by Nancy Carson
‘…Therefore, if any man can shew any just cause why they may not be lawfully joined together, let him now speak, or else hereafter for ever hold his peace.’
Yes, he might well have to resist pressure to start a family. It was not a consideration yet. With any luck it would be a couple of years before the topic was really ripe for discussion. In any case, was there any point in bringing children into this uncertain world, tainted as it was with the threats of Nazism and Communism? ‘I require and charge you both as ye will answer at the dreadful day of judgement…’ They could surround themselves with creature comforts instead.
‘…William John, wilt thou have this woman to thy wedded wife, to live together after God’s ordinance in the holy estate of matrimony…’ Certainly, what Henzey was about to save in rail fares from Dudley to Hockley on the Great Western line would be tantamount to a significant wage rise. Four and a penny a week they wouldn’t have to find. ‘…and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?’
‘I will.’
‘Henzey, wilt thou have this man to thy wedded husband…’ Nervous now, trembling a little. Funny how it gets you like that in the end. Catch Will’s eye, smile reassurance, clear throat ready for the response. Will smiling in anticipation. There’s that funny melancholy look in his eyes again. ‘…Wilt thou obey him and serve him, love, honour and keep him…’ What’s going through his mind right now? Oh, to be able to hold him tight this very minute, just to love him. ‘…and forsaking all other, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live?’
‘I will.’ Oh, I will.
Will wondered what was going through her mind. Often he could tell. She looked up at him and gave him one of her devastating smiles. Now she just looked happy…and perhaps a little overcome.
‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’
Out of the corner of his eye, Will saw Jesse shuffle proudly forward.
The Reverend Mainwaring went on: ‘Repeat after me…I William John, take thee, Henzey…’
‘I William John, take thee, Henzey.’
‘…To my wedded wife…’
Henzey watched Will’s lips as he made his vows. She could not help recalling the first time she had kissed those smooth, manly lips on Hockley Station; how, when she was drawing his portrait before that, she had imagined how they might feel on hers. If only she had known then that she would marry this man. But at that time she could never have guessed it. She was so glad that the Billy Witts affair was behind her. But it was funny how people fell in love; even the most unlikely pairs made couples. If she scoured the whole world she could not have wished for a more honest, principled and intelligent man than Will. Fate had played a hand. Fate had sent her to Lucas’s to work, exploiting her talent as an artist, contriving their meeting. Thank God for that talent. Thank God for Lucas’s. Thank God for Will.
‘…And thereto I plight thee my troth.’
While Henzey had been plighting her troth, promising to love, cherish and to obey, Samuel, the man Will looked upon as his elder brother, discharged part of his duties as best man and handed over the wedding ring. John Mainwaring took it, placed it on his open Book of Common Prayer, and blessed it. He looked at Will. Will took the ring.
Almost there now. He was trembling a little, too, as he took her left hand and she sensed it in the way he touched her. She spread out her slender fingers and felt his ring slide down her third finger, stalling momentarily at the knuckle, then seating comfortably in its rightful place. She watched, capturing it all in her memory. Never would she forget this moment. Again she looked up at Will, misty through the tears she was trying to suppress.
‘Will, repeat after me. “With this ring I thee wed.”’
He held her gaze. ‘With this ring I thee wed.’
‘ “…With my body I thee worship…”’
‘With my body I thee worship.’
‘ “…And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.”’
‘And with all my worldly goods I thee endow.’
‘In the name of the Father…’
She knelt down, a married woman.
A married woman. It was scarcely believable. Her family was his, his family was hers.
‘Oh, Eternal God, Creator and Preserver of all mankind, Giver of all spiritual grace, the Author of everlasting life; send thy blessing upon these thy servants, this man and this woman…’ Samuel, his brother, must be about forty-three or forty-four; old enough to be her father, and about the same age as her mother. His face reflected that life had been hard, but they’d been poor when they were children. ‘…whereof this Ring given and received is a token and pledge…’ His mother and father bore testimony to that. Old Mr and Mrs Parish were not well off now, and their clothes had that impoverished look about them still, though they were spotlessly clean. Good to know that people who were so poor could devote so much of their life to God and bring up their children in the fear and nurture of God, rather than blame Him for their misfortunes. Yet since they were so poor, maybe God was all they had. ‘…through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.’
Mr. Mainwaring joined their right hands together. ‘Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder…’ He looked over his glasses again and addressed the congregation, continuing his oratory with a self-satisfied smile, until: ‘…I pronounce that they be man and wife together. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.’
Bride and groom looked at each other once more. Her right hand searched for his left hand at her side and found it. It was like being in a dream. Mr Mainwaring sportingly invited Will to kiss the bride, so Maxine stepped forward to carefully pull back Henzey’s veil. He kissed her and Henzey blushed, then smiled self-consciously. There were more prayers, a psalm, a hymn and more prayers still before they were asked to follow the vicar into the vestry to sign the register.
It was when they walked down the aisle arm in arm that Henzey noticed how many uninvited guests had actually taken the trouble to come to the ceremony to see her married. There was a party from George Mason’s, including Clara Maitland, and about a dozen girls from the Headlamp department at Lucas’s, as well as neighbours and old school friends, all anxious to endow her and Will with confetti, rice, and their best wishes, between having photographs taken outside in the bright, but cool April sunshine.
Afterwards, the formalities over, the invited assembled at the dairy house for the party. Fortunately, the house was of an adequate size to accommodate all the guests. Trestle tables were brought in so that everybody could sit down to the hot dinner prepared by Hilda Bottlebrush, who always put on a good spread. After the toasts and the speeches, the two families got to know each other.
Joe, Lizzie’s brother, as ever on such occasions as this, played the pianola, and his wife, May, led the singing. When they’d sung enough, Maxine herself installed a roll in the pianola and pedalled like mad to keep the music going with a few choice marches.
From the settee in the sitting room, where he sat with his arm around the shy and thick-ankled Sally, Herbert Kite’s eyes hungrily followed the slender, youthful body of Elizabeth Knight, one of Will’s nieces, as she glided from room to room in her peach bridesmaid’s dress. Will, aware of Jack Harper’s weakness for the fairer sex, observed him lusting over Ruth Knight, her sister, who was another bridesmaid. Jack stood with a pint glass of beer in his hand and watched her every move, choosing not to hear anything anyone said to him. Everybody believed him to be in a drunken stupor, but Alice’s eyes were monitoring him.
When Ruth Knight rebuffed Jack Harper, he set his sights on her younger sister, for he always reckoned to have more success with younger girls. Alice’s eyes only left him for a second but, in that instant, he slipped his leash and found Elizabeth alone in the scullery conscientiously stacking dirty crockery. But Herbert saw him and jealously intervened, coldly suggesting that he return to Alice. Caught out, Jack returned to Alice’s side and gave her a
guilty smile. Meanwhile, Herbert plucked up the courage to ask Elizabeth if he could take her out sometime and, glory be, she accepted.
During the late afternoon, after Henzey had changed her outfit, there was additional sustenance in the form of sandwiches and cakes, with cups of tea or Camp coffee for those who wanted it. The party went on into the evening, by which time Henzey and Will had thanked everybody for coming and for the lovely wedding gifts.
At about ten o’ clock the bride and groom decided it was time to take their leave and retire to their home in Daisy Road, Ladywood. Rex, their brother-in-law, who owned a motor-car, offered to drive them over, save taking the tram, and they willingly accepted. Amidst all the goodbyes and good wishes, Henzey, though undoubtedly happier than she had ever been before in her life, felt a pang of sorrow that she was leaving the tender mercies of her mother after all these years.
Lizzie felt it, too.
It was the end of an era.
Chapter 15
Even before marriage, Henzey had grown into Will’s life and into his house. There was no going back for either of them now, not that they wanted to. Marriage brought a new way of life; more convenient than the old. He was considerate and she respected him. He talked to her about anything and everything; the latest news, fashion, the price of potatoes, religion, work and holidays. He encouraged her to do more drawing and painting, which she’d had little time for while they were courting. Will was a serious man, sometimes intense, but he was almost always pleasant, and she amused him with that quick, gentle wit of hers. They were comfortable with each other and there was a trust between them that she had never felt before she met him.
As if to conspire with their happiness, that summer seemed sunny and warm every day. It was simply that they ignored the rainy days. Even on what few wet evenings there were, Henzey perversely insisted that they go for a walk around Rotton Park Reservoir, just to be under a gamp with Will and hear the rain beating down on it. It was romantic, especially when you were married, and she was determined that marriage should not betoken the end of romance.
Will, too, could not recall being happier. His long, lonely years when he’d grieved for Dorothy now seemed light years away. He looked back and was thankful that he’d not taken up with any other woman during that time, for to have done so would have robbed himself of the opportunity of happiness with this vision. He was on a different plane of existence these days. This young woman lying by his side in the bed they shared, was his by her own free choice. Those soft blue eyes, that addictive skin and that lush, dark hair were the key that unlocked his desire and his love for her. They were so close in those early months, almost one person; as a married couple certainly one entity; yet they were separate beings, irrevocably different, apart from the obvious differences of gender. And for all that, there were times already when he thought he knew what she was thinking, what she was feeling, by the outward signs and expressions she revealed.
It would be an unmitigated tragedy to lose her as well as Dorothy to childbirth.
Henzey, too, was learning how to read Will; the way he might react in a given situation. Her mother had always told her, ‘you have to live with them and lie with them before you really get to know them’. And the more she knew and understood him, the more profound was her love.
In a ridiculously short time, it seemed there had never been anything in life except each other. Marriage decreed that they need never meet at work unless one had a message for the other; unlike when they were courting and they arranged to meet as often as they could. It also ordained that Will could go out alone a couple of nights a week for a pint or two of beer and to play darts at The Reservoir public house, but she didn’t mind that. His absence gave her chance to catch up with housework, or baking cakes and pies.
On Sunday mornings, when Will was singing in the choir at church and Henzey was getting herself ready or doing her chores, she could look out of her kitchen window and watch men fishing in the reservoir, mallards dipping their heads into the water, seagulls screeching overhead and riding the breeze, moorhens cruising close to the bank. If someone had told her four years earlier, when she was a regular patron of The Tower Ballroom, that she would marry and live just round the corner from it, she would never have believed them. She felt it was a lovely place to live and the longer she lived there the more she appreciated it. She could not have been happier. There was just one troublesome thought that kept recurring, the only shadow in her life of sunshine – how long would it be before she became pregnant? For Will seemed to be avoiding the subject.
Will Parish had suggested organising a trip to Rhyl for the younger choirboys of St John’s church where he was a chorister, and deprived children of the Osler Street School, where Dorothy Parish used to teach. The choir had duly raised a kitty by holding fund-raising events, and this was the big day. Canon Gittins from St. John’s, and two teachers from the school, were also there to help supervise the children. Now, on the road back, somewhere in Shropshire between Whitchurch and Newport, nobody minded their rowdiness for they were happy. For the first time in their lives they had seen and smelled the sea, built sandcastles on the beach and tasted ice cream. And to top it all, they’d had a gloriously warm and sunny day.
‘Another bottle o’ beer, Will?’ Ned Franks said, turning round in his seat as best he could to talk to Will Parish. Ned was proffering a bottle of beer in one hand, a bottle opener poised at the ready in the other. His wife, Phoebe was at his side tucking into her personal supper, a cheese and pickle sandwich.
‘Cheers,’ Will said.
Ned prised off the cap and handed him the bottle. As he put it to his mouth the coach swayed and lurched, making it difficult to drink without catching his teeth on it.
‘ ’Ow ’bout you, Henzey?’ Ned said. ‘Bottle o’ beer? You young ’uns am supposed to be able to drink.’
‘I wouldn’t mind a shandy, Ned.’
‘A shandy?’ he exclaimed, in a show of mock irritation. ‘’Er wants a bloody shandy. That means a perishin’ glass, don’ it?’ Ned was in charge of the drinks on this outing, a job he now regretted volunteering for, since tending to others’ wishes meant getting more drink down his best trousers than down his throat.
‘Oh, stop your moanin’ an’ gi’ the wench a shandy,’ Phoebe jibed.
A crate of beer for the adults and one of lemonade for the children sat in the stairwell of the coach, refreshment for them all. Ned, severely impeded by his fat belly, reached down for one of the glasses lying wrapped in cloths in a cardboard box beside the crates. He grabbed one, half filled it with lemonade, and struggled to top it up with beer. But it was frothing over him as the coach bumped on erratically.
‘Oh, bugger it!’ he muttered, waiting for the froth to subside a little.
Phoebe croaked with laughter at her husband’s frustration. ‘Why, yo’ll stink loike Davenport’s brewery boi the toime yer’ve finished. Y’only took on this job ’cause yer thought as yo’d get yer hands on more beer. Sairves yer right, yer drunken ol’ bugger.’ She turned round to Henzey. ‘Sairves him right, don’ it, Henzey?’
Henzey smiled at Phoebe and looked at the glass Ned was filling. ‘That’s enough, Ned,’ she said. ‘That’ll do for me. I don’t want you to look as if you’ve just waded out of Rotton Park Reservoir, on my account.’
Phoebe’s ample flesh seemed to roll as she wobbled with laughter. ‘What? Nothin’ would get him that close to water.’
Henzey took the glass that Ned passed to her. ‘Oh, that’s not fair, Phoebe. He was paddling in the sea at Rhyl with me and some of the kids. Weren’t you, Ned?’ She took a sip of her drink and her nose went into the froth with the bumping of the coach. She wiped it off with the back of her hand.
‘ ’Course I was, an’ if I’d had one o’ them bathin’ costumes I’d have gone for a swim, an’ all.’
‘Yer wouldn’t want to see ’im in a bathin’ costume, young Henzey, I can tell ya,’
All the way back, there h
ad been shrieks of laughter and hints that severe boisterousness might break out at any moment. Some children were standing, some sitting, others darting nimbly between seats, and one pair wrestling. All were noisy. Suddenly, from half the thirty or so eight and nine year olds occupying the rest of the coach, a chorus of ‘Show me the Way to go Home’ soared over the din and the laboured droning of the engine. The other half, giggling, started singing ‘Pack up your Troubles in your Old Kit Bag’, in fierce competition.
‘God, you’d think as this lot’d be tired out by now, wun’t ya?’ Phoebe shouted, trying to be heard.
Phoebe had finished her supper and was trying to read a newspaper she’d bought in Rhyl. She turned round to Henzey. ‘With all this trouble goin’ on in the wairld it makes yer wonder if it’s wairth bringin’ kids into it, don’ it?’
‘Why, what do you mean, Phoebe?’
‘I’ve just bin readin’ how this sod Hitler’s had hundreds shot in Germany, p’raps thousands even, it says here. Some even his own supporters, an’ all. Cor! He’s an evil sod, that Hitler.’
‘I know. It’s a worry. Did you see those pictures in the paper of the Italian football team giving that Fascist salute when they’d won some football match or other? The crowd looked as if they were going mad.’
‘That was the World Cup Final, Henzey,’ Will said. ‘Italy beat Czechoslovakia. We weren’t even invited to take part…’