Torn (54 page)

‘What's the matter?'

He shook his head, and to her utter confusion, even while they remained linked in this most intimate of all human exchanges, she saw tears seeping from his tightly shut eyes. It was inexplicable. The only other occasions they'd tried to make love had been total or partial failures. Then he'd been disappointed, a little embarrassed, but not devastated by his ineptitude. Indeed, she'd admired his sangfroid. But now, after his first unequivocal success, he was weeping?

‘Danny? Please? What's the matter?' There were noises in the rest of the house. Always the hollow, continuous tick tick tick from the hallway. But over and above it the bathroom door opening and closing. Bolt sliding home with a snap. A series of bumps as the plumbing was called upon yet again. The cistern flushed. Voices. Feet clattering on the stairs. Danny and Jessica disconnected; he rolled away from her, his arm shielding his face, shoulders heaving. Moved, and helpless in the face of such naked, yet unexplained emotion, she hovered on the brink of tears herself.

‘I can't bear to see you like this, Danny. Tell me.'

He turned back and embraced her. ‘I can't hack it, Jess!'

‘What?'

‘Anything. Everything. Life!' He shook his head, eyes still squeezed shut. ‘I can't take on the farm. It'll have to be sold. Then Helen can have her cut.'

‘You're crazy!'

‘It's so hard, so very hard to be offered something I never in a million years imagined … and have to turn it down.'

‘Why? It's what you've always wanted.'

‘No! There's, like, this hex on my life. I can't have what I want.'

‘Don't be so defeatist! It's there for you on a plate!'

‘You don't understand, Jess. Have you any idea of the amount of paperwork involved in running a farm? Reg'lations, tax, EU subsidies, invoices, sub-contractors, feed merchants, forms to fill in … It's never ending, look. I know what the boss has to do at Gore Farm, and I know I can't do what he does.'

A sudden flash of comprehension; her arms tightened around him and she felt the silent sobs continue to shake his body. It was too easy to forget that he was illiterate. And too easy to forget how much he was handicapped by it.

‘Sweetheart! Oh, sweetheart! I do understand. I do, I do.'

He pulled his head back. ‘You don't. I know I can't run the farm. And I know I can't have you. Not for good! We can have these moments, and please don't think I'm not grateful, but I want so much more than you'll ever allow. You'll go back to James Warwick, or someone like him, tomorrow, or the next day, because he's got everything. He's worldly and good looking and rich and educated. I haven't anything to offer. You're the best thing that's ever happened to me … but I've conned you.'

‘No. You haven't!'

‘I have, and I'm so ashamed. You said it once –'

‘What? What did I say?'

‘You said – when people meet they put their best faces on. They try to make a good impression. How could I tell you, Jess … that I can't … I can't fucking read!' His face crumpled again and he hid it against the pillow. At last. He'd made the admission she wanted from him. She held him, and stroked his hair, and whispered ‘it's all right', over and over again. He shook his head.

‘It's not fucking all right!' Bafflement, anger, despair were at war in his face. ‘Is it? Didn't you hear what I said? I'm thick … rubbish … a moron! I can't even fucking read!'

‘Yes, I heard you. I know you can't read. I've known for a long time. But I've been waiting for you to tell me.' Against the hollow tick of the clock, more noises erupted from the rest of the house. An opening door. A voice – Imogen – calling up the stairs to Piers. Then footfalls coming up. More conversation on the landing. Again, doors opening and closing. Another flush of the cistern. Then the bump and scrape of a bag or case being carried. Feet pounding downstairs again. The front door opened. Imogen's loud, braying voice carried up clearly from the forecourt below.

‘I can understand the attraction. ‘Course I can. But it's not like it could ever be anything serious. It's not like you could take him anywhere. You'd be scared to death he wouldn't know what fucking knife and fork to use.' The car boot slammed. Farewells said. Jess was sure she heard James, but to whom was he saying goodbye? Within moments the car door slammed, then the throaty roar of the Alfa Romeo engine started and the crunch, as its tyres moved over the gravely yard. It was eight twenty and Imogen had gone, surely taking James?

‘I can help you,' Jessica said to Danny. ‘I
am
a teacher, after all. That's what I trained to be. I might never have earned my living as a teacher, but you know I'm doing a refresher course in the new year and getting some up-to-date classroom experience. Then I'll be concentrating on older kids with special needs.'

He nodded, blinking away the frustration and humiliation which misted his eyes. ‘Special needs? Right. A fucking euph'mism for retarded! The kind of thicko who doesn't even know how to use a knife and fork!'

‘Danny! Pay no attention to Imogen! She's a bitch! And you can be sure she intended us to hear her, else why was she talking five times louder than usual?' Jessica commanded his eyes and tried to summon up all the resources she had to communicate her conviction. ‘Who do you want to believe? Me or her? I know you're not stupid, far from it, but I do suspect you're dyslexic. I've been researching it … you show virtually all the classic traits. You're probably mildly dyspraxic as well.'

‘Dys what …?'

‘Dyslexia is often linked with dyspraxia. It's a co-ordination problem. Can make you seem clumsy, but neither have any link to low intelligence. And there are strategies I can teach you to overcome the dyslexia. It's not insurmountable, Danny, believe me. Let me help you? Please please, please don't despair!'

They both slept for a while, exhausted by the expenditure of so much emotion. When Jessica woke Danny was sat cross-legged on the bed beside her. A cool breeze from the open window chilled their naked skin. She stretched and smiled and lifted her hand to his.

‘Hi. It must be really late. I better get up … think about going.'

‘Please don't go.' He held onto her hand seeming to study it. He turned the wrist, curling and straightening her fingers.

‘You know I've got to, Danny.'

He nodded and lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed the palm. ‘But it scares me. I don't believe you'll ever come back.'

‘Of course I'll come back. You and I have a project to work on.'

‘Yeah, right. But that's not what I meant.' He placed her hand back against the mattress and managed a shadowed smile. ‘Sorry. What right have I to hope? I shouldn't even mention it. You must think I'm such a wimp.'

‘No! But you don't pretend. You don't try to disguise the real you. I admire your openness and honesty.'

‘Honesty? Not always,' He lifted her arm again. This time he seemed intent on examining the shoulder joint; he rolled it this way and that, then straightened and bent her elbow.

‘Keeping quiet about not reading is absolutely understandable,' she said, as he pressed his mouth against the sensitive skin inside her elbow. ‘There is such a stigma in society.'

‘Tell me about it.'

‘Danny, what are you doing?' He had laid her arm back on the pillow above her head and now stooped to kiss the armpit; then moved to her neck.

‘You are just too tempting,' he murmured.

‘Danny …?' she tried again, her voice tailing off.

‘Mmm?' There was a protracted silence as he studied her breasts. Visual appreciation was apparently not sufficient; each had to be understood through touch and taste as well. At length he moved on to her torso, as fascinated by her rib cage, her waist, her navel, as he had been by her breasts. Now her hip joints and legs were subjected to the same unflagging scrutiny, the same desire to understand the articulation of each joint, followed by the same willingness to press his mouth into every corner, crease, and fold. But what had apparently started out as a disinterested exploration of the human body, employing as many senses as possible, had been overtaken by a more urgent need. Another of the slim packets was dragged from his wallet, ripped open.

Limbs twined together, skin met skin in the desperate, driving need for contact; the half suppressed mews of pleasure, almost of pain, a counterpoint to the imperative to consummation. So far he'd had it all his own way; Jessica turned and twisted above him, pushing him back. Knees either side of his waist she looked down. He appeared stunned, lips parted, eyes half-closed as if zapped by sensory overload. She leant forward and described the outline of his lips with the tip of her tongue. She introduced the middle finger of her right hand into his mouth; he chewed and sucked on it. But his drooping, intoxicated eyes widened as she withdrew her wet finger, touched it to her clitoris, then rolled gently yet insistently, before reintroducing the finger to his mouth. Again and again she repeated the action; already panting, his breath gasped ever more rapidly as her hips clenched and relaxed around him, riding him to climax. This time his head rolled back helplessly and his groan of completion was scarcely out of synch with hers. Several seconds elapsed before their eyes opened. She saw his darken with the dilation of the pupils. His hands lifted to her face.

‘Jess, I …'

‘Sshh.' Jessica touched her finger to his lips to stop him. Perhaps she wanted to protect him from self-exposure. Perhaps she wanted to protect herself. Once said, the words could not be unsaid. Then she stooped to kiss him, suddenly choked by such overwhelming tenderness she was afraid she might cry.

The Bowman's shower was simply a shower attachment on a bracket above the bath; still, it was more than she had in her own cottage. The flow was not much better than meagre, but at least the water had reheated since the earlier onslaught on the plumbing. Even though they shared to save time and hot water, laughing and slithering in the bath as they sponged each other down, it was nearly midday before Danny and Jessica made it downstairs.

Knowing what he must know, Jessica had convinced herself that James would not want to face her. She assumed he'd taken the opportunity to quit the house with Imogen. It was an unwelcome surprise to find both he and Piers still in the large kitchen. Breakfast had long since been finished but amongst the crumbs and greasy plates both men were smoking and reading the daily papers – Piers
The Telegraph
and James
The Independent
. They looked up as she and Danny came into the kitchen. She did not let go of Danny's hand but squeezed his fingers reassuringly. James tamped out his cigarette immediately, stood up, and attempted to switch on the old extractor fan.

‘Aha!' Piers eyebrows were somewhere up near his hairline. He looked pointedly at his watch. ‘Return of the disappeared! Imo said to say goodbye.'

Jessica glanced towards James, who had given up on the fan and opened a window instead. He nodded to her, then to Danny, but said nothing; his expression remained controlled as he resumed his seat and re-crossed his legs on the chair next to him. Nothing for it but to brazen this out. Still, with everyone present fully aware of how she'd spent the last hours, it was going to be a challenge just to sit down and calmly eat a bowl of corn flakes.

‘Eggs? Bacon? Jessica? Know bro thinks carnivores next to Satan worshippers, but you?'

‘Don't mind our eggs, or …' Danny glanced towards James. ‘Yours. I know how the chickens are reared. I'll cook you an egg if you want one, Jess, before you go?'

‘I'm not even sure I can get through this.' She looked into her bowl of cereal without enthusiasm; her stomach was tight and knotted, yet her blood fizzed giddily. ‘But a cup of tea would be nice.'

As he turned towards the sink to fill the kettle Danny managed to knock over an empty milk bottle.

‘Christ Planks! Clumsy bugger!' Piers objected. ‘Some of us have got headaches!'

Danny turned back. ‘Actually, I'm not clumsy I'm … dys … prax … ic.' He glanced to Jessica for confirmation of his pronunciation. She grinned at him. His responsive smile was equally broad.

‘Wooo-oooh! Pardon me!' Piers said, as he looked from one to the other in exaggerated disgust.

‘So, you're staying are you, Dan?' James asked, folding the newspaper with a snap. ‘It's handy for me to know these things. I was hoping to get the ewes dagged this week … clean them up for tupping next. I don't want to postpone for another fortnight.'

‘Er, yes, just for a few days, to help Pete out, if that's all right?'

James sighed. ‘I've already got Nigel keeping an eye on everything but perhaps I'll have to book him for another stint.'

‘Only we've got stuff to sort,' Danny explained apologetically. He looked towards his brother. ‘And need to organise someone to come over and feed the animals. Earl will probably do that.'

‘I understand. It's just inconvenient
and
expensive getting in casual labour all the time. But I daresay I owe you some time off.'

‘Then we can shut the place up until we decide what to do with it.'

‘You're not taking it on?' James said, his attention sharpening.

Danny glanced at Jessica, then back to James. ‘It's complicated. I don't know yet.'

‘Well, for what it's worth, Dan, I'd be sorry to lose you. You've been a tower of strength to me in the past fifteen months or so. I'm not ashamed to admit I've relied very heavily on you, and there's every chance I wouldn't have made it this far without your help. If you do come back I'll be happy to have you, but if you decide to stay here, obviously I'll understand.' This was praise indeed from James Warwick, and generously expressed – even if part of the reason he'd been enabled to survive was because Danny, his only full-time worker, was paid the minimum wage. ‘So? Can I beg a lift from you, Jessica? Please. Only I need to phone Gilda … give her some idea when we're likely to get home.'