The Soldier's Bride (16 page)

‘He can speak then?’ At last Letty gathered her wits, interrupted, slow fury filling her that Vinny was practically accusing her of indulging in indecency.

‘Of course he can speak,’ Vinny said tartly.

‘Where is he?’ With an effort Letty gained command of herself. Dad had broken his leg Vinny had said. He wasn’t at death’s door and was sufficiently himself to go leading off about her, able to vilify her enough to have incensed Vinny who now saw her as little more than a prostitute.

‘Where do you think? In the London. They kept him in. I got there as quick as I could when Mrs Hall telephoned me from one of the shops. Pity you haven’t got a telephone. It would have been so much easier. She had to run around all over the place to find one. Lucy is at the hospital now, but I thought I should wait here for you.’

To give me a piece of your mind, Letty thought as Vinny went on. ‘You’d best go there to see him – that’s if you can spare the time.’

Anger blazed up inside Letty. ‘Don’t talk to me like that, Vinny! Anyone’d think I didn’t care for Dad …’

Vinny’s eyes blazed. ‘The way you went off, enjoying yourself while Dad had to go and have a fall, what else can anything think?’

‘I didn’t know he was going to have a fall, did I?’

‘But you shouldn’t have gone off and left him all on his own while you went … well, enjoying yourself.’

‘He wasn’t on his own. He had Mrs Hall.’

‘But she wasn’t here!’ Vinny’s voice had risen to a shriek. ‘You should have been here!’

‘And what about you?’ Letty’s voice too was hitting the ceiling. ‘It’d be nice if
you
could be here sometimes. You or Lucy. But, oh, no! You’ve both got your own lives to lead, haven’t you? I mustn’t have no life, must I? It wouldn’t hurt one of you to come over now and again and keep an eye on Dad while I get a bit of rest from him.’

‘Is that what it’s called? Rest! I’d have called it something else!’

‘Mind your own business!’ Letty flared. ‘It’s because of Dad that me and David’s not married yet. I’ve given up everything because no one else raised a finger to look after him. You and Lucy never wanted to know, did you? Until something like this happens, then it’s: “Where was Letty? She should have been here.” I’ve been here, day and night, ever since Mum went, and not one word of thanks from either of you. Nor even Dad. All of you take it for granted. It’s because of you two that I’m still here, still not married. You’re all selfish! Every one of you!’

Vinny’s response was a scream of outrage, but David, who had been doing his best to get between them, finally made himself heard.

‘That’s quite enough! Yelling at each other is not going to help. I think we should go and see your father. Don’t you agree, Lavinia?’

Such was the authority in his tone that Vinny stared at him for a moment, her mouth opening and shutting, then with a last scowl towards Letty, nodded dumbly.

‘So yer come ’ome then?’ Propped up by pillows, the clinical white sheet and faded pink coverlet stretched board tight across his chest, his leg hidden beneath a cradle, Dad looked as uncomfortable as he possibly could be, and in pain. Despite the surly welcome, sympathy flooded through Letty at the sight of him at the mercy of nursing staff and the pervasive smell of anaesthetic and hospital carbolic.

‘Lavinia let us … She let me know,’ she stammered.

‘Good job she could get ’ere, bein’ as no one else could.’

She knew who he meant but wasn’t prepared to start up any argument with him in his present condition, even in her own defence.

‘Good job she could,’ she echoed limply, desperately hoping he’d keep off the subject now.

To her surprise, and in a way gratitude, he did, for the whole time he was in the London. In another way it put her all on edge. Had he made a great thing of blaming her, moaning as he usually did, she’d have defended herself to the utmost, but his silence had the effect of causing her to blame herself. It was silly and she was angry at herself, but there it was.

When Dad came home, his leg in plaster for weeks afterwards, to limp around, first on crutches, then with a cane right up to Christmas, it was guilt that made her drive
herself twice as hard, doing for him, trying to make up for what she saw as her own error. He was so constantly and abjectly apologetic. ‘Nothing but a burden to everyone,’ he’d say almost to himself, his eyes seeking hers for confirmation as well as forgiveness. ‘Of course you’re not, Dad,’ she would tell him, and eager to prove it, found herself taking her own sense of guilt upon her back much as a flagellant of the Middle Ages might have welcomed the self-inflicted wheals upon his willing flesh.

Yet it didn’t quite manage to heal her soul or clear the air. She told him he wasn’t a burden, wanted to add that if she’d been with him he would never have had that fall, convinced of it no matter what David said. But she didn’t dare say that to Dad in case that which she could feel smouldering just below the surface, erupted. Things would be said that might never heal. That was the last thing she wanted.

‘For God’s sake, Dad! I don’t care if it’s lunch or dinner, so long as you’re back from the pub in time to eat it!’

By winter Dad was still using his stick but the leg was more or less back to normal. Everything was more or less back to normal. No more abject apologies; he was back to fault finding, her twinges of guilt back to a more healthy desire to retaliate, to want to go for long walks to get out of his way.

It was the sort of winter that made going out for any walk an effort. Far from being crisp and revitalising, the weather made the body ache from constant huddling inside a coat; made the inside of the coat feel damp to the skin after five minutes of being worn. Evenings came down like a blanket, fog cast yellow haloes around gaslamps and lingered well into the next day, smelling heavily of soot. The trouble was, Dad hadn’t resumed his midday walk down to the Knave as he had done every now and again before his accident, and now the miserable winter weather was throwing them together until Letty felt like screaming.

‘Go and take out your spite on your pals in the pub!’ Taking her own spite out on the bread pudding she was making, she kneaded the soaked ends of last week’s bread viciously into a soggy mass with her knuckles. Dumping in sugar, marg, currants and sultanas, spice and egg, she pounded the stodge vigorously into a dish ready for the gas oven to get hot enough. It never turned out the same as Mum made it. She would use the oven over the range where, cooking slowly, it would fill the flat with a warm spicy aroma. But Mum always had plenty of time to cook. Letty had the shop to mind and no one else was going to do the cooking.

‘Anyway what’s it matter if it’s called dinner or lunch?’

Suggesting he went to meet some of his pals for a drink, she’d said without thinking to make sure to be back in time for lunch. A slip of the tongue. David referred to a midday meal as that, and like a lot of things he said, it had rubbed off on her. Dad leapt on it straight away.

‘I s’pose that’s yer bloke talkin’? All la-di-da. In this part of the world it ain’t lunch! We’re ’avin’ stew, ain’t we? We’re ’avin’ bread an’ jam an’ cake tonight, ain’t we? Yer can’t call bread an’ jam a dinner. That’s tea as I’ve always known it ter be. Dinner’s at dinner time.’

In trousers and wool combinations, braces dangling round his hips, Dad was washing off the residue of shaving soap at the kitchen sink. Gurgling like a drowning man, water cascaded from angular elbows on to the linoleum, darkening the bare patch around his feet. The brownish pattern had worn off into quite a few bare patches where there had been most activity, in front of the gas stove, the
sink, around three sides under the kitchen table where years of feet had scuffed at breakfast time. The centre was still almost as new, having always been covered by a succession of kitchen mats, renewed as they wore out. Letty glanced at the water Dad was letting dribble, relaxed seeing it missing the most recent piece of kitchen carpet.

‘So far as I know, the stew’s fer dinner an’ that’s at one o’clock so ’ow yer can call it lunch when …’

‘All right, Dad! We’re having
dinner
at one o’clock. That suit you?’ She thrust the bread pudding into the oven, closed the door forcefully, and, as the saucepan of milk began to rise to the rim, deftly removed it from the flame before it overflowed, turned off the gas and rushed it to the table to pour over slices of bread and butter layered in a bowl. One of dad’s favourite breakfasts; and baked with sultanas, one of his favourite afters – bread and butter pudding. He loved it. Would have lived on it, but she, for the life of her, couldn’t touch it no matter how well cooked it was. It made her feel sick, the way it slid down the throat.

‘Your breakfast!’ she stated shortly and, as he came to the table, braces still dangling, she went and fished up the floor cloth from under the sink to mop up the puddle he’d left.

It was eight-thirty, just time to run down to Beans for a loaf before opening her own shop.

‘Shan’t be long,’ she said, leaving him to slurp up the milky slop, grabbed up a shopping basket and hurried out. It was a relief to be out of the flat, if only for ten minutes, but by the time she reached Beans grocery just along the road, she wasn’t so sure about being glad. Damp fog clung
to her eyelashes, flattened her hair, crept inside the collar of her coat.

‘I do hate winter!’ she grumbled as she paid Billy for the loaf.

‘I could have brought it ter you,’ he offered, but she shrugged.

‘My dad’s really got the ’ump up to his eyebrows this morning. I just had ter get out for a break.’

Funny how she lapsed so easily into cockney with Billy, even if it wasn’t quite so pronounced as his. Being with David had even rounded her vowels, but how thin the veneer was.

Billy grinned affably, didn’t even notice the change in her accent. He still didn’t have a girl, just the odd one occasionally but nothing serious ever came of it. It was surprising really, him being so easy to get on with, always so cheerful. If ever he was grave, it only seemed to improve those good looks of his.

His grin this morning was wide and cheerful as always. ‘Never mind, Let. Thursday termorrer. Early closin’s been a boon, ain’t it?’

Still working for a father much younger than her own, who had years to go before he’d ever hand the shop over to his son, Billy had very little interest in it, living for Thursday afternoons when he could go and kick a ball around in a back alley with a couple of mates, like himself let off on the same afternoon.

‘Thursday,’ Letty said with a doleful smile, ‘I’m usually stuck in the flat with me dad and four walls. With him moaning on about this and that, and me listening.’

‘Never mind,’ Billy said airily. ‘Yer see yer bloke on Sunday, don’t yer? That ought ter make yer cheery.’

‘I suppose so,’ she said absently, her mind on tomorrow. If the fog persisted, she and Dad would be virtually housebound.

Billy was grinning at her like a Cheshire cat. ‘Yer suppose so?’ he echoed. ‘Anyone’d think seein’ yer bloke was a chore. If yer that fed up wiv ’im, yer can always come aht wiv me.’

Letty’s laugh died on her lips. Billy’s smile was as broad as ever but it hadn’t quite reached his eyes, brilliant blue and serious with meaning.

‘I’m not fed up with him,’ she said haughtily. ‘We just don’t see each other every week. People don’t when they’ve been courting for so long …’ She broke off sharply. She hadn’t meant to say that.

Billy wasn’t smiling now, was looking at her quizzically. ‘It ’as been a long while, ain’t it, Let?’

‘That’s nothing to do with you, Billy.’

‘Of course not.’

He watched her thrust the loaf into her shopping bag, watched as she left, his bright blue eyes clouded, then shrugged off his thoughts as the shop door closed on her departing figure.

Letty couldn’t get out of her mind the way Billy had looked at her. It brought up all those things that lurked deep inside her brain, like thieves in shadowy corners, ready to leap out when you weren’t looking and steal that precious possession everyone cherished: the ability to deceive oneself. It had been months since David had made any mention
of marriage. Their relationship had grown so casual that these days they saw each other out of habit. The ring on her finger that had once promised so much, seemed to be the only tenuous link holding her and David to each other. Even his kisses no longer had hunger in them.

Letty hoisted the handle of the shopping basket over her arm, held her coat collar tight against her throat against the creeping cold. In a narrow alleyway two girls on their way to school were bouncing a ball. One had a skimpy coat, the other none at all. The cold didn’t seem to bother them, though Letty noticed the hands of the one bouncing the ball had a bluish tinge. She hurried on, anxious to cover the last few yards home as quickly as possible, her thoughts still on David.

It had taken Dad’s accident to uncover the rift she’d pretended for a long time had not existed. The last time David had spoken of marriage had been after Dad had come out of hospital, and she’d said, ‘David, I can’t. Not now.’ She’d meant to say ‘not yet’, meant to say ‘let Dad get back on his feet’. She should have rectified the aberration then and there, but she hadn’t. Had let it stand. David had gone quiet, the glow in his soft brown eyes that of defeat. He had turned away, and had never asked her again. Somehow Letty felt she was losing him, steadily, surely, powerless to do anything about it.

Perhaps Billy was right. Perhaps she was losing interest …

No! Letty pulled herself up from the thought as she let herself into the shop. No – she loved David, ached with love for him; ached at the thought of never seeing him again.
She wanted so much to be his wife and yet … and yet, there was always Dad. Always the same old argument, stretched like elastic between two loyalties, and Dad always the winner because she couldn’t bear to think of him as being the loser.

Letty glanced at Dad ensconced in Mum’s old wooden-armed chair. He was sitting one side of the hearth, feet in carpet slippers propped on the brass fender, she on the other side, darning a hole in one of his socks. In a wickerwork basket beside her several more pairs waited to be darned.