her thoughts, he held her, giving in to what she didn’t dare ask for. Her silence drew him on, conferring a passion without hurry, going against both her will and his as he touched. She seemed to be at the edge of life, about to fall into a trance before death. Is this what fainting was like? She had never lost her consciousness. She was trapped in a private world of love, and didn’t care. They seemed as familiar with each other’s interchange of pleasures as if they had been together for years. But he was a stranger, no matter what she knew of his past. His fingers played at her and, keeping her lips on his, she held his hand firmly so that she gave in, and went on until she heard herself.
The shock diminished and spread, and he knew sufficient to stroke her for as long as the pleasure lasted. She felt her tears loosen. His free hand flattened her breasts. He sucked and soothed the nipples. She lifted him and looked at his face. He looked at her, but she didn’t care whether or not he saw an intensity that had never taken her so completely – whether or not it made her ugly. She opened her legs, and putting out her hands she drew him in.
4
After ripples of sunlight, rain beat from the sea and the air grew dark. Hail flashed and pattered the glass. She turned to press against him but, feeling weightless, hardly knew where she was. He kissed her down the stomach till he brought her back to consciousness. His tongue would not let go. She tried to get free. No one had done this before. She protested, then gave in to her shame, and in a few moments felt no shame at all. He held her to the pleasure that seemed drawn from outside, and as it began he moved into her with an ease that allowed her orgasm to run its course before she felt his own explosion deep inside.
The dreams floated, and she drifted in sleep. He got out of bed, and drew the clothes over her shoulders. A match scraped, and there was a smell of tobacco smoke. She couldn’t move, curled in hiding from the rain which fell against the window. She hadn’t slept for years. Yet she wasn’t sleeping. His weird battering left her sore. She didn’t know him, yet wanted to. His intense and purposeful love made him unknowable. He was a stranger home from the sea and she was a woman in from the storm. He touched her shoulder. ‘Here’s something to eat and drink.’
‘I can’t move.’ She leaned on her elbow. ‘What time is it?’
‘It’s hard to say.’
The light was on. ‘I want to know.’
He held a cup for her to drink. ‘My watch has stopped. And I didn’t look at the kitchen clock.’
‘I feel like a baby.’ She sat up, and took the cup. He put the tray down and sat by her. ‘You must have been dreaming.’