Keepsake (38 page)

‘I have to rush.’ He seized her hand imploringly. ‘I’m leaving tomorrow. I don’t know when we might get the chance to talk again. We’ve been getting along well this week, haven’t we?’

‘Well enough.’ Her heart had begun to race and she extricated her fingers from his grip. To Etta the act of holding hands was one of the deepest intimacies a couple could enjoy, and she would not reinstate it lightly. ‘But you can’t expect an instant transformation, Martin.’

‘I don’t expect one, especially after what’s happened, what I did…’ He looked at his rejected fingers for a while, picking at his nails, trying to summon the words, then he looked up at her again. ‘But even in the middle of it all I never stopped loving you, Ett. I always will.’

Frowning, she turned again to study him, her heart and mind at war. Much as her body leapt with desire for that lovely face, to be held in those arms, to press her mouth to those beautiful lips, another instinct warned that this would be letting herself down. It had been bad enough him running away, though in the circumstances it had been understandable and she could have eventually forgiven that digression, but his infidelity had wounded her too deeply…How could she be sure that if she allowed him back into her life he would not do it again? How could she even be sure that she herself would ever be able to allow him to touch her without the loathsome image of that other woman in between them?

She took a deep breath. ‘We’ve only been together a matter of days, and in someone else’s house. How can we possibly know how things would be?’

He thought he caught a glimmer of surrender in her eyes and quickly took advantage. ‘I’ve been thinking about that. Maybe you could move down to Lichfi—’

‘I’m not dragging the children down there, away from everyone!’

‘Hear me out!’ he urged earnestly. ‘You wouldn’t be living in barracks, we could rent a nice house and I could apply for a pass so’s I could get to see you more regularly.’ His transgression with the bogus ‘wife’ had long been forgotten by his commanding officer if not by Etta, ‘It’d give us more chance to be like a family again – see, as things stand I’ll only be able to get up here every once in a while, and with three more years to serve –’

‘No!’ she intervened loudly. Unnerved by the closeness of him, she shuffled along the sofa to insert a space. ‘Stop trying to bully me, Martin.’

‘I’m not!’ he cried instantly.

‘You are!’ This was getting dangerously close to an argument. Etta toned down her response. ‘You might not mean to – but you seem to think everything must revolve around your needs, and there are five other people involved. Now, let’s maintain the status quo for a while and see what happens.’

‘But I might not get up again for months!’

‘Then it will give each of us time to consider what went wrong before so that it doesn’t happen again – take things slowly.’

Disappointed, he was forced to nod compliance. If she wanted him to court her then he would. In the pensive interval that followed, he pondered on how ironic this was: there had never been the need to woo her before their marriage, her impulsive streak had matched his own and she had needed no persuasion to run away with him.

She felt him watching her, wondered over the thoughts that might be going through his mind, then said, ‘I don’t think you’ll ever really understand how much you hurt me.’

At her words his face crumpled, and he tried unsuccessfully to put a hand to her cheek. ‘I’m so sorry, oh God, I’ve been such a bloody fool. If I could turn back the clock, get back what we had –’

‘You can’t,’ she said bluntly.

He looked devastated. ‘But you led me to believe –’

‘That I’ll try,’ she corrected him firmly. ‘But even if we do get back together, things can never be as they were.’

How much more of this scourging could he take? A hint of irrevocability burdened his tone as he realised that even if he did take this as slowly as she demanded, there was no hope of a total healing. ‘Then I don’t know if I’ll be able to stand it,’ he told her, ‘being near you but having you hate me.’

Etta sat back slightly and furrowed her brow. ‘You’re the father of my children, how could I hate you? I don’t ever recall saying I did.’

‘But you’ve stopped loving me.’

‘I don’t recall saying that either.’

His eyes flickered with renewed hope as he said cautiously, ‘So, you do still feel something?’

‘I feel all manner of things – betrayal, grief, wretchedness…’ Those feelings came rushing back to choke her now, to override any physical desire, causing her eyes to burn and glisten, ‘…but I never stopped loving you.’

He heaved with relief and made a lunge for her, but she pressed a hand to his chest to fend him off. ‘I meant what I said about taking things slowly.’

Forced to sit back, Marty nodded and studied her, looking deep into her eyes before folding his arms gently around her and holding her to him until the sound of the back gate broke the spell.

When Aggie and the men came in, Marty and Etta were seated as distantly from each other as ever. But something in her son’s demeanour told Aggie that things had changed for the better, and when he finally made to leave she dared
to suggest that he might like to spend his last night there.

‘You could sleep on the sofa in here,’ she said hurriedly lest Etta thought she was trying to arrange some kind of rapprochement. ‘No call wasting your leave if you’re not due back till nightfall, and ’twould be nice to give the nippers a few more hours with their daddy before ye have to catch your train – they could come and wave you off at the railway station.’

‘Oh, Christ, no,’ said Marty with feeling, shutting his eyes against the very thought. It would be difficult enough leaving as it was. He donned his coat, then formed a goodbye to his wife, a sad smile on his lips.

Experiencing similar emotions, Etta sought to offer compassion. ‘Well, I’m sure you’ll be back to see us in no time.’

Unable to communicate with his wife in any other way than by letter, and unskilled in the art of poetry, during the next couple of months Marty struggled to court her with only the aid of pencil and paper. But how? It never even occurred to him to begin
my dearest darling wife
, which was the thought that was in his heart – much too embarrassing for a working man – yet
Dear Etta
sounded as if he were addressing a mere acquaintance. Even
My dearest wife
was not right at all – it could lead her to believe he was drawing comparisons between her and Amelia. Well, that might be true in a way, he did think of Amelia occasionally, how could he not when she had been there for him in a time of crisis, providing for his needs? But not for a second had he considered her his one true love; that crown belonged to Etta…though how to make her believe this was a daunting task. Back to where he had started, he heaved a sigh, licked the tip of his pencil and began in the time-honoured fashion, hoping that the simple terms he used to convey his longing might one day lead her to share the sentiment.

Etta did share it – at least in the struggle to communicate her feelings. Unable to afford either the time or the money to visit him, a letter was a poor substitute and, with absence lending her the time to reflect on how she had felt at their last meeting, she found herself yearning to commune with him again in the flesh.

Looking back, as their weekly missives piled up, neither of them could pinpoint a date when the realisation dawned that there was going to be a war in Europe. For Etta the threat was nebulous, gleaned through outpourings of doom from Uncle Mal and, ignored as senile rambling, relegated to the back of her mind by the more immediate concern of civil unrest nearer to home. ‘I do hope this trouble in Ireland dies down soon,’ she expressed her concerns to Aggie, who responded with a fatalistic sigh:

‘There’ll always be trouble in Ireland. ’Tis the nature of the place.’

‘Yes, but they’re talking about a civil war…’ Etta’s gaze was distant and anxious. ‘I couldn’t stand it if Marty were dragged back there to put his life at risk, before we’ve had a chance to be together again, properly I mean…’

And with her mind focused thus, she had no inkling that they might be parted through another violent source.

For Marty, though, the grave conclusion was reached much earlier. There had been rumours flying around for weeks that a European war could be imminent, though neither he nor his fellow soldiers had taken it seriously at first – the German Kaiser had always been a gasbag and the supposed threat a couple of years back had come to nothing – but now, to growing unease, clues had begun to appear that they were indeed being prepared for active service. Training had become more rigorous; battalion orders gave a list of requirements that must be carried in their pack at parade; each man must conserve his own ration as on the battlefield. He could not bring himself to reveal these fears in his letters, allowing Etta to assume that the only reason he had not yet been up to visit her was that leave was doled out sparingly, when in actual fact all passes had been cancelled. Now, however, the Germans had invaded Belgium and only a fool could not see what lay ahead. For some this manifested itself in panic buying, provision stores being inundated with requests for bacon
and flour, keeping Etta so busy that by the close of one humid August afternoon there was not an ounce left for her to take home for tea. But for her there was much greater concern than lining one’s belly, and for Marty too.

When the announcement finally came a great cheer went up throughout the barracks along with a fervent desire to be at the murderous Hun, a will that resounded across the breadth of England. Were Marty and Etta the only ones whose blood ran cold? It mattered not that it was to be a short war – over by Christmas, everyone opined – but Marty’s fatalistic streak told him that a man could be killed on his first day out, and sure as hell that man would be himself. More desperate than ever to reconcile with his wife, he rushed to apply for leave to visit her, his normally unsympathetic sergeant championing his application to the company commander.

Captain Palm appraised the situation compassionately. The battalion could go nowhere until it was up to full strength and they were still waiting for some reservists to arrive. Most of the other married men had their wives and children, if not living in barracks, then in the near vicinity. Aware that Lanegan – or Lonergan as he called him still despite the records being amended – had been attempting to repair his marriage, he asked, ‘Can you manage to be there and back and do what you have to between now and tattoo?’

‘Yes, sir!’ barked Marty without consulting a clock, though knowing it was going to be a terrible rush for it was now mid-morning.

‘Then I shall grant your request – but on the strict understanding that you’ll be packed up and ready to march the instant you return.’ Captain Palm briskly stamped the pass and handed it over.

Portraying gratitude, Marty rushed to store his personal chattels in his ditty-box, folding his dress tunic and white belt into tissue paper in order to keep them clean, for it
might be weeks before he needed them again. Then, with everything done, he hurried to the station.

With the schools being closed for the summer holiday there were children everywhere, many of them chattering excitedly about the war to him and any other soldier on the platform. He tried to be pleasant, whilst inside his stomach churned at the thought that such conversation with his own sons and daughters would be limited: by the time he reached York it would be almost time to come back. But it was thoughts of Etta that concerned him most. If only he could have telegraphed ahead to let her know he was coming…

Finally arriving in York, he was first off the train and almost elbowing people aside in his haste to reach the cab rank. Luckily there was no queue, but the traffic was dreadful, most of it being caused by the military, and to his agitation it took twice as long as normal to get to Hope Street. Once at his mother’s house he grabbed the door knob but one twist told him it was locked and that could only mean that everyone would be out for the day. Damn! He rubbed an agitated hand over his jaw, his grey-green eyes searching for an answer. There was no problem getting in, all he had to do was stick his hand through the letter box and retrieve the key on its piece of string, but what would be the point when there was no one home? On his way here in the cab he had craned his neck to peer into the shop where his wife worked and had not seen her, but now, thinking he could have been mistaken, he ran back to check. Informed by another assistant that it was Etta’s afternoon off he began an immediate search for her, starting with his eldest sister’s abode.

In the middle of ironing, Lou was at first shocked when he burst into her kitchen, then her face lit up in welcome. ‘Hello, stranger!’

Breathing heavily, for he had run all the way through town, he asked, ‘Is Ma here?…Sorry, Lou, that was no
greeting, how are ye?’ He grabbed her to dab an appeasing kiss to her cheek, adding quickly, ‘But I’ve only a few hours –’

‘Oh, Marty, they’ve all gone to Scarborough!’ Louisa abandoned her ironing to concentrate on him, her eyes oozing sympathy.

‘What, Etta too?’ At her piteous nod he clasped his head as if in agony. ‘Oh, shite!’

Guessing his reason for being there, Lou hurried to stroke him. ‘Is it going away to war you are?’

He nodded despairingly. ‘I couldn’t leave without seeing Etta and the kids…but it looks like I might have to.’

The mother of five tried to comfort her younger brother as she had done for him as a child when he had hurt himself, directing him to an armchair and pressing him into it. ‘Maybe not, they’ll be home about six, they won’t want to be out late ’cause of the little ones’ bedtime – what time do you have to be back by?’

‘Ten at the latest.’ Slumped in the chair, he cast a pointless look at the green imitation marble clock, working out if he had time to get to Scarborough and look for them. It was futile, of course.

‘Well then!’ Lou tried to sound cheerful. ‘You should catch an hour or so with them. I know it’s not much but…’ Her kind blue eyes offered encouragement and she went to make a pot of tea. ‘Can I do you something to eat? Bread and jam all right?’

He nodded without enthusiasm. ‘And they’ve all gone, ye say?’

‘All except Dad,’ she continued to speak whilst sawing at a loaf, ‘he’s managed to find himself some labouring.’

Marty frowned. ‘How on earth did they afford the train tickets?’

‘Oh, they didn’t go on the train!’ Casting a smile at him, she plastered the bread with butter then scraped most of it off again. ‘One of the customers who comes into Etta’s shop
for his bacon, well, he’s a chauffeur for some big nob and he gets to use the car when the boss is away up in Scotland. Etta sweet-talked him into taking them to the seaside – mindst, I think he assumed he was just taking her, not the entire Lanegan family! I wouldn’t fancy Uncle Mal in the back o’ my posh car if I had one – don’t look like that, there’s nothing funny going on, Etta was just giving the kids a treat – anyhow, she decided it would be too busy on the Bank Holiday so she arranged it for her afternoon off. Just her luck that the Huns decided to go on their picnic at the same time. If she’d known you were coming…anyway, now, you sit and eat that while I tell you all that’s been going on. Did ye hear Jimmy-Joe got himself a job as an errand boy after school? No? Oh well, you’ll get a laugh out o’ this, sure, he only walked in on Mrs O’Hara when she was…’ And she proceeded to burble on maddeningly whilst a doleful Marty ate his sandwich.

With nowhere else to go, he was to spend an anxious afternoon with his sister, waiting until her children came in from their day’s adventures and sparing a few jocular moments with them before making his way back to see if his father was home.

Red was delighted at the arrival of his eldest son. ‘Marty, how great to see you – now I can have a cup o’ tea instead of bloody water!’

The reply was sour. ‘Oh, thanks, I’m glad I have my uses.’

‘Ach, ye know what I mean!’ Red cuffed him lightly and directed his son to put the kettle on the fire, which he himself was not permitted to do in case of accident, nor even to smoke his pipe if unaccompanied. ‘Here, share this with me.’ Generously he offered the cold meal left by Aggie in case she was late.

‘Thanks, Da, but make sure you give yourself plenty though,’ warned Marty, having attended to the kettle, watching his father divide the platter, saving his news for
later. ‘You look as if you need it – have you been falling over again?’

Red touched the bloody graze on his head and winced. ‘Aye, fell off a cart as I was up there loading and bashed me head on the iron wheel-rim – nearly did for me, so it did – here now, wrap your gob around this.’ Both set to eating.

But Red’s delight at seeing Marty turned to shock upon learning that he might be off to war in the next day or so, this causing him periodically to fall asleep throughout his son’s brief visit.

Six o’clock came and there was no sign of Etta. There was a spark of hope when someone poked their head in but it was only Mrs Gledhill.

‘Marty, hello!’ She entered, smiling, just as Red woke up. ‘I didn’t know you were coming! I were just saying to Mrs Thrush, I’ll have to look in on Mr Lanegan in case he’s had any little accidents…’

‘Ye make it sound like I’ve messed my breeches!’ objected Red.

‘Clot, I meant with the fire!’

‘Got you checking up on me, has she?’ he growled.

A Yorkshire woman through and through, Mrs Gledhill suffered no back-chat, jocular or not, and wagged a finger at him. ‘Now you know Aggie’s only looking out for you.’

Red’s face was stern but his eyes twinkled at Marty. ‘Oh yes? I’d have had to put up with bread and water if it wasn’t for this boy here – going off gallivanting to the seaside while the man o’ the house starves.’

Out of politeness, though his heart was not really in it, Marty shared the banter, then asked the neighbour, ‘How’s your Albert these days, Mrs Gledhill? I’m told he’s at the glassworks now.’

‘Don’t you mention that name to me!’ Pretending outrage, she bent towards Marty and bellowed, ‘He’s only gone and joined up! His father’s
absolutely
livid – says he must be mad to risk chucking up a good job like that – if
it’s a scrap he wants there’s plenty round here would give him one without trailing all the way to France! And it’ll all be over before he’s got off the bally boat.’

‘Let’s hope so,’ nodded Marty.

‘Oh, you’re off an’ all, are you? Well, it’s different for you, you have to go where you’re sent, but that daft bugger of mine…’ Calmer now, Mrs Gledhill smoothed her plump, aproned breast and wrinkled her nose to project forbear-ance. ‘Well, I suppose I am proud of him really…he always was quick to jump in when he saw any bullying. His heart’s in the right place even if his brain isn’t.’ She grinned and made to go. ‘Right, I’ll leave you lads to it, nice to see you again, Marty.’

‘Aye, and you, Mrs Gledhill. Give my regards to Albert.’ It was hardly believable that the small boy who had once hero-worshipped him was now off to fight a war. ‘I still think of him as nine, you know.’ He went with her to the door, his main reason being to cast a frantic eye up and down the street, though to little benefit.

Coming back inside, he said dully to his father, ‘They’re not coming, are they?’

Red sighed and shook his bushy head. ‘I’m sorry, son.’

It grieved Marty to say it, but, ‘I can’t wait any longer.’

Red offered a scrap of encouragement. ‘You might pass them on your way.’

His son nodded despondently, then with a last flicker of optimism said, ‘But if she should happen to come in five minutes after I leave would you ask her if it’s humanly possible for her to come to the station and see me off?’

‘That I will.’ Pressing a supportive hand to the other’s shoulder, Red accompanied his son to the street, where they were instantly accosted by another of Aggie’s ‘spies’. With polite excuse to the neighbour, and another futile look up and down the street, Marty shook his father’s hand and hurried away.