Chapter Twelve #3
Rose was enjoying herself. She’d forgotten how much she liked to dance – the opportunity didn’t often arise.
And it was nice to have a man taking care of her.
The beauty of it was, if a man was seen at your side, it stopped any other man coming over and bothering you.
And he was nice, and treated her like a lady.
It made her relax to the extent that she danced with more abandon than she would normally have allowed herself.
Someone had turned up with a hurdy-gurdy, and its drone and wheeze sounded like bagpipes.
Perhaps for that reason, the band had started playing a Scottish tune, and everyone was dancing their version of a reel, which, since no-one really knew the steps, turned into a romp that left them breathless and laughing.
It also left Rose with a problem. While everyone stood panting and waiting for the next tune to strike up, she pulled Woodrow away, through a gap in the onlookers and into the open space behind.
‘What’s the matter?’ he asked her.
‘Something’s come adrift,’ she muttered.
He was puzzled. ‘What has?’
She jerked a thumb downwards and said in an annoyed undertone, ‘You don’t need to know.
But I’ve got to fix it.’ She looked around.
Between the house they were standing by and the next was a narrow alley, really no more than a passage giving access to the rear gardens.
It was unlit and in deep shadow. She towed him there and stepped into it.
‘You stand there, stop anyone seeing me. And turn your back! No peeking!’
He was looking amused, and she never trusted a man with that sort of expression, but he turned his back obediently, blocking the entrance to the alley with his body. Rose went further in and started to hitch up her skirts.
‘Let me know when you’re finished,’ he said.
‘You’ll know all right,’ she said, in discouraging tones.
The elastic of her garter had broken, which meant tying it in a knot to keep her stocking up, which was tricky enough to do when you didn’t have your skirts under your armpits to keep them out of the way.
But she managed at last, gave an exploratory wriggle, dropped her skirts and straightened everything, then said, ‘All right, you can look now.’ He hadn’t looked round at all during the operation, so she said it in a kinder voice than she might otherwise have.
He turned. ‘I’m looking,’ he said. ‘And I see something very pretty.’
‘Not me, then,’ she snorted automatically.
She had gone a few steps down the alley to make sure she was in the shadow. Now before she could retrace them, he came down to join her.
‘You don’t need to say that every time,’ he said, looking down at her. He had come very close. She felt nervous of such closeness. ‘I’ve got good eyesight, and I know a pretty thing when I see it. You’re lovely, Rose. My lovely rose.’
And then he put his arms round her, drew her against him, and kissed her.
For the first moment she was too surprised to react.
Then she realised she ought to have struggled.
It was not too late to push him away, and perhaps slap his face.
But to her dismay she found she was enjoying it.
His lips were soft and he smelt nice and his arms round her felt good, and something loosened inside her that she didn’t have a name for.
She didn’t know anything about kissing. She’d had no experience of it.
Of course, there had been no kissing with Him: he was all about the act, getting it done, one-two-three, thank you, Rose, off you go.
Don’t tell her ladyship. She despised men.
They were all the same. Yet even as these thoughts were tumbling through her head, she was yielding to Michael Woodrow’s kiss, growing soft in his embrace, coming back with kissing of her own.
It was a queer thing to do, when you thought about it, to put your lips against someone else’s lips and wiggle them, but it turned out there was a sort of instinct to it.
Presented with his lips, hers knew what to do, even if she didn’t.
And when the kiss stopped she found she was resting her head against his shoulder and his hand was on the back of her neck and it felt so nice!
‘I’ve been wanting to do that for such a long time,’ he said softly. ‘Ever since I first met you, in fact. I knew right away you were the one for me. You’re my girl now, aren’t you, Rose.’
He didn’t say it as a question, but it startled her, and she pulled back, stared up at him, and said, ‘What?’
He tried to tighten his embrace but though his arms were still round her waist, her hands were now against his chest holding him back.
Her reaction had thrown him. She had responded to his kiss, but he couldn’t pretend to himself that her present expression was encouraging.
He had no idea what was troubling her. Did she think, perhaps, that he went round kissing girls willy-nilly?
‘I’m serious about you, Rose. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. I want to marry you. I want you to be my wife.’ She stared at him, speechless, and he plunged on. ‘Will you marry me?’
She thought of it in that second, of marrying him, living with him in Hundon’s, sleeping in a big bed with him.
She saw them eating across the same table, walking with arms round each other in the twilight, working together; kindness, warmth; growing old together, security, not ending in a workhouse ward alone and unwanted.
She saw it all in one revealing flash, a different life to be lived: like a turning off the road you’d never been down, only passed with a glimpse of some distant loveliness you’d never experienced.
And never would. She pushed him away hard enough to break his grip, and said coldly, ‘Don’t be daft.’
He looked hurt. A small, perverse part of her was glad. What did he know of suffering?
‘It’s not daft,’ he said, rallying. ‘I’ve got a house and a good income. I love you. I know you care for me. Why shouldn’t we marry?’
‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said, in a hard tone. And if you did, you wouldn’t want me any more, she concluded, inside her head.
He scanned her face, and an idea came to him. She saw it arrive. ‘You’re not already married?’
She laughed, but it wasn’t a nice laugh. ‘No, I’m not married. And not like to be.’
She tried to push past him. He sidetepped to block her, and said, ‘What is it, Rose? You can tell me. What’s bothering you?’
‘Nothing’s bothering me. Leave me alone.’
‘Did you mind me kissing you? You didn’t seem to.’
She was about to snap at him, but the memory came back to her. ‘The kissing was nice,’ she said, in a tone slightly less abrasive. ‘But I can’t marry you. Now I’m going.’
He stood in bewildered silence as she passed him, out of the alley and out of sight. The celebration was over for both of them. They made their separate ways home, both miserable where they should have been happy.
When the meal was over and the concluding speeches and applause had ended, the bigwigs departed, including his lordship, who, with a final clap on Axe’s shoulder and the umpteenth congratulation, hurried after Lord Bexley and the MP, with whom he needed to speak.
Axe’s family clustered round him with hugs and excited chatter.
Esther kindly said he looked very fine, a real gentleman.
Ruth, bustling and officious, said he couldn’t keep the suit in that damp cottage, that she’d take it home to store in her own wardrobe.
Her daughter Polly said what if Uncle Axe wants to wear it again and Ruth said where would he wear it to?
Anyway, he can come and get it, can’t he?
And Ruth’s husband Joe Perkins, the tiler, rolled his eyes at Axe, suggesting he thought that she might make him wear it some time.
Job, the youngest brother, wanted to touch the medal, asked if Axe would wear it to church, said jokingly-but-not-jokingly that he’d like to borrow it some time.
Would he get free drinks at the pub with it? he asked, revealing his motive.
The rest of the guests, freed from their seats, were milling around and chatting.
Most of them wanted to come up and speak to Axe.
People he knew. Faces he vaguely recognised.
People he didn’t know at all. He heard himself called a hero so many times the word started to sound queer to him.
His arm was getting sore from all the pumping of his hand.
He had never had a headache in his life before, but he had one now.
He bore it all, smiling, murmuring a word of thanks.
And then she was there, shining like a star so that he saw only her; the rest was in shadow. She placed her small hand in his large one and it was like being given the whole world.
She said, ‘How’s Dolly?’
‘She’s all right. She misses you.’
‘I miss her,’ she said.
They both knew it wasn’t Dolly they were talking about.
Then she was gone.
It was twilight when he got back to the cottage. He didn’t wait for the fireworks. The festivities had taken on a life of their own and didn’t need him any more.
Dolly barked shrilly, indignantly, when she heard him coming; as he pulled into the yard, Della whinnied from the paddock, and Cobnut answered.
A breeze had got up at sunset and the velvet night was full of little stirrings and whispering, but underneath it was a great peace that sank into him, like water into a thirst. He got down from the cart, absorbed Dolly’s frantic love, unharnessed Cobnut and turned him out with Della.
He checked that Willie Cox had seen to the ducks all right, then trod wearily into the cottage.
He looked around blankly. It felt as though he had been away for years, and everything seemed unfamiliar, while images from the day jumped and flickered in his mind, distracting him.
He couldn’t remember what he was supposed to do next.
Dolly sat down at his feet and looked up at him with an insistent gaze.