Denial

The policeman was all attention now. 'Which two men?'

'I heard a scream. She's screamed before and I thought, leave her be. She's had a terrible loss. Let her get through it as best she can. Half an hour later the door slammed and when I looked out there were two men walking away. They were laughing. Then I heard the crash and I thought I'd better take a look.'

'How did you get in?'

'I've still got the key I had when her aunt lived there. She died,' she explained as she saw the policeman's blank look. 'Left the house to her niece. I should have given the key back but I never got round to it. Good job I didn't, or God knows how long she'd have lain there.'

'These two men. Did you recognise them?'

'One of them. I know his wife. They live three streets away.'

Sarah was in hospital for a week and the neighbours moaned that she was taking up nurses' time that someone else might have used. Someone more deserving. A victim of war.

'She is a victim of war,' said her mother.

The police had arrested the two men but Sarah said she wouldn't give evidence and they were released without charge. Big fuss about nothing, the neighbours said. The wife of Sarah's employer came to see her. 'We've had to take them back. We'd have liked to fire them but it's hard to find workers with all the fit men away at the war.'

'Or dead,' Sarah said.

It's easier to find women who need a job.'

Sarah stared at her. 'They raped me and I'm the one to be fired.'

'We're not firing you. You can come back to work.'

'With them there? No thank you.'

'I understand. Listen, Ted has a cousin who runs a business very like ours in Cornwall. He says he'll find a place for you. As a favour to Ted. If you want to go there.'

Sarah said she'd think about it.

When she was well enough she went to stay at her parents' house. She talked to them about Cornwall. Her mother didn't want to lose her only daughter and Cornwall was a long way away but her father said, 'Take it. Start a new life. The war will end. You've got fifty years ahead of you. You need to fill them.'

Sarah wasn't fooled; he wanted her miserable, brooding presence out of his house. She couldn't bear to go to her place of work because the two men were there so she wrote to the owner's wife and said she'd like to give Cornwall a try.

She liked it. The people were stand-offish, they spoke with a curious accent she struggled at first to understand, it was weeks before anyone outside work even nodded to her and she was not invited into anyone's home, and all of that was exactly as she wanted it. She rented a two bedroom cottage on the cliff and spent her summer evenings on a chair outside, watching the sea as it roared in and crashed against the rocks below or moved peacefully out to uncover a golden, sandy beach. She went to sleep calmed by its comforting sounds.

There was only one other house nearby and sometimes it stood empty but mostly it was occupied by a solitary man. When it was empty it was because an army jeep had arrived and taken the man away; while he was at home soldiers turned up two or three times a week on motor bikes carrying satchels. Britain was still a mainly white country at that time and Sarah had seen very few black men other than those in uniform; he was the only one in the little Cornish town.

Her employer asked her one day if she saw anything of her neighbour. She shook her head. 'He seems to be something to do with the army.'

'It's hush-hush, whatever it is. Intelligence. He was at Cambridge before the war.'

'That's a long way away. I wonder what brought him here.'

'Same thing as you. Grief. He was married, and she died. So he came home.'

'Home?'

He was looking at her curiously. 'Home. He's a Cornishman. We were at school together.'

'Oh. But I thought...'

'You thought he must be from Jamaica or somewhere?'

'Well. Yes.'

'His mother came from there. Lovely woman. She worked as a nurse in London. Met one of ours, married him and moved down here. They're both gone now.'

'Gone?'

'In the graveyard. His name's Ted. I talk to him when he comes into town. He's still my old schoolmate but his mind is always somewhere else. I asked him to come for supper but he wasn't ready for that. You should introduce yourself. Invite him in for a cup of tea.'

'I don't think I'm ready, either.'

'Well, think about it. He's probably the most intelligent man you ever met, but he's lonely.'

She didn't think about it. She wasn't going to invite a man into her home, even for a cup of tea, because who knew what else he might expect? And she knew what men could do when they wanted something you weren't prepared to give. There'd be no more of that in her life. She'd had Bill and she'd lost him. She wasn't going to lie on her back and let some other man set her thighs apart. She'd live like Aunt Marie, alone and celibate till the day she died.

Still, she watched the man with more interest after that conversation. He had a name now. Ted.

The war had been on since 1939, reverse after reverse and however the newspapers and the Government tried to dress it up it was clear that things were going badly. More than sixty thousand British soldiers died in France in 1940 and when the British Expeditionary Force was surrounded even Churchill had to say it was a colossal military disaster--though he claimed the evacuation from Dunkirk was a miracle of deliverance. Not for the men who died there, Sarah thought. Not for the wives, mothers and girlfriends they left behind. By 1944, though, it became clear that the positive words in the press had some substance behind them. D-Day happened and lots of men died but the Allies were there, now, in France, and slowly but surely they were moving forward.

Ted was collected by jeep less often, and fewer satchels were brought to his door. He spent time in his garden and one day, perhaps sensing that she watched him, he raised his head and nodded to her. She replied with a tight smile.

By 1945 news from the war was even better and by the end of April it was clear that six years of fighting were coming to an end. On the 8th of May peace was declared in Europe.

The closed, unwelcoming Cornish surprised Sarah that day. There was dancing, singing and kissing in the streets and then in those same streets trestle tables were set out and neighbours ate tea together. Flour and eggs were in short supply so there wasn't much bread and there weren't many cakes, but the elation made up for it. You could see mothers looking at sons approaching call-up age and knowing the shadow had lifted. You could also count the women who knew their husband, their son, their boyfriend or just the man they hankered for--their so far and now always to be unrequited love--was never coming back.

And, of course, war's inevitable leavings: the women who had opened their hearts and their legs to soldiers who were gone. Gone didn't have to mean dead; there were absent American, Polish, Czech and Canadian lovers as well as British and most of them had returned to mothers and fathers, brothers and sisters far away. And to wives, of course. These women nursed the babes who would never know their fathers and rehearsed the lies they would have to tell. Bastardy still carried a stigma--for mother and for child--but the worn wedding ring bought in a pawn shop and the tale of a husband dead on some French beach would bring sympathy and, if the Gods were smiling, a new start with a new man who, this time, the woman would get safely to the altar before allowing any hanky-panky.

Although that would be harder if the father had not been white.

Sarah was thinking about that as she climbed the cliff path towards home. Her boss's wife had pressed her to join their party, but Sarah didn't want to celebrate. The joy of others at the thought of the men who would soon be coming home reminded her too much of the one who wouldn't.

Ted wasn't in town celebrating, either. He was in his garden, setting out the plants he had raised in his greenhouse. Plants that would flower in this first summer of peace. He nodded as Sarah walked past and she smiled and walked on. He was a nice man, or so he seemed, but he was black in a white man's county, a white man's town. What kind of a childhood had he had? What feelings were hidden behind that smooth brown skin, those brown eyes that never seemed to give anything away?

Next day, the woman who owned the house Sarah lived in came to see her. 'I've decided to sell up. I'll give you first refusal.'

When Sarah went by train to check what condition Aunt Marie's place was in, she was pleasantly surprised. Her mother had been in regularly to clean and her father had had the ceiling repaired (there was no hook in the new version) and kept the garden in check. The estate agent Sarah visited said the place would sell for more than twice what her landlady was asking for the cliff-top house in Cornwall and that he would expect offers to come quickly. Sarah visited her mother at a time when she knew her father would be at work, told her what she was doing and then took the train home. It amazed her that she now thought of Cornwall as home, but so it was.

Sarah had been brought up knowing the value of money and most of the surplus after buying the house on the clifftop went in the bank. She did, however, learn to drive and when she had her licence she bought a second hand Ford Pop. Scarcely any women had driven during her childhood but many had learned during the war and she was not the only one in Cornwall behind a steering wheel. She also bought a new bench to replace the one that was falling to bits outside her front door, and some clothes.

Women's underwear in the Fifties. Panty girdles. Corselettes. It could resemble armour, if that was what the woman wanted. In Sarah's case, it was. She liked being closed in, protected. She took comfort from the idea that a man would have to fight to get inside these steely garments. She knew she would fight back. There would be no more men hooking her nightie over the back of her head and then helping themselves to what she did not want to give.

In the same spirit of security she locked the door even when she was in the house, and she locked it when she sat outside on her bench. Of course it made no difference whether Ted was in his garden or not; she sat on the bench because she liked being outside. If she sat there more often when she could see Ted, that was coincidence.

Bill had not been a tall man and that had never troubled Sarah because she was not a big woman. Ted must be over six feet. That was too tall. She could never love so tall a man.

His shoulders, too, were broad, but his stomach was flat. That, and the strong legs, must be from all the digging he did. He had bought the field next to his house and he was turning it over, double digging. If she had ever given any thought to what he was doing, she might have wondered what sort of garden he had in mind. Was it for vegetables? It was warm on this sheltered, south-westerly coast, but what sort of flowers would thrive in the salt air? She didn't wonder, though, because she didn't think about what he was doing. Just as she didn't think about him.

If she had studied him she might have seen the scar that ran from the end of one eyebrow to the lobe of his ear but of course she didn't. How seemly could it be for a widow--a war widow, left behind by a man killed fighting for his country--to wonder how a man had come by a scar like that? Though she did acknowledge that it was an attractive scar. A manly scar.

And, of course, there was his brown skin. You loved what you were used to, and she was not used to skin that was not white.

If she'd let herself, she'd have said he had a kind face. She didn't because it was not for her to have thoughts about a man's face, kind or not, but backed into a corner she would probably have allowed that it was a nice face, as faces went. Nicer than those two men who had hooked her nightie over the back of her head and taken by force what should have been for Bill alone. Kinder than them, that was for sure. But she wouldn't let herself.

Her boss stopped by her desk one day. 'You ever talk to Ted?'

She stared at him, confused. Ted would nod to her now each time he saw her, and she would smile back, but they had never spoken. For some reason she didn't feel happy about saying that. Her boss was a Cornishman and therefore in no position to criticise standoffishness and reluctance to acknowledge strangers, but even so. She and Ted have been neighbours now for six years and nods and smiles are still their only communication. She would never have behaved like that in the place where she'd grown up. No-one there would.

But maybe they should, given that the place where she'd grown up was the place where she'd been raped.

'You don't talk to him? You must, though. Even if you only say Hello. Don't you?'

She shook her head. 'Well. I smile at him.'

'You smile at him. He's lonely, Sarah. Aren't you lonely, too?'

She ripped the letter she had just finished out of her typewriter and laid it in a folder. What was this man trying to do? 'Lots of people are lonely. The war...'

'The war is over. It's been over for a while now. Time to move on.'

'Who are you to tell me...' but he wasn't listening, had already moved on himself and she was left shaking, her hands on her desk, her face white. She knew people were watching her and she forced a blankness, a look of carefreeness, that was not real. She would not let people see how she felt.

But her boss was not finished and when she was packing up to go home he put an envelope in her hands. 'I'd like Ted to have this tonight. Could you possibly drop it off for me?'

She wanted to refuse. She knew she could not.

What she had hoped was that Ted would be in his garden. He was not. She left the Ford's engine running, a clear indication that she did not mean to stay, would not be coming in. Ted came to the door holding a heavy cloth. 'Come in--I'm just taking something off the stove.'

She held out the envelope but he had gone, rushing back to his kitchen. She waved it in the air. A useless gesture. She could drop it on the floor just inside the door, but to do that would look awful. She went back to the car and turned off the engine.

The house was far cleaner than she would have imagined it could be with one man living alone. From the kitchen came a smell of lamb, tomatoes and spices. He didn't eat English food, then.

He turned from the stove and smiled. That smile, open and friendly, was like a knife twisting in her gut after years in this place of closed faces, years of a young widow's loneliness. She liked the way he looked at her--not as a man looking at a woman but as one person looking at another. She stepped forward and held out the envelope. He took it from her. 'Thank you.' That was it. The job was done. She should leave. Hurry back to her car and go. Get back to her own house and lock the door.

She stood where she was.

Ted opened the envelope and read the note inside. 'That's nice. An invitation to dinner on Saturday.'

'Oh. Will you go?'

He grimaced. 'I don't suppose so.'

'You were at school together, weren't you?'

'We were. He's a good friend. But...they're a couple. I'm not.'

'You were, though?'

He nodded. 'My wife was killed. In the bombing.'

Her employer had been right--Ted was lonely. Like her. 'It was a shell that took my husband away.'

He looked at her. 'I'm sorry. I did wonder.' He shook himself, pointed to the pot he had taken from the stove. 'I always make too much. Would you like to stay and eat with me?'

It was an outrageous suggestion. The only thing to do was to say "No, thank you" and leave. Staying to share a meal with another man, a man who was not her husband, was simply not possible. She didn't know how he could have the nerve to invite her. She said, 'I'd like to go home and change first.'

He smiled. 'The stew will wait ten minutes.'

In her bedroom she shed her clothes, peeling off the armour of the tight girdle and running her hands over the creases it had made in her soft flesh. She hurried into the bathroom, soaked a flannel in warm water and washed her personal places front and back. In the bedroom once more she pulled on a pair of soft cotton knickers. No suspender belt. No stockings. It was years since she had felt this unprotected. This free. She picked up the picture of Bill in his uniform and kissed it. Then she put it down.

Crossing the road from her garden to his she realised that she had left her door unlocked.

Ted had opened a bottle of red wine and when she came in he handed her a glass. 'I've had six bottles of this in the house for years. This is the first one I've opened since Amy died.

She had drunk wine only once in her life, and that was on her wedding day. A single glass of something that pretended to be champagne and wasn't very nice. This tasted in a different league.

The table was set for two and she wondered if it had been his wife who had chosen such nice plates. To go with the stew he had mashed potatoes and cooked Savoy cabbage. She had never eaten spicy food and she thought it was lovely. 'How do you get the potato to taste like this?'

'I put an onion in the pan while they're boiling. The taste gets into the mash.'

'You put it in whole?'

'In two halves. Peeled, of course.'

'It's delicious.'

During the meal he told her about Amy and she told him about Bill. They lingered over the wine and then he put cheese, Jacob's Cream Crackers and butter on the table. 'I'm sorry I don't have a pudding. I wasn't anticipating a guest.'

'This is lovely. And puddings put weight on you. I don't want to get fat.'

It was an opportunity for him to tell her she had a lovely body. He didn't take it. There hadn't been anything untoward in his manner. She knew she was free to say "Thank you" and go; the meal was a gift without strings. When he smiled that lovely smile he wasn't trying to seduce her. Which made it all the more seductive.

'Would you like coffee?'

That was not something she would ever have considered; all her life she had drunk tea after a meal. Everyone she knew did the same. There was a tingling she hadn't felt since those nights with Bill. She wouldn't say even to herself which parts of her were tingling. She stood up and moved round the table to where he sat. 'Could we leave that till later?' She put one hand on each side of his face and turned it up so that she could kiss him. Later she would remember this moment in horror, wondering what she would have done if he had reacted with distaste--if he had rejected her. He did not. His tongue came into her mouth. He put his own hands on her hips and rose slowly from his chair. The kissing did not stop as he came upright.

She had taken the lead with Bill on their wedding night and now she took the lead again. Maybe she was a lead-taking kind of woman. She knew where his bedroom was because she had seen, those times when she had watched him, which light came on and went off last at night. Taking him by the hand she led the way upstairs and through what she knew must be the right door. Then she turned and folded herself into his arms. She wasn't completely shameless; he must take the lead now.

After he had undressed her he laid her on the bed and she watched as he took off his own clothes. Then he came to her. She wrapped her arms round his broad back as he kissed her, his tongue once again entering her mouth. He felt so warm and strong; he smelt so good. She lay back as he began to move down, kissing her all the way until at last his tongue entered her once more in a completely different place and she was so glad she had taken those extra moments with the soap and the flannel. Then he was over her again and his tongue's place was taken by something altogether harder. He kissed and kissed her as he brought her to the precipice and took her over it; she heard her screams of fulfilment as if from someone far away and she wrapped her legs round him as he drove on towards his own climax.