Keepsake (34 page)

‘Ah, Private Lonergan!’ Captain Palm’s tone was brightly caustic. ‘I have just had the pleasure of speaking to your wife.’

Marty wrinkled his brow.

‘Well you may frown! Are you not curious as to which wife I refer?’

For a second he failed to comprehend – then the walls came rushing in at him. Etta had come here! A sweat of panic sprang up all over his body, prickling the hair beneath his armpits.

Captain Palm sat back in his chair, his patrician face hard and knowing. ‘I can see just by your expression that you are fully aware of whom I speak.’

‘I can expl—’

‘
Explain!
’ The officer showed derision. ‘Please do not insult me with that well-worn phrase, Private Lonergan, it is the refuge of every wrongdoer in history, the bolthole of a scoundrel…’ He glared at the soldier before him. ‘First, what have you to say to Mrs Lonergan’s charge of desertion?’

Desertion? His old wounds suddenly ripped wide open again, Marty was transported rudely back in time, to relive the months of anguish. He had thought them over, but here he was dragged back to the beginning…

Joining the army had taken an instant weight off his shoulders. Yes, life was hard, but then it always had been and here he didn’t have to think for himself. He was fed at regular intervals and though the discipline was stringent it had helped him forget about Etta…for a while. But then the question of families had arisen and he had had to face it. He missed his children so acutely that the thought of never seeing them again was like acid pouring into his soul. And, remembering the good times, he was compelled
to admit that he missed Etta too, and along with these thoughts guilt had begun to gnaw. He couldn’t leave her without money for the children. So he had written to her, told her where he was, and if not exactly saying he was sorry had enclosed a postal order as a token of his desire to reconcile.

But then the letter had come back, minus postal order, as effective and painful as a blow from a teapot, reminding him how desperate things had become between them, and he had asked himself, did he really want to start it all up again? No – yes – no, because she didn’t want him or she would have come looking for him. So…that was that.

Except that it wasn’t that, because he still loved her. Even though he had found the warm and generous Amelia, who asked nought of him, who, upon his visits, dropped anything she might be doing to treat him like a king, to feed him and love him…even with all this he still thought about Etta, yearned and cried out with his entire being for her, especially when his mother had written to tell him it had all been a big mistake, that man had only been giving her a lift in his car, and that Etta was out of her mind with worry over him. Yes, that had caused a pang of conscience, had made him regret his betrayal of her with another woman, regret even more stringing poor Amelia along, when all the time his body used her his heart belonged to Etta…And now she had been here, accusing him of desertion…

He cleared his thoughts and admitted to the captain, ‘I suppose technically I am guilty as charged, sir, though I have been sending money home every week for the upkeep of my children.’

This did little to affect the officer’s mood. ‘Yes, Mrs Lonergan did tell me that. However, she was most put-out to say the least when I unwittingly informed her that her husband had been going home to his wife every weekend.’

Marty cringed. ‘I thought she didn’t want me back, sir!’

‘So you went and found yourself another! Private Lonergan, perhaps you fail to grasp the rudiments of a Christian society: your entitlement is to one wife, not two, or three, or half a dozen for all I might know.’

‘Sir, I just –’

‘Enough! You’ll have an opportunity to speak when you appear before the Colonel.’ Captain Palm glowered at him for long seconds, before ending peevishly, ‘However, I should like to have all the details at hand when I am called upon to say why I allotted your pass. I’m very disappointed in your lying to me, Lonergan. I took you for a better man.’

‘Sorry, sir.’ Marty projected suitable shame.

‘As well you may be! And what is all this ridiculous business with the misspelling of your name? You caused all manner of inconvenience for those trying to find you. Why sign the attestation form if it was so obviously wrong?’

‘Well, I did try to correct the recruiting sergeant, sir,’ Marty felt a dart of disapproval from the sergeant who stood beside him, ‘but he told me the army doesn’t like troublemakers.’

‘You would have done well to heed him,’ replied the captain gravely, indicating further charges.

Marty felt sick. Even so, he chanced more rebuke to ask with a modicum of hope, ‘My wife, sir, is she still –?’

‘Gone home!’ The captain’s reply squashed any optimism. ‘At least I must presume so from the state she was in.’

Etta had indeed gone directly to the railway station, for what would have been the point of tarrying? Even so, she was subjected to an excruciating wait of an hour until her train arrived, during which she could barely keep still, her feet striding up and down the platform as she asked herself furiously over and over how she could have been so stupid not to see it, picturing him with that…that thing! What else could one call a woman who stole another’s husband?
Nothing else concerned her, not the fact that she had pawned all manner of belongings in order to be there, nor what others on the platform might think of her frantic prowling – she could only see Marty in the arms of another, tormented herself with the vision of him kissing, touching, loving…it made her squirm like a maggot impaled on a hook.

By the time the train arrived she was almost ready to vomit, and the moment a man opened the door of a carriage for her, she leapt on board and flung herself into the darkest recess of a compartment, crossing her arms over her breast to signify that she had no wish to socialise, urging the engine to get a move on, and remaining sick with fury all the way to York.

Dreading the moment when she would have to tell the children, she did not go immediately to collect them but returned to her own empty house, and, seated there in the fireless kitchen, burst into tears at the thought of how they would react. She should never have told them that she was going to see their father.
How could he do this to her?

What a fool! She had always considered him loyal, for he had repeatedly defended her against his parents, but now she realised that his support had merely been partisan; now he had found someone of more use to him he had ruthlessly abandoned her. Spurred by rage, she jumped up and began to seek any personal item of his. She found the mug he used for shaving and hurled it at the wall, gaining no satisfaction when it shattered and having great difficulty in restraining herself from smashing more valuable objects. Rushing upstairs, she wrenched open a drawer and withdrew the few items of clothing he had left – everything worthwhile had been pawned long ago – grasped the patched woollen combinations by the legs and tried to rip them apart, and, failing this, stood on them and heaved with all her might until they eventually gave at the seams,
whereupon she inserted her fingers into the rent and clawed it viciously apart, tossing the two halves of the ruined article aside and reaching for another, going through the rest of his drawer in similar violent fashion, wanting to do to him what he had done to her. How
dare
he cast her aside like some old boot? And all the while she sweated and squealed and cursed and ripped, she was telling herself how stupid she had been to meekly accept what she had been told, to come home with her tail between her legs, when instead she should have demanded to know the address of the woman who had replaced her in his affections. Well, he might think he had got away with it, but just let him see what he had unleashed! She would go back there tomorrow and confront them! Hurling the last rag aside she dashed back downstairs and began to pick things up and put them down, searching for items to pawn so as to acquire the train fare, a jug here, a picture there, a cushion, a pan, all being noisily stacked in a pile on the table. Her wild eyes sought the room for more booty – she would even pawn the clothes in which she stood and drag him back if need be!

But to what end? The rude thought served to interrupt her fevered searching, and Etta stood there panting to undergo more measured argument. The children might have their father back, but what about her? Oh, she would have gladly carried out her plan, would have fought tooth and nail if it meant winning back Marty’s love. But what was the point in fighting when he did not want her?

After further sporadic eruptions of tears, she eventually sank into a trough of despair, just sat there twisting the wedding ring on her finger, the one she had only just put back. She was to remain in this same pose for most of the evening, barely stirring even when the gas ran out and plunged the room into darkness, for she could feel no darker in spirit than she already did.

Even the next morning she continued her avoidance of the children, waiting until after school began before slipping from the house to go and collect William. A neighbour, Mrs Carter, was on her hands and knees scrubbing the pavement in front of her own house. Etta stepped into the road so as not to disturb her.

‘Thanks, love,’ said Mrs Carter, pausing her scrubbing to smile. ‘But I think I might be wasting my time by the look of that sky.’

‘Perhaps we all are,’ muttered Etta, lifting her bloodshot eyes to appraise the thick grey blanket of cloud and in doing so catching sight of the name plate on the wall across the road. Hope Street? Oh yes, hope in abundance, came her anguished, bitter thought.

The instant Aggie saw her daughter-in-law’s blotchy face her heart sank. ‘Ye didn’t make it up then, the pair o’ yese?’

‘I didn’t even see him.’ Etta reached out for her youngest, wrapped her arms around his warm little body and pressed her head against his, trying to draw solace. ‘And I’d no wish to after what I was told. He’s found himself another woman.’

‘
What?
’ Aggie shot a glance at her uncle, who looked just as shocked. ‘How long’s this been going on?’

Etta hid her face in the child’s delicate neck. ‘Quite some time apparently. His officer was under the impression that he’d been coming home to his wife every weekend.’

‘That stupid little –’ Aggie was furious.

‘I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him.’

‘And rightly so!’ Aggie’s heart went out to Etta, who looked most forlorn. Groping for something of comfort, she tendered quietly, ‘Will you be having some toast with your cup of tea, love?’

Etta shook her head. She had been unable to stomach anything, and felt sick even though there was nought to come up.

Loath to upset her further, Aggie chose not to press for more information, waiting for it to be volunteered whilst she brewed the pot of tea. Eventually the injured party was to tell her all that had occurred, at which she pronounced with feeling, ‘God, that boy! Wait till his father hears about this, ’twill kill him.’

Uncle Mal, who had been quiet till now, chipped in with a doom-laden prophesy, ‘Marty could be in serious trouble over this.’ When both women glared at him he added quickly, ‘With the army, I mean. Sure, I know what they’re like, he could be in for a rough time.’

‘Not as rough as the one I’m in for!’ Etta hurled back at the old man. ‘I’m the one who has to tell the children their father isn’t coming back. How on earth am I to –’ Her voice cracked with emotion.

Aggie reached out awkwardly to administer a comforting stroke. ‘Don’t go upsetting them over it yet. Once Marty knows you’ve been to see him he’ll buck his ideas up. He’ll be back, you’ll see –’

‘I don’t want him back!’ raged Etta as if to a fool. ‘Not ever! How could he do this to us?’

Aggie withdrew her hand and crossed her arms, looking embarrassed. ‘I don’t know, darlin’,’ she said quietly. ‘But sure, he’ll be paying for it now.’

‘Good!’ spat Etta. ‘Financially, too, I hope. And whilst we’re on the subject –’

‘Oh yes, I’ll pass on any money that comes,’ Aggie assured her, but deep down her concerns were more for her son’s welfare. Marty could be facing a court-martial over this.

Receiving no news on the matter from the culprit himself, Aggie was to remain anxious that her son could be in serious trouble, and, with another week passing without word, her misgivings were bound to increase, this leading to more than one medicinal glass of sherry.

When an envelope finally did arrive there was to be little relief, for it did not bear Marty’s handwriting and was addressed to the younger Mrs Lanegan. Even so, Aggie was not about to adhere to protocol and without qualm ripped it open.

But still, she was not to be briefed on her son’s fate, for inside was only the usual money order. Whilst retaining her worry, she took this round to her daughter-in-law’s house straightaway.

She was to find Etta in the yard, attacking one of her dining chairs with an axe.

‘For the fire?’ shrieked Aggie upon being informed. ‘Glory be, you could’ve got two bob for that – half a week’s rent!’ Her daughter-in-law had again fallen behind with the latter. ‘Ah well, what’s done is done.’ Sighing, she helped Etta to gather the splintered wood and took some of it indoors, where she also handed over the letter. ‘Here, this might cheer you up.’

But the money did nothing to lift Etta’s melancholy. ‘Seven shillings,’ she uttered in dismay.

‘Sure, that’s what he always sends, but there’s usually a note with it,’ said Aggie, eyeing the other impatiently. ‘Have you had any news yourself?’

Still despondent, Etta shook her head, sat down and dragged a whining toddler onto her lap.

Aggie sat back with a worried expression. What on earth had happened to Marty that he could not send word? But she knew better than to voice this to Etta. She took to studying the other’s face, guessing the thoughts that must be going through her head. ‘The offer’s still open if you want to move in with us.’

Despite the weight of debt, still Etta showed reluctance to give in. ‘I suppose I could take in a lodger.’ Appearing distracted, she came across a dying flea on Willie’s clothes, and in a matter-of-fact way, nipped it off him and threw it into the fire where it sizzled for a millisecond.