Denial

She watches the man. Every day. Watches him with a hunger she scarcely understands. It's been ten years now and she should be getting on with her life. Everyone else is. 1950, five years since the end of the war and seven since her husband of only two years died on the battlefield. The Fifties are the decade when everything is getting better in Britain. People have more money, medical care is free, housing has improved, husbands and wives are reunited and raising children in a world of new optimism.

But she and Bill can't be reunited. Bill is dead.

She watches the man.

Would they have married if there hadn't been a war on? Yes, she thinks; probably they would--but not then; not so early. She had been nineteen and Bill only a year older. She was sure that she loved him and certain that he loved her, but he needed time--they both did--to save enough money. To start life in a home of your own was something no-one from either family had ever managed to do, but it was what they wanted.

Then Bill was called up into the army and they both knew what could happen to an infantryman. They should do--there were plenty of spinsters around, women in their fifties who had never known what it was to be wives and mothers because the men they might have married had died on the Somme, or the Marne, or at Cambrai. Bill preached caution but she didn't want to end like that, all dried up and never been...well; kissed was the word she used, but she had been kissed, many times, and kissed wasn't what she meant. The other thing, the intimate thing, she'd never had that because good girls didn't. Not in those days. That didn't mean she didn't want to. With the right man, in the right way, at the right time.

Fate intervened in the shape of the death of her Aunt Marie. Marie was one of those unwilling spinsters, a young woman, good looking enough, whose fiancé had died on the 4th of November, 1918, just one week before the end of the war, at Ors on the Sambre-Oise Canal--the same day, the same place, the same skirmish as Wilfred Owen and although Owen became famous and was awarded a posthumous Military Cross, he was missed no more strongly than Marie missed her Tom. Doomed to a lifetime as a single woman, Marie got a job in a bank but had to leave it to care for her sick mother and then, after her mother's death, her father. When he died she inherited the house and what little money he had and that allowed her to live peacefully, if without show.

Marie had learned a lesson from Tom's death. Her will left the house to Sarah but with a condition: that Sarah and Bill marry immediately. If they did not, the house was to be sold and the money given to charity. Even Bill could see the sense of not looking that gift horse in the mouth and so they were married, quickly, in a register office. Her father had to give permission; she was under age.

She knew people had talked, of course she did, two young people getting married in such a rush: she must be pregnant, mustn't she? It didn't trouble her. She knew she was a virgin and that, the self-respect she had maintained, was what mattered.

A honeymoon would have been nice, but they decided against it. They had no car (and probably couldn't have got petrol, even if they'd had one, for something so self-regarding as the consummation of a marriage). War had thrown public transport into chaos; even if you could get onto a train there was no knowing where or when it would set you down. There was no time to waste in sidings--Bill had to report to Park Hall in Shropshire in three days to begin his basic training. So, after the marriage and a celebratory tea at her parents' house, they took the bus to their new home.

They looked at each other, two people alone together who didn't really know what to do. 'I'm going to take a bath,' she said. 'Then I'll get into bed. Follow me when you're ready.' She felt embarrassed to be taking charge when Bill should really have been doing it, but someone had to make things happen.

Rationing was tight in wartime and there had been no clothing coupons to pay for the kind of nightdress a girl wants to wear on her marriage night, but her mother had kept the one she had worn twenty-two years earlier and Sarah had cut it down to fit her slighter figure. It was white cotton, buttoned from throat to waist and trimmed with lace. When she got into bed she felt nervous, a little frightened in fact, but however much it hurt she was determined that her new husband would make a woman of her tonight. She settled down to wait.

When Bill came upstairs it was clear that he was as nervous as she was. He came out of the bathroom in flannel pyjamas and she wondered for a moment whether he had dumped his wedding suit on the bathroom floor or hung it up neatly. He wasn't going to have much use for a suit for the next year or two, but even so. He stood in the doorway. 'Shall I turn out the light?'

'No. Leave it on. Please.' She wanted him to see her. Then. After he'd taken her nightie off. Or she had. And she wanted to see him. They'd waited long enough. She giggled, and Bill laughed, and the tension was broken. He came into bed with her, took her in his arms, kissed her, snuggled against her although the evening was warm. She was surprised to find herself rising almost above him in her eagerness to kiss and be kissed and she hoped he wouldn't think she was being forward.

But what's the point of being married if you can't be forward with your husband?

Their lips were warm and soft on each other as Bill's hands kneaded the soft cotton against her back. She felt him reaching for the hem. 'There are buttons,' she said. 'On the front. At the top.'

'So there are.'

She settled down to be undressed. It was lovely to feel the buttons popping, one after the other, until he was able to lay the two sides open and see her for the first time. She was proud of her breasts, which she thought were the best part of her, her number one asset and when Bill began to stroke them, and then to kiss them, she held his hands firmly on them, pushed them towards his mouth.

And then he was raising her nightdress and this time she didn't stop him but sat up and helped him get it over her head and off and she put her hands on his shoulders and held him at arms' length while he looked at her. That was love in his eyes, and something like delight, and whatever nervousness or fear she might have had about what was to happen to her, the penetration she was going to feel, vanished. She lay down. She smiled at him.

His hands slipped gently down and she parted her thighs as he reached the place where now all of her desires seemed to be congregating. Then he was stroking her, his hand sliding gently up and down and his finger probing, just the tip entering her and then more than the tip and then the whole finger and her hips were moving as though they had nothing to do with her and then she almost came bolt upright as another finger joined the first and then they were withdrawn as he hurried to get his pyjamas off, first the jacket and then the pants and he was over her and fumbling and she felt the tip of his thing that she had never given a name to even in her most private thoughts and it was trying to find its way but couldn't and she reached down and took it in her hand and lifted her hips slightly as she guided it and, there, it was pushing into her, it was in her, all the way in and her fears had been about nothing because they were making love and it felt wonderful and it had hurt only a little and she wrapped her arms round him and she felt so good, so happy.

It was over too soon. That was the only disappointment. It was over too soon, and she felt so happy, yes she was happy, she was a woman now and she'd got there with the man she loved who was her lawfully wedded husband but she was not fulfilled, not quite. Probably it was because they were both beginners. Probably it would be better next time. Even better next time, she corrected herself.

She and Bill, naked as they were, wrapped around each other. Bill fell asleep. She did not, but not because she was unhappy. She was not unhappy. She had never been so contented. The light stayed on because she did not want to disturb Bill by getting up to turn it off. But then Bill disturbed himself when he woke up and padded off to the bathroom.

When he came back, she held out her arms and took him into them. They kissed. She whispered, 'Can I hold you?' but she didn't wait for an answer, partly because she didn't see why a married woman should have to ask permission, it should be her right, but mostly because she was embarrassed to be so presumptuous and she reached down gently, so gently, and took his penis into her hand.

It hung short and wrinkled but it very quickly began to uncoil and grow longer and harder. Bill said, 'I'm sorry, Darling. Didn't I satisfy you?' and she dug him hard in the ribs with her spare hand and said, 'Of course you satisfied me. It was lovely. That's why I want another go. It's all right, isn't it? To have another go?'

He kissed her. 'It's wonderful to have another go.'

Once again she parted her thighs and guided him into her and this time there was no disappointment, this time it was not over too soon, this time as he moved backwards and forwards in her he went on long enough for her to be moving backwards and forwards too, in time with him, and a feeling built inside her, a feeling she had perhaps dreamed about in her imaginings of how it would be but never felt and now she wasn't just moving with him, she was bucking on the bed, her hips thrusting up and then the feeling burst and it was on her and she cried out and hugged him to her as hard as she could and kissed him and then he had his climax, too, and he sank down onto her but taking his weight on his elbows. She said, 'You're magnificent,' and she could feel how he filled with pride as he slipped out of her.

Now she was the one who had to go to the bathroom and when she came back she turned out the light and said, 'I'll let you sleep now, my hero,' although really he was the one who'd slept before and she had lain awake thinking about the lovely thing that had happened to her and the lovely things that were going to go on happening to her in the future.

It was late when they woke and before they got up although she was sore from the night before, their first night, they did it again, slowly and sweetly, and as she dressed she thought, "We're good at this and we'll get even better" and she was glad that they'd waited, that there had been no shame and no hurried, furtive coupling where they couldn't be seen.

When she made the bed she realised the bottom sheet would have to be washed and she wished someone, ideally her mother, had told her to put a towel under her before she made love for the first time but that was how it was: you didn't talk about sex to anyone. Not even your own mother. She was lucky, really, that things had gone so smoothly. They must be naturals.

Because Bill was going to Park Hall and wouldn't be back for twelve weeks, she had taken three days holiday from her job as a shorthand typist. Some of the time they spent walking and she invested some in learning how to cook for herself and her man, but when the three days were over she would say--to herself but not to Bill because there were still limits to the familiarity she could allow herself--that she had spent more time with her knickers off than with them on. She hadn't counted how many times they had made love, but she knew it was no small number. She had enjoyed every one.

And then he was gone.

For twelve weeks she didn't see him and hardly heard from him. There was no telephone in the house. His letters were censored and, anyway, he was not a great letter writer. She went to work each day and in the evenings she cooked simple meals for herself, listened to the Light Programme and the Home Service on the radio and thought about Bill. Of course, she could have spent those lonely evenings at her parents' house but it did not occur to her to go there or to them to invite her. She was a married woman now.

At night, in bed, she dreamed about Bill. Bill raising her nightdress. Bill stroking her breasts. Bill getting stiff in her hands. Bill between her thighs. Sometimes the desire was so great she woke herself up and had to do what she had never done when she was single, just to calm herself enough to get back to sleep.

Then he came home. She had planned a special meal and it was indeed eaten, but later than intended because when she saw him everything else was driven from her mind and she took him by the hand and led him upstairs. As they passed through the bedroom door she was talking off her dress; when she looked round, he was also undressing. It would not afterwards be possible to say who had had whom.

After a week's leave, he joined his regiment and was posted to France.

She was never to see him again.

The neighbours heard her screams. They had known Aunt Marie, they knew Sarah's mother and one of them sent a son, a boy of twelve who grumbled all the way there, for help. Sarah's father went to see the owner of the company Sarah worked for and told him what had happened. The owner gave Sarah a week off work. The week turned into two; the two turned into three.

Her mother did what she could.

'You have to get dressed, Sarah. You can't spend all day in a nightdress.'

She shook her head.

'Well, at least put a new one on. That one smells. You haven't been out of it for days. And for God's sake take a bath.'

This time she didn't even shake her head.

'Come home for a while, dear. Let me look after you. Like I did when you were little and you weren't very well.'

She wouldn't. This was her home, hers and Bill's. This was where the memories were. There'd never be any more, she knew that.

Her father put his foot down. 'There's a war on. Men are being killed. I know it's sad but other men have died and the streets aren't full of crying women.'

'Perhaps they should be,' said her mother. 'Perhaps if enough women cried, all this killing would stop.'

He shook his head. 'I want you back home. If she'll come with you, fine. But if she won't you're to leave her on her own till she comes to her senses.'

She knew the two men by sight, though not their names. She didn't know exactly what they did, either, though they worked for the same company she did. They had some reason, some deficiency, that prevented them from being called up, but what it was she didn't know. What she did know when they knocked on her front door was that she didn't want to see them, didn't want sympathy, didn't want any of those awful things people say when they're trying to be kind. She ignored the knock.

One of the men must have stayed by the front door because the one who pushed open the back door was alone. That door must have been unlocked for days. She said, 'What are you doing? What do you want?'

He didn't answer--just took her by the wrist as he locked the door behind him and led her through the house. She shook her arm but his grip was too strong. 'Get off me!'

'Don't be difficult. There's no point screaming; no-one can hear you. They're all at work.'

It wasn't true, of course; a lot of women had taken jobs while their men were at war but not all of them. The woman next door, for example--she should be at home. But no-one came. The man opened the front door so that his colleague could come in. Now she had one holding her left arm and the other holding her right. They went upstairs like that, one pulling from the front; the other pushing from behind. They didn't speak to her. When they got her into the bedroom they let go.

'What do you want?'

'We were so sad to hear about your husband. We realised you must be going without. We don't want you to go without, Sarah.'

The other man sniggered.

'I'd like you to go, please.'

'We can do it the easy way,' as though he hadn't heard her. 'Or we can do it the hard way. It's up to you.'

She was shaking with fear. 'Go away. Please.'

'Take your nightie off.'

'NO!'

'Take it off.'

When she made a break for the door they pulled her back easily. 'So you choose the hard way,' said the only man to have spoken so far. The other said, 'Why make it difficult? What does another slice off a cut loaf matter? We're going to have a nice time. You can have one, too.' He held both her arms behind her and pulled her back so that she was pressed tight against him. 'Or not, of course. It's up to you.' She struggled to stop herself from trembling, but without success. 'Please,' she whimpered. 'Please. Don't do this.'

The man in front of her took her nightdress by the hem and pulled it all the way up so that he could hook it over her head. 'There,' he said. 'That wasn't so difficult, was it?' His hands were rough on her breasts.

'No!' But they were deaf to her pleas. The man behind twisted her, throwing her onto the bed face down and then flipping her onto her back. When he sat on her head, she thought she would suffocate and in her terror she was scarcely aware of the other man forcing her legs apart, kneeling between them, opening his trousers.

The relief when the weight came off her head was so great that they did not need to restrain her while the second man took his turn. She lay beneath him, her chest rising and falling as she gulped down great draughts of air, and let it happen. She had simply given up. She wished she was dead.

The two men pulled up their trousers. One said, 'You want to change that nightie, darling. And take a bath. You stink, you know that?'

They were laughing as they let themselves out.

She could not have said how long she lay there after they had gone. There were sounds in the street, doors opening and closing, a dog barking, but Sarah knew nothing of any of that. She stared at the ceiling. She knew now the meaning of the word "violated". That was what they had done. They had violated her, and her memories of Bill, and the knowledge of how sweet love could be. All gone, buried under a feeling of worthlessness.

At last she stirred. The nightie was still around her neck. She took it off. Moving without conscious thought, she carried it with her as she dragged around the house, not admitting to herself what she was looking for but knowing anyway.

She found it in the scullery, a hook in the ceiling from which, a century before, hams had hung. What would hang there now would be heavier. And uglier, she thought. She wanted a drink of water, but what would be the point of that? Now? At this point?

She stood on a chair beneath the hook, wrapped the nightie around her neck and then twisted it over the hook. She tested it to make sure it was secure. Then she kicked the chair from under her.

Very quickly, she wished that she had found another way to go. There was nothing clean about this death; she was choking and gasping for breath. And she still wanted a drink. She swung her foot, searching for the chair, but it was out of reach. Her hands could not break the nightdress's hold. The pain was dreadful, but as the world turned black it began to fade.

The ambulance men took Sarah out of the house on a stretcher watched by her next door neighbour, a policeman and a few idle gawkers. The neighbour said, 'I heard a crash. It was a terrible noise--I thought the ceiling must have come down. Well, it had, of course. Part of it.'

The policeman was writing in his little black notebook. Paper was scarce because of the war and he had been told to make his notebook last. "Write small," the sergeant had said. "And only what you have to. Abbreviate. Leave things out if you can." He said, 'Did you suspect she wanted to kill herself?'

'Her husband died a few weeks ago. In France.'

'You think that was it?'

The neighbour looked at him with something approaching contempt. 'No,' she said. 'I don't think that was it. I think it was those two men.'