by Lizzie Lane
Her hands shook as she turned down the bedclothes. The sheets were cool and her body was warm, but still she shivered.
Henry stumbled and swayed before joining her in the bed.
He wanted to say so much to her, but his lips felt like rubber. If only he hadn’t drank so much. Still, here they were, man and wife.
He felt her tremble when he reached for her.
‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said, assuming she shivered because she was a virgin.
He attempted again to reassure her.
‘I’ll be gentle. Honestly I will. I’ll be gentle,’ he repeated, the words sounding familiar because he was too drunk to remember whether he’d already said them or not.
The truth was he felt like a clumsy oaf, a man not fit to have ended up with such a lovely creature as her. He was a rough man, a blunt man and even a violent one when the drink was in him, but for her he would change. That’s what he told himself. It was her that had made all the difference to his life.
At first his kisses were hesitant as though he wasn’t sure where to start.
‘Sorry I’m drunk. But I’ll do me best. Honest. I’ll do me best.’
That’s when the truth hit her; of course her parents had provided plenty of drink. Henry couldn’t resist. He’d get drunk, his brain would be addled and he wouldn’t notice she was far from being a virgin.
His kisses intensified as his hands caressed her back, her hips, her behind.
‘I love you, Mrs Randall. Do you know that? I really love you.’
She looked up at him. It might only have been the effect of the moonlight, but her eyes were moist.
He kissed her forehead, her nose, her cheeks and her mouth.
She whimpered as he entered her. At first she was tense, just as he’d expected her to be. Then suddenly her arms were around him.
‘I love you too, Henry Randall, and I promise to be a good wife to you.’
She inhaled her breath as he ejaculated into her.
‘That was good,’ he whispered, his eyes already closed, the excitement of the day and the amount of booze he’d drunk finally catching up with him.
As he snored beside her, Mary Anne lay back on the pillows, her arms above her head, her pulse racing. His drinking had been her saviour. In an act of gratefulness, she reached over and kissed him on the cheek.
‘My husband,’ she said softly and was happy.
CHAPTER SIX
Home for them was a terraced house with three bedrooms, a front room and an outhouse containing a copper boiler for the laundry.
Henry declared his intention to grow vegetables in the backyard. With that in mind, and not realising that Henry did not always stick to his word, Mary Anne kept the back garden free, confining the growing of flowers to a large pot just outside the back door.
In summer she grew all manner of brightly coloured geraniums in that pot. In winter she planted crocus bulbs which would bloom in February around the time when her child had been born, around the time when she should have married Edward.
Henry enjoyed watching her tend her flowers, asking her why she preferred the yellow ones.
‘Because they’re bright at the darkest time of year. They’re a portent of spring.’
He accepted her explanation, but then why shouldn’t he? It was perfectly reasonable.
She disregarded the times when he was less than agreeable, blaming his moods on the war. Sometimes he awoke in the middle of the night, crying out and covered in sweat.
‘You bastard! You killed him. You deserved to die. You deserved it.’
‘Henry. Henry.’
The cool touch of her hand seemed to jolt him from the memories, the hell on earth he’d lived through.
Her heart ached for him.
In the morning, he looked surprised to see her so close, a protective arm thrown across his chest, her eyes full of concern.
‘You were having a nightmare,’ she said to him.
‘Lewis. I saw him die again. That’s all.’ Turning his back on her, he swung his legs over the side of the bed.
His abruptness hurt, but she had to be patient. The war was still with him. The dreams recurring.
Mary Anne desperately wanted to tear him away from his nightmare about Lewis dying. Strangely enough it was the only occurrence he had difficulty getting over. The army, he reckoned, had been the making of him. ‘And of a lot of others. Every man would join the army if I had my way.’
There was one piece of news she thought would bring them closer, would enhance their happiness. She wanted a baby, not just to please him, but to replace the child she’d given away.
At last it happened. All she had to do now was tell Henry.
Her whole body trembled in anticipation as she prepared a mutton stew, stirring the pot time after time, slicing the bread, patting the butter into a pleasing shape.
He came in looking tired. Once he’d taken off his coat and boots, he stretched his arms above his head, his hands nearly touched the ceiling.
‘I’ve something to tell you,’ she said, once he was seated and had his meal in front of him. ‘It may mean you have to work harder and longer hours. It may mean restless nights and if it’s a girl …’
The spoonful of stew paused halfway to his mouth. His eyes opened wide above pursed lips. The spoon rattled into the dish spilling stew everywhere.
The chair legs screeched as he pushed it backwards. His arms held her close, then at a distance, then close again.
‘Mary Anne. Mary Anne.’
His mouth hung open until he repeated her name twice more.
‘In about six months you’ll have a son or daughter to provide for, Henry. I’m having a baby.’
He frowned. ‘I’m not stupid, Mary Anne. I know what you mean.’
Their son, also named Henry, was born six months later.
The birth hadn’t been easy and Mary Anne took some time getting over it.
Henry was proud of his son, strutting around and boasting as though no man had done such a thing before.
‘I’ll put his name down for the regiment as soon as he’s old enough.’
Mary Anne considered pointing out that young Henry might not want to be a soldier, that he might wish to be an architect or even a grocer and preacher like her father. But Henry was happy with the baby, who they’d decided to call Harry so there would be no confusion.
‘You’re a very lucky young woman,’ Mary Anne’s mother said to her. ‘He’s a very hard-working and sober young man. A war hero too.’
It irritated her that her parents continually mentioned Henry being a war hero when in fact he’d done no more than any other ordinary soldier.
They were there for Sunday tea, having first listened to Mary Anne’s father giving his sermon. The sermon had been about sin and the Garden of Eden. Mary Anne flinched at the familiar words. The vision of her and Edward that day on the riverbank came into her mind. The beautiful surroundings, the warm sun and their passion for each other had tempted them.
It felt as though her father’s words were directed at her; like her mother, he considered she’d been lucky to wed such a sober, God-fearing husband.
Mary Anne was beginning to know her husband better. Sometimes he turned into himself and no matter what she said, she could not reach him. As for being sober, well indeed he was on Sundays. The rest of the week was a different matter.
On weeknights, once he’d garaged his taxicab, he went to the pub. For the most part he came home after a few pints, gruff and bad-tempered. She put that down to him being tired.
But sometimes he came home drunk, mumbling about old comrades from his army days.
‘Best of mates we were; do anything for each other. Watch each other’s back. Stick up for each other. Never was anyone as close as we … Loved ’em, I did. Loved ’em.’
Sometimes he ignored the meal she’d placed on the table, grabbed her arm and dragged her up to bed where he took her with brute force and filthy words. His harsh handl
ing left bruises on her body.
In the morning he was contrite. ‘It’s the war,’ he said to her. ‘The war made me sour and sometimes … I don’t know … I don’t know what I’m doing.’
Mary Anne always forgave him though he asked no forgiveness. She considered it her duty to do so. I have to bear it, she said to herself. My marrying him was based on a lie. Bearing his dark moods is my punishment for lying.
On a dismal day of winter rain and a cold wind in the first week of February, her parents came to tell her that they were moving away. ‘I’ve had a very good offer for the business,’ her father explained. This was followed by a gleeful exchange of looks between him and her mother. ‘We’re moving to the North of England where I’ve been offered a permanent ministry. It will entail some work to prove myself worthy, but I have no fear that I will succeed.’
Her mother reached out and touched her hand. ‘Be happy for us, Mary Anne. I know we’ll be miles away from you, but you’ve a husband and family of your own now what with young Harry and the new baby on the way. Henry is so pleased about the new baby. He told us all about it. We are so happy for you, darling, and so pleased that we’re expecting a second grandchild. It would be nice if this one was a girl.’
Mary Anne looked down at her mother’s hand, feeling as though an iron-clad fist had fastened around her heart.
‘This baby I’m expecting will be your third grandchild actually, though of course I don’t know whether the first one was a boy or a girl. Next week, Valentine’s Day, would have been my wedding day. Instead I was alone giving birth to a baby. Remember?’
Her mother snatched her hand away, curling her fingers into her palm as though she’d been scalded.
‘That is very cruel and ungrateful of you to say that,’ said her father. ‘You’re a very lucky girl having parents and a husband who care for you. I know Henry is only a taxicab driver, but he is a worthy and God-fearing man. And he did his duty for his country.’
Mary Anne eyed her parents thoughtfully. They were leaving her here in Bristol and heading north. She should feel sad or even resentful at their leaving, but she didn’t. They had dictated her life to her, forced her to give away a child. It didn’t matter that they’d encouraged her to marry Henry; he was as good a husband as she was likely to get. She would be safe with him, but she wouldn’t let them leave without declaring a few home truths.
‘I will never forget Edward and I will never forget the child you forced me to give away. As for Henry, yes, he did his duty, but it came at a price. Henry is over-troubled by the war. He dreams of it nightly, his arms flailing around in bed before the dreams are finally over.’
She didn’t tell them that once the dreams were over he sometimes pulled up her nightdress, turned her over onto her stomach, forced his knees between hers and pushed forcefully into her from behind. That was between husband and wife.
Instead she went on to tell them about his moods, the times when he stared into the distance, starting if he heard a distant noise that sounded vaguely like artillery fire.
‘I’m not sure that we love each other, but we need each other. I lost Edward in that terrible war. Henry lost a great many friends. We comfort each other. We need each other and in time I think we will be honest with each other and lay our souls bare.’
Her face suddenly contorting with alarm, her mother sprang to her feet, her gloved hands clutched over her black leather bag. ‘You must not do that, Mary Anne. You don’t know how it might affect him.’
Her father also got to his feet, smoothing back his white hair before placing his hat on his head.
His expression was dour, his tone condemning. ‘You stupid girl. You have been saved from your sin. Be content with that.’
‘I think I owe him the truth otherwise our marriage is a sham and I’ve been living a lie. We’ll survive. I’m sure we will.’
In bed that night Mary Anne thought about what her parents had said and the looks on their faces. They were leaving her far behind, confident she was settled and no longer their responsibility. She decided then and there that they had been selfish about her well-being, that to them having a respectable reputation in the community was worth more than her happiness.
The baby stirred, her belly moving from one side to the other. She rubbed at it, feeling the small lump that might be a foot or fist.
Feeling her move, Henry stirred beside her. ‘You all right, Mary Anne?’
‘The baby’s awake. It’s difficult to sleep.’
He rolled over on his side and put his arm around her. ‘Not just that though, is it? Yer mum and dad are moving away and there’s nothing to be done about it.’
She turned her head to face him, his features facing her. ‘I love you, Henry Randall. This is where I belong.’
Although she couldn’t clearly see his features, she sensed he was surprised. On reflection it was the first time she’d said such a thing.
She took her hand from beneath the bedclothes and stroked his cheek.
‘We’ll be fine by ourselves, Henry Randall. We’ll be fine by ourselves.’
For his part, Henry Randall stared into the darkness, afraid to close his eyes. In dreams, he confronted his own demons, urges that nobody but he himself knew about, things he was capable of that could land him in prison.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Henry Randall was sitting in his cab eating his lunch of cheese and onion sandwiches. Once the sandwiches were finished, he would tuck into a freshly baked slice of bread pudding. He’d say that for Mary Anne, she was a good cook, a good housekeeper and a kindly companion.
That’s what had struck him most about her since they’d been married; she forgave him his trespasses – well, that was how her father would put it. He couldn’t help falling off the wagon sometimes even though he’d pledged to her father that he’d give up the drink completely. In time he might do, but the drink helped him cope with his past. Sober, his memories were fresh; drunk, they became less clear.
Hearing Mary Anne tell him she loved him had struck a chord. Suddenly, he wanted the past buried, not in drink but entirely in a new life with her. He even suspected he loved her too and he was certainly proud of her – sometimes to the point of jealousy.
He’d seen some of the other drivers look at her when she’d passed by on her way to the shops at the bottom of Park Street. She went there to buy material so she could make clothes for all of them. Sometimes she came by with his lunch because he’d left it on the kitchen table.
She deserves better, he thought to himself and happened to mention it to some of his pals on the cab stand.
‘I’m no Romeo, but I’d like to show her I care. I need to say some sweet words to her. P’haps I should write a poem. I do ’ear that Romeo types are good at writing poetry.’
Laughter and a bit of teasing followed.
‘You old Romeo, you!’
‘Going soft in yer old age.’
‘Next thing you’ll be buying ’er a Valentine card for next Tuesday. That’s when sweethearts send each other Valentine cards.’
He laughed along with them, but something had taken root. Mary Anne deserved a Valentine card. Imagine her face, he thought. It would be a sight worth seeing.
Henry Randall was advised that the best cards would be found in Castle Street, a busy shopping thoroughfare in the centre of the city.
Feeling pleased with himself and also a bit embarrassed, he parked his car, gathered his courage and entered the shop that looked likeliest to sell the best Valentine cards.
He’d expected a frosty-faced woman behind the counter, but instead got a friendly young man with sandy-coloured hair, hazel eyes and delicate features.
‘Take a look at these, sir.’ His long slim fingers took three different cards from a white cardboard box. He set them out on the counter. ‘These are so very romantic, sir. Which one do you think your lady would like?’ He eyed Henry steadily, his smile unwavering.
Henry flushed on meeting the young man’s g
aze. The cards were far too pretty for male taste, a flock of doves in a dovecote surrounded by roses and a bright blue sky. A young man should be selling tools and hardware, he thought, not fripperies, flounces and ribbons – or cards like this.
He surveyed each card in turn. ‘There don’t seem to be much between them,’ he said gruffly.
The young man pointed at each card in turn. ‘Well, this one as you can see has a dovecote, this one is almost entirely roses and bluebirds, and this one has this bright red heart and lace all around it.’
Henry chewed his bottom lip. Quite frankly, the sooner he was out of this shop and away from this nancy boy, the better.
‘May I make a suggestion?’ asked the young man, which only served to make Henry fidget and go red in the face. ‘I like the second one best – roses and bluebirds. And inside it says, “To my one and only Valentine”.’
Their eyes met again, Henry’s narrowing slightly, recognising a faggot when he saw one.
‘I’ll take it. How much?’
CHAPTER EIGHT
‘I bought it for you. Happy Valentine’s.’
Mary Anne gasped; her eyes wide with amazement.
Henry did not easily show his feelings. Neither was he one for going into shops unless it was for pipe tobacco.
Tears sprang to her eyes. Henry had gone against his nature to buy her this card. ‘It’s lovely. Did you really buy it yourself?’
He hadn’t bothered to post it but had left it on the kitchen table for her to find.
‘It was me that bought it,’ he said to her. ‘Just in case you was thinking it was from somebody else.’
Mary Anne, her stomach now swollen with their second child, laughed and shook her head. ‘Well, I didn’t think it was the milkman, the baker or the butcher,’ she said laughingly.
At first he was gruff and then he smiled. ‘I thought you deserved it. Thought I didn’t court you enough in the early days and I’ve never been one for pretty words.’
She blinked away the tears. If only he knew how much this meant to her on this day, on Valentine’s Day. ‘You’re a good man, Henry.’