by Annie Murray
Over. It was over for Ted all right, his testing of his manhood. Amid all the heroes of Dunkirk with their little boats and astonishing escapes from the beach-head, there were those lads of the British Expeditionary Force who did not reach British shores. Grace had waited, praying, as trainload after trainload of men were delivered back to their homes. After an agonizingly long wait her prayers were answered by a letter from Ted saying he had been captured. He was a prisoner of war.
She had the small bundle of his letters. She realized they hardly told her anything. He was so bad at writing, couldn’t spell. It was as if he seized up with a pen in his hand. Deer Grace, I am al rit. Not il or anithing. The das goe sloly. The othr lads ar al rit. Lov Ted. It almost made her laugh when she received them, how the letters left her almost as much in the dark as before. But at least he was alive. He was safe and out of the fighting.
She sat trying to remember the best of him. His laughing eyes and steady ways. His kindness and modesty. Never anything cocky about Ted. But a chill stab of fear went through her. Ted was very straight. Very moral. There he was, all this time, held prisoner. And she . . .
Shame washed through her. The thought of him returned to her, uninvited, but with a flicker of longing. He, who had given her Barbara, whose lively, muscular body had brought something back to life in hers . . .
‘For God’s sake!’ She leapt up from the bed and stood in front of the cheval mirror in the corner. In front of her she saw a petite, thin woman, her curly black hair falling over her shoulders, with full lips and hollow eyes, the dark brows pulled into a frown. ‘Stop thinking about him,’ she scolded her reflection. ‘Pull yourself together. You’re never going to see him again. Ted – your lovely husband Ted – is coming home and you are his wife. And by God, you owe him.’
She selected from the cupboard an old favourite dress that she knew Ted liked. It was royal blue, but it hung on her now she had lost weight. Joan, always of a bigger build, had not changed size much during the war and having Davey, while Grace seemed to have lost the full curves she had had before. She pulled the belt tight round her waist, brushed out her wild hair, pinned it back and touched up her lips with a red lipstick.
She stood looking at herself, her heart thudding, constantly alert for the sound of a knock or the door opening. Why would he knock? It was his house, after all.
Now Barbara was not here she could almost believe that things were as they had been before. Just her and Ted. Husband and wife. If only she could turn back time!
But there was her little Barbara – her beautiful blonde girl. The baby who had showed her that she too could have a child. She just could not seem to have a child with Ted.
4
He did knock, at last, just as the clocks were striking six.
Grace had been wandering around the house, unable to sit still. She kept checking and checking again for any signs of Barbara in a fever of guilt and worry. Seeing the house as if for the first time: the sagging corner of the ceiling in the back room, the mould patches on the walls, the rotten window frames and the peeling front door that Ted had painted before he left. Every stick of furniture – the table, chairs and sideboard in the kitchen, second-hand to begin with – was now five years older. The house had never been much, but now it looked truly neglected.
But some things were just the same. There were the few pictures on the mantel in the front room – the room she kept nice for sitting in, with the two brown upholstered armchairs by the fire, the little rag rug. There was the portrait of Ted’s mom and dad, standing side by side, taken at someone else’s wedding. An old picture of her own mother, eternally young and dark-haired, but faded now almost to nothing. And in the middle, the picture of herself and Ted that she had kissed every night. Or, she thought, pierced again by guilt – almost every night.
Every few minutes she went to the window to peer along the street for any sign of him. She was at the back, giving the stew pot another stir, when at last she heard a rap of knuckles on the front door.
Each step she took towards it seemed to take an age. She could feel everything – the brush of her cotton frock against her skin, the heavy warmth of her hair on the back of her neck, her breaths, which she had to force in and out – highlighted and intense in this moment, in each step towards the door, in her reaching out her hand and pulling it open . . .
A tall, crop-headed, frighteningly thin man stood outside. He was dressed in army uniform with a bag slung from one shoulder. The face was gaunt, sick-looking, the hollow eyes seeming too ashamed to look into hers, yet also wanting to devour the sight of her.
In shock, she clutched the door for support, her legs almost giving way. Ted . . . Was this spectre Ted? The height, the eyes . . . Yes, his eyes, his shape . . .
‘Ted?’ She needed to hear his voice but could hardly manage to speak herself. Her heart was overflowing with fear, pity and tenderness . . . Ted, my Ted . . .
‘Gracie?’ Yes, yes, it was him, though the voice was low and hoarse. ‘You got the telegram?’
‘Yes.’ They both stood stunned and stupid, staring at each other. Until, her voice rising with emotion, she cried, ‘You’re back! I thought you were never going to come back . . .’ The tears began to run down her cheeks, and sobs which had waited so long she had hardly known they were there burst out of her.
Ted stepped forward and they were both in the house, in the front room, the door shutting, he letting his bag drop to the floor, seizing hold of her and pulling her close with an anguished howl, sobs breaking from him as well.
‘Gracie . . . Oh, my Gracie.’
Weeping, he buried his face in her hair, kissed her neck, her face, his hands exploring as if he couldn’t believe her, like a starving person finding food. She had never known so much force in him before and she was moved and a bit afraid of this frantic skeleton she held in her arms, surprisingly strong despite his sick appearance. But it was him. He was here, home at last.
‘Ted?’ She drew back, trying to calm him. She looked into his eyes and stroked his face, which wore a famished expression. Their lips met and then they were on the stairs, then upstairs, he peeling her dress over her head, tugging at his belt, then on the bed and he inside her as if it was the only thing in life he had to do ever again. She felt sharp pains in the back of her thighs and realized it was his hip bones digging into her. It had never been like that before – he was so thin – and she pulled him close and his back felt like a piano, all bones as well. They lay weeping, clinging to each other as if they were afraid all this might disappear again.
‘Five years,’ he sobbed. ‘Five years down the pan. I’m sorry, Gracie. I’m so sorry.’ And then all he could do was say her name, Gracie, my lovely Gracie, over and over again.
‘Sssh, love.’ She held him and stroked him, confused. ‘It’s not your fault, is it? How could it be your fault? You’re home now, Ted. That’s all that matters.’
And at that moment that felt like the one thing that was true.
She laid the table for them to eat the meal she had prepared.
‘That looks nice,’ he said as he sat down, politely, like a guest. He had flung the bag he brought into the wardrobe in their room and changed into his old clothes – grey trousers, a shirt. The clothes hung on him, almost ridiculous. He had to tie the belt because there were not enough holes.
As she spooned out the food she saw him looking around the room, a faint smile on his lips.
‘Hasn’t changed much, has it?’ she said.
Ted shook his head. She saw the muscles move in his scrawny neck. ‘No – I s’pose not. Seems astonishing. This house – you, here all the time. It’s been the only thing keeping me going.’
‘It’s the worse for wear. Still standing though – not like some.’
Ted nodded, distantly. ‘Yeah – I saw.’
She smiled, looking at his thin, yellow face. If he could only put on some weight, he might look more like the young, fresh-faced Ted she remembered, rather tha
n this wrung-out-looking stranger, who seemed more like a sick old man. And, she thought, with a pang of guilt and terrible dread, he thinks that all this time nothing has changed, that I’m just exactly as I was when he left. And already, now the heat of their hurried reunion had passed, she was frightened. She could feel the tingle of milk letting down in her breasts.
‘Well,’ she said brightly, across the plates of watery stew and potatoes, ‘it’ll take a bit of getting used to.’
‘Oh – they ain’t finished with me yet.’ His voice contained more bitterness than she had ever heard before. ‘I’m still in the army. I’m on leave, that’s all.’
‘Oh, Ted.’ She put down her knife and fork. She had hardly taken this in, had thought of him as being home for good. ‘But the war’s over . . .’
‘Not in the east. They reckon they’re training us up. They want us to go back and . . .’
He couldn’t speak. He stared down at his plate and to Grace’s horror she saw tears begin to run down his cheeks again. He put his elbows on the table, hands over his face.
‘Ted?’ Moved, she got up and went to him, putting her arms round his shoulders, shocked again by his boniness. ‘What is it, love?’
‘I can hardly cross the road.’ His shoulders were shaking. ‘I come up here from the tram stop and I stood there . . . Took me ages just to . . . I can’t . . . And they want to send us off to God knows where . . .’ He wept and shook for a moment and she held him, helpless and appalled.
‘Sorry. I’m sorry . . .’ He drew his forearms across his eyes, almost angrily, one after another. ‘I feel wet, so useless . . . I can’t seem to stop doing this. I just . . . I don’t know how to live any more . . .’
‘Oh, love.’ She held him and kissed him again before sitting down. ‘It must be ever so hard.’ She spoke cautiously, not really knowing at all, wondering what she should ask. They were talking across a gulf of time apart and hardly knew where to begin.
‘How – I mean, when did you get here? Have you come from . . . ?’ France, she assumed.
‘They brought us back a month ago or so,’ he said, staring at his plate. ‘I’ve just come up from down south.’
‘A month?’ She stared at him. She couldn’t take in what he meant. ‘What d’you mean – you’ve been in the country . . . ?’
Ted was nodding. ‘They put me in hospital.’
‘You mean, here, in England?’ She felt appalled, terribly wounded. ‘But why daint you tell me – let me know? I could’ve . . .’
‘No.’ He cut her off. He seemed unable to meet her eyes. ‘No. I were in no state. I daint want you to see me – not like that. It’s bad enough now.’
She was silenced by the force in his voice. It stopped her asking more. She felt full of dread. What on earth had happened to him to make him like this? But she couldn’t ask now. Maybe they should just talk about everyday things.
‘I expect you’ll want to see your mom and dad soon?’ she said carefully. Mr and Mrs Chapman lived a few miles away in Highgate. Grace had continued to go and see them from time to time – without Barbara. They didn’t know about Barbara either.
Ted nodded. ‘Yeah. Tomorrow.’ She saw him make a huge effort to gather himself and ask her. ‘Tell me how’s everyone – Joan and Norm and the family?’
5
They had made love again in the dark, when they went to bed. But throughout the night, Ted twitched and fidgeted beside her. Agitated, he talked in his sleep, in what seemed to be German. Grace kept waking, shocked out of unconsciousness. She had no idea what he was saying but it was so disturbing to hear it coming from Ted, in the dark. Anything in German sounded horrible after all those newsreels they had seen of Hitler’s harsh, blustering speeches. It was only in later part of the night that either of them had a more peaceful rest.
In the morning she woke with another jolt, sitting bolt upright. Barbara! Why isn’t she awake? What’s happened?
Usually the thing that woke her was her daughter’s movements and hungry cry, here in her bed. Instead, her breasts were taut with milk and beside her was the large sleeping shape of a man . . . She had to remind herself that this foreign body beside her was her husband.
Ted! My Ted – he’s home! For a moment she was overcome with excitement, with joy. After all this time when she had begun to think he would never come, her husband was here and they could live again.
And then all the confusion and dread came pouring back. Barbara. What had she done – what had she allowed to happen? Something that could never be undone. How could Ted ever forgive her for that? He never could – she could already see.
Oh, Lord, she thought, putting her hands over her face. What can I do? Help me, please. She wondered, as she had wondered many times before, whether Joan and Norman could keep Barbara. What if they were to pretend she was theirs? But as well as her sister and brother-in-law, their two older boys already knew perfectly well Barbara was not their sister. How could she wish a life of lies upon them all?
I’ve got to tell him. She had been round this in her head so many times and always this was what it came back to. The truth.
But I’ve got to give him time to settle in – to get a bit better. He seems so . . . She turned to look at the emaciated figure lying beside her. He wasn’t himself. Ted, on his side, turned away from her, was at last deeply asleep. He had pushed the bedclothes away and was only covered from the waist downwards.
She looked at the back of his head, with its cropped brown hair. She could only see the side of his face, the cheekbone jutting out. Who was he, this man who had come home to her? Tears rose in her eyes. Damn this war! Damn all of it, for all the death and destruction and taking loved ones away . . . And now – how could she tell this broken-looking man what she had done, after all he had suffered? She would have to – but not yet. It was impossible.
Carefully, she lay back down again. She studied her husband’s bare back, the birthmark to the right of his neck where his collar went, the scattering of little moles across his pale skin. But she glimpsed something new on the shoulder blade closest to the mattress. Peering closely, she could make out a round, rough-edged scar. An old scar, long healed now by the look of it. Recoiling, she lay on her back. What on earth had happened? She had so many questions to ask – but she must not hurry Ted.
A thought forced into her mind. Him. She had never studied his back in this slow, familiar way. There had never been time. His back had felt stockier, fleshier certainly than Ted’s was now. She closed her eyes, remembering, yet willing herself not to remember. April 1944. Where was he now? She had no idea. She must force him out of her mind as she had tried to do all these months and never, ever think of him.
Ted, my husband, is here, she thought, lying in the light of this Tuesday morning, hearing the footsteps of people walking to work outside. He’s home. Relief filled her, and love and remembering. Her Ted. Then her blood raced again.
Barbara. Oh my God – how am I going to tell him?
The pulsing of her body drove her out of bed. She crept down to put the kettle on. While the water boiled she squeezed milk from her breasts into the sink in the scullery to ease her discomfort. Tears rose in her eyes again as she imagined Barbara crying for her, inconsolable. But Ted mustn’t notice – not yet. Not until she had told him. She sank down at the table as the kettle began to murmur, light slanting in through the window. Out at the back they had a little strip of garden – her few vegetables planted to the left. To the right, a patch of rough grass.
A bird was singing. Once, before all this, before the war when she was a different person, that would have sounded so fresh and innocent.
Her heart thudded hard. She would have to find a reason to go out, to run and feed Barbara . . .
Leaning her head in her hands, her black waves of hair falling forward, she sighed from the depths of her. Her mind circled for the umpteenth time. If only everything was different. If it hadn’t been for him, for that time of weakness, of despair and ne
ed of comfort . . . Everything would be different now. She was a terrible, terrible person. What sort of wife allowed herself to get into the situation she had got into while her husband was shut away, wounded, a prisoner, with nothing?
She carried the two cups of tea upstairs. As she came into the room, Ted was lying with his eyes open. He turned to look at her.
‘Couldn’t think where I was for the life of me, for a minute,’ he said, and smiled. For a moment, he looked more like the old Ted and it lifted her spirits.
‘I bet,’ she said, smiling back. ‘Home in your own bed. Here – I made us some tea.’ She climbed in beside him, the brass bedstead creaking.
‘Just need to go . . . You know.’ He jerked his head towards the privy out the back and flung back the bedclothes. Grace gasped in horror.
‘Ted – what the hell’s happened to your feet?’
There were toes missing on each foot. Both big toes were intact, though they were a deep, grim-looking purple. Each foot was a mess of dark, discoloured stumps. Even the few remaining parts of the toes were plum-coloured, corrupted-looking things.
‘Oh ah,’ he said, with a bitter kind of casualness. ‘Yeah – lost them in Germany.’ He flung his legs over the side of the bed, his back to her, thin body curved like a bow. ‘Makes it difficult to balance sometimes.’
Heart pounding, she watched as he limped to the door. It felt as if he was a thousand miles away still, even though he was here.
6
She was afraid Ted would insist on her going with him to see his mother and father. It would all be a lie, her having to pretend again because of Barbara. She desperately didn’t want to go. But Ted seemed brighter this morning.
‘No – I’ll go,’ he said. ‘Got to try and get used to things.’