“William.” It was as though she hadn’t heard him. “He’s quite a fat baby, isn’t he? Are you over-feeding him?”
And so it continued. Her rented room — inevitably — was unsatisfactory, the flat was described as “pokey”, the carpet was the wrong colour, the baby was behind with his milestones (“I should see the doctor about that child’s teeth.” “What teeth?” Annie asked. “Exactly!”), and Annie’s cooking “bland”.
This last was almost more than Anne could bear, for Mrs Bentley senior had committed the cardinal wartime sin of failing to bring her ration book with her. Without additional food, Annie found it almost impossible to stretch what she had to feed them all, and then to be criticised yet again tested her to her limits.
“Has your mother always been — like this?” she asked Ernest, emboldened by anger.
“Well, she’s never been easy,” Ernest admitted, to Annie’s surprise. “But then she’s had a hard life.”
“Haven’t we all,” Annie muttered, eking out some scraps of stewing lamb with a small mountain of wilting vegetables she had managed to obtain cheaply.
“What do you mean?”
“Oh, Ernest. You know what I mean. You and I — our life isn’t exactly idyllic, is it?” She had never dared to speak like this before, and she wondered at her own boldness.
“Maybe not,” Ernest admitted. “But Mother’s been very brave. She’s suffered a lot, but she never talks about it.”
Annie thought, but didn’t dare say, that Mrs Bentley didn’t need to talk about it. One look at her shrewish, miserable face, or a few minutes of her carping and criticism spoke volumes about the state of her mind. Annie wondered about Ernest’s father. How had he managed to live with such a woman? But, of course, he hadn’t. Ernest’s father had wisely taken it upon himself to die relatively young. From what she had seen, Annie reckoned that he was well out of it.
Strangely, despite the unpleasantness of their guest, those few days of Mrs Bentley’s visit seemed to unite Annie and Ernest as though in the face of a common enemy. Annie had never seen Ernest cowed before, but this was the effect his mother seemed to have on him. Nothing she asked of him (and she asked a lot) was too much trouble, and he appeared to hang on her every word, agreeing with everything she said, however preposterous. He seemed to be in a permanent state of anxiety, and it was only when he and Annie were on their own that he was able to relax a little. Observing the strange relationship between the two of them, Annie wondered what kind of mother Mrs Bentley had been to the young Ernest, but she didn’t like to ask him and risk jeopardising their present amnesty.
In fact, this peaceful state continued for several weeks. United in their discomfort during Mrs Bentley’s stay and their relief at her departure (although Ernest was too loyal to say anything), Annie and Ernest got on better than they ever had before, and Annie began to hope that things might be taking a turn for the better. Perhaps Mrs Bentley and her calamitous visit had brought some benefit after all.
For a few days, Annie felt almost cheerful. She and Ernest had had an unfortunate start, but it was still early days. Maybe all that was needed was that they should get to understand each other better. It was possible that there might be life after marriage to Ernest after all.
If only it could have been that easy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Annie
The shiny BMW which drew up outside Annie’s house was as unwelcome as it was unexpected.
“You should have let me know you were coming,” Annie said, answering the front door. “I might have been out.”
“You’re rarely out,” Billy said, wiping his feet (it had been raining) and preceding Sheila into the house. “Where’s Ophelia?”
“She’s at work.”
“At work? She never told us she had a job. What’s she doing?” Billy sat down in his father’s chair, and for a moment it was almost as though Ernest had returned from the dead. Annie had forgotten how alike they were. Sheila stood by the window, casting a critical eye round the room.
“She’s a — she’s a ...” What was it Ophelia had said she was? “She’s an assistant in a fashion house. Yes that’s it. A fashion house,” Annie repeated, pleased that she had remembered. She would have hated to let Ophelia down.
“That sounds — interesting,” Sheila said.
“You mean she’s a shop assistant,” Billy said, ignoring her.
“Not exactly.” Oh dear. “It’s very exclusive.”
“That’s what she told you, is it?”
“Well, yes, but —”
“Never mind that now. It’s no more than I expected. I’ve given up hoping that Ophelia will make anything of herself. At least she’s earning a living again, which I suppose is something. I hope she’s giving you money for her keep?”
“Yes. Of course.” In fact money hadn’t yet been discussed between them, but it was none of Billy’s business.
“And how are you, Mother?”
“Fine. I’m fine.”
“What on earth’s happened to your hair?”
“Ophelia did it. I rather like it.”
“Mmm.”
“Very nice,” Sheila murmured.
“We’ve actually come for Sheila’s car,” Billy said. “Ophelia’s had it for over a month now. Very inconsiderate of her, I have to say. I had to come this way on business, and Sheila came with me to drive it back.”
“We’ve brought some of her things,” Sheila added. “She must be running short of clothes by now. I’ll just go and fetch them.”
“Would you like a cup of tea?” Annie asked, wondering whether there was any milk (Ophelia was going to buy some on her way home).
“No thanks. We can’t stop. It’s a long way back, and I’ve got a couple of calls to make,” Billy said. “I just hope she’s left some petrol in the car.”
“Don’t you want to wait to see her? She should be home soon.”
“No time today. Another time perhaps.” Billy got up and started walking towards the door. “I hope she’s behaving herself,” he added.
“How’s it working out for both of you? Is Ophelia well? Is she happy?” Sheila asked, depositing two large suitcases in the hallway.
“It’s working out very well. We enjoy each other’s company,” Annie said. “And Ophelia seems very happy.”
Very happy indeed, Annie thought now, as the two cars disappeared round the bend in the lane. Too happy, if the truth be told.
Not that Ophelia had actually told her anything, but then she didn’t have to. The odd little disappearances, the frequent use of her mobile phone, the evasion of any direct questions as to her whereabouts — they all added up. But, above all, there was Ophelia’s state of mind. It was odd, Annie reflected, as she put the kettle on (there was just enough milk for one cup, she noted with satisfaction), that she, who had had no experience of being in love, should so easily recognise the signs. Ophelia literally glowed, as though illuminated from within by some secret joy, a joy which was reflected in Andrew’s eyes and smile every time he came to the house. Not so secret, though, for Annie knew only too well what was going on.
In many ways, she wished she didn’t. If she had no idea of what was happening between Andrew and Ophelia, then there would be no dilemma, and things could carry on as they were. But knowing, as she did, placed her in a difficult position, for she couldn’t approve of her young granddaughter having a relationship with a married priest, could she? Well, could she?
Annie paused, teapot in hand, and pondered her very ambivalent feelings about this this event which had happened between the two people to whom she perhaps felt closest. Morally, it couldn’t be defended on any level, and yet from a purely human perspective, didn’t they both deserve a little happiness? She knew from his occasional hints that Andrew was unhappy in his marriage, and she also knew that Ophelia craved love in a way that she herself had once craved it. She had done her best to warn Ophelia against this involvement, and had believed her when sh
e’d said she would try to avoid Andrew, and yet how could she justify standing in her way now, even if she were in a position to do so?
Annie dunked a biscuit in her tea (a habit Ernest had abhorred) and considered her position. She could talk to Ophelia, but feared that it would make little difference. She could speak to Andrew, but doubted that she could tell him anything he hadn’t already thought of. Besides, she didn’t want to jeopardise her relationship with him.
She had come a long way since he had started visiting her, and she had come to depend on him. Apart from valuing his friendship, she still had her story to tell — a difficult, painful story — and it would be very hard for her to have to stop now.
Ophelia burst through the front door.
“I missed them, didn’t I?” she crowed.
“How did you know they were here?” Annie asked.
“I saw their cars. They didn’t see me, though.” Ophelia helped herself to a biscuit. “I bet they were annoyed with me.”
“They were. I do wish you didn’t always leave me to do your dirty work,” Annie said. “You seem to have a knack of avoiding your parents.”
“Years of practice.” Ophelia started unpacking a bag of groceries. “I sold five very expensive dresses today. I think I’ve finally found my vocation. I even managed to swap the labels on one because a customer was determined to fit into a size twelve.” She took a bite of her biscuit and grimaced. “These biscuits are stale.”
“Someone must have left the packet open.”
“I love you when you try to be grumpy, Gran, but it won’t work. I refuse to be put down today.” Ophelia topped up the teapot with boiling water and fetched herself a cup.
“You’re very cheerful,” Annie said.
“Why not? Life is good.” Ophelia took another biscuit. “Even soggy biscuits are good once you get used to them.”
“But this isn’t just about life, or even soggy biscuits, is it?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” Annie said.
“Do I?”
“Ophelia, don’t play games with me. This is too serious for games. I may be just a silly old woman, but I know what’s going on.”
“Oh, Gran! I’ve never thought of you as a silly old woman. I think you’re wonderful.”
“Don’t change the subject.”
“You sound just like Dad.”
“Lucky for you that I’m not your dad.”
“Yes.”
“So — are you going to tell me about it? I think I have a right to know.”
“If you already know what’s happening, why do I need to tell you?”
“I know about it, but I don’t know all about it,” Annie said carefully, putting down her cup. “I know you and Andrew are — seeing each other, but I don’t know what you’re up to.”
“Oh, Gran.” Ophelia sat down at the table. “We’re not up to anything. Not really. We’ve just seen each other a few times, and — talked.”
“Just talked?”
“Just talked.”
“Nothing else?”
“Not really. What opportunity would there be?” Ophelia’s voice was bleak. “As you must know, there’s no future in it. There can’t be. But I love him, Gran. I really do. And I’m sure he loves me.” She looked up and her eyes met Annie’s. “What am I going to do, Gran? I’ve never felt like this before about anyone. What would you do?”
“What would I do?” Annie pondered, dunking another biscuit and watching the crumbs float to the surface of her tea in sodden clumps. “I suppose if I’m honest I’d probably do what you’re doing, whatever that is. I just feel it’s my job to warn you off.”
“You’ve done what you can, Gran, and I’m really grateful.” Ophelia squeezed Annie’s hand. “But I can’t — I can’t let this chance go. I might never get it again. I might never feel like this again. To know I’m loved, really loved, just for me. Not because I’m clever or useful or pretty. Just because I’m myself. Can’t you see?”
“Oh yes.” Because, of course, Annie could see. Wouldn’t she once have given everything she possessed to have what Ophelia had, if only for a short time? To know what it was to love and be loved; to experience that private little world exclusive to lovers? She could no more have turned her back on such an opportunity than could Ophelia.
“But you don’t have to feel you’re a part of it, Gran.” Ophelia seemed to read her thoughts. “It’s not your doing; not your responsibility. It’s ours. Mine and Andrew’s. And if there’s a price to be paid — and I’m sure there will be — then we’re the ones who’ll have to pay it. Couldn’t you sort of turn a blind eye? Just for a bit?”
“Perhaps,” Annie said slowly. “But I think in that case it might be a good idea if you don’t tell me any more than you already have. If I don’t know, then I can’t mind, can I?”
Ophelia got up and gave Annie a hug. “Oh, I do love you, Gran!”
“Do you know, I don’t think anyone’s ever said that to me before,” Annie said.
“You and me both, Gran,” Ophelia said. “You and me both.” She kissed Annie’s cheek. “Now, put away those horrible biscuits. I’ve bought something much nicer. Look!” She opened a paper bag and brought out two cream doughnuts. “Let’s have these instead.”
“What about your diet?” Annie said.
“Bugger the diet.” Ophelia grinned and took a big bite from one of the doughnuts. “I have it on the best authority that I’m okay just the way I am.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Annie’s Story
At long last the war in Europe was over.
VE Day, May 8th 1945, happened to fall on the day after Billy’s first birthday, so there should have been double cause for celebration. But Ernest seemed sunk in depression. The war — those devastating, cataclysmic years — had passed him by, for he had taken no part in it. He had never had to don a uniform and march off into the unknown like so many other young men. There had been no emotional farewells or joyous reunions or military triumphs for Ernest. Excluded by the curse of his malformed leg, he had spent the war safely tucked away in his office, and he was deeply ashamed.
Annie couldn’t understand it.
“But it wasn’t your fault, Ernest,” she said. “You would have gone if you could. And someone had to work in the banks; keep things going.” She’d had no idea until now that Ernest had minded so much.
“I should have been there,” Ernest kept saying. “I just should have been there.”
So it seemed there was to be no festivity in their household. Annie watched from their windows with envy as the streets outside erupted into joyous celebration; strangers embraced one another, tables were set out in the street and food appeared as if from nowhere. Everyone, it seemed, was contributing their precious rations for a day of sheer indulgence. Someone appeared with a piano accordion and was joined by a uniformed soldier with a violin. The sound was terrible, but nobody cared. They danced in the road and on the pavements, and they laughed. It was years since Annie had heard such laughter.
“Couldn’t Billy and I join them?” she pleaded. “Just for an hour? You don’t have to come.”
Ernest grudgingly agreed, although he refused to go himself, and Annie took Billy out with her to join the party, where they were swept along in a tide of rejoicing. Food was pressed upon them, although Annie hadn’t dared to contribute anything, and Billy had his first taste of chocolate. The sun blazed down out of a cloudless sky and Annie, carried away by the atmosphere, waltzed Billy up and down the street, born along by a crowd made merry by a combination of joy and cider.
“And you? Your family? Is everyone all right?” a kindly neighbour inquired.
Annie nodded. Her family had been fortunate. Jack had come through the war with military honours, and Tom, who was progressing well, was engaged to marry one of the nurses who had cared for him during his illness. A distant cousin had been killed in the first week of the war, and another wounded, but
she knew she was one of the lucky ones. She hadn’t had to suffer the agony of bereavement. The war was over, and her family were safe.
But Annie wasn’t to know that the all-encompassing danger of war was about to be replaced by another more personal and far more immediate threat, for a week after the war had ended, Ernest hit her for the first time.
Of course, Annie knew that Ernest had a temper; she had lived with it for long enough. She had also had to endure his sexual attentions, which so often seemed powered by an anger whose source was a puzzle to her. But she had never thought that he would actually strike her.
It had all been so silly. Afterwards, Annie couldn’t even remember what it had been about; a missing button, an un-ironed shirt; something trivial. But in that moment of irritation, perhaps fuelled by his fury at his own inability to rejoice with a nation in its well-earned victory, Ernest lashed out and struck Annie in the face.
There was a moment of stunned silence.
“Annie — I didn’t mean — it was a mistake. I never meant to hurt you.” Ernest seemed as shocked as Annie at what had happened. “I’m — I’m sorry.”
Annie raised a hand to her stinging cheek. “You hit me,” she said. “You hit me.” The tears sprang to her eyes, and she swallowed.
“Well, I haven’t — I wouldn’t — oh, Annie. It wasn’t that hard. There’s no point in getting worked up about it. I’ve apologised, haven’t I? What more do you want?”
Annie shook her head. What could she say? That everything was all right? That Ernest was forgiven, and they should pretend it had never happened? What did he expect her to say?
“Well, Annie? Are you going to make a fuss, or shall we just forget all about it?”
“I can’t forget about it, Ernest,” Annie said quietly. “How can I forget about it? It changes things.”
For Annie knew that after this, nothing would ever be quite the same again. Hitherto, she had feared Ernest’s temper and had dreaded their “early nights”, but had come to feel that she could cope, provided she didn’t have to deal with anything worse. But physical violence such as this was something different. Ernest was a big man; tall and well-built and heavy. Annie herself was small and relatively slight. She already knew that when Ernest exerted physical force upon her, she had no choice but to give in. If he set out actually to hurt her, she would be equally powerless. And Ernest enjoyed power.
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