“Don’t make me marry him, Dad! Please don’t make me marry Ernest!” Annie begged. “I’ll do anything — anything — if you’ll only let me stay here with you. I’ll work so hard, I’ll help Mum in the house too, I’ll never grumble again. If only you let me stay!”
“It’s too late for that, our Annie. Believe you me. Your only hope is Ernest. You’d better pray that he wants you, for if Ernest won’t have you I don’t know what will become of you.”
Ernest arrived just after lunch on the following Saturday. Annie, banished to her bedroom, watched with dread from her bedroom window as he drove into the farmyard, carefully avoiding the mud and the puddles, and drew up in front of the house. All the little mannerisms which she now knew so well — the careful testing of the handle after he’d closed the car door, the wiping of a minute speck of dirt from the windscreen with his handkerchief, the smoothing back of his well-oiled hair, the brief nervous touch to the moustache — now filled her with revulsion. How could she have allowed the relationship to come to this? Why, oh why, hadn’t she put an end to it months ago, when her fate was in her own hands rather than those of other people? Annie cursed the vanity which had driven her to accept any boyfriend rather than no boyfriend, dull outings with Ernest rather than evenings at home.
Ernest knocked at the front door and was admitted. Annie didn’t know which of her parents had let him in as the door was concealed by the porch, but she could hear the door of the living-room opening and closing, and the sound of voices below. Sick with fear, Annie waited what seemed an interminable length of time while her future was measured out in those muffled voices. Once her father’s voice was raised in anger, and once she thought she heard Ernest too raise his voice, but otherwise the sounds were barely audible. She tried lying on her bedroom floor with her ear pressed to the worn floorboards, but it made no difference. The house was old and well built, used to keeping its secrets. Annie would have to wait a while longer to learn her fate.
Eventually, she heard her father’s voice calling her name.
“Annie? Annie! Come on downstairs. Ernest has something to say to you.”
Slowly, Annie walked down the stairs, aware that the next time she ascended them her life might be entirely changed. How many times, she wondered, had she been up and down this staircase in the course of her lifetime? Rushed early mornings, half-dressed, her face still damp and soapy and the taste of toothpaste in her mouth; slow, exhausted bedtimes, when she was scarcely able to put one foot in front of the other. Her mother shouting that breakfast was on the table, and she’d be late for school; her father sending her up to her bedroom in disgrace for some misdemeanour. She and her brothers had dashed up and down these stairs as children in the course of their games of hide-and-seek or sardines (her favourite hiding-place had been the huge airing cupboard, where she would crouch among the clean sheets and towels and breathe in the smell of freshly-ironed clothes). Sliding down the banisters had been strictly forbidden ever since Jack had crashed onto the tiled floor below and broken his arm, but far from deterring them this had simply added to the excitement. It was a long time since Annie had slid down the banisters.
The living-room when she entered it seemed very quiet, and she stood on the threshold for a moment, not sure what she was supposed to do. Her parents were seated, but Ernest stood up when she came in. He held out a hand, and then seeming to think better of it, let his arm drop by his side.
“Hello, Annie.”
“Hello, Ernest.”
As she held his gaze. Annie felt almost sorry for him. In a way, he too had been caught up by events, and while it appeared that he had a choice in the matter, it couldn’t have been easy for him, whatever had been decided.
“Sit down, Annie,” her father said. “You too, Ernest.”
Annie sat down on the sofa, as far away as possible from Ernest, and folded her hands in her lap.
“Now, Ernest has something to say to you, haven’t you, Ernest?” Ernest made a helpless gesture with his hands, and lowered his gaze. “Well, I’ll say it for him then, if that’s all right?”
Ernest nodded.
“Ernest is prepared to do right by you, our Annie. You and he will get married. You’re a very lucky girl, Annie:”
The silence in the room was tangible. It seemed that everyone was waiting for someone else to speak. Annie felt the blood rush to her head and she heard her heart pounding in her ears. Her eyes were fixed on a loose thread in her skirt and the worn pattern of the carpet beneath her feet. I mustn’t cry, I will not cry, she said to herself, over and over again. The clock on the mantelpiece struck three, Ernest coughed, her mother shifted in her chair.
“Well, Annie? What do you say?”
What could poor Annie say? That she was grateful? That she refused Ernest’s offer? What did her father expect of her?
She was aware that Ernest was getting to his feet.
“We’ve never talked of marriage, Annie,” he said, “but I think you knew how I felt. I’ve always cared for you. I do care for you. I’ll — marry you, like your father said.”
“But what about me?” cried Annie, as the tears came at last. “What about what I want? Is no one going to ask me what I want?”
“You’re not in a position to have what you want, our Annie. Not anymore. You have to do what’s best, and marrying Ernest is what’s best. For everyone.”
“Who says it’s best, Dad?” Annie sobbed. “You? Mum? Ernest? How come everyone suddenly knows what’s best for me? How can it be best for me to marry a man I — a man I don’t love?”
“That’s enough of that, our Annie! You should have thought of that before you — well, before. The alternative is disgrace. Disgrace for you and for the family. Is that what you want?”
“Mum?” Annie begged. “Can’t I stay here with you? Please?”
“Your father’s right, Annie. We can’t make you marry Ernest, but it’s for the best, and you’ll come to see that it’s for your own good. Besides, you can’t stay here. We’ve our reputation to think of. We may only be farmers, but we’re — respected. Marrying Ernest is the best thing for everybody.”
“We’ve made — arrangements,” her father said slowly. “You and Ernest will get married, and you’ll have enough money to set up home together. You won’t be rich, but Ernest’s hoping for promotion, and you should be able to put a deposit on a place of your own before long.”
“You mean — you mean you’ve paid him to marry me?”
“We’ve a bit put by. It’ll make it easier for him to take on a wife and family. It’s the best we can do, our Annie. We can’t do any more.”
Annie thought she saw tears in her father’s eyes, and for a moment she wondered whether it might still be possible to fling herself into his arms and beg him to change his mind, but she knew that it would be of no use. Besides, her parents had a point. This situation was not of their making, and they were trying to do their best for her. She knew that she had let them down badly. Her only way of making reparation was to do what they asked, and marry Ernest. Perhaps, after all, she owed them that. “When?” she whispered.
“As soon as possible, naturally. Under the circumstances.” Her father stood up. “And now, perhaps we’d better drink a toast to the two of you. Fetch the sherry, our Annie.”
Wordlessly, Annie left the room and went into the kitchen, where she brought out the sherry bottle from the cupboard in the dresser. Wiping the bottle with a tea towel (it hadn’t seen the light of day since Christmas, and was filmed with dust), she set it on a tray, together with four glasses, and returned with it to the living-room. This wasn’t how it was meant to be, she thought wretchedly.
In her worst dreams, she had never imagined that her engagement — for she supposed that was what this was — would be anything like this. There should have been love and romance, a proper proposal, an engagement ring and a joyful announcement. And happiness. Most of all, happiness.
As she looked across the room at Ernes
t, their eyes met, and she was shocked at what she saw in his gaze. Beyond the sombre expression and respectful demeanour, there was a light in Ernest’s eyes which could only be described as triumph.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Annie’s Story
The wedding of Annie and Ernest was arranged for the following week. Hasty marriages had become a normal part of life, and even though Ernest wasn’t engaged in active service, and had no war to hurry back to, few local eyebrows were raised. If there was any gossip, no one at the farm got to hear about it. Tom, now home recuperating and trying to accustom himself to an artificial leg, was too absorbed in his own problems to worry about his sister, and more distant members of the family were to receive the news of the marriage as a fait accompli, with a date carefully amended to take into account the arrival of Annie’s child.
Mavis, however, never one to miss a trick, was triumphant.
“I knew it! You’re expecting, aren’t you? After all you said about Ernest, too! Well, that’s one way to catch your man, I suppose, though I wouldn’t want to be married to that one myself, I can tell you. Still, the best of luck to you, Annie. At least you’ve found yourself a husband, which is more than can be said for me.”
“I don’t want to marry Ernest,” Annie confided. “I never wanted to marry Ernest, but now it seems I’ve got no choice.”
“Never mind,” Mavis said. “It mightn’t be that bad, and at least you’ll be getting away from the farm. If I never see another smelly animal again, it’ll be too soon. I’ll miss you, Annie,” she added, with unaccustomed warmth. “Who will I have to talk to when you’ve gone? I can hardly have a laugh with the pigs, can I?”
The wedding took place on a damp November afternoon. The only people in attendance were Annie’s parents, Mavis and poor Derek. Derek couldn’t be trusted to be left on the farm on his own, and in any case, his wits were too fuddled to allow of any indiscretion on his part. Ernest, it seemed, had no one he wanted to invite (his mother was in poor health, and unable to make the journey, and he had no brothers or sisters), and so Tom, a reluctant participant in his wheelchair, filled the role of Best Man.
Annie remembered her wedding day as a solemn, even grim occasion. The single photograph portrayed her in a loose summer frock and a jacket borrowed from her mother, and carrying a posy of late roses from the garden. Ernest, dapper as ever, wore his best suit. Both looked as though they were facing a firing squad rather than a lifetime of marriage.
The wedding breakfast was taken back at the farm, for, as Annie’s father pointed out, they had more and better food at home than any hotel might have to offer. And indeed Annie’s mother, perhaps touched at last by the plight of her only daughter, did her best to provide a festive meal. But apart from Mavis and Derek, no one was very hungry, and much of the meal went untouched. Finally, after a half-hearted toast and a piece of the wedding cake (a chocolate sponge, but without any decoration, for even their combined sugar rations didn’t stretch to an iced cake), Annie and Ernest adjourned to the inn in the village where they were to spend their wedding night.
“I won’t be — bothering you, Annie,” Ernest said, as he sat on the edge of the bed to take off his shoes. “Not until the — well, not until afterwards.” He placed the shoes neatly side by side, just as Annie had known he would, tucking his socks inside them. “It wouldn’t be right to — to bother you.” For the first time that day, he turned to look at her properly. “I did — do care for you, you know, Annie,” he said, reaching out to touch her arm. “We must make the best of things.”
Perhaps Annie might have been touched by Ernest’s words if he had at least volunteered to marry her, but the humiliation of having been, as it were, handed over to him with a dowry of her parents’ precious savings was still too painful. Annie give him a tight little smile. Her jaw ached with holding back the tears which had been threatening all day, and she longed just to lay her head on the pillow and weep; to weep for the girlhood she had left behind, for the missed opportunities, for her own familiar bedroom and for the forlorn little group who had waved them off at the farmyard gate. She envied Tom, who was safe at home, who was loved and cared for. She would gladly have given one of her own legs to change places with him.
By tacit agreement, they took it in turns to undress in the bathroom across the corridor. Ernest’s striped pyjamas looked crisply new, and for a moment, Annie was touched. Her own nightdress was the best she had, but not new. There hadn’t been time to make one, and she preferred to save her precious clothing coupons for more practical use, especially in view of her burgeoning pregnancy.
Later on, in the sagging double bed with Ernest lying stiffly beside her, Annie thought of the lifetime of bedtimes to come, and of the attentions which she was to receive once she had had her baby. She had no idea how often married people indulged in sex, but imagined that it must be pretty often, and she was not looking forward to it. Of course, she wouldn’t refuse Ernest when the time came. She accepted that sex must be a part of married life. She knew from her occasional chats with Mavis that sex was important to men, and no doubt Ernest was no different from any other man in this respect, but she couldn’t for the life of her imagine why anyone would want to do anything so peculiar and so downright uncomfortable unless they really had to. Perhaps in time she would get used to it. In the meantime, she was relieved and grateful that their sexual relationship was to be postponed for the time being.
A pencil of moonlight filtered through a gap in the blackout curtains, laying a pale stripe across the counterpane. Beside her, she felt Ernest relax and heard the sound of his gentle snoring. Annie turned her face into her pillow, and wept at last.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Andrew
Andrew found the tale of Annie’s marriage, together with the events leading up to it, extraordinarily moving. In many ways it was a common enough tale, but Annie brought her story to life in such a way that it was as though she were speaking of events which had happened a few weeks, rather than half a century, ago. And while Annie expressed great sadness, she seemed to be altogether without bitterness or self-pity. He was fascinated by the glimpses of the young Annie; of a girl who had her share of romance and vanity and mischief, and who was yet capable of being both hardworking and practical. Looking at her now, it was hard to imagine that the woman who had managed to starve eight chickens to death was the same person who had milked cows and mucked out pigsties on the family farm all those years ago. Age and events had changed Annie as they did most people, yet Andrew was beginning to see the links which bound the lively country girl to the disappointed widow. Sometimes, as she spoke of her younger self, it was almost as though it were the young Annie rather than the old who was talking; there were touches of humour as well as sadness, of hope as well as despair, but above all a wistfulness which was at times almost heart-breaking.
“Do you think I should come to church?” she had asked unexpectedly, just as Andrew was about to take his leave. “You being the vicar.”
“I think that’s up to you,” he’d replied, somewhat taken by surprise. Oddly enough, Annie had never mentioned church before. “You must do what you feel is best.”
“I haven’t been to church for years,” Annie mused. “The last time must have been Ophelia’s christening.”
“An unusual name,” Andrew remarked.
“Typical of Billy and Sheila,” Annie said. “They couldn’t have a Mary or a Jane, could they? Had to be something posh; something unusual. Poor girl. Doesn’t suit her, does it?”
“I rather think it does,” Andrew said, and he meant it. Certainly, Ophelia wasn’t beautiful in any conventional sense, but her clear skin, fine grey eyes and the directness with which she had spoken had strangely disturbed him, and when they had shaken hands — her hand firm and cool in his own — he had felt something in him respond which he had thought long since dead. “Has she — a boyfriend?”
Immediately, he regretted the question. What on earth had it to do with him,
and why did he want to know, anyway?
“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” Annie said. “Ophelia isn’t the sort to have boyfriends.”
“And what sort would that be?” Andrew asked, in spite of himself.
“More glamorous, I suppose. She doesn’t make the most of herself, does she? That skirt looks as though it’s been cobbled together by a child.” Annie sniffed. “When we were young, we knew how to sew. Had to, what with the war and everything.”
Driving along the lanes towards home, Andrew thought of the long gypsy skirt Ophelia had worn that morning, her sandaled feet, her bare arms with their dusting of blonde hairs and her complexion which owed nothing to the artifice of make-up, and thought she was precisely the sort of girl to have boyfriends. How odd that he should remember exactly what Ophelia was wearing, when he would have been completely unable to recall what had been worn by the woman with whom he had breakfasted that morning. Janet had always said that he was unobservant, and on the whole, that was true. But it was as though Ophelia had not only imposed herself on his consciousness but had, as it were, painted herself onto his memory. Her smile, her hair, the tone of her voice, her hands (small, square, with short unvarnished nails), her slight air of diffidence — he could remember them as clearly as if he had known her all his life.
I’m lonely, he thought, as he pulled onto a grass verge and switched off the engine. That’s what all this is about. I’m a lonely, unsuccessful man on the borders of middle age, fantasising about a girl whom I have only just met and who is young enough to be my daughter.
Was it lust that he felt for Ophelia? Andrew was reluctant to think of her in those terms, and yet if this wasn’t lust, then what was it? Not love, certainly. Not even friendship, for he’d barely spoken to her. He tried to think when he had last lusted after anyone, and couldn’t remember. As a schoolboy, he had certainly experienced lust. He well remembered the excitement engendered by Angela Drew, a big blonde hussy of a girl, whose enormous breasts rolled and bounced in unfettered glory inside her aertex shirt during PE, like giant melons endowed with lives of their own. Andrew had never quite been able to bring himself to speak to Angela, but the soft magnificent promise of those breasts had haunted his dreams and provided material for many a boyhood fantasy.
Dead Ernest Page 10
