by Annie Murray
‘Don’t be silly,’ she told him. ‘It’s ever so nice of you to’ve come. Isn’t it, Ted?’
Ted gave a wan smile but she had already seen what it meant to him. And it was such a relief to have someone else in the house for a while, someone who understood things that she didn’t understand herself. She could see it had made a difference to Ted.
‘Shame you can’t stay longer,’ she said. And meant it.
‘You’re not looking too bad, Ted, all things considered,’ Kenneth said, a teasing note in his voice now.
And to Grace’s surprise, Ted gave a laugh, though it had a bitter edge. He sat forward on his chair by the grate, elbows leaning on his long thighs.
‘I s’pose he’s shown you his marvellous drawings?’ Kenneth said. ‘What a talent! That was something you learned along the way, wasn’t it, Ted?’ He looked at Grace. ‘Terribly boring, at times, those places. But this one, he was forever off – anything he could find to draw on or with . . .’ He smiled. ‘You ought to see about taking it up professionally, Ted.’
There was an awkward silence. Grace, amazed by this, saw Ted look at the floor, seeming embarrassed, but still wearing a faint smile.
‘What did you do – before?’ Grace asked Kenneth.
‘In civvy street?’ Kenneth said. ‘Oh, carpentry. Restoring furniture, mainly. Always been better with my hands than my brain!’
Grace nodded, smiling. She liked Kenneth. Despite what he said, he seemed an intelligent, well-to-do person.
They chatted a little longer. While Grace was burning to ask a hundred questions – she wished she could have talked more to Kenneth on his own – she could tell that neither of them wanted to talk about the past. They stuck to light subjects of the present. Ted said he was seeing about keeping pigeons. Kenneth, like Ted, was on leave. He said he was playing a bit of cricket, though he ran out of energy easily. He was single and still living with his mother and father. As he stood up to go, Ted got up as well.
‘Well, old mate,’ Kenneth said, patting Ted on the back, ‘I don’t know if they’ll call us up together again when the time comes. Who knows? Let’s hope so, eh?’
Ted nodded vaguely, as if he could not even bear to talk about the idea of going back into the army.
‘Look, I’ll walk yer to the end of the road, mate. You’ve come all this way.’
‘All right, then,’ Kenneth said easily. He turned to Grace, holding out his hand. ‘Very nice to meet you, Mrs Chapman. Thanks for the tea.’
‘I’m glad you came,’ she said, sincerely. ‘Come again – any time.’
As the two men went out, she thought how much better Kenneth looked than Ted. He was terribly thin as well, but he didn’t seem anything like as ruined or emotional. For a moment she wanted to call after him, Don’t go – please don’t leave us alone! Come back and tell me where my old husband has gone, because I don’t know this one . . .
But they were already halfway along the street. She turned the gas on again and got the table laid. When Ted did not come back after a few minutes, she went to the front to look. She jumped slightly at seeing him there, not far away, drifting slowly along the street with his head down.
Grace retreated back into the house, feeling she was intruding on him. She waited in the kitchen, knotted up inside with nerves. I am frightened because my husband is coming back into the house, she thought. She was not afraid of anything he might do to her, but of the chasm of distance between them.
Ted came around the back. Once again, he hesitated in the doorway. Grace, standing at the stove, turned to face him. His face was working and she could see that he was quivering all over, seeming overwhelmed by emotion. Kenneth Allen’s visit seemed to have unlocked something in him as well.
‘Ted?’ She spoke softly, scared, but stepping towards him. It was up to her, she thought, to move towards him. ‘What is it, love?’
‘I . . . You . . .’ He stumbled into speech, beginning to weep again. ‘You’re so damn beautiful, Gracie. I can’t . . . I’ve never been good enough for you. And now . . .’ He couldn’t finish, and shook his head, tears beginning to run down his cheeks.
‘Ted – no, don’t!’ She went to him, tried to touch him, but he flung her off in his distress. His thinking these things seemed appalling in the light of what she had done, how she was the one in the wrong, who had betrayed him. She knew now, more than ever before, how much she longed for things to be right, for them just to love each other. ‘Ted – please . . .’
He stormed across the room, pulled out a chair and sat forwards again, leaning on his thighs, but not still or settled. He swayed from side to side as the words jerked from him.
‘For God’s sake, Grace. I’m a mess. I can’t . . . I don’t . . .’ He put his hands over his face for a moment.
She stood close, wanting to put a hand on his tensed shoulders, to try and break through to him, comfort him. But words were pouring out of him now from behind his hands.
‘You’ve always been better than me. And now look at me. I can’t do anything. I can’t even give yer a child – never could, could I? I’m no sort of man, not for a woman like you . . .’
He sat back so suddenly that she jumped. He looked up at her, his face shining with tears.
‘You’ve got your life. You’ve managed without me all this time. I don’t deserve you, Grace. I’ve nothing to give yer. Why don’t you go – just leave me be and make yourself a life somewhere, eh? Why’ve you even waited for me? I’m no sort of husband for you . . .’
‘No,’ she protested. ‘No, Ted!’ She was horrified by his words. All this time she knew that she was the villain, the one who had betrayed him – and here was her blameless, sick husband, bringing everything down upon himself. And after all her confusion over Johnny, just as she had come back to him, wanting to make everything better, he was blaming himself . . .
She flung herself down on her knees next to his chair. ‘Please love – don’t . . . You’re my husband. I love you, and I’m the one . . .’ She gazed at him, willing the words to come out, but at that moment she could not do it to him. ‘Don’t say things like that,’ she finished, sobbing. ‘Please don’t.’
Ted looked down at her. ‘Get up, Grace. Don’t kneel by me.’
He took her hand and urged her up from the hard floor. Humbly she stood, looking down at him. Ted got to his feet and gently pushed her thick hair back from her shoulders. His eyes seemed to search hers and she trembled under his gaze. At least he was talking, talking about something, anything . . .
‘I’m serious, Grace,’ he said. ‘Having Kenneth here – he’s a good lad. Golden. Saved my life, he did – with one or two of the others. But when I saw you next to him I thought, that’s the kind of man she ought to be with. A proper man – who can give her a family, look after her proper, like . . .’
‘But . . .’ she began faintly. She found her knees were about to give way. I must say it, now, she urged herself. She had been given this moment, but it still felt so impossible. ‘You’re my husband,’ she managed. ‘I want you . . .’
‘You’ve no future with me.’ He looked desolate, but serious. He was no longer weeping. ‘What’ve you got to look forward to? They’ll send me away again. I might not come through this time. And even if I do . . .’
Their eyes were locked together. She felt as if he could see right into her, yet she knew also that he was innocent, that he would have no idea. She was shaking her head.
‘Ted,’ she said. ‘I’m not good. I’m not what you think.’ She could see his eyes disagreeing with her. Her legs were giving way. She pulled a chair to her and sank onto it, trembling all over.
‘Please, Ted. Sit down. There’s summat I’ve got to tell you.’
He brought the other chair and they sat side by side, like children in a classroom. She did not load him with details, but told him the bare truth. A little girl. Five months old. With Joan. The father did not matter. She would never see him again.
‘It was a
ll a terrible, terrible mistake,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what happened to me. I just . . . It had been so long and I . . . I just wanted someone to put their arms around me . . .’ Quietly, she sat weeping, feeling utterly wrung out. There. She had said it. Now she would have to take what came.
For a few moments she wondered if Ted had even heard what she said. He sat staring ahead of him. She could see that his hands were shaking, just as hers were. She felt her whole being sway as if a powerful wind were blowing through the house.
‘A daughter,’ he said, to himself, not to her. Then turned and looked at her. His expression was intense, awful. ‘You’ve got a daughter?’ Grace nodded, her cheeks burning with shame.
He was on his feet. ‘Well – you won’t be needing me, then. Got everything you need, haven’t yer?’
‘Ted!’
But he was out through the back door.
‘Don’t – don’t go!’ She hurled herself after him, out along the entry, but he was far quicker than she was. By the time she got to the pavement he was well along the street, head down, his arms pumping feverishly as he marched away from her.
18
All she could do was wait. And wait.
All evening, there was never a moment when she was in any other state than waiting. Every fibre of her was primed, listening for him, worrying.
At first she thought he would just stop out for a while, trying to calm himself down before he came back. She had no idea where he might have gone and when he might come back. She could not eat, or sleep, or do anything else. She sat tensed, listening to every sound as darkness fell.
There was no question of her going to bed. She stayed in the chair, hair loose like a veil over her shoulders, pulling the rug over her as it grew cooler in the small hours of the next morning. All she could think about was Ted, the man she had married, who had been away all this time and lost himself. Who had come back a different man, or at least a shell of the man he had once been.
He had always been shy and quiet. They were so young when they first met, but once they had got to know each other again when they had both grown up a bit, she had loved his dry sense of humour. Ted would greet her with, ‘All right, our kid?’ and give a wink, mocking himself before his face broke into a shy grin. His eyes were always full of happiness at seeing her. Now she realized there had been a sense of amazement too, that a girl like her, with her dark, petite looks, her dancing blue eyes and lively personality, was interested in a shy boy like him. Her heart ached at the thought. Ted had never really seen past her looks and apparent confidence to realize how lost a girl she was, with no mom, no family except for Joan. Auntie Rose was dead and Grace hungry to belong, to have a family. Ted was a sweet, rock-like boy and she had clung to him. Despite everything, despite the war and their lack of children, which she had thought was her own fault anyway, she knew it had not been the wrong decision.
And now the war had broken so many things. The sodding war: those Germans wrecking everything, destroying lives. But – and this was the hardest thing to face – she had broken things just as much. She wept bitterly, remembering Johnny’s face as she had last seen him. As well as hurt, his eyes had held contempt – and she knew she deserved it. A married woman, playing around, not telling him the truth. She had ruined everything.
But Barbara . . . She sobbed harder still. Despite all of it, she would never, ever want to be without her little girl, who was the joy of her life.
The clock struck two.
She sat on, all cried out for the moment, her ears pricked for any sound. Eventually, she got up, stiff and cold, and went out to the privy. On her way back she stood in the yard in the cool, smoky air, feeling warmth come off the bricks, listening for footsteps. Distantly she could hear the throb of machines. A train passed, going towards Birmingham, but she heard no footsteps, no one coming.
Sitting down again, she began to feel really worried. Surely Ted should have come back by now? The old Ted would have done. Fear gathered in her belly. What if he had done something terrible? The thought of the passing train chilled her. Her mind filled with images of Ted hurling himself under its wheels; of his body floating in the black waters of the cut . . . Should she go to the police? She sat back in the chair, straining her ears.
Come home. Please come home, she begged over and over again.
When the clock on the mantel struck five that Friday morning, it woke her with a horrible start. She realized that after all her tears and her worry, she must have fallen asleep. But Ted had still not come home.
Utterly drained, she set out for Joan’s house. Seeing her daughter, feeding her, was a joy pierced through with pain and heartbreak.
‘You all right?’ Joan said. ‘You look like a wrung-out dishrag.’
‘I’m all right.’ Grace looked down at Barbara’s creamy face. She couldn’t start talking now. She was too exhausted. And it was not finished. Ted had to come home, had to . . .
She was grateful that Joan buttoned her lip, though she could feel her sister’s eyes on her. But Joan waited. The weekend, she had said. And, Grace thought, I’ve told him. There’s nothing else I can do.
She walked back along Inkerman Street, her mind detached from the morning busyness of carts and vans and people passing back and forth. Mrs Fitzgerald’s broad shape hove into view with her shopping bag and Grace avoided looking at her. All the time she was on the alert, her mind instantly analysing every figure to check if they were Ted.
Then the thought came to her, like a physical blow: I might never see him again. He might have gone – just taken off. You heard about it sometimes, men who went out to buy a packet of cigarettes and never came back. People who faded away into another life. But more chilling thoughts which had come to her in the night returned as well. Should she go to the police now? Supposing Ted had . . . Her mind would not follow this thought to the end.
Turning down the entry to the back door, she saw that the back gate was open. Before she even went into the house she could sense that someone was there. She peered in through the window.
He was sitting on a kitchen chair, his back to her. She could see smoke trailing upwards from his cigarette, almost as if it was before, in the days when things were normal. Before the war. As if nothing had happened. She stood looking at him through the window, so full of relief that he was there that for a second it felt as if everything was all right. And she was full of love for him, of tenderness, looking at the slender back of his neck. My husband, he’s here. He’s home . . .
But everything was not all right. Quietly, she slipped into the kitchen. He must have heard her. She stood quietly behind him, waiting.
Ted turned so that he was sitting sideways on the chair, elbow resting on the back, the Woodbine in his hand. He was not crying. Grace could not read his face as he looked at her. She looked back.
‘You came back,’ she said.
There was a silence. Ted looked ahead of him.
‘Thank you,’ she said, humbly. ‘I started to think maybe you . . .’ She couldn’t finish.
His eyes moved towards her again. After a long moment he said, ‘I’ve been thinking.’ He shook his head, as if to empty it of tormenting thoughts, and looked down. ‘I can’t stand . . .’ It was a struggle to speak. ‘Thinking about you with anyone else.’
‘I don’t want to be with anyone else, Ted.’
He was silent.
‘It was just . . .’
‘You wanted someone’s arms around you. Yes – you said.’ He sounded enraged again now.
‘But he wasn’t you,’ she said. ‘It was all a mistake. I wish I’d never . . .’
‘But you wanted a babby. I never gave you a babby.’
In those seconds she knew that he had seen something she had not truly understood herself until now. That somewhere, deep down, she had wanted to find out whether she could have a child. Whether the lack was truly in her. And in her loneliness and all the darkness and endlessness of the war, sinfully, she had found o
ut.
‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I suppose so.’
Ted took a drag on his cigarette. She stood waiting for his judgement on her. The longer the silence went on, the more she felt sure that now she was alone. That Ted was searching for the words to separate himself from her. Her mind raced: what was she to do? The only people who could help were Joan and Norm . . .
Ted blew out a lungful of smoke. He looked at her again. ‘D’you love me, Grace?’
‘Yes.’ Again she hurried over and knelt in front of him, certain. ‘I love you, Ted.’ She wept as she spoke. ‘I never meant you any harm. I never meant . . .’
He stubbed out his cigarette and leaned forward, putting his hands on her shoulders. He seemed to her stronger suddenly, as if he had thought hard about what he was going to say.
‘If you still want me, I’m your husband. I love you, girl, and I’ve not been much of a husband to you – ’specially not in the babby department.’ He paused for a moment, bent his head back for a second before looking at her again.
‘I’ve seen some terrible things, Grace. I don’t want to talk about any of it; I don’t want to think about any of it if I can help it. And this, what’s happened here – it ain’t the worst thing, not by a long way. It’s a babby – and it ain’t the babby’s fault. If it’s me you want and not this other fella – and I don’t want to know who he was or any of the ins and outs – we can be a family. We might not’ve had a family otherwise and now we have. So whatever anyone else might say, why don’t we make that a . . .’ His voice trembled. ‘A good thing – for all of us?’
Grace moved in closer to him, her streaming eyes fixed on his, hardly able to believe what she had heard or how much she loved this man for his courage, his kindness.
‘Oh Ted, d’you mean it? Would you do that?’
‘For you, Gracie,’ he said, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her into his bony chest, ‘there’s nothing much I wouldn’t do.’ And as she sobbed and sobbed, held by him, he said into her hair, ‘So when am I going to meet this little daughter of ours, eh?’