Keepsake (25 page)

Stunned, she saw the greyness of desperation in his eyes. Immediately, she repented her condemnation of him, her icy protective casing melted and she looked upon him with compassion. ‘As if I would!’ She tried to make light of the arrest. ‘Don’t concern yourself, I’m sure some of these policemen are rather too zealous.’

I
saw
you, he wanted to say, but it hurt too much. Oh, how it hurt to remember the way she had looked at that fellow…

Gently, she removed her wrist from its shackle, using her liberated hand to stroke his face. But to Marty it was the kind of stroke she might use on one of their children. And so was her tone of voice. ‘Now, let me get rid of that plate and then you can take yourself up to bed. Why, you looked quite worn out.’

‘Will you join me?’ he asked softly.

She smiled and nodded, but, ‘I shall have to give William his bottle first.’

This pulled Marty up sharp as he was about to take the stairs. There was a thing: would a mother run off and leave her babies behind? His mother wouldn’t; but he was not so sure about Etta.

Perhaps if he had come right out with it, admitted he had seen her with that man, it could soon have been resolved. But he didn’t. For he was afraid that bringing matters to a head might have the opposite effect to that which he desired, might send her away more quickly than she had planned. Instead, he became more and more worked up, so paranoid that the slightest adverse comment from Etta made him think this was the end.

Things were getting Etta down too. It seemed that everything she said to Marty lately was misconstrued and so she had been forced to ask Red to mend the pram. Even so, her husband remained tense. Following his arrest for obstruction, he had just returned from his morning court appearance to announce he had been fined five shillings.

‘
Five
shillings?’ The moment she opened her mouth she knew he had misunderstood again.

‘Oh, don’t worry!’ he fobbed her off nastily. ‘I’ll make it up by working on Sunday.’

‘I didn’t mean that!’ Etta looked fraught. He seemed to think she was blaming him for the loss of precious income. ‘I was commenting on such harsh…penalty,’ she finished sadly as the door slammed behind him.

Marty strode directly to the railway station. He had gone home with the intention of having lunch with his family, but Etta had made him so angry that he could eat nothing. He made no diversion from his route. How could he tell his mother what was going on? She had warned him about marrying out of his class all along.

He barged his way through streets festooned with Union Jacks and coloured bunting to mark the King’s Coronation. Throughout the week there would be parties galore, but he himself would have no time to attend festivities, oh no, he would be rushed off his feet trying to make up his earnings. And for what? He had four children but hardly ever saw them except on Sunday – and now he had just promised to work on Sunday to prevent his wife carping about money. Damn her! Damn her, bloody damn her!

Reaching the station, he took up his position by the other barrow boys, his agitation still in evidence.

‘What did you get, Mart?’ asked old Arthur, knowing he had earlier been to court.

‘Five bloody bob!’ spat Marty.

Arthur winced, unsettled not just by the fine but by his
pal’s uncharacteristically aggressive mood. ‘Ooh dear, have a fag.’ He extended a packet.

Though he rarely smoked, Marty snatched one, gave cursory thanks, then dealt an additional few words of venom for Custard Lugs, who seemed to be taking an interest. ‘What are you looking at, arse-face?’

‘Not sure. It could be a monkey, it could be a pile of turds,’ the man with yellow ears replied disdainfully, then made ready for the train that was just chugging in.

‘Eh, steady on, lad,’ warned Arthur uneasily, like so many others afraid of the man with the cosh.

‘Ah, let him go bugger himself,’ replied Marty, drawing violently on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke just as forcefully. There had now been rivalry between the pair for years, insults being exchanged, and occasionally an incident would occur, arising from nothing more than that they could not stand the sight of each other. Custard Lugs did not particularly like anyone, but he seemed to detest Marty more than most and the feeling was mutual. In fact, at that moment, Marty felt like punching him in the face, and with his mind in turmoil it was all he could do to stop himself.

A few hours later he was to wish that he had taken the opportunity.

With his licence up for renewal, he was not unduly surprised to be called in front of the relevant authority. However, he was soon to be disabused as to the reason for this summons.

‘I have to inform you that we intend to rescind your licence, Lanegan,’ said the official.

‘Wha—but why?’ A look of sheer disbelief joined the beads of perspiration on Marty’s face.

‘Your recent conviction.’

Utterly devastated, he threw back his head and groaned. It was obvious who was responsible for leaking news of his downfall, for the incident had not yet appeared in the newspaper. ‘Sir, please, it was only a paltry offence…’

‘Irrelevant, I’m afraid, the rules state that –’

Marty didn’t wait to hear any more, but swivelled on his heel. He was going to get that bastard. By God he was. But his fury was so clearly evident that Custard Lugs saw the danger long before it occurred, and when Marty unleashed his wrath, all that it earned him was a swift cuff and he was flat on his back. Immediately, he struggled up to try again, cursing and spitting as he launched himself, and indeed he did manage to land a few blows of his own before being hauled off by a much heavier-set platform inspector. But it failed to satisfy, and, furthermore, he was ordered to go home or he would find himself arrested yet again.

Happy, happy, happy!
Everybody was fucking happy apart from him. Marty raged at the smiling faces that loomed at every turn of the way, all in party mood, buying new frocks and hats to celebrate the Coronation. He lashed out at a balloon that floated away from the bunch and loomed into his face.

‘Watch it, chum!’ warned the balloon-seller, as irritated as he by this stifling heat.

‘Or what?’ snapped Marty, marching straight on.

Only when he was almost home did he ask himself why on earth he was heading back here. There was bound to be another argument when he told her…

His children were delighted to see him, though, and he to see them, and even whilst anger and frustration simmered inside he managed to contain it sufficiently to show interest in the decorations they were making, and forced a pleasant laugh as they paraded before him in their paper crowns.

But he could gladly have strangled Etta, who as usual had become carried away with her own interests, allowing the living room to be strewn with paper and scissors and glue and coloured tissue, whilst the pots went unwashed and the bucket used for soaking Will’s dirty napkins was full to the brim with yellow stinking water.

‘You’re early,’ she said.

‘My, you’re observant.’ He tried not to shout and frighten the children, but his tone and his eye were severe. ‘Maybe that’s ’cause I’ve lost me bloody licence.’

Etta sagged in dismay.

‘So!’ He dug in his pocket and carefully but deliberately set a handful of coins on the table. ‘You’d better make the most of these – they might be the last you see.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘In fact, make the most of this house, for we’ll probably have to move to a shack.’

Trying to hang on to her own temper, Etta demanded, ‘What happened?’

‘I’ll tell ye what happened!’ Marty’s voice began to rise, his intention to say
I was watching you and your fancy-fella canoodling when I got arrested
. But he did not get the chance, for Etta cut in.

‘Oh, damnation, it’s Aunt Joan!’ Through a gap in the grubby lace curtains she had seen the trim little figure mincing up the path.

‘Christ!’ Marty raged at the heavens. Then, ‘Quick, kids, tidy all your things away!’ And he too began to help clear the mess, clattering the pots into the sink in an attempt to hide them. ‘At least if we move to a smaller house we won’t have the dubious pleasure of her visits!’ He noted Etta’s worried mien. ‘Well, I can’t see why you’d be concerned, you’ve treated this one like a dustbin.’

Too deeply wounded to give any constructive response, Etta flung at him before stalking off to admit Joan, ‘Do you think we might have a little courtesy whilst the guest is here?’

Marty rushed to move the stinking bucket of dirty napkins outside, but was caught in the act.

‘I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time?’ The visitor wore a smile that became edged with distaste upon sight of the bucket.

Marty had not the inclination to force politeness today.
‘Couldn’t be better, Aunt Joan. You can help wash these nappies if you’ve a mind. Make yourself useful for once,’ came the added mutter.

Joan delivered a light laugh but her nostrils flared and a mouse-like hand twitched at the lace on her bosom. ‘Someone had a little accident?’ Her eyes viewed the rest of the disarray, smiling unsurely at the children.

‘No, it’s one big bloody accident,’ seethed Marty.

‘You must take no notice of my husband’s mood, Aunt Joan!’ Etta stepped in with a calm apology, at the same time ushering the guest to a chair and throwing a look of recrimination at Marty. ‘There is no excuse for his rudeness but there is a reason: Martin has lost his licence.’

‘Oh, dear.’ Seated now, Joan donned a look of understanding for her nephew. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you can’t work?’

Marty suffered no guilt at having vented his spleen on her, but now sought to moderate his reply. ‘Fortunately no, I can still earn a bob – will you have tea, Aunt?’ When Joan said she would, he assisted Etta in getting out the cups and saucers, not because he had any wish to help but to keep himself occupied.

‘We might have to move to a smaller house,’ five-yearold Edward told the guest.

Both parents looked daggers at him for this indiscretion.

‘Oh, Martin, do you really?’ The mousy face portrayed the enormity of such a move. ‘It would be such a comedown for poor Etta.’

‘Not in the least.’ Etta saw her husband’s dangerous expression and sought to avoid further upset by conveying nonchalance. ‘I’m sure we’ll be happy wherever we live – children, why don’t you finish off your Coronation hats?’

‘They are finished,’ pointed out Celia.

‘Then do something else. Write a story.’ Fighting her misery, Etta piloted the small bodies to a corner, providing
them with writing and drawing materials. ‘Sit quietly now and let the grown-ups speak.’

‘Still, it will be a great shame to lose this place,’ opined Joan, clinging to the theme.

Deciphering censure in her tone, Marty bubbled with unspoken insults, becoming angrier and angrier as half an hour was to tick by and still the conversation revolved around the same subject. Why was everyone blaming him? The one responsible for all this was sitting right there. He glared under his lashes at Etta, who chose to ignore him.

‘Father, may I ask something, please?’

Marty turned at Celia’s polite interruption and, overcoming his anger, responded to her query over how to spell photograph. ‘Pee, haitch –’

‘Aitch,’ cut in Etta impatiently. This particular failing had always irritated her. The entire Lanegan family said haitch. She had always bitten her tongue until now, but Martin’s obnoxious comments had injured her deeply; two could play at that game.

Marty bristled at being corrected in front of his relative. Why was she treating him so abominably? Did she not realise how much he had sacrificed to put her here? Had she no appreciation of the countless excuses he had made for her, no inkling how much he loved and adored her?
Had
loved…but she seemed intent on killing that with her petty attempts to belittle him. ‘
Haitch
,’ he repeated deliberately, before spelling out the rest.

Etta felt his eyes boring into her, feeling just as angry as he, but trying to maintain some semblance of dignity in the face of such provocation. Why, why was he treating her like this? Did he not realise how much she had sacrificed to be here? Had he no appreciation of the way she had defended him in the face of her parents’ disapproval? She had not uttered one word of complaint when he had taken her to live in penury, because she had loved and adored him. Why was he now so intent on killing that love?

Made awkward by the atmosphere, Joan formed an excuse to leave. ‘Oh dear, I do believe I might have left the gas on – I shall have to go!’

‘Every cloud has a silver lining then,’ sallied Marty.

The insult went undetected as Joan rushed away, wishing them luck in keeping the house. Marty could barely wait for her to exit before exploding, ‘Did you have to make such heavy weather of correcting me?’ The children looked up collectively, a flicker of alarm in their eyes.

‘It wasn’t I who made heavy weather of it. I simply wanted the children to receive the correct example.’ Clad in her armour of ice, Etta began to remove the teacups and plates from the table, clattering them along to the scullery and then coming back for the teapot.

‘Making out that their father is an ignoramus!’

‘You did that for yourself, taking it out on Joan because you lost your licence!’

‘Oh yes, and didn’t you just make the most of that! Couldn’t wait to tell her we’d have to mo—’

‘I said no such thing!’ Not wanting to blame Edward, Etta clenched her fist around the teapot handle and snapped at him, ‘You’re deranged.’

‘If I am ’tis you who made me so! And that’s a good one about teaching our children by example, a really good example
you
set for them! Well, go on, then, bugger off with your fancy-fella, see if I care.’

The children started to cry in unison. Etta spared them only a harassed glance before demanding, ‘What the devil are you talking abou—’

‘I
saw
you!’ bawled Marty above the din of his crying children. ‘The day I got arrested in Coney Street ’twas because o’ you! I saw you with that man in the car!’

Etta looked puzzled at first, then she let out an incredulous laugh.