‘I’m used to being hurt,’ she deigned to respond, though without looking at him.
He had been meaning to patch things up but now exasperation flared again. What the hell did she expect? Yet, bearing the children’s sensibilities in mind, he managed to curb his temper enough to say, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to happen…we’re hardly ever together but even in the small time that we are all we seem to do is argue, so maybe it’s best if we try to stay out of each other’s way altogether. In future, just feel free to leave my supper on the stove and go to bed.’
Etta slammed her mending onto her lap and looked at him directly. ‘Oh yes, and have you abuse me for neglecting you again!’
‘I’m trying to think of a fu—!’ Marty fought the inclination to swear at her but it took all his resolve as he laid down his spoon and continued with great deliberation, ‘I’m trying to think of a solution, if only for the kids’ sake. Jesus, they must get awful sick of listening to us tearing the heart out of each other. I know I’m sick to death of it. I love you, Ett. God, I do, but…’ He shook his head and made a sound of such utter despair that she ran to him, her face oozing repentance as she knelt by his chair.
She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his arm, his hand, his fingers, reciprocating his endearments. Equally strenuous in his embrace of her, he sighed and rubbed his cheek against her dark head, his heart feeling as if every ounce of energy had been wrung from it, Etta feeling just as wretched.
After each had confirmed their regret several times over, her face resting on his chest, she tendered carefully, ‘You didn’t mean it, did you, about not wanting me to be here when you come in?’
He moved his head in an act of negation. ‘But we have to try and stay civil to each other somehow…’
‘It’s all this work,’ she scolded gently, stroking him. ‘It’s making you ill.’
‘If I don’t work we don’t eat, simple as that.’
‘But you don’t need to work so hard! Rather than seeing even less of each other, as you suggest, might it not be better for you to be home more often? To try and regain what we had? I ran away so that we might be together, yet I’ve ended up lonelier than before.’
But rather than be encouraged that she wanted to be with him, Marty saw it as yet another demand for attention. ‘I don’t like it any better than you, but if I worked less hours we’d have to give up all this.’
‘Would that be so bad?’ pleaded Etta. ‘I’d rather live in a smaller house and see more of my husband.’
‘I don’t want to live in a smaller house!’ His voice began to rise again.
‘No, and there’s the crux of it!’ She sprang away from him and went to perch stiffly in the chair on the far side of the room. ‘You don’t care for what I might want, it’s always been about what you want. You’re afraid of moving to a smaller home because you’ll no longer be able to brag! You’re just like my father! See me as nothing more than some ornament –’
‘I bloody do not!’ But Marty looked decidedly abashed for she had hit a nerve. ‘Look, see what I mean? We’re at it again!’ He rose and headed for the back yard. ‘Now, I’m off to the lav, and it would be a good idea if you were gone to bed when I get back.’
Etta threw up her hands. ‘As my lord and master pleases! I shall make certain I keep out of your way from now on.’ But as she dashed for the stairs she knew that this would solve nothing, and her heart was fit to break.
Of course, it was impossible for two people living in the same house not to see each other at some point, and with the quarrels continuing to flare, even during the odd occasions they did come together, Marty was forced to concede that it had been a ridiculous suggestion; at least to himself. To Etta he would admit nothing and continued to stick to his guns, even as the daffodils unfurled into trumpets of gold, then shrivelled to make way for summer blooms.
But just because he saw less of her, that was not to say she was never on his mind. He thought of her constantly, veering between a desire to kill her and then, remembering how magnificent their passion had once been, wanting to rage out loud at the terrible injustice of it all, but instead wreaking his malevolence on strangers.
Today it was a little barrow boy, who was blocking his passage along a narrow, congested thoroughfare.
‘Get on the proper side of the road!’ He hollered ahead. ‘How many brains does it take to steer a barrow, for God’s sake?’ And a muttered addition to himself. ‘Fucking halfwit.’
The youth blushingly apologised. Remaining grumpy, Marty barged his way onwards through streets that were ripe with odour, the dung and sweat of horses as they heaved their loads, his own perspiration trickling down his brow as he tried to steer his cumbersome barrow into Spurriergate, giving frustrated growls at being constantly impeded, stopping and starting, stopping and starting, until he finally came to rest outside Leak and Thorp’s department store. Here he was commanded loftily to wait, whilst the commercial traveller who had hired him went inside.
Marty slammed the heavily laden barrow down in protest, angered by the way he was treated by people of no higher rank than himself – go here, go there, carry this trunk – jumped-up peasants, the lot of them! His hands relieved of the weight, he rubbed the numbness from them, picking at the calluses and glancing idly about him, his envious eye taking in the odd toff, the ladies in their large feathered hats and going-to-town costumes.
The narrow street was crammed with two-way traffic, amongst the carriages and horses the occasional motor car and a multitude of bicycles. With a care as to his safety from one of the latter, Marty heeded the furious tinkling of the bell and took a quick sideways step into the gutter, complaining forcefully as the cyclist passed. How much longer would he have to stand here? After an upwards glance at the landmark figure of the Little Admiral and the clock on which this stood, he gave an irritated sigh at how long the traveller had been inside, before resuming his disgruntled observation.
Then his expression froze. An open-topped motor car was attempting to emerge from New Street, driven by a man in a top hat. But it wasn’t the hat which caught his attention. Alongside the driver sat Etta. His heart came up into his mouth. Oh Christ, that was it, she was finally sick of him and going back to her own kind!
His heart started to thump in panic. Would the car turn to right or left? If the former it would pass the spot where he was standing. No, it was turning left, carrying her away from him. But he could not move to stop it, could only watch her lovely mouth – a mouth that had not graced him with a tender word in months – laugh prettily, seductively, at her stylishly dressed companion as the vehicle slowly edged its way across the double stream of traffic. Oh God, what should he do? Any husband worth his salt would accost the pair and challenge them, demand to know what was going on, drag the bastard from his car. There was still time, for it was moving at snail’s pace – but, too stunned, his whole body a-tremble, Marty could not budge an inch.
‘Move along now!’
For a moment he ignored the command, barely heard it above the fevered thumping of his heart as he watched her go. Where was William, the only one to be left at home since Alex had started Baby Class? Obviously she had dumped him on her mother-in-law so that she might keep her tryst. My God, how would he break this to the others when they came in from school?
‘I said, move along,’ ordered the constable sternly, endorsed by honks and tinkling bells and shouts from the rear. ‘You’re causing an obstruction.’
But Marty’s eyes were glued to his wife, who, from the way her head moved, was still flirting outrageously with her wealthy male companion as the vehicle moved away. ‘I’ve been told to stay here,’ he murmured distractedly, never taking his eyes off the adulterous pair. How long had this been going on? Oh, Christ, he was going to vomit.
‘Well, I’m telling you, if you don’t move you’ll be arrested!’
Marty suddenly became alert, though not to the constable. The car was picking up speed now – if he didn’
t act now she would be lost to him forever. With a frantic gleam in his eye he made to run after her.
But the constable, near to losing his patience, grabbed his arm. ‘Take your barrow with you!’
Marty struggled to free himself. ‘No, my wife! I have to go –’
‘The only place you’re going is the bridewell,’ responded the policeman, and promptly arrested him.
Upon release, he did not return to work but went straight home, fearful of what he might find. It was such a huge relief to see Etta there – and actually smiling as she hurriedly placed his meal before him – that he could have wept with joy.
But this mood was short-lived. What if she were only being nice to him out of pity, lulling him into a false sense of security, her real intention being to sneak away when he was least expecting it?
Etta had been at first pleasantly surprised by his early homecoming, but now, noting that he was picking at the meal – after she had gone to the trouble of cooking his favourite – she felt impatience begin to rise. ‘Is there something wrong with it?’
Marty glanced up at the crisp enquiry. ‘No, no, I’m just…’ Then he lowered his eyes again and stared at the table. ‘I’d better warn you, I got arrested today.’
‘What?’ The word was loaded with accusation.
‘I was in Coney Street, about two o’clock, and a copper told me to move on.’ He looked at her closely as he spoke, watching for her eyes to betray that she had been there too. He thought he saw a flicker, then it was gone. But she had always been a good liar – she was lying on the day he had first met her – he had thought it reserved for others but now he was not so sure.
‘Then why didn’t you?’ demanded Etta.
Mind a-whirl, he frowned. ‘Why didn’t I what?’
‘Do as you were told and move on!’
‘Oh, and you like me to do as I’m told, don’t you!’ He slammed down his cutlery.
‘Be quiet,’ she hissed, ‘you’ll wake the children.’ She made to take away his plate.
But he grabbed its rim with both hands. ‘I haven’t finished yet!’
‘Let me heat it up then, it must be cold the time you’ve taken.’ Etta felt cold too. Her marriage was falling apart.
‘Just leave it,’ ordered Marty through clenched teeth, and finally she let go. ‘Now, have you anything else to say?’
Confused and unhappy, she shook her head. She had been going to ask him to fix the baby’s pram – a nut that secured the chassis had sheared off whilst she had been crossing the road this afternoon. It had been extremely hazardous, the battered old pram had almost collapsed – but with the mood he was in she chose not to mention this.
‘Then I’ll get on with it!’ And he set about the rest of the meal in ferocious manner, clearing the plate in some five minutes and giving himself indigestion.
‘May I remove it now?’ His wife, who had been patiently standing by, reached out.
But before she could take hold of the plate, Marty gripped her wrist and looked up at her. ‘Don’t leave me, Ett.’
Stunned, she saw the greyness of desperation in his eyes. Immediately, she repented her condemnation of him, her icy protective casing melted and she looked upon him with compassion. ‘As if I would!’ She tried to make light of the arrest. ‘Don’t concern yourself, I’m sure some of these policemen are rather too zealous.’
I saw you, he wanted to say, but it hurt too much. Oh, how it hurt to remember the way she had looked at that fellow…
Gently, she removed her wrist from its shackle, using her liberated hand to stroke his face. But to Marty it was the kind of stroke she might use on one of their children. And so was her tone of voice. ‘Now, let me get rid of that plate and then you can take yourself up to bed. Why, you looked quite worn out.’
‘Will you join me?’ he asked softly.
She smiled and nodded, but, ‘I shall have to give William his bottle first.’
This pulled Marty up sharp as he was about to take the stairs. There was a thing: would a mother run off and leave her babies behind? His mother wouldn’t; but he was not so sure about Etta.
Perhaps if he had come right out with it, admitted he had seen her with that man, it could soon have been resolved. But he didn’t. For he was afraid that bringing matters to a head might have the opposite effect to that which he desired, might send her away more quickly than she had planned. Instead, he became more and more worked up, so paranoid that the slightest adverse comment from Etta made him think this was the end.
Things were getting Etta down too. It seemed that everything she said to Marty lately was misconstrued and so she had been forced to ask Red to mend the pram. Even so, her husband remained tense. Following his arrest for obstruction, he had just returned from his morning court appearance to announce he had been fined five shillings.
‘Five shillings?’ The moment she opened her mouth she knew he had misunderstood again.
‘Oh, don’t worry!’ he fobbed her off nastily. ‘I’ll make it up by working on Sunday.’
‘I didn’t mean that!’ Etta looked fraught. He seemed to think she was blaming him for the loss of precious income. ‘I was commenting on such harsh…penalty,’ she finished sadly as the door slammed behind him.
Marty strode directly to the railway station. He had gone home with the intention of having lunch with his family, but Etta had made him so angry that he could eat nothing. He made no diversion from his route. How could he tell his mother what was going on? She had warned him about marrying out of his class all along.
He barged his way through streets festooned with Union Jacks and coloured bunting to mark the King’s Coronation. Throughout the week there would be parties galore, but he himself would have no time to attend festivities, oh no, he would be rushed off his feet trying to make up his earnings. And for what? He had four children but hardly ever saw them except on Sunday – and now he had just promised to work on Sunday to prevent his wife carping about money. Damn her! Damn her, bloody damn her!
Reaching the station, he took up his position by the other barrow boys, his agitation still in evidence.
‘What did you get, Mart?’ asked old Arthur, knowing he had earlier been to court.
‘Five bloody bob!’ spat Marty.
Arthur winced, unsettled not just by the fine but by his pal’s uncharacteristically aggressive mood. ‘Ooh dear, have a fag.’ He extended a packet.
Though he rarely smoked, Marty snatched one, gave cursory thanks, then dealt an additional few words of venom for Custard Lugs, who seemed to be taking an interest. ‘What are you looking at, arse-face?’
‘Not sure. It could be a monkey, it could be a pile of turds,’ the man with yellow ears replied disdainfully, then made ready for the train that was just chugging in.
‘Eh, steady on, lad,’ warned Arthur uneasily, like so many others afraid of the man with the cosh.
‘Ah, let him go bugger himself,’ replied Marty, drawing violently on his cigarette, exhaling the smoke just as forcefully. There had now been rivalry between the pair for years, insults being exchanged, and occasionally an incident would occur, arising from nothing more than that they could not stand the sight of each other. Custard Lugs did not particularly like anyone, but he seemed to detest Marty more than most and the feeling was mutual. In fact, at that moment, Marty felt like punching him in the face, and with his mind in turmoil it was all he could do to stop himself.
A few hours later he was to wish that he had taken the opportunity.
With his licence up for renewal, he was not unduly surprised to be called in front of the relevant authority. However, he was soon to be disabused as to the reason for this summons.
‘I have to inform you that we intend to rescind your licence, Lanegan,’ said the official.
‘Wha—but why?’ A look of sheer disbelief joined the beads of perspiration on Marty’s face.
‘Your recent conviction.’
Utterly devastated, he threw back his head and groa
ned. It was obvious who was responsible for leaking news of his downfall, for the incident had not yet appeared in the newspaper. ‘Sir, please, it was only a paltry offence…’
‘Irrelevant, I’m afraid, the rules state that –’
Marty didn’t wait to hear any more, but swivelled on his heel. He was going to get that bastard. By God he was. But his fury was so clearly evident that Custard Lugs saw the danger long before it occurred, and when Marty unleashed his wrath, all that it earned him was a swift cuff and he was flat on his back. Immediately, he struggled up to try again, cursing and spitting as he launched himself, and indeed he did manage to land a few blows of his own before being hauled off by a much heavier-set platform inspector. But it failed to satisfy, and, furthermore, he was ordered to go home or he would find himself arrested yet again.
Happy, happy, happy! Everybody was fucking happy apart from him. Marty raged at the smiling faces that loomed at every turn of the way, all in party mood, buying new frocks and hats to celebrate the Coronation. He lashed out at a balloon that floated away from the bunch and loomed into his face.
‘Watch it, chum!’ warned the balloon-seller, as irritated as he by this stifling heat.
‘Or what?’ snapped Marty, marching straight on.
Only when he was almost home did he ask himself why on earth he was heading back here. There was bound to be another argument when he told her…
His children were delighted to see him, though, and he to see them, and even whilst anger and frustration simmered inside he managed to contain it sufficiently to show interest in the decorations they were making, and forced a pleasant laugh as they paraded before him in their paper crowns.
But he could gladly have strangled Etta, who as usual had become carried away with her own interests, allowing the living room to be strewn with paper and scissors and glue and coloured tissue, whilst the pots went unwashed and the bucket used for soaking Will’s dirty napkins was full to the brim with yellow stinking water.
The Keepsake Page 25
