She's Leaving Home (54 page)

‘That’s right,’ came Vera’s voice. It was muffled by the layers of taffeta of her skirt which oddly had found their way up over her head. She was undressing alarmingly quickly. He did not feel one bit prepared. ‘You relax on the bed. I’ll do everything. You’ll have a ball, believe me.’

With relief he sat on the bed with its slippery magenta eiderdown which matched the peonies, found a couple of pillows and lay back. Flat out, would have been nice. He liked a snooze after a big meal. He could feel his eyes closing.

Then she was on him, surprisingly strong, in her bra and knickers. The black lace bra was unlike anything he’d seen before; it was low cut and pushed her breasts up like two melons. It looked tight and uncomfortable. The skimpy knickers matched and revealed her belly button. It stuck out a bit. He found it extraordinary and pointed at it. The words slurred.

‘My panties? You like them? Bought the set in Paris. We’ll take them off in a minute. First, you have too many clothes on, Morrie. Lift up.’

She knelt astride him, one firm thigh planted on each side of his pelvis, an arch of tanned flesh which towered over him. Above him the vee of the panties stretched and a few pubic hairs escaped. They were curly and exuberant and intensified a panicky sense of helplessness. Her fingers had unbuckled his trouser belt and were unzipping his fly.

Obediently he lifted his hips and she slid his trousers away from him on to the floor. His one and only good pair, he wanted to say, they should be hung up, but she was unbuttoning his shirt. At his neck his tie was unbearable and he tore it undone himself. She laughed delightedly.

‘No rush, no rush, Morrie,’ she soothed. Her fingers slid inside the elastic of his underpants and pulled them partway down his legs. What was she up to? Wasn’t he supposed to lead? Or was this the same as her dancing in which she seemed to know every move, and with those firm arms pushed him in the direction she wanted him to go? A sob came into his throat: ‘Vera –!’

Her head bobbed and disappeared. Then he felt her tongue and he yelped. ‘What are you doing?’

She was squatting over him, both hands now enclosing his limp organ. She squeezed her thighs together at his sides. ‘Making sure you’re in hand,’ she murmured roguishly and bent her head again. Then to his horror she put his penis in her mouth and began to slide it in and out.

He could feel the edge of one of her back teeth. His own skin was suddenly horribly sensitive and he tried to pull away. She held on more firmly with one hand and placed the other flat on his stomach so he could not wriggle away. Her strong knees dug into his ribs like a vice.

The sucking intensified. It sent shock waves through his whole body. He could feel himself swell and rise to her. With it came a mounting horror. He put both his hands on her head and tried to push her off. ‘Don’t, Vera. Don’t do that. It’s not nice. Please don’t.’

The ceiling above him swayed drunkenly. Vera’s face reappeared above his own, her expression incredulous.

‘Don’t you like it? Most men love it. Come on, you mean you’ve never had one? Blimey! Well, lie back and think of England, Morrie, this is your big night tonight.’

And she lowered her head and set to once again.

‘Oh, please, don’t,’ Morrie wailed miserably, then realised dully that he must sound like the traditional reluctant virgin. ‘I mean, what happens if it works and I – I – you know, I come in your mouth?’

‘Oh!’ She sat up again, but this time her hands kept moving up and down, her thumbs on him expert and independent. He felt as if he was on fire and yet dreadfully sick. ‘If that happens, Morrie, I’ll swallow it.’ She grinned wickedly.

At once he found his anger, and knew what had most disturbed him about her. ‘You’ve done this before, haven’t you?’ he accused, and with a shove half sat up and pushed her away. ‘You’ve done this lots of times, and with lots of men. You’ve done it for money.’

‘Not for money. No. Don’t be so po-faced, Morrie,’ she wheedled. ‘I’ve always done it for fun. Nothing else. That’s what it’s supposed to be – fun. Sex is terrific, if you know how. And I do.’ She bent as if to continue.

‘It’s love I’m after, Vera. If I wanted that kind of sex I could’ve gone every week to a prostitute. Plenty of them down the docks.’ He sat upright and began to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. His erection, he noted, was exactly the same shade as the puce counterpane. He had never noticed it before: with Rosetta his wife he had not looked at it, only at her, at her sweet face, and like her been glad to finish and enfold her in his arms and sleep.

‘Thanks, Vera, but no thanks. A big mistake.’ He was on his feet and falling over, unable to locate his underpants till he found them around his ankles. His shoes, socks and best trousers were in a heap on the floor: with as much dignity as he could muster he dragged them on. The zip came up with a satisfying finality. His belt he could not find in the alcoholic haze and decided to abandon it.

Any remaining ardour deflated halfway down the stairs. Vera, once convinced he was serious, screamed vicious epithets from the rumpled bed: ‘You shit! You prize bummer! You led me up the garden path! Wait till I tell my mother about you – you’ll be the laughing stock –’ His head rang with the noise but he did not turn back to argue. In the kitchen he vomited up his dinner into the sink and washed out his mouth with two glasses of cold water from the tap. He wished he could do the same with Vera’s mouth. It should never have been used in that way. And he hoped never to hear again such foulness from a woman. Not his kind of woman. Not ever.

Still unsteady, with drops of water staining his shirt, Maurice Feinstein shambled out into the leaf-strewn front garden of the house in Queen’s Drive. The fifteen minutes it took to walk carefully back to the shop helped clear his head a bit. He must have drunk a lot, and too speedily, through nerves. He was not used to it – the booze, the feminine aggression, the hunger, the steamy
knowingness of the woman. The stink of perfume, her sexual smell. He did not want to get used to it. At the corner he was obliged to pause, and looked back briefly. No sign of Vera – it seemed her recriminations were confined to the boudoir. He was well out of it; there was no going back.

A light was on at the back of the shop. Feinstein slowed. No lights upstairs so it could not be Jerry – and anyway, the boy was away at camp this weekend. Feinstein shuddered; had the attempted seduction taken place on his own premises, he’d never have got the vixen out, and would have had to go through with it. At the memory of that tough lipsticked mouth his manhood shrank and his hand went protectively to it. Thus he most resembled a small chilled boy at the door when he realised who was inside.

Nellie lifted her head and rubbed her eyes. ‘Oh, it’s you. I was sorting out the books. Well, trying to. Had a good evening? Didn’t think you’d be back tonight.’

Feinstein sat down heavily. ‘Awful,’ he said. His eyes met Nellie’s. ‘She was terrible, Nellie. A man-eater. Literally.’

Had Nellie not herself been in a deeply unhappy frame of mind, she might have laughed out loud; had she succumbed to earlier temptation and swallowed the vodka, she might have said something cutting and cruel. But she was stone cold sober, and sad, and she valued Maurice Feinstein and his fine qualities more than anything else in her entire world.

His misery cut her to the quick. She rose and came to him, lifted him up, and held him, at first clumsily, then close. Her head rested on his breast, her hand on his arm, the other lightly around his body. He could do no more than stroke her tangled hair, and note that her cheek felt soft, and that she wanted to do nothing but be with him and love him.

‘Nellie,’ he said. ‘Nellie.’

Not autumn but the depths of winter. Not 1963 and the dawn of a new generation, but 1945, with a new day still to come.

‘Jack – Jack! Oh, there he is. Jack!’

Not for the first time Annie Feldman cursed her diminutive height. Around her jostled a frantic crowd that would do credit to the football terraces. Lime Street Station was crammed to bursting with noise, smoke and shouting figures, grey-faced but excited in the early light, with more arriving every minute. Burly policemen fought to restrain the surging throng, but the atmosphere was determinedly good-humoured. Annie’s throat stung from the acrid air. Even on tiptoe she could see hardly anything.

With clouds of billowing steam, as if aware of its own inflated importance, the train chuntered slowly into the station. Suddenly doors opened and they were pouring from the carriages. Young men and not so young tumbled out, in uniform, khaki mainly but with a sprinkle of Air Force blue and a few navy overcoats, faces drawn and stubbled, some with bandages or arms in slings, one or two on crutches or helped by a comrade, kitbags slung over shoulders, caps askew. The engine uttered a great hoot in triumphal salute; blackened jets of smoke soared to the grimy roof. Then with cries and tears, like a spring tide, soldiers and families flung themselves into each other’s arms.

Her brother hesitated then spotted her and swept her into his embrace. ‘Golly, Annie, it’s good to see you. Where’s the wife?’

‘At home. Waiting for you. She didn’t want to leave the babies and it’s a bit cold for them being winter, and still dark. Your cooked breakfast will be on the table. And your job’s waiting too, as soon as you can get demobbed.’ The two linked arms and walked jauntily towards the exit. In Lime Street Jack gazed about. ‘The street lamps are back on! Terrific. No more groping our way around.’ He headed for the taxi queue. ‘As for the job: not yet, I’m afraid. May have to go back.’

Annie stopped, concerned. ‘But you’ve done your bit. You’ve been in four years. This is the first time we’ve seen you since we waved goodbye before D-Day. Isn’t that enough? You marched right through France, and Belgium and Holland. About bloody time you got some leave. And as a married man and father you should be let out now.’

She squeezed his arm. Through the khaki his butcher’s strong muscles seemed to have wasted and his bouncy manner had vanished. A streak of white hair above his ear was new, though he was not yet thirty. It occurred to Annie that her big brother had witnessed many brutal sights, including (as he had briefly written in a heavily censored letter) the death of friends at his side in battle. However ghastly their collective miseries under bombardment in Liverpool, nothing would match the experiences of a citizen army made to carry guns a long way from home.

Corporal Jack Feldman sighed. ‘My unit is on the German border, Annie. Monty will be pushing on. It’s a race between the Americans and the Russians to get to Berlin first. If it’s Patton’s Third Army then the future of Germany will be decided by us. If it’s General Koniev the place’ll go Bolshevik. Then there could be another war.’

‘No!’ Annie halted, her hand to her mouth.

‘Enough of that,’ Jack muttered. ‘I’m famished.’ He glanced down at his sister’s small feet clad in their wartime fur-lined boots. ‘You game? Either we can stand here and freeze for half an hour, since nobody seems to have considered how we get home before the buses are running – or we can slog it. I’ve tramped across half Europe with no hearth to welcome me. C’mon, sis, let’s go –’

Lady Mary Wortley, twenty-nine years old and former Debutante of the Year, rolled over and sleepily
opened one eye.

‘Oh, Christ. What time is it?’

‘Six. I have to get cracking. We clock in at seven-thirty at Berman’s, you know.’

‘Frightful. I don’t know how you cope, sweetheart. You slave for ten hours a day over a hot pair of shears, then fire-watch duty three nights a week, then me. No wonder you’re so thin.’

‘Then you. Best part of all. It’s worse today – I have to go to court this afternoon as a witness. Time off work and no pay.’

‘Mmm. Entertaining though. Mind you aren’t taken for a black marketeer and sentenced to three months. Today I’m idle, but tomorrow I do the teas at the American Red Cross Club. Mrs Quincy Wright from Chicago will speak to GI brides on everyday life and customs in the USA and answer questions. Oh, ray.’ She purred the last word in imitation of an American drawl.

‘That’s in Mount Pleasant, isn’t it? I expect my two cousins will be there. Landed a Yankee Doodle, both. Say hello to them.’

‘Sure thing, sweetie. D’you realise that in a couple of months they’ll be talking like
this
?’ She drew the word out, southern-style, until it had three syllables. ‘Bye bye, England.’

He reached for his clothes. ‘Is the blackout shut tight? I’ll switch on the light.’

She reached out a languid arm. ‘No, don’t. Open the curtains. I’d like to watch you get dressed.’

He laughed quietly. ‘God, Mary, you have such strange ideas. Most women don’t like to look at a man. They put up with what we need to do with their faces averted. But you’re forever wanting to see, and to touch. I can’t get over it. Your idea of sex is – I dunno – great, incredible. I’ve never known anything like it. Not that I was such a Romeo before you came along.’

‘It is supposed to be fun. Not simply the act of procreation. Come here.’

He paused naked beside the bed, clothes in hand, shivering slightly. The bed was low, not more than a camp-bed, standard issue for those bombed out. Lazily she stroked his calf, then ran her hand round and up his thigh. He was wiry and narrow chested; the apparently endless stamina that came from such a scrawny frame was a source of surprise to those who knew him. She made to caress him but he moved gently away and patted her hand.

‘Well,’ she murmured. ‘You’re something very special for me. In more ways than one. I’ve never slept with a circumcised man before.’

‘Does it make a difference?’ He pulled on his underpants and trousers, a trifle hastily.

Lady Mary pondered. ‘I don’t think so – depends on the overall size, I suppose. And the skill of the operator.’ She giggled infectiously. ‘It certainly looks tidier, I’ll give you that. Your priests do a neat job, though I think the whole practice is barbaric.’

‘It’s recommended for health reasons, Mary. Some poor fellows have to have it done when they’re adults. I’d much rather be cut at a few days old – scream a bit then it’s finished.’

‘Ugh.’ She shuddered. Then she pushed the bedclothes down to her hips and examined her own smooth body. ‘I am glad we women don’t have to be mutilated, for health reasons or any other. I like my tiddly bits the way they are.’ She rubbed her palm over her breasts and tweaked each nipple so that it stood up, hard and rosy purple in the early morning air. Then she grinned up at him as he fastened his shirt, inviting his admiration.

‘Lay off, Mary. That’s not fair – you’re trying to get me going again. I have to be on time. We run enough risks it is.’

He bent and tucked the covers up around her chin. On the pillow her dark hair spread out, natural ringlets, curls and tendrils. Usually she wore it scraped back in a severe bun under her velour hat as befitted a charity volunteer. Its riotous freedom in bed symbolised for both the few hours of untrammelled pleasure snatched week by week, the memory of which was milked to give sweetness to every waking minute.

‘War’ll be over soon. What will you do then?’ Mary crossed her arms behind her head. The action lifted her breasts again so one became uncovered, but it was merely the careless action of a sated female.

‘Haven’t considered.’ That was a lie and both knew it.

‘Will you stay in that factory? You can’t, you’re made for much better things. You could stand for Parliament, you know. There’s bound to be a General Election as soon as Germany surrenders. The Labour Party would have you, with your Pier Head talents. I know Sir Stafford Cripps and the Webbs: I can put in a good word for you.’

‘Me an MP? Don’t be daft.’

‘Why ever not?’ Mary sat upright. On her bare shoulders the light turned her skin a delicate gold. ‘Look, I agree it wouldn’t have been likely before the war. But after this war’s over, a lot will change. I shouldn’t say this with my father in the House as a National Government supporter, but the coalition will collapse and Churchill will lose. He is trusted as a wartime leader but not for afterwards. They’re afraid he’ll fight on and there’ll be no end to it.’

‘And they’ll vote for a welfare state and a national health service. The New Jerusalem. Churchill would never agree to that: Attlee would.’

‘Exactly. There are eleven parliamentary divisions in Liverpool. The Tories currently hold eight. It’ll switch over, you’ll see – Labour are bound to win a couple or more. Of course you should put yourself forward. You’ve always called for the new generation to take their place in government, haven’t you? Well, that’s you. Step forward.’ He was fully dressed, his muffler wound about his neck, his cap in his hand, but still he dallied. Mary had unerringly focused on issues which had begun to churn in his own brain. He sat on the edge of the cot and picked up a lock of her hair which he curled absent-mindedly around his finger.

‘The end of the war. It seemed impossible, once, didn’t it? Especially when our house had a direct hit last year. I never thought I’d get out of that alive.’

‘Your father didn’t. Or any rate, he was alive when we got him out, but dreadfully injured. You didn’t see him then because you were in such a state yourself, but I did. Shan’t forget that night in a hurry.’

‘An old man, God rest his soul. Never hurt anybody.’ Daniel took her hand in wordless thanks. His voice had an edge of bitterness. ‘I’m so glad my poor mother was not still alive to see it. Nobody can tell us that war is only for soldiers – it’s civilians who bear the brunt, and without complaint. But that wasn’t what I had in mind. You know what the end of the war will mean for us.’

She nodded, her eyes luminous. He had found it impossible to decide what colour they were, whether green, or hazel, or a soft light brown but for two years now he had wanted no more than to gaze into them with wonder. His Mary, his own love: aristocratic lady, Red Cross volunteer and district organiser who had braved danger repeatedly without a thought for herself, and had been in his neighbourhood so frequently during the bomb raids, her actions selfless and heroic, that it had been natural to invite her out for a drink, and then for another.

In wartime barriers fell, taboos were broken: people grabbed at whatever affection could be found. In the devastated cities a man, a woman might be blown up at any time. Circumstances had made both solitary and lonely, but each had been drawn by the other’s intelligent interest in the outside world. Much of their conversation, to their joint amusement, was the exploration of ideas to improve the society from which in each other’s company they sought temporary respite. Each found the other fascinating. That they came from competing extremes of the social spectrum made their relationship a source of intrigue and achievement for both, and added a roughened urgency to their mutual attraction.

He had not been the first man she had taken up with. On that she was totally open, but for the last eighteen months he had been the sole incumbent. Words of love lad passed between them which
both, cautiously and awkwardly, tested for honesty. They had grown to care greatly for each other: that was beyond doubt now, though of necessity the affair had been kept discreet. Appearances elsewhere had been maintained and other friendships continued, if more remotely. Neither had deceived the other. Yet the moment of truth would soon be upon them.

‘It means Rupert will come home.’

He turned away. She had never before put it so bluntly.

‘Will you be glad?’

‘Oh, Christ. I don’t know. Pass me my cigarettes.’ He did, and struck a match for her, cupping the flame in his hands. It made her cheeks alive with colour for a single flickering second. She cleaned a flake of tobacco from her lips with a fingernail and stared upwards.

She continued, ‘Naturally I’ll be glad. He’s had two ghastly years in a prisoner-of-war camp. That’s if the bastards don’t kill our fellows before the Allies reach them. But those already liberated have been all right – the guards gave themselves up to the prisoners. So it’s not unreasonable to expect him to appear. Sometime in the next couple of months.’

‘And then?’

‘Oh, don’t. It doesn’t bear thinking about. I shall feel a lot happier if I know you’re OK. I could then go back to my dearly beloved husband with an easy conscience.’

‘If he were dead it’d be a different matter.’

She took a drag on the cigarette. ‘He won’t be – he’s a survivor. Anyway, he’s a decent cove and I was frightfully fond of him. I expect we can carry on where we left off. This time I won’t refuse his desire to have children. Give me something to occupy myself with when we’re bored stiff with the peace.’

‘You wouldn’t think of –?’ He left it unsaid.

‘Leaving him?’ she finished, and paused. ‘I have thought about it. A lot. What if it doesn’t work out, too – chaps are coming back terribly altered. But divorce is a horrible business. And what kind of life would it be for you, with a divorcée as girlfriend or even wife? The Labour Party’d turn up its nose at you as a candidate, what with the Catholic voters in Liverpool. You’d be denounced from the pulpit. You wouldn’t stand a chance.’

‘I’d take my chance with you, Mary.’ He stroked her face, touched her lips, dreamed wildly of staying with her.

‘Don’t. That sounds too much like a proposal. Your family would have a blue fit. To them I’m a – what do you call it? – a
shikse
. The title and a lineage back to the fourteenth century might impress some people, but not them. And frankly, darling, my father would go spare if we were to get hitched. Register office – a Lovat Fraser? You must be mad, certifiable, he’d say. Cast me off without a penny. We’d be a miserable pair, you and I, poor as church mice. No, darling, it wouldn’t wash.’