Still Waters (39 page)

Tess laughed and moved nearer, putting her chin on his shoulder. Immediately she became sharply aware of him; the smell of his hair and skin, the warmth of his shoulder against hers . . . and there was something else. The Ashley who had spent all their time together hotly fumbling at her clothing, perpetually trying his luck, had gone; he was a boy. The Ashley who put a gentle hand on her shoulder now was a man, and he knew . . . oh God, he knew . . . how to please her.

It was a stupid thought, but it had popped into her head and now she couldn’t get rid of it. If she allowed him a little more licence, this Ashley would know how to give her pleasure without frightening or annoying her. So why didn’t she . . .?

He turned her slowly into his chest and, with one arm round her, lifted her chin with the other hand. He said: ‘Tess?’ on a gentle note of interrogation and she said, ‘Yes, Ash?’ and did not try to jerk her chin free.

He came nearer gradually, slowly, as though she were a shy little bird who would be scared away by a quick movement. She saw his eyelids begin to lower over his full dark eyes, saw his nostrils flare a little . . . saw his mouth open to show the tip of his tongue. Then very gently, his mouth covered hers. For a second she wanted to laugh; it reminded her of a sea anemone swallowing a shrimp. And then she felt his tongue moving across her lips and excitement and a heavy longing, though for what she could not have said, stirred deep in her stomach. So this was the sort of kissing Janet had told her about – French kissing, she had called it. It was wicked, exciting, undoubtedly sinful . . . could you have a baby if a man did things like that with your mouth? She was not at all sure and meant to keep her own lips tightly sealed, so it was a surprise when they suddenly parted, pop, and Ashley’s tongue invaded her mouth.

She tried to pull away, or she thought she did, but her body refused to obey her command, perhaps it recognised that it was in fact being given two commands, to go and to stay. She sat very still, eyes tightly closed, her hands resting lightly on Ashley’s shoulders, as the kiss continued, both fascinated and repelled by what was happening to her, and when Ashley drew back she drew back too, though not quickly. She opened her eyes and closed her mouth. They stared at each other.

‘Well?’ Ashley said. ‘Was it nice?’

Truthfulness came first. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Odd, but rather nice. It – it couldn’t give me a baby could it, Ash?’

She could see he was struggling not to laugh but he remained grave so she forgave him. He tilted her chin again though and gazed down into her eyes. ‘Oh, Tess, no wonder I love you,’ he said tenderly. ‘No, you won’t have a baby from a kiss. Nor will you have one if I put my hand on your breast, as I shall presently do.’

There he went again, ruining everything, making her feel silly, bringing the hot blood rushing to her cheeks. She said: ‘You will do nothing of the sort, Ashley Knox, and if you try I shall give you a good, hard shove. Don’t forget, the mud’s a foot thick around here.’

‘Fair enough,’ Ashley said. ‘You don’t think you would like it, then? Me putting my hand . . .’

‘No!’ Tess yelped. She wriggled along the branch and thudded on to dry ground. Ashley began to follow her, so she jumped into the boat which was pulled into the reeds, making it rock precariously. ‘Why can’t you ever be nice for long? I’m going to take the boat out so you’d better get off home – and don’t come round again because I won’t see you!’

She reached for the oars just as Ashley thumped into the boat and grabbed her. She fell back, striking her head sharply on the rowlock. She gave a squeak of pain, then began to try to get to her feet again, only to find herself wrapped in Ashley’s arms. She fought hard, but though he held her lightly, she could tell he did not intend to let her go. And he wasn’t laughing, for once.

‘Tess? Isn’t it better to tell you what I’d like to do than to do it first and then apologise after? I’m only being frank, sweetheart, but if you don’t want me to touch your br . . . to touch you, then I won’t. Get it? I really won’t.’

Tess stopped struggling. ‘You kissed me without telling me what you were going to do,’ she pointed out. ‘You aren’t consistent, Ash. You never were and I suppose you never will be and I’m sorry I started anything. We’re better apart, you and I.’

‘But you liked being kissed . . .’

‘Yes, I liked it. But I don’t like being poked and squeezed – understand? Men, honestly! You all think girls are like cows at market, standing there waiting for some fellow to feel around and decide if we’re worth the price! I’m fed up with it – no, I tell a lie, I’m
bloody
fed up with it – and I won’t stand for it.
Comprenez
?’

‘Yes,’ Ash said in a subdued tone. ‘Sorry. Can we go back to kissing, please?’

‘No,’ Tess said crisply. The truth was, if he started kissing her like that again the chances were she’d scarcely notice if he slid his hand down the front of her brassiere – all the little hairs on her body stood on end at the thought – and that really would give him ideas.

‘Oh. Right. Can I row you out on to the Broad, Miss Delamere?’

Tess, ruffled and hot and feeling like a bottle of gingerbeer which had been thoroughly shaken and was longing to pop its cork, said that he might row for a little if it would cool him down. Accordingly, Ashley rowed out across the Broad and Tess sat quietly in the stern, thinking hard. She had enjoyed Ashley’s kisses but she didn’t want him to go further. Why didn’t she want him to go further? Because she was frightened? Because she feared pregnancy before marriage and a sullied name? But none of it made sense. The only thing which did was that nice girls, the sort of girl her father wanted her to be, did not indulge in what she had once heard referred to as ‘promiscuous petting’, and therefore she did not want Ashley – or anyone else – to start something which, for all she knew, she might not want them to stop.

Satisfied by this conclusion, she smiled across at Ashley.

‘Tell me about the Air Force, Ash. What do you
do
, precisely? I know you fly huge great aeroplanes but that’s about all I do know. And where will you be staying now you’re back in England? Come on, tell me all about it and then I’ll tell you what’s been happening up at the Castle Museum.’

It was breakfast time, and Marianne was standing, or drooping rather, beside the Aga, scraping scrambled egg round the saucepan whilst Cherie watched slices of bread under the grill and Tess made coffee.

Breakfasts had once been happy affairs, Tess thought now, looking around the kitchen, and affairs with only three participants, what was more. For until war broke out, Marianne had been quite content for Peter, Tess and Cherie to get their own breakfast and see themselves off. So in those happy days they were able to take their time and please themselves. Usually, Tess cooked whatever breakfast they fancied, Peter masterminded the percolator and Cherie watched the slices of bread browning beneath the grill. They had eaten the food wandering around the kitchen or perched on the kitchen table, not bothering with plates or cutlery but folding bacon and a dripping fried egg between two slices of toast, or eating fried tomatoes and kidneys from a porringer, employing a spoon at most. Toast and marmalade was rarely eaten in the house but was devoured, as often as not, whilst sitting in the car motoring in to the city. As Peter said, it saved time, gave them something to do, and meant that they were never late. Though they did sometimes arrive at work – or, in Cherie’s case, at school – somewhat sticky.

But war had, unfortunately, galvanised Marianne into unusual activity. She considered it her duty to get up, see her family off, and – presumably – go back to bed, and whether they liked it or not they were landed with it. The table had to be laid, food was eaten off plates, with knives and forks, and if they didn’t have time to eat their toast and marmalade at the table then they didn’t eat it at all. No one had dared grumble, but that didn’t mean all three of them weren’t watching eagerly for the first sign of weakness, for Marianne to say could they cope alone again, just this once. Then, how eagerly they would have sprung to her aid . . . and enjoyed their early mornings once more.

But right now, Marianne was turning creamy scrambled eggs to little bits of rubber to go with the bacon which, ignored in the pan for too long, was hard as nails and splintered whenever the cook poked blearily at it with her cooking slice.

‘It’s ready,’ Marianne said suddenly, snatching the scrambled egg pan off the stove. ‘Call your father, someone.’

Tess guessed that the scrambled eggs were now not only rubbery, they were burnt as well, but she went to the back door and shouted.

‘Daddy! Brekker’s up!’

Peter came ambling out of the cart-shed, where he garaged the car, with oil on his hands and a smear of it across his forehead. He acknowledged her shout with a wave and broke into a trot. ‘Coming!’ he called. ‘Any post?’

‘Yes. Two for you and one for me and another for Mr and Mrs. Do hurry, Daddy, the bacon . . . the bacon needs you!’

Peter grinned and came into the kitchen. He went straight to the sink, throwing the oily handkerchief down on the wooden draining board and then looking round vaguely for something.

‘I’m a bit mucky; I’ve been filling the oil thing,’ he said. ‘Any soap about?’

‘You should wash in the bathroom,’ Marianne said reproachfully. She was still in her dressing-gown, unwashed, frowsty, her eyes all too obviously wanting to close once more. ‘How can I see that the girls do as they’re told when you come and wash in my sink? Go upstairs, Peter. There’s plenty of soap upstairs.’

‘No time,’ Peter said. He reached for the Vim and sprinkled it on his palms, ignoring Marianne’s squawk of protest. ‘Shove my grub on a plate, there’s a dear, I want to be in early this morning.’

Marianne grabbed a round of toast and tipped her rubbery scrambled egg into the middle of it, then clattered – and it did clatter – brittle fragments of bacon on to the plate. A blackened tomato-half and a round of soggy fried bread completed the meal.

‘There you are,’ she said. ‘Cherie, I’ll serve you next.’

‘I’m just having toast thank you, Maman,’ Cherie said with more haste than politeness. ‘I don’t like scrambled egg.’

‘You do! Petite, it’s your absolute favourite, don’t you remember how you’ve always loved it?’

‘Not when it’s gone rubbery I don’t,’ Cherie stated. She was not a tactful child. ‘And I
hate
burnt tomatoes.’

‘Burnt? Oh well, tomatoes always go a little black . . . they’re nicest then, really they are. Now come along, I won’t have you going off to school hungry.’

‘I’ll have plenty of toast and marmalade, and some coffee,’ Cherie said quickly. ‘We have a cooked meal at school and you’ll make something delicious for dinner, you always do.’

‘Oh, very well. Tess?’

‘I’ll skip the eggs too,’ Tess said. ‘If Daddy wants to get away in good time then I’d sooner just have a bit of bacon and some tomatoes.’

‘Oh, very well . . . Peter, do eat up! You say you want to get away early, so there’s no point in sitting there staring at your plate.’

Tess took her plate and sat down opposite her father, then glanced up at him and immediately froze. He had opened his first letter and was reading it intently, brow furrowed, fork frozen half-way to his mouth.

‘Daddy? Who’s it from? Not the Ministry! What do they say?’

Tess knew that her father had been bombarding everyone he could think of with requests to be allowed to join up or do some useful war work. But he was too old for the armed forces and, despite his efforts, no ministry had yet seemed particularly anxious to acquire his services. But this letter . . . she leaned across the table.

‘Daddy? Who’s it from?’

Peter laid the letter down on the table. He looked dazed but happy.

‘They want me!’ he said, his voice higher than usual with emotion. ‘It’s the Navy – they want me for a shore job, in Portsmouth! I’ve got to go down for an interview in two days’ time. Gee whizz!’

‘Oh, Daddy,’ Tess said. ‘I’m glad for you but sorry for us. Whatever will we do without you?’

‘I shall not be without you,’ Marianne said. She crossed the room and leaned on her husband’s shoulder, reading the letter from there. ‘It is
not
good, you are too old, I won’t let you go!’

‘They want me,’ Peter said again. ‘No question, old girl. But I’ll get leaves, no doubt. I’ll come home then.’

‘How’ll I get to school when you’ve gone?’ Cherie whined. ‘You always take me as far as the city – how’ll I get in?’

‘Bus,’ Peter said shortly. ‘Or train. Or bicycle, I suppose. You’ll be all right, darling, you’ve got your health and strength. Or you could be a weekly boarder again, I suppose.’

Cherie had become a day pupil a couple of years earlier, when Tess had left school.

‘I don’t want to be a boarder, and the bus gets me there too late . . . oh I know, Tess can drive us,’ Cherie said now. She returned to her toast and marmalade. ‘That’s all right then.’

‘I won’t have it!’ Marianne said pettishly. ‘Though I suppose, if you are to be away all week and only home weekends, Tess will be able to shop for me.’

‘They’re going to ration petrol,’ Tess said rather maliciously. Her father had taught her to drive some months ago but Marianne had said it was unfeminine and unnecessary and had refused to travel in the car when Tess was at the wheel. ‘I probably shan’t have anything to drive with, and anyway, if Daddy means to come home every weekend he’ll need the car himself. Besides, it won’t hurt you to use the bus, Cherie. They’ll have to make allowances at school; tell them there’s a war on.’

‘Stop arguing, girls,’ Peter said. Unfairly, Tess thought. She wasn’t arguing and the other two weren’t so much arguing as chewing it all over, trying to see into the future. ‘We’ll have to get a move on, darling, or we’ll all be in trouble. I’ll take a couple of rounds of toast and marmalade, though. Tess, do me some, would you? Cherie, get your satchel and your hat and coat or you’ll be bussing in this morning, never mind after I’ve left.’

‘I’ve told you before, Peter, that breakfast is not a picnic and should not . . .’ Marianne broke off. She stared across at Peter, her eyes filling with tears. ‘Oh, my dearest, whatever will I do without you by my side? I truly, truly can’t bear it!’