Soldier's Valentine (4 page)

She hugged his arm. That evening she stood on tiptoe and kissed him. He eyed her strangely as though he hadn’t been expecting it. He didn’t show any passion for her, just an odd confusion that she put down to nerves or the war. Always the war!

Spring turned into summer and Mary Anne was regularly walking out with Henry Randall. At times he was overly protective of her, as though she were made of porcelain. The fact that he’d placed her on a pedestal went some way to healing her wounds. If she really looked deeply into herself she had to admit she was becoming fond of him. He was the closest thing she had to Edward. He wouldn’t know it, but they’d fought in the same battles. That in itself caused her fondness for him to increase. Was it enough to base a relationship on? She decided that it was. They both needed a new start in life and maybe, just maybe, her parents were right. It was best to let go, best to build a new life.

The only thing that worried her was that sometimes he was a little too quick to anger, especially when anyone was less than civil in her presence.

‘You didn’t need to say anything,’ she said to him when he’d reared up on a common drayman using bad language, language that was aimed at the two magnificent Shire horses standing between the shafts of a brewery dray.

Henry had looked at her in shocked amazement. ‘You’re a lady. I’ll have no bad language used in front of a lady. No. That I will not!’

The only time she entertained serious misgivings about Henry was one day in the shop. Mrs Turville had lived around the area for some time. A country woman, with a figure that reminded Mary Anne of dumplings, who had married a miner from Radstock near Bath. Jack Turville used to make pit props, but following an accident in the pit, they’d moved to Bristol where they’d set up a coffin-making business.

‘I think I know that Henry Randall,’ she confided in a hushed whisper while examining the freshness of a cauliflower. ‘Knew the family anyways. They was miners. Rough types. Hard drinkers. No wonder he joined the army. Anything I should think to get away from that dad of his.’

Mrs Turville bustled off before Mary Anne could find out any more. She could ask Henry about his family but decided it was best to let him tell her what he wanted to tell her in his own good time.

Mary Anne looked at her mother who promptly looked away while busying herself wiping down the bacon slicer. She loved her daughter, but her first allegiance was to her
husband. He was a great one for respectability, which to him meant no scandals attached to his family whatsoever. Henry Randall was a churchgoing, hard-working boy; they both agreed on that. He was not of their class, but Mary Anne had tarnished her reputation and, thanks to the Great War, husbands would not be too numerous in future.

‘Do you think she really knew Henry’s family?’

Mary Anne’s question jerked her mother back from her thoughts. Her laugh was brittle but she gathered herself quickly and shook her head. ‘Of course not. You know Mrs Turville. She’s a born gossip is that one. I shouldn’t wonder it was another family and she never knew him or his family ever. Anyway, I thought Henry said he came from Somerton and I don’t think there are any coal mines down there.’

Mary Anne conceded that her mother was probably right. The following Sunday’ immediately after church where her father had given a rousing sermon on the sins of the flesh, Henry asked her to marry him.

The sun was shining. A cool breeze made the sycamores in the avenue sound as though they were sighing.

She couldn’t help blushing when he asked her because her thoughts went straight to the wedding night. Would he realise that she was far from being a virgin? How would he react if he did?

He misinterpreted her reaction. ‘Look. Don’t make up your mind right away. How about I give you until next Sunday in church? How would that be?’

She nodded and, still blushing, said that would be very good indeed.

‘You’re a kind man, Henry,’ she said softly. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him.

He went scarlet. If she could have read his thoughts she would have seen how much that kiss meant to him. Gaining her affection had been beyond his wildest dreams. It now seemed his dreams had a chance of coming true.

Her mother was ecstatic at the news, which Mary Anne confided to her at lunchtime on Wednesday, half closing day.

Once the staff was safely off the premises, she dragged Mr Sweet into the room at the back of the shop to tell him the good news too.

‘My dear, isn’t it marvellous news. It’s more than we could possibly have hoped for,’ she said excitedly.

Her father looked greatly relieved. ‘Congratulations my dear. Wonderful news indeed,’ he said to Mary Anne.

‘He’s given me …’

‘Yes! A fresh start and you’ll not throw it away!’

They didn’t give her a chance to tell them that Henry had given her until Sunday to give him her answer. Her mother began suggesting a suitable date for the wedding and where best to hold the reception.

Her father eyed her suspiciously. ‘I hope you’ve saved yourself for the wedding night, my girl. I hope there’s not another …’ His eyes narrowed as he searched for the right word. ‘Unpleasantness.’

She felt the heat rush to her face, though this time with anger. The realisation that her parents’ priority was respectability above everything else sent a shock through Mary Anne’s system. Her jaw tightened. Her words were coarse and sharply spoken.

‘No. I have not got myself knocked up again. Neither have I bared my breast to any man I fancied and I’ve kept my drawers on! As for that
unpleasantness
you speak of, that was your grandchild.’

Her father’s eyes blazed and the blood rushed to his cheeks. ‘How dare you speak to me like that! The fault lies with you giving yourself without the benefit of a wedding ring on your finger. With blood as hot as yours, the sooner you’re wed the better! You’ll wed him and that will be an end to it.’

‘And what about my wedding night? Have you considered him noticing that I’m not a virgin? Have you considered that? Hmm?’

She reeled under the force of the slap her father gave her.

‘Wash your mouth out!’

She stormed from the room, angry at her father for speaking so casually about the adopted child. Angry at Edward for dying. She even felt angry at Henry for asking her to marry him. It opened such a large can of worms. Could she marry him and be happy?

She told Evelyn when she met her at the tea shop on Saturday lunchtime. Breaking her tea cake into pieces she really didn’t feel like eating, she asked her friend’s opinion. ‘I keep asking myself if I’m doing the right thing.’

Evelyn shook her head, her heart-shaped face framed by a series of marcel waves – the latest fashion according to the fashion magazines. ‘If you really disliked the idea, you wouldn’t go through with it. Does he know about Edward?’

‘Only that we were almost engaged.’

Her eyes opened wide. ‘I thought you were
properly
engaged.’

Mary Anne grimaced. ‘My mother told him there had been a childhood sweetheart but he’d got killed in the war. She told him she couldn’t even remember his name. I suppose in a
way she’s right. He’s been through enough. The war caused so much sadness. I’d like to think …’ She hesitated. It wasn’t easy finding the right words. ‘I don’t like to think of Henry as second best. That wouldn’t be right. He’s an honest working man, not a businessman or shopkeeper like my father or a manager as Edward was. I like to think that we’ll find happiness together following that filthy war, you know, make something good come out of all that wickedness. It’s kind of comforting that he fought over the same ground as Edward and with the same regiment. There’s a bond between the two – at least I think there is.’

Evelyn sighed. ‘Well, at least you weren’t left with a bun in the oven like a lot of other girls. Of course they’re ruined for life because of it. No chance of getting a good marriage once that’s happened.’

If the people at the next table hadn’t overturned a pot of hot tea into their laps, Evelyn might have seen the heat rise in Mary Anne’s cheeks. As it was, Mary Anne was first on the scene sponging up the hot liquid with a napkin.

‘Right,’ said Evelyn once they were outside in the cool air. ‘So what colour are the bridesmaids’ dresses. I think I’d prefer blue. It matches my eyes.’

Mary Anne laughed. ‘I haven’t asked you to be a bridesmaid yet.’

Evelyn tucked her arm into hers and winked. ‘I know, but you will do. I know you will.’

Henry Randall got very drunk at the reception following his marriage to Mary Anne Sweet.

He held on to her tightly, looking at her in disbelief and muttering, ‘You’re a bloody lucky man, Henry Randall. A bloody lucky man.’

All Mary Anne could do was smile and beg him not to hold on to her arm so tightly.’

‘I’m not going to run away,’ she whispered.

The guests looked slightly bemused to see a man they’d been told was a devout churchgoer knocking back pint after pint.

As strict non-drinkers, it came as something of a surprise to Mr and Mrs Sweet to see they’d provided an excess of alcoholic beverages. Henry couldn’t believe his eyes when he saw it.

‘You’ve done me proud,’ he said to them.

‘Drink as much as you like,’ said her father. ‘It’s your wedding.’

Mary Anne had never known them attend a wedding where alcohol was available, let alone provide it themselves. Henry being Henry took their advice and drank heartily.

They’d left by the time Henry was standing on a table, urging everyone to drink a toast to his wife. ‘A toast to Mrs Mary Anne Randall. An angel by any other name! The woman who saved my soul.’

Mary Anne thought his comment a bit far-fetched, didn’t feel the least bit like an angel and told him so.

‘Oh yes you are,’ he whispered in her ear. ‘More than you’ll ever know.’

She presumed he meant his memories of the war; it certainly didn’t seem to apply to beer if the amount he was consuming was anything to go by.

Old pals from his regiment – those few who had survived – raised their glasses in the toast. So did fellow taxi drivers and drinking pals from the pub. The latter were drinking and eating everything that was put in front of them, singing and shouting.

Some tried to kiss her, their lips slack and wet, their breath stinking of beer. Henry pushed them away, at times becoming more forceful when they didn’t heed his warnings the first time.

By eight o’clock that evening, they were ready to leave, a taxi bedecked with tin cans and streamers waiting to take them away.

‘Mr and Mrs Randall,’ Henry said to the receptionist at the small hotel they were staying at in Redcliffe Hill. ‘Mr and Mrs Randall,’ he repeated to Mary Anne.

He sounded as though he still couldn’t believe it.

A big brass bed dominated the bedroom. The gaslights turned down to nothing more than a glimmer. Outside a new moon hung over St Mary Redcliffe and its surrounding churchyard.

Wrapping his arms around her, Henry rested his chin on her shoulder, his chest warm against her back, his breath hot and moist against her ear.

‘Well, this is it, sweetheart.’

She felt a lump form in her throat. She closed her eyes.
Dear God, don’t let him notice anything.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

She stood passively, her arms hanging at her side as he unbuttoned her dress. Befuddled by drink, his fingers were clumsy. Fearing the beautiful cream silk would tear, her fingers burrowed beneath his.

‘Let me do it.’

The moment the dress was undone he slipped his hands beneath the neckline and pulled it down over her shoulders. Her bodice followed, then her underwear, beautiful silk items edged with cream-coloured lace.

Soon she was standing there wearing nothing but shoes, stockings and garters.

Henry took a step back to look at her. He liked very much what he saw and, yet again, he told himself what a lucky bugger he was to win a wife like her. He loved her to distraction – if love was what it was. She was his. She belonged to him.
To love, honour and obey.
That’s what a woman promised in the wedding service, not a man, mark you, just a woman.

His eyes lingered on her breasts, his fingers clenching as he imagined how it would be to clasp her creamy flesh. Her belly was slightly rounded, her thighs curving around a triangle of hair that burned like copper in the moonlight filtering through the window.

Sitting in the only chair in the room, she peeled off her garters and stockings one by one, taking her time.

She had no idea what her action was doing to Henry; her slowness elegant, erotic and highly arousing.

As he watched, he took off his clothes – his jacket, his trousers, his shirt and everything else.

Mary Anne kept her eyes lowered. She had no wish to study him in detail, though she did notice that his body was hard and muscular, his belly hairy.

Carefully avoiding looking at his loins, she turned her back on him, not realising that the sight of her shapely backside was as arousing to him as the front of her.

Her hands shook as she turned down the bedclothes. The sheets were cool and her body was warm, but still she shivered.

Henry stumbled and swayed before joining her in the bed.

He wanted to say so much to her, but his lips felt like rubber. If only he hadn’t drank so much. Still, here they were, man and wife.

He felt her tremble when he reached for her.

‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, assuming she shivered because she was a virgin.

He attempted again to reassure her.

‘I’ll be gentle. Honestly I will. I’ll be gentle,’ he repeated, the words sounding familiar because he was too drunk to remember whether he’d already said them or not.

The truth was he felt like a clumsy oaf, a man not fit to have ended up with such a lovely creature as her. He was a rough man, a blunt man and even a violent one when the drink was in him, but for her he would change. That’s what he told himself. It was her that had made all the difference to his life.

At first his kisses were hesitant as though he wasn’t sure where to start.