by Anna King
‘Hello, Grace, I didn’t hear you come in.’ Polly, her face alive with laughter, looked up at her eldest sister.
‘Sorry, I’ll make a bit more noise next time.’ Grace smiled back. Walking over to where Stanley lay propped up by pillows she leant over and kissed his forehead, saying brightly, ‘How are you feeling today, Stan? A bit better by the sounds of it.’
Stanley Slater looked up at his fiancée, his eyes losing a little of the sparkle that had been evident when Grace first entered the room.
‘Not too bad, thanks, Grace. I’m being well looked after.’ Nodding his head at Polly he added cheerfully, ‘I’ve told her she should think about becoming a nurse. She’s looked after me better than any of the nurses in the hospital.’
‘Oh, you.’ Polly laughed as she gently punched Stanley’s arm. Stanley looked at the freckled face, the warmth coming back into his eyes, a look that Grace was quick to notice.
As Stanley continued to talk to Polly, Grace’s eyes moved over the emaciated body lying in the bed and felt her heart go out to him in pity. The strong, able-bodied Stanley that had gone off to war bore no resemblance to the frail frame of skin and bones that lay in the bed. Even his face had aged, but that wasn’t to be wondered at, with what he had been through.
Grace left the room, saying she was going to make the dinner, but once in the kitchen she sat down at the table, making no move to prepare a meal. Instead she laid her arms on the table and rested her head between them. God, she was tired, so very tired. The war had been over for ten months now, and Stanley had been in the house for six of them.
When he had first arrived by ambulance into her care he had been so grateful for every little thing she did for him, even thanking her for something as simple as plumping up his pillow. It had been as if he was afraid that if he proved to be too much trouble he would be carted back to the hospital. He had been in a pitiful state the first time she had visited him at the military hospital in Kent. The dysentery and almost daily torture by the Italian guards in the POW camp had left their toll, and if the Italians hadn’t thrown in the towel and gone over to the Allies’ side, Stanley would surely have died. Bert Harris, the friend Stanley had joined up with, hadn’t been so lucky. He had died a horrible, lingering death brought on by constant ill-abuse.
The prisoners had woken up one day in early September 1943 to find the camp deserted, the guards and officers having left hurriedly before the approaching American and British armies had arrived and seen the indescribable conditions under which the POWs had been living during their confinement.
Stanley, along with his fellow prisoners, had been taken to the nearest Red Cross centre, and from there moved to a military hospital in Italy, where he had remained until the end of the war. During his time in hospital, Stanley had often thought of writing to Grace to let her know he was all right, but he had been so ill, both in body and mind, that the effort always seemed too much. Besides, he had reasoned with himself in his lucid moments, the authorities would surely let her know. After all, she was down as his next of kin, even if they weren’t married. But somehow, during the confusion of the war, he had slipped through the net. And when, after over a year in the hospital he hadn’t heard from Grace, in his morbid, weakened state, he had presumed she no longer cared what had happened to him. Then he had contracted pneumonia, his life hanging in the balance for weeks. Yet although he pulled through the illness, his body had almost given up on him. That was until June 1945, when they had transferred him and dozens of other patients back to England, and into another hospital in Essex. It was from that day his spirits had begun to lift, although his physical state remained unchanged.
The first time Grace had visited the hospital she had walked right past Stanley’s bed, not recognising the almost skeletal frame between the crisp white sheets. He had cried in her arms for hours before falling into a deep, exhausted sleep. The doctors had told Grace he would never make a full recovery, his body had taken too much punishment, and she was also warned to expect unpredictable mood swings – yet another legacy of his time spent in the camp. But the good news, they had informed her, was that he could live for many years if taken proper care of. Grace wouldn’t have minded taking care of Stanley, no matter for how long; after all, she had once loved him – her deep sense of loyalty would never have allowed her to turn her back on anyone who had once been a part of her life – plus he had no one else to look after him. But Stanley had changed recently, and not for the better. The mood swings the doctor had warned her about had got worse and, as the months had dragged on, he had become more confident of his permanent residence, and then the sly digs had started.
First it was Patrick who came under investigation, with Stanley making comments about his parentage, until one night, in a fit of petulant rage, he had openly accused Grace of being the child’s mother. The next morning he had been full of contrition, but still from time to time she would catch him watching her suspiciously when she came into the room holding the toddler. These cruel taunts had continued at various times until Danny had returned home and claimed Patrick as his son.
Yet the worst incident by far was the night Stanley begged her to get into bed with him. Just for a cuddle, he had promised, laughingly pointing out that he wasn’t capable of doing anything else. Trembling, she had pulled back the covers, only to be asked to take off her clothes first. She had taken off her dress, but left her undergarments on, claiming that it was too cold to lie naked on the cool, cotton sheets. She had lain by his side trying with every fibre in her body to relax against him, knowing that she owed him at least this bit of comfort. But when his hands had begun to roam her body she had flinched and pulled away from the skinny, wandering fingers. Horrified by what she had done, she had remained there for an agonising five minutes, with a silent Stanley lying stiffly by her side, afraid to move for fear of setting off his unpredictable temper. It was Patrick who had saved her. His sudden wail for his supper had drifted down the stairs, and with a shaky laugh Grace had said, ‘I’d better go. His nibs still likes his bottle of milk before he goes to sleep, and seeing as Uncle Danny’s down the pub, it looks like I’ll have to see to him.’
Still Stanley hadn’t said a word, until she was at the door. Then, his words hitting her like a knife in the back, he had said bitterly, ‘Don’t let me stop yer. I wouldn’t want ter deprive a child of his mother’s company.’
The nastiness of his voice stopped Grace in her tracks, but she refused to rise to the bait. But Stanley hadn’t finished, his sneering words following her out into the hall.
‘Don’t think I believe that old cobblers about Patrick being Danny’s. We all know it’s not true. Even Danny knows, the poor old bastard, he just won’t admit it.’
Lifting her head wearily, Grace rose from her chair and began the preparations for dinner. Even now the war was over, the rationing still applied. Though Nobby, bless him, always managed to bring around some treat on his weekly visits. She didn’t know what she would have done without him, or Polly for that matter. What with her nan still not able to do half of what she had done before her accident, and having to rest for the best part of the day, and Vi lying upstairs in a darkened room, not allowing any visitors to see her, Grace couldn’t have coped without Polly’s help. It was hard to believe how much she had come to rely on her youngest sister. In the aftermath of the street being bombed, and the terrible news that all of their friends had been killed, including the vivacious Linda Castle, whom Polly had been so fond of, the entire family had expected Polly to fall apart as she had done at the start of the war. But that young, vulnerable, frightened girl had gone for good, and in her place stood an independent, stoic woman capable of taking anything else life had to throw at her.
And thank God for the change, Grace thought tiredly, for without Polly’s help, she didn’t know how she would have coped.
Grace raised her eyes upwards as she thought of Vi. Poor Vi, scarred for life when her face had hit the ground at full impact as
she was running back to see if her family was safe. If she had gone with Beryl, she would now be safe in America, happily married to Chuck. Instead she seemed doomed to a life as a recluse, for Grace couldn’t see Vi ever showing her face out of doors again. If only Chuck had stood by her. He had come over after the war and spent some hours up in Vi’s room, laughing and talking, and for days afterwards Vi’s spirits had risen. But after that one visit she had never heard from him again. Since then she had gone into a deep depression, which no amount of pills could lift her out of.
Then Grace’s thoughts turned to Benji. She had grown to love the gentle man, and had been deeply upset by his death. But with most of her neighbours dead – people she had been genuinely fond of – and the worry of Vi and her grandmother, Grace hadn’t had the time to grieve for just one person, except at night when the tears would fall silently as she remembered her friends, hardly able to believe she would never see any of them again.
But by far the greatest shock she received was the notification from Benji’s solicitors that he had left her everything he owned. She hadn’t been able to take it in at first, but, as the solicitor had pointed out, the elderly man had no other living relatives, and he had been very fond of her and grateful for the extra time she had spent with him to ease his otherwise lonely life. As if that news hadn’t astonished her enough, she had been struck almost dumb to find that apart from the shop, which had escaped the bombing, Benji had also left her almost five thousand pounds – every penny he owned. And there wasn’t a day went by that she didn’t send up a prayer of thanks to the elderly man for his thoughtfulness and generosity. For without the legacy she, and the rest of the family, would have had to remain in the temporary accommodation Nobby had found for them on their release from the hospital. She had used the money to rebuild their shattered home. It had taken time, but as most of the outside walls were still intact, the family had been able to move back into their home within a few months. The restoration had taken up most of the five thousand pounds, but Grace had still had enough left over to buy a goodly assortment of second-hand furniture. None of it was anywhere near as beautiful as the items they had once owned, but nobody complained, being only too grateful to be under their own roof again.
Then she also had the shop, and that had been a godsend as well, since only Polly was able to work, and she was needed at home to look after the family. She didn’t look on working at the corner shop from nine in the morning until six at night as work, for she was her own boss – and there was a great deal of difference between working for an employer and working for oneself. And now with Danny working as her assistant, she had more time to herself.
With everything taken into account she was one of the lucky ones, only she didn’t feel lucky, she felt trapped and on edge, not knowing from one day to the next what mood Stanley would be in. Then there were the nightmares, when he would wake up screaming and begging for mercy, believing himself to be back in the camp. On these nights, Grace would have to strip the soaking sheets and pyjamas and replace them with dry ones. Usually Polly helped, if she heard Stanley’s cries, but sometimes she slept through the agonising sounds, and Grace never had the heart to wake her. Then there was the gruesome task of treating Stanley’s infested bed sores, although at least in this task Polly was always on hand to help out.
In an effort to shut out her melancholy thoughts Grace returned her concentration to the dinner. She was in the middle of peeling the potatoes when the doorbell rang. Quickly she wiped her hands on a tea cloth and opened the door, her face lighting up at the sight of Nobby.
‘Is it all right to visit, Gracie? I mean, what sort of mood is he in today?’
Smiling, Grace dragged him into the hall.
‘Polly’s with him at the minute, so he’s in a good mood. He saves the bad ones for me.’
A deep frown of concern settled over Nobby’s face.
‘You can’t go on like this, Grace, otherwise it’ll be you being carted off to hospital.’
As she pushed him down the hall in front of her, Grace replied, ‘Don’t worry about me, Nobby. I haven’t time to be ill. Look, go on in, I’ll come with you. The dinner can wait another few minutes.’
‘Well, well, if it ain’t me old mate, Nobby. How are you, yer old rascal?’ Stanley pushed himself higher up on to his pillows, a thin hand coming out in greeting.
‘Oh, there’s nothing wrong with me, mate, it’s you we’ve gotta look after. How yer feeling, Stan?’
‘Oh, yer know, Nobby, up one minute, down the next. Still, it’s good to see yer. ’Ere, sit down. Don’t stand there like a stranger.’
Nobby sat on the chair by the bed, keeping the conversation going as only he could. It was as Grace was about to leave the room that Stanley’s voice stopped her.
‘Hang on, love. Since you’re both here, there’s something I want ter say.’ Turning first to Nobby he said, ‘I haven’t thanked yer properly fer looking after me girl while I was away, Nobby. Now there’s another favour I want ter ask yer.’
Nobby raised his eyebrows questioningly.
‘Course I will, if I can, Stan. What is it, mate?’
As Stanley looked over to where Grace was standing at the edge of the bed, a crafty look crossed his face as he asked casually, ‘I was wondering if you’d be me best man. The doctor says we can get married here, with a special licence of course, and I can’t see any reason fer putting it off any longer, eh, Gracie?’
Grace felt her face blanch with shock. This was the last thing she had expected. Clearing her throat she answered tremulously, ‘Well, let’s give it another few months, Stanley. When you’re feeling better.’
‘But that’s the point, darlin’. I ain’t gonna get any better, and we all know that. So will yer see ter it, Gracie? Danny can give yer away, and you, Nobby,’ he swivelled his head around to the stunned man sitting by the bed, ‘will yer be me best man?’
Like Grace, Nobby was dumbstruck. Then, with every ounce of willpower, he smiled and said, ‘Course I will, mate. But I think Grace is right, you know. Maybe it’d be better if yer—’
‘No!’ A mulish expression settled on Stanley’s face. ‘It’s what I want. Unless, of course, yer’ve changed yer mind about marrying me, Gracie. If so, you’ve only gotta say. I’ll understand.’
Grace twisted the tea cloth between her hands.
‘No, of course not, Stan. Look, we’ll talk some more after dinner, all right?’ Then she fled the room before she broke down completely.
Once back in the kitchen she stood at the cold sink, her head bowed. And when a strong pair of arms came round her she gave a muffled groan and turned and buried her face into Nobby’s broad chest.
‘He knows, Nobby. I don’t know how, but he knows about us, and this is his way of getting his own back. If only there was some chance he’d get better, then I could tell him the truth, but as things stand, I can’t. I can’t do that to him, Nobby, not after what he’s been through. I mean, where would he go? Who’d look after him? Oh, what are we going to do, Nobby? What are we going to do?’
And for once in his life Nobby could find no answer. He had thought life after the war would get easier, especially as he now had nothing to fear from the Davidsons or the law. Then Stanley had come home, and, like Grace, he had hoped that his old school friend would make a full recovery, and be able to stand hearing the truth about him and Grace. But that wasn’t going to happen. Not now. Not ever! Gathering the precious body tightly to him, Nobby clung to Grace as if he was never going to let her go. And also like Grace, he knew this may well be their last chance to express their love.
* * *
On the last day of June, almost two years to the day since the war had ended, the parish priest attended to the duty that had been asked of him. And when he left the house, a house that had seemed to resemble a funeral gathering rather than a wedding celebration, Grace had become Mrs Stanley Slater.
Chapter Twenty-nine
‘Why don’t you come with
us, Stan? The fresh air would do you good, and it’s a lovely day outside. The doctor said you should get out as often as possible – that’s why he got you the wheelchair.’
Grace sat on the side of the bed, her eyes pleading, but Stanley’s face remained sullen.
‘No thanks. I wouldn’t want ter spoil yer afternoon. After all, three’s a crowd, ain’t it?’
Nobby, who was standing at the end of the bed, felt his stomach muscles tighten. How on earth did Grace stand it day after day? His mind shut down on the nights she had to spend in the same bed with this man he had grown to dislike intensely.
Jutting out his jaw, Nobby said tersely, ‘All right, mate, your loss. Me and Grace’ll take Patrick over the park by ourselves, seeing as how you don’t want to come and Danny’s working. See yer later. Come on, Grace.’
As she bent forward to kiss Stan’s cheek, Grace flinched when he deliberately turned away his head.
Once outside she breathed in the fresh August air, a welcome change from the bedroom she was forced to share with Stanley. For no matter how often she and Polly changed his sheets and pyjamas, and cleaned the room thoroughly, the room always held a sickly sweet smell. The smell of illness, and they were powerless to do anything about that.
Nobby and Grace didn’t talk much on the way to the park. It was only when she let Patrick out of his pushchair to run around on the lush grass that Nobby finally spoke, and when he did his voice was filled with bitterness.
‘You know something, Grace, I could have hit him back there, the way he spoke ter you. I don’t care how ill he is, that doesn’t give him the right to treat you like a piece of shit.’
Grace swallowed hard, not knowing how to answer. Nobby was right, of course, but what could she do? And Stanley wasn’t always rude and surly. It was the illness, and the mental anguish he’d gone through that had changed him. Sometimes he could be so sweet, apologising for his behaviour, promising it’d never happen again. But it always did. He couldn’t help himself. No one could ever know what he had been through, or how they would have been affected in his position. Yet living the life she had been forced into was taking its toll on her. If the days were bad, the nights were infinitely worse. Since her wedding night, she had come to dread going to bed. Often she would stay up as late as possible, hoping Stanley would be asleep by the time she went to bed, but he was always awake, waiting for her, and then the nightly ordeal would begin. Not that anything ever happened, for Stanley’s illness had left him impotent, which was the cause of his frustration and increasing bitterness. Night after night, he would try to make love to her, only for his efforts to end in humiliating failure. The nightly ordeals were torture for them both. If Grace had still been in love with Stanley, it might have made things easier, but as it was she could hardly bear him to touch her. The fumblings that grew rougher, the kisses rained over her face with his urgent breathing, breath that was soured by his general ill-health.