Too soon–far, far too soon–he gave a gasping shudder, and fell heavily onto her. Donna lay still, not caring that he was crushing her ribs, only caring that after this he was hers, utterly and irrevocably. It no longer mattered if the entire female population of the world set out to screw him, because this afternoon she had printed Don with her own stamp and no other girl would ever be able to measure up to this.
The sun poured in through the half curtained windows and the bed, although a bit old, was soft and comfortable. There was no need to get up yet; the bedside clock was only pointing to half past one, and their parents would not be home for ages. Don was still lying half across her, but he was no longer squashing her and he had fallen into a half sleep. The room was warm and drowsy; Donna’s own eyelids grew heavy and she, too, slept.
She was woken by the sound of footsteps–two sets of footsteps–on the stairs, and by her mother’s voice laughing and calling to know where the children were. Were they in bed asleep at this hour, the pair of lazybones they were! They had had such a good day, there was masses to tell, and lots of research to discuss…
The bedroom door opened.
Donna would never forget the sight of her mother’s face as she took in the sight of her children lying in bed, their bodies still tangled together, the sheets pushed aside. She would never forget the sight of her father standing behind her mother, his face white with shock and anger, his eyes suddenly hard and cold. Donna was suddenly aware that there was a patch of wet stickiness under her thighs, and that the stain was probably visible. She was conscious of her own uncovered body, and of Don’s. She sat up and pulled the sheet over her.
There would be a dreadful row, but they would talk their way out of it, just as they always did. Don would be with her–he would help her through it. He would not let her down.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Don did not really let her down. Not really. He stammered and flushed, was sulky and truculent and tearful by turns. It was important to remember he was only fifteen, and had not the experience of life to help him deal with such a situation. Donna had not really the experience of life to deal with it either, but she would bluff her way through.
But when it came to the crunch, there was no bluff that could change her parents’ decision and there was nothing that could dilute their horror. Disgusting, said their mother, who had rushed from the bedroom to be sick in the bathroom. Perverted and disgusting and just plain wrong. How on earth were they to deal with such a situation? That was what she wanted to know.
Donna thought it a bit over the top of her mother to keep shuddering and sipping brandy, and to keep pressing a handkerchief to her lips as if she might be sick again at any minute. She glanced at Don, but he was watching their mother cry and ply the handkerchief, clutching at their father’s hands. When their father spoke, Don listened without interrupting. Donna always had a shock when her father spoke in that stern authoritative voice, although presumably it was the way he sometimes spoke to people at the office.
Standing in the sitting room of Charity Cottage, Jim Robards said in an unshakeable and severe voice this was how it was going to be, and neither Donna nor Don need argue with him: they would be separated at once. He ignored Donna’s gasp of dismay and said Don would go back to school, of course–there was only another couple of weeks of the holidays in any case–and Donna would go somewhere out of England. Perhaps to one of those places in Switzerland that had once been called finishing schools. She could study languages or cooking or train to be a model or any damn thing she liked, but she would not live in England for at least two years, was that quite clear?
‘Oh, perfectly,’ murmured Donna. ‘But you can’t absolutely make me do any of that, can you? I’m eighteen–I can do whatever I want. I can live where I want.’