Fallen Skies

  The sitting room door was flung open and they heard footsteps on the stairs. “Not another word,” they heard Stephen say as he forced Lily up the stairs to their bedroom. “Not here. Not now. Upstairs. You can explain upstairs.”

  “But, Stephen . . .” Lily said quickly.

  “Up!” They heard the bedroom door slam and then a high panicky voice—Lily’s—talking very rapidly. Stephen interrupted her once, twice, and then they heard him shout at her. “It’s in the paper, your name is in the paper, you bloody little whore!”

  “Oh dear,” Muriel said. “This is awful.”

  Lily was shouting back, the door too thick for them to hear the words. But they could sense her defiance, and it was that which triggered Stephen’s deep rage.

  They heard him bellow at her and then the ceiling shook as he ran across the room, grabbed her, and threw her on the bed. Then they heard Lily scream. It was a single scream of pure terror.

  Muriel leaped to her feet and took two swift paces to the door, then she stopped and returned to her seat again. Her face was white. “I can’t interfere,” she said in a frightened whisper. “I mustn’t interfere. It’s nothing to do with me. They’re in their own room. I can’t interfere.”

  She glanced at Rory. He was moving. For the first time in six years he was moving the muscles of his jaw. The slack disused muscles in his neck tightened, as he tried to heave himself upwards.

  “Rory!” Muriel said, frightened. “What is it?”

  There was another scream from upstairs, a raw scream of pain. Rory heaved himself to one side and looked at Muriel. His slack mouth, twisted and useless from the stroke, was moving, working. “Help,” he said in a voice croaky with disuse. “Help.”

  “Oh my God! I’ll get Nurse,” Muriel said, then she stopped at the door. “But I can’t! I can’t call her. She can’t come upstairs while this is going on! She’ll hear!”

  “Help.” Rory groaned on the word, saliva drooled from his mouth at the effort of speaking.

  Muriel turned from the door. “I can’t get help,” she snapped. “In a minute, Rory, in a minute. You’ll have to wait.”

  Upstairs they could hear Lily crying out. “No! No! No! No!” They could hear the noise of the bedsprings.

  “He’s raping her,” Muriel said to herself in horror. “He’s up there now, raping her.”

  Rory’s idle muscles could not be forced to obey him. He opened his mouth, gasping with the effort but no sound came. Then, in a sudden convulsive jerk, he heaved himself to the edge of the bed. “Help her!” he bellowed and then he flung himself headlong towards the floor.

  There was a terrible damaging thud. Rory went face down into the floor, his slack arms helpless to protect him. Blood from his nose gushed into the carpet. Muriel tore open the door and shouted up the stairs. “Stephen! Stephen! You must come! Your father has had an accident! Stephen, come down!”

  There was a sudden silence from upstairs and then the bedroom door was torn open. Stephen came running down the stairs, glowing with energy. His flies were undone and his shirt torn. Muriel could see a long scratch from his eye running down his cheek. Lily had fought all the way from the door to the bed. He was sweating, his face and his chest were shiny with sweat, and he was radiant. He was alive in a way that Muriel had never seen before. He looked like a young savage god called away from a feast. There was a trickle of blood at the corner of his mouth and he licked it with unconscious relish.

  Muriel recoiled. “Stephen!”

  Stephen shook his head as if re-entering the normal world. “What’s the matter?” he said, his voice too loud.

  “Your father’s had another stroke. He’s fallen. Help me!”

  Stephen came down the stairs two at a time, tucking his shirt into his waistband and buttoning his flies. Muriel stood well back to let him go into his father’s room. She could smell sex on him like a poisonous musk. She could smell the hot aroused smell of a man, a dangerous man. She put her hand over her mouth, covering her nose. She found she was shivering as if she were icy cold. She was afraid of him.

  “Call the nurse,” Stephen said over his shoulder. “And then telephone the doctor.”

  He kneeled beside his father on the carpet. Rory was crumpled head-down into the floor, his feet, above his head, still tangled in bedclothes. He was bleeding from the nose and a dark bruise was starting to show on the crown of his head. He looked up at Stephen and his dark eyes were shielded and secretive.

  “Still alive anyway,” Stephen said spitefully as his mother went downstairs out of earshot. “Still hanging on, eh?”

  He put his hands under his father’s arms and heaved his body on to the bed and then pushed his legs over. Rory was jumbled like a guy in an urchin’s barrow. Stephen pushed him into the centre of the bed.

  Nurse Bells, her hair awry and her face flushed from a large lunch and a bottle of Stephen’s wine, burst into the room. “Leave it to me, Mr. Stephen,” she said. “I’ll get us sorted out. Your mother is telephoning the doctor. D’you know what happened?”

  “No,” Stephen said. “Mother just called that he was having another stroke and had fallen out of bed.”

  Nurse Bells nodded. “Don’t you worry,” she said kindly. “Leave him to me. I’ll get him comfortable again.”

  Stephen nodded and went towards the door. “What’s that?” Nurse Bells demanded. Very softly they could hear the sound of Lily crying. She was crying like a beaten child, quietly, without hope of answer.

  “My wife’s upset,” Stephen said. “A death in her family.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Nurse Bells said politely. She pulled back the bedclothes and heaved Rory back into his usual sitting position. Stephen turned back at the door. He found he could not meet Rory’s black unseeing stare.

  He closed the door behind him.

  21

  STEPHEN SAT DOWNSTAIRS DRINKING TEA, leaving Lily crying quietly in their bed while Dr. Mobey examined Rory. His nose had bled and his forehead and face were badly bruised from his fall; but he was not seriously hurt. The doctor thought it was not another stroke but that something more interesting might have taken place. Rory might be trying to break through his silence. He asked Muriel if anything had happened to stimulate Rory, if he had been trying to get out of bed, or move. Had he been disturbed or angered by anything?

  Muriel, holding to the family standard of silence, even at the cost of her husband’s health, said that nothing had disturbed Rory, she had come into the room to see him thrashing on the bed and then fall on his face. Rory could not contradict her, but Muriel felt his dark eyes on her while she spoke.

  After the doctor left Muriel ordered tea in the drawing room. She said not one word to Stephen about the screams from his bedroom. She poured tea for him without meeting his eyes, and then took her cup upstairs to sit with Rory. Stephen nodded. The no-man’s-land between his mother and himself would not easily be crossed. He did not want it crossed. He stayed in the drawing room in moody silence, sitting in his favourite chair by the cold grate. At seven o’clock as the sky outside the tower window was turning primrose-coloured in the west, Stephen rang for Browning to make a fresh pot of tea for one, on a pretty tray for him to take upstairs to Lily. Browning went into the garden and picked a rose and put it in a little glass vase. There was a round of dainty sandwiches and three small dry cakes left over from Cook’s Friday baking session. Stephen took the tray with a word of thanks and carried it upstairs to Lily.

  He opened the bedroom door with caution but Lily had stopped crying. She was lying on her back on the crumpled bedclothes. She had pulled down her skirt, but her blouse was torn from collar to waist. She had a bruise on her cheekbone and a cut on her lip. She looked at her husband as he came through the door, proffering his pretty tray, as if he were her mortal enemy.

  “Feeling better?” he asked pleasantly. He put the tray down on her bedside table. Lily sat up, pulled her shirt together, set a pillow behind her back and took the cup of tea
he handed to her.

  Stephen watched her approvingly. “Father’s quite all right,” he said conversationally. “The doctor said that he may recover the use of his muscles. It was a little spasm. He might even learn to speak again. It’s quite a miracle.”

  Lily looked straight ahead of her as if she could neither hear nor see him.

  “Mother’s very pleased,” Stephen said. “Very pleased indeed. She’s sitting with him now.”

  There was silence. Stephen strolled over to the window and pulled back the lace curtains. The sky was turning rosy and the lights on the pier were coming on, one by one. There were people dressed in gay bright clothes walking on the promenade. There were horse-drawn cabs with the hoods let down, and cars going by. Lily heard with dull resentment the noises of the outside world going about joyful business.

  “Will you get dressed and come down for dinner?” Stephen asked.

  Lily said nothing.

  “Or shall I bring you up a tray if you’re not feeling quite up to it?” He paused. “A little tray of something nice?” He smiled. “Not cold beef, I promise.”

  Lily shook her head and lay back on the bed, her face turned away from him.

  Stephen watched her for a few moments, trying to gauge her mood.

  “It’s no use sulking,” he said quietly. “You’ll have to come downstairs sooner or later. You’ve got nowhere else to go. You can spend this evening up here on your own, though Mother will think it very odd; but you’ll have to come down tomorrow, or the next day.”

  Lily turned her bruised face to him. “I’ll come down,” she said tightly.

  Stephen smiled. “Good.”

  Lily’s eyes were dark with anger. In the face of her rage he could not maintain his easy smile.

  “Good,” he said again uncertainly.

  Lily got off the bed and slipped her feet into her shoes. She pulled the blouse around her shoulders and went for the door.

  “Are you going to the bathroom?” Stephen asked.

  “I’m going downstairs,” Lily said.

  Stephen crossed the room in one rapid stride and had her by the arm before she could reach the door. “Not like that you’re not.”

  She looked at him with her blank insolent stare. Stephen felt the palm of his hand itch to slap her face.

  Instead he took her gently by the shoulders. Beneath his touch her skin cringed away. “Now look, Lily,” he said. “We’ve started off all wrong. I see that. I shouldn’t have been rough with you like that. But I’m gentleman enough to say sorry when I’m in the wrong. So I’m sorry.”

  Lily’s face never changed.

  “You did very wrong,” Stephen said. “Very wrong indeed. You’ll go to the Kings Theatre in the morning and tell them you withdraw from the show. They can pay you any money owing you, and if they talk about breach of contract or anything like that you’ll give them my card and leave it to me to deal with.” He gave her a slight shake to make sure that she was attending to him. “Understood?”

  Lily shook her head.

  “And then we’ll put this behind us,” he said. “Put it behind us and start our life all over again. I shall forgive you for your deceit and you will forgive me for being a bit heavy-handed. It’s over. It’s forgotten.”

  Lily shook her head again.

  “You keep shaking your head. Are you unwell? What d’you mean?”

  “I won’t resign from the show,” Lily said through her teeth. “I want to do the show and I’ll do it. It’s at the Kings for two weeks, and then at Southampton for two weeks, and then back for two weeks. Alternate weeks till the end of the summer. I’ll never spend a night away from home. I’ll get up and see you off to work every morning. I’ll eat everything that’s put in front of me. And I won’t complain about what you just did. I’ll keep it secret. But I am going to do the show, Stephen. Nothing will stop me.”

  She looked like a Portsmouth mudlark, her cheek bruised and turning blue, her cut lip, her rumpled hair. She looked boyish and defiant, like a fag at school who has suffered a well-earned beating. Stephen felt tenderness rising up in him. “Oh, Lily,” he said softly. “Why did you make me do it? You know I wouldn’t hurt you for the world.”

  There was no answering warmth in her face at all. “I’m going to do the show,” she said. “You cannot stop me.”

  Surprised by a sudden sentimental warmth he released her shoulders and folded her into his embrace. The top of her head came under his chin. He bent and kissed the fair hair and felt the delicacy of her body in his arms. He could have snapped her neck with one hand, he thought pityingly. He loved the vulnerability of her bruised face. If he hit her too hard he would break the bones of that perfect profile, he thought. She had to have a little leeway, a little permission from him. And if she overstepped the line, he could always smack her. Stephen felt his desire rise at the thought of smacking Lily, at the thought of taking her against her will and then kissing her hurts better.

  “I think I want to spoil you,” he said tenderly. “You’re a thoroughly bad girl but I’ll let you get away with it this time.” He held her chin and forced up her bruised face so that he could kiss her. He pressed his mouth on hers. Holding her tightly, he could feel her breath coming quicker from her fear. At least there was no danger that she was a tart, he thought comfortably. She might be on the stage, but she was a lady through and through. No-one would overstep the line with his wife; she was frigid.

  “If you’re a good girl, you can do the show,” he said.

  He slid his tongue between her lips and felt her flinch away from him. He tightened his grip. Lily would have to pay for her permission. He licked her lips, her skin was salty with her tears; the taste of them excited him and he pressed her closer. He thought he would have her again, push her back on the bed again and have her twice, just to teach her who was master. He bared his teeth in the kiss and he nipped at her mouth. Then he tasted the richer salty taste of blood, where the cut on her mouth had opened up. At once he recoiled and pushed her away from him.

  “Ugh,” he said. “Go and wash, Lily, your mouth is bleeding.”

  She turned slowly and went towards the door.

  “I hate the taste of blood,” he said. He spat into his hand and rubbed his hand on his torn shirt. “I hate it.” He put his shirt up to his mouth and scrubbed at his tongue. “Oh God! It’s vile, it’s really vile.” He rubbed at his tongue, and then his mouth, and then his hands went all over his face, scrubbing away imaginary blood. “Oh God! It’s vile!” he said again. He spat wildly on the new blue carpet. “No,” he said pitifully. “No.” The pale yellow walls of the room wavered and swirled, for a moment he was back in the trench, his mess-tin held to his chest, and bobbing in the stew was skin and bone and blood, and on his uniform and all over his face . . . “No,” Stephen cried.

  Lily took his plucking hands from his shirt, from his face. “Hush,” she said gently. “It’s gone now, Stephen.”

  “I j . . . j . . . just hate it so . . .”

  “I know,” she said softly. “It’s gone now, Stephen.”

  With a sob he took her little hand and pressed it against his face. She smelled sweet, not of mud nor blood nor cordite.

  “All gone now,” she said, as one speaking to a child.

  “Thank you,” he said. He stilled his hands with an effort and then took off his ripped shirt and threw it into the bin. He shrugged. “B . . . b . . . bad memories,” he said.

  “Forget them,” Lily advised simply.

  Stephen looked at her intently. “Help me forget them,” he said. “Help me. It’s what I married you for.”

  Lily glanced at the rumpled bed and the blood on the pillow where he had hit her and then raped her. “If I can,” she said dully. “If I can. Perhaps we shouldn’t have married at all.”

  Stephen turned towards her and put his arm gently around her shoulders. Lily rested her head against his chest as if she were very weary and there was nowhere else in the world for her to go.
br />   “It’s too late now to regret it,” Stephen said. “I’ll try to be a better husband to you. That won’t happen again if you promise you’ll never lie to me again.”

  Lily hesitated for only a moment. “Yes,” she said. “I won’t lie again.”

  “We’ll start afresh,” Stephen promised. “Maybe leave here, start again in a new house. A little farmhouse perhaps, somewhere in the country.”

  “Maybe,” Lily said, thinking “no.”

  “I’d like to live in the country. A little farm, and you and me, happy together.”

  Lily smiled weakly at the fantasy.

  “Will you be all right to come down to dinner?”

  “I need to wash,” she said, and went to the door. He heard her cross the landing and then shoot the bolt on the bathroom door. He heard the noise of her running a bath. He smiled indulgently; she would be in there for hours. Muriel had already spoken to Stephen about Lily’s expensive taste in soap. She was using the best guest soap every day instead of the coal tar soap which was to be used by family. Stephen shrugged. Lily should have her little bit of luxury, he thought. She was a lady. No-one could question it.

  • • •

  Coventry drove Lily to the theatre for the Monday matinée though she made him drop her two streets away from the theatre. She thought it ironic that only a little while ago she had longed for a car to deliver and collect her from the theatre like Sylvia de Charmante. Now she had the car she did not want the envy of the other girls. Now she knew the price she had to pay. It was not an enviable bargain.

  She was early. She tapped on Madge Sweet’s dressing room door at half past one.

  “What d’you want?” Madge came to the door in a bedraggled dressing-gown, her hair twisted up in curl papers, her face shiny with cold cream. “My God, Lil! What’s he done to you?”

  “He thumped me,” Lily said indifferently. “I didn’t have anything to put on it at home but powder. I was hoping it wouldn’t show.”

  “I’ve got some cream,” Madge said. “Come in.” She drew Lily into the dressing room and tipped her face up to the light. “Bastard,” she said. “What did he want to do that for?”