by Annie Murray
‘Arthur – get up now – get to the front!’
Harry had not looked inside, thank God, thank God.
Her tone was so hysterical, so commanding, that he did not question it. She led him as fast as possible to the front.
‘Here’s your coat, hat – go, please.’
‘But . . . ?’
‘Just get out of the house. I’ll explain – but not now. Just get out – please!’
He was stepping out as the back door opened.
‘Rose!’ Harry shouted.
She closed the front door as quietly as she could, her hands shaking. She felt utterly wretched.
‘What’re you doing?’ Harry said, morose as usual. His clothes were begrimed with a day’s work and many smears of paint.
‘I thought I heard someone at the door,’ she said. ‘But there was no one there. Must be hearing things.’
‘Huh.’ He lost interest.
‘I was just making tea,’ she said. Lily watched them both warily, knowing better than to speak.
Harry went into the scullery to wash. Rose brewed tea and cut him a slice of bread to keep him going. She stood by the range, watching as he ate hungrily, biting off big hunks with his strong jaws, ravenous after a hard day’s work. Neither of them spoke. Harry seemed so far from her, a stranger. All she could feel was distance and loathing. Yet she also felt terrible. He was her husband. She was a deceiver and was living off the fruit of his labours. He didn’t know about the bits of money she earned, she’d made sure of that.
What kind of person am I? she thought, holding her own cup of tea with trembling hands.
But more than all that and far worse was the thought of the way she had treated Arthur. With her whole being she longed to run to him and put things right, hold him close in her arms and pour out to him how much she loved him and why she had behaved like that, pushing him out of the house so roughly as if he was nobody! She ached with longing and frustration at the thought that she would not have an opportunity to see him until Sunday. She was so appalled, so agitated that she had to restrain herself from letting out a groan of anguish right there in the kitchen with Harry and Lily at the table.
She had to get a message to Arthur somehow – had to! In those moments, all she wanted was for her family to vanish in a puff of smoke so that she could run to him, write to him, anything to relieve the terrible burden she was holding inside her.
Turning to the stove, she put the stew pot on to warm through and forced herself to speak casually. ‘Will you be going down the road tonight?’ Harry liked a pint or two whenever he could afford it.
Harry took this to mean resentment. He was in an aggressive mood. ‘I’ve been collaring all day, woman. Don’t flaming start on me!’
‘I wasn’t.’ Keeping her back to him she swallowed down her anger, her urge to shout, I don’t care if you go out – go on, go! I don’t care if I never see you again! ‘I was only asking.’
‘What if I am?’
‘Nothing – you go.’
He put his head down, muttering about how he’d go out if he cowing well wanted. Rose closed her eyes. He’d be out. Thank God. Could she get Aggie to deliver the message before school tomorrow? No, that was ridiculous. What possible reason could she give? She’d either have to do it herself or wait until the school day was finished. No – she couldn’t bear that. She’d have to take a note round herself – tonight.
Once Harry had put his cap back on and strolled off to the pub, Rose got Lily into bed with as much patience as she could manage. It seemed to take an eternity. At last she could settle down to write a note. But this held its own frustrations. Anything she wrote would be read by Mrs Terry. Although Arthur’s landlady must know by now that he was courting a young lady and there was no shame in that, she certainly didn’t know what was going on in her house on Sundays. She also did not want the woman nosing into any personal details.
Dear Arthur,
It was unfortunate that I missed you today over a slight misunderstanding. I shall meet you next time, unfailingly.
Yours,
Rose
It seemed a dreadful, stilted note, but she could hardly pour out all she felt for Mrs Terry’s eyes. At least, until she saw Arthur on Sunday he would know that she was thinking of him and that there would be an explanation for her behaviour.
She slipped out and along Lilac Street, praying that Lily would not wake while she was out. I mustn’t do this again, she thought, feeling conspicuous even though it was already dusk. People will see – they’ll soon be talking. I must use Aggie. But this time she just had to. She hurried as fast as she could to Oldfield Road and posted the note, standing back to look up at the house. But of course there was no sign of him. His window faced over the back and even then she doubted he put the light on. He had no need of it. It seemed so sad, to be sitting there in the dark, and she longed to push her way into the house and go up to him.
Walking home, she was talking to him, trying to explain. ‘I’m sorry my darling, I’m so sorry. I’d never hurt you for the world. But you came when . . . My husband was coming home . . .’
Husband. Arthur did not know she had a husband. She had lied and lied to him. What explanation could she possibly give for that?
Forty-Two
Even when she was standing at the door in Oldfield Road on Sunday, Rose still had not decided what she was going to say to Arthur. She could not lie to him any more – but how could she tell the truth? How would she appear to him then: not just as a liar, but as a fallen woman? Round and round her mind went, never getting past her fear and shame.
Aggie had taken Lily to Sunday school and, at three o’clock exactly, Rose stood waiting. The door swung open.
‘Rose?’
She could see him listening and for a second she longed to run away again. Pulling her cardigan more tightly round her, she stepped forward.
‘I’m here, love.’
‘Good. I’m so glad.’ He seemed relaxed and was talking normally instead of in the usual whisper. ‘I got your note – or rather, Mrs T did. She’s gone out for the afternoon to see her sister,’ he added jubilantly.
Rose followed him inside, relieved that he seemed so untroubled. Following him upstairs, she could see that he was just glad she was there. She wondered whether he would even ask about what had happened, or, in his discreet way, act as though her behaviour had just been a result of some mood of hers that need not be discussed further. What she did not know was whether Arthur could have heard Harry as he came in. Surely he must have done?
Arthur led her up to his room and closed the door. She did not look around her, so preoccupied was she with all that was spinning round in her head. She longed for someone else to decide what must come next.
And Arthur did just that. Closing the door he came and stood by her. Rose turned to face him.
‘You’re here at last,’ he said. She could see that he was terribly nervous now, that he both wanted and did not want this conversation to begin.
‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Of course.’
They put their arms round each other and held each other closely, with great tenderness, but still all the questions seethed between them.
His lips close to her ear, Arthur said, ‘What is it, my love? What happened the other day?’
She hesitated. She could cover up, concoct something. But it was no use. Why lie to a man who was so good? In the end, how could he love her for a liar?
‘I’m married,’ she told him. Just like that. Simply and straight. And she stood in his arms and waited. She did not weep. She felt cold and dry and terribly sorry.
Arthur pushed her away, as if to look into her face, and it wrung her heart because he could not read her like that. Had he been able to see, would he have seen before that she was not true? He gripped her upper arms so hard that it hurt but she was almost glad of this.
‘Is that who I heard?’
She nodded. ‘Yes.’
Arthur released his gr
ip on her and felt his way across to sit on the bed, slowly, like someone with an internal injury. He slumped forward, arms resting on his thighs.
Rose did not dare to break the silence. She folded her arms tightly across her, feeling suddenly as if all warmth had been sucked from the room. She could see that he was trying to take it in, to summon up how he really felt but he just looked bewildered and winded by the information. She stood very still, hardly knowing how to breathe.
Without turning his head, at last Arthur just said, ‘Why? – Why?’
‘I . . .’ Rose drew in a long breath. Her words came out in a rush. ‘I liked you. I wanted you. I was – am – so unhappy. I don’t love my husband – I don’t think I ever have. If I’d told you the truth we’ve never have –’ Blushing suddenly she stopped.
‘But –’ Arthur’s voice rose. ‘You’re married. Married, Rose! To a man – a real flesh-and-blood man. You can’t just pretend he doesn’t exist so that you can do as you like. You have a child – responsibilities. A marriage, for heaven’s sake! You must have lost your senses, lying to me the way you have.’ His voice was hardening into anger. ‘What did you think you were doing? Playing – is that it? A nice little game of secrets, lies – do you have any idea what this has meant to me, what I feel?’
‘Yes.’ She almost roared at him, hoarse with emotion. ‘I have an idea, Arthur. Do you have an idea what it’s like being married to a man like Harry, who has no . . . No interest, no conversation . . . Who never . . . Oh, I can’t explain. I liked you, Arthur, and then I loved you and I was so frightened that you’d leave. I’ve never met anyone like you, or known what it was like before to love someone properly. I couldn’t help myself.’
Arthur had bowed his head wretchedly and she dared to go and sit beside him. She could sense that he was very close to tears and all she wanted to do was to give comfort. She gazed at his face, full of love, wanting to put her arms around him but not daring.
‘It’s very, very dark in here,’ he said slowly. He paused, swallowing. ‘I try not to be some whining, self-pitying ninny. And then suddenly there you were, lovely – I know you’re lovely – loving. Lighting everything up, making things hopeful in a way I never ever expected to feel . . .’
Rose laid her hand on his back, but Arthur flinched. ‘Don’t!’ He turned his head and very calmly, said, ‘Please go now. Just go.’
‘Arthur, no!’ Now she began to cry. ‘You don’t mean that – you can’t! How can you just end things like that? We can’t—’
‘No,’ he said, his voice cold and angry now. ‘That’s just it. We can’t. That’s an end of it. You’re married. You belong to another man and you have been untruthful to me and to him. We can’t have any sort of future together. What more is there to say?’
Rose had stood up, propelled by his words, but she could not take in the finality of what he was saying.
‘But what about being friends?’ she said, tears on her cheeks. ‘We could—’
‘D’you think I’m made of stone? How could we be friends after this? What, me coming round again for polite cups of tea with that Muriel woman and with Lily? Yes, I would do it to be with you because maybe it would make life more worth living. But how could I be in the same room as you and not hold you, bed you – after how we’ve been? I couldn’t, Rose. Look, please.’ He was half weeping now as well. ‘Just go away.’
She walked draggingly to the door, then to the top of the stairs, glancing behind her several times, wanting him to get up, to call for her, stop her. One by one she took the stairs, each step a knell, hollow and final. Every fibre of her wanted to turn back, to beg him for mercy, but she didn’t dare. She knew she had done Arthur a terrible wrong, but she could not help herself.
At the bottom of the stairs she paused, hand on the latch, listening. No sound came from the bedroom above. She turned the handle and let herself out, quietly closing the door.
The street outside, the lovely spring day, felt like another existence altogether, mocking her. She didn’t want to go home, not yet, but the sobs forcing up inside her would not be controlled and in desperation she turned into an alley between two houses for a few moments to try and calm herself. Head pressed against the brickwork she gave way to the emotions tearing at her, but still having to be quiet, though she wanted to wail and scream. The future was a place of despair. She would have to go back to Harry, to act as if nothing had happened, just go on, in the bleak way she was used to.
‘Oh, Arthur,’ she whispered. ‘Arthur, Arthur.’
Quietening a little she felt suddenly that she wasn’t alone. Stepping back abruptly, dashing the tears from her eyes, she saw a little girl watching her from some distance along the alley. She was a sturdy little thing, about Lily’s age, with plump, grubby cheeks and short brown waves of hair; barefoot and wearing only a long shirt. She was frowning slightly, in puzzlement.
‘Don’t cry, lady,’ she said.
Rose wiped her face and tried to smile. ‘All right,’ she said kindly, ‘I shan’t. Don’t worry, little girl.’
She went back out to the street and in a daze, somehow made her way home.
Forty-Three
Rose stood peering round the edge of the net curtains, at the busy street. She kept finding herself drawn back to stand and stare. She did not know what she was looking for, and sometimes did not remember even going into the front room. But there she was, watching, waiting.
‘Mom?’ Lily stood timidly at the door.
Rose turned irritably. Nothing was Lily’s fault, the poor innocent little thing, but Rose was in such a state that she found it almost unbearable to have anyone there, breaking into her thoughts.
‘I’m coming, just leave me a minute,’ she said, turning back to the window.
‘You said that before,’ Lily said. Her mother who had always been so affectionate and available had changed into someone unpredictable and moody.
‘Just go back to the table for a minute or two and finish your picture – then I’ll be in.’
Lily squirmed, swinging back and forth, her weight mainly on one leg. ‘But I’ve finished.’
‘Well, just go and wait quietly!’ Rose’s temper flared. God, how she longed to be alone, to lie on her bed and give way to a storm of tears. ‘Can’t you just leave me alone for one minute?’
Tears came then anyway, as Lily went back sulkily to the kitchen. What had come over her, talking to Lily like that? But all she could think of was Arthur. She was consumed by longing and grief, by a gnawing physical need for him which she knew could never be answered. Many times that week she had thought of ending her life altogether. Throwing herself in front of a train or into the canal. Poison – anything to end this bitter, dragging pain and the knowledge that that was all she had to look forward to now: her pain and the shame and bitterness of knowing what Arthur thought of her and how she had hurt him.
Over and over in her mind she wondered how she could have done things differently and been more truthful. If she had been straight with him, they would never have become lovers, surely, and despite everything, her times lying in Arthur’s arms were her most precious memories The thought of not having had that was truly unbearable. And now all she could think about was that she would never have it again . . . Her days were very dark, so much so that even Harry had noticed her low mood. It was only Lily who was keeping her now from doing something extreme, committing an act that would allow her to sink into deep, relieving darkness.
There were movements in the street. She saw Mrs Sissons making her way stiffly along with her little blue bag. Mrs Sissons had been going to number nine a lot – Rose knew from her frequent visits to the front window. That could only be a bad sign. She would have liked to pay another visit to Jen Green, to offer any help that might be needed. Aggie had called in a number of times, to bring back Rose’s plate which had had the cake on it, and to ask if Rose needed any errands running. When she said no, Aggie looked puzzled and disappointed. Poor little waif, Rose thoug
ht. She ought to just go along now and ask after Tommy Green, but she couldn’t seem to decide to do it. All she could do was stand in a stupor by the window.
That’s all she wanted, she told herself, just to see him. If she could see him one more time, walking past, to know he was in the world somewhere, living his life, not weeping as she had last seen him, and all because of her, then she would feel better.
She composed letters to him in her head, and felt bitterly frustrated because he could never read them for himself. In her more distraught moments she agonized about asking for Aggie’s help, getting the child not just to deliver the letters but to read them to him as well. Surely, if she paid her, Aggie would help? The child seemed pathetically eager to please, to be in her company. All the more so now her father was so ill. A number of times when Aggie had come to play with Lily she had almost been on the point of taking her aside and confiding in her, confessing everything. To a child! But who else in the world did she have to tell her heart to? She knew that as the days went by she was beginning to feel more and more unbalanced, but there seemed no way out – she was caught in a trap of her own making.
That night, Harry came home looking pleased with himself.
Rose heard him putting his bike away round the back and tried to pull herself together and arrange her face to look normal. He had already asked her a number of times what was eating her – as if she could tell him!
He came through the back door carrying something wrapped in a greasy-looking piece of brown paper which he planted on the kitchen table, and said with a grin, ‘Have a look in there – and it dain’t cost us a penny!’
Trying to look interested, and as if she was not in a state of agony, she peeled back the paper. Inside was a leg of mutton. She looked questioningly at Harry. Lily was by the edge of the table, peering at it.
