The Hills and the Valley (41 page)

Ten days they had spent in the glorious peace of the Lake District and still she was a virgin. During the day they walked in the green spreading countryside, swam when it was warm enough, and ate in the hotel dining-room, trying as best they could to ignore the awkwardness that was there between them now, spilling over from their sterile nights. Marcus drank a good deal and only then it seemed did he become the easy charmer who had courted her. But when the bedroom door closed behind them there was no escape from the knowledge that nothing was the way she had expected it to be.

I've failed him, Barbara thought, and the knowledge was a knife thrust into her heart. He thought I could make him forget death because I am warm and alive but somehow I only remind him of it. The horror is still too real for him; he suffered too much.

Would he ever forget? With warmth and understanding would he one day be able to put it behind him? She did not know. She could only try to be the strength and refuge he needed, try to understand and not be affected by her own sense of failure. That way perhaps they could overcome his personal demons and begin a normal loving relationship. But sometimes, in the quiet of the night as she lay beside him listening to the murmurs of his disturbed dreams, she wondered – and doubted her own ability. A more experienced woman would know what to do, how best to make him forget. But she had no experience, nothing to fall back on but instinct.

And so they had come back to Hillsbridge, to the pressing realities of everyday life. And no one, not even those closest to them, knew that relations between them were not quite what they seemed.

Tonight, as always as she bathed and prepared for bed, Barbara nursed the hope that perhaps tonight it would be different.

Marcus had not come up yet. For the last hour he had been closeted with his father in the study, consuming, no doubt, still more of the whisky which seemed to be his lifeline. She sighed, slipped into her nightgown and crossed to the window, pulling aside the blackout and looking out.

There was no view of Hillsbridge from here, nothing but the trees standing dark sentinel against the cloudy sky. A feeling of loneliness crept into her and she thought of home. It was two miles only across the valley yet it might have been half a world away. She imagined the family gathered there – Amy sharing a cup of cocoa with Ralph, Maureen already in bed with the alarm set to wake her so that she could catch up with unfinished homework. Maureen missed her – she had told her so. ‘It's not the same without you here, Babs. Remember how we used to creep into one another's rooms when we were supposed to be asleep for a chat? Remember the times we started giggling and couldn't stop and Mum would come in and catch us and tell us it was time we were asleep?' Barbara remembered and the remembering stirred a sad chord within her. Giving up the things of one's youth would not be so bad if there was something to take their place. She had never dreamed that when she was a wife she would look back with longing to those foolish happy days. But then she was not a proper wife – just a girl who had moved into a different world, sleeping in a strange bed with a strange man by her side. A man who could not be the husband she needed and who had no need of what she had to offer him. The moon came from behind a cloud, throwing the scene outside the window into sharp relief and the bleakness inside her grew.

Oh Huw, Huw, where are you now? No! Don't think of Huw! The last thing you must do is think about Huw …

The door opened and Marcus came into the room, putting the light on. Quickly, she drew the blackout, fastening it tight across the window. He looked tired, she thought.

‘Busy session?' she asked.

‘Yes.' He had a glass, half-full, in one hand and a bottle in the other. He set both down on the dressing table. ‘I just wish I'd had longer with Henry to get into the swing of things. Father seems to expect me to be able to take on exactly where he left off and it's not that easy.'

‘Let me help,' she said eagerly. ‘I've done business studies. I'm sure there must be something I could do to help you.'

‘For God's sake, Barbara, I know I'm not much of a man. At least let me prove myself in one sphere.' He upended his glass, draining the last drop of whisky and refilled it from the bottle.

‘Marcus …' she pleaded.

‘No!' he said irritably. ‘What's the matter with you, Barbara? All I want from my wife is that you should be here and …'

‘I know that's all you want,' she retorted, stung. ‘I know you don't want me for any other reason.'

‘So why can't you at least make a decent job of that?'

The unfairness of it hurt; tears blinded her.

‘I don't know why you married me,' she cried. ‘I really don't!'

‘Because I love you. Haven't I told you so?'

‘Yes – but if you loved me you'd want to … you'd want to make love to me.'

He swigged his whisky. His face was hard.

‘We've been through all that.'

‘I know. And I've tried to understand and be patient …'

‘
You've
been patient?' he snarled and she took a step backwards away from this aggressive stranger. ‘What do you mean,
you've
been patient? Good God, you've got everything you want – everything a woman could wish for. Can't you be satisfied with that?'

She wrapped her arms around herself.

‘I want to be a proper wife to you. I want …'

‘Oh yes, I know what you want,' he said. He was loosening his tie with one hand, still holding the whisky tumbler in the other. ‘I thought you were different, Barbara, but you're not. You're the same as all the rest.'

‘What do you mean?' she whispered. She was beginning to be frightened. She had never seen him like this before. Perhaps it was the whisky talking, transforming him into this embittered, aggressive stranger. ‘What are you talking about?'

‘You are a whore,' he snapped.

She took a step backwards, shock and horror freezing her every sense.

‘A whore!' he repeated. His face was almost unrecognisable, twisted into a mask of hatred. He banged the whisky tumbler down on the dressing table so that everything on it rattled. ‘All right, then. If you want it so much, by Christ you shall have it!'

She tried to move away again but she could not. She stood frozen to the spot. He grabbed her, throwing her across the room. Her legs hit the iron frame of the bed, she lost her balance and fell backwards onto it. He followed, grabbing a handful of her frothy nightdress and hoisting it up to her waist. The hem was caught between her legs and the iron rim of the bedstead; she heard the fabric tear.

‘Marcus!' she sobbed.

He towered over her, holding her pressed into the mattress with one hand while unbuttoning his trousers with the other. Then he was on top of her, roughly forcing her legs apart. The weight of him squeezed all the breath out of her; as he entered her pain shot through her like a knife. A scream gurgled in her throat and she pushed at him with all her strength, fighting for breath and to free herself from his angry rasping thrusts. But he was like a madman and he had the strength of the demented.

To Barbara it seemed it would go on forever; in reality it was all over within a few minutes. A few last frenzied thrusts that seemed to tear her in two and he lay on top of her panting and sweating. She freed her face and chest, sobbed air into her bursting lungs and he rolled off her.

‘I hope you're satisfied.' His voice was still ugly with hate. He got up, crossing to the window, wiping himself with his hands, and she lay trembling while the pain inside her subsided to a fierce burning throb. He went out of the room and still she lay motionless, unable to believe what had happened, too shocked to move or even, for the moment, to cry. The overhead light still shone down on the bed, glaring into her wide staring eyes and illuminating her half naked body and the moisture running in sticky rivulets down her splayed thighs. She raised her arm to shut out the light and tears began to gather in her throat.

She did not see him come back into the room, did not know he was there until he spoke.

‘For God's sake cover yourself up! You look disgusting!'

She lowered her arm a fraction; he was at the dressing table, pouring still more whisky into his tumbler. She tried to move and could not. Her muscles seemed to have gone into cramp.

He tossed back the whisky.

‘You only got what you asked for.' He sounded more sullen than angry now, as if the usual considerate Marcus was beginning to re-emerge and the animal he had become was attempting to make excuses for itself. ‘You wanted it, didn't you? Well, you got it.'

‘But not like that!' she whispered and the effort of speaking dislodged the tears in her throat. They began to run out of the corners of her eyes and down her nose. ‘It didn't have to be like that!'

He did not answer and she lay sobbing soundlessly.

‘For God's sake, stop snivelling!' He crossed the floor towards her and she cringed back into the mattress but he only took her by the shoulders, pulling her up. The torn nightdress fell back over her legs. ‘Go and wash yourself,' he said impatiently.

Dazed, she went into the bathroom. The bath was still full of scented water. She took off the ruined nightdress, let it fall to the floor, and got into the bath. The water was cool now against her burning flesh. She took the soap and began scrubbing herself, tears still running silently down her cheeks. She stood up, automatically drying herself with one of the large soft towels.

He appeared in the doorway and she wrapped the towel around herself protectively. Yet one glance at him and she could see his mood had changed again. He leaned against the jamb running his hand through his hair with a jerky repetitive movement. His shirt was unbuttoned, half in and half out of his trousers and his face was no longer angry but ravaged.

‘Barbara – I'm sorry …' His voice broke. ‘I'm sorry. But you went on and on and I …'

She shook her head. There was nothing she could say.

‘Forgive me,' he said.

She wrapped the towel more tightly around her and went past him into the bedroom, pulling open one of the drawers of the chest and taking out a fresh nightdress. It was one of her old ones, cool cotton, long and voluminous with big puffed sleeves. When she had put it on she felt a little better. Still sore, still used, still shocked, but a little safer.

Marcus had followed her into the bedroom. He stood between her and the bed.

‘Barbara, please. I don't know what came over me. Say you forgive me – please!'

She pushed past him and climbed into the bed.

‘There's nothing to forgive,' she said and her voice seemed to come from a cold hard place deep inside her. ‘I'm your wife, aren't I? At least I'm no longer your wife in name only!'

‘Barbara …' He was following her now like a puppy dog or a naughty child seeking forgiveness.

‘I don't want to talk about it,' she said.

‘Well, you did keep on about it so!' he persisted. ‘But I'll never hurt you again, I promise. If only you'll say you forgive me!'

He was on his knees beside the bed, reaching for her, burying his face in her breasts, and she realised he was crying now.

‘It's all right, Marcus,' she said. Her voice flat, as if all emotion had drained away. ‘Come to bed. But for heaven's sake, let's try to lead a normal life from now on. And forget what happened tonight.'

‘Oh Barbara!' he whispered. He undressed quickly, put out the light and climbed into bed beside her. But as she lay cradling him in her arms Barbara found herself wondering. Would they be able to forget? Would they ever be able to lead a normal life? She would like to think so but somehow, remembering the crazed animal he had become before he had raped her, she doubted it.

In the darkness fresh tears gathered in Barbara's eyes and rolled silently down her cheeks.

During the long weeks that he was being nursed back to health Huw remained at the farm near where his Hurricane had crashed. At first, he was left holed up in his small ‘prison'of corrugated iron and straw, then, when Jacques, the doctor, felt it was safe to move him, he was supported across the muddy farmyard one dark wet night to the house, Jacques on one side of him, René, the farmer, on the other and Yvette and Raoul, her brother, keeping watch at opposite ends of the yard. Weak and dizzy from the long period of being cooped up with little light and air and no possibility of moving about, Huw gained only a fleeting impression of the farmhouse kitchen as they helped him through it – low roofed, sparsely furnished and lit by only a single oil lamp – then he was almost fainting with the pain as they manhandled him up the stairs to a tiny attic room where another makeshift bed was made up and ready for him. He collapsed onto it able to think of nothing beyond his own extremity and it was only when he awoke next morning and fought his way through the thick fog induced by Rene's painkilling drugs that he took notice of his surroundings.

But for the bed and a heavy old chest the attic was empty, rough bare boards beneath a sloping roof which met the floor a foot or so to the left of his bed. Almost immediately above his head a tiny window allowed a certain amount of light to filter into the attic and in the pervading peace Huw could hear pigeons cooing nearby – on the roof above, perhaps, or in an adjoining pigeon loft.

He lay for a moment taking it all in and wondering why they had moved him. He was glad they had, of course; much more of that stuffy, stinking barn and he would have gone stark raving mad. But surely here in the house he must pose a greater risk to the family who had befriended him?

The thought worried him. He did not want to put them in danger. René presumably knew the risk he was taking as did Jacques. But Rene's daughter, Yvette, was only a girl, no older than Barbara, Huw judged. What the Germans might do to her if she was found to be hiding him did not bear thinking about.