Annie thought of the comfortable familiar relationship enjoyed by her parents; the small exchanges of words and looks which meant little to anyone else but which were all that was needed for one to convey a feeling or an idea to the other. She knew that her parents hadn’t always had it easy — that her father could be stiff-necked and awkward and her mother was often silent and moody — but the marriage worked, and she had never heard them exchange a cross word. She couldn’t imagine her father ever laying a finger on her mother in anger. She longed to tell him about Ernest’s violent temper, but she didn’t dare, and she could hardly tell him of what she had had to endure in bed.
“Come on, Billy,” she said now, setting him down and taking him by the hand. “Let’s go and see the cows, shall we?”
When the time came for them to leave, Annie wept.
“You will come and see us again, won’t you, Mum?” she said, as she loaded her suitcase into her father’s car for the journey to the station. “You won’t leave it so long again.”
“I’ll do what I can.” Her mother kissed Billy and handed him back to Annie. “But you know how it is. We haven’t got Mavis any more, and the new men are still learning the ropes. I don’t like to leave your father for too long. He needs me here.”
After Annie’s return home, things went relatively smoothly for a while. Ernest seemed genuinely glad to have her home, and although never demonstrative, he did at least show her a degree of kindness. He seemed to have recovered from the depression he had suffered after VE day, and was hoping once more for promotion at work. Annie prayed that this time he might get what he wanted; she always felt safer when Ernest was content.
But once more, the promotion was not to be, and yet again Ernest was passed over in favour of a younger man.
“I don’t know how they dare,” he stormed, when he came home with the news. “After all I’ve done for that place. I’ve never been late, never made any mistakes. When they asked me to move up here, did I complain? All that upheaval — moving house — and I did it without a murmur, and this is how they repay me!”
“But I thought you were quite pleased to move,” Annie said. “You said a change would be a new start for us. You were quite enthusiastic.”
“Enthusiastic? That’s what you call it, is it? No. Duty. That’s what it was. Duty. They don’t know the meaning of the word.”
“But you like it here, don’t you? The flat and everything. You said so yourself.”
“Don’t you tell me what I like or don’t like! You have no idea, Annie. No idea.”
“I try —”
“Oh, you try, do you? Well, you could have fooled me, Annie, and that’s the truth. A woman is supposed to support her husband, and what support have you been to me, eh? You tell me that.”
“I’ve done what I can.” Even as she spoke, Annie knew that she was treading on very dangerous ground. “I didn’t complain when we moved up here, and —”
“You didn’t complain!” Ernest turned to face her. “You’ve done nothing but complain, Annie. Nothing but complain. You’re bored. You’re lonely. You’ve got too much to do. Moan, moan, moan. That’s all you ever do!”
“That’s not fair!”
“Oh, so it’s not fair? Well, try this for fair, then. You just try this!”
The blow this time sent Annie reeling across the room, and she fell heavily, banging her head against the wall. For a moment she lay slumped on the floor, her head spinning, unable to move and afraid to say anything that might provoke a further attack.
“There!” Ernest’s voice seemed to come from a long way away. “Perhaps you’ll mind what you say from now on. Perhaps that’ll teach you a little respect.”
Painfully, Annie raised herself on one elbow. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Ernest silhouetted against the window. He had fallen suddenly quiet, but made no move to assist her. She tried to lever herself up with the help of a chair. If she could only stand, she would feel safer. Lying here on the floor she was completely at Ernest’s mercy.
“I suppose you want me to help you up?”
Annie nodded, and Ernest pulled her roughly to her feet.
“There. You’re all right now, aren’t you?”
“You had no right — no right to hit me,” Annie whispered. “Whatever I said, you had no right to do that.”
“Hit you? I didn’t hit you! A little shove perhaps, and you banged your head on the wall. That’s all. Of course I didn’t hit you, and don’t you go telling anyone that I did. If you hadn’t wound me up, Annie, none of this would have happened. You brought it on yourself.”
So that was it. She might have guessed that it would be like this. Ernest was going to deny that he had done anything to harm her, and would make out that anything he did to her was her own fault.
Annie sat down in a chair. She felt dizzy and her head was throbbing, but beyond any physical discomfort, and far worse, was the fear which crawled like a snake in the pit of her stomach. Ernest had hit her once before, and she had hoped that that would be an end of it. But now he had done it again, and had managed to convince himself that it was all her fault. From Billy’s conception to his own furious outbursts, Ernest had managed to distort everything that had ever happened between them and place the responsibility on her shoulders. Where would it all end?
“And don’t go turning on the waterworks, either,” Ernest said now, standing over her. “You know it gets on my nerves.”
But Annie was beyond crying. She was overcome by a sense of utter hopelessness, for never before had she felt so keenly the trap which was her marriage. She had nowhere to go, since her parents wouldn’t have her back, and without Ernest she had no money. Once, she might simply have run away, and would even have been prepared to leave Billy with his father if she could be freed from her present existence. But not anymore, for now she was tied to Ernest as never before.
Annie had just missed a second period. This time she didn’t need a doctor to tell her that she was pregnant.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Andrew
The kitten was small and fluffy and sneering, with a tiny flat face and round expressionless eyes. Andrew disliked it on sight.
“What’s this?” he asked, stepping carefully round it. “Where did it come from?”
“It’s — a present.” Janet seemed uneasy.
“A present? Who from?”
“Me. It’s from me. To you. To replace Tobias.”
To replace Tobias. Andrew wondered whether Janet could ever understand that Tobias was, quite simply, irreplaceable; that the years of companionship and memories were what had made Tobias special; that in fact he had never particularly liked cats, and had Tobias not been as it were inflicted upon him, he would never have considered having one at all.
“I was wrong,” Janet continued, looking down. “I should never have — well, never have done what I did. I still think it was right — kindest — to have him put down, but I shouldn’t have done it without asking you. I suppose I was — jealous.”
“Jealous? Jealous of a cat?”
“Yes. The time you spent with him; the way you talked to him.”
“But Janet! He more or less lived in my study, and that’s where I do a lot of my work. Of course I spent time with him (or rather, he spent time with me). It was more his choice than mine. Tobias had a mind of his own.”
“Yes, well. I thought you might like a new one. He’s Persian. He was very expensive.”
I bet he was, thought Andrew now, as tiny pedigree paws stepped daintily round the kitchen as though their owner were wondering whether the place was good enough for him. This — this animal must have cost Janet a very great deal of money, and she didn’t have much. Andrew summoned up a smile.
“Well, thank you, Janet. It was very thoughtful of you.” He paused, wondering whether he was expected to pick his new friend up. The kitten challenged him with a cool blue stare. Perhaps not. “What’s his name?”
“He’s g
ot a very long one.” (Of course.) “Blenheim something-or-other. I’ve got his papers. But I think it’s customary to choose a less formal one for everyday use.”
Andrew thought it best not to ask when the posh name might appropriately be called into service, and concentrated on the job of feeling grateful.
“Well, I’m sure we’ll think of a name. Shall we give him a few days and see what suits him?” (Alphonse, perhaps, or Sebastian?)
“I’m glad you like him.” Janet looked relieved.
“Of course I like him. He’s — beautiful.” This at least was true, for although the kitten was not to Andrew’s taste (and Tobias would almost certainly have had it for breakfast), it was undoubtedly very fine in a chocolate-box kind of way.
“He can live in your study, like Tobias.”
Andrew recalled the escapades of the infant Tobias, and opened his mouth to say that a small kitten climbing up his curtains and playing with his shoelaces was not what he needed when he was working. But Janet had swallowed her pride and made what was undoubtedly a very generous gesture. The least he could do was to accept it graciously. He noted the pricey little tins of “Kittyfeed” (“Everything your precious pet needs in one tasty dish”) on the kitchen worktop, and the gleaming new litter-tray with its hygienic gravely contents. Janet had certainly done the job thoroughly. The kitten was here to stay.
Later, in the confines of his study, Andrew contemplated the day’s events. What had moved Janet, after all these weeks, to hold out such an unlikely olive branch? And could it be true that she really had been jealous of Tobias? Certainly, she had always disliked him, but she had never seemed to resent the time Andrew spent with him, and in any case, she was hardly the jealous sort. Andrew recalled the many occasions when he had sought her company only to be rejected because she was too busy to spend time with him. Surely — surely — Janet had never been jealous?
Or could it be that she suspected that there was a more recent and far more threatening focus for any jealous feelings she might harbour?
Could she know? Could she have guessed? Andrew sat down at his desk and put his head in his hands. That Janet should find out about Ophelia was the thing he dreaded above all else. He was not a vain man, and he had never been ambitious. He could probably have coped with a damaged reputation and even a ruined career. He knew that he was weak, and it would be no more than he deserved if that weakness should become public knowledge. But whatever he might feel about Janet, she didn’t deserve the hurt and the disgrace which would accompany any revelation of infidelity on his part. He thought of the gossip and the pitying looks she might have to endure, and knew that he would do everything he could to protect her from them.
And yet the one thing — the only thing — which would ensure that she never did have to suffer in this way was the one thing he couldn’t do, for Andrew couldn’t find it in himself to give up Ophelia. He knew he was being selfish; he knew he was being irresponsible; he knew that he was putting everything he had at risk. He also knew that this relationship couldn’t last, and that already there were intimations of its ending. Ophelia, as aware as he was that time was not on their side, would sometimes cling to him with a desperation which was heart-breaking, the more so because Andrew himself was the cause of her pain. And yet she brought to his life a peace and a fulfilment that he had never sought or expected from another human being, and the happiness she gave him seemed little short of God-given.
Nowadays, when he presided at church services, his awareness of his own hypocrisy was almost unbearable. Sometimes he could hardly look his parishioners in the eye, especially when they came to him with their problems. For how could he advise people on how to lead their lives when his own was careering towards a crisis which was entirely of his own making? He missed the serenity and the wisdom of Father Matthew, the only person to whom he could confide his problems, but had avoided him since their last meeting. While he knew that he would be neither reprimanded nor judged, he still felt he had let his mentor down.
And Annie. Hadn’t he let her down too? He had become enormously fond of her over the past months, and had come to value her friendship. Had Annie known this, she would probably have been surprised, for most of the time they spent together was taken up with the unfolding saga of her past. Andrew had spoken little of himself. And yet there had developed between them a mutual respect and a shared sense of humour. Annie had a sense of fun which Andrew suspected had lain dormant for many years, but now that she was beginning to come out of herself, she made entertaining company. But recently she had been more withdrawn and thoughtful, and Andrew had on several occasions been the object of one of Annie’s famous Looks.
“What’s the matter, Annie? What are you thinking about?” he had asked.
But Annie had pursed her lips and shaken her head, and he had known the answer to his question. There was a lot more to Annie than the vague other-world eccentricity she displayed, and she was nobody’s fool. She knew what was going on between himself and Ophelia, and was keeping her own counsel. Andrew would have given a lot to know what she really felt (although he might not like it were he to find out) but it was a matter he could never discuss with her. Drawing her into the situation would be as unfair as it was inappropriate. They must just go on as they were, both of them pretending, without actually deceiving each other.
Andrew’s thoughts returned to Ophelia, and he wondered, not for the first time, why it was that she, like him, had from the outset accepted the finite nature of their relationship. Her unselfishness was one of the things he loved most about her, and he knew that she would never pursue her own ends if it involved hurt to others. It would have been so easy for the two of them at least to fantasise about a future together, and yet they both carefully avoided the subject. When he did allow himself to think about it, Andrew felt that there could be no greater bliss than to be married to Ophelia. He imagined a rambling house, comfortably untidy, filled with the noise of children, and presided over by Ophelia herself, wearing the gypsy skirt (of course), with the latest plump infant on her hip.
Of course, in theory his dream was perfectly possible. He could divorce Janet, and he was sure that if he were free, Ophelia could be persuaded to marry him. He wouldn’t feel able to continue in the priesthood, but he could possibly retrain as a teacher, and would probably enjoy it. But the happiness he imagined would be tarnished by the hurt it had caused to others; he wouldn’t be able to live with himself, let alone Ophelia, under a shadow which was unlikely to go away and which might eventually spoil what they had together.
But he had promised her the consummation of his love for her, and although he knew how dangerous, let alone foolish, this would be, he felt helpless in the face of a temptation and a longing which were overwhelming. For he felt that if in years to come he were to look back on his time with Ophelia and know that he had passed this opportunity by, he wouldn’t have properly lived. To make love to someone who really loved him; to lie in her arms afterwards and hold her and feel at one with her; he might never have this chance again.
But how was this to be managed, and where? So far, Andrew had managed to get by without telling Janet any outright lies, and while he knew that this was more to salve what was left of his conscience than to benefit anyone else, he wanted to try to keep it that way. However, there was soon to be a midweek three-day conference to which he had been invited. He could go for the first two days, and then perhaps leave early and spend the last night with Ophelia. One night. Just one night. Was it so very much to ask, just one night?
He gazed out of the window at the pale green sky of a late summer evening. In another part of the house, Janet was talking on the telephone, and in the distance, a police car wailed its warning. Ordinary, everyday sounds.
Andrew sighed. He had an uneasy feeling that life would never be quite so ordinary again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Annie’s Story
Annie dreaded telling Ernest her news. Obsessed as he was with or
der and control, how would he react to this surprise intervention in his life? Annie knew little about contraception, and on the one occasion when she had mentioned it to Ernest, had been told firmly that he was “taking care of all that”. The taking care appeared to take the form of mysterious fumblings and rustlings in the dark before their sexual encounters, and while Annie had no idea what Ernest was doing, and certainly didn’t dare to ask, she felt sure that if he considered the matter to be under control, then that must be the case. She had hardly given the matter another thought. She herself didn’t particularly want more children, and Ernest had said that one child was more than enough, so that, as far as she was concerned, was the end of the matter.
And now this. Apart from Ernest’s feelings on the subject, how would they cope? Financially, things were still tight, and the flat was too small to accommodate an additional child with any degree of comfort. As for Annie herself, she found life quite exhausting enough without the sickness and discomfort of pregnancy. And then there was Billy. No doubt due to the over-indulgence of his adoring father, he had become spoilt and demanding, given to tantrums whose sheer volume was astonishing in one so small. He was a strong, sturdy child, and when he put his mind to it he could put up a great deal of resistance. Ernest seemed proud of what he seemed to regard as strength of character, but then it never fell to him to try to persuade Billy to eat anything other than mashed potato, or to have to lift him, shrieking, from the pavement and bend his rigid body into his pushchair to the accompaniment of disapproving tuts and stares from strangers. Annie found him hard enough to manage now; how would she cope with the demands of a baby as well?
Better informed than she had been the first time around, Annie had by now heard of the miraculous effects of gin and hot baths, and decided to put them to the test. But while the gin (a contribution from a sympathetic neighbour) made her sick and the baths almost took her skin off, the baby remained firmly in place. It was time to tell Ernest.
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