Free Tell it to the Bees by Fiona Shaw Page B

he sang into her ear.
    â€˜
But there’s one rose that dies not in Picardy!
    â€™Tis the rose that I keep in my heart! …’
    The laugh in her throat caught her by surprise, as she remembered how his voice had tickled. God, he had such a beautiful voice. She used to tease him that he could stand in for Vera Lynn any day, and he sang her ‘Roses of Picardy’ there on the platform and she loved him.
    Lydia put the kettle on for tea and her chest felt tight with tenderness. This was the same man she had fallen for ten years ago. The same man whose voice saying her name made her stomach turn over with desire. Surely to goodness there was a way out of their present trouble? She knocked gently on the bathroom door.
    â€˜Robbie?’
    The singing stopped abruptly, mid-line.
    â€˜I’ve got the kettle on. Do you want a cup?’
    He answered yes, but even through the door she could tell he was surprised.
    When he came out, she said she’d heard him singing.
    â€˜Reminds me of you going back to your ship that time. You sang that song then. Do you remember?’
    He nodded slightly, hair tousled, skin warm and fresh,his cologne sweet between them, and she glimpsed in the gesture, the way his dipped his head, eyes closed, the man she had fallen in love with.
    â€˜I was just pregnant,’ she said, smiling, still caught in the memory. Something was in her mouth to say, something smooth and salt and solid. Something that might be a wish, or a promise, or both.
    She watched him stare.
    â€˜Robbie,’ she said.
    He frowned.
    â€˜Why are you calling me Robbie?’ he said.
    â€˜I always used to.’ She could feel the shape of the words behind her lips, gathered in the space above her tongue. She could taste them. ‘Remember?’ she said, but to herself.
    They might have made love now. She would have touched his warm, sweet skin; on the nape of his neck maybe, he always loved that. Or put her hands on to his shoulders, an invitation for his around her waist, them dancing there in the half-space, till his hands slipped down to her hips and he pulled her close and she felt the rise of his desire. They might have made love now.
    Growing up, Lydia didn’t know what a man’s body looked like. Twice, or maybe three times, she’d glimpsed her father half-undressed in his heavedup, woollen under-things, but the sight left her puzzled. Not at all like what she’d heard whispered at school. For a time during the war there was the American with the gentle smile. He charmed her, flirted with her and then he took her virginity. She’d given it willingly enough, and she did like him, though it wasn’t more than liking. But she never saw him naked. He would take her clothes off carefully, folding them piece by piece on the chair, stroking her arm, her shoulder, her breast, till she stood bare, shivering. But then he’d be so coy, undressing with his back to her, having her turn away before slipping beneath the covers to join her, that all sheknew of him was what she felt, and though he was lying hard up against her, somehow it didn’t feel like him.
    Then there was Robert. He wasn’t like the American, not charming like that. He didn’t treat her like royalty or even hold the door open for her. But from the first time she saw him, something got hold of her from the inside. She was standing outside a pub, stamping her feet for warmth, waiting for her friend and caught in her thoughts, when a voice broke in.
    â€˜Do you want a drink?’
    She turned to find a sailor there, his neckerchief tied rakishly, with his brown face above and his white neck below. He was hungry-looking, thin as a wire, with a gaze that flicked over her shoulder and back.
    â€˜I’m waiting for someone,’ she said with a shrug, but he didn’t seem to mind and he leaned against the wall next to her, and said something about it saving him the price of a drink.
    She