Barbara Bradford - A Woman of Substance

As busy as she was, Emma had stayed up all night reading it and had swooped down on Frank at the newspaper the following morning. ‘Why do you say it’s no good?’ she had cried, barely able to contain her excitement. ‘It’s marvellous! And it’s going to be published. Leave it to me. ’ She had swept Archie Clegg off to an expensive lunch at the Metropole in Leeds and thereafter had badgered him relentlessly, and on a daily basis, until he had undertaken to send the book to a publisher friend in London. It was accepted by Hollis and Blake immediately and she herself had negotiated a favourable contract for Frank. When they brought it out some months later it was received with critical acclaim. More importantly, to Emma at least, the novel was also a resounding success commercially. Frank had become a celebrity overnight and several months after the book’s publication he had been offered a position on the Daily Chronicle and had departed for Fleet Street with Emma’s blessing. Today he was considered one of the most brilliant young writers in English journalism and his future was assured. Or rather, it had been until tonight.

‘Damn this rotten war!’ Emma cried aloud, filled with a helpless fury. She viewed it as a terrible inconvenience, for it had disrupted her most carefully made plans. Yet in spite of her single-minded preoccupation with her business, she was wise enough to recognize that it had graver consequences. The war would throw the world into a turmoil and shatter thousands of lives, a prospect that filled her with dread.

Abruptly she stood up. Reflecting on the past and morbidly anticipating the future was a waste of time, the most deplorable of sins to Emma. There was nothing she could do to change what had happened or control impending events obviously beyond her control. She pulled her blue silk dressing gown around her, shivering slightly, although the night was warm, and walked across the hall, her slippers clicking with a metallic ring agair st the marble floor, the sounds fading as she mounted the carpeted staircase. The grandfather clock, positioned at the turn of the stairs, struck two, its musical chimes reverberating loudly in the stillness of the sleeping house. Emma tiptoed into the bedroom, shrugged out of her dressing gown, and slipped into the great four-poster bed.

Joe stirred. ‘Emma?’

‘I’m sorry, Joe. Did I wake you?’ she whispered, pulling the covers over her.

‘No, the telephone did. Who was it?’ he asked in a sleepfilled voice.

‘Frank. He’s going to the front as a war correspondent. He’s leaving in a few hours. I couldn’t persuade him not to go, Joe. I’m so afraid for him,’ Emma said in a low voice.

‘It’s a bit soon, isn’t it? We’ve only been at war a few days. Couldn’t he have waited?’

‘I begged him to change his mind but he wouldn’t listen. Now I have the two of them to worry about-’ She shivered and clutched the pillow, pressing back her incipient tears.

Joe became aware of her shivering. He moved closer to her. ‘Don’t worry, Emma,’ he murmured. ‘They’ll be all right. Anyhow, this mess will be over in a few months.’

Emma groaned, suppressing the anger that flared in her. Joe had no conception of the facts. She had been predicting the war for months. Her words had fallen on stony ground and she no longer bothered to argue with him. Joe touched her shoulder tentatively. His pressure increased and he pulled her over on her back. He raised himself on one elbow, peering into her face in the dim light. Emma felt his warm breath against her cheek and she instantly stiffened. He smelled faintly of onions, beer, and stale tobacco and she moved her head away from him, filled with distaste. Joe began to kiss her face and his free hand slid under the bedclothes to grasp her breast.

‘Joe, please. Not now!’

‘Don’t be cold to me, Emma,’ he muttered thickly.

‘I’m not being cold. I just don’t feel up to-’

‘You never do,’ he snapped.

‘That’s unfair and you know it,’ she said, bristling. ‘It’s been a long day and I’m upset about Frank. How can you be so inconsiderate? Anyway, you aren’t very careful these days. I don’t want to get pregnant again.’

‘I’ll be careful, Emma. I promise,’ he said in a wheedling tone. ‘Please, love. It’s been weeks.’

‘Ten days,’ Emma said flatly, infuriated by his insensitivity and selfishness.

‘But I want you,’ he moaned, and ignoring her protestations, he pulled her into his arms. ‘Please, Emma, don’t turn me away.’

Emma did not answer. Mistaking her silence for acquiescence, Joe fumbled with her silk nightgown, his breathing now rapid and belaboured. He began to explore her body, his hands roughly insistent as they roamed over her legs and thighs and breasts. Emma averted her head, avoiding his kisses. She closed her eyes, crushing down on the impulse to push him away. In the four years they had been married Emma had made a tremendous effort to accommodate Joe Lowther’s physical demands, and she knew she would yield yet again. It was easier than repulsing him and prevented violent quarrels later. Also, she had made a bargain with herself, to be a good wife to Joe, and she never reneged on a bargain. She had not reckoned with Joe’s unflagging sexual aggressiveness and his voracious appetite, which seemed to increase rather than lessen with time.

It was too late to pull away without creating an explosive scene and so Emma automatically let her body go limp. And then she detached her mind, thinking of other things, fleeing into her private world. She began to do complicated mathematical calculations pertaining to her latest financial ventures, seeking refuge in her business to block out the reality of the moment.

Joe rolled on top of her, panting, his pounding against her relentlessly sustained. Her body was his anvil. His momentum increased and rudely shattered her self-induced detachment, and just as she had known he would he lost all restraint, became utterly unconscious of her in his wild abandonment. He grasped her legs and roughly pushed them up against her chest and at that moment Emma thought her control would snap. She swallowed a scream of unexpected pain and rage and revulsion as he lunged at her time and time again, a charging bull mindlessly intent on its purpose.

He was still. Thank God he was finally still. Depleted, Joe fell against her, his breathing harsh but returning to normal slowly. Emma stretched out her cramped legs and moved her head wearily on the pillows, tears of humiliation seeping out of the corners, the taste of blood bitter in her mouth where she had bitten her inner lip. Unwanted sex was nauseating, was becoming unendurable, for Joe did not attract her physically and he aroused neither desire nor passion in her. Furthermore, he had never even tried to do so. Despite his own preoccupation with sex, or perhaps because of it, he was oblivious to her unresponsiveness. Perhaps if he had shown more consideration, had been sensitive and understanding of her female needs, the situation might have improved. As it was, Emma believed it was inexorably disintegrating. She did not truly know how long she could continue to tolerate his unremitting assaults on her body as she had done for so long. Joe seemed to be in a perpetual state of heightened potency and this frightened her.

Joe put his arms around her and buried his head against her bosom. ‘That was wonderful, love,’ he said quietly in a voice that was oddly shy. ‘You’re too much for any man. I can’t get enough of it with you.’

Don’t I know, she thought angrily but made no comment. Joe moved away from her, turned his back, and within minutes was fast asleep. Why, he didn’t even say good night, Emma thought with a flare of irritation and she was mortified. She slid carefully out of bed and glided across the floor to the bathroom, her bare feet sinking into the thick pile of the fine Wilton carpet. She locked the door firmly behind her, threw off her crumpled nightgown, pinned up her hair, and stepped into the bath. Crouching in front of the taps she ran the water until it was steaming hot, almost too hot to bear, soaping her body generously, scrubbing energetically at her delicate white skin until it was bright red. And then she lay back in the water, hoping to soothe her aching body and calm her jangled nerves. After a while she began to feel relaxed and she climbed out of the bath and towelled herself dry. Moving across the elegantly appointed bathroom, Emma caught sight of herself in the mirror. She paused and looked at her face. There was not a trace of anguish or despair on that pale oval, but then there never was. Blackie was for ever telling her she had the inscrutable face of an Oriental and she was beginning to believe him. But then my inscrutability serves my purpose most admirably, she said to herself. She took a clean nightgown out of a chest of drawers, slipped it over her head, picked up her slippers, and hurried downstairs.