But then the thought was just as quickly cast aside. Clinging to the belief that he was doing it for her, Etta forced a smile and went to assist in the management of Aunt Joan, laughing affectionately with her husband – once the relatives had gone and the children were in bed – over how bad his aunt had been, and making the most of her time with him before he must return to work.
Work, or rather the division of it, was finally to become a bone of contention in the coming year. Up before dawn, home after dark, Marty’s job was not simply a matter of transporting a couple of suitcases across the platform; amongst his clientele were commercial travellers whose wide variety of goods required a good deal of stamina to heft them a mile to the city shops and often beyond. He was far too exhausted to do anything other than sleep when he got into bed, leaving a saddened and frustrated Etta to channel her energy into other things. Having often professed a desire to be educated, she was now at liberty to make a start on this, her borrowings from the library including mathematical tomes as well as the normal literature. Many hours were spent poring over these when the children were in bed, to no particular end other than a need to feed her brain – though of course the edification of their mother would benefit the children too.
She adored heaping attention upon the trio. After such a loveless childhood as she had suffered, Etta was adamant that her own babies would always know how much they were loved. But delightful though it was to take them for rides on a bus or walks in the countryside, to read them stories, to show them how to blow bubbles or to daub paint upon paper, there were times when she preferred to indulge her own artistic skills – apparently at the expense of others, Martin noted to his disconcertment when, on occasions, he came home to find no meal, his youngsters frolicking unattended whilst his wife sat reading or attempting to create some masterpiece. What had originally seemed a novelty – a reminder of his wife’s fine breeding – now began to pall.
The paints were in evidence again at his homecoming this April evening, and the baby still up, though thankfully the two older children were in bed.
‘Oh, hello, dear, is it that time already?’ said Etta, rather too gaily for Marty’s liking. ‘I haven’t even peeled a potato yet!’
Once he had overlooked her failings because he loved her. Lately, though, he had found himself doing things simply to prevent an argument. But, with every muscle of his body aching, he felt one brewing now. ‘I’ll feed myself then, shall I? Good job I’m used to it.’
Taken aback by the terse response, Etta immediately abandoned her portrait of Alexandra and rushed to hug and cajole him. ‘Now, now, that’s most unfair! You know how I’ve improved!’ Having paid great application to her culinary shortcomings, she had for some time been able to provide an edible meal, notwithstanding her tight budget. ‘It’s just that I never know at what time to expect you and I don’t want to risk it burning. Wash your hands and I’ll have it done in no time!’ She pinched his cheek good-humouredly, but this time her affection was poorly received.
‘You’d better clear those up or there’ll be no room for the plates.’ Sick with tiredness and hunger, he did not look her in the eye but made a bad-tempered gesture at the cluttered table before rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a knife and two large potatoes.
The skin was whittled away in thick strips as the one wielding the knife tried to keep his anger at bay. Marty had always been a home bird who wanted nothing more than to have a house of his own, albeit a better one than his father, and a family with whom to enjoy it. Now, when he had achieved all of this, home had become the last place he wanted to be. Why should he be the one doing this? Why? He grafted all day long, the last thing he needed was another stack of work in what was meant to be a refuge – and it was not simply the lack of food which caused distress. Look at the place! One after the other he hacked through the potatoes and dropped them into a pan, which was noisily deposited on the stove. Did she not notice the tarnished brass, the greyness of the lace curtains? Did she imagine that they would maintain their newness without attention from someone? Did she not mind that some might perceive her a slattern. Well, he minded! He was embarrassed to invite anyone here now. What was the use of him working his backside off for Etta to reduce this lovely house to a hovel? The kitchen stank of ammonia from the yellowed napkins that were draped on the rail over the fire, whilst his eight-month-old daughter rolled happily back and forth across the rug, baring her bottom for all to see. Coming in and seeing her sitting there merrily painting amongst the chaos, it had been just one time too many.
He swiped at the offending articles. ‘What are all these nappies doing here?’
The portrait of Alexandra, done on the back of some old cardboard, was now propped on the sideboard, Etta hastening over the clearing away of her artist’s materials, a cheap tin of watercolours and some jam jars of water. ‘I’m just drying them over the fire.’
‘Aren’t you meant to wash them first?’ His tone had a sting.
‘I rinsed them,’ she objected evently. ‘It was only a little bit of moisture. Hardly worth the bother.’
Glowering with aggravation, Marty set upon some onions with his knife. ‘Aye, but a little bit every day all adds up to a big stink. You’ve probably grown immune ’cause you’re with it all day long.’
‘Don’t exaggerate!’ Etta tried to maintain her lightness. ‘She’s only a babe, how can her napkins stink as bad as you make out?’
‘Believe me they can! And it’s not just that.’ With a distasteful curl to his lip he tweaked the squares, which felt as rough as hessian. ‘It must be like wearing sandpaper for the poor little sod.’
Confused by the suddenness of his attack, for he had always been so tolerant before, Etta was too shocked to object, and, feeling guilty at being exposed as neglectful, she hurried to the drawer and withdrew a tablecloth, mumbling defensively, ‘I was only trying to keep the amount of washing to a minimum; I find it so exceedingly dreary.’
‘Then you should’ve married someone who could afford servants!’
He had gone too far. She wheeled on him. ‘And you should have married a washerwoman!’
Marty’s anger intensified. ‘Is it too much for a man to expect a meal when he comes in? I mean, I am the one paying the bills after all.’
‘Really, Martin, I’ve never known anyone with such a capacity to slander!’ Efficient now, she spread the cloth and laid the cutlery. ‘I usually have something prepared.’
‘I should hope so, you’ve had all bloody day to provide it!’ In his heart he knew that in this one respect he was being unfair on her; but this wasn’t just about the food.
‘You speak as if it’s a regular occurrence!’ rallied Etta. ‘If I had some idea of when to expect you…I’ve got to have something to do whilst I’m waiting.’
‘Waiting for what? For the work to do itself? I’ve never objected to you having your hobbies but there is a limit!’
Alarmed by the raised voices, her blue eyes widening, baby Alexandra started to cry.
‘And what’s she doing up at this hour?’ demanded Marty.
‘I was about to give her her bedtime bottle when you surprised me!’ Red-faced, Etta set down a cruet then picked up her daughter. ‘I just wanted to put the finishing touches to my painting fir—’
‘Well, I’m sorry for coming home and spoiling your evening – better feed her now then, while I sort the bloody supper out!’
Eventually slammed onto the table, after the wailing child had been pacified and put to bed, the meal was eaten in silence, merely picked at before being scraped into a bowl and shoved away in the larder.
Later though, after washing up and having come to accept blame, Etta sidled up to join her husband on the sofa, apologised, attempted to coax him with kisses, and to some extent this worked, for he did lay a hand over hers as if putting the argument to rest. Yet not quite, for when she suggested they go to bed his agreement did not stem from the usual reason.
‘Yes, I’m worn out.�
�� Grim-featured, he made to rise from the sofa.
‘I didn’t mean for sleep.’ She gripped his arm and cuddled up to him like a kitten.
‘Anything else would be a bit risky, wouldn’t it?’ His voice was slightly less cool than it had been before, yet lacked enthusiasm. ‘That’s if I could find the energy.’
‘I’m sorry about my painting,’ she told him yet again, softly. ‘It’s no excuse I’m sure but I was just so absorbed with catching Alexandra’s likeness. Of course, I’m aware it wouldn’t bear comparison with that of a true artist…’
‘No, you were right to be proud, it is a grand likeness. It’ll look great on the wall.’ For a moment he allowed his tired eyes to sweep the room, admiring the others she had done. He supposed he was partly to blame for not instructing her as to what was expected of a housewife early in their marriage. ‘It’s not that I’m asking you to stop doing your hobbies, just that, well, we all have our quota of work, Ett.’
Etta found this slightly ignorant. Her husband might voice an appreciation for beautiful things but he had no concept of the amount of hard work that went into their creation. And the children were always beautifully turned out, weren’t they? That in itself required effort, what with all the starching and ironing it involved for three of them. How could he suggest she was a stranger to work? Still, she was not totally blind to his meaning, nor was it the time to argue, so, despite her loathing of the mundane aspects of housekeeping, she forced herself to say evenly, with a hint of amusement, ‘Then if, by default, I haven’t fulfilled my own quota, I swear here and now to be more diligent, you have my solemn oath, signed in blood if you so desire.’ And with this she nuzzled him seductively. ‘Now, will you come to bed, or am I to polish the fender before you’ll succumb to my wifely charms?’
But there was little amusement in response. ‘The only thing I’ll succumb to is sleep, if I can drag meself from this sofa. Three children in less than four years of marriage, Ett…’ He shook his head despairingly. ‘We always said we didn’t want lots. And here we are…’ Impatient fingers drummed his thigh. ‘Anyway, I really am jiggered.’ Removing himself from her grasp, he went around extinguishing the gaslights, then waited with his hand upon the last one in order for his devastated wife to climb the stairs, before turning it out.
Fighting tears, nausea churning the pit of her stomach, Etta lay awake in the darkness, wondering how to prevent her marriage from descending further into worthlessness. In the beginning they had made love at every opportunity, but now Martin seemed reluctant even to be near her! There had to be something she could do, just had to be, for, envisioning the four or even five decades of married life stretched out ahead, she could not bear the thought of spending them in such ghastly opposition. Tentatively, she stretched her arm across the chasm in the mattress, administered a tender stroke to his thigh. He did not respond, though she knew by his breathing he was not asleep. Further wounded, she withdrew her touch.
Did she know he was pretending to sleep? Marty didn’t care. Lying there, despite his desperate need to rest still as taut as a primed crossbow from the earlier angry exchanges, he began to question his attraction for her, asked himself had he been smitten only because of her beauty and status, flattered that she could want him? When – how – had everything changed?
Aching from rejection, Etta was asking herself the same questions. She had always been an idealist, refusing to marry for anything other than passion: had it merely appealed to her deeply romantic streak to run away with a gypsy? She began to think of all she had given up, the beautiful house and clothes, the afternoons out riding in the countryside, the lavish Christmas parties she once attended…Her children could have had those same things had she married someone of her own class. But she hadn’t wanted someone else, she had wanted Martin…still wanted him, wanted things to be like they were…
Only through exhaustion had Marty fallen asleep that night, and on many miserable nights to come. Etta was to feel quite exhausted and miserable too, in her attempts to meet her husband’s approval, for no matter how she exerted herself it did not achieve the intimacy she craved, and, gaining no reward from all that endless polishing and cleaning, her good intentions were soon to relapse.
There was no one upon whom to unburden her heart, for one could not complain to a man’s mother. Besides, Aggie had never been sympathetic; and pleasant as Etta’s sisters-in-law were on a superficial level, she sensed that their allegiance, too, would be with their brother. As for her neighbours, she was barely on nodding terms, let alone such intimate ones. It hadn’t mattered so much before when she and Marty had had each other; now, though, Etta became acutely sensitive to her isolation. She yearned to reach out to someone, anyone, but who? Her own mother? No, if Isabella had wanted to get in touch she would have done so long ago. Besides, the longer Etta was exiled from her family the harder it had become for her to renew contact. Despite her adoration of the children, there were days when she felt completely marooned.
The problem could only worsen, both husband and wife growing more discontented by the day. Even an unusually warm spring did nothing to alleviate matters between them, for Marty had no time for Sunday afternoon strolls in the sunshine as he used to enjoy with Etta, and on the rare occasions that he was not catching up on sleep his attention must also be shared with the children – and others, came Etta’s grim thought, as the former resentment of her mother-in-law began to resurface.
Summer came, and with it a rash of marriage announcements in the press, reminding Etta that her own wedding anniversary was imminent. She wondered miserably, as she broke off reading the morning newspaper to tend the baby, what this might bring. Did Marty even consider it still to be a cause for celebration? Not if one was to judge by his eagerness to leave their bed on a morning. How could such a turnabout occur in four short years? Pensive all the while, she fed, washed and dressed Alexandra, tied the bow on her frilly bonnet and, with a kiss, sat her in the pram outside in the front garden where, through the iron bars of the gate, the other two were eagerly watching a herd of cattle being driven along the main highway from the outlying fields to market. The air was thick with the scent of cow dung, the shouts of the rough-looking drovers and the panting and yapping of their dogs.
‘See, cows!’ shouted an excited Edward, pointing at the jostling multitude of black, brown and piebald creatures with their muck-caked hides and wary eyes and drooling wet muzzles, lowing and clattering to meet their fate; and Etta stayed to watch for a while, hoping the childlike enjoyment might rub off on her.
But before long, re-absorbed by her tribulations, she went back indoors to a half-hearted tidying of the breakfast pots, a deft concealment of crumbs under the rug, then a return to her wistful perusal of the engagement and marriage announcements.
After a while, though, she chided herself – this was no way to forget one’s troubles – and was about to put the newspaper aside when her eyes rested on a familiar name. A Mr Gerald Fenton and his bride, formerly Miss Victoria Netherwood, had just returned from their month-long honeymoon in Venice. Why, it was an old friend, one she had known since childhood. Too wrapped up in Marty she had never bothered to communicate with Victoria since her elopement, had consigned her to the past along with all the other acquaintances of her previously wealthy existence. But now…now in desperate need of a familiar face, Etta decided there and then to reach out, to write via the family address and congratulate this old friend on her marriage, eagerly awaiting the reply.
With the postman rarely visiting this abode, it was such a grand occasion some days later to receive Victoria’s letter and, with Marty at work and therefore sparing her any interrogation or interruption, Etta was able to savour the thickness of the envelope for some while before ripping it open. Whilst the infants played around her feet, she read it at leisure, a lovely long epistle informing Etta how delighted Victoria had been to hear from her after all these years. She devoured every word, the most exciting of them saved for the last
paragraph. Victoria would be coming to York next week, they must take tea together! Perversely Etta’s heart sank then. How could she possibly entertain Victoria here without a maid? But in the next line her friend suggested a time and a meeting place at one of the best cafés in town, stating it as her treat.
The wave of exhilaration carried her to its crest, only to be followed by another trough of despair. How could Etta go on such an important outing accompanied by three children? Desperate to go, she thought about it all morning, pondered telling Marty, who would always have understood, at least in the old days…But that was the whole point, these were not the idyllic days of old, and he was in such a bad mood when he got in that she thought better of mentioning it.
A week later with the rendezvous looming she had still not divulged it, nor even told Marty of the letter. Why? She could not say. Perhaps it was born of fear that he would not understand, would feel threatened in the assumption that she had tired of him and was aching to get back to her own kind. This was untrue, of course. Had Etta possessed a friend nearby she would have had no need for such subterfuge, but she did not. So, equipped with the suitable excuse of not wanting to be encumbered by the children whilst she went to find a treat for Martin to mark their anniversary, she took them round to her mother-in-law’s house, informing Aggie that the baby had just been fed and was asleep in her pram outside and she herself would be back in an hour or so.
‘If that would not be too much of an imposition?’ Her enquiring glance took in Uncle Mal too.
Aggie was obliging as ever. ‘Sure, they’re no trouble at all – hello me little darlins.’ She wiped her hands on her apron and bent to welcome Celia and Edward.
The Keepsake Page 22
