The Most Precious Thing

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘I have to go, I’ve already said I will.’ He finished his tea in one gulp. ‘But I won’t do any more extra over the next little while if that makes you feel better.’

  She stared straight into his face. ‘We have to talk, David. We can’t go on like this.’

  He nearly said, like what? But his innate honesty wouldn’t let him dodge the issue, even though his guts had twisted into a knot. ‘Aye, I know.’ And then, as they heard Lillian and the children’s voices in the backyard, he added, ‘But not now. Tomorrow, all right? We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll stay home. I’ll say I’m sick.’ And she most likely would be come breakfast time, she thought with a thread of black humour.

  She watched him wet his lips before he said, forcing a wry note into his voice, ‘Aye, well, it’ll be something to look forward to once the shift’s ended.’

  There was something in his face which made her want to press him close to her and bring her face to rest against his but she restrained herself. And the next moment Luke and Katie were running into the kitchen, cheeks as cold as iced silk and their button noses as red as cherries.

  Matthew was on the afternoon shift so it was Carrie and David, Lillian and the children who sat down for dinner. When they had eaten and the washing up had been dealt with, Lillian was in and out of the kitchen and her room, putting Luke and Katie to bed, drying out the children’s coats and boots which had got soaked during the day, preparing the packed lunches she and the children took each morning, and a hundred and one things besides. There was no chance for a private word with David. Not that she could have said anything really, she told herself as she watched him pull on his jacket a little while later. They needed to thrash things out properly and that couldn’t be done in a hurry. But one thing was for sure, she wasn’t prepared to go on like this, skirting over the surface of life. However painful, she needed to know how he felt. She had thought they had something good together, something precious, but if he didn’t feel like that any more she would not try to hold him or use the baby to keep him. Her heart thudded into her throat but she lifted her chin and smiled at him as he came to kiss her, something he’d always done before leaving for the pit, except these days, since she had put her plan to him, it was just a peck on the cheek.

  Tonight, however, he stopped in front of her and looked down at her for a long moment before he spoke. ‘Try and get an early night, you look done in.’

  She nodded but did not speak. She wanted to ask him again not to go to the pit, but knowing what his answer would be she remained silent.

  They could hear Lillian quietly singing a lullaby to little Katie who had been fretful all evening, and Carrie was horrified to find the sound brought tears pricking at the back of her eyes. She couldn’t have said if they were for Katie and Luke who would have to grow up without the love of the wonderful man who had been their father, for Lillian, for David, or even for herself and the unborn child, but as she stood staring at him a stillness settled on them both, a stillness which grew with every passing breath. It seemed a long time before his head slowly lowered to hers, and then he was kissing her, really kissing her, and she kissed him back with an uninhibitedness she’d only shown before in the privacy and darkness of their bed. He was speaking her name against her lips and it was a caress in itself; more endearments followed as he took her face between his hands and showered kisses over her brow, her eyes, her cheeks, her mouth . . .

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  Lillian’s voice brought them jerking apart. Carrie whirled round to see her friend standing in the doorway and she found herself saying somewhat inanely, ‘David’s leaving for the pit.’

  ‘I didn’t-- Katie wants a drink of water.’ Lillian clearly didn’t know where to put herself. ‘I’ll come back in a minute. ’

  She had gone before Carrie could say anything more, and as she turned to look at David again she saw he wasn’t smiling as she had half expected but was still watching her intently. ‘I have to go.’

  No you don’t. Don’t turn up, say you were sick tomorrow. It might make things awkward with one man short but that doesn’t matter. But David wouldn’t do that. He had given his word and he would stick by it. She nodded. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘You too. Remember a shelter’s only a shelter if you shelter in it.’

  This had been their stock goodbye at the height of the bombing, and Carrie smiled as she said, ‘There hasn’t been a raid in months and months. Hitler’s got bigger fish to fry than Dock Street.’

  ‘You never know, just keep your wits about you. Disaster strikes when you least expect it.’

  He drew her gently to him again as he spoke, but this time kissed her lightly on the lips before almost immediately putting her from him. He walked across the room, pulling on his cap low over his eyes.

  He didn’t look back in the scullery; he opened the back door and stepped out into the bitter wind and driving snow, adjusting his muffler closer round his neck as he walked across the yard. At the gate he did look round as though he knew she would be standing on the back step.

  He did not speak. He simply raised one hand to her, and as he stood there he looked very big and broad and strong in the whirling snow. And then he turned, closed the gate and was gone.

  Carrie stood quite motionless for a full minute, staring out into the whiteness. It was a blizzard. The thought dissipated the last of the stillness, and with its going her heart began to beat faster.

  She should not have let him go. She should have stopped him. Suddenly it was so clear. She ran to the gate and looked frantically up and down the back lane, calling his name. But the only answer was the howling of the wind through the spinning snowflakes.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  ‘Walt, where are you going? I thought you were doing the extra shift along with your David and the rest of us.’

  ‘Aye, I am.’ Walter nodded at the man who had spoken. He had downed a pint with this pal and a few other miners over the last couple of hours, not because he had particularly fancied a drink but because Renee had told him she’d be out all evening when he had called in at her place of work earlier to tell her about the extra shift. He hadn’t believed her explanation that she was going dancing with some of the girls she worked with, but since Veronica had got involved with the Land Army and gone down south, he’d ceased caring what his wife got up to. Or that was what he told himself anyway.

  ‘Well, lad, I hate to point out the obvious but the pit’s this way.’ The other man crooked his thumb over his shoulder.

  Walter grinned. ‘I know, I know, I ain’t lost me marbles yet. I’m peckish though. There’s just enough time for me to nip home and get a bite to bring down with me if I’m sharp about it.’

  He turned as he spoke and walked away from the public house which was situated close to the colliery entrance. He crossed Southwick Road a moment later where the end of Pilgrim Street began.

  He’d have been happy to leave the pub an hour ago when that bunch of GIs had walked in, he thought morosely as he walked through the whirling snow, his head down and his collar up. With their snazzy uniforms, endless supplies of forgotten luxuries and smart Yankee chitchat, the lot of them thought they were the cat’s whiskers. He didn’t know one woman who hadn’t been bowled over by the American soldiers, or one man who wasn’t convinced that the parties they hosted on their bases for the local bairns, where they plied them with ice cream and fresh fruit and chocolate bars, weren’t just a ruse to get into the women’s drawers.

  Overpaid, oversexed and over here. It might be a phrase bandied about in the pit by one or two smart alecs, but by gum it was true. He just hoped there wasn’t an American base close to where Veronica was if the local lasses hereabouts were anything to go by. A pair of nylon stockings and some nail varnish or perfume and they were anybody’s. Look at young Dick Allingham, poor devil. Comes home on leave to find his wife five months gone and him not having been around for going on nine. Like he’d said in the pub, what cou
ld you do when the GIs were earning nigh on three pounds ten shillings a week and a British soldier just fourteen shillings? The lasses went on like the ugliest Yank was a film star.

  His house was situated halfway down Pilgrim Street and as Walter opened the front door it was all in darkness. He didn’t bother to put the light on, feeling his way down the hall and walking through into the quiet kitchen where the glow from the range gave the slightest of illumination. The kitchen was furnished very well, as was the rest of the house, but Walter didn’t notice his surroundings. He walked across to the bread bin and fetched out half a loaf of the grey, rough-grained bread everyone ate now. He had just entered the pantry where he knew a large shive of spam pie and some cold potatoes were residing, when he thought he heard the front door open.

  The days had long since gone when he and Renee called a greeting to each other as they entered the house, so he continued putting the food into his bait tin. Then he stepped back into the main part of the kitchen, expecting his wife to walk through the door any moment. But she didn’t. He cocked his head. He could hear voices in the front room, or Renee’s voice at least and her unmistakable gurgle of a laugh. Just hearing that laugh had had the power to make him rock hard at one time but now it merely irritated him. Perhaps she had been telling the truth for once about going out with a friend or two; she’d recently had the front room done up with a new three-piece suite and fancy sheepskin rug in front of the fireplace, and no doubt she was showing it off now. She rarely bothered to make sure the pantry was stocked but the house always had to be immaculate.

  He turned the collar of his coat back up, made sure the lid was firmly in place on his bait tin and prepared to leave the house by the back door, knowing Renee wouldn’t appreciate him looking in on her and one of her pals in his working clothes. It would spoil the effort she’d taken with the front room.

  He actually had his hand on the back door when he heard the laugh. A man’s laugh. He froze, then turned round very, very slowly. He walked out of the kitchen and into the hall, and he was a foot or so away from the front room door, which was open a chink, when he heard a male voice say, ‘You’re one swell dame, you know that, don’t you? One swell dame.’

  Walter’s mouth dropped open.

  ‘You’re not so bad yourself.’ Renee’s voice held a husky note now and the tone was familiar.

  He knew what he was going to see when he pushed open the door to its fullest extent, but still the sight of the two naked bodies writhing on the sheepskin rug in the mellow light of one oil lamp was like a punch in the stomach. ‘What the hell are you doing with my wife?’ he bellowed.

  ‘Holy cow!’ The man who jumped to his feet was hardly a man at all, he didn’t look a day over eighteen, but even stark naked he was every inch a GI with his perfect haircut and tanned skin. He was also acutely embarrassed. He grabbed his trousers and attempted to put one leg into them. In his panic he fell over against the sofa.

  In contrast Renee just stood there, making no effort to cover herself. It was the American who, having managed to scramble into his trousers, threw her dress at her, saying to Walter, ‘Hey, man, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. She said she was a widow.’

  ‘I am.’ Renee held the dress against her body which was still as magnificent as when Walter had first made love to her in their courting days. ‘I’ve been a widow for years and years, haven’t I, Walter? Your husband doesn’t have to die for you to be made a widow. Didn’t you know that?’

  ‘You whore.’ His gaze was fixed on Renee and her brave stance faltered a little as she took in the simmering rage at the back of his eyes. ‘To bring one of them into my home.’

  ‘Look, I didn’t know, OK? She said--’

  As the American approached him, Walter’s right fist shot out, making hard contact with his square chin. The American reeled backwards and Renee screamed. He recovered his footing and stood with a hand to his jaw, staring warily at Walter.

  ‘You’ve already told me what she said.’ Walter’s eyes didn’t leave Renee. ‘Now get out.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ He didn’t bother to put on the rest of his clothes but gathered them up along with his socks and shoes and scuttled out past Walter.

  Renee didn’t say another word until they heard the front door slam, and then, with a coolness that worked like petrol on the flame of Walter’s anger, she said, ‘Poor boy, you’ve frightened him now,’ and she pulled on her dress without bothering with her underclothes which were scattered about the cord carpet. ‘He’ll catch his death out there.’

  ‘How many have you brought back here when I’ve been working?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. How many?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake, Walter.’

  She actually made to walk past him but he caught her arm, wrenched her round and threw her back into the room.

  ‘How many?’

  He didn’t move but Renee backed away further. She turned her head away and muttered, ‘He’s the first, I swear it.’

  She was lying. He knew it without a shadow of a doubt. He could feel himself shrinking at the knowledge that the neighbours must know what she had been up to. Nothing went on round these parts but that the whole street weren’t aware of it. They’d all be talking, the old wives gossiping over the gate in the backyard and the men chewing him over as they sat in the pub of an evening. Poor old Walt, couldn’t keep his missus satisfied, have you heard? Has ’em back to the house now, she does, bold as brass. Be a red light in the window before long, you mark my words. He had heard them with other folk; he knew how they would be. There would be the jokers whose comments would become cruder and cruder depending on how much beer or encouragement they got; worse, there would be those who felt sorry for him. Does he know? No? Well, someone ought to put him in the picture, poor blighter. I’d want to know if it was me.

  But no one had.

  ‘You whore.’ This time it was a low snarl. ‘In our bairn’s home, in my home--’

  ‘Yours and Veronica’s! Oh aye, you might well say yours and Veronica’s. That’s the way you’ve always thought, isn’t it? Right from her birth I’ve been pushed out of the picture.’

  ‘Don’t you come that. It was you who went fair barmy when you found out you were having her, it was like old Nick himself had lain with you. And after, you wanted nowt to do with me. Nowt to do with me but plenty to do with that Hughie Fleming. Thought I hadn’t twigged, didn’t you, but I’m not as daft as you think. And what was he? A two-bit manager in a tuppenny-ha’penny factory, but he had the time for larking about and having a tumble, didn’t he? Poncing about in his neat little suit, the damn upstart.’

  ‘Don’t you call Hughie an upstart.’ Renee seemed to swell with anger. ‘He was ten times the man - twenty - that you are.’

  ‘He was nowt. They’re all nowt. Any man who takes another man’s wife--’

  ‘Oh, don’t come the holier than thou act, not you. Anyway, you’d be none the wiser if you’d done what you said and gone on the night shift with the rest of your beer-swilling, foul-mouthed cronies.’

  ‘That’s all I am to you, isn’t it?’

  They were staring at each other, their gazes locked and their mutual hate snaking between them, and when Renee spoke she fairly hissed the words at him. ‘You want to know what I think of you? You really want to know? Then I’ll tell you. You called Hughie nowt but he was a man, a real man, something you’ve never been. You grub about under the earth all day like a repulsive insect and even when you’ve bathed you still smell of dirt. It’s in your nails, your ears, the crevices of your skin like those blue marks that cover you. You disgust me, do you know that?’ She had moved close to him in her rage, her angry features now thrust to within a foot or so of his white face. ‘I hate you, Walter Sutton. I hate the look of you, the sound of you, and my flesh creeps if you touch me--’

  The sound Walter made cut off Renee’s voice. It was not human, and his face did not resemble the quiet, melancholy, dull man she ha
d lived with for nineteen years. She did not have time to reflect that she had pushed him too far because in a flash his hands were round her neck, squeezing the breath out of her.

  She clawed at the iron grip, she kicked and fought until she lost her footing and brought them both falling to the floor, but still Walter did not loosen his hold, not even when Renee’s heels began to scrabble convulsively and an engorged tongue protruded through her lips.

  It was a full minute before Walter’s hands relaxed their death grip, and then he continued to kneel by the body for some moments more, his breath coming in rasps and his eyes glazed.