Уильям Николсон - Motherland

‘Yes,’ he says.

‘Fucking me is wrong.’

‘Yes.’

‘But you want to fuck me even so, Lawrence.’

‘Yes,’ he groans, feeling the tip of his cock pushing into her a little way.

‘If you fuck me, will God punish you, Lawrence?’

‘I don’t care,’ he says.

‘God won’t punish you,’ she says, ‘if you love me.’

‘I love you, Nell. I love you. I love you.’

He feels the intensity of his love for her with each repetition, along with the tingling in his cock, and the profound shock of joy with which he has heard each utterance by her of the word fuck . She seems to know how much this electrifies him. She moves her hips, pushing him deeper into her all the time, and as she does so she whispers, ‘Fuck me now, Lawrence. Fuck me now.’

His cock is in her now, gripped by sweet warmth, and he knows he can’t restrain himself any longer. His desire is in total control of his being, and it seeks its explosive release.

‘I can’t,’ he says, ‘I can’t—’

‘Do it, Lawrence,’ she says. ‘Do it. Do it.’

He thrusts deep into her, and pulls back, and thrusts again, and the moment comes, and he half-faints with the intense pleasure of it. He feels the pulsing release spread from his cock to every part of his body.

She strokes his back with warm hands.

‘There,’ she says. ‘There.’

‘Oh, Nell.’

‘Was that nice?’

‘Oh, God! It was heaven!’

‘I’m glad,’ she says. ‘I wanted it to be nice for you.’

He lies over her, still helpless, his entire being disintegrated, his muscles powerless to move. Then his frantic heart begins to regain its usual rhythm, and his senses return. He kisses her eagerly, gratefully, adoringly.

‘You’re wonderful, you’re amazing, you’re perfect.’

‘Darling Lawrence.’

‘I’ve never known anything like that before.’

‘That’s because you’re a good Catholic boy.’

‘Not any more.’

‘Yes, you are. It doesn’t change anything. And anyway, all you have to do is go to confession.’

‘But I want to do it again,’ says Larry.

‘Of course we’ll do it again,’ says Nell. ‘This is only the beginning.’

She puts on his dressing gown and pads upstairs to the shared bathroom to clean herself up. Larry dresses slowly in the green light. Then she’s back and he watches her lithe naked body as she too puts her clothes on.

‘You’ve had boyfriends before, haven’t you?’ he says.

‘Would you mind if I had?’

‘No, not at all. It makes me feel proud.’

He feels no jealousy at all of her past. Only this gigantic gratitude that she grants him the same supreme privilege.

‘I had a boyfriend when I was sixteen,’ she says. ‘Not a boy, a man. He taught me things. He liked me to say the dirty words. He was kind.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘The war,’ says Nell. ‘He died.’

Larry feels both shocked and elated. She’s so young, it’s cruel that she should have had to experience love and loss. But now she belongs entirely to him.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says.

‘I was sorry then,’ she says. ‘But now there’s you.’

‘I don’t understand,’ says Larry. ‘Why me? You’re so beautiful you could have any man you wanted.’

‘I’m not really beautiful,’ she says. ‘But it’s true, if I want a man, I can have him. Men aren’t that hard to get. But a good man – that’s another matter. I think you may be a good man, Lawrence.’

‘Because I’m a Catholic?’

‘Because you’re kind. Most people are mean. You’re not mean.’

‘You are beautiful, Nell.’

‘You say that because I let you fuck me.’

‘I love it the way you say that word.’

‘That word.’ She grins at him mischievously. ‘What word would that be, Lawrence?’

‘Fuck,’ he says, blushing.

Harry Avenell’s club is the Travellers in Pall Mall. Like so much in his life this is a second-best, but he has neither the connections nor the income to put up for White’s. For all that, the Travellers, in its handsome Barry building, provides the civilised surroundings that he appreciates. By profession a director of Marston’s Brewery, Burton-upon-Trent, by taste he is a country gentleman, the master of a small estate that overlooks the river Dove. The Queen Anne house is furnished with what might be called modest excellence. Every item, from the umbrella stand in the hall to the cut-glass decanter on the dining-room sideboard, is the best of its kind. The high standards of Hatton House have always exceeded the actual income of the family, but only by so much as to make living correctly demand a life of austerity that comes naturally to both Harry and his wife. Harry’s philosophy is declared by his tailoring. His suits are of the best cloth, made by Gieves & Hawkes of Savile Row, and are expected to last his lifetime. Gillian Avenell, by contrast, though always immaculately dressed, has no real care for her appearance at all. Where Harry is anxious about money, she is frugal, happier on her knees in prayer than before a dressing-table mirror. She is the devout Roman Catholic of the family. Her husband has no religion. He calls himself a stoic, meaning he is an admirer of Marcus Aurelius, and values self-mastery above all.

Harry Avenell has come to town to make some arrangements for his son. Ed has distinguished himself on the field of battle, he has a wife and child, but he has no employment and no income. By the age of twenty-eight a man needs to have fixed on a career, but Ed shows no signs of even so much as looking about him. Harry has therefore looked about him on his son’s behalf. A business acquaintance, Jock Caulder, turns out to have a son also in need of a parental push into the world of work. Caulder is a wealthy man, and proposes to set his boy up with a business of his own, importing French wine. The boy is willing enough, but being only just twenty years old, he’s understandably nervous at the prospect of being solely responsible for the enterprise. A partner is required. Harry Avenell has proposed his son, who is older, can be said to be battle-tested, and is looking for a career. It’s true he knows nothing about wine, but that can be learned. And his Victoria Cross, without being flaunted in any vulgar way, will surely add prestige to the infant business.

Jock Caulder is minded to agree. His son Hugo declares himself willing to give it a go. It remains only to sound out the war hero himself.

Harry is ensconced on a blue sofa at the far end of the Outer Morning Room of his club, a pot of Earl Grey tea before him, when Ed comes in and greets him with a raised hand. Harry has only seen his son once since his return, when he came up to Hatton and stayed for a single night. He feels shy in his son’s company.

He waves him to the sofa opposite and offers him tea.

‘How’s Kitty? How’s our granddaughter?’

‘Flourishing,’ says Ed. ‘Pamela turns out to be tremendously strong-minded.’

‘You’re still living in the big house?’

‘For now, yes. How’s Mummy?’

‘Very well. Do drop her a line sometime. Or better still, pay us a visit. You know she’d never dream of asking anything for herself, but it would mean a lot to her.’

‘Yes, of course,’ says Ed, his gaze drifting to the trees in the Mall outside. ‘So tell me the news of Hatton.’

‘Life goes on in its quiet way,’ says Harry. ‘But now, here’s what I want to talk to you about, Ed. Something’s come up that might suit you.’

He lays out the proposal. Ed listens, his handsome face revealing nothing. When he’s done, his father expects some questions about the partnership terms and the anticipated income. Instead Ed gives a slight shrug and looks away again, out of the window.