Chapter 26 twenty five queenie

Bernard would unbutton his pajamas, loosen the tethers of his pajama bottoms, and tuck the fabric in his hand so it wouldn't fall out and spoil the surprise.Honey?This is said in question sentences, but the second half of the sentence is never finished.Those shyly skipped words echoed between us, too vulgar to utter.I would stop reading and undo my pajamas when he went to bed.Early on, he'd kiss me, full on the lips, slipping his timid tongue carefully into my mouth, and then the tip of his mouth like a chicken.His hands would slide under the comforter and track my nightgown until it couldn't go any further, then fold the material and pull it up until he slipped his hands in, spread my legs, and rolled over on top of me.Early on, he'd stare into my eyes and breathe soft, warm breath.After that, he looked at the headboard of the bed some distance away, and the corners of his mouth were filled with two white spittle that looked like bread crumbs.He would search around, with the same concentration of finding a light switch in the dark, and not enter until he finally located it.Slippery like a greasy salami, but mostly bark.He would sigh, as if sinking into a hot tub, and climb up my dressing gown with one hand, laying awkwardly on top of my left breast.A choked breath made him turn pink, then a grunt, splattering his saliva all over my neck, and it was over.Early on, he'd still kiss me when he rolled over me, but then, with his pajamas still unbuttoned, he ignored me.

The scent of those lily-of-the-valleys.Porcelain-perfect powder makeup on hair that had been tousled for hours.Silk stockings, bright red lips, pretentiously soft hands.I'm married to someone who wouldn't notice if I wore a gas mask to bed.If I could ask Aunt Dorothy if that's all about sex, I know she'd say otherwise, what do you think? Children, I think of children!What remained in my mind was a whole host of warnings from home about all sorts of things.I was frightened when my breasts began to swell in the overalls.Kiss at the garden gate, furtive caresses at the cinema.If he sticks his tongue in your mouth, there will definitely be children.If he touches your boobs, well, it's twins.And what girl doesn't know that she could get pregnant just by sitting on the toilet seat!So having sex every Saturday and Sunday (sometimes twice during the week) for more than a year will definitely give birth to a child for me.

The doctor asked me: Do you like your marriage relationship? I am not very sure. Mrs. Bligh, you don't know if you like marriage or not? Not quite sure what a marital relationship is, doctor. Ever since he squished a buzzing blowfly against the glass, I've been the most annoying thing in his dark consulting room.The doctor assured me that if I wasn't fully engaged and enjoying the relationship with my husband, I would never have gotten pregnant.A young, beautiful, healthy woman like you is unlikely to have a problem.My advice to you is: go home and try harder. When the war was almost certain, the vicar of St. John's Church, wondering if it was wise to try to bring the child into the world, asked me to go away and think about it.So I switched to the Roman Catholic Church and lit a candle.I know they won't mind.

Queenie, I want to have kids.Bernard told me more than once.Almost indicted on me.He thought I didn't know he was searching my chest of drawers to see if the tampon packs were opened or not.He always knew my monthly cycle.But what he didn't know was that I was crying over every curse that came and went as I faced those bloody rags. There were sixty-five steps from the basement to the attic in the Earl Lane house.When I finished counting, I told Bernard, and he said: Exactly.And that's not counting the five steps up to the front door.Sixty-five steps and countless rooms.But Bernard and his father Arthur lived like unwelcome little mice in a few rooms in the basement.All other rooms are empty, with one exception.Previously had tenants.Most of them are male tenants who come to London to work, stay for a few weeks or a month, and then continue to move elsewhere.In the empty rooms, Bernard would draw the curtains, cover the chairs and beds with newspapers, and close the doors.

Barely before the wedding candy was on the floor, Bernard told me: I don't want my wife to go to work. I will hold him.After being a maid for so many years, who would not be moved to hear such a thing?I'm going to be a housewife.I can also hear Aunt Dorothy say: Oh, Queenie, you're out of danger now. Let's open up the house.That's what the bride suggests.I waved the polish and duster around all day, trying to show Bernard what it would look like.I put cloth and flowers on the table.Swap out the heavy red brocade drapes for a contemporary look with roses climbing up.We can have our own living room.I lobbied Bernard to remove some of the large old bookshelves and cabinets that lingered like ghosts from the family past.Bernard, you can have a study and use one of the rooms for reading.To let some light in, open the windows.Could be turned into a decent home again.But what I suggested, Bernard mostly shook his head against it.why not?

I have my reasons.But I never heard him say those reasons.Is it not enough for me to take care of him and his father?What about shopping, cooking, cleaning?Also, I'm really a silly big sister, didn't I know there was a war coming?Sometimes he thinks about moving to the suburbs.