* * *
Barty’s work as a hospital porter often left him free while John was at work, so he attended some daytime events with Anne and the children. He was solicitous with her, taking the baby from her if she seemed tired and protecting all the family in crowds. People probably think he’s my husband and a model father, thought Anne.
During the outings with the children Barty was circumspect, contenting himself with gazing at Anne and holding her hand but it became obvious that he was falling in love with her.
Anne, so deeply unhappy beneath her surface cheerfulness and becoming more and more estranged from John, was at her most vulnerable. She was soothed and flattered by Barty’s tender care for her and his affection and admiration and turned to him with growing fondness.
He began to slip in to see her in the early evenings when the children were in bed and John still at work, ostensibly to discuss the books they borrowed from the public library. It was quiet and peaceful as they sat together on the sofa in the comfortable room, with the children asleep upstairs.
Barty often brought volumes of poetry and read aloud to her, making his undeclared love more evident by pressing close to her and gazing at her passionately. One night he read several short love poems, then looked deeply into her eyes and quoted, ‘“How do I love thee, let me count the ways”.’ He drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.
For a moment Anne resisted but as he kissed her again she pressed her lips against his and slipped her arms round his neck. ‘Oh, Barty, I’m so unhappy,’ she murmured.
‘I know, darling,’ he said lovingly. ‘He doesn’t deserve you. I love you so much, Anne. It breaks my heart to see the way you are neglected.’ He held her closer and kissed her again ardently. ‘I’d like to take you away from all this, darling. Love you as you should be loved.’
‘Oh, Barty, I couldn’t,’ she gasped.
‘Why not, darling, he wouldn’t care,’ he said.
He’s right, Anne thought, snuggling into his arms and turning up her face for his kisses. John doesn’t care about me. Not like Barty, who’s always kind and considerate and really loves me.
Barty stroked Anne’s hair. ‘I could make you happy, darling,’ he said tenderly. ‘He wouldn’t miss you.’
‘I don’t suppose he would,’ Anne said sadly, ‘Not now, and he wouldn’t miss Laura or Julie either. But what about Gerry? I couldn’t leave him, yet it would kill John if I took him away.’
Anne still lay in Barty’s arms and for a moment there was silence as he sat without moving, seeming scarcely to breathe. With her face pressed against him, Anne was unable to see the look of dismay on his face, as her practical approach broke into his romantic outpourings.
After a while he said pensively, ‘You’re right, Anne. It wouldn’t work.’ He kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll always love you though, darling, and we can still have our lovely evenings together, can’t we?’
Anne sat up. Inexperienced though she was personally, she had known of many love affairs among her wide circle of friends and her practical good sense told her that she had made a mistake. Barty had never intended his attentions to be taken seriously. The haste with which he had seized on the excuse of the children had proved that.
All his sentimental speeches and languishing glances, which she had seen as a sign of true love, were only his romantic fantasy, a substitute for a real love affair with someone who was free, which he was unable or unwilling to embark upon.
All this flashed through Anne’s mind as she smoothed her disordered hair then she realised that Barty was saying again, ‘We can still have our lovely evenings together, can’t we, darling?’
He was gazing at her soulfully and as Anne looked at his large brown eyes and weak mouth and the lock of brown hair falling artistically over his forehead she was irresistibly reminded of a spaniel.
An hysterical giggle rose in her throat but she quickly swallowed it. Poor Barty. I must have given him a fright. I must let him down gently, she thought. Aloud she said regretfully, ‘No Barty, better not. Better for both of us. We mustn’t see each other again like this but we can still be friends, can’t we?’
She stood up. ‘John will be in soon. You’d better go, love.’ She kissed his cheek and he moved with alacrity to the door, then turned and said sentimentally, ‘Thank you, Anne. I will always treasure my memories of you, darling,’
She smiled vaguely and escorted him to the back door. As she closed it behind him she thought that she must slip the bolt on the door the following night, although it seemed unlikely that it would be necessary. Her pride had sustained her through the scene with Barty but now she went in and sank down onto the sofa, covering her face with her hands.
She burned with shame. What a fool I’ve been, she thought, believing that he really loved me and meant all he said. For a moment she felt angry with Barty but honesty made her admit that he was not really to blame.
He probably thought I realised that it was all a romantic fantasy. He would never for a moment expect that I would seriously plan to leave John.
I can’t believe it myself, she thought, sobbing with shame and distress. What would the family think if they knew? And the Redmonds? I feel so ashamed. I must be going out of my mind.
And John? I can’t face him. She sprang to her feet and fled upstairs.
As she slipped into bed Laura cuddled up to her and Anne took the child in her arms. Laura slipped her arms about her mother’s neck and soon in spite of her guilt and misery Anne felt comforted and slipped into sleep. John returned home while she was asleep and left again for work before she wakened.
In the rush of dressing the children and making breakfast for them Anne was able to crush thoughts of the previous evening. But after she had taken Gerry to school and returned home with the younger children memories flooded back again. As she recalled her behaviour Anne wept again and Laura came to lean against her knee. ‘Have you got a pain, Mum?’ she asked anxiously.
Anne hugged her. ‘Yes, pet, but it’s gone now,’ she said. She wiped her eyes and stood up. The children are not going to be upset because I’ve been a fool, she vowed.
She smiled at Laura. ‘Are you and Julie going to have a dolls’ tea party?’ she said and helped the child to set out her dolls’ tea set and place Dolly Mixtures on the plates. Tears threatened to overwhelm her but she swallowed determinedly and forced herself to smile at the children.
She hung out her washing when she knew that Barty would be at work and during the next few days went only back and forth to the school, and for one essential visit to the shops. She wondered how Barty would behave if they met but the situation never arose.
As the days turned to weeks she heard his voice, but never saw him, and Mrs Rooney never came to speak to the children as they played in the garden, as she had done previously.
The climbing roses which John had planted along the fence had now grown to form a screen between their flower garden and the Rooneys’ and Anne wondered whether Mrs Rooney was offended by this or whether Barty had confided in her.
I hope he hasn’t, Anne thought. I wouldn’t like anyone to know I’ve been such a fool.
She had returned her library books and had not withdrawn others, partly to avoid meeting Barty and partly because she felt too restless and unhappy to read.
The weather changed, and the grey skies and heavy rain seemed more in tune with Anne’s mood. Now that she had lost Barty’s company, she realised more and more how much his care for her had helped her. Deprived even of that, she found it hard to fight against her almost constant feeling of misery and hopelessness.
Only the children provided brighter moments. She worried sometimes that John might be talking about causes to Gerry, when she heard them chatting in the early morning, and perhaps make the boy too serious but she soon found that her fears were groundless.
As she waited at the school gates one day, his teacher came out immediately after Gerry. ‘Ah, Mrs Redmond,’ the teacher said. ‘Ger
ald is making good progress. He’s a bright, attentive boy but he’d do better still if he didn’t feel called upon to be the class comedian.’
They both looked at Gerry. He had grown tall and sturdy, with clear, blue eyes and thick, fair curls and Anne felt proud of him.
‘He’s always had a very happy disposition,’ she said and the teacher smiled. ‘Yes, and I must admit he can be very funny, but it’s important that his schoolwork doesn’t suffer,’ she said.
‘I’ll have a word with him,’ Anne promised. Gerry had flung himself on his knees by the pushchair with his duffel coat trailing on the muddy ground and the baby crowed with delight as he made faces to amuse her.
With one of her sudden swings of mood Anne felt happy again. She had three lovely healthy children who loved her and each other. She should count her blessings.
She looked at them proudly. It was a bitterly cold day but they were all well and warmly dressed. Gerry in the duffel coat which she was now fastening for him, Laura in a red coat with a velvet collar and matching bonnet, and Julie in a pram suit knitted by Maureen and a fleecy lined siren suit.
Anne had taken Julie back to the hospital for her first birthday in August and had been told that she was a ‘miracle baby’. She certainly is, Anne thought, remembering her as she had first seen her. Now she was still tiny for her age but with bright dark eyes and clear pale skin uncannily like Julia, the grandmother she had never seen.
They set off for the shops where Anne bought extravagantly. Fruit, sweets and cakes and a toy for each of the children. Her happy mood lasted until they were in bed then depression came down like a weight upon her and great weariness.
She had ironing to do but felt too tired to move. She was still there when John came in. He was carrying a folder of papers and looked surprised to see her still up. Lately she had been in bed when he left in the morning and there again when he arrived home at night.
He had his evening meal in the canteen and Anne ate with the children, although often she felt too tired to eat. It was now ten o’clock and John said quietly, ‘I thought you’d be in bed. Everything all right?’
‘Yes, fine,’ Anne said listlessly. ‘I’m just going. Goodnight.’ With an effort she stood up and moved to the door and he said, ‘Goodnight. I’ve work to do.’
He had picked up two bulky letters from the sideboard and opened them and Anne thought scornfully more Peace Pledge stuff but at least it was mostly only correspondence now. She felt too weary to care. These dark moods seemed to make her physically exhausted too.
John had worked for several Sundays and Anne made this an excuse for not visiting her family or his. If anyone suggested coming to see her she managed to fob them off with excuses of being invited to friends or some festivity connected with the church.
She was determined that no one should know how things really were between herself and John and had always managed to present a cheerful face to everyone. Now she began to feel resentful that no one had realised how unhappy she was. Too wrapped up in their own concerns, she thought bitterly. I’m the odd one out.
Helen and Sarah were next-door neighbours and Eileen and Margaret lived within walking distance of them. All the young wives visited each other frequently and Joe and Tony, Stephen and Martin went together to watch Everton Football Club when they played at home on alternate Saturdays.
Anne needed to take two tramcars to reach the area where they all lived and with three children and a pushchair it was too difficult. John had no interest in football. The other men often met for a drink too and he was asked to join them but was always working.
Even Maureen had other interests now. The house in Magdalen Street was too large for her and her father but neither wished to move. Their problem was solved when Maureen’s two friends, Annie Keegan and Mona Dunne, moved into the rooms vacated by Joe and Sarah.
Annie had lived in a bedsitter since she had been driven from her home by her brother’s wife after the death of her parents. Mona had lived with her mother until she died shortly after Chris Murray.
They were delighted with the rooms which had been made into a completely self-contained flat and were careful not to intrude on Maureen and her father but were often invited into the living-kitchen. Pat enjoyed their company and they fussed affectionately over him.
The Christmas of 1951 was expected to be a good one for everybody, with the war now firmly in the past, more goods in the shops and optimism about the future. Anne dreaded it.
Her black moods seemed to be becoming more frequent and to arrive without warning for no specific reason. It never occurred to her to link them with the traumatic events of Julie’s birth and while she successfully concealed them from her family no one else could suggest the possibility to her.
John might have realised if he had not been so absorbed in his own problems. The doctor at the hospital had told him that Anne had come very near to death and only prompt treatment had saved her.
He warned John that another pregnancy, or at least one within the next three years, might prove fatal for her. Anne was still too ill to be burdened with this knowledge and John, feeling guilty and ashamed, confided in no one.
At first it was easy for him to forgo lovemaking, as Anne only slowly recovered her strength. The sleeping arrangements helped too. But now he was finding it more and more difficult. The doctor had asked which form of contraception he used and when John told him the ‘safe period’ he had shaken his head.
‘Not safe enough,’ he said. ‘In fact at present no form of contraception is one hundred per cent safe.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s very hard, I know, but if you don’t want to risk your wife’s life…’
John loved Anne too much to take any risks and dealt with his problem in the only way he knew, by flinging himself into his work and his union activities. This had the double advantage of exhausting him and keeping him away from temptation.
He rose rapidly in his union as he was always available to act as spokesman for the men. And as an important union official and an influential member of the Peace Pledge Union, he felt that he was fulfilling his grandfather’s hopes for him and carrying on the fight.
This belief and his early morning talks with his son were all that made his life tolerable.
Anne and John were invited to his parents’ house for Christmas dinner. Sarah and Joe were there with their children, and Mick and Gerda, and amid all this Anne’s silence went unnoticed but she thought that John’s father was extra solicitous towards her, pressing her to have more turkey and to eat more. His grandmother, too, seemed to look at her keenly and Anne made an effort to smile and join in the conversation.
The attention was all on the children after the meal until Sarah and Joe with David and Rosaleen and Anne and John and their children left to go to Magdalen Street.
All the family were there, including the four-year-old girl adopted by Helen and Tony. Helen had told Anne earlier in the year that she and Tony had given up hope of more children and decided to adopt. ‘I’d like a newborn baby,’ she said, ‘but the age difference with Moira would be too much for both of them. We’ve asked for a girl about four or five.’
The child had been in the orphanage since the death of her mother a year earlier. She had been known there by her correct name of Dorothy but had told Helen that her mother called her Dilly so Helen introduced her to everyone by this name. Already she was happily at home playing with her cousins, watched over by Moira.
Anne was warmly welcomed by all the family but especially by her father. He hugged her and looked with concern into her face although she was smiling at him. ‘Good God, girl, there’s not a pick on you,’ he said. ‘I can feel your ribs. You’ll have to get more food down you.’
‘I’m fine, Dad,’ she assured him. ‘It’s just that some people put on weight after having a baby and some lose it.’
‘Aye, but Julie’s eighteen months now, queen. You should be picking up,’ he said.
Anne had a disquieting encounter befor
e they left. Maureen’s friend and lodger Mona Dunne prided herself on speaking her mind and now sat down beside Anne.
‘I think you should show more consideration for your family,’ she declared. ‘It’s all very well making new friends and getting involved in things where you live now but not if it means snubbing your own family.’
‘What do you mean?’ gasped Anne. ‘I don’t snub my family.’
‘Well, I don’t know what you call it but you don’t visit them, and if they want to visit you you’ve always got something more important on. I don’t like to see Mr Fitz hurt and you’re the apple of his eye, you know,’ Mona said.
‘I wouldn’t hurt Dad for the world,’ Anne said angrily. ‘He’s known me all my life and we understand each other. We don’t need you to interfere.’ She was flushed and breathless with indignation, but Mona only shrugged.
‘I see what goes on and I know none of them will say anything in case they upset you but it needed to be said and now I’ve said it,’ she declared, standing up and striding away.
Anne was furious but soon her anger was replaced with the familiar depression.
After Christmas her depression was deep and constant. She struggled to get through each day, wondering despairingly why she bothered. ‘I’ve been miserable for a long time now, she thought, but never as bad or for such a long time as this. It seems to be draining all my strength.
She did only what was absolutely essential for the children, and scarcely any housework, yet she was always exhausted. She never went out. Milk, bread and groceries were delivered and now she paid an older girl to take Gerry back and forth to school. She never even answered the telephone, hoping that the caller would believe she was out.
* * *
She lay on the sofa one dreary day in February. The wireless was on to distract the children but Anne paid little attention to it until she heard an item about an antinuclear protest in London, code-named Gandhi. Eleven people had been arrested outside the War Office and suddenly Anne thought of John’s march to London when Julie was born.
A Nest of Singing Birds Page 51
