Peter stood there with nervous grin plastered to his face and feet temporarily attached to the floorboards outside the door. A bouquet of flowers lay against the black of his uniform tunic providing a stark contrast between formality and the cheery sunshine yellow of the petals. Quietly turning the key in the lock, and firmly shutting it behind him, he could hear the radio and her pottering about in the flat. "Camilla?"
Chummy smiled at hearing his voice filter through the attics to her place in the kitchen to his left and she turned to find he had made it from the door in rather double quick time. The fact he was standing there - looking apprehensive for some reason - didn't make those wonderfully anxious butterflies that danced her stomach go on their merry way one bit. She had been inexplicably in that state since she realised how quickly her day had gone and how he would be home soon. Chummy had also given herself a good old-fashioned talking to in the bathroom mirror as well for being so giddy at the prospect.
'What are you looking at yourself like that for old girl? You can wipe that schoolgirl grin off your face this very second! You know he's just, well, he is just absolutely lovely, and he is your husband, but that look in your eyes just isn't done and you blazing well know it!"
As she turned Victor Sylvester down to a dull roar she had to tick herself off too. For ticking herself off. Again.
The radio had been little loud she would admit but with only her own company to keep herself amused, it broke the silence that pervaded around her and as she turned it down but not off, the room filled with hush again.
Still so conscious of herself, she stepped forward to kiss him 'hello'. They had been home from honeymoon only a night and a day but she had missed him today she had to confess; if only to herself or the mirror. He was back at work but through accident or design, Sister Julienne had not put her on shift until tomorrow so she had a day at home, albeit sadly on her own. She had spent it cleaning and polishing and the attic rooms now shone like a new pin. The kiss was warm, yet still hesitant of her it seemed, and the smell of the chrysanthemums he had bought from the flower seller outside the station faintly drifted to her nose as the bouquet was inadvertently crushed between them.
Peter smiled at her, straightening one of the flower heads, and held them out to her. "I just thought these might brighten the place up". He never normally decorated the attics much. The rooms were functional; did their job as a place to sleep and eat and Peter had never really thought of the fact that those chrysanthemums he'd often seen on the stall might look nice on the table underneath the window until today so he took it upon himself to bring them home. He had wondered, for a moment, on the walk back what had suddenly changed for the thought to even cross his mind.
Oh yes, he had recalled, it was her. The fact she was waiting for him had changed.
Chummy took the flowers wrapped up in striped purple paper and, as he followed her back, placed them by the sink. "Do you have a vase?" she asked, having not quite as yet navigated the nooks and crannies of the small kitchen, casting a glance around her should there be something hiding from her in a dark corner.
"We do" Peter replied, deliberately changing her words. "In that cupboard" he continued gesturing behind her to just next to the cooker, seeing her bend down to look.
'Stop in now Noakes! She's looking for a vase and really, you need to just…Yes you know you've missed her and yes even though you chose to ignore it, you did see the look on Frank's face when you couldn't just shut up about her, but stop it this second! Bending. Down. For. A. Vase. "'
Peter shook his head quickly and thought about vases instead. How he had ended up with one of Mum's best glass ones he would never know. It had perhaps been from when he first moved in and a result of his mother's best attempts to make the attics look more homely and 'nice for a young lady' as she had put it as his father took a deep breath in the background. The vase had disappeared into the cupboard long ago as had that mysterious apparition of a 'nice young lady' and Peter had almost forgotten it was there.
"Go and get changed out of that uniform", she said straightening up with the prize in her hand. "I'll do these and put the kettle on".
Peter walked to his, no, their bedroom to change and she could hear him moving around; drawers opening and shutting and floorboards creaking underneath his feet. "I thought I might run down to the chippy" he said, loudly so she could hear, not realising she had walked in behind him, the pile of ironing in her hands that she wanted out of the way before she started on the flowers and the inevitable mess she would be making.
Chummy stopped in the doorway just listening and watching as he had his back to her, but still talking away. Why did she just feel no reason other than fascination to just watch him move around? "I walked past there before and it was nice and quiet so I thought I could run down now and there wouldn't be a queue and you could…"
She'd noticed that he could go off on many a wild tangent just like she could. He turned quickly and saw her in the doorway. "I was looking for that!" he said, seeing his grey shirt draped over her arm and stepping forward towards her to take it.
Chummy handed him the shirt and sat down on the oyster coloured candlewick that covered the bed, her first intention to unravel the socks and stockings that had decided to become intertwined as they sat in the basket amongst the vests and underwear. It was the remains of their honeymoon washing that she had set about this morning and now happily dry, it needed to go away. She spilled the basket onto the bed and set about pairing up the socks.
"Supper from there would be nice" she eventually replied with a smile, picking up their conversation as she rolled a pair of his socks as he wandered around. "It has only been what? Three days after all since we last had fish and chips for our supper? It will make a change!"
'Did that sound sarcastic? Perhaps you should hope he wasn't listening properly...Sarcasm is the lowest form of humour as Mater used to say...'
To her relief, Peter laughed. Sometimes, well most of the time, her attempts at humour fell flat on their faces but at least he laughed. Genuinely. She breathed a sigh of silent relief as he straightened up from unlacing his boots. It always felt mortally embarrassing when her jokes fell flat, but somehow it was worse around him for some reason. He was the first person she wanted to impress, try to be elegant and pretty for and make sure all the words that were jumbled around in her head came out of her mouth in the right order. She wasn't convinced she was quite managing it just yet though.
"If you want I can run to Mrs Lacey's?" he offered, leaning forward offering up a kiss to her cheek. "It's only a bit further the other way".
She shook her head which he took as she still wanted him to go to Devons Road instead so Peter stepped away and pulled his tie from his starched shirt collar and hung it on the wardrobe handle as she went back to her socks.
It never really struck her until today that she could probably count on one hand the numbers of socks she had paired or how many sink-fuls of washing she had scrubbed. It was strange that she got to thirty two years of age and never had to these things of a domestic nature. Still, she wasn't actually complaining about it. It was really quite abnormal not to know if you would ask her now as she had, many a time, contemplated how things had changed.
Peter sat next to her, pulling off his black work socks replacing them with two others picked out from the pile; faded blue they were, probably needing a stitch or two around the heels but that would do another day. "Did you have a good shift?" she asked.
"On and off" Peter replied sitting up to undo the collar of his formal shirt. Today he would perhaps class as average seven-and-a-half-out-of-ten and no more than that. "I saw Sister Julienne down by Lindfield Street and she said that I must say 'hello'. She was checking you were coming back into work tomorrow too!"
Chummy smiled as she paired another two socks from the pile. She had missed them all and although she had quite enjoyed getting to grips with the attics today, she couldn't repeat that week in week out otherwise she may simply faint from boredom. There was something pleasing about having a tidy flat for him to come home to but he was so inordinately neat already that there wasn't actually much to do even though she would make sure all was in order as that was what she was meant to do, wasn't it? Now that she was his wife? Have a tidy house, dinner on the table (even though it wasn't tonight), be smiling at him when he came home after a hard day her worries not to be a topic of conversation. That's what was meant to happen now she was a married woman or so that abandoned magazine told her that she read yesterday as they trundled back on the train.
"I did tell her I'd be sending you on your way tomorrow morning at six sharp!" he continued with a laugh, undoing his buttons on his work shirt as he went and her eyes wandered to his hands, blinking quickly to dismiss the thought as soon as it entered her head, not quite realising he had seen her hesitate.
For a moment, Chummy panicked and she actually felt a tremor in her hands as she picked up one of his vests from the pile, folding it neatly over on her knee to go into the drawer, hoping he couldn't see the shakes. They'd had a wonderful ten days in Ramsgate and she had become almost, almost, used the affection and the fact that she needed to give him very little encouragement in that department to her surprise. Now though, now they were back home she had wondered, now it was humdrum again and the mundaneness of work and shifts would start up soon enough, if he might just, well, stop. He had noticed though that she seemed distracted with a flash of something in her eyes that Peter was not quite sure that he could read quite yet.
"I'm sorry" she said quickly, picking up another pair of socks to fold, distracted and quite not realising one was black and the other was blue.
"What are you sorry for?" he asked, seeing his wife shake her head far too fast to dismiss his question, until it dawned on him. She saw his hands leave his shirt, almost open to the waist and one just ever so gently touch her cheek, tucking her hair behind her ear. "One thing Grandad always said to me was when I got married was to make sure my wife could tell me what she was thinking; to not be afraid of telling me how she feels; good or bad. That way, I'd have a good marriage and she wouldn't think she was just there to clean up after me…or roll up socks…." he concluded, taking the mismatched pair from her hands.
"You don't want to hear what rattles around in my silly old head. I shouldn't bother you with it". She was looking him in the eye now; feeling frightened of his response and just rather a little stirred as they stared at each other and Victor Sylvester, still piping away in the kitchen, faded into a distant rumble.
She remembered the first time she felt this before; that first night of their honeymoon when he had locked the bedroom door and wandered over to her where she was floating nervously in the moonlight between the dressing table and bed. Oddly not when she allowed him to take her to bed, back weeks ago, in fact in this very bed, but the first night it was as husband and wife that had truly rattled her spirit. She smiled slightly, just touching her lips together and turned her eyes away.
Suddenly, Peter realised something he hadn't considered until that moment. He had been expecting almighty disaster, with the world conspiring to work against his every move as per usual. But no, all seemed to be rather well and easy and until fate had launched her at him, quite literally as it was, he had always been taking one glance behind him.
'You can stop looking now, you really can. This is it for life now. For life'
These last few weeks he had taken heed of the inner workings of his mind and taken note too.
It had been glorious expectation he had felt in those days leading up to the wedding and now finding himself married, particularly to her; the woman he had held a candle for from the moment he set eyes on her, well it was really rather quite marvellous and for the time being he was willing to put aside thoughts of impending doom.
Without another word, Peter leant across, sliding his palm to the back of her neck pulling her forward to kiss her, feeling her arms go around his shoulders in response. She was holding onto him so tightly, even though the remains of the washing basket were creasing between them but these emotions that they had someone managed to create were something that could not be caged up and put away.
She had to know it was alright to have feelings, whatever they may be and if she wanted to look at him like that, then well, she could and he certainly wouldn't be thinking less of her for it. One of these days Peter knew he had to succeed in making sure she knew these feelings of desire, anger, fear, joy and sadness that he knew she had within her were all entirely normal.
"There's nothing you need to feel ashamed about" he whispered; hoping if he repeated it enough that it may sink in one day.
Why should it be different that he was allowed to scrape his eyes over her but she wasn't able to reciprocate if she so felt?
"One should" she began, breaking the kiss with a gentle push on his shoulder, trying to ignore the sudden palpitations erratically drumming in her chest and how easy it would be to just let him push her down on the mattress; washing and fish and chips forgotten. "Do this…." she said, pointing down at the pile of socks and underwear as he felt her arms unwrap from around his neck.
The look on his face was something she could really not describe. "No" he said simply. "I've missed you today and you may find I'm more interesting than my vests" Peter continued, catching her lips in a brief kiss, hovering so close to her that she could feel his warm breath on her face. A laugh bubbled up briefly. Yes, she would admit, he was far more thought-provoking than a vest.
"I missed you too" she whispered as she half closed her eyes, feeling silly as one hand fell on his knee. It didn't sound right - that phrase - to fall from her mouth of all peoples. No-one had ever told them that they had missed her company before and the grin she felt was one that could dissolve her resolve in seconds and it seemed he knew it.
"All that I suggest therefore" Peter said, drifting down so he was breathing on her neck, a fingertip drawing a line up and down the 'v' neck of her dress, "is put all of that back into the basket for now. It can wait. I can't".
Chummy smiled to herself in wonderment, forgetting for a moment that it wasn't meant to be like this. 'He can't wait for me?' she thought as she found herself fiddling with the rest of the buttons of his plain work shirt, opening it up to rest both hands on his chest, still buried under his vest.
'Yes, definitely, indubitably, more interesting in many a way than thermals. Certainly, what?'
Out of the corner of her half closed eyes, she saw his hand push away the pile of washing, most of it hitting the basket that was still between their feet. A stocking that lingered was launched somewhere or other as a shiver shot up and down her spine as she began to relax, breathing deeply and just letting the wonderful feel of his lips on her neck overtake rational thought.
She could feel the buttons on her cardigan being popped one by one, the movement catching the material underneath and the time of day was forgotten as she pulled him forward slightly taking a handful of his shirt wanting to feel him closer; to feel his chest rise and fall as it made her so alive too. "I do love you" Peter muttered but really so quietly that if he wasn't loitering by her ear she never would have heard it.
She rested her palm on his throat, feeling the warmth of his skin. "I love you too" Chummy whispered. She was sure in a few weeks she wouldn't think twice about it, but as her lips caught his again, she still didn't feel worthy. It was almost as though some ethereal being would burst through the door and tell her off for even thinking such a ludicrous thought that this man would want her so.
'It is such a despairing situation...no man in his right mind will even take a backward glance at you. Tell me, what is one meant to do with you Camilla?'
Sitting on the edge of the bed, she shifted back turning to face him slightly better, loosening the last couple of buttons of his shirt, sliding it off his shoulders until he pulled away. "Wait…" Peter said quickly, sitting away from her to undo the cuffs before he shed the blue shirt and reached back across to her pushing her cardigan off her shoulders and she flung that away too.
Kissing him was heaven untamed and if it was to be said, she could easily stay here for some while if she had not known the steps beyond and had not felt just how particular it was to have his weight on her and listen to just what her body seemed to be able to do to him.
She felt his palm drift up her leg, underneath her skirt, passing over her stocking tops to rest on her hip and she followed suite as his palm rested on her bare skin; fingertips gently passing back and forth. Her hands drifted from his chest over his belt buckle, the undone fly of his trousers, massaging his thigh before she ran her palms over his back feeling the solidity of the fact that he was there and not going anywhere any time soon.
They were easily lost in the moment as minutes passed, just indulging and hands coursing over clothes and skin. Now they had each other, for better or for worse, the strength was inordinate and she let out a sigh as she felt the hand under her skirts move.
It was the gentlest touch back and forth across the cotton, repeated, repeated and repeated, but it nearly sent her away, shifting her leg to one side so he could just about slide his fingertips underneath. He loved that little noise she made as he incited just those first edges of arousal and as she caught her breath until there was an almighty, peace-shattering, knock on the door.
"Oh for ba…." Chummy began, tipping her head to one side and scowling at the bedroom door as she felt his forehead touch her shoulder; his hand still and withdrawing from contact.
"That'll be the landlady. She probably saw me come back in", Peter sighed, pulling back from her, palm flat on her leg before he neatened her skirts back to a respectable level. "That's her rent knock. You'll have to go" he concluded, nodding downwards where she had managed to undo his belt and easily forgive his reaction to her attention. Chummy knew she shouldn't laugh as she stood up and took a very quick look at herself in the mirror. "Yes," she replied, gesturing vaguely in the vicinity of his trousers. "One would think it would be rather quite scandalous if you answered the door like that".
One further check later, she turned away from him. Friday night was rent night she had learned, and he kept it in a small tin that long ago used to house ginger biscuits just on the shelf in the kitchen.
Twisting her waistband she dare not look back at him as he had lay back on the bed, arms outstretched and obviously in a state of fundamental disrepair.
She walked quickly, knowing she was would have to fetch the tin down, to attend to his landlady and that ominous knock.