Уильям Николсон - Motherland

He wants to say, Open yourself to me, welcome me, love me. But he understands how frightening it must be to her, and that he must be patient. At the same time the desire is mounting in him, the simple hunger for satisfaction, and he wants to force himself into her before it’s too late. He pushes more eagerly, and hears her utter a low gasp. Then comes a wave of guilt.

What right have I to put my own pleasure before hers? We have a whole lifetime ahead of us. I can surely afford to wait one more day.

He eases himself off her body, and lies on his back beside her.

‘Have you done it?’ she says.

He can’t contain a short laugh.

‘No, my darling,’ he says. ‘But it doesn’t matter. We’re both tired. There’ll be other nights.’

She lies beside him in the darkness, in silence. After a while he thinks perhaps she’s gone to sleep. But when at last she speaks he realises she’s been crying soundlessly.

‘I’m sorry,’ she says.

‘Darling, darling, sweetheart. It’s not your fault.’

‘I’m so stupid and ignorant,’ she says. ‘But I’ll get better, I promise you. I’ll be a good wife.’

‘You are a good wife, my darling. The best in the world. You’ll see. It’ll all come right soon. It’s my fault, I shouldn’t be in so much of a hurry. But if I am, it’s because I love you and want you so much.’

‘And I do love you so much too,’ says Geraldine.

After that they kiss, and put their night clothes back on, and settle down to sleep. Larry lies awake far into the night. Geraldine lies still and quiet beside him, and he’s not sure if she sleeps or not.

Late October in Normandy is golden with sunlight. Geraldine, enchantingly pretty, stays close by Larry’s side, smiling for him, touching him, leaning her soft head against his shoulder. The French staff of La Grande Heuze all fall in love with the young couple, and wait on them with tender care. Geraldine does her best with the servants, laughing at her own poor French, thanking them with smiling bobs of her pretty head. ‘Qu’elle est charmante,’ they say to each other. ‘Vraiment bien élevée, cette petite Madame Cornford.’

At night, progress of a sort is made. Geraldine now understands fully what is required of her, and professes herself willing to do all that her husband wants; but her body is not under the command of her will. By the third night it seems to Larry that he is being too cautious, and that what is needed is a more powerful attack. He explains this to Geraldine and she accepts his analysis, saying as ever, ‘If that’s what you think is for the best.’ However, when the theory is put into practice she suffers a violent reaction. She starts breathing in short rapid jerks, and almost faints. Alarmed, full of self-reproach, Larry abandons his attack at once, and spends the rest of the night cradling her in his arms. When they are found to be sleeping in late the following morning the servants smile at each other and whisper, ‘Qu’il est doux, l’amour des jeunes.’

For the remaining days of their honeymoon Larry treats his young bride with great gentleness, and she shows him even more physical affection than before. They speak about the matter openly only once.

‘It will be all right, won’t it, darling?’ she says.

‘Of course it will,’ he replies. ‘It’s just a matter of giving it time.’

‘You aren’t too horribly disappointed in me?’

‘How could I be?’

He reaches his hand across the breakfast table and she takes it in hers. They smile into each other’s eyes.

‘I do love you so much, darling,’ she says. ‘I’m so proud and happy to be married to you. I promise you I’ll make you happy too.’

‘You make me happy already,’ he says.

In so many ways she’s so perfect. And of course, she’s still young, only twenty-two. Easy to forget in view of the formidable efficiency with which she manages herself and those around her. If her body is young and fearful, that should be no surprise. All will come right in time.

Kitty’s new baby is a good baby right from the start. She feeds well and sleeps well, and seems to be happy wherever she’s put. Her name is Elizabeth. Her arrival changes everything for Kitty. Her life is now filled from morning to night with tending to the baby’s simple and immediate needs. All other concerns withdraw to that shadowy space on the edge of consciousness. At the centre, pink-cheeked, smelling of warm milk, chirruping with contentment, lies little Elizabeth.

Pamela is less delighted.

‘She looks like a monkey,’ she says.

‘But she’s a dear little monkey, isn’t she?’

‘I suppose so,’ says Pamela.

Somehow this name clings on, and the baby comes to be called the Monkey, which is later shortened to the Monk. Pamela, who has recently passed her fifth birthday, becomes aware that the Monk is often compared favourably to herself as a baby. Apparently she cried a lot, and wouldn’t eat what she was given, and threw her toys out of the pram. The Monk’s placidity is much remarked upon, always in highly approving terms.

‘She was born with a good nature,’ they say, gazing fondly on her as she sleeps.

‘She might be dead,’ says Pamela.

She takes to poking the baby surreptitiously, to make her cry.

Louisa comes calling most days. Her own pregnancy is now well advanced. The early sickness has passed, but she continues to give her doctors cause for concern.

‘It’s so unfair,’ she complains to Kitty. ‘I should be dancing for joy, but instead I feel like a cow with a hangover.’

George fusses round her, and tells her to sit down all the time. To Kitty’s surprise, Louisa shows no irritation at this. She leans on his arm for support, and pats him, like a horse.

‘George says if it’s a boy he’s to be William, after his father.’

‘I think it will be a boy,’ says George.

‘Oh, you don’t want a boy,’ Ed says. ‘Boys are always shouting and fighting.’

Ed is so much sweeter these days. Kitty knows very well that deep down he’s not happy, but at least he’s making a real effort to be friendly. She even has hopes that he’s overcome his habit of drinking too much. Then one day Mrs Willis finds a stash of empty bottles while cleaning the small parlour. This is the room Ed calls his ‘office’, to which he often retires. The empty bottles were in a cupboard.

‘Why hide empty bottles, Ed?’

‘I wasn’t hiding them. I was storing them. We reuse glass bottles, you know? Every bottle costs tuppence. That soon adds up.’

She can tell by the way his voice goes up in pitch that he’s ashamed and defensive, so she lets the matter drop. But from now on, when he seems more silent and sleepy-eyed than usual, she suspects him of having been drinking. She knows she should talk to him about it, but the baby occupies all her time and care, and truth to tell she’s afraid of raising the issue.

In May, when the hawthorn blossom is white in the hedges and the young leaves are bright on the trees, Larry and Geraldine come down for the weekend. This visit has been long promised, and at last a time has arrived when Ed is home, and Larry’s business can spare him. The Cornfords motor down from London in a new Riley saloon, a shiny dark-red car with cream sides. This is only the first sign of Larry’s new prosperity. He gets out to reveal he’s wearing a tailored tweed suit, and a tie that looks suspiciously like an old school tie.

Kitty bursts into laughter.

‘Larry, what’s happened to you! You’ve turned into landed gentry!’

‘That’s Geraldine,’ says Larry. ‘She’s taken me in hand.’

Geraldine is wearing a tight-fitting red wool coat with a long full skirt of a kind Kitty has never seen before. On Geraldine’s slim and elegant figure the effect is stunning.