by Hilary Green
“You were fond of him too,” I murmured.
He nodded, still holding me. “Yes, I was. The stupid thing was I’d known him so long I didn’t realise how much. We just took each other for granted, until the last few weeks. That was when I really began to appreciate him —and you.” He paused and I drew back. “When did it happen?”
“The day you left. You were both here at breakfast and —neither of you came home.”
“Oh my God!” he breathed. “Oh Nell, if only I’d known!”
“How could you?” I said. Then, “Come into the kitchen. I’ll make some tea or something.”
He gave a sudden laugh. “You don’t know how reassuring it is to hear you say that! You always were the archetypal wife and mother, Nell.”
I paused with my hand on the door, remembering Hal. “I wouldn’t have liked that once, you know. Now I think I’m rather proud of it.”
I made tea and produced the cake my mother had given me. Alan fell on it like manna from heaven. I said, “What happened to the house?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered. “When I got back it was in a hell of a state. I suppose it was vandals, but it looked just as though they had been searching for something. Everything was ripped open, turned upside down. God knows what they were looking for.”
Light dawned then. “I think I know,” I said. “And who it was. Have you seen or heard anything of that man Harrington?”
Alan looked slightly surprised. “Funny you should ask that. He was killed just a week or two ago. His house caught fire. Apparently he was trapped in an upstairs room.”
I put the tea on the table and sat down.
Alan reached for my hand.“Now tell me everything. Where have you been?”
“With my parents in Dolgelly.”
“Of course,” he cried. “I guessed you might be but I didn’t know their address and I couldn’t find a single letter or anything. No wonder you look so well. You’ve been out of it all up there.”
I put my head in my hands and began to laugh weakly.
“What have I said?” he asked.
I told him the story of what had happened after he left and my journey. The boys had drifted off to rediscover old toys so I told him the whole thing frankly, including Hal.
When I finished I found he was looking at me intently.
“Nell, you amaze me,” he said. “Talk about sheer guts and dogged determination! I really admire you for not giving up against those odds.”
I shook my head. “It was just a question of not having any alternative. Perhaps that’s what most courage is. Anyway, tell me about you.”
He sighed. “Not a very creditable story, I’m afraid. When I left here I headed west, like you, but south-west in my case. I knew it was no good heading for the Midlands with so much unemployment there already. I thought perhaps I could find something in a smallish country town. I tried Winchester and Salisbury and all the villages round. There was nothing. I picked up a bit of casual work, here and there, mostly labouring. Otherwise I lived on the dole. That isn’t easy, by the way, when you’ve no roof over your head. Then the election came and the emergency regulations and next time I went to draw my money I was told I couldn’t have it but I could have a job, in the docks at Bristol. I was put on a coach with a load of other fellows and we were driven to an old army barracks which had been turned into what they called a ‘hostel’. It turned out to be a sort of labour camp! We didn’t know what was going on, of course, but we soon found out. The dockers had gone on strike and were refusing to go back, in spite of the regulations. There was no Social Security money for their families and the union’s assets had been frozen so there was no strike pay, either. There was hardly any food in the shops. The only way to get it was on the Black Market, and that soon used up any savings they had. They were literally starving. Every morning we were marched down to the docks under armed guard. They said it was for our own protection! Well, if it hadn’t been there I daresay none of us would have reached the dock gates. We’d either have joined the strikers voluntarily or been lynched! They used to come out every morning and stand in the streets in twos and threes, so as not to break the law against public meetings, not saying anything, just looking at us. There was one chap I’ll never forget as long as I live. He used to come to a particular street corner with his whole family —very pregnant wife and two little girls. They just used to stand there and every day they got thinner and paler. The kids had huge shadows under their eyes and the wife was just a skeleton with a huge stomach — obscene! Then one day she wasn’t there. Just as we got to him he started to shout. “You’ve killed her, you bastards! Blackleg bastards!” Two of the guards pounced on him and marched him away. The last I saw the little girls were running after them shouting, “Let go of my daddy!”
He broke off and put his hand over his eyes. I reached out and took the other. “Was there no way of getting away from it?”
He shook his head.
“We were literally imprisoned in that ‘hostel’. We were told that if we went out we would be mobbed, which was probably true. The place was guarded day and night. We were planning to escape, of course. It was like one of those old POW movies. But in the end the government fell before we could get anything organised.”
“And then?”
“Well, I found myself free but still out of a job and with no home to go to. I decided to come back and see how you and Mike were making out. Of course when I got here the place was empty. The next door neighbour told me about Mike. I hope you didn’t mind me moving in.”
“Good heavens no!” I met his eyes. “I’m so thankful you’re here —really.”
He squeezed my hand. I went on, “But you’re working now?”
“Yes!” There was a sudden warmth in his face. “You remember that little light engineering works out on the main road — Mynton’s Metal Products?”
“Yes.”
“Well, it was a father and son concern. The old man died a few months back and the son found he couldn’t cope on his own. He’s O.K. at the mechanics but he can’t manage the costing and marketing side, particularly under present conditions. I went in there one day, just on the off chance. He was thankful to get someone in who knew the business end. It’s not a big enough concern to support someone just doing the white collar work; we both have to muck in. But he’s taken me into partnership, and things are looking up already. We’re making useful things, things that everyone needs but which are in short supply at the moment — ladders, farm equipment, shelves and brackets, that sort of thing.” He smiled at me. “It’s never going to be an international giant, but it’s a living.”
“Oh Alan, that’s wonderful,” I whispered. “That’s the best thing I’ve heard for weeks!”
We were quiet for a while until it occurred to me to ask, “Have you heard anything from Clare?”
He sat looking into his empty cup. “Not directly, but there was a piece in one of the papers. They were agitating for Emerson and his crew to be tried as traitors or something. Apparently no-one knows where Emerson is —they think South America somewhere — but there was a photograph of Jocelyn Wentworth in South Africa. Clare was with him. I don’t suppose she’ll be back.”
“I’m sorry,” I said quietly.
“You needn’t be.” He looked up at me. “My marriage to Clare was the most stultifying experience in my life. I wouldn’t want to have her back now, particularly,” he grimaced and grinned faintly, “slightly shop-soiled from Jocelyn Wentworth.”
We smiled at each other. He said, “By the way, have you heard from Jane?”
“No. I wrote to her but she didn’t reply. I’m a bit worried about her.”
“You needn’t be. She’s not at Well Cottage any more because she’s living with a man she met during the troubles, over the other side of Guildford. She phoned a few weeks back, wanting you. I didn’t know about her having been in prison, of course. I thought she was a bit cryptic on the phone. Anyway, I told her I thought y
ou were in Wales but I didn’t know the address. She left a number for you to call.”
“I’ll ring her later,” I said, “or tomorrow, perhaps. Thank goodness she’s all right. Are the children with her? Did she say?”
“Yes. She said particularly to tell you the children were there. I couldn’t understand why at the time.”
“I wonder who it is she’s living with,” I mused. “Probably no-one I know. She didn’t tell me her contacts. I’m glad she’s found someone.”
Later that evening when the boys were in bed we sat together in the lounge. We had talked almost non-stop through supper and now we had fallen silent, but neither of us felt inclined to turn on the radio or the television.
At length Alan said, “You know, Nell, I can’t get over you. I’d always thought of you as the quiet little home-body—-not the strong, independent type at all. You seem to have discovered a completely new personality.”
I thought about this quietly for a moment.
“I don’t think I have, Alan. I’ve discovered the sort of person I really am . I used to feel very inadequate compared with Clare and Jane, you know. They seemed to lead such ‘full’ lives. I felt it was very dull and unenterprising of me just to want to stay at home and look after Mike and the kids. I used to pretend that I’d never had the opportunity to really discover my full potential. Well, I’ve had it now, and I’ve learned not to undervalue myself. And I’ve also learned that there is only one kind of life I really want. I’ve had excitement and adventure, and I’ve tried the hippy way of life where you don’t have to do anything unless you want to and I think I’ve learned something from that too. But it’s not for me, Alan. I did it in order to keep the children and I’d do it all again if I had to, but only for that reason. All I want now is a quiet, ordered life, with no worries except the ordinary, everyday ones.”
He said, “I think you should be able to have that. It’s not going to be like the old days, of course. Not for a long time, anyway. No luxuries, no holidays abroad, not much entertaining or going out. No car and no new kitchen gadgets. But enough to eat and a roof over our heads, and education for the children. You can be pretty sure about those.”
“It’s all I want,” I replied.
After a moment he said hesitantly, “Nell, I’ve been sort of assuming I can stay here. Of course, you may not want me. You may feel it wouldn’t be right, under the circumstances.”
I smiled at him. “I honestly don’t think that sort of ‘what will the neighbours think’ morality matters any more, Alan—not to me at any rate. Of course I want you to stay.”
He rose and came to sit on the arm of my chair. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am to hear that, Nell. I’ve never been so lonely in my life as I have these last few months.”
I leaned my head against his arm. “Me, too.”
“I’ll take care of you and the boys, of course.” He stroked my hair softly. “That goes without saying.”
I found myself thinking of a line of Shakespeare. Where was it from? Something about ‘down on your knees and thank heaven, fasting, for a good man’s love’.
Later, going up to bed, he hesitated outside the door of the room he used to share with Clare. We looked at each other.
I said, “You might as well move into my room —don’t you think?”
Sometime during the night he began to talk about divorcing Clare so that we could get married. I told him that it wasn’t necessary, but later, on the edge of sleep, I murmured,
“If we ever do get married, I know a smashing vicar called Philip Woodstock. Do you think we could have a honeymoon in South Wales? There are lots of people I’d like to visit.”
“One day,” he promised. “One day.”
In the morning I woke to a familiar but long unheard sound. Outside in the early sun the bin men were clattering rubbish into the council dustcart.