by Rosie Clarke
My cousin has come into a small inheritance, Jonathan had written. Despite your marriage, it is only right he should make some contribution for the child’s benefit. If you don’t need the money for yourself save it for the child’s future.
I was determined to put the fifty pounds into my Post Office savings account as soon as I got the chance. My secret hoard was growing bit by bit. I wasn’t sure why that gave me pleasure, because it didn’t change anything. Except that I felt I had a way of escape if I really needed it.
I visited Gran on Wednesday afternoon as usual. I had settled back into my old routine, and apart from the fact that Richard slept in my bed at night, it was almost as if nothing had changed.
I took Gran some pipe tobacco and a tin of fudge we had brought her from Yarmouth.
‘You’re bearing up then,’ she said, giving me a shrewd stare. ‘I expected you would. You’ve got backbone, Emma. No matter what comes, you’ll cope – in your own way.’
‘I’ve been sick again this morning,’ I answered, deliberately misunderstanding the questioning look. ‘Can you recommend anything to help?’
‘I’ve something ready for you.’ She nodded towards a small, dark bottle on the sideboard. ‘It won’t stop the sickness, but it will make you feel better in yourself. When your time comes, I’ll give you something to ease the birth, lass – and meantime, I’m always here for you. If you’re worried about anything, just come and tell me.’
‘Thank you.’ I kissed her gratefully. ‘I do love you, Gran.’
‘Humph!’ She nodded, her eyes seeming to see what she hadn’t been told. ‘Make the best of things, Emma. Once you’ve had the child, life will seem brighter. Children bring love with them, if you let them.’
‘Oh, I want my baby,’ I assured her and smiled. ‘I can’t wait to start making clothes – though I suppose I’d better not buy anything just yet or the tongues will start wagging.’
‘You won’t stop that,’ Gran said. ‘I’ve cut out a few patterns from old magazines for you. If you buy lemon wool you can say it’s for a cardigan for yourself.’
‘Yes, I suppose I could.’ I felt a warm glow all of a sudden. In a way I was lucky. Richard was being nice at the moment, and I couldn’t really complain. ‘I’m not sorry about the baby. I just wish Paul had really wanted to marry me, that’s all. It made me feel used when he just went off without letting me know … as if he had never cared.’
‘No use crying over spilt milk, girl.’
‘No, of course not. I’ve got over him now, Gran.’ I laughed as her old, knowing eyes narrowed in suspicion. ‘Really, I mean it. It doesn’t hurt half as much as it did. Perhaps I wasn’t in love with him at all. And Richard isn’t too bad.’
‘If you’d had more freedom, you wouldn’t have been so easily taken in,’ she said. ‘It was Harold’s fault for keeping you almost a prisoner. No doubt he thought he was doing right by you, but it made you restless. You just tumbled into the arms of the first man who made the effort to get you alone. And he was a charmer, make no mistake about it, Emma. You won’t have been the only one to have been deceived, mark my words.’
‘I think you may be right,’ I agreed. ‘His mother said something to me the day I went there. I think perhaps there was another girl in the same kind of trouble. That makes him a bit of a rotter, doesn’t it?’
I was thoughtful as I walked home later that afternoon. I had certainly let myself be misled by Paul, but perhaps it had been inevitable, just as Gran had said. The idea made me feel better about myself, not quite so much of a fool.
My spirits began to lift again. I’d made a mistake, but it wasn’t the end of the world. I’d longed for children, and I was having my own; that couldn’t be so bad, could it? Maybe I would buy some lemon and some white wool. Mrs Henty sold knitting wool; I could always pretend I was making a striped jumper for myself.
It would give me something to do in the evenings when Richard went off to the pub, as he had every night since our return from Yarmouth. He only stayed for an hour or so, and I didn’t think he drank all that much; most men I knew did much the same, though some took their wives with them.
‘A man needs a drink with his mates after a hard day’s work,’ he’d told me when he left me for the first time.
I hadn’t argued. I didn’t like being in pubs much, and was relieved he hadn’t insisted I go with him. It was far more comfortable staying at home with my mother.
‘We’ll go out at weekends,’ Richard had promised. ‘To the dance one Saturday, pictures the next.’
I agreed and kissed him on the cheek. As long as Richard didn’t turn nasty the way he had in Yarmouth, it was enough to satisfy me. Especially as my father seemed to have lost any desire to interfere in my life. Apparently, I was no longer his concern.
I accepted the port and lemon Richard bought me at the dance, thanking him without comment. I was feeling very much better now that I was taking Gran’s herbal tonic regularly. It didn’t stop me being sick, but I wasn’t as drained afterwards, and my old energy had returned.
I sipped my drink, content to watch the other dancers. Richard had already danced with me twice, but he was on his third glass of beer. He seemed determined to make quite a night of it.
‘Saturday night is the best of the week,’ he’d told me. ‘I don’t have to work tomorrow.’
I watched as he finished his drink and went off to join the queue at the bar. Surely he wasn’t going to get drunk, was he? Richard wasn’t too bad sober, but I still dreaded the nights when he’d had too much – though to be honest, he hadn’t been violent since that night on our honeymoon.
I glanced round as someone sat down on the chair next to me. It was Sheila, wearing a very pretty blue-and-white spotted dress with full skirts, wide shoulder straps and a squared neckline. She had a thin white wool shawl over her arms and looked smart. Obviously, she’d treated herself to a new dress.
‘Enjoying yourself then?’ she asked.
‘Yes, I suppose so.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘I don’t like the smoke in here much. It makes my throat sore.’
‘And you work for a man who sells cigarettes!’
‘I know.’ I laughed. ‘How are you getting on at the factory?’
‘It’s all right. It’ll do until I find something better. I wouldn’t mind working in a shop, but it isn’t easy to find that sort of work round here. Perhaps I should have stayed in London with my cousin.’
‘Is that where you were?’
I wasn’t to receive an answer that evening, because we were joined first by Richard and then by Eric, both of them carrying drinks for themselves as well as us.
‘Drink up, Emma,’ Richard said, winking at the other man. ‘Got to get you in a good mood for later.’
I knew better than to argue, finishing my drink in silence.
‘Eric and I are engaged,’ Sheila said, and flashed her hand at us. Her ring was a gold band set with five garnets and three pearls in a row. ‘We haven’t set a date for the wedding yet, but it will probably be in the spring.’
‘Eric was just telling me,’ Richard said. ‘Congratulations. I hope you’ll both be as happy as you deserve.’
I thought there was something odd about the way he looked at Sheila, but I didn’t make much of it, because Eric was holding out his hand to me.
‘Dance with me?’ he asked. ‘Richard won’t mind, will you?’
‘Course not,’ Richard replied affably. ‘Go on, Emma. You’ll be safe with Eric.’
I went without further urging. I was learning not to argue with my husband. If I did what he asked and kept my mouth shut he seemed prepared to let me do much as I liked. He just couldn’t stand being answered back.
I danced with Sheila’s fiancé. He was a pleasant, easy-going man with a nice smile, and he smelled of scented hair oil. I was sorry when our dance ended. He led me back to our seats; Sheila got up at once and took his hand. Her face was expressionle
ss, but I sensed something. Richard was frowning. He looked at me as I sat down.
‘I’m having another drink. What about you?’
‘I’ve still got one,’ I said. ‘Could we dance again, Richard?’
‘In a minute,’ he said, and there was a hint of belligerence in his manner, as if he were angry about something. I wondered if Sheila had said something to upset him. ‘I’ll get another beer first.’
We did dance again before Richard suggested we leave. I wasn’t sure how many drinks he’d had, but I sensed he was almost drunk, though he could walk well enough. Not wanting to provoke him, I was quiet as we made our way home.
My parents were already in bed. I locked the back door and bolted it, then followed Richard up to our own bedroom. He seemed to be having difficulty in unbuttoning his shirt.
‘Can I help?’ I asked.
Richard focused his bleary gaze on me. ‘What are you staring at?’ he muttered. ‘I’m not drunk, so don’t look at me like that.’
‘I wasn’t staring.’
‘Liar,’ he said. ‘You’re like all the rest of them. Always nagging. Every time a man has a drink.’ I picked up my nightgown and turned to leave. He caught my arm. ‘Where the hell do you think you’re going?’
‘I need a wash.’
He glared at me. I tensed, thinking he was about to hit me, then all at once his hand dropped, as if he felt too tired – or too drunk – to bother. I left quickly, before he could change his mind.
In the bathroom, I took my time. I washed all over and changed into my nightgown, then brushed my hair for several minutes. Reluctantly, I returned to the bedroom, wondering what kind of a mood my husband would be in now. I hated it when he was in one of his sullen moods. He could be almost tender towards me at times, but he could also be a brute.
To my relief, Richard had fallen asleep. I lifted the covers and eased in beside him. He didn’t move, his breathing telling me he was deep in slumber. I settled down beside him.
I was learning how to manage him now, I thought. Most of the time he was easy enough to please. Drinking obviously didn’t suit him, but I would just have to hope it didn’t happen too often.
‘Your father is late coming up for his tea,’ Mother said, glancing anxiously at the mantle clock in the parlour. ‘It’s shepherd’s pie this evening, so it won’t hurt for a while. He likes the top nice and crispy, but all the same, I don’t want it to spoil.’
‘I’ll go down and see what’s keeping him,’ I offered, laying my knitting on the settee beside me.
Nearly three weeks had passed since our return from the honeymoon. I’d almost completed my second coat for the baby, but I was careful not to let Richard see me knitting. Any reference to the child I was carrying was sufficient to put him in an awkward mood, and Richard’s moods were worse than Father’s – though of late there had been little to choose between them.
Leaving Mother listening to music on the wireless, I went out into the hall. I was in time to see my Father standing halfway up the stairs, bent almost double with what was obviously severe pain.
‘Father!’ I cried. ‘You’re ill. Let me help you.’
‘No, no,’ he muttered, lifting his head to glare at me. ‘I can manage. Get on down to the shop, Emma – and don’t fuss.’
‘Will you let me send Ben for the doctor?’
He hesitated, then shook his head. ‘Not yet. If I’m no better by the time you close up, I’ll think about it.’
I was shocked by the look of his complexion. His skin was an odd colour, sort of yellowish-grey, and I thought he must be feeling very ill. What was wrong with him? I hadn’t seen him in this much pain before.
The shop was busy when I got there. Both Ben and I were serving customers almost non-stop until well past seven-thirty. Father had not returned by the time I sent Ben home and locked up for the night.
I made sure all the lights were off, then went upstairs to be met by my mother, who looked worried.
‘He’s been sick three times,’ she said, ‘and he didn’t touch his supper.’
‘I think we should have the doctor, Mum.’
‘So do I,’ she agreed, ‘but he won’t hear of it. Every time I speak to him, he shouts at me.’
‘I know,’ I said, feeling sad that she had had such a rotten life. It wasn’t her fault and yet it wasn’t all my father’s. I suspected that they had both hurt each other, the little slights and grievances building up over the years until they had reached a state where there was only harsh feeling between them. ‘Is he in bed?’
‘Lying on top of it, I think.’
‘I’ll talk to him. See if I can persuade him to see sense.’
‘Would you? I’m really very worried, Emma.’
I thought she looked frightened.
I knocked on the bedroom door, then entered. Father was lying with his eyes closed, but even as I hesitated, he rolled over and grabbed at a bowl. He made a fearful retching sound and brought up a brownish bile, which smelt awful.
‘I’ll empty that and bring it back.’ I took the bowl from him, went across the hall and rinsed it down the toilet, then returned with it and a damp flannel. ‘Wipe your mouth,’ I said. ‘I’ll get you a little cold water to rinse your mouth, but I shouldn’t swallow if I were you.’
He accepted the flannel and the water, but in another minute he was vomiting again.
‘I’m getting the doctor,’ I said decisively, leaving before he could argue.
I stopped only to put on my jacket, before running down the stairs and letting myself out of the back door. It was chilly out, but I ran so fast I didn’t feel it.
Fortunately, the doctor’s house was only two streets away. Having come from attending a difficult childbirth, Doctor Barton had just finished his own dinner. He listened attentively to my story, gave it as his opinion that something Father had eaten had disagreed with him, and told me not to worry.
‘He has hardly eaten anything for days,’ I said. ‘Please, you must come. I think he might be dying.’
‘Very well.’ The doctor was reluctant to leave the comfort of his own parlour, but my very real fear decided him that it was his duty. ‘I’m sure you are worrying for nothing, my dear – but I shall come.’
Ten minutes later, he was standing by Father’s bedside, shaking his head and looking serious.
‘You should have sent for me before this,’ he said. He took Father’s pulse, then examined his tongue. ‘This is either an ulcer or your liver, sir. Tell me, how long have you been having the pain?’
‘Months – years,’ Father said, grimacing. ‘But not like this. I thought it was indigestion.’
‘More likely an ulcer then,’ Doctor Barton said. ‘You should be very careful what you eat from now on, Mr Robinson. No spicy foods for you, I’m afraid. Milk and bread – perhaps a raw egg beaten into some milk at night to settle your stomach. Nothing cooked in the frying pan. I’ll give Emma a prescription.’ He wrote something on his pad and tore it off. ‘This should help ease the pain for now – but I should like you to go into hospital as soon as possible. Tests would help establish the cause of your pain.’
‘No hospitals,’ Father said and bit back a groan. ‘It’s my own fault for overeating. I’ll take that stuff of yours and stick to a diet in future.’
‘Harold has always been a martyr to his stomach,’ Mother said from the doorway. She looked at him doubtfully. ‘Perhaps you should go to hospital – just for some tests, dear.’
‘Damn you, no!’ he muttered. ‘It’s already easing. I shall be better soon. Thank you for coming, doctor – but there was really no need.’
‘I believe you have an ulcer,’ the doctor said. ‘If you are wise, sir, you will rest as much as possible – and stick to a diet for several weeks. Then come and see me.’
‘I’ll see you out,’ I said, following him quickly from the room. I could hear my father’s voice complaining loudly as we went downstairs.
‘How is he really?’ I asked
before unlocking the shop door to let Doctor Barton out the front way. ‘Is it serious?’
‘It might be,’ he said. ‘There’s something about his colour I don’t like. I can’t place it – but it’s not right.’
‘Is he going to die?’
‘I shouldn’t think so – not if he’s sensible. Unless there’s internal bleeding. Did you notice blood in his vomit?’
‘No.’ I was decisive. ‘I’m sure I would have noticed. It was just foul-smelling brown stuff.’
‘Then it may not be too serious. Try not to worry, my dear. Send for me if you need me.’
‘Thank you.’
I locked the door after him. I was thoughtful as I went out of the back way, walking through the dimly lit streets to the chemist shop in the next road. I had to pass the Cock Inn to reach it, and a burst of noisy laughter from inside made me scurry by.
What had caused Father’s sickness? He certainly hadn’t been eating too much recently, despite his claims to have done so. Could it possibly be the tablets he dosed himself with regularly? I was sure he hadn’t mentioned them to the doctor. He wouldn’t have wanted him to know about those, of course. Nor was he likely to visit the hospital. He would probably be annoyed with me for fetching the doctor at all.
I was relieved to find the chemist still open. I handed over the doctor’s prescription, waited while it was prepared, and paid for it. Going back outside, I stood for a moment looking about me.
Across the street, a man had caught hold of a woman’s arm and was swinging her round to face him. They appeared to be having an argument. As they moved into the light of an inadequate street lamp, I felt a shock of surprise. The man was my husband – and the woman was Sheila.
Before I’d time to digest this, Sheila struck him a sharp blow on the face and ran off. I thought he was about to follow until some instinct made him glance across the street. He looked thunderstruck as he saw me standing there.
‘Emma?’ He came towards me, his manner half angry, half wary. ‘What are you doing here?’
