Women of Courage (14 page)

His smile flashed up at her. ‘Sure it’s nice of you to say so then, ma’am. But a great ignorant lump like me mostly feels like one of them goat fellows in the classy pictures, a satyr, when he thinks about it. Though you ladies seem to like it.’

You ladies.

A thin cold needle of jealousy pierced her. She had come so far, risked so much. Don’t betray me now, please!

‘What ladies?’

‘Oh . . .’ He frowned, and put on a deliberately broad accent to make a joke of it. ‘Sure I thought there was six of ye in here at least, with all the gasping and moaning you’re after doing.’

It was meant as a joke, she saw that; but it was clumsy, it hurt. Not a prince after all but a peasant.
Oh God, what have I done?

‘Don’t!’ she said. ‘James, please, don’t laugh at me.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He saw his mistake at last. As she tried to turn her head away, he held it between his hands, forced her to look at him. ‘There’s only one woman in this room and she’s the most beautiful I’ve seen in years. Deborah, believe me.’

I want to believe you. I have to now, she thought. It’s too late for anything else.

‘But there have been other ladies?’

Of course there have, she told herself. How could he possibly have known how to make love like that if I was the first? And didn’t I like it?

His fingers stroked her face. ‘I never said there hadn’t, now did I? Though they weren’t all what you’d call ladies, exactly. But why talk of them? They’re all past and gone, over, finished with, done. We’re here, you and me, now. That’s all that matters, today.’

‘Yes.’ She smiled and kissed him, and the film of tears cleared from her eyes. She saw him clearly now. Not a prince after all. Just a big, beautiful man, who had charmed his way to her bed and blessed her, more than she had thought it was possible to be blessed. But a man who would leave her, one day, as he had left all the others.

Over, finished with, done
.

After all, who was she to be jealous, a married woman who had invited him to her bed of her own free will? Whether she had been right or wrong it had been a blessed gift, this night. She would not wish it undone if she could. Whatever the future might bring, it had changed her, changed her utterly. She would never be the same woman again . . .

Deborah returned to Glenfee and saw the slum children in her husband’s house. Her servants looked scandalised and exhausted, Annie and her other women friends triumphant but harrassed. Six windows had been broken, five chickens and two ducks killed, and there were muddy paths all over Charles’s carefully planted lawns and through the vegetable gardens. But the children themselves had filled out. Their faces were flushed, excited — and some, at least, had made valiant efforts to mend the things they had broken.

The next few days were filled with large, disorganised games of cricket, drives to the beach in the dogcart, huge noisy meals on trestle tables in the main dining room, and stories in the evening in the library, when thirty children sat round her on the floor, their eyes glittering in the candlelight, while nightjars shrieked in the dusk outside and bats flittered across the lawns. And then the last, exhausting struggle to pack them all off to bed and plan more activities for tomorrow.

At the end of that fortnight she returned with the children to Dublin. Annie and her helpers had decided they could not keep the holidays going non-stop, it was too exhausting. They would allow themselves a week’s grace in between each group, to tidy up and prepare for the next.

And so Deborah was able to see Rankin again. For three blessed days of that week she returned to Mrs McCafferty’s. Days full of guilt, passion, and laughter.

Passion made her bloom. As the weeks went by she returned a third time, and a fourth. Their bodies became accustomed to each other, the pleasure greater, more protracted. Afterwards she lay in his arms, relaxed, purring like a cat. She walked along the streets singing to herself, she looked in the mirror and saw her skin smoother, softer than before. Almost as soon as she left him she began to ache, and when she had been home in Glenfee for a few days her skin became tender all over and she longed for his touch. And that was part of the pleasure, too.

Best of all was the laughter. From the first day she had seen him, James had laced the passion of his political speeches with wicked mockery of his opponents. It was one of the things that made audiences love him. Now she found herself saving up little anecdotes about the children to tell him, so that he would reward her with that deep-chested laugh she so loved. He was not embarrassed by anything they did, not the sex or the secrecy. He was liable to find any of it amusing at the most inappropriate time, so that more than once she found herself naked in bed and laughing helplessly on top of him.

And then the laughter would fade and they would come together seriously, the more relaxed because of the previous release of tension.

She had not thought she could ever be so happy.

In November the Catholic priests brought an end to the children’s holidays at Glenfee. As Rankin had predicted, they saw such things as sinful, dangerous, a threat to the family. Poor families were afraid of the Church and refused to send their children any more. Deborah was furious.

‘If there is one part of society more than another dominated by men,’ she said, ‘it is the Roman Catholic Church. The priests pray to the Virgin Mary and have no idea, none, what it means to be a poor young mother with a starving family.’

‘No more have you,’ said Rankin quizzically, watching her through his cigar smoke as she paced up and down her sitting room in Mrs McCafferty’s boarding house. ‘Not really now, have you? With your big house and fine clothes and rich husband.’

She stopped pacing, turned, glared at him, her head slightly on one side like a sparrow. She had been unpinning her hair and was brushing it as they talked. It hung in a shining rope over her left shoulder, lovely in the lamplight. She wore a pale pink ruffled blouse and light blue ankle-length skirt. Her face was flushed, her eyes alight with anger.

‘Of course I understand! I’m a woman, aren’t I?’

‘Sure you are that. It was the first thing I noticed about you, so it was, now you come to remind me of it.’

She giggled, and stepped out of his reach. ‘And that means, James Rankin, that I understand more about bringing up children than any priest in black skirts ever will. Or you, come to that. Don’t you laugh at me, now.’

‘Never in life would I dream of it, ma’am. Surely not.’

At Christmas her son Tom came home. For three weeks she devoted herself entirely to him. Because of the love James had given her, she felt better able to be a mother to Tom than she had for years. She took him to the theatre and the pantomime, rode in the woods with him and cooked sausages on fires of driftwood on the cold winter beach. She invited his friends round for the day to play rugby in the grounds, hide and seek in the dozens of rooms of the house, and cricket with a soft ball in the library when it rained. She listened to his stories of school and marvelled at the lanky, freckled, confident youth he had become at eight years old.

Charles sent presents from Egypt for Christmas — a jewelled necklace and bracelet for her, a complete boxed set of lead soldiers in the livery of the Egyptian army for Tom. She watched him play with them on the carpet by the fire in the library, with shoeboxes and logs under the rug for hills, and thought: will Tom grow up cold and distant to me too, like Charles? Or if I give him love and attention now, will that change things?

Deborah tried, sometimes, to explain to Tom what she had been doing for the strikers’ children. He listened and nodded but showed little real interest, and she wondered: does he think his mother is mad? Or is he just polite and bored because it is too far outside his own range of experience and interest? I wonder what he’ll think when he’s older.

What would he think if he really knew . . .

Stop it! Don’t even think that, ever.

If you make a mistake he’ll have to know.

I’m discreet, I won’t make a mistake. Ever.

Perhaps you already have.

Of course not. I’m careful. I do what the book says, don’t I?

Since that first time, when she had taken herself by surprise and been lucky, Deborah had been most careful to avoid the chance of becoming pregnant. In her work for the Women’s Guild she had realised the crucial importance of the forbidden idea of birth control, and had bought and read Charles Knowlton’s book on the subject:
The Fruits of Philosophy, or the Private Companion of Young Married People.
At the time it had seemed to her ironic that she should spread this knowledge, discreetly, among poor girls who seemed to have no trouble having babies, while she herself, after nine years of marriage, had only one. But since that first night in September she had obtained a sponge and used it carefully, every time, without a word to Rankin.

Who had not asked.

So I
am
careful. We’ve been making love for three months and I’m still not pregnant, she told herself that December. And if I’ve fallen in love that’s not a mistake — it’s a blessing. I know it won’t last but I’m in control, no one is going to get hurt. It’s my life and I know what I’m doing.

Don’t I?

Towards the end of the Christmas holiday there were moments when her body began to ache for him unbearably. Her breasts became hard and tender when she thought of him and when she was alone in her bedroom she ran her hands down her stomach and remembered what Rankin’s hands looked like, felt like . . .

When Tom had been back at school for some weeks she had a letter from Charles.

It was dated 28th January 1914. From Cairo, where he had been for the past year and a half.

My dear Deborah,

You will no doubt be surprised to hear that I am resigning my commission in the Army forthwith. This is not through any disgrace or conflict with senior officers here, but simply out of a fundamental disagreement with Liberal government policy. A number of the Irish officers here have been following the Home Rule affair with considerable concern, and we have come to the conclusion that we can no longer stand aside when the government itself is intent on destroying the Union which is at the heart of our Empire. General Richardson has been kind enough to offer me a commission as colonel in the Ulster Volunteer Force, and I shall be returning to Glenfee on the next available boat.

I shall, of course, expect to find you by my side, doing such female work as will best help to assist the Union.

Your loving husband

Charles.

When she got off the train in Dublin, she was shaking with nerves, and guilt, and desire for comfort. She met Rankin outside the station and shook hands with him, smiling, as they always did, so as to give nothing away to anyone who saw them. But the touch of his hand made her tremble, and their fingers caressed each other as they parted.

She took Charles’s letter from her bag and showed it to him as they walked west along Eden Quay. He laughed.

‘Well, what are you going to do then? Go home, like a good little woman, and iron his army shirts?’

‘Don’t be silly, I can’t do that! Anyway, I don’t care one way or the other about the Union.’

‘Well, you could always defy him. Forbid him entry to the house unless he changes his politics.’

‘He is my
husband
, James. It’s his house, not mine.’

‘Your husband . . . Yes. So he is.’

He sighed and put his arm round her, and for a moment, indiscreet though it was, she leant against him. Perhaps it was her own tension, but she felt that his flippancy disguised some change within him too, something not quite as she had expected. After twenty yards she broke away and said: ‘James, is there anything wrong?’

‘No.’ The sparkling green eyes met hers briefly, then looked away, into the distance. ‘Why should there be? Other than the fact that this strike is ending, and we have been beaten.’

‘I know.’ She saw the lines of strain around his eyes, and thought of the hundreds of speeches he must have made, the weeks and months of committee meetings, marches, pickets, food collections. All for nothing, in the end. He looked thinner than before and there were streaks of grey in his hair. She wanted to take him home to Glenfee, give him a week of decent food, hot baths, warm bed . . .

Not now. Not with Charles coming home. She could never have done it anyway because of the servants.

‘I’m so sorry, James. But you did your best; no one can do more than that. There’ll be another chance, another time.’

For the transport workers’ union, at least. Not for us.

‘Oh yes.’ That wonderful, magnetic smile came again, almost as she had remembered it. But a little fainter, more weary than before. ‘Always another chance. And there were good things that came out of this time too. Like meeting a fine English lady with a generous heart . . .’

He took her hand and they walked through the quiet streets to Mrs McCafferty’s boarding house. On the way it began to rain, and by the time they got there her hat and coat were dripping, and they were splashing through puddles on the cobblestones. Inside, a fire was already burning. She took off her hat and coat and hung them behind the door, then stood facing the fire, spreading out her skirt and watching the steam rise from its hem. She thought: I have a week here at least. A week until Charles’s boat arrives.

He slipped his arms round her, kissed her under the ear. ‘Come to bed, my lovely.’

She laughed, turned, looked up at him. ‘What, so early, James? We’ve only just arrived!’

‘Yes, I know. I need you.’

And looking into his face she could see it was true — and it was the same for her, more urgent even than it had been the first time. So they kissed, and he unfastened her damp skirt and blouse and laid her back on the bed straight away, with no precautions, like two strangers meeting in the night. And that is what he is going to become, she thought, starkly. Now Charles is coming home I will have to bring this to an end. This is one of the last times. Soon the smell of his skin, the rasp of bristles on his cheeks, the taste of his lips, his hands on my breasts, his penis swelling there inside me will be all gone, memories, dreams in the night.