Keepsake (14 page)

‘Ah! Well, concern yourself no more, I ordered ten stone of coal on my way home and it’ll be here tomorrow. Mr Dalton’s promised to section off a corner of his shed.’

Etta gave a nod of pleasure. ‘Splendid. Should I pay the man?’

‘Yes, one and fivepence. So, you’ll have all the fuel you want for boiling kettles and the odd pot of stew – well, let’s be having that tea!’

‘Very well, my lord!’ Tripping happily to the table, she whisked aside a tea-cloth to reveal a dainty arrangement. ‘Cucumber sandwiches – and I bought some little buns too.’

Gazing upon the offering, her young husband’s smile barely faltered. ‘Great, I’m famished.’ And he sat down to eat.

Next evening there were sandwiches again, this time made with bread from Etta’s own sweet hand. But pride soon turned to disappointment.

‘Sorry, it’s a little crisp,’ she sought to warn him as he was about to bite into it.

‘That’s all right, I don’t like it soggy.’ This was just as well, for he almost broke his teeth in an effort to tear off a chunk.

‘I don’t know what went wrong,’ said Etta rather indignantly.
‘I followed your mother’s receipt to the letter. Perhaps she omitted an ingredient. I shall have a word with her tomorrow.’

Unable to speak whilst gagging over a mouthful of what felt like stiff cardboard, Marty just nodded until he was capable of swallowing, at which point he told Etta, ‘Tis fine enough for me.’

That was just as well for this menu was to be repeated the next evening. ‘It’s far too hot for anything else, isn’t it really?’ opined Etta.

Unaware that she herself had enjoyed dinner at his mother’s house for the past couple of days, Marty readily agreed, even though he did not see the logic for there had always been a cooked meal on the table at home whatever the weather.

However, after coming home to this same fare on Thursday evening, having eaten it for breakfast and pack-up too, he was to voice a hint: ‘Let’s pray for cooler weather soon. I love a good stew.’

‘I’m trying my best,’ said Etta, somewhat crossly, sawing at the flat round loaf, which might have been better employed as a discus on the sports field.

‘Aw, I know that!’ Immediately he reached out to pat her.

‘I just can’t seem to get the hang of it.’

‘It could be something wrong with Mrs Dalton’s oven,’ he said kindly.

‘Everyone else seems to cope. No, I’m forced to admit, the fault is all mine.’ She sighed, though she did not sound too unhappy, as she added, ‘Oh well, I shall have to buy it from the shop tomorrow. Your mother will no doubt frown upon that, but some of us are just not cut out for baking.’

Dispensing with the need for food, Marty hauled her to him, his expression one of cheerful lust. ‘I know something you are cut out for, though – ooh, but put that bread knife
down first!’ He carefully removed it from her hand before transporting her to the bed and slaking his hunger in a much different fashion.

Perhaps he should have been grateful upon receiving edible bread the following night, but as it arrived yet again in the form of sandwiches, Marty determined to ask his mother if she would teach Etta how to cook.

There was another matter he had been wanting to broach too. ‘Etta, love, I don’t like to mention it, but, well, my shirts are getting a bit mucky. Might you be able to wash one tomorrow? And maybe some pants and socks?’

Her face showed that it had not even occurred to her, but she had been wondering over the grubbiness of her own attire and responded willingly. ‘Certainly! Just show me what to do and I’ll oblige.’ She turned rather bashful. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t the slightest idea how to go about it.’

‘Neither have I,’ he admitted. ‘But I think you’re supposed to do it on a Monday, that’s why I lit the fire for you, to heat the water…’

Etta remembered the lines of laundry in Aggie’s yard and uttered a murmur of recognition.

‘Never mind, me mother’ll tell you what to do, I’m sure.’

She bit her lip. ‘How embarrassing to have to make such an admittance, though.’

‘No! She understands that you come from a different world.’

‘I confess there must be a thousand things I took for granted – but I’ll learn, truly I will. I so want to be a good wife.’

‘I know! Mother will teach you, she’s very patient.’

To Etta that sounded as if she was just being tolerated and this caused slight offence. There were plenty of things she could teach Martin’s mother, though she chose not to say this to him. A moment of contemplation occurred; then a solution. ‘I know! Just for this week I shall pay Mrs
Dalton’s maid for the task.’ She quickly soothed his worried expression. ‘It’s not being wasteful, I shall use the opportunity to spy on her so that I can learn how things are done, and next week I’ll be able to do it for myself!’

Marty projected admiration, but privately hoped Etta would not make a habit of this and he began to see that he had to get her away from the pub, or in one way or another she might eventually end up handing all his hard-earned cash to Mrs Dalton. Not understanding Etta’s reluctance to enlist his family’s help, he asked, ‘Why pay when Mother will show you for free?’

‘Because she’ll think me a fool,’ said Etta firmly.

Marty assured her this was not so, but with his wife insistent on her plan, as usual he acquiesced. However, this would not prevent him from seeking his mother’s guidance on the other important matter, and he decided to call there on his way to work the next day.

Aggie showed no surprise at his request that she teach Etta to cook. ‘Well, I suppose I’d better before you fade away to a shadow,’ she told her son, looking him up and down as if for signs of malnutrition and smiling wryly at Uncle Mal.

Marty felt he ought to stick up for his wife. ‘Oh, I’ve never gone hungry! But you see it’s difficult for Etta without her own oven.’

‘Ah, so that’s why she’s turned up here every dinnertime this week.’

At his mother’s words, Marty looked nonplussed.

Aggie’s face turned crafty. ‘She didn’t mention it, then?’

Marty shook his head. No wonder Etta had been satisfied with sandwiches for tea. Though slightly miffed, he was quick to provide another reason for her regular visits. ‘Maybe she’s lonely on her own all day.’

Aggie pooh-poohed the lame excuse. ‘She wouldn’t have time to be lonely if she were doing her job. Look at the
cut of ye!’ She poked him in the ribs. ‘Sit down and have breakfast.’

‘I’ve had it.’

‘A
proper
breakfast!’ She reached for the frying pan and, along with a lump of dripping, slapped three rashers of bacon into it.

Uncle Mal objected. ‘How come his “proper breakfast” is bacon and I had to make do with bread and scrape?’

Aggie beheld him witheringly. ‘He’s not taking your breakfast…this was for your tea.’ She winked at her son.

Marty laughed but said, ‘I don’t want to go taking anybody’s tea.’

‘Don’t worry, you’re not,’ said Aggie. ‘I’m expecting another delivery of bacon this morning. In fact,’ she glanced at the clock, ‘it should be falling off the back of the cart right now.’

Marty dealt a grin of surrender. ‘Well, seeing as how you’ve put it on I won’t waste it.’

‘Oh, ’twon’t go to waste.’ Old Mal began to reach out. ‘Sure, I can always manage –’

‘Leave off you old bugger!’

There was no offence over the irreverent reply, only chesty laughter.

Almost drooling at the aroma, Marty hovered whilst the bacon sputtered and spat. ‘Once I get us a house with a proper range I’m sure things’ll look up.’

Aggie dropped a slice of bread into the sizzling fat. ‘I’m sure they will, but until then I’ll teach the lass what she needs to know. ’Tis more than likely she’ll be round at dinnertime, I’ll get her involved then.’

‘Thanks, Ma.’ Marty watched the bread turn golden brown, ready to snatch this and the bacon the minute it was done and wasting no time in devouring it. ‘It’ll only be for a week or so. I want to be out of the pub by the end of the month.’

‘Ah well, till then you must have your dinner here on
Sundays. At least it’ll give you one decent meal a week.’

True to expectations, Etta did turn up at midday, and, whilst surprised to be included in the preparation of dinner, made no objection but happily joined in, telling Marty when he arrived home from work, ‘Your mother seemed grateful for the help.’

This was contrary to what Aggie had told him when he had called in on his way home. Indeed, to listen to his mother it sounded as if Etta’s contribution had been particularly inept, but of course he would never reveal this to his wife and he felt Ma’s comment was unjust, for Etta really was trying. This was exemplified by the neat stack of clean clothes that awaited him, all sweetly laundered and ironed as he had requested. No matter that she had not done them herself, she had succeeded in organising it and he was proud of her. Etta meant far more to him than any drudge, and to illustrate this, he took her in his arms and spent most of the evening making love to her.

Happily, under Agnes’s tuition, Etta’s culinary skills immediately improved. Marty supposed anything was an improvement on sandwiches after a hard day’s graft, even if it was not yet up to his mother’s standards. He had professed a love of stew and now he got it, but served alongside was an apology that it had stuck to the bottom of the pan and was therefore a little tainted.

‘Your mother advised to keep stirring it.’ Etta looked slightly disparaging. ‘But how could one stand there all afternoon with more pressing things to be done…Do you like my egg cosies, by the way?’ She reached for the creations, each comprising a little satin and lace skirt topped by the china torso of a miniature lady. Inserting her forefingers under the skirts she waggled them about as if making the ladies dance.

Marty imbibed another mouthful of burnt stew, smiling gamely and praising her creativity and her cooking. But
privately he continued to look forward to Sunday dinner from his mother’s hand.

Aggie Lanegan was a godsend in other ways too. Knowing her son had little time in which to look for another dwelling himself, she had been keeping her ears open, and that Saturday waylaid him in the street to say she had found one vacant in a nearby courtyard.

‘It’s not furnished,’ he relayed the information to an excited Etta when he got home, ‘we’ll have everything to buy, but Ma’s promised to dig some things out for us and she’s already got the promise of a sofa from one of my aunties and a bed from a neighbour.’

‘Our own home!’ Ignorant as to the amount of work that lay ahead, Etta was thrilled and asked, ‘When may we move in?’

‘Well, we’ve paid the rent on this place until the end o’ next week, so maybe Friday.’ His wife never bothered to enquire how much things cost, but money was all important to Marty, who told her, ‘It’s half a crown a week, only sixpence more than here so I should easily be able to manage that. Hopefully Mr Dalton’ll be all right about us not staying longer. I did warn him.’

Etta clasped her hands to her bosom. ‘That being so, do you think your parents would mind if we postpone our invitation to tea on Sunday? It would be wonderful if we could welcome them into our new house!’

He felt irresponsible for whipping her into this overenthusiastic mood. ‘Don’t expect too much, you know, it’s only round the corner.’

‘But it’s ours – without someone else being across the hallway! It won’t matter how much noise we make!’ And she hugged him, rubbing her soft body against him erotically.

Easily seduced, he responded by picking her up and carrying her, giggling, to the bed.

On Sunday, Etta first thanked her mother-in-law for finding them the accommodation, then apologised for having to postpone their arrangement for afternoon tea. ‘I’m so sorry for the short notice. I just want it to be perfect. You’ll be our very first guests! Will you mind awfully – because you can still come this afternoon if you prefer?’

Aggie said it was no imposition at all.

‘In that case you must at least allow me to prepare tea here!’ Etta seemed oblivious to the amused smiles, and that she was in effect inviting herself to tea.

Aggie shook her head, as much in despair as amusement. God help poor Marty if he thought his wife would improve with a change of house. But true to her promise she went through her cupboards, unearthing anything that was duplicated or no longer of use, and, these being trundled on Marty’s barrow, towards the end of another week the young couple moved into their own home.

It was hardly an auspicious occasion, the dwelling being situated down a narrow cobbled alley and bereft of sunlight due to the tenements that overshadowed the courtyard, but Etta was determined to make it one and announced that she would soon have the place habitable by the use of bright materials. Marty admired her optimism, for he himself saw only the dank little hovel it was, one room up and one down and a single point of entry. Unlike his parents’ home which had a separate scullery, this had just a tap in the living room, which was leaking and had been for some time judging by the green slime and the cracked bricks beneath. Closer examination showed that it was not something he could fix himself either. But for his wife’s sake he cheered up – after all, if anyone was downhearted it should be Etta, who was accustomed to so much more – and he told her that a friend of his would mend it for nothing.

‘I’ll light a fire right away so’s to get the bricks warmed through. Once it’s dried out we can put a bit of lino over it and nobody will be any the wiser!’ For the time being
he stuck a bucket under the drip then began to rake out the hearth. Her clothes protected by strategically placed bits of sacking, Etta looked on, planning what she herself was going to do with the room.

Having got the fire going, Marty found himself enveloped in smoke, and, his eyes streaming and lungs choking, immediately set to rectifying this. Unfortunately his activity dislodged a nest, which came tumbling down the chimney like a fireball, along with a cloud of soot, that saw the pair of them rushing to escape outside in a fit of screaming laughter – though the cleaning-up operation that followed was far from hilarious and it was well into evening by the time they were done.