Across The Room
I saw him across the room being greeted by the host. I felt the blood drain from my face. I thought
for a moment I was going to faint.
I was attending the exhibition of a
third rate painter's work, for which, as a freelance journalist, I was to write
a review for a minor local paper. I had got sick of the sugary pink and white
creations, and was standing around with a cocktail called, I believe, "A
Landmine." It tasted of dishwater and kerosene.
I had been watching the
silly posturing and stupid conversations that these pretentious occasions give
rise to, laced as they are with "Dears" and "Darlings," when I saw
him.
My mind swirled back nearly seven years to a beautiful summer day.
At the time, I was the wife of a Housemaster at a middle ranking private school.
One of the duties was to entertain to tea once a week, two of the students. They
were appallingly boring and formal occasions and I am sure the students, or
should I call them victims, liked them no more than I did.
The day in
question was during the last but one week before the school broke up for the
summer recess. We were to entertain two senior boys, both of whom were leaving
to go on to university. One of them was Hartley George, the other boy's name I
cannot now recall.
There was an influenza virus going round the school,
and the day before the "Tea," my husband, Arthur Greenwith, took to bed, laid
low by the dread disease. He suggested that we cancel the tea, but I objected.
Hartley had become a particular favourite of mine, and I had observed that he
had a strong attachment to me. This often happens in boy's schools, where women
are rare, and they are away from the feminine company of mothers and
sisters.
Arthur was in no condition to care one way or the other, so I
went ahead with the tea. As it turned out, Hartley arrived on his own. The virus
had also struck down the other boy. So we ate and drank alone.
Hartley
was almost fully-grown at that time, being tall, about six feet, and well built,
with an almost gypsy look about him. He had somehow escaped the worst things
those private schools do to their victims, and he turned out a gentle and
considerate boy with a taste for the arts. His father owned a chain of clothing
stores around the country, and on the occasions when he had turned up for
parent's days in his Rolls-Royce, he presented as a loud mouthed, bombastic man.
Hartley had also escaped that character trait.
After our tea, I suggested
that as it was such a beautiful day, we take a walk through the woods that
abutted our back fence. Hartley agreed, so we went out through the gate in our
back fence, and strolled through the trees to the stream that flowed some little
distance away.
Arriving at the stream, we sat down on a grassy patch and
for a while continued our conversation about music. Then at one point in our
talk, Hartley took my hand. "You know I love you?" he said.
He followed
up these words by leaning over and kissing me gently on the lips and in doing
this he released my hand, and I felt his hand cup my breast.
I protested,
"Stop this Hartley, I'm a married woman."
He didn't stop, but moved
closer to me, still cupping my breast and kissing me. "I want you so badly," he
said. "I've wanted you ever since I came to this school. I love you so
much."
I pushed him away saying, "And I'm very fond of you, Hartley, but
we can't do this."
He said nothing for a moment, then went on, "If you
really cared about me, you'd let me do it with you."
Here I must explain
the nature of my situation.
My mother had died when I was twelve. My
father, with whom I was very close, died when I was eighteen of cancer. I had
nursed him through his illness for nearly two years, and when he died I was
exhausted and bereft.
He had left me a few investments which, given the
strictest economy, I could just about manage on. To try to recover from my
exhaustion I went for a week to a seaside boarding house. Here I met Arthur
Greenwith. He was some fifteen years older than I was but he seemed to have a
sort of solid assurance about him. I suppose this was what drew me to him. With
the loss of my father, I was seeking some new anchor in my life, and Arthur
seemed to provide that.
To cut a long story short, I ended up marrying
him, and on our wedding night I found what a ghastly mistake I had
made.
I am not sure whether he is a repressed homosexual or not, but he
was quite incapable of getting an erection with me, and his attempt to
penetrate, half hearted as it was, was an utter failure. He could not even break
through my hymen. This I did long afterwards by using a dildo.
I was
bitterly disappointed and quite horrified when Arthur said, "It doesn't really
matter, you don't want kids, do you!" It was not a question, but a statement. I
did want kids, but his tone encouraged no argument.
I silently wept
myself to sleep that night and many nights afterwards.
In time, I
discovered what Arthur really wanted. He wanted first, a housekeeper. Then he
wanted the respectability of being married. As he worked in a boy's school any
hint that a master was homosexual was death to that master. A married man was
thought to be safe.
Another thing he wanted was a decorative wife.
Someone one who would outmatch the rather frumpy wives of the other masters.
Even if I say so myself, I had no difficulty doing that, and this was
demonstrated by the way the other masters and the older boys ogled me. I hasten
to point out that Hartley had never ogled me. His gaze was a sort of ardent
longing.
I acknowledge that I enjoyed this devotion, and reciprocated
with an affectionate concern for him. If you condemn this, then put yourself in
my place. A young women with an impotent husband having the attention of a
handsome, loving young man just a few years younger than she.
Now here I
was with this young man pleading with me, and understanding from my own
experience what sexual frustration can do to one, my heart went out to him. I
admit that his approach had aroused me, and I could feel the wetness growing
round my vagina.
I laid back and pulled back the hem of my frock,
exposing my panties. "Take my panties off, darling," I whispered.
He
paused for a moment, and then reaching up pulled off the garment to expose my
sex organ.
"Come into me, sweetheart"
He undid the front of his
trousers, came over me, and I guided him into me.
He was very gentle and
loving, and, it was my first time with a man apart from Arthur's failed attempt,
and I am sure it was his first time with a woman.
He gave little gasps
interspersed with declarations of love as he moved up and down in me. I
reassured him, "Lovely darling. It's beautiful."
He could not last long,
and soon I felt his movements quicken, then he was pumping his seed into me. I
thought it would never stop. I even had the rather humorous thought; "He's been
saving all his sperm since he came to puberty just for me."
When he had
finished, he lay in me for a long time, stroking my face and still declaring his
love.
In the end I had to say, "We must go back now, darling, my husband
might want something to eat or drink."
He sighed, but removed his penis
from me. We tried to straighten ourselves up a bit, then walked hand in hand
back to the gate in the fence.
The end of term being upon us, life became
a whirl of activity, and that was the last time I saw or heard from him, until
this moment at the art exhibition.
He was walking along with a notebook
in his hand making brief notes as he came in my direction. I thought I might
flee - hide in the ladies room – but finally decided to face the
situation.
He was almost upon me before he saw me. He stopped, stared,
then said, "It's Mrs.Greenwith, isn't it?"
"Ex Mrs.Greenwith. I'm Tara
Ashe now," I said. "Mr.Greenwith and I parted company and got divorced many
years ago."
"Oh! How are you?"
The formality seemed ludicrous and
we both knew it. Questions were tumbling through my head, and I am sure through
Hartley's, but we continued down the safe track. "What are you doing here?" I
asked.
"I'm supposed to be reviewing this stuff for one of the Dailies,"
he replied. "What about you?"
"Well, it seems we are in the same trade,"
I said, "I'm doing a review for one of the local rags."
The hubbub around
us had grown considerably so I half shouted at him, "Look, we can't talk here,
and I don't know about you, but I've had enough of this rubbish. Let's go and
sit in the park across the street."
He agreed and we strolled to a park
bench and sat.
"It's a beautiful day," he said. "Like another beautiful
day I can remember."
I didn't fail to get his drift, but decided to
ignore it. "What's been happening to you all these years," I asked. "I always
thought you'd go into your father's business."
"That's what dad thought
too," he smiled. "But I had other ideas. Apart from anything else, I don't think
the old man and I could have hit it off for long. He's too dictatorial for me. I
went into journalism, you know, the arts side of things. How about
you?"
"Oh, I just do a bit of freelancing to pay the rent. It helps top
up the bit my father left me."
"Oh."
Silence.
We both
wanted to open the one subject most important to us, but we didn't seem to know
how.
The sun seemed to go in, and looking up I saw dark clouds
approaching.
"It looks as if we are going to get some rain," I said, "My
flat is just across the park. If you fancy a cup of coffee and we hurry, we can
be there before we get soaked."
We ran together and as we entered the
hall doorway, down came the rain.
The block was only two stories high,
and my flat was one flight up. It was quite a humble abode, being in keeping
with my income. I didn't have much in the way decor, but what I did have was
good quality. Hartley looked round appreciatively.
"Very nice," he
commented.
I invited him to sit down, and left the room. I went down to
my daughter's room where she was playing with the sitter. I paid the sitter and
thanked her and she left. I took my little girl's hand and said, "I've got
someone I'd like you to meet."
"Is it a nice someone?" she
asked.
"You'll find out," I laughed, and took her to where I had left
Hartley in the lounge.
As we entered, I noticed that Hartley was sitting
in a way that had always been typical of him. He had one leg crossed over the
other, with his hands clasped in front of his knees.
"This is Cara," I
said.
He looked up and said, "Hello Cara."
Cara, in the open way
children have, went to him, placed her hands on his, looked for a moment and
said, "You're very pretty."
Instead of the usual adult response of an
embarrassed laugh, Hartley smiled and said, "Thank you Cara. I think you are
pretty to," as indeed she is.
As I watched the two of them, I suddenly
saw Hartley's face drained of blood. He went parchment white. I thought he was
going to faint.
I said to Cara, "Darling, mummy will be getting dinner
ready soon, but Mr.George and I want to have a talk, would you go and play in
your room for a while?"
Cara left and I sat.
I knew exactly what
Hartley had seen. There could be no mistake. There was nothing of Arthur's
thinning blonde hair and insipid blue eyes. Nor was their any sign of my dark
blonde hair and grey green eyes. The dark hair, soft brown eyes and gypsy
complexion told the story.
"She's mine, isn't she," he
stammered.
I decided to be pedantic. "No Hartley. If she is anyone's, she
is ours."
"Well of course, I meant...you never told me, you never let me
know, why? Why didn't you tell me? I could have...I would have..."
"I
know you would, Hartley, but there were reasons for not telling you."
"What reasons?"
"First, you were very young. You were just
launching out into life. I decided that I could handle the situation. Also, I
was responsible. Although I am only a few years older than you, on that
afternoon I was more or less in my husband's place. I was the one who should
have stopped what happened, not you."
"Was that why you and
Mr.Greenwith..."
I cut in. "It was the thing that brought to an end what
would have ended anyway. Arthur could not possibly have been the father for the
simple reason we did not have sex, and you are the only person I have ever had
sex with."
"You mean, in all these years...?"
"Yes, in all these
years. Now suppose we talk about Cara."
"I could make you an allowance
for her..."
"You could, but you won't," I snapped. "My question is, would
you like to get to know your daughter?"
He snapped back, "Of course I
damn well would."
"All right, don't let's start out with a family
quarrel," I laughed.
He laughed with me. "Yes, I would like very much to
get to know her."
"How would your wife or girlfriend or whatever, think
about it."
"There isn't anyone. Your not the only one who can go
without."
"Very well. I'm about the prepare dinner. Would you like to
stay and eat with us?"
"I'd love to."
"Then come and make yourself
useful in the kitchen and I'll fetch Cara."
That evening began the
process of Cara getting to know her father, without her knowing he was her
father. I had to be sure I could trust Hartley with her, and whether she wanted
to be with him.
Things progressed from Hartley joining us for an
occasional meal, to letting him go out with us, then finally allowing Hartley to
take her out on his own.
Hartley's loving gentleness had not deserted him
and Cara seemed to have inherited it. I could see almost as a visible thing, the
love growing between them.
Hartley spent more and more time with us,
often staying on long after Cara had been put to bed. One thing that puzzled me
was why Hartley never made any sexual overtures to me. Had I become undesirable?
Ugly? I confess I checked up on myself In the mirror.
What I saw was
quite a presentable thirty year old. Breasts in very good order at 38B, despite
the fact that I had breast-fed Cara. Legs looking good but a bit marked with
child bearing. No signs of heavy lines on the face, and an almost unused
vagina.
I suppose I might have also asked myself why I didn't make any
sexual overtures. Hartley certainly didn't repulse me. He was as sexually
attractive to me as he had been all those years ago when I succumbed. So
why?
At one stage, about three months after I had met Hartley at the
exhibition, he began bringing us expensive gifts. I put a stop to
this.
"I don't want Cara getting into the habit of expecting these gifts.
I want her to look forward to seeing you for your own sake, not for the sake of
a gift. And you don't need to buy me gifts. I am delighted just to see you, and
to know that you and Cara are happy to be together.
Hartley protested.
"All these years you've been the one to pay out for Cara. Now, you won't accept
money from me and you won't let me buy gifts. What can I do?"
"Do what
you are doing now, give us yourself. That's what we want."
Hartley saw
the point, and the gifts, although they didn't stop completely, were relegated
to special times like birthdays.
Twelve months passed. Hartley was now
part of our lives. Cara was seven years old, and as we were to discover, quite a
shrewd observer of the human condition.
One evening Hartley was about to
put Cara to bed, when she said, "When are you two going to get married so I can
have a proper daddy?"
We were both stunned, but Hartley carried it off
with a laugh and said, "We'll see, Cara."
When he returned we were both
silent for a long while, then Hartley said, "When am I going to be allowed to be
a proper daddy?"
Taking this to be a proposal, I suddenly found that the
years of aloneness, the deprivation, the need I had for love, suddenly
overwhelmed me. I burst into tears, sobbing as if my heart would
break.
Hartley came to me and took me in his arms. "What is it, my love.
Did I say something...did I upset you...tell me..."
I howled even louder.
In all the years I had never given way, now it all poured out in one great
flood, crashing through the emotional barriers I had erected to defend myself
and Cara.
"Hold me, just hold me, you idiot," I jerked out through my
sobs. "I love you rotten beautiful bastard. So just hold me tight and don't ever
let go, or I'll kill you."
The emotional storm raged on with Hartley
holding me and I clinging to him and beating my fists against his chest, my
tears soaking his shirt front, my nose streaming, and all the unattractive
things that go with copious weeping.
Finally I subsided. I pulled away
from Hartley to let him see my ugly tear stained face.
"And now tell me
you want to be a 'proper daddy'" to Cara. "Just look at my ugly face and tell me
that."
"I want to be a proper daddy to Cara, and in addition, I love your
ugly face."
Another storm of weeping.
"All right, be a proper
daddy, and have my ugly face."
"Agreed. When?"
"What a lousy way
to propose."
"What a lousy way to accept."
We collapsed with
laughter, mine being a bit hysterical.
We finally came to ourselves and
began to tackle the question, "when?"
It was to be as soon as possible.
We had waited for many years, and that of course is what all those years had
been about. Hartley confessed there had been a couple of women, but they had
come to nothing. As he said, he was unfair to them, because he was always
looking for me in them. And my years of abstinence were equivalent. I wanted
Hartley, and not a substitute.
One thing you might find quirky among all
the many quirky things in our little history. That night we decided that having
waited so long without having sex with each other, we would now wait until we
were married.
"Let's do it properly next time," Hartley said.
"Do
what properly?" I asked.
"Get you pregnant."
"If we can get more
like Cara," let's do it often, I told him.
"It will be my pleasure," he
retorted.
"Don't be greedy," I said, "I want some of the pleasure to, you
know."
We fell into laughter again.
He left and I peeped into
Cara. She was still awake.
"You are going to have a proper daddy," I told
her.
She put her arms round my neck and said, "Good, I love him just as
much as you, you know."
"Out of the mouths of babes..."
Across The Room
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