She tried very hard to think only of that now, but found she just didn’t like it. Gareth’s cock smelled funny and tasted salty, and she was afraid her teeth would hurt him. When he pushed himself even further into her mouth she gagged, and all the pleasure she’d been feeling such a short while ago vanished.
Aside from her distaste at being forced into taking him in her mouth, she felt like she was being rubbed with sandpaper down below by his chin. When she tried to draw the lower part of her body away from him, he grabbed her even more fiercely and pushed himself further still into her mouth. In a desperate effort to get free, she caught hold of him by the hip bones to try and push him off her. But as she moved her head back and a little street lighting from outside shone in through the curtains, she caught sight of his balls dangling and she retched.
Gareth was oblivious to anything but his own pleasure. ‘Suck me!’ he ordered, jabbing his fingers inside her hard, perhaps believing she was as aroused as he was. ‘Come on, don’t stop now, I’m coming!’
Rosie’s eyes filled with tears. She had brought him to a climax with her hands many times and felt no disgust about that because he had always been holding her, whispering endearments, and petting her gently too. But this was quite different. There was no tenderness, just bestiality.
His chin was digging into her groin, his breathing beneath the bedclothes was laboured and he was muttering something too. Each time he thrust his fingers into her she wanted to scream out with pain. Then, just as she felt she could bear it no longer, he arched his back, let out a gasping breath and pushed her head to one side.
His body was jerking in a spasm. She felt him spurt against her neck, and then he was still.
‘That was fantastic!’ he murmured, his face resting on her stomach.
Rosie just lay there, stunned, silent tears trickling down her cheeks. She was confused and angry because she felt dirty and used. On the other hand, she felt saddened and guilty, because surely if she loved Gareth as much as she believed she did, his pleasure would be more important than her own feelings.
He turned round in the bed and took her in his arms.
‘That was the best,’ he said sleepily. ‘Fred at work told me him and his missus used to do it like that before they were married. He was right, it’s better than a wank.’
He fell asleep moments later. But as Rosie lay there still cradled in his arms she was smarting at his vulgar words. Her vagina was stinging, she felt cheated, but what really shamed her was that he’d discussed something so intimate with a workmate.
Seth slipped into her mind. She could only suppose that was because Gareth’s crudity was reminiscent of the way he used to speak. She shivered. All these months she’d never given her brother a passing thought. But now, on a night which should have been blissful, he was back, reminding her of all the things she thought she’d forgotten.
At noon the next day as they walked along the promenade, buffeted by the strong wind, Rosie wished she was back home at The Grange. She could be sitting in front of the sitting-room fire, reading the Sunday newspapers. It was so terribly cold, her feet were like blocks of ice, and everything – the sea, the sky, the houses – looked grey and dingy.
She didn’t want to voice her opinion though. Gareth was glum enough already, and any resentment she still harboured about last night had vanished in sympathy when the landlady asked him for an extra pound for their evening meal.
Rosie knew that Gareth had felt sophisticated when he planned his weekend. He hadn’t known they would be expected to leave their room immediately after breakfast, or that everything in Brighton would be closed on a Sunday. He certainly hadn’t expected it to be so cold. But it was the extra pound which really threw him. He hadn’t budgeted for it, and when it was added to all the other slightly embarrassing moments of naivety and awkwardness, it made him feel a complete failure.
‘Let’s have a cup of tea,’ she suggested, trying to pretend she was really delighted about everything. ‘We could go to that café on the pier. I expect it’s open.’
‘I don’t want a cup of tea,’ Gareth said grumpily. ‘I want a pint, but I’ve only got about five shillings left.’
‘I’ve got some money,’ she said quickly.
He gave her an odd sort of look, disapproval at her offering to pay, mixed with relief.
‘Look, Gareth, I know the guest-house cost more than you expected,’ she said, tucking her hand through his arm and huddling closer to him. ‘The least I can do is buy you a drink.’
‘I don’t take money from girls,’ he retorted.
‘I’m not just any girl,’ she said evenly. ‘You didn’t mind me paying for tea yesterday, and anyway I’m your girl and we should share expenses. I earn nearly as much as you, after all.’
The moment the words left her mouth, she knew they were the wrong ones. His face flushed with sudden anger.
‘That’s right, rub it in,’ he said bitterly. ‘I’m no good for anything, am I’?
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she snapped back. ‘I didn’t mean anything of the sort.’
She managed to talk him round and led him to the nearest pub. Once he had a pint in his hand he apologized for the second time that weekend. By the time he’d got the next one down, which Rosie had pushed a ten-shilling note into his hand to pay for, he was happy again and even joined in with some other men playing darts.
Rosie sat on her own, with a small glass of cider in front of her. The pub was a grubby, smoky place with a smelly paraffin heater. The only other women in there were two shabbily dressed elderly women sitting in a corner.
She watched Gareth playing darts. He was immersed in it, his tongue peeping out between his lips as he eyed up the target, poised to aim. He’d forgotten about her; these three men he’d only just met were now far more important. In a flash Rosie saw that this was how he was in London, down the pub with the lads, or off to a football match. He wouldn’t change when they got married, any more than her father had when he and Heather became lovers.
Common sense told her that it was this way for most women in England. Men brought home the money and in return they got hot dinners, their clothes washed and sex on tap. She didn’t know why she felt so disappointed to find Gareth was the same. The male Cooks were the only men she’d ever known to behave differently.
When they left the pub at closing time, Gareth was drunk. He’d had six pints in all. ‘What’ll we do now?’ he said, slurring his words and swaying on his feet.
‘We collect our bags from the guest-house and go home,’ Rosie said, trying very hard not to be cross with him. ‘It’s too cold to wander around, and anyway there’s nothing to do.’
It seemed a very long way to the station because Gareth kept stopping. She didn’t like him drunk one bit. His voice was too loud, people kept looking at him disapprovingly because he was weaving all over the pavement, and every now and then he clumsily tried to kiss her. But when he stopped in a doorway and opened his fly to pee, Rosie lost her temper.
‘That’s disgusting,’ she snapped, then walked away and left him there. It was bad enough that Gareth had brought Seth back to mind last night, but to see they had other nasty habits in common was the last straw.
They had to wait an hour for the train, but even the cold didn’t sober Gareth up. Fortunately there were few people about, and when the train finally arrived they got a compartment all to themselves. Gareth fell asleep immediately they were on the train, his mouth hanging open and his head lolling against her shoulder. She knew she couldn’t take him back to The Grange in that state.
As the train approached Mayfield she woke him. ‘I’m getting off at the next stop,’ she said. ‘You stay on and go straight back to London.’
‘Whass the time?’ he asked, his words still slurred.
‘Nearly five,’ she said. ‘There’s no point in you coming back with me, you’d only have to turn right round and get the next train back.’
‘Thass all right then,’ he said,
flopping right down on to the seat. His eyes were almost closed, he stank of beer and cigarettes, and his mouth was almost as sloppy as Donald’s. ‘I’ll be back in time to meet the lads.’
‘You meet them,’ she snapped as she lifted her bag down from the luggage rack. ‘They’re welcome to your company.’
Outside the station Rosie jammed her hat on more firmly, pulled up her collar against the cold wind, then lifting her bag walked swiftly home. It was already dark and Mayfield was as deserted as she felt.
‘You might love him,’ she muttered to herself. ‘But you aren’t going to let him walk all over you. And don’t you dare cry.’
Chapter Fifteen
Percy Arkwright, station master of Mayfield station, diligently swept the puddles of rain water off his platform. But although he appeared to be entirely engrossed in ensuring the passengers alighting from the seven-fifteen wouldn’t get wet feet, in fact he was far more interested in the young couple awaiting the train for London.
It had been raining continuously for the past three days, and it was only now on Sunday evening that the sky had at last brightened and weak sunshine was doing its best to break through. Normally at this time of an evening in August, Percy would be expecting dozens of people to spill off this train after a day trip to the coast, but tonight he doubted there would be any more than five or six dejected looking holiday-makers.
Percy knew just about everyone in Mayfield regardless of whether or not they were regular passengers. He had only landed the job as station master after the war, but he’d been born in the village, and aside from time away as a railway apprentice and his spell in the army, he’d lived here all his life.
Old friends from his childhood used the early morning trains, working men and women in the main, carpenters, mechanics, nurses and shop assistants in neighbouring towns. Around eight in the morning the bowler-hat brigade arrived. Bankers, lawyers and accountants who were relative newcomers to the village and travelled to London first class. Later in the morning he would see the smartly dressed wives of these same men going off for a day’s shopping in Tunbridge Wells. He met their children too as they travelled to and from school; some were cheeky little sods who needed a clip round the ear, but others were decent sorts whom he often rewarded with a sweet or two.
But of all the more regular visitors to his station, Percy had a particularly soft spot for this young couple. For over two years now he’d been almost a part of their courtship. He’d witnessed the happy reunions on Saturday afternoons or Sunday mornings, then the sadder partings on a Sunday evening, when they clung to each other until the very last moment before young Gareth boarded the train. He couldn’t count the times that he’d got a lump in his throat as Rosie ran with the train, waving and blowing kisses, and seen her mopping her eyes before going home alone.
She always met him and saw him off, regardless of rain or snow, and it made Percy glow to see such devotion. Tonight, however, he sensed something was wrong. They weren’t locked in each other’s arms as they usually were. They were standing close, looking at each other, not actually arguing but with a certain hostility about them.
In the two years Percy had been observing them, they had both changed. Gareth had been just a lad when he first came, lean and eager-looking, with tousled curly hair and a wide, wide smile. He was a man now, heavier, fatter in the face, broader in the shoulders, his hair cut very short. Sadly, his sparkle and youthful enthusiasm seemed to have disappeared, along with his boyish curls. Nowadays he rarely smiled at Percy, much less stopped to chat about trains as he once had. In fact the only conversation they’d had in recent months was when Gareth pompously informed him he’d been promoted to engine driver on a passenger train.
Rosie had been a pretty girl with an endearing impudent grin, but she’d been too thin then and very pasty. Two years of healthy outdoor living had transformed her into a curvy, radiant beauty, with an aura of natural confidence and a bounce in her step.
Tonight she looked the way she always did when she was with Gareth, fashionable and stylish, in a green dress, high-heeled shoes and lipstick, her hair gleaming like molten copper in the weak sunshine. But Percy personally preferred the tomboyish way she looked when she trundled her wheelbarrow past the station during the week. There was something very appealing about a pretty girl in dungarees with windswept hair and a few dirt smears on her rosy cheeks. She was the kind of girl who made the day a little brighter just by being there, and Percy knew he wasn’t the only person around here who felt that way.
Percy leaned on his broom for a moment and watched them. He had an inkling of what was wrong tonight. Young Gareth was a dyed-in-the-wool city man, who only really liked the countryside when he was steaming through it on his train. Perhaps he’d finally realized Rosie and he were on quite different tracks.
Percy was almost spot on. Gareth was sulking, just as he had been since arriving on Saturday afternoon to find it too wet to do anything but stay indoors at The Grange. But now, after a long, dull weekend with no chance to be alone with Rosie, he was blaming her for his boredom.
‘I don’t know how much longer you expect me to put up with this,’ he said. ‘If you’d started nursing last year, like you said you were going to, at least you’d be in London. But you think more of your damn gardening and Donald than you do about me.’
Rosie sighed. He’d been spoiling for a fight all weekend, picking on every last thing he thought might upset her. She was tempted to say she did prefer gardening and Donald’s company when he was so objectionable, but his train would be here in five minutes and she didn’t want to part on a sour note.
‘That’s not true,’ she said.
‘Yes, it is. A year ago you were dying to get married, but now you hardly ever mention it.’
‘I’d get married tomorrow if you got a transfer down here,’ she said heatedly. ‘We could easily find a nice little cottage to live in. I don’t understand why you are so set on staying in London.’
‘You know why,’ he said, his voice raised as it always was when she broached this subject. ‘I’ve waited a long time to be a train driver. I won’t settle for ticket collecting or working in a signal box, which is what a transfer would mean. Besides, my family are in London, and I don’t like the country anyway.’
The distant chugging of the train coming along the track was a timely diversion. Gareth pulled out his pocket-watch to check it, just as he did with every single train. Rosie used to find this endearing. Tonight, however, it irritated her and she had an urge to slap the watch out of his hand.
‘Right on time,’ he said. ‘I expected it to be late because of the heavy rain.’
He kissed her then, long and hard, but it didn’t make Rosie feel any better. She knew the time in between before they saw each other again wouldn’t change anything. Their problems would only be shelved, to be picked over again next time they met and never resolved.
‘Goodbye, sweetheart,’ he said, picking up his overnight bag as the train came in. His eyes brightened as if the train itself was more important than her. ‘I’ll phone you later in the week.’
The train pulled off. He lowered the window and leaned out, and Rosie ran along the platform with it just as she always did, waving and blowing kisses. But tonight she didn’t feel the usual unbearable sadness at parting from him. It was almost a relief to see him go.
She didn’t go straight home to The Grange, but went for a walk instead. The song ‘Love and Marriage’ by Frank Sinatra, which had been in the hit parade earlier that year, kept springing irritatingly into her mind. The trees were dripping and her shoes weren’t suitable for walking on wet grass, but the air was fresh and sweet after all the rain and she needed time, alone, to think.
The weekend had been tortuous. In fact their relationship had been on a gradual downward spiral for some months, ever since Rosie admitted she had given up the idea of becoming a nurse. Gareth claimed she had been stringing him along all the time.
It hadn’t seemed
that way to Rosie. Maybe she shouldn’t have assumed Gareth shared her vision of a wedding in Mayfield church, a cosy little cottage and the Cooks close by. But if Gareth really had hated this idea, why had be taken so long to come out with it?
Now he was saying that if she really loved him she must give up her gardening and the Cooks and move to London to get what he called a ‘proper’ job. He spoke of getting a couple of rooms somewhere near Clapham, and putting their name down for a council house. He didn’t seem to understand he was asking her to throw away everything she had worked so hard for.
She wasn’t entirely against the idea of living in London. At times it looked like a tempting adventure, starting out again, together, building a home, seeing all that London had to offer. Maybe she could even persuade him into letting her do gardening there. Thomas said there were plenty of rich people who were always looking for help with their gardens. Yet how could she just up and leave Donald? Setting aside that she loved him and his family, in their time together they had gone from being nurse and patient to teacher and pupil, until at last they’d become equal partners by pooling their talents.
Gareth always sneered when she tried to explain this. He said Donald could easily carry on alone mowing lawns, pruning trees and planting flowers. That much was true, he could; but Rosie was the one with the organizing ability and the creativity. Just as she relied on Donald’s physical strength to get the work done, so he depended on her to plan, find new clients and make sure they got paid.
Their business was thriving, they were making real money, more most weeks than Gareth made as a train driver. They had won the respect and admiration of everyone in the village. They were very proud of what they’d already achieved and Rosie wanted them to do much more. At night she worked on designs, she studied books on rare plants and famous gardens, and she knew if she was ever offered the opportunity to plan a garden herself from scratch, she could manage.