Listening as Betty click-clacked down the steep staircase, waiting for the thud of the front door. Joan’s mouth would go dry and her skin tighten as her fingers rested on the typewriter keys.
Then Duncan would come and stand behind her at her desk. Run his hands across her shoulders, down the front of her blouse, circling her breasts and she would feel weak and wicked and she would do anything then.
There was a steady wind riffling the surface of the boating lake. The boats had gone now. The season over, they were stacked in the boathouse until the spring. Ducks paddled lazily about, oblivious to the cold. Joan sniffed, fished in her coat for her hanky.
He always had to go, so soon. Too soon. Home to his tea, his wife, and I Love Lucy on the television. So their sex was always frantic. They were always half-dressed. It was never enough for her. He didn’t seem to mind but she wanted more time, time to linger, to revel in it, to flaunt herself, tease him, be teased. But no. As soon as Duncan was done he was off, home to Scotch on the rocks and bloody Canasta, and Joan would gather the mail and post it on her way back, her limbs still fluid with desire, her nipples hard, the simple act of walking maintaining her excitement. Still swollen with sex.
‘I’m back,’ she would call to her mother then climb the stairs to her room, where it was her habit to change out of her office clothes. On the nights when he had left her flushed and dizzy she would sit by her dressing table, looking in the mirror, running her hands over her brassiere as he had done, then down between her legs. Stroking herself fast and light she imagined him with her, in her or watching, and closed her eyes, feeling the waves gather inside her then break over her in quick succession.
It was probably a sin, impure deeds, just like seeing Duncan was a sin, but she mentioned neither at her regular confession. Father McRory would have a dickie-fit, she thought. It had never happened with Duncan, her climax, it never would. So many things were out of the question with Duncan.
She stood up abruptly from the park bench. Time to get back to the office. Her fingers were numb at the tips and her back felt chilled. Joan took the path to Wilmslow Road, along past the rose gardens. The bushes had been pruned back hard, only stumpy stalks remained, looking ugly and barren; such a contrast to the rich sea of blooms in summer.
She never fell asleep in his arms, in his bed. Never went out to a cafe or a restaurant with him. She couldn’t give him a Christmas present or hold his hand on the street. His wife had all that. Everything. Except she hadn’t been able to give him a baby. And Joan could – except she wouldn’t, it wasn’t allowed. Like some awful practical joke.
The doctor had confirmed her suspicions and advised her about the Mother and Baby home. ‘It’s not the end of the world,’ he said. ‘There’s no need to do anything silly. A year from now and you’ll be able to put it all behind you.’
She pictured herself on someone’s kitchen table, a wire coat hanger making her bleed. Or buying Penny Royal from a chemist’s on the other side of town. Or was the doctor thinking of her hurting herself, putting her head in the oven or throwing herself into the Mersey? Well, he needn’t worry.
She crossed Wilmslow Road and walked past the shops to the corner building where the office was. She wouldn’t tell him. Things would go on as normal for the next few weeks and then she’d give her notice. She would think up a reason, a better position or something. She’d go to the Home, have the baby. Give it up.
She went in and up the stairs.
‘Bit parky out there,’ Betty commented as Joan hung her scarf on the rack. ‘You know what you get, sitting in the cold?’
Frozen, thought Joan. She could see Duncan through the open door to his office at the end of the larger room, pretending to read, but she could tell from the set of his back that he was eavesdropping.
‘Piles,’ said Betty.
‘That’s from stones,’ she couldn’t help smiling, ‘not benches.’
Betty grunted and returned to her ledger.
‘Joan,’ he called.
She walked to the doorway.
‘Any chance of staying on a bit today? I’ve a whole heap of these to get done.’
‘Yes,’ she said simply.
Megan
Soulmates they were, her and Brendan. Made for each other. She watched him at the counter, waiting for the girl to get the coffees from the big machine. Even looked alike, same flame-red hair and bright blue eyes. She’d more freckles though. She knew they’d get married. Everyone kept on about how young they were but that was daft. They were both in work, what else was there to wait for? They’d need to save a bit, of course, they’d have to stay at her mammy’s till they got on the housing list.
She’d seen a lovely ring, white gold, quite plain.
He brought back the drinks.
‘You’d make a good waiter,’ she teased.
‘Go on. Dying breed with all the self-service.’
‘They won’t bring it in everywhere,’ she said scornfully. ‘Restaurants and that’ll still have service.’
The grocers on Mount Street had put out fruit and veg and a sign saying pick your own.
‘I don’t fancy that,’ her mammy had pronounced, ‘everyone handling the fruit. Silly notion.’
Mammy was still stuck back in the old country. She didn’t like modern stuff. Megan did.
Even their names practically rhymed – Megan, Brendan.
She poured sugar in her drink and stirred at the froth, watched the gaggle of lads and lasses piling in from the pictures. Waved hello to those she knew.
When she turned back Brendan was pulling a daft face; sucking his spoon so hard that his nose was pinched and white.
‘Give over,’ she laughed.
He crossed his eyes.
‘Eejit. Put ‘Living Doll’ on . . . and ‘Dream Lover’.’
He waggled his eyebrows at her and licked his lips.
‘Go on.’
He went over to the jukebox and put his money in, pressed the buttons. Megan watched the records move round and the black disc selected and lowered to the turntable. She joined in the song.
‘Fancy a walk?’ Brendan asked.
‘I’d better get back, they’ve left Kitty in charge and they’ll all be swinging from the chandeliers.’
He frowned.
‘I told you,’ she shoved his arm. ‘They’ve gone to see Some Like It Hot.’
‘Ten minutes,’ he bartered.
‘It’s flippin’ freezing out there.’ She knew exactly what Brendan’s ten-minute walk would involve.
‘I’ll keep you warm.’ He did his John Wayne voice, making his eyes go sleepy-looking.
‘I know your sort of warm,’ she said primly.
His eyes flew open and he looked shocked. She snorted, got a load of bubbles up her nose. Wiped at her face. ‘Come on, take me home,’ she drained her cup.
‘Kathleen,’ he joked. ‘What mass are you going to?’ He wouldn’t give up.
She caught her lip between her teeth, teasing him a moment. ‘Early, I think.’
He winked and caught her hand.
She smiled.
The rest of the family went to the eleven o’clock. It gave Brendan and Megan the run of the place for a whole hour, though the last ten minutes were always spent setting the table and getting the veg on so it looked like they’d been making themselves handy.
Very handy.
She smiled again and pulled away. Outside, they linked arms. It was bitterly cold for September. The sudden frosts had caused most of the trees to drop early and the smell of rotting leaves mingled with the smoke from coal fires and the stink of dye factories along the canal.
She pulled her muffler up to cover her nose and pulled him closer.
Caroline
Caroline just couldn’t believe that you could get pregnant on your first time. Her understanding of it was a bit hazy, though she knew something from seeing the animals on the farm where she helped out and from the local wildlife to have a rough idea of the way of the world.
It was when she tried to apply it to her own experience that things got all mixed up. For example, they had to keep Bess, the dog, inside when she was on heat or there’d have been pups. But Caroline’s mam had told her that her own monthlies were a clearing-out, so how did that work?
She turned over in bed. The room was bitter now and although she had heaped extra blankets on and wore her socks her toes were like ice and she knew she wouldn’t sleep until they were warm. She reached down, her head under the covers, to rub at her feet.
If she’d only known, if she’d had an inkling. It had all been so quick. Five minutes. If only she could take that five minutes back.
A barn dance to mark the end of harvest. Jim Colby, chuffed at the amount of hay baled in his barns and the promise of a good fruit crop to follow. A hot summer had blessed them.
Caroline liked Roy, Jim’s middle son. A quiet, hard-working boy with sulky, film-star looks like Montgomery Clift. Roy had no steady girl and despite his looks no bad reputation. He was shy and didn’t mix much.
She’d worked alongside him at the farm for the harvest. Hot, thirsty work, following the tractor or the baler, stacking the bales, chaff and dust in her throat and her eyes and her ears.
Any talking was snatched, desultory. Breath was too precious and there was nothing the flies liked better than an open mouth.
She’d been hoping he’d dance with her at the hoedown and he had, several times, till it seemed they were matched for the evening. They’d done strip-the-willow and maid’s morris, ending up breathless from the pace and the hilarity that erupted when some lummock with two left feet had the set in disarray. She’d worn a new dirndl skirt, red and black, and a white bodice blouse. The skirt flew out when he spun her round, just right for the swings. In-between the demanding dances they gulped down cupfuls of dry cider.
‘I need some fresh air,’ she said after an hour of this, and he followed her out of the barn and round to the little orchard at the back. She sat herself down and lay back on the ground, sighing aloud. ‘I’m jiggered,’ she said, then giggled.
He was quiet. He sat beside her. She opened her eyes and looked through the boughs of the apple tree to the sky with its frosting of stars flung between wisps of cloud. She turned to look at him and he lowered his face to hers. Excitement prickled her skin, mimicking the tickle of grass beneath her bare arms and legs.
His lips were firm and dry and warm. She wondered whether she should move but she was fearful of breaking the embrace. She lay still and felt him shift about, his lips still moving slowly on hers.
He lay alongside her, then she felt one of his arms across her knees, then his fingers stroking along the side of her leg, under the edge of her skirt. It tickled and she squirmed, stifling a giggle, making a tiny mew in her throat. Roy wriggled against her, she felt his hand again, grazing her thigh, the inside, moving up. Her stomach lurched, it felt so good. Like the swing boats at the fair or the waltzers, a tingling, dizzy feeling. But she shouldn’t let him. She twisted away from his kiss.
‘Roy,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t.’
‘I won’t hurt you,’ he said. His voice sounded strange. ‘Please.’
He didn’t wait for an answer. His mouth found hers again, damp now, and his hands moved, he was touching her down there, edging his fingers inside her knickers. What did it feel like to him? Another hand on her breast. She felt giddy, like she was melting. She must stop him. But it didn’t hurt, it was so nice. Oh, golly it was so nice. He eased the tip of a finger inside her and she felt her thighs tighten and everywhere glowing. He moaned. She swallowed hard. He kissed her, moaned again as if he was hurting. He kissed her neck, moved until he was above her, bracing his weight on one arm, breathing fast. He said her name. Kissed her, slid his finger further in and wiggled it about. She could just make out his face in the dark, the whites of his eyes. ‘Please,’ he said again.
She closed her eyes, heard her own breath sighing. Then the band started up again, a waltz. She felt the pressure between her legs, a sudden change as he took his finger out and there was pushing. She realised with a rush of horror what he was doing. ‘Roy! No.’ Her words sharp, she tried to get out from under him but his weight was too much for her. ‘No.’ She pushed at his face with her hands.
He gave a shudder and yelped, rolled off her.