Born of Woman (54 page)

‘Lyn,' she whispered. ‘Linnet.'

‘Jennifer.'

They were both crouching on the damp floor of the barn, only a yard or two from each other. Neither moved, just stared, trembled, until Lyn slowly stretched out a finger, touched her face as if proving it were flesh. His hand burned, yet was as numb and chilled as hers. He kept it there, his breathing rasping and too loud. Neither said a word. The beam of the lamp was directed against the wall now, but even in the shadows, she could see how ill he looked. He was thinner even than usual, his eyes huge and almost feverish in that gaunt and ashen face, his clothes ragged like a tramp's. He seized her hand, gripped it so fiercely it was as if he were trying to solder them together, finger to finger, joint to joint.

‘I love you, Lyn,' she whispered. She hardly felt the pain.

‘Are you all … right?' His voice was hoarse and croaky, as if he hadn't used it for some time. ‘You fell.'

She glanced at her knees, touched them with her fingers, felt the hole in her tights, the sticky trail of blood.

‘It's … nothing.'

‘Come over to the bed and I'll clean it up.'

He fumbled for the lamp, shone it in front of her, lighting up the barn. She could see now that he had turned it into primitive living quarters. What he had called the bed was a pile of straw with a piece of sacking spread on top; the kitchen was an enamel mug, a jar of coffee and a battered biscuit tin; the dining-room a camping stool and table made of planks. Dinner had been simple—bread, cheese, fruit. She could see the scrap of rind, the scatter of crumbs, a browning apple core, discarded on an old tin plate. A few rusty nails hammered into the wall did duty as a wardrobe; the laundry-room was two wet and still grubby shirts strung from a piece of rope.

He crouched on the straw, smoothed the sacking out. ‘I'm sorry, it's a bit … damp.' He sounded embarrassed, as if she were a rich guest who had come by chance to a low-grade dosshouse. ‘Here, sit on my … jacket.' He took it off, coaxed her down, then turned the lamp on her legs and examined the grazes.

‘There's grit in them. I'll get some water.'

‘No, really. They … hardly hurt at all.' She didn't want him to go away, not even for a second. There were a hundred things she longed to ask—how he was, what he was feeling, how long he had been living here, why he hadn't been in touch. There were seven weeks to fill in, fifty-two whole days to trap and question, yet all his concentration was fixed on two grazed knees—easing out a piece of grit, mopping up the blood.

‘Wait there,' he said.

He groped only a few yards away, to a corner of the barn, yet he had taken the lamp with him, and it was dark, suddenly—dark inside her head. She longed to go after him, fling her arms around him, tell him how desperately she had missed him. Yet one wrong move could frighten him, drive him off again. She fidgeted on the straw, glanced at the pile of sketchbooks by the bed, two or three loose drawings scattered on the top. She picked one up, could barely make it out in the fitful light. Wild and broken lines seemed to be hurtling towards each other in a shocked and reeling space. All the fever and suffering in his face was repeated on the paper. She laid it down, blank side uppermost—couldn't bear to look at it. Lyn was back beside her. He had scooped a mugful of water from a bucket in the corner, found two clean handkerchiefs.

‘You'd better take your … things off.'

She felt nervous now herself. This was her own husband, yet she was bashful like a school girl. She turned away from him as she eased her tights down. Her shadow repeated the movement, gigantic on the wall. Two shadows now, his hovering over hers, dabbing at her knees.

‘I've … nothing to put on them. No antiseptic or …'

‘It doesn't … matter. They're … fine now.'

They were talking like strangers—warily, with pauses. All the things she had ached to say—seven weeks of longing, loving, loss—were dammed up tight inside her. He was still holding the handkerchief cold against her knees, staring down at the grazes, as if he couldn't yet cope with anything beyond them.

He pushed her skirt aside, frowned as he felt it damp. ‘Your … clothes are wet.'

‘Yes, I know.'

‘Shouldn't you take them … off? You'll get a chill.' That's what she had always said, to him.

‘Yes, I … suppose I should.' Her fingers fumbled with the buttons of her raincoat, but were too cold and clumsy to undo them. He did it for her, slipped the mac off, unbuttoned the blouse beneath it. She was shivering so much, she could do nothing but just lie there while he undressed her like a baby.

‘That raincoat's worse than useless. Even your underclothes are damp.' He sounded angry suddenly—angry with the rain, angry with anything which might do her harm. And yet his hands were gentle, easing off her slip, fumbling for her bra-hooks, and at last his gaze had moved up from her knees. He was staring at her body—breasts, belly, thighs—as if it was the first time he had ever seen it naked.

She was trembling under his scrutiny, shaking like a fool. Even her teeth were chattering. She tried to stop it, but her body was stubborn, out of her control.

‘You're cold.'

‘N … no.'

He stretched up from the straw, still gazing at her, as if he feared she might vanish if he lost her reflection in his eyes; reached out for his duffel coat, spread it over her. He hardly touched her, yet the graze of his coat was almost a caress.

‘It's quite … warm in here, in fact.' His voice was gruff still, uncertain. He was tucking the coat around her feet.

She nodded, couldn't speak. He had never cossetted her like this before. He was nursing her like an invalid, reversing their roles. Yet, somehow, it made her uneasy, kept them strangers still. He was the one who was ill.

‘Look, we'd … better save the light.' Total darkness plunged as he switched the flash-lamp off. Now she could no longer see the tiny comforting things which made it home—the mug, the food, the washing-line, the upturned cardboard box he was using as a dressing-table, the unused comb and razor. His body was just a blur now, looming over her, standing guard. She longed for him to join her, lie down on the straw beside her. She wanted a husband, not a sentry. She stared up at the rafters. Part of the roof had fallen in, and a jigsaw piece of sky was peering through the hole, with a swatch of moon inside it. She could hear the rain drumming against the roof, spitting into the bucket which Lyn had placed beneath the hole. She was glad of the noise. It filled and tamed the silence, gave her something to fix on, like a mantra. It was stifling under the duffel coat, yet she couldn't stop her shivering.

Lyn was leaning over her. ‘You're still cold.' It was almost an accusation. ‘I haven't any blankets, but you can wear my clothes, if you like. At least they're dry. I sleep in them myself most nights.'

‘
You
‘ll be cold, then.' She remembered his icy fingers on her knees.

‘No, I won't.' He was already dragging off his sweater, unbuttoning his shirt. ‘Put those on.'

The sweater smelt stale and musty. She slipped it over her head, submerged a moment in dark and blinding wool. When she had struggled free, Lyn was naked, his body barred with silver like a cage. She slipped her hands through the bars, fractured the moonlight.

And suddenly, he was holding her, pushing up her sweater which she had only just pulled on, covering her with his body instead of with his clothes. She could feel his face pressed close against her breasts, hands quiet and cold, stroking down her back, heartbeat throbbing into hers.

‘My
wife
,' he said.

It was very slow, very careful. He didn't rush her, wasn't greedy, didn't make up for lost months or wasted time. There wasn't any time. They had been here all their lives—joined, dovetailed, overlapping—the slow rhythm of his body slowing down all nature, so that the clouds were barely moving now in the scrap of sky above her, and even the rain had stopped again—suddenly—as if holding its breath in awe.

She lay silent, all her senses sharpened, so that she could hear the almost imperceptible sigh and shudder of elm trees on guard outside the barn; could feel every wisp and prickle of straw against her bare legs. Each tiny stir and sound was somehow part of her, part of Lyn, merged with their merging bodies. She could smell rain, straw, damp clothes and tractor oil, all mixed up and overlaid with the musky scent of herbs still fragrant on her fingers. Rue for sorrow, wormwood for bitterness.
Wrong
. She could measure her joy in every thrust of Lyn's body, every throb of her grazed and burning knees as he pressed against them. He was moving faster now, his breathing wild and jagged, his voice broken into snatches.

She shut her eyes. The darkness was brilliant now. Despite his weight and the hard floor underneath her, nudging through the straw, she felt light and free and winged, as if she were soaring above her own slack and grounded limbs.

‘Jennifer!' He was triumphing her name, hands scalding down her back.‘My darling. Oh, my darling …'

‘No,
stop
, Lyn. Stop!'

‘What's the matter? What's …'

She didn't answer, just lay tense and rigid. She pushed him off, closed her legs against him. He mustn't come. It was the middle of the month—her most fertile dangerous time. She had almost forgotten, almost risked a child. She could see the cellar in Hester's house again, the murky shadows, the cold and musty gloom—not so different from this barn. She had conceived a child there, lost it, lost her husband, lost her peace of mind. It mustn't happen a second time. Nothing must happen between them which could drive him away again, reinstate the fear or the resentment.

Lyn was crouching over her. ‘What is it? Did I hurt you?'

‘No, no, it's nothing. It's all right.' She had recovered now and was drawing him down again, kneeling between his legs while she coaxed him on to his back. He had already dwindled. She bent over him, cupped him in her hands, moved him towards her mouth.

He tensed. ‘No.'

‘Yes,' she urged. ‘Please yes. I
want
to, and it's safer.'

She wanted him more than she craved a baby, needed a husband before she could add a child. He felt like a child—small and soft and helpless in her mouth. He tasted strange, unwashed. She licked him clean, licked him bigger. He was moving now, responding. She used her lips to rally him, swelled him with her tongue. His cries sounded faint and far away as if they were coming from another world, the smaller colder world beyond her mouth. She couldn't speak herself—there wasn't room. He was filling her whole mouth now, expanding it, moving faster faster faster until he was exploding in it, overflowing, running over. She gulped him down, triumphant, astounded at herself. She had never done that before, always been reluctant. But this time, it was different. She wanted every drop of his seed and self inside her, and if she couldn't have it the usual way, then at least she had swallowed him and saved him, made him part of her body and her bloodstream. They were—as the marriage service said—one flesh.

She could feel him shrinking in her mouth, becoming child again. She kissed his tip, released it, continued the kisses across his belly, up his chest, along his neck to stubbly chin and soft lips.

At last, they rolled apart, lay still, their breathing roaring through the silence. Jennifer turned on her back, the sacking damp against her shoulders, Lyn's jacket soft and crumpled, further down. She was in her husband's bed again, mistress of his house. It didn't matter that the house was poor and simple. It was only a temporary refuge. Hernhope was their true home, and they could return there now, rebuild their life and marriage.

She eased up from the straw, clutched the duffel coat around her, groped to the door of the barn, pushed it open. The sky had cleared and a million stars spelt the tiny glittering letters of infinity. The moon was riding higher now—Hester's full moon which had led them to each other. They would stay together now—never part again. She glanced at her watch, the only thing she was wearing beneath the scratchy coat. The hands pointed to one minute after midnight. Even that was meant—a new day, a new start.

She was shivering again, but only with excitement. The moon was bursting out of the sky, the whole night spinning towards dawn. Only a few hours more, and they could leave. She gazed towards the allotment—dark shapes and shadows beyond a darker fence, the swooning scent of southernwood carried on the wind. They must gather Lyn's harvest, take his produce with them as a symbol of hope and fruitfulness. She turned to fetch him, but he was already there, behind her—silent, staring past her at the stars. She gripped his hand—no need to spell it out.

He and his harvest were ready.

‘
Sunday Express
? Give me the literary editor, please. Yes, I'll hold on.' Matthew shifted the receiver to his left hand and jotted down the list of other newspapers he could phone, in order of their pulling power or status—
Sunday Times, Observer, Daily Express, Daily Mail, Guardian
… He smiled as he sipped his coffee. He had allowed himself a dash of cream in it. He felt expansive, celebratory.

‘Graham Lord? Ah, hallo! Matthew Winterton here. How are you? Good, good. Enjoyed your week in Portugal? Wonderful! Look, Graham, I thought you'd like to be the first to know we've sold half a million copies of
Born With The Century
. Yes, I did say half a million.' Matthew was doodling with his pencil on the pad. A figure five, with five noughts after it. He crossed out the five, changed it to a one, added another nought. Success like that had always been impossible. Now, he had London's leading publishers clamouring for contracts, foreign agents jamming his telephone lines. At the Frankfurt Book Fair, his stand had been all but mobbed, VIPs begging the honour of a drink with him.