A Rather English Marriage by Angela Lambert Page A

Liz.’
    â€˜And I’m Reginald Conynghame-Jervis but everyone calls me Reggie. How do you do, Liz?’
    â€˜Cheers, Reggie!’
    â€˜Give you lift?’ he asked a couple of doubles later, and the big boy shifted hopefully.
    â€˜You are a sweetie,’ she said. ‘Bless you, but no, thanks - I’ve got my own car outside. Only meant to pop in for a pick-me-up. Never meant to stay so long, you wicked man!’
    The big boy twitched. ‘Be popping in tomorrow?’
    â€˜I might - after I’ve closed the shop, but it’s not a promise … Look, really, I must be off.’
    â€˜Shop?’ said Reggie, grasping at the last fragment of conversation, but with a final smile she swept out.
    He turned back to the barman.
    â€˜Who’s she when she’s at home?’
    â€˜Our Liz? Quite a looker, isn’t she? Well stacked - in both senses. Keeps one of those posh dress shops - down near the Pantiles, I think. Never checked out the goods myself. Too pricey for me.’ He laughed uproariously.
    It was long after eleven when Reggie got home, but he telephoned Roy Southgate immediately. When after several rings a dazed voice answered, he said abruptly, ‘Squadron Leader here. About that confab tomorrow, Southgate. No can do. Some other time. Give me a tinkle. Or not. Suit yourself. Cheer-oh.’
    He hung up without waiting for a reply.
    Roy lay in bed, the softness of Grace’s brushed cotton nightie against his skin. He knew he would not get to sleep for hours. Mentally he called off the whole idea - the Squadron Leader would obviously drive him round the bend in a week - and, to make the night pass, settled down to play an old game of Grace’s.
    â€˜Ro-oy?’ she would ask, ‘how many times do you think we’ve made love
now
?’ They would do the familiar arithmetic together, an excuse to remember their happy youth. During the last glorious summer of peace they’d bicycled off into the country and picnicked in fields, curling up to fall asleep afterwards in each other’s arms, or gazing up into the green branches flickering brilliantly against a sky of palest blue. They had married in May that year, just after he’d finished training to be a sapper with the Territorials (Royal Engineer Field Company). They’d decided on one of those hurried last-minute weddings, never knowing how long these halcyonpre-war days might last, and never mind that she had to buy rather than make her wedding dress. He’d wangled a week’s leave after that…
    â€˜Twice a night and then some: call it fifteen,
minimum …’
    And then odd weekends’ home leave, if you could call her parents’ cramped terraced house in Purley
home
. They had felt self-conscious about slipping away too obviously; all the same …
    â€˜Probably three or four times per weekend …’
    â€˜Call it four …’
    They hadn’t made love often once they knew she was expecting. Roy had been afraid of hurting her. Not that he minded the swelling pregnancy: her slight figure, back curved to take the weight of the great mound that strained forward from below her rib cage, filled him with pride and joy. The pale skin of her belly seemed almost transparent, so that he felt he should have been able to see the child curled inside. He could certainly see her flesh twitch when it kicked, and would lay his hand against her bare skin as they lay in bed and murmur, ‘Feel him, Gracie! That’s our boy. Isn’t he strong?’ But the district midwife had told Grace that it wasn’t advisable to permit relations in the last three months and, precious as their weekends together were, they had, not without difficulty, abstained.
    So it had taken about sixty tries before they had got it right, they had decided. ‘Yes, and wasn’t the practising fun?’ Roy would whisper. They both took it for granted that they would make love