Dead Ernest

by Frances Garrood

  From the day when Annie’s parents had bribed him to marry her — from the moment when she had seen that glint of triumph in his eyes — Annie had known that Ernest would have all the control in their relationship, and while his triumph had all too soon given way to anger and disappointment, the power remained in Ernest’s hands. From the furnishing of their house to the naming of their son, all the decisions had been Ernest’s. It was as though all his frustrations at the events which fate had wished upon him: his non-participation in the war; Annie’s unwelcome pregnancy; his less than satisfactory marriage, had been channelled into the things he could control, and most of these centred around his life with Annie.

  Had the marriage been a happy one, Annie imagined that she wouldn’t have minded too much. In a different kind of relationship it might have been rather pleasant to have someone else take the responsibility. It could have made her feel loved and protected; she would have felt looked after. But in Ernest’s case, it had quite the opposite effect. The strength which in a loving marriage might have manifested itself in caring and tenderness had the potential to turn to brutality and force. Annie had already experienced something of this, but this was the first time that Ernest had deliberately hurt her in broad daylight and in front of their son. And if he could do it once, there was no reason why he shouldn’t do it again.

  Now Billy, looking anxiously from one parent to the other, began to whimper, holding out his arms.

  “You’ve upset him,” Annie said, making to pick him up.

  “Upset him? What do you mean, upset him?” Ernest scooped Billy out of his highchair and swung him in the air. “Who’s upset now, eh?” he said, as Billy laughed and wriggled in his arms. “Billy’s fine, aren’t you, son? Billy’s just fine.”

  “But what about me? I’m not fine.” Annie wondered at her own courage. “How can I be fine, when you can do this?”

  “Oh dear.” Ernest continued to address his remarks to Billy. “Your mother’s making a fuss again. It seems she makes rather a lot of fuss these days. We’ll have to have a word with her, won’t we?”

  “Will you stop talking to Billy? Will you at least look at me. I’m trying to talk to you?” Annie had never spoken to Ernest like this before, and she trembled as she spoke. “I know you’re not happy. I’m not happy. But if we could at least talk to each other, maybe we could sort something out.”

  “Sort something out? What exactly do you think we can sort out?” Ernest turned to face her at last. “I’ve married a woman who can’t control or discipline herself; a woman who is lazy in the house and puts herself about outside it; a woman who trapped me into marriage. How can we possibly be happy?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Annie sat down, shocked. “I never trapped you into anything. I work hard — you know I do — and it wasn’t my idea that we should marry.”

  “Oh no?” Ernest sneered. “And what would have happened to you if we hadn’t? You tell me that.”

  “That would have been none of your concern. I would have managed.”

  “Oh, you’d have managed, would you? With no husband to make things respectable, how would you ever have shown your face again? I did you a big favour, Annie, and don’t you forget it.”

  “And I suppose my parents didn’t do you any favours, giving you their savings? They bought you, Ernest. They bought you.” How easy it is, once the gloves are off, to say all the things you’ve longed to say but haven’t dared. And how dangerous. For a moment, Annie’s words hung in the air between them, as though waiting for something to happen. Annie shrank into her chair, gripping its arms, wondering what Ernest would do. She had been crazy to speak out as she had, and she feared there would be a price to pay.

  Carefully, Ernest restored Billy to his high chair. Then he walked over to Annie and bent over her, his face inches from hers.

  “If you ever speak to me again like that, Annie, if you ever dare to speak to me like that — you’ll regret it.” His words were so quiet they were almost a whisper, but the threat was real and quite unmistakable.

  From now on, Annie was going to have to be very careful indeed.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Ophelia

  Happiness was something of which Ophelia had had little experience. She had long since learnt the art of being contented with her lot, whatever that might be, and had she been asked, she might have said that yes, she was reasonably happy. But any feelings she might have had in the past were as nothing compared with the way she felt now.

  Happiness flowed from her like warm honey, colouring everything she saw or did. It lifted her out of the ordinary to the extraordinary; from the mediocre to the sublime. Ophelia had never had any illusions about herself. Long before her parents had come to terms with the fact that theirs was a run-of-the-mill daughter, Ophelia had resigned herself to being one. She had never expected anything else. And yet now it seemed that the simple fact of being loved and in love had changed her two-dimensional, monochrome world into one of glorious technicolor.

  Andrew had said that she was beautiful, and Ophelia had been grateful but disbelieving. And yet now, when she looked in the mirror, she saw someone who was, if not beautiful, then something very like it. Her hair shone, her eyes were bright, her complexion was clear and pleasantly flushed. Even her figure seemed to have improved.

  This last could well have been because her new employer had insisted on kitting her out with a whole new wardrobe.

  “You can’t work here wearing any old thing,” Maria had said, dismissing the gypsy skirt and the jeans. “It’s important that you reflect the type of fashions we sell.”

  So Ophelia was now in possession of several items of clothing with designer labels and price tags to match. It would take her months to pay Maria back, even allowing for the discount, but she felt she could get used to her new image.

  As for the work, she was having a wonderful time. She knew nothing at all about fashion and cared even less, but she did care about people, and she spent happy hours advising and helping, encouraging and complimenting.

  “You’re certainly shifting the stock,” Maria remarked, not without admiration, “but should you really have allowed that customer to buy the flowery dress?”

  “Probably not,” Ophelia said. “But she was desperate to have it and it made her feel good. And when you think about it, that’s what really matters, isn’t it? After all, the only person who really cares what a dress looks like is the woman inside it, and if it makes that woman happy, then she’s got her money’s worth, hasn’t she?”

  Maria, who had the reputation of her establishment to consider, wasn’t so sure, but she liked Ophelia, as did her clients. Ophelia was not at all the sort of young woman she normally employed, but she knew how to please the customers, and while her attitude to fashion was somewhat cavalier, it certainly wasn’t harming business. Takings were up; the punters were happy. Maria decided to leave Ophelia to it. And if she was slightly puzzled by the visits of a man in a dog collar, who showed no intention of buying anything but engaged Ophelia in brief murmured consultations, then she wisely decided to leave well alone. What Ophelia got up to — if indeed she was up to anything — was her own affair. Maria was not one to pry.

  Even though Ophelia’s workplace was in a town some distance from his parish, Andrew’s visits were indiscreet; Ophelia knew this.

  For what she was beginning to learn was that an illicit relationship poses more problems than the simply moral ones. For a start, where could they safely go together?

  Andrew was well known in the area. Wherever he went, people would greet him and engage him in conversation, so local meetings in public places were out of the question. Trips out in the car were risky too, as Andrew’s car — a battered Ford — was also well known, and he was reluctant to be seen in Ophelia’s. Twice, they had driven separately to a more distant rendezvous, and on both occasions they had seen someone from Andrew’s parish.

  “It’s like being on the run,” Ophelia s
aid, after the second occasion, when Andrew had seen one of his church wardens sitting in the corner of a bar where they had planned to have a quiet drink together, necessitating a rapid retreat.

  “We are on the run,” Andrew said. “I think we’ll always be on the run. It’s the nature of the relationship.” He sighed. “I sometimes think I should never have dragged you into this.”

  “I didn’t take much dragging,” Ophelia said.

  “Maybe not. But it was up to me to put a stop to things before we got too involved.”

  “Why up to you? Because you’re older? Because you’re a priest? Because you’re a man?”

  “Well, maybe a bit of all three, but —”

  “No, Andrew. We’re both responsible. If you deny me my responsibility, then you deny me the right to be an equal, and that isn’t on. As for stopping things before we got too involved, we were always too involved. The involvement started the moment we first clapped eyes on each other.”

  “Maybe. But I — we — didn’t have to do anything about it, did we?”

  “Didn’t we? Do you regret it?”

  “No. Oh no. How could I possibly regret it?”

  “Well, then.”

  They had just paid another visit to the church tower, the one place where they were unlikely to run into anyone else, and having been driven down once again by the rain, were sitting in the bell chamber halfway down.

  “At least this is fairly safe,” Andrew said now.

  “Who else has keys?” Ophelia asked.

  “Just the church wardens, and the captain of bell-ringing. Bell-ringing practice is on Thursday evenings. Apart from that, people rarely come up here.”

  “It’s not exactly cosy,” Ophelia said, looking round the cold little room with its wooden benches, its neatly-looped bell ropes and the numerous plaques commemorating past bell-ringers.

  “No,” Andrew took her hand. “Better than nothing, though.”

  Ophelia thought he looked tired. The joy they found in each other was still there, but the problems seemed increasingly insurmountable, especially for Andrew. And yet, anxious as she was, happiness would keep bubbling to the surface. One of the lessons she had learnt early was to appreciate the moment and not worry too much about what might happen next, and the moment — this particular moment, sitting here with Andrew — was all she could ever ask for.

  But Andrew had Janet to think about, and, of course, God. Ophelia had still not met Janet and she wasn’t at all sure how she stood with God, but Andrew could hardly avoid either of them.

  “God and Janet,” she mused now.

  “What?”

  “God and Janet. They make all this very hard for you, and there’s nothing I can do about that, is there?”

  Andrew smiled. “God will be all right. He’s had to cope with bigger problems than this, and I hope that one day I’ll be able to make things all right with Him. Janet is another matter.”

  It was an unspoken agreement between them that they shouldn’t discuss Andrew’s marriage to Janet. Andrew was too much of a gentleman to put any of the blame for what he was doing onto his marriage, and Ophelia was sufficiently sensitive not to ask. But there were inevitably times when she would dearly have loved to know how things stood between the two of them.

  “We’ll have to find somewhere a bit warmer than this in the winter,” Ophelia said now, giving a little shiver. The air in the room was cool and decidedly musty.

  “The winter?” Andrew turned to Ophelia and took both her hands in his. “Darling Ophelia, I don’t know whether there will be any ‘us’ by the winter; any meeting anywhere.”

  “Don’t say that!”

  “All right. I won’t say it, but our relationship has a — a —”

  “Sell-by-date?”

  “If you put it like that, yes.”

  “But can’t we enjoy it until then?”

  “Yes. Yes, of course. We already are, aren’t we?”

  “We are. Oh, we are.”

  Ophelia put her arms round Andrew and rested her head against his shoulder. If I could stay like this forever, I would ask for nothing more, she thought. I wouldn’t mind the draughts or the smells or the spiders (she was sure there must be spiders). Just to be alone together like this would be enough. They wouldn’t even need to do anything; just hold each other and talk and be together. Although she was hardly experienced in the ways of men, Ophelia thought that the relatively chaste kisses they exchanged were intimate in a way nothing she had ever done before had been intimate. The way Andrew held her face between his hands and gazed at it; the way he stroked her hair or simply held her to him; the way he spoke to her, his voice caressing her in a way that was almost physical; the absolute tenderness and respect he showed her, all these made her feel not only feminine and beloved, but precious. His “pearl beyond price” he had called her, and Ophelia had savoured the words, knowing that they came from the heart.

  As for taking their relationship any further, they hadn’t discussed it, although the passion and the desire were certainly there. Of course, Ophelia could imagine no greater bliss than to make love with Andrew, and to spend a night in his arms would be heaven indeed. But she didn’t feel she could suggest it, and so far, he hadn’t mentioned the possibility either. Although they had only met up together half a dozen times, she knew that time was not on their side. If the affair — for that was what this was, although she disliked the word — were to develop further, it would have to happen soon.

  She looked up at Andrew.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  “I was thinking,” Andrew said slowly, “how much I would like to make love to you.”

  “Mind-reader.”

  Andrew smiled and placed a finger under her chin. “No. Just lover,” he said, kissing her. “I’m not usually in the business of reading minds, but with you, I think I could be a good lover.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “Oh, I am. I am sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life. If you love someone as I love you, how can you not be a good lover?”

  “But we can’t, can we? Where would we — do it?”

  “Not here. Certainly not here. Here would be inappropriate. It would make everything — oh, I don’t know — sordid, I suppose. And you deserve so much better.”

  “Where, then?”

  “Are you sure you want to?”

  “I’ve never wanted anything so much.”

  “Then we’ll find a place. And a time.”

  “Soon?”

  “Soon. It will have to be soon. We don’t have much time, my darling.” He stroked her hair back from her face and kissed her again. “Dearest Ophelia, we have so little time.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Annie’s Story

  After the initial celebrations, the weeks following VE day came as something of a disappointment to Annie. She wasn’t sure what she had expected, but if she was honest, things appeared much the same. The rationing and the shortages remained; life was still a struggle. Other people too seemed to be suffering from a sense of anti-climax, and some were even heard to say that they missed the feeling of camaraderie which the war had engendered. It was as though now that England was no longer under threat, they were almost reluctant to step back into the safe little lives they had left six years ago; nothing much had changed.

  For Annie, of course, much had changed, but little of it could be seen as an improvement and none of it was connected to the war. Her life with Ernest continued to be humdrum and joyless, and while she was grateful that as yet there had been no repetition of his violence, she felt that this was more due to her own behaviour than Ernest’s, for she had gone out of her way to ensure that nothing should happen to upset him.

  The highlight of the year for Annie came that summer when Ernest agreed that she and Billy might go home for a week’s holiday on the farm. She hadn’t been back since before Billy’s birth, and it was wonderful to revisit the changeless count
ryside and experience once again the sights and smells of her childhood. The warm welcome she received was as reassuring as the safe familiarity of her old bedroom and her mother’s home-baked bread, and after a few days it was almost as though she had never been away.

  “Couldn’t I — stay?” she asked her father, emboldened by the unaccustomed affection she had been shown. They were standing together by the pig pens while Billy, who had never seen a pig before, bounced up and down in her arms with excitement. “Stay? Why, you are staying, aren’t you?”

  “No. I mean really stay. Live here with you all. Help on the farm, like I used to.”

  “Without Ernest?”

  “Well … yes.”

  “What are you talking about, girl? Ernest’s your husband. You can’t just up sticks and leave him.”

  “I’m not — I’m not happy,” Annie ventured.

  “Not happy? After all everyone’s done for you? Shame on you, our Annie. You’ve a nice home, your mother tells me, and a good husband. How can you think of taking this little babby away from his daddy? No. You made your bed a while ago, and you’re going to have to lie on it. You don’t know when you’re lucky, our Annie, and that’s a fact.”

  “But we’re just making each other miserable, Dad. I’m sure Ernest would be happier without me, and you could do with another pair of hands on the farm. You said so yourself.”

  “Not your pair of hands, our Annie. You said goodbye to farm life when you — when you married Ernest. You’ll just have to make the most of it. Do you think anyone has a perfect marriage? Do you think your mother and I haven’t had our problems? You have to work at it. Marriage isn’t meant to be easy.”