by Maggie Ford
‘D’yer ’ave to be down there messin’ about all blinkin’ hours? Look at what time yer’ve come up. And me waiting fer supper.’
With an effort Brenda refrained from snapping back at him that it wouldn’t have hurt him to rustle something up. He spoke as though it were a game she was playing, a silly pastime to be sneered at, but retaliation would only start up yet another argument. One a few days ago had narrowly missed causing a virtual breakdown to their marriage, so angered had she been as he told her to give up this bloody soppy business idea or else! But it was hard to keep quiet.
It was only mid-January and here he was already complaining of her absence when he was around. He wandered aimlessly about the place and grew irascible at Addie getting under his feet when she came home from school, for all he adored her.
The place was beginning to prove too small for all three of them. Many times she thought of the large house in Leytonstone, still lying empty and which so far she’d managed to sidestep. Harry too never referred to it though he knew of its existence. Still believing she’d bought it cheap, his only mention of it had been to mutter that it must be some tumbledown old ruin on which she’d thrown away good money and that he for one had no intention of going to look at it. So far it had been easier not to start another quarrel by suggesting he did. And just as well, for she could never have lived there, with the memory and feel of John Stebbings all around her. It had in fact become a thorn in her side. Meantime, here in this cramped place, all three were under each other’s feet, since Harry had no job at present.
‘Business! Anyone’d think we’d fall apart wivvart you doing yer business! It ain’t even a proper job. Not that I’d allow yer goin’ out working, respectable ’ousewife like you.’
‘Allow?’ she burst out, her temper now matching his. ‘What d’you mean, allow? Times have changed, Harry. While you was away I had to fend for meself and Addie. All the women had to. And we’re not prepared to go back to being the nice little housewives we were just because you men ’ave come ’ome. We’ve proved our worth, proved we can work as well as any of you.’
‘Yeah,’ he sneered, a little taken aback by her show of force. ‘But you weren’t away fightin’. That’s men’s work.’
‘Women was in the forces too, y’know,’ she reminded him. ‘And they ain’t going ter stand being expected to go back into the kitchen, expected ter knuckle down under a man’s thumb any more.’
He was wilting, blustering. ‘I still say you’re playin’ at business. What’s a woman know about business?’
‘I know enough to bring in good money.’
She wanted to have done with this argument. She was tired after a full day’s work perming two lots of hair while Joan got on with the trims and sets. She began laying the table. But he wasn’t done.
‘And what’s there ter show fer all this money yer bringin’ in? Not enough on the table ter feed a flea.’
‘That’s because of rationing, not money,’ she replied wearily.
Rationing, rather than easing with the end of the war, had grown even more austere with resultant mounting unrest against the government that had seen them through it all. There was a world food shortage. Some in Europe were said to be living on scraps, the German people were starving. Here rationing had mercifully prevented all that, but it was hard trying to make reduced rations go round. That had nothing to do with money, and she was getting sick of his carping.
‘You’ve no right to talk like that,’ she went on, needing to have the last say in the matter. ‘Especially as what I do brings in enough for us to sometimes come by a little extra under the counter.’
Lots of people dealt in the black market, though she preferred to call it ‘under the counter’, but they had to have money to do it. So what right did he have to sneer?
He too was beginning to tire of the argument, and besides, Addie was looking from one to the other, her little face filled with concern.
All he could say as Brenda put his tea on the table, was, ‘I suppose yer think you’re running the family now. It’s like I said, I begin ter wonder why I ever come ’ome.’
Weary of it all, Brenda didn’t answer though quietly under her breath she said, ‘Sometimes I wish you hadn’t.’ But to say such a thing aloud would have been like saying she wished he’d been killed. In truth at this moment she almost found herself wishing that at least he’d found himself a bit of foreign stuff, perhaps in Sicily or Italy, and stayed there!
Without warning the face of John Stebbings came to hover, bringing such longing and regret that she had to keep her face averted from Harry in case he thought the sudden welling of tears stemmed from what he’d said. He was the last one she felt like crying over at the moment, filled with anger at him as she was. She felt an unbearable need for the one who’d been taken.
If only she hadn’t turned John away that day, he might be alive now. How would her life have panned out had she taken up his offer, broken up her marriage and stayed with him? Feeling as she did at this particular moment, she wouldn’t have been the least put out how Harry took it. But that was all hindsight and it was no good crying over spilled milk.
Yet it was more than mere spilled milk – it was how different her life could have been. She had chosen Harry. That didn’t mean he could come home playing the lord and master he’d seen himself as before the war. The war had changed all that sort of thing and she refused to return to it, even if this marriage threatened to break up as a result. Better that than be bullied into the way it used to be. But it wouldn’t come to that, or so she prayed.
Though the tears refused to be controlled, Brenda called out to Adele who had gone to play in her bedroom away from the arguing. Hardly waiting for her to reply she went off to fetch her.
By the time she returned to sit her daughter up to the table, her tears had dried, and she had put the memory of John Stebbings firmly out of reach as far as it could safely be put for the time being.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘That’s it!’ Harry threw himself down in one of the armchairs, his face dark as a thunder cloud. ‘Got me washin’ bloody floors and cleanin’ urinals. They said they wanted a mechanic. They didn’t say they wanted a blinkin’ lavatory cleaner. Said I’d ’ave ter work up ter bein’ a mechanic. Like I was a bleedin’ kid out of school instead of someone what fought for ’is country when sods like that stayed sittin’ all cushy at ’ome. I told ’em ter stuff their bloody job!’
‘Oh, Harry.’ Brenda laid his plate of lamb stew steaming on the table. ‘That’s the third one you’ve walked out on in a month.’
‘So bloody what! I ain’t bein’ treated like some snotty-nosed kid.’
‘No, of course not. They’ve got no right to treat yer like that.’
Of course she supported him in this, but thoughts were in her mind which she was loath to voice, for the month hadn’t gone smoothly. When she had finally persuaded Harry to go and find something, anything, her suggestion that he try this resettlement training lark had met with a storm of rage. He insisted he was already a skilled mechanic and didn’t need no fucking retraining.
He’d never sworn this bad before going off into the army. Now every sentence was punctuated with one oath or another, some really vile. She too had become angry and told him not to use his foul-mouthed army language in front of the child and to go and clean his mouth out before he said any more. It would work for perhaps a day or two before he was off again.
‘See what you’ve done?’ she railed at him last week as she caught Addie telling a doll that she was an ’orrible little sod! ‘I won’t have you effing and blinding all over the place, Harry. And especially when she’s around. You ain’t in the army now.’
But it wasn’t even that which bothered her. It was how she was going to gentle him towards this idea she had, an idea that kept raising its head but to which she knew even before saying anything he would never agree. He’d see it as her putting him down – as if he no longer had control of his fami
ly. The truth to her mind was that he didn’t and he knew he didn’t and it irked him.
She would never ever be able to bring herself to live in the house in Leytonstone, much less ask him to. It should have been tempting to have space in which to breathe, instead of this cramped flat in a largely bombed-out East End. Many times she’d wondered if she could bear that sweet ghost that would always lurk there, each time knowing she could never do so – such bitterness, so much self-recrimination lay in that direction. And now to fly in the face of Harry’s self-esteem; was she sticking her neck out too far?
Yet she couldn’t turn away from this idea in her head. If she were to sell the house, though it would tear her apart to do so, the money could go towards getting Harry a small garage of his own. The price of houses was rising fast with a housing shortage now the war was over. People were crying out for somewhere to live. She would get a good price. And with a business of his own maybe Harry would let her get on with hers. With both of them bringing in money they could buy a nice house without him feeling patronised.
It all sounded so easy. The problem would be getting him to agree to her suggestion without feeling himself in her debt. His pride and his self-respect, the things she had always loved about him, could present an insurmountable barrier. It was natural for him as the man to want to be the one to make decisions, but the war had changed a lot of things. Women left on their own had learned to become more independent, but already she was hearing about how it had started breaking up marriages. Did she want that for her and Harry? But it wouldn’t come to that, not with her marriage, and it was worth a try.
‘That place in Leytonstone,’ she began one evening with Harry home after a miserable day in the garage he was working at and Addie tucked up in bed. ‘I was wondering, what if we was to put it on the market, I reckon it’d sell with no bother at all. With this housing shortage, it’d get snapped up. We’d get good money for it.’
She kept her eyes on the sock she was darning, one of Harry’s demob socks that was already going threadbare. ‘With what we make on that you could find premises somewhere and start up a repair garage, your own business.’
For a moment his silence sounded as though he were in agreement. Then, ‘With what you make, not we. It’s your ’ouse not mine, and I’m not ’avin’ you provide me wiv a business – bloody patronisin’ me.’
She let her darning fall into her lap. ‘Don’t say it like that, Harry. I’m trying ter help, trying ter do what’s best for all of us.’
‘I’ll save up me own money, thank you.’
‘What on?’ she couldn’t help snapping. She felt angry at having her offer thrown back in her face.
‘On what I earn.’
‘And how long is that going to take, on what you earn?’ She couldn’t help the sarcasm. He was being so silly.
‘Let me worry about that,’ he answered tersely. ‘I don’t want your money. I can get it together meself.’
‘When?’
‘When I’m ready.’
‘That’ll be never,’ she shot at him. ‘Meantime there’s a bloody good house in a decent-class neighbourhood sitting doin’ nothink.’ She couldn’t help swearing, she had become so angry with him and his foolish pride. ‘On top of it I’m paying good money in rates that we could well do with here.’
‘Oh yeah, you’re payin’ good money – not me, not us, you. Always you!’ He’d jumped up out of his chair and reached for the packet of cigarettes on the mantelpiece. Now he was furiously searching for a box of matches. ‘Well, I’m the breadwinner ’ere, not you. And the sooner you give that bloody so-called business of yours up and learn to be my wife proper while I go out and keep us, the bloody better.’
‘And throw away all we ’ave?’ She too was on her feet. ‘No, Harry, I’m not going to give up my hairdressing just to succour your conscience.’
‘Oh, succour,’ he burst out, viciously throwing the cigarette packet down on the floor. ‘Don’t we use bleedin’ posh words these days. Succour! What’s that mean when it’s about then? Gone all bleedin’ ’igh an’ mighty, ain’t we, since we run our own so-called business. Well, get this inter yer ’ead, Brenda, I ain’t ’avin’ nothink ter do wiv your business or that bloody ’ouse of yours. Yer can do what yer like wiv it, I don’t want none of it – you boastin’ to everyone in years ter come that you ’ad ter keep me, I couldn’t look after me own family. Yer was soddin’ mad ter buy it in the first place. And now yer fink yer goin’ ter keep me? No one keeps me! Least of all you, me own wife. I’d rather not be married than be dictated to by you.’
‘Right!’ Brenda’s heart was thumping savagely in her fury. ‘If that’s what you want we can start gettin’ divorced immediately. I managed without you all them years you was away. I can do it again. I ain’t strapped for cash, if you are, and I don’t want to live on what you earn when there’s money to keep us in comfort. You’re the silliest sod I’ve ever come across, Harry, and you never used ter be. I ’oped we’d be able to pull together, but if you want to end it, that’s orright with me!’
Flinging herself from the room, she went to bed in a welter of fury and some regret at how it had all erupted. Raging inside it took ages for sleep to come. Harry hadn’t come to bed and when she woke next morning he had already gone to work although it was too early to leave. No doubt he was walking the streets.
The settee showed signs of having been slept on and as Brenda tidied it she went over and over their argument the night before. Surely he hadn’t meant what he’d said about ending their marriage? But if it came to it, she could go it alone. Trouble was, she didn’t want to.
On the last Saturday of April, Brian took Ceil out and bought her a modest little engagement ring from a little backstreet jeweller. On their way to tell their happy news to their parents, they popped in to show Brenda the loop of three chip diamonds.
‘What d’yer think of it?’ asked Brian as she congratulated them both and forced a smile of appreciation, remembering how happy she and Harry had been when he had slipped his own modest little ring on her finger.
She and Harry had been somewhat distant towards each other since that row they’d had in March. He’d come home giving no apology for going off without saying cheerio to her or sleeping on the sofa all night. It was as though it hadn’t happened except for this relative silence between them. Although he was now looking for a better job, not that he’d found anything to suit him so far, Brenda felt that rather than to win her approval it was to show that her income should always take second place to his.
‘You are glad fer us, ain’t you, Bren?’ queried Brian, noticing her glum face so that she had to force herself to perk up and smile at them.
‘Of course I am. I’m thrilled for you both. And I know you’ll have a really happy life together.’
‘I wonder,’ she thought after they’d gone. Maybe they would; starting their new life together with the war a thing of the past, there would be no thought of him being torn from her. The war was to blame for so many broken marriages. A man expected to come home and pick up the reins, not realising that for four or more years his wife had been coping alone and now resented being relegated to the background once more. After looking forward with eagerness and hope to his return she would often see her illusions of joy totally shattered.
‘We ain’t ’avin’ no engagement party,’ Ceil told both parents on displaying the three tiny diamonds on which Brian had blown most of his demob money. ‘We can’t really afford it now.’ But she said it cheerfully.
‘Our first concern,’ he agreed, ‘is ter save as much as we can fer the wedding we’re planning fer this time next year, and of course finding somewhere ter live.’
Both parents looked doubtful. People were snapping up the tiniest couple of rooms; with so many homes destroyed and thousands coming out of the forces to get married and settled down, demand far exceeded supply. Living accommodation was almost impossible to come by, though if you had money you were all right, but mostly t
hat was beyond ordinary youngsters.
But Brian was confident. ‘We’ll get somethink by next year,’ he said, gazing fondly at Ceil. ‘But we can’t go wastin’ money on parties.’
‘No, we can’t, love,’ she agreed, returning his gaze that said she was sure he’d find them the most beautiful love nest there ever was.
‘Anyway, I don’t want all that palaver of sendin’ out invitations ter people what only want a free booze-up,’ he announced.
‘I ain’t sorry,’ Mum said to Brenda. ‘Having ter get all that bloomin’ food tergether with rations gettin’ worse instead of better. An ounce down on this, an ounce down on that. Worse’n in the war. If that’s what come of us winnin’ it, I’d ’ate ter think what it would of bin like if we’d lorst it. Next year we’ll ’ave a really good wedding ter make up fer it. By that time things’ll all be off ration, we ’ope. Besides, I ain’t ready ter start keepin’ up with people like your Harry’s mum. From what I can see of it, it’s all show with ’er. Not one but two welcome ’ome parties! Blimey, it was enough fer me with my two boys, without trying ter keep up with the likes of ’er an’ do another one.’
Brenda was inclined to agree. Mrs Hutton couldn’t help the way she was, but she was inclined to grab the lion’s share of attention all the time and was still doing it even now.
Harry had taken to going round to see her in between looking for his perfect mechanic’s job. She was still interfering, offering bags of sympathy for his dull existence after his exciting army life. He’d come home saying, ‘Mum says she’d look after Addie if we want ter go out tergether,’ or, ‘Mum thinks yer go on at me too much fer not getting a better job and that somethink’ll come along eventually,’ and again, ‘She says I’ve only been ’ome a couple of months and ter give it time and not get so impatient.’
Brenda seethed in silence. To ask where he thought the money would come from for them to go out when he’d never agree to her forking out for it would only add grist to the grindstone of this teetering marriage. To say they hadn’t any real money worries would be like saying she could afford to keep them and put his back up anew. Again and again arose the dilemma of how to approach the subject of selling the place in Leytonstone so as to put the money into a business of his own.
