The Fountain Read online

  ‘How long before we can escape?’ George whispered in her ear.

  ‘We have to cut the cake and you have to make a speech. Then I’ll go and change.’

  George couldn’t leave his business to have a proper honeymoon and so they were going to have a weekend in London, which was all the time he could spare. ‘We’ll have a proper holiday when the business is on its feet,’ he had told her.

  They arrived at their hotel in time for dinner and afterwards went to the Haymarket to see a music hall. Barbara would rather have seen a play, but she had left the choice to George and in a way she was glad: the bright antics of the performers made her laugh, made her forget for a little while, the night to come. She was not ignorant of what to expect but she was apprehensive.

  ‘Drink?’ he queried, when they arrived back in their room about eleven o’clock. A maid had been in and drawn the curtains, so they were enclosed in their own little world. There was a huge flower arrangement on a round table and an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne with two glasses beside it.

  She had already had more than she was used to. She laughed nervously. ‘Are you trying to make me tipsy?’

  ‘Not at all. I want you to remember tonight for being all you had hoped it would be.’

  She went over to him and reached up to link her hands behind his neck. ‘I am sure it will be, but…’

  ‘You’re not afraid, are you?’

  ‘No, a little nervous, though.’

  He kissed her. ‘So am I.’

  ‘Good heavens, you’re not…’ She paused. ‘Are you?’

  He grinned, kissing her again. ‘No, but I’m afraid to spoil it by being clumsy. It’s important, you see.’

  He was sweet, saying the right things, doing the right things to allay her fears. She had kissed other boys in an experimental way, had been kissed herself, but no man had invaded her body. She giggled suddenly. ‘I’m awfully green…’

  He kissed her again, moving his lips from her mouth, down her throat and into the neckline of her tubular dress. He undid the buttons and slipped it off her shoulders, then fiddled with the straps of her underslip until her breasts were exposed. He cupped one in his hand and ran his thumb gently over the nipple. She felt every inch of her responding in a shivering, excited way. She kicked her dress from around her feet and pushed herself closer to him. Her petticoat, suspender belt, stockings and knickers went the way of the chemise. There was a tingling in her groin, a damp, soft surrender to sensation, and then as his hands and lips worked their way over her, a need to participate, to help this tumult along, to make it blossom. He lifted her and stepped backwards and they fell together onto the bed. He lowered his head to kiss her belly, his lips roving down into her pubic hair. She moaned softly. He stopped and took off his own clothes, not watching what he was doing but looking into her face, studying her features, the fine brows, lovely eyes, flecked now with passion, the mouth, partly open, waiting.

  He smiled and lowered himself gently onto her, his mouth covered hers and she could hardly hold back the flower waiting to burst into glorious bloom. The tiny shock when he penetrated she hardly noticed. She opened to him, taking him into her, deep inside her, so that his limbs and hers, his mouth and hers became a single writhing body. He made it last, so that in the end she was crying out, digging her hands into his back, pushing herself against him, forcing him to quicken. And then suddenly his whole weight was lying on top of her and he was gasping for breath.

  A moment later, he rolled off her. ‘My, you learn quick.’

  ‘Put it down to love.’ She did not ask him how he had come to be so skilled, how it was he knew exactly what to do to rouse her; she had a feeling she would not like the answer. A minute later he was asleep and she lay awake. With him sleeping soundly beside her, she began to realise the enormity of the change in her life. She was no longer the spoilt daughter, she was a wife, George’s wife, so long as they both should live.

  The next morning, they set out for a walk. Post-war London was a shock. All the old buildings were there, Buckingham Palace, the Tower, London Bridge, the shops, but the people looked weary: four years of war had sapped their energy. And there were so many beggars about, men missing limbs, with placards round their necks proclaiming their poverty, others apparently healthy except for the haunted look in their eyes. That look reminded her of Simon, though he was not reduced to begging. How much worse it must be for these poor men. And there were children, ragged and barefoot, their eyes large in pinched little faces. Her heart went out to them and she emptied her purse of small change into their eager hands.

  ‘There are too many, Barbara,’ George said. ‘You cannot give to them all.’

  ‘I know.’ It was said with a sad little sigh.

  They returned to their hotel for lunch and in the late afternoon they caught the train home.

  Barbara intended to find herself a job; she wasn’t particular what sort of job, she told George, she simply wanted to be useful. After all, he was still feeling his way and any money she could bring into the house would help, leave him with more to plough back into the business. She was unprepared for his veto.

  ‘No,’ he said, with a stubborn set to his mouth. ‘If I couldn’t support a wife, I had no business getting married.’ He had grown up with pre-war ideas of a woman’s place, when the relative roles of husbands and wives were clearly defined: the man was the provider, the wife stayed at home and did not question him.

  ‘But I can’t sit around doing nothing.’ It wasn’t as if she was being selfish: her desire for a job was for both their sakes.

  ‘Then help Mum.’

  ‘I would if she’d let me, but most of the time she doesn’t want me to. I feel like a guest.’

  ‘That’s nonsense. This is your home.’ His voice took on a placatory tone. ‘Darling, I need you right here.’

  ‘In your bed, you mean?’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar, Barbara, it doesn’t suit you.’ It was funny how he could be so wonderfully sexy at night and never mention it during the day. And even at night, it was not the same as it had been in London. She thought it was because his mother slept in the next room and the walls were very thin. She imagined every creak of the bed springs, every soft moan was heard; it inhibited her and she suspected George was aware of it too.

  For the sake of peace she gave in, and putting her sketch pad and water colours into her bicycle basket, pedalled out to the fens and painted the landscape, splashing the page with great streaks of pink and purple and grey, dotting the foreground with pollarded willows and water birds, empty rowing boats and broken reeds. Sometimes she put herself into her pictures, sitting on the riverbank, staring out over the flat fields or lying in a drifting rowing boat. That was how she felt, a drifter. Surely she shouldn’t feel that so soon after the wedding? Shouldn’t she be feeling fulfilled and happy, just being a wife? Elizabeth seemed to think so.

  ‘I never had the opportunity to stay at home,’ she told Barbara one day, when they were washing up after the Sunday roast, always eaten in the middle of the day, though the rest of the week they had their main meal in the evening. ‘George’s father was in the navy, a handsome man, big too, like George. I fell for George right after we married and then he went off to sea again…’

  ‘And he didn’t come back?’

  ‘Yes, of course he did, when his ship was in port. Then on one voyage he left his ship when it docked in Canada, had some fool idea he could find a gold mine and come back rich. He never did. Died out there.’ She spoke flatly, without emotion. It had happened a long time ago and the cruel edge to her memories had faded. Most people thought she had spent a lifetime mourning a beloved husband, that she had been overwhelmed by grief, but the truth was that it had been a relief: heaven knows what would have happened if the bastard had come back. ‘After that it was just George and me. I had to go out to work, I had no choice. I went cleaning during the day, took in washing at night.’

  ‘Yes, but times have c
hanged. Lots of women go out to work now, married or not. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.’

  ‘For George it is. He knows how I struggled, how I was always tired, having to cook the dinner and do the housework and other people’s washing, having to ask neighbours and friends to fetch him from school, worried to death in case he was ill and I lost a day’s work. He doesn’t want that for you.’

  ‘I know that, but I haven’t any children and I don’t have any housework to do because you do it all.’

  ‘I need to keep busy and I know how I like things done.’ To which there was no answer.

  The washing-up done, they joined George in the sitting room. He was sprawled in an armchair reading the Sunday paper.

  ‘Let’s go for a walk,’ Barbara suggested.

  ‘No, I’d rather stay here. Sunday is the only day I can have five minutes peace and quiet to read the paper. Besides, I have to do the books before tomorrow.’

  ‘Can I help with them?’

  ‘No, it would take too long to explain.’ He smiled to mitigate his refusal. ‘But thank you for offering, darling.’

  She sat down and picked up some knitting. Elizabeth did likewise and for perhaps half an hour no one spoke, until Barbara could stand it no more. ‘I’ll make a pot of tea.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ Elizabeth said. ‘You stay with George.’

  Barbara sank back into her chair. Useless again, not wanted. She could hear her mother-in-law in the kitchen, running water into the kettle, lighting the gas cooker that George had recently bought for her, setting out cups and saucers, and she longed for a home of their own. ‘George,’ she said tentatively. ‘This council contract you’ve got. Is it a big one?’

  ‘Middling. Why?’

  ‘You said we could buy a house when you were paid for it. You did mean that, didn’t you?’

  ‘I did, but the trouble is it’s not been all plain sailing. I have to make sure of getting the next contract and the one after that and that means oiling wheels…’

  ‘Oiling wheels?’

  ‘Yes, keeping people sweet, you know.’

  ‘Bribery?’ She was shocked.

  ‘Not exactly, but you can’t expect to get contracts, especially if you’re a small, untried firm, without greasing a few palms.’

  ‘Is that how you got the contract you’re working on now, or shouldn’t I ask?’

  ‘Ask all you like. I found out which of the council officers had an Achilles heel – this chap’s wife was ill, needed an op. I paid for her to have it done.’

  ‘But surely that’s illegal?’

  ‘Everyone does it. You don’t get a look in if you don’t.’ He smiled at her. ‘Don’t look so shocked. It’s how it works.’

  ‘And this man persuaded the council to accept your tender?’

  ‘No, he couldn’t do that. He simply told me what all the other quotes were and I made sure I undercut. I’ve had to cut corners and I’ll have to pay suppliers late to make it work, so you see, the house I promised is a little way off yet. Be patient, my darling, you shall have your house, I promise. The next contract will be a big one. It seems Lloyd George meant it when he said we would build homes for heroes, and the town council have been given a grant to build a hundred and fifty houses to rent. And with Donald Browning opening all the tenders when they arrive, I reckon I’ll get it.’

  ‘It needn’t be very large,’ she said, afraid that his ambitions in that direction might match his other aspirations and she would have to wait until he could afford the perfect home. She didn’t want a perfect home; she simply wanted somewhere of her own. And it seemed that to get it, she must condone what she knew must be dishonest and risky practices. ‘If I got a job, we could do it quicker, couldn’t we?’

  ‘No. You know my views on that, Barbara.’ He stood up, just as his mother came in with the tea tray. ‘I’m going into the dining room to do those books. I’ll have my tea there.’

  ‘I’ll bring it to you,’ Elizabeth said, setting the tray on the table.

  He disappeared. Barbara watched her mother-in-law for a few seconds, then stood up. ‘I don’t really feel like tea, after all. I think I’ll go for a ride.’

  Most weekdays she went up to the farm to exercise Jinny, going when she knew Virginia, who was personal secretary to the local estate agent, would be at work, but today she felt so restless she was prepared to risk bumping into her. What she most wanted was to talk to her father, to ask him if he thought she was being unreasonable to want a job and to question him about the ethics of bribing a council employee, but she couldn’t. For one thing, she had seen very little of him since her wedding, and for another, it would be disloyal to George. This was something she had to sort out for herself.

  She didn’t go up to the house but made straight for the stables, propping her bicycle against the fence. There were five horses in the stalls, contentedly munching hay. Her own mare, Jinny; Virginia’s chestnut, Amber; the sturdy pony her father used to pull the trap and two big farm horses. She was just taking her saddle down from a hook on the wall when she was startled by a sound behind her and spun round to see Virginia standing in the doorway, dressed for riding in jodhpurs and hacking jacket. She had her hat in her hand and her long blonde hair was tied back with a narrow ribbon. ‘Hallo, Barbara,’ she said. ‘You are quite a stranger these days. How’s married life?’

  ‘Very good. How are you?’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘And Dad?’

  ‘He’s finding the farm hard going. He’s a little tired.’

  ‘I’ll pop in and see him when I come back from my ride.’ She could not imagine her father giving up his farm. It had been his whole life and his father’s before him. What would he find to do if he could not be out tramping the fields, looking after the stock, talking to his neighbours about yields and harvests? He would be lost.

  ‘He will like that, he’s always saying he does not see enough of you.’ She paused. ‘I love your father, Barbara, and his happiness is important to me. We have that in common, don’t we?’

  ‘I very much hope so.’

  ‘Then let’s try and be friends. For John’s sake.’

  ‘All right.’ Solemnly, they shook hands. And then, as they were obviously both going riding, they spent the next hour on horseback, cantering over the meadow and down the bridleway to the common, where they enjoyed a gallop before returning home.

  ‘Barbara, I want to ask you something,’ Virginia said, as they dismounted.

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Will you be my bridesmaid?’

  ‘Me? But bridesmaids aren’t usually married, are they?’

  ‘I’d have said matron of honour, but it sounded so old.’ She laughed. ‘So what do you say?’

  Marriage must have made her more tolerant. She found herself saying, ‘Of course. I’d like it very much.’

  ‘Good. Let’s get the horses settled and go indoors. You can talk to John while I make some tea. Then I’ll show you my dress; it might give us some ideas for yours.’

  George looked up as his mother came in to take away his empty cup. ‘How’s it going?’ she asked.

  ‘OK. Where’s Barbara?’

  ‘Gone riding. She’s bored, George.’

  ‘I know, but what can I do about it? You know how it is with the business. It needs all my attention at the moment.’

  ‘Why don’t you give her something to keep her occupied?’ She smiled at his questioning look. ‘I’d love a grandchild.’

  ‘I’d love to give you one, but we decided no children until we have a home of our own. There’s no room here…’

  ‘Yes, there is. That little front bedroom is big enough for a cot. There’s plenty of couples have families in houses this size, big families too.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said doubtfully. ‘Barbara’s very young…’

  ‘Not that young. And she doesn’t have to agree. Just do it.’

  He laughed. ‘Oh, Mum, you devil!’

  They were st
ill laughing when Barbara came back into the house and it did nothing to make her feel less isolated.

  ‘I saw Virginia this afternoon,’ she told George, that evening as they settled by the fire. ‘She asked me to be her matron of honour.’

  ‘And you agreed?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘That’s a step in the right direction, anyway.’ He tried not to smile, but she caught the look he exchanged with his mother. ‘Virginia Conway is a nice girl, not the wicked stepmother of your imagination.’

  ‘I didn’t know you knew her.’

  ‘She was in my class at school.’

  She supposed it must have registered that her husband and her father’s bride were roughly the same age, but until now she had not thought about it. ‘Anyway, we went riding together and had coffee and talked about the wedding. It’s to be the second Saturday in April. You will be able to manage it, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I saw Dad too. He’s lost a lot of weight. We had a long chat.’

  ‘I am glad to hear that,’ Elizabeth put in. ‘It’s sad when parents and children quarrel. You hear so much of it, these days. Families breaking up, children defying their parents and going their own way. Thank God, George and I never had that problem.’

  ‘Neither did Dad and I.’ She almost snapped it, but swiftly moderated her voice and accompanied it with a smile. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘Nothing,’ Elizabeth repeated. ‘It was enough to make you fling yourself at the first man who’d have you.’

  In the silence that followed, George looked across at Barbara and saw the bleak look in her eyes. He reached out and took her hand. ‘Mum, that’s not fair. You know I always meant to marry Barbara, and we simply brought it forward, that’s all.’ He smiled at his wife. ‘Isn’t that so, darling?’

  ‘Yes,’ she whispered, shaken to the core; she had not realised before just how much Elizabeth resented her presence. Her mother-in-law had always been cool towards her, but she had not been openly hostile. The unease she had felt before she went riding returned tenfold and she longed to get away. If only they could afford a home of their own.