The Keepsake

by Sheelagh Kelly

‘You’re early,’ she said.

  ‘My, you’re observant.’ He tried not to shout and frighten the children, but his tone and his eye were severe. ‘Maybe that’s ’cause I’ve lost me bloody licence.’

  Etta sagged in dismay.

  ‘So!’ He dug in his pocket and carefully but deliberately set a handful of coins on the table. ‘You’d better make the most of these – they might be the last you see.’ He warmed to his theme. ‘In fact, make the most of this house, for we’ll probably have to move to a shack.’

  Trying to hang on to her own temper, Etta demanded, ‘What happened?’

  ‘I’ll tell ye what happened!’ Marty’s voice began to rise, his intention to say I was watching you and your fancy-fella canoodling when I got arrested. But he did not get the chance, for Etta cut in.

  ‘Oh, damnation, it’s Aunt Joan!’ Through a gap in the grubby lace curtains she had seen the trim little figure mincing up the path.

  ‘Christ!’ Marty raged at the heavens. Then, ‘Quick, kids, tidy all your things away!’ And he too began to help clear the mess, clattering the pots into the sink in an attempt to hide them. ‘At least if we move to a smaller house we won’t have the dubious pleasure of her visits!’ He noted Etta’s worried mien. ‘Well, I can’t see why you’d be concerned, you’ve treated this one like a dustbin.’

  Too deeply wounded to give any constructive response, Etta flung at him before stalking off to admit Joan, ‘Do you think we might have a little courtesy whilst the guest is here?’

  Marty rushed to move the stinking bucket of dirty napkins outside, but was caught in the act.

  ‘I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time?’ The visitor wore a smile that became edged with distaste upon sight of the bucket.

  Marty had not the inclination to force politeness today. ‘Couldn’t be better, Aunt Joan. You can help wash these nappies if you’ve a mind. Make yourself useful for once,’ came the added mutter.

  Joan delivered a light laugh but her nostrils flared and a mouse-like hand twitched at the lace on her bosom. ‘Someone had a little accident?’ Her eyes viewed the rest of the disarray, smiling unsurely at the children.

  ‘No, it’s one big bloody accident,’ seethed Marty.

  ‘You must take no notice of my husband’s mood, Aunt Joan!’ Etta stepped in with a calm apology, at the same time ushering the guest to a chair and throwing a look of recrimination at Marty. ‘There is no excuse for his rudeness but there is a reason: Martin has lost his licence.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ Seated now, Joan donned a look of understanding for her nephew. ‘I hope that doesn’t mean you can’t work?’

  Marty suffered no guilt at having vented his spleen on her, but now sought to moderate his reply. ‘Fortunately no, I can still earn a bob – will you have tea, Aunt?’ When Joan said she would, he assisted Etta in getting out the cups and saucers, not because he had any wish to help but to keep himself occupied.

  ‘We might have to move to a smaller house,’ five-yearold Edward told the guest.

  Both parents looked daggers at him for this indiscretion.

  ‘Oh, Martin, do you really?’ The mousy face portrayed the enormity of such a move. ‘It would be such a comedown for poor Etta.’

  ‘Not in the least.’ Etta saw her husband’s dangerous expression and sought to avoid further upset by conveying nonchalance. ‘I’m sure we’ll be happy wherever we live – children, why don’t you finish off your Coronation hats?’

  ‘They are finished,’ pointed out Celia.

  ‘Then do something else. Write a story.’ Fighting her misery, Etta piloted the small bodies to a corner, providing them with writing and drawing materials. ‘Sit quietly now and let the grown-ups speak.’

  ‘Still, it will be a great shame to lose this place,’ opined Joan, clinging to the theme.

  Deciphering censure in her tone, Marty bubbled with unspoken insults, becoming angrier and angrier as half an hour was to tick by and still the conversation revolved around the same subject. Why was everyone blaming him? The one responsible for all this was sitting right there. He glared under his lashes at Etta, who chose to ignore him.

  ‘Father, may I ask something, please?’

  Marty turned at Celia’s polite interruption and, overcoming his anger, responded to her query over how to spell photograph. ‘Pee, haitch –’

  ‘Aitch,’ cut in Etta impatiently. This particular failing had always irritated her. The entire Lanegan family said haitch. She had always bitten her tongue until now, but Martin’s obnoxious comments had injured her deeply; two could play at that game.

  Marty bristled at being corrected in front of his relative. Why was she treating him so abominably? Did she not realise how much he had sacrificed to put her here? Had she no appreciation of the countless excuses he had made for her, no inkling how much he loved and adored her? Had loved…but she seemed intent on killing that with her petty attempts to belittle him. ‘Haitch,’ he repeated deliberately, before spelling out the rest.

  Etta felt his eyes boring into her, feeling just as angry as he, but trying to maintain some semblance of dignity in the face of such provocation. Why, why was he treating her like this? Did he not realise how much she had sacrificed to be here? Had he no appreciation of the way she had defended him in the face of her parents’ disapproval? She had not uttered one word of complaint when he had taken her to live in penury, because she had loved and adored him. Why was he now so intent on killing that love?

  Made awkward by the atmosphere, Joan formed an excuse to leave. ‘Oh dear, I do believe I might have left the gas on – I shall have to go!’

  ‘Every cloud has a silver lining then,’ sallied Marty.

  The insult went undetected as Joan rushed away, wishing them luck in keeping the house. Marty could barely wait for her to exit before exploding, ‘Did you have to make such heavy weather of correcting me?’ The children looked up collectively, a flicker of alarm in their eyes.

  ‘It wasn’t I who made heavy weather of it. I simply wanted the children to receive the correct example.’ Clad in her armour of ice, Etta began to remove the teacups and plates from the table, clattering them along to the scullery and then coming back for the teapot.

  ‘Making out that their father is an ignoramus!’

  ‘You did that for yourself, taking it out on Joan because you lost your licence!’

  ‘Oh yes, and didn’t you just make the most of that! Couldn’t wait to tell her we’d have to mo—’

  ‘I said no such thing!’ Not wanting to blame Edward, Etta clenched her fist around the teapot handle and snapped at him, ‘You’re deranged.’

  ‘If I am ’tis you who made me so! And that’s a good one about teaching our children by example, a really good example you set for them! Well, go on, then, bugger off with your fancy-fella, see if I care.’

  The children started to cry in unison. Etta spared them only a harassed glance before demanding, ‘What the devil are you talking abou—’

  ‘I saw you!’ bawled Marty above the din of his crying children. ‘The day I got arrested in Coney Street ’twas because o’ you! I saw you with that man in the car!’

  Etta looked puzzled at first, then she let out an incredulous laugh.

  Marty was outraged. How could she laugh in the face of his agony? He seized at anything now, however ridiculous it might sound, so long as it injured her as much as she had injured him. ‘Now I see why your father let me have you. He was probably glad to get bloody rid!’

  With nary a signal of warning, Etta lifted the teapot and smashed it down on his head.

  Marty staggered, his feet crunching the shards of white pottery and his eyes glazing over as he struggled to right himself by means of a dining chair, then underwent a moment of stunned disbelief, blood and tea leaves running together down his face.

  Beholding this tragi-comic sight, teetering on the verge of madness, and dangerous and as unpredictable as a wounded lioness, Etta wanted to laugh and to cry, to flin
g back at him that the man whom he accused of being her lover was in fact just a stranger who had kindly offered to transport her and William home when the pram had collapsed.

  But there was no time, for Marty roared at her, ‘It’s like living with a fucking animal!’

  And, completely blind to his children’s distress, he stumbled from the house. ‘That’s it, I’m gone for good!’

  Without enough arms to go round, Etta left the baby to screech in his cot and rushed to cuddle the three sobbing children. ‘Don’t worry, don’t worry! Father didn’t mean it, he’ll be back.’

  ‘You hurt him!’ stammered Celia, her body racked with tears.

  Etta groaned. ‘I didn’t mean to, he just…oh, come here!’ Fighting her own upset she set to cuddling them again, shushing and soothing and kissing, dabbing at tears. ‘I swear it was all a silly mistake, he’ll be back before bedtime.’

  ‘Promise?’ Edward’s lower lip juddered, his puffy red eyes showing a desperate need to believe.

  ‘I promise,’ soothed Etta, granting each a final pet and saying evenly despite her own senses being much assailed and her heart pounding like a drum, ‘Now buck up whilst I go quieten Willie, then we shall all have some milk and buns.’

  Marty strode away without knowing where he was going, trying to pace out his anger until he could walk no more, whereupon he threw his upper body over an iron rail that overlooked the River Ouse and stood there, chest heaving. It was late in the afternoon but still quite hot, the sun reflected in the brown ripples where barges and rowing boats jostled for position. Underneath a bridge on a patch of mud, children frolicked. He leaned there for a time, grimly watching the scene but not really taking in any of it except for the sour tang of the river, his throbbing head awhirl with all manner of thoughts.

  ‘By, you look like I feel.’

  Accompanied by the droll Yorkshire comment, he sensed a shabby male presence drape itself next to his and, without interest, turned to see a boyhood friend. ‘Oh…now then, Ged. How are you?’

  A cryptic grin from Ged Burns. ‘Not much better for seeing you, that’s for sure – you certainly know how to make a chap feel wanted.’

  ‘Ach, don’t mind me.’ Marty dredged up the energy to pat his companion, but then leaned back on the rail and sighed. ‘Wife trouble.’

  Ged winced at the congealed blood on his friend’s temple. ‘She did that, did she?’ At Marty’s nod he looked sympathetic and offered a thinly rolled cigarette, then, when it was refused, inserted it between his own lips. ‘At least you’ve got a wife. No bugger’ll have me.’

  ‘Count yourself lucky then.’ His expression glazed, Marty picked at the hard skin that surrounded his thumbnail.

  ‘Struth, you have got it bad. What’s happened?’

  Marty shrugged and took a while to answer, his eyes following the group of barefooted youngsters who squelched laughingly amongst the mud, faces alight with glee. Was he ever so carefree? ‘Ah, one thing on top of another. One minute there you are, booling along fine, and the next…’ His voice trailed away into a distant gaze of unhappiness.

  ‘You’re in the shit,’ finished Ged, his eye holding a glimmer of empathy. ‘Got any kids?’

  ‘Four,’ sighed Marty.

  An untidy eyebrow was arched in envy. ‘Can’t be that bad between you and the wife then. How old are they?’

  ‘Six, five, Alex’s nearly four and Willie’s just a bairn.’ His heart ached at the thought of them. He shouldn’t have ranted and upset them like that.

  Ged unleashed a stream of smoke through the gap in his brownish teeth. ‘Not bad going. Look at me, twenty-seven, same as yourself, no kids, no wife, no house even, I doss where I can – and you think you’re hard done by?’ He dealt Marty a laughing, persuasive nudge. ‘Fancy coming to drown your sorrows? I don’t mean in there,’ he nodded at the river and laughed again. ‘I mean in a tastier liquor.’

  Marty would rarely contemplate imbibing during the day, but this afternoon the thought was tempting. However, remembering he had tipped all his earnings on the table he was forced to tell his companion, ‘I haven’t a meg.’

  ‘Wife grabbed it all, did she?’ Before Marty could reply, Ged patted his own pocket and added, ‘Ah well, at least that’s one thing I’m not short of.’ He displayed a handful of coins and jerked his whiskery chin as a sign of invitation.

  After only the slightest pause, Marty murmured, ‘What the hell.’ And he went with his friend to a quayside hostelry.

  Here, in the dank interior, his companion, obviously eager for company, was to keep the drinks flowing for the rest of the afternoon, indeed well into the evening, and Marty was content to let him. Unaccustomed to alcohol, he became quickly inebriated and eventually his troubles began to seem not so bad. Through the murk of insobriety, he vaguely recalled someone else joining them, a blur of laughter and a feeling of freedom he had not enjoyed for many a month, daylight fading and the lamps being turned on. But after that…

  Returning to some form of consciousness, Marty gradually became aware of a painful jarring motion and his head banging rhythmically against a darkened window, and realised with a start that he was on a train. His befuddled slits of eyes took in the man who sat opposite, the only other person in the carriage, and he recognised him as the friend he had not seen since boyhood. Finally coming to, he managed vaguely to recall their reunion – but that had been in daylight. Now it was pitch black outside and a train was carrying him to heaven knew where. The compartment smelt like a brewery.

  Dishevelled and still dazed, Marty threw his companion a look of alarm. ‘What’re we doing on this train? Where’s it go?’

  ‘Lichfield,’ said the other on a yawn.

  Even more perplexed, Marty rocked with the motion of the carriage. ‘Christ, where the fuck’s that when it’s at home? I don’t even remember buying a ticket.’

  ‘You didn’t,’ slurred Ged.

  ‘Oh, don’t tell me I owe you money,’ Marty groaned.

  The reply was affable. ‘No, that sergeant gave us both a travel warrant.’ Ged produced his and waved it.

  Swaying in his seat, brow furrowed, Marty fumbled automatically in his pockets and came up with a similar document, his confused, bloodshot eyes examining it. ‘Sergeant?’

  ‘The one what recruited us.’ Arms folded, Ged closed his eyes and wriggled back in his seat as if to sleep.

  Panic flared in Marty’s breast. God almighty – he had joined the army! Kicking his friend awake, he demanded frantically, ‘How long did I sign up for?’

  ‘Ow! Watch it, you bastard.’ Ged clasped his shin, then prefixed his reply with a lazy belch that filled the compartment with yet more beery fumes. ‘Same as me, six years.’

  Marty gasped, moaned and clutched his injured head.

  He could have wept. But what would have been the use in it? Tears would not wash his signature from that form. There could be no going back now. And upon serious reflection did he even want to? What was left for him in York? Apart from his children, his dear, dear children – but a fatherly instinct to protect them told him that his being at home was doing more harm than good. Even if Etta did deign to have him back, he could not tell how long he could tolerate being taken for granted. He was sick and tired of looking after everybody. Why couldn’t someone look after him for a while?

  In a mood of dark resignation, he settled back, folded his arms and closed his eyes again. Yes, this might be just what he needed. Let the army look after him until he could decide what to do next. It didn’t seem too big a risk. With England enjoying entente cordiale with her old enemy France, and the Boers no longer a problem, it was doubtful there would be another war during his stint, for such hostility blew up rarely. True, he could be ordered to put down foreign natives, but with a gun against their spears that didn’t seem too hazardous, and the further away from his wife this train carried him the better the idea seemed to be. At this moment, it was his greatest desire to put as many miles as possible between
him and that idle, selfish shrew.

  12

  She had not waited up for him that night, but, bubbling with anger whilst at the same time listening out for his tread on the stair, she found it impossible to sleep. Yet she must have dozed eventually for it was now daybreak. The other side of the mattress remained cool. Though sick with foreboding, Etta managed to adhere to normality for much of that day, fobbing the children off with the lie that their father had come home very late and was now at work, and answering any dubious query as to whether he would be home that night with the breezy response, ‘I’m sure he will!’

  But he wasn’t. And neither had he appeared by the next morning. Etta was extremely worried by now. What if she had really injured him? What if he had collapsed and was lying unconscious somewhere? No, someone would have found him and taken him to hospital. Should she go there? Yes, she should, and upon taking the children to school she did so immediately.

  But there was no record of any such admittance. Nor was there anything in the local newspaper, for she had pored over every word of it.

  Whilst this brought vast relief, conversely it resurrected her anger, for there could be only one explanation: he was staying away purposefully to make her suffer.

  Where the devil was he? If he did not come back soon it would not be just her marriage that was at stake: she could pay the rent this Friday, but after that…

  It was no use sitting here wondering, she must go and search for him, the first place being his parents’ abode. But Aggie, Red and Uncle Mal looked at her askance when she asked if they had seen Marty in the last couple of days.

  She lowered her voice, though the child in her arms was far too young to understand and the rest were at school. ‘I didn’t want to worry you but he hasn’t been home.’

  Aggie slapped her palms to her high cheekbones. ‘Begor, he could be lying kilt!’

  ‘No, no, I don’t think so…’ Etta turned sheepish. ‘We had a row – it was all a silly misunderstanding. When the pram broke that time in town, a man gave me and William a lift in his car. I’d forgotten all about it, but apparently Martin saw us and assumed the worst.’ She omitted to mention that she had hit him over the head with a teapot.