My Conception about My Conception

Maybe my misconception.  Fiction, even

May 1942
From Ockam they couldn't hear the bombs.  It was the only advantage of staying there, with an outside WC and a kitchen that smelt of rat poisoning, however hard Mary scrubbed the surfaces.

For the first two years of their marriage, and the War, they had lived five miles up the road, in Esher.  There had been some social life, home to civil servants, who commuted up to London, and never talked about the devastation they saw.  Mary assumed it would be devastating by now.

Her husband, Tom, was exempt from fighting for medical reasons which wern't completely clear.  He had a bad heart, Tom hinted. He couldn't sleep through the bombing and the sirens, even though the Luftwaffe seemed to take no interest in Surrey suburbia.  His war job as a surveyor, was to assess bomb damage for future compensation.  Tom had become a bag of nerves.

Their marriage was yet to be consumated.

In Ockham, Tom seemed to be happier, and often worked on his Book late into the night.  It was a book about philosophy he was never able to explain.   Mary hated living somewhere so dirty, cold and primitive, but she was married and had to put up with it.

In Ockham, they had almost made love several times.  Well, Mary imagined it was almost.  Kissing and fumbling never led to anything else.  Tom didn't seem to have much idea what to do.

Late that evening, they walked up the hill behind the village.  The moon lit the path.  At the top they expected to see London burning.  But tonight there was no glow, so hint of a  night-long sunset to the east.  Tom and Mary smiled at each other, for once sharing a thought;  maybe the war would be over sooner than everyone said.  She knew it was  unlikely; quite possibly the sky was full of unreflecting clouds.  And then Tom said something about Liberty and Progress, and Mary, without thinking, withdrew her hand from his .

They didn't speak on the way home, but when they got inside and lit the gas light she could see he was angry about something.  Tom was angry with her!

He wanted to got to bed without washing beforehand.  Soon they were almost naked, Tom on top.  Mary felt frightened.  "Perhaps you ought to touch me first," she suggested.  Tom said something unrepeatable.  She could feel his arousal, so aggressive, so unlike before.  And then he thrust inside her, sharp, pitiless.  It was all she could do not to scream in pain.  She hated him.  She hated sex.  Next morning Tom was all smiles.