Chapter 1

The face of Martin Buller was set in harsh lines of bitterness and frustration as he crossed the quiet suburban road towards his home. Today was Friday and he had spent the last hour cooped up in a railway carriage with a crowd of local men who had celebrated somebody's birthday in the station buffet before catching the train. Normally Martin was tolerant towards his fellow commuters. A nod here and there, a word about the weather and he would retire behind his evening newspaper. But that had been impossible this evening. They had been merry, and as often happened when no woman was present, their conversation had reverted to sex.

Some of them had ribbed Martin about his beautiful wife. They said he was a lucky man they bet he never said, 'My wife doesn't understand me'. If only they knew! What fools men are, he thought, but I was exactly like them once. I imagined that an outstandingly beautiful girl with a sexy body was just the kind to marry. And she turned out to be as frigid as the North Pole!

In a few moments his wife would be kissing him dutifully, taking his hat and coat and serving him politely with a cocktail. And all without love where had it gone? It seemed to be there for the first few weeks of their marriage and then his wife began to say no to his sexual advances. In his solicitor's files was all the evidence he needed to divorce Jean. But he had hesitated. He knew she did not expect such a move. She imagined he had settled down to this ridiculous regime because he had made no approaches to her for several months. Her wary eyes were still suspicious of 'advantages' he might attempt to take, but her coldly polite manner indicated she had got what she wanted a sexless, hollow marriage.

It's funny, he mused to himself, returning his attention to his dinner, but I think, deep down inside me, I still love her. At least, I can still see the reflection of what I used to think she was like. Maybe I was wrong, but I could not have been entirely wrong. So long as I have a glimmer left in my imagination then I should make an effort to revive her love.

I'm beginning to sound very sentimental and novellet-ish, he told himself as he finished the well-done steak, garnished with mushrooms and tomatoes. Why don't I just tell her baldly and openly I'm going to divorce her unless things change pretty quickly? I've never thought of threatening her before. It would not be unkind to do so; after all, she would be the guilty party in a divorce. Maybe the shock might make her think again?

She was gathering the plates together on a tray to take into the kitchen. He looked up and said quietly;

"Thank you Jean, that was a nice meal. Now I want you to sit still there for a minute because I want to talk to you. I am NOT beginning a row

. . . " he emphasized as he saw her mouth open to protest, fear of reproach in her eyes.

"Listen to me, Jean. You know our marriage isn't a success . . . no . . . no . . . be honest, Jean, it is not a success. You always avoid discussing it with me, but I'm afraid this time I insist because you see I'm divorcing you."

The look of surprise and bewilderment on her face was almost comical. He continued:

"The necessary papers are in my solicitor's hands, but before I go ahead I want to make one appeal to you. Jean, darling, is there no way we can save our marriage? Are you absolutely sure you do not love me any more and can never love me again? If you are not sure, Jean, please say so and both of us can make an effort to try and live together in a way which does not make me suffer sexual humiliation all the time . . . please . . . Jean?"

He was astonished by her answer. She ignored his appeal. Her eyes were flashing the fire of her anger, her indignation was as visible as electric sparks from a cat's fur:

"YOU are going to divorce ME? You can't be serious! What for? I've done nothing . . . you must be mad! You just want to get rid of me because I won't go to bed with you often. Well, let me tell you I'll never consent to manufacture evidence against myself the very idea!"

"There's no need to manufacture evidence, Jean. I've got quite enough proof for a normal divorce," he said quietly, "or at the very least an annulment. You've virtually ceased to have normal sexual relations with me. In the past three years you've let me fuck you only half a dozen times. That is definitely a marital offence."

"I don't believe it!" she was near to tears.

"Of course it is, you silly ninny," he said impatiently, but not unkindly, "You made certain vows and you haven't kept them."

"But that's my business if I don't want to go to bed with you, it's got nothing to do with solicitors or the law. How dare you think of such a thing," she said furiously; then as an afterthought," and don't use that disgusting word to me!"

"It's not just your business Jean. It's my business. Dr. Menzies has already signed a medical report that it's affecting my health. I have those two letters you wrote to me when I was in Manchester last year remember? You refused to go to see a doctor, or a psychiatrist or even a Vicar, so I can prove I've tried my best to make a go of it but you just won't co-operate. I'm afraid you've got no defense."

"You mean I could actually be a GUILTY party in at filthy divorce case . . . and have no alimony . . . and lose my home, just because I won't let you make love to me?"

"It wouldn't be quite as bad as that, Jean, but roughly yes."

"But . . . but . . . oh, it's not fair!" she burst out, in a flood of hysterical tears, ran out of the dining room and upstairs.

He shrugged and went into the kitchen to help himself to rice pudding. What could he do about her? It seemed incredible a girl could reach the age of twenty-five and not know she could be divorced for not fulfilling the sexual side of her marriage vows. On the other hand he had often found her ignorant, although it wasn't surprising considering the bigoted upbringing she had received. He could hear her upstairs bawling her head of. Let her roar, he thought. For three years I've been desperately unhappy and frustrated a few tears won't do her any harm at all.

She cried for the best part of half an hour, then sniveled and then she was quiet. He settled himself in the sitting room with a full bottle of whisky and the siphon. This was something he never did, but tonight well, to hell with it, this was a time to get drunk, he guessed.

She was coming downstairs. He heard her go into the kitchen and make coffee. She brought it to him on a tray with two cups. Her eyes were red and puffed. She had washed off all her makeup and not renewed it. She saw the whisky but made no comment. In silence she poured two cups of coffee and gave him one. He took it, looking at her curiously. The cold distant look had gone. Her sensitive nostrils were quivering, her eyes were hurt and puzzled. She was more vulnerable than he had ever seen her. He guessed she had come down for a slinging match or some sort of appeal. He was wrong:

"I'm sorry Martin, I had no idea you could divorce me . . . or have our marriage annulled or whatever it's called . . . just for not going to bed with you. I . . . I . . . well I just couldn't do it any more and . . . and . . . I thought you'd forget about it in time . . . " The tears were welling up in her eyes, ". . . and I couldn't tell you why . . . "

He looked at her in surprise. Was he going to get the truth at last?

"Now it's all over . . . well, I can tell you about it at last. You see . . . you see . . . " she gulped back the tears, but her confusion was more than tears. She looked away and started on another tack.

"Do you remember Dorothy? She went to London when we got engaged . . . I always used to be with her . . . well we . . . we . . . " but words failed her again

He was mystified and beginning to feel impatient. "Yes?" he asked, sipping his coffee.

She gripped her hands tightly together and, staring at them with rigid concentration, forced out:

"You see we were more than friends you know what I mean."

The truth began to dawn on Martin, He could hardly believe his ears. Surely not?

"You mean," he said slowly, "you mean you had a Lesbian relationship with Dorothy?"

She did not seem to understand him, "I mean you were in love sexually with Dorothy?" he asked brutally.

She nodded and hid her face in her hands. "Well I'm damned!! "

Such an explanation had never occurred to him. He was quite dumbfounded. His beautiful glamorous wife, her fair hair falling to her shoulders like Brigitte Bardot, her sensuous figure and clothes sense and she was a Lesbian! Who would have guessed it? Nor did the explanation help his squirming ego not one little bit.

He had been making love to a woman who would have preferred him to be another woman! It was worse than frigidity!

Suddenly he threw back his head and gave a bark of mirthless laughter. The irony of it! But in some remote part of him he felt a stir of excitement and a guilty glow came into his face. He knew he was blushing, but Jean's head was still bent and she did not see. Her confession had reminded him of a guilty secret of his own; secret longings he had been trying to repress for years. He had imagined the normal sexual relationship of marriage would subdue them entirely, but when his wife had proved sexually unresponsive they had returned to plague him in dreams. And it was those dreams which had finally driven him to a doctor, although he had not dared to explain the exact content of them. How could he tell old Dr. Menzies he had been dreaming about raping virgins and teenage virgins at that! Irony indeed; they had both hidden from each other their secret inner sexual life.

She was getting more and more distressed, almost hysterical. He felt sorry for her. He poured a stiff glass of whisky and forced her to drink. She slopped a little but managed to get it down.

"Now Jean, have a cigarette and calm yourself. This is a real tragedy . . . tell me about it . . . however did it happen? And why, for God's sake did you marry me? I should think your common sense would tell you it wouldn't work, surely?"

"Martin, you don't understand," the big green eyes came up to look at him beseechingly, "You've never understood me really, You always think I know more about things than I really do . . . because of the way I look . . . and then you get mad at me when you discover I don't. It's not my fault I look more sophisticated than I am . . . "

"I'm sorry, my dear," he pattered her hand. He remembered the recent conversation on the train and winced.

"Are you trying to tell me you didn't know about yourself?" he asked soothingly, trying to keep the incredulity out of his voice.

"Yes Martin . . . honestly I didn't realize . . . I'll try and tell you about it," she gulped back more rising tears and went on bravely. "I used to have a pash on a mistress at school when I was only twelve and she used to take me to her home and coach me in math and . . . it was she who started it . . . she used to . . . touch me. And then there was Joan after that when I was fourteen. And then there was Dorothy, right up until I left school and for a little while afterwards until I met you and then we had a row and she went to London . . . " the words were tumbling out of her now.

"What did you have a row about?" he asked gently.

"Well, she called me what you just called a Les . . . Les . . . "

"Lesbian."

"And she tried to explain all about it, but I was terribly shocked and wouldn't listen. She wanted me to go and live with her in Padding-ton as though as though I were her wife. You see I just thought we were a bit naughty, playing about with each other . . . and I could stop being naughty any time I wanted and get married. But . . . but as soon as we got married . . . I discovered I WAS different . . . just as she'd said. Oh Martin, try to understand . . . just imagine what it would be like for you having to let another man make love to you!"

He could have struck her down with one blow for that remark. She saw the look of anger and distrust in his eyes and flinched. Then he relaxed and tried to be detached. Yes a thing like that would be unpleasant; he did understand.

She looked utterly dejected sitting there. She wore skintight pants and a pretty fluffy sweater, She was adorable to look at and she was the wrong sex!

He put out his hand in sympathy to touch her shoulders. She flinched away from him, but it was more from habit than present fear. She managed a watery apologetic smile. Somehow he felt closer to her just now than he had ever felt before, even during their courting days. She was just a little lost girl and it wasn't her fault. She was probably born like it, or else that early schoolmistress had so tied her emotions up they became forever fixed, instead of changing when she came into adolescence. He knew this sometimes happened. Nonetheless, it was tragic.

Or was it? He asked himself. Why should everybody assume that people who are a little different from ourselves are necessarily doomed to unhappiness? Now Jean was beginning to understand what she was, and now she could be released from a disastrous marriage why shouldn't she seek fulfillment in the way which was natural to her?

A sneaky thought came up from his unconscious to prick him. If she could do that why shouldn't he enjoy himself with . . . ?

He shut his eyes and bit his lip and tried to fight off the tempting thought. He must not think along those lines. HE MUST NOT!

But a part of his mind would not be quiet.

WHY NOT? it kept asking.

Oh God! This was terrible!

He noticed Jean was staring at him curiously.

"What's the matter, Martin?" she asked.

He had not heard her speak in such a kindly voice for nearly three years and to his utter humiliation the tears came to his eyes. It had been a very difficult three years and not once had he given way. He bit his lip hard.

"Oh don't Martin . . . you've drawn blood on your lips! What is it, my dear? What's the matter? I know I've made you terribly unhappy but you can have your divorce I won't stand in your way. I'm terribly sorry, but please don't cry!"

She was genuinely distressed for him and he blinked back the tears which were, of course, only momentary.

He looked at her. He also was in the mood for confession.

But how would she react to such a terrible thing.

He badly needed somebody to talk to. He had never spoken to anyone about it never.

"Tell me, Jean," he said, speaking with difficulty through a constricted throat, "how do you feel about being a Lesbian?"

"I'm desperately, terribly ashamed . . . " she burst out, "Oh Martin you don't know what it's been like. That's what made me so tight and strained. And the worst of it is that it's only the sex part of life with you I can't bear. I like you tremendously as a person. You've been so kind and patient. But as soon as I relaxed and tried to be natural with you . . . you immediately started to make love to me . . . oh it was impossible!"

"I see and you feel ashamed?"

"Yes. Please Martin, don't go on about it I just can't help it."

"I'm not trying to rub it in, I'm wanting to tell you something about myself which makes ME ashamed. You see I've got a sort of secret too . . . oh no, I'm not a homosexual! . . . but perhaps one of the reasons why it's been such a strain on you is because I was desperate to get rid of something of which I was ashamed. That's why I got married although Of course I did love you."

"What are you talking about Martin? I don't understand. You are quite normal, surely?"

"Not quite," he mumbled, and then pushed on desperately, "You see . . . young girls . . . very young girls . . .teenagers . . . attract me tremendously" He felt a great surge of relief when he had got it off his chest. Like being rid of a terrible attack of indigestion. I'm just transferring my guilt, he said to himself, but he didn't care.

Her eyes were wide with astonishment. "But there's nothing peculiar about that, is there?" she asked. "I mean all men find women attractive don't they even men your age imagine teenagers. What's so peculiar about that?"

He was looking down at his hands and spoke almost inaudibly. "They attract me Jean, and I want to make love to them. Real teenagers . . . youngsters of thirteen or so . . . don't you know, that is technically called rape?"

She gasped, "You want to go to bed with them? Oh my God Oh no!" She was horrified.

He plunged on again: "And I've done it twice before we were married and because you wouldn't give me a proper sex life it brought back those terrible dreams I used to have. Night after night I've been raping schoolgirls it's dreadful and I can't go on!" He pulled himself together with an effort and went on quietly: "Now do you understand why we must separate? I must try to marry again and have a normal sex life so I won't be plagued with this awful longing and those nightmares."

There were tears in her eyes again: "Oh Matrin what a terrible mess we've both made of things."

She lapsed into silence, staring at the fire. They sat hand in hand, thinking about their separate hells.

Suddenly he burst out laughing: "Let's get drunk!" he said, "Two absolutely awful depraved people the dregs of society! let's get gloriously pissed!"

She looked startled. But the expression in his eyes was so miserable and unhappy and matched so exactly what she felt that she squeezed his hand and said throwing back her beautiful blonde hair in a gesture of defiance: "Yes! Let's get drunk. But you know in some way I feel a little happier than I've done for years. Why didn't we talk before? I thought you would half kill me when you knew the truth!"

They finally filed up two glasses with whiskey and toasted each other ironically. Steadily they drank their way through the bottle of scotch, confiding tipsily in each other, learning hitherto undreamed-of secrets and finally getting so drunk that they gave up any idea of trying to mount the stairs to their barren dream-ridden bedroom and slept on the sofa in a drunken torpor.

The weekend which followed these mutual revelations was very difficult for Martin and Jean. Each one felt they were meeting a stranger who had suddenly emerged from the person they had known for years. Martin kept glancing at Jean as if to catch a glimpse of that inner inverted self of hers which he had never suspected and which, even now, he could hardly believe existed. And he often caught Jean gazing at him pensively as though she were trying to match up the husband she had known with the new one she had unexpectedly discovered.

As his self respect became restored, so the aching need for sex subsided. And last night was the first night for months he had not dreamed of raping teenage virgins, although he could not be sure it wasn't the unaccustomed drink. So now, he discovered there wasn't any immediate need for divorce. It wasn't that the situation was still the same, but that he had changed.

He didn't feel desperate any longer. He just felt what did he feel? Pity? Curiousity?

Jean, walking demurely by his side, her long fair hair stirring gently in the breeze, her miniskirt showing off her dimpled knees and slim calves to perfection, was also perplexed. Now she could relax and laugh with Martin and what a relief it was, after years of constraint and fear. He was no longer angling to get in bed with her, in fact he was acting like a big fond brother. But she reminded herself it couldn't go on, however delightful it was. He wanted to divorce her and after all it was no marriage for him. What would she do then? The prospect frightened her.

In the evening, they settled down to watch television. But the programs on all stations failed to interest them and finally Martin brought out a fresh bottle of whiskey and they were restless. Finally Martin laid down his book and said:

"What kind of thing did you and Dorothy get up to?"

Jean looked embarrassed. How could you tell your husband about your sexual relations with a woman? It's obscene, she thought.

"I don't see why you shouldn't tell me," he continued, "after all we're still friends, even if we are going to be divorced. You're not still frightened of me, are you."

"No," she said slowly, not looking at him, "but it's not nice talking about such things with one's husband."

"My dear girl," he laughed, "husbands are the only people you can be really frank with, there's absolutely nothing we shouldn't be able to discuss. Most husbands and wives tell each other about their previous affairs . . . that yours were a little different was bad luck, but there's nothing wrong in talking about them that I can see. Besides I'm curious!"

"What about?" she asked in a small voice still too embarrassed to look at him.

"Well, did you get really worked up?"

There was a heavy silence for a full minute. Martin waited patiently, determined to make her answer.

Finally she said, "Yes," very quietly.

"And did you make her excited also?"

She knew instinctively that Martin was not fully aware of his own motives for this inquisition. She guessed he was unconsciously trying to hurt her. But he was also torturing himself and then there was a hint of vicarious enjoyment as well as morbid curiosity. It was all confusing. For a moment she regretted having told him, but then she remembered what a relief it had been and that, in a way, she owed him something for all the unhappiness she had caused. Nevertheless she did not want to talk about the intimacy between Dorothy and herself. It had been a wonderful, exciting experience, but it had been wrong, morally wrong, she told herself, and she must never indulge in it again.

"I think you're wrong to be ashamed of it," said Martin conversationally, as though he were reading her thoughts. He helped himself to another large whiskey. "Don't you realize you can't help it? Besides it's not against the law, you know."

She looked up quickly, questioningly.

"Oh, the church things it's mortally wrong, but the law doesn't condemn it, between that, is, consenting adults. And soon male homosexuals may be allowed the same freedom and about time too, poor devils. Personally I don't see why you shouldn't live a perfectly happy life with another woman, just as Dorothy wanted you to."

"But it IS morally wrong, Martin," she protested earnestly, "you know it is,"

"I'm sorry," he contradicted, "I don't agree. You wouldn't be doing anybody any harm once you were divorced from me, now would you?"

"Look," he leaned forward confidentially, "compare your predicament with mine. Now if I followed my own instincts I could be doing somebody harm, couldn't I?"

"Not necessarily," she answered, relieved he had changed the subject, "you forget some kids are quite experienced sexually not like we were at that age. They mature earlier for one thing and teenagers have much more liberty than we ever had. Look at those cases you read about where it's proved a young girl actually lured a man, deliberately tempted him and not just to tease either, the girl actually wanted sexual relations, just like an adult."

"Yes . . . perhaps . . . but the man is still in the wrong if he actually knows the girl is too young.

"But Martin," she argued, not knowing in the least why she was finding justification for him, "but Martin, if a girl has genuinely matured early if she's say fourteen and yet is physically sixteen or seventeen, it's very difficult for her isn't it? Especially if she's hot blooded and if she's been given too much liberty and does a lot of petting well it's inevitable. What I think is that it's not terrible that she has sexual intercourse in itself, what is terrible is if she gets pregnant and gets left stranded by some inconsiderate man who's just taken advantage of her."

"You mean we shouldn't be shocked, we should just tell 'em about contraception?" he asked, grinning at her.

"Something like that," she said, flushing slightly.

"Well, that's quite an enlightened point of view, Jean I bet your parents wouldn't agree with you."

They both laughed. But Jean was quite shocked inwardly at what she had said. It had come out as a sort of reassurance to Martin in his distress. And yet, reconsidering it, she decided, yes, she DID mean it. Yet it was a surprise to her to find she had an independent opinion of her own. It was probably the first one she had ever expressed; she felt a warm glow of liberation and self-congratulation. Yes she DID think that, so there!

Martin was watching this inner conflict with an amused smile. He guessed what was going on in her mind. He leant forward to replenish her glass.

"Well, even if the kid knows all about contraception and she wants sex, it sill doesn't make any difference to the man and it is really that angle I was talking about. He knows it's against the law and that's that."

"But, Martin, why must you assume the law's always right?" she was shocking herself again, but she plunged on. "You just said there's a law for female homosexuals and another for male well, that's not fair, is it? So why shouldn't the law be behind the times in this also I mean, it's just not caught up with a biological fact the early maturity of young girls!"

"My! My!" he exclaimed, "Listen to young Portia Shakespeare would be proud of you!"

They started to giggle and it broke out into a roar of laughter. After nearly three years of keeping herself in, here was Jean blossoming out with intelligent conversation and new ideas. The dumb, cold, beautiful blonde had somehow matured during those unhappy years.

She stretched her feet out towards the electric fire and took a reckless gulp of her whiskey. She felt exhilarated. Martin, who had so subtly drawn her out, wondered whether he dared go back to his very first question. She surprised him by turning the tables.

"Those kids you . . . made love to before we were married," she asked, "you didn't actually rape them I mean by violence, did you?"

"Of course not!" he exclaimed, "only in legal terms. Oh they were willing enough . . . but it did not stop me from feeling terrible about it afterwards."

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose mostly because it was against the law and I'm normally a law-abiding citizen and also because I felt that they were too young to be really responsible for what they were doing. Therefore I was morally wrong to take advantage of them."

"But, if you agree with me that they were really quite mature, more than kids used to be, surely the point is did you seduce them or did they seduce you?"

"I've had two little girls, if you want to know . . . one thirteen and the other fourteen . . . and one positively lured me into bed, almost raped me. But the other, I'm ashamed to say, I definitely seduced but she loved it, I must say!"

"You naughty old man!"

He realized the whiskey was beginning to talk and he filled up her glass once more. He discovered he was finding her entertaining. She was opening up in a manner he had never expected. It was also pleasant to find someone sympathetic to his problem. He had always imagined that if he told her about his dreams and his experiences she would find him abhorrent. It was true her first reaction had been distaste, but he supposed there was nothing like having a guilty conscience yourself for helping you to be kind about other people's shortcomings. In their case each one had defended the other and yet each one still felt they personally were morally wrong. How peculiar!

"Look Jean," he said, turning to her, "Let's stay together for a while yet. If it gets difficult again, well, we can separate how about it?"

She smiled at him tipsily, "S'alright with me . . . enjoying myself!"

"And Jean . . . if you . . . er . . . want to go and see Dorothy . . well . . . I shan't mind."

She sat uptight, jolted out of a muzzy dream. "What did you say?"

"You 'eard!" he said, smiling down into her green eyes.

"But . . . but . . . " she looked almost frightened.

"Look Jean, our marriage isn't a proper one, is it? And it's never going to be, I know that now. Well, I don't feel I hate you any more now I know why, and I want you to be happy. If we decide to part I'd like to see you fixed up alright, perhaps with Dorothy, if that's what you want. I don't like the idea of you just going off . . . I'd rather you had some place to go to . . . and I'll give you some cash to tide you over . . . that is if we decide not to go on," he finished lamely looking at her apprehensively, worried about how she'd take this. She turned those beautiful eyes towards him, pushing back the long curtain of fair hair. He was surprised to see there were tears in them.

"Dear Martin . . . you really are kind. I don't deserve it, considering everything, and before he knew what she was going to do she gave him a smacking kiss on the cheek which nearly knocked him sideways.

They collapsed into roars of laugher again. Then they got down to serious drinking once more.