Etta crooned her sympathy, this leading to more kisses which were inevitably to lead to bed.
Sighing with happiness afterwards, watching her husband hop about on one foot as he hurried to dress, she uttered sincerely, ‘Thank you for finding us this nice house, Marty dear.’
‘God love you.’ He threw her an adoring smile. ‘I wish it could have been more – it will be one day.’
‘I don’t need more, I didn’t marry you for your money. I know we’re going to be so happy here, I can feel it.’
Sitting on the edge of the bed, Marty tied his boot laces. ‘I feel it too, and I know you’re not after me for my money, heaven help you if you were, but I want to give my fine wife a place that befits her.’ He fell back on top of her to deliver a last kiss, then levered himself away towards the door. ‘Now get your fat arse up and cook my dinner while I go fetch our daughter.’ He laughed at her roar of protest and ran off before she could throw a pillow at him.
Once he was gone, Etta’s glower melted into a smile and she stretched her arms wide to enjoy a moment of reverie, reliving the act of love in Marty’s arms, before jumping out of bed to start on the enhancement of their new home.
With Celia an undemanding baby who hardly ever cried except to announce hunger, Etta was able to spend many hours on improving her home, making curtains, embroidering cushions and painting pictures for the walls – all of which to welcome her dear husband home from his labours, though often at the price of more mundane chores. A nicer house had certainly brought with it extra work – a range to blacklead, copper pipes and brass taps to polish, and numerous other things – but what was the point in wasting all that elbow grease on things that would soon get dirty again? Others frowned on her for such a view, Etta realised, though it did not worry her in the slightest, for, judging by general comments, her neighbours always had something to grumble about.
Hope Street was certainly wellnamed, many of its residents living in the hope that something better might come along, and even her own husband amongst these. Determined to keep his promise of obtaining the kind of house his wife deserved, Marty strove to enhance his earnings. When business at the station became slack he would turn his hand to house-painting, or portering at a furniture warehouse, indeed anything that brought in cash, rarely idle for one moment. He could never aspire to buy his dreamed-of residence but he could earn enough to rent one – but this, sadly, meant an increase in the hours he and his wife spent apart. Missing him, Etta repeatedly voiced her own contentment, told him time and again that she was not here for material gain, that all she and Celia desired was him, yet no matter how fervent, her pleas seemed not to register.
‘I know you don’t expect it but I want to give you it,’ Marty would reply, his voice just as ardent as hers.
Hence, no words to the contrary able to dissuade him, she was forced to make the most of what little time they had together, snatching every opportunity to foist the baby on others now that Celia was fed from a bottle, and to concentrate her loving attentions on the father…a consequence of which, alas, was another pregnancy.
Initially furious at being caught out before Celia was even half a year old, Etta was soon pragmatic. ‘Oh well, I suppose we do have several months before the onslaught.’
Equally peeved at having his coming-of-age celebration ruined by this announcement, Marty appeared to resign himself too. ‘And this one might be a son.’ Though in truth he remained rather deflated at the news. Just when he felt he was getting somewhere, a new drain on his finances had to come along, and, apart from fiscal hardship, he dreaded a repetition of the last pregnancy when Etta had isolated herself from him for months. The rejection he had felt had been almost unbearable. Moreover, in addition to his own paid work he had had to do the domestic chores with which his wife had grown too large to cope. But then, as she stated, there were several months before that happened – and she might just feel differently this time.
‘And at least with your mother and I not at loggerheads we’ll have her help a little earlier,’ added Etta.
Marty nodded, but inwardly he balked at the thought of what his mother might say at being expected to look after his family as well as her own. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ he concluded.
To a certain extent they did manage, this confinement being attended from the start by a registered midwife. But other than this, to Marty’s chagrin, events gradually began to take a similar course to the last affair, Etta abandoning more and more of her household tasks to concentrate on trivia.
But she was so joyful to see him at the end of a working day, coming directly to embrace and kiss him as if he had been away for months, that he didn’t have the heart to scold her if she had done nothing in the house or his tea wasn’t ready. And despite being exhausted from his own labours, he even took on her neglected chores too, so that Etta would not come under scrutiny from his mother. Things had been good between them since Celia’s birth and he had no desire for Aggie to abandon him again.
Alas, in a roundabout way, this was what was to occur, though through no fault of his mother nor of his wife. Just as Etta gave birth in the spring and her mother-in-law was required to take charge of Celia, Aggie suffered an early miscarriage, discreetly termed a bilious complaint. However, in her usual competent fashion, even from her sickbed Aggie managed to delegate one of her friends as a stand-in until Etta was back on her feet.
What with one thing and another, it was over a fortnight before the two women saw each other again. Having briefly popped in on his way to work to enquire after his mother’s health and also to herald the birth of his son, Marty had allowed sufficient time to pass before inviting his parents round to visit, not least because the house was in such disarray now that the neighbour who had assisted had gone and he and Etta were fending for themselves.
‘But come after tea,’ he told them hastily.
‘Ever the philanthropist,’ jested his father, impaling a slice of bread on a toasting fork and holding it to the fire.
‘I wasn’t meaning to be stingy.’ Marty looked awkward. ‘I just meant I won’t be home till sevenish…’
Aggie knew what he meant – he needed time to clear up Etta’s mess before receiving visitors – but she made allowances. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, son, this mob needs feeding at five. Your father and me’ll nip round after Tom and Jimmy-Joe are in bed.’
Her son was relieved, adding as he left for work, ‘Will you be coming an’ all, Uncle Mal?’
‘He will.’ Red answered for him. ‘Sure, the ould sod needs an airing.’
The house could have done with an airing too, thought Marty with dismay when he arrived home that evening to be greeted by the combined stink of nappies and burnt food.
‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ lamented Etta, one baby at her breast, the older one toddling to meet her father who had rushed to salvage the meal. ‘I just couldn’t smell it.’
‘I’m not surprised!’ With the pan off the hob, Marty picked up Celia and held her at arms’ length with a laugh of disgust. ‘God in heaven!’
Etta looked flustered over which task to handle first, but the moment she removed the baby from her breast in order to clean up Celia, he let out a screech, forcing Marty to object.
‘Christ, I can’t bear it,’ he begged above the din. ‘Stick him back on and I’ll see to her!’
Etta looked apologetic. ‘Oh, but your tea…’
‘I couldn’t eat with that in me nostrils – away with ye, clarty drawers, let’s get you cleaned up before anything else.’
During the past couple of weeks, the young father had been forced to learn how to change a napkin – oh, Etta had been perfectly competent when there had been just the one babe, but she was struggling to answer the demands of two, which Marty found perfectly understandable, and which was why he had undertaken the task. However, he was far from adept and Celia always seemed to treat the matter as a huge joke. Tonight was to be no exception. There followed a laughing struggle to lay her
down and to try and keep her still whilst he fumbled over the removal of the safety pin and gingerly peeled aside the offending garment – and then, to his dismay, freed of the restriction, Celia made a sudden break for freedom, deriving great joy from kicking her heels violently in the air and also into the contents of the napkin, which were broadcast to every corner of the room. Laughing and swearing, he reared away to avoid being soiled, and quickly grabbed the napkin and bundled it out of the toddler’s reach, before pinning on a clean one, his attempts to do so causing her to gurgle and laugh like a drain and squirm even more enthusiastically.
Afterwards, he examined himself distastefully and asked Etta, ‘Have I any on me?’
Laughing fondly, she said she didn’t think so.
‘I must be the only thing that hasn’t.’ He studied the suckling babe for a moment, his eyes doting but his voice stern. ‘Has that man not finished yet? How come he always wants his tea the same time I have mine?’
Etta apologised again.
‘Ah, don’t fret, darlin’.’ His tone forgiving, he swiped at various suspicious stains on the wall, spent a moment looking here and there for more, then went to wash his hands. ‘Now, let’s see if I can salvage any o’ this stew before Ma gets here.’
There was nothing unusual in having burnt stew, and this was duly consumed, which was just as well for the visitors arrived soon afterwards – although Marty was still slightly embarrassed to be caught washing up. But any untoward observations were quickly displaced by compliments over the baby boy in his new wicker cradle, whom Marty proudly displayed whilst Etta went to make a pot of tea for the guests.
No longer in awe of her, the in-laws felt comfortable enough these days to speak openly. Cup and saucer in hand, waiting for the insipid brew to cool, Red cast an eye upwards and, after a pensive moment, asked in a calmly reasonable tone, ‘Would that be shite on your ceiling, Marty?’
Groaning, the young father hurriedly pulled up a chair, used it to clamber onto the table and removed the offensive blemish with a cloth.
‘I’ve a suspicion there’s a bit here too.’ Uncle Mal nodded at the arm of his chair whilst sipping unperturbed from his cup.
Marty jumped down to rub at this also. ‘Ach, sorry, Unc! I thought I’d got it all.’
Red chuckled deep in his chest and, in mock fear, eyed the ceiling again. ‘Christ, how much more of it is up there? Have ye got cows on the roof, son?’
Whilst Marty was a little put-out, Etta was not offended in the least and laughingly explained, ‘I’m afraid Celia’s responsible for that.’
‘She’s an awful good shot,’ observed Red.
‘Martin was forced to change her napkin whilst I was busy with Edward,’ added Etta, using a foot to rock her son’s cradle. ‘She was very naughty for him.’ Her words scolded the toddler on its grandmother’s knee but her tone was kind.
Fearing disapproval, Marty darted an apologetic eye at his mother, but Aggie chose to swallow any condemnation and laughed kindly too. God love him, her poor son had enough to contend with.
Only an hour later when they had gone did he feel able to relax with a sigh. ‘Phew, the mammy must have mellowed!’
‘I think it’s rather that she prefers not to waste her breath on me any more,’ Etta grinned, and, after taking Celia up to bed, she fed the baby and laid him down, enabling her and Martin to share precious time alone for what remained of the evening.
‘How soon before we can go all the way again?’ he enquired eagerly between kissing and nuzzling and caressing her curves. At her murmured response that it would be several weeks yet he groaned in frustration. ‘God, it seems like an age!’
Etta laughed softly and was less fervent than he in delivering kisses, though equally affectionate. ‘And from now on we really shall have to be more careful – though how I just don’t know.’
‘I hate rules and regulations!’ he grumbled with feeling.
‘As do I,’ she administered a humouring pat, ‘but we don’t want another child so quickly, do we?’
Marty reluctantly agreed and tore himself away to enjoy vicarious pursuit. ‘Better get the playing cards out then, hadn’t we?’
And this was the most he could enjoy for several weeks to come.
But, finally, to great applause, the time came round when Etta and Marty could indulge themselves in what they really did best, when any pre-arranged rules went out of the window and passion was allowed free rein. And in such a spirit of abandon was child number three conceived.
10
Born in the late summer of 1907, Alexandra Lanegan was as pretty a child as her siblings and equally undemanding. For now she posed no financial burden, but in a few years she would. Was Marty the only one to recognise this? Annoyed at his own laxity in begetting her, he declared that only by working longer hours could he provide for the additional family member. This might also help to take his mind off the sexual famine that had arisen.
‘But you’re away from us for twelve hours a day already,’ objected Etta.
‘And now I’ll be away fifteen.’ He tried his best to sound flippant. ‘It’s a man’s job to provide, Ett.’
‘But Alex doesn’t cost us any extra –’
‘I’ve just forked out twenty-five bob!’ he interrupted with a laugh.
Etta acknowledged the second-hand perambulator he had bought for her. ‘Yes, but you’d saved up for that reason. There won’t be anything else to buy, she takes sustenance from me and wears hand-me-downs from the others.’
Marty gave mirthless dissent. ‘For how long? Anyway, it’s not just food and clothing that matters. We don’t want three of them crammed into the one bed. I want better for my kids than I had myself – no disrespect to my da. No, I intend to keep my promise, they’ll have a room each before they’re much older.’
Etta began to suspect that his ambitions were not founded on the reasons he had given, but rather from a need to show off to others. But this was too hurtful and she put it aside to enquire, ‘And what about your wife?’
‘Don’t tell me you want a room to yourself too!’ He looked aghast, then chuckled at his own quip.
‘I might as well have, the way things are going.’ Etta did not find this so amusing.
His face crumpled and he hugged her. ‘Ah, now, honey, I know, I know it’s murder.’ He rubbed his hands over her longingly. ‘But we can’t afford to risk having another nipper.’
Subdued, she nodded. ‘I thoroughly agree, but we could at least find the time to chat as we used to.’ Marty was so tired when he came home that often she found herself performing a one-sided conversation, her partner fast asleep in the chair. Now she knew why Aggie was so irritable with Red.
‘And we will on Sunday, I promise,’ he told her. ‘Here now, cheer up! I forgot to tell ye me da’s got me a couple of inside jobs lined up for the bad weather – house-painting and the like.’
‘More work, how wonderful,’ murmured Etta facetiously. ‘Wouldn’t he rather take them himself?’
‘You’re joking! Me father an’ ladders are a dangerous mix.’ He smiled, then dealt her arms a last scolding pat before releasing her. ‘Ye should be grateful I’ve plenty o’ work for the winter.’
Nodding again, she allowed him to make ready for his labours.
‘Just concentrate on the nice house this is going to get yese,’ advised Marty as he slung the haversack containing his lunch over his shoulder, then left.
‘I’d rather have a husband,’ Etta murmured worriedly to herself, before turning to make the children’s breakfast. True to his promise, by that winter, through extremely hard labour and enterprise Marty had managed to improve his finances to such an extent that he could afford to move his family to a house with four bedrooms. Whilst not that far from his parents’ home, less than a mile away in Lawrence Street and near enough for Etta to pop round to her in-laws if she needed anything, the living conditions were poles apart.
‘A bay window!’ breathed Aggie, examining the i
nterior with awe, fingering a white lace curtain though wondering how long it would remain so pristine under her daughter-in-law’s misrule. ‘Sure, the lad’s done you proud, Etta.’
Red, taking slight umbrage that Marty was deemed the better husband, merely nodded his approval and opined to the children, ‘Then we’d better have ourselves a place like this too, some day.’ But knowing their father so well the girls rolled their eyes at Marty and proceeded to compliment him. And at last he began to feel he was getting somewhere in his quest to provide his wife with the accommodation she deserved.
He must have done well, for, whilst it composed barely a twentieth of the Ibbetsons’ grand mansion, Aunt Joan, who had regarded their previous abode unworthy of a visit, now deigned to call on a regular basis, fetching little gifts to further beautify their home – crocheted antimacassars and the like – not that this was particularly appreciated by Marty. But other than this, with a neat little garden at the front, a freshly painted entrance, and white lace curtains at the windows, now he felt able to invite just about anyone over his threshold, to display his wife and children in their best attire, even if this meant he was compelled to scoot round tidying up in order not to be embarrassed by Etta’s mess on catching sight of an uninvited guest coming up the path.
Watching him do so again today at the arrival of his aunt and uncle, Etta was at first amused, then irritated. Martin was becoming something of a busybody. Why did he care so much what people thought, especially someone so shallow as Joan, when he cared not one jot for his wife’s opinion? Why did he not attend when she begged him to stay in bed for an hour, not to enjoy some raging passion, just a little intimate cuddle like the ones they had shared before the need to work took over? But all Marty could think about was where this might lead. Ironically, just at that very moment, as she watched her husband welcome the dreary Aunt Joan and Uncle John in with their Christmas gifts, it led Etta to think what she had given up to be here, and there came a fleeting glimpse of a dazzling ballroom bedecked with festive greenery and laughing revellers. Why, even the cottages of the tenant workers whom she used to visit with her mother to bestow charity had boasted more warmth and cheer than did her present domicile, which would be even less festive with the husband absent, as Marty would soon surely be in his haste to get back to earning a living.
The Keepsake Page 21
