Love Letters From the Grave(15)

Instead, he nodded to her with that strange, intense gaze.

‘You can use the bathroom first,’ he told her.

‘Oh. Thank you. That’s …’ What was that? Unexpected? ‘Kind,’ she finished.

It was kind. He knew she was nervous. Tommy was older and had perhaps had some sexual experience before. This was his way of allaying her fears.

The clock chimed half past the hour. It was eleven thirty. It took Molly a few minutes to undress and put on the new nightgown she’d bought specially for the occasion. She slipped back into the bedroom and perched on the edge of the bed, unsure of herself. Tommy’s dark eyes raced up and down her body, then he turned abruptly, holding his toothbrush, and disappeared out to the bathroom.

By the time he returned, it was close to midnight. Tommy approached her with almost military intention, grasping her by the hands to pull her to her feet. He pressed his face against hers with a ferocious intensity, but Molly felt no affection in the kiss. Where she expected to taste toothpaste and freshness, she met with the sour tang of whisky.

‘Did you have a nightcap?’ she asked gently. ‘I can bring it to you in future.’

She would honor and obey him. And it was his wedding day – why shouldn’t he celebrate with a drink?

Tommy drew back his head. ‘No need,’ he growled. ‘I can get my own liquor.’

‘I just thought—?

‘Get on the bed,’ he said brusquely.

Molly’s breath caught in her throat. She’d hoped to climb under the covers, to be caressed gently and kissed and loved … but perhaps this was the way. Perhaps this was the way of all married couples. Honor and obey, she reminded herself.

‘All right, I’ll—?

She hadn’t even begun to lie down when, suddenly, all hell broke loose. Beyond the bedroom walls, out in the yard where just an hour ago they had danced to gentle music, it sounded as if a war had erupted. Bells clanged and guns were going off as a chorus of men’s voices began shouting and calling. Above their heads, a criss-cross of flashlight beams played on the ceiling and walls of the bedroom. The window being open on such a warm night made the din that much louder. It was bedlam.

‘Tommy, what is it?’ cried Molly, gathering her nightgown around her as if it could protect her.

‘Those bastards.’ Tommy jumped out of bed and ran to the window. ‘Hey, you lousy, noisy bastards! I’m trying to screw my wife in here!’

That was all the provocation they needed, apparently. Raucous laughter and filth such as Molly had never heard before rang out across the yard as Tommy shouted out of the window, gun-shots raining all around them so that Molly feared for her life.

‘Stay here; I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ yelled Tommy.

Molly grabbed his arm. ‘Don’t go out there! You’ll get hurt.’

‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Tommy, shaking off Molly’s hand. ‘Those are my friends out there.’

‘But it’s our wedding night.’

He held up his hands as if she was talking nonsense. ‘That’s why they’re here,’ he snorted.

Then, still shouting obscenities through the window, Tommy pulled on his shorts, grabbed his robe, and ran out of the room. Molly stayed in bed and listened. In a few minutes the shooting and bell ringing died down, but the laughter and shouting continued. She crept to the window, being sure not to cast a shadow. Every now and then she could hear Tommy speaking and laughing, and she thought that she also recognized his best man’s deep voice. Her own name and Tommy's were frequently mentioned, and then she heard the clink of bottles, the tiny glug of liquor being poured.

Alone and scared, Molly slid down the wall until she crouched on the floor, wondering what was happening while the loud cursing, the obscene language and the laughter ebbed and flowed and eventually died down, to be replaced by the deep murmurs of just a few people.

It was over an hour before she began to hear the slamming of truck and car doors, followed by the sound of Tommy clomping up the stairs to their room.

He opened the door and, rather unsteadily, reeled to his side of the bed as he threw his robe and shorts to the floor.

‘It was a belling.’ He reeked of whiskey and was slurring his words. ‘Just my … my friends with a belling.’

She had heard of these loud, boisterous and often drunken gatherings of men beneath the windows of just-married couples, but the actual experience of being subjected to one was much worse than she could ever have imagined.

‘A traditional belling, for the bridegroom,’ he slurred. ‘The happy, happy bridegroom.’

‘Aren’t you happy, Tommy?’ He didn’t sound as if he was happy. More like he was angry.

He didn’t reply. Instead, very roughly, he shoved her back onto the bed, hoisted up her nightgown and took her in one or two painful thrusts that felt as though they were ripping her apart - much, she thought, as a bull would take a cow. He grunted once, breathing whiskey fumes into her face as his seed trickled down her thigh, mingled with the slick of blood. Then he then rolled off her and almost immediately began to snore like a freight train.

Molly was mortified that her wedding night – no worse, her wedding bed - would end up being so horrible. Shivering, she crept to the bathroom and cleaned herself up. Then she slid beneath the bedclothes beside the sprawled-out figure of her husband, and waited silently for dawn to come.