Keepsake (21 page)

‘And at least with your mother and I not at loggerheads we’ll have her help a little earlier,’ added Etta.

Marty nodded, but inwardly he balked at the thought of what his mother might say at being expected to look after his family as well as her own. ‘I’m sure we’ll manage,’ he concluded.

To a certain extent they did manage, this confinement being attended from the start by a registered midwife. But other than this, to Marty’s chagrin, events gradually began to take a similar course to the last affair, Etta abandoning more and more of her household tasks to concentrate on trivia.

But she was so joyful to see him at the end of a working day, coming directly to embrace and kiss him as if he had been away for months, that he didn’t have the heart to scold her if she had done nothing in the house or his tea wasn’t ready. And despite being exhausted from his own labours, he even took on her neglected chores too, so that Etta would not come under scrutiny from his mother. Things had been good between them since Celia’s birth and he had no desire for Aggie to abandon him again.

Alas, in a roundabout way, this was what was to occur, though through no fault of his mother nor of his wife. Just as Etta gave birth in the spring and her mother-in-law was required to take charge of Celia, Aggie suffered an early miscarriage, discreetly termed a bilious complaint. However, in her usual competent fashion, even from her sickbed Aggie managed to delegate one of her friends as a stand-in until Etta was back on her feet.

What with one thing and another, it was over a fortnight before the two women saw each other again. Having briefly popped in on his way to work to enquire after his mother’s health and also to herald the birth of his son, Marty had allowed sufficient time to pass before inviting his parents round to visit, not least because the house was in such disarray now that the neighbour who had assisted had gone and he and Etta were fending for themselves.

‘But come after tea,’ he told them hastily.

‘Ever the philanthropist,’ jested his father, impaling a slice of bread on a toasting fork and holding it to the fire.

‘I wasn’t meaning to be stingy.’ Marty looked awkward. ‘I just meant I won’t be home till sevenish…’

Aggie knew what he meant – he needed time to clear up Etta’s mess before receiving visitors – but she made allowances. ‘Don’t you worry yourself, son, this mob needs feeding at five. Your father and me’ll nip round after Tom and Jimmy-Joe are in bed.’

Her son was relieved, adding as he left for work, ‘Will you be coming an’ all, Uncle Mal?’

‘He will.’ Red answered for him. ‘Sure, the ould sod needs an airing.’

The house could have done with an airing too, thought Marty with dismay when he arrived home that evening to be greeted by the combined stink of nappies and burnt food.

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ lamented Etta, one baby at her breast, the older one toddling to meet her father who had rushed to salvage the meal. ‘I just couldn’t smell it.’

‘I’m not surprised!’ With the pan off the hob, Marty picked up Celia and held her at arms’ length with a laugh of disgust. ‘God in heaven!’

Etta looked flustered over which task to handle first, but the moment she removed the baby from her breast in order to clean up Celia, he let out a screech, forcing Marty to object.

‘Christ, I can’t bear it,’ he begged above the din. ‘Stick him back on and I’ll see to her!’

Etta looked apologetic. ‘Oh, but your tea…’

‘I couldn’t eat with that in me nostrils – away with ye, clarty drawers, let’s get you cleaned up before anything else.’

During the past couple of weeks, the young father had been forced to learn how to change a napkin – oh, Etta had been perfectly competent when there had been just the one babe, but she was struggling to answer the
demands of two, which Marty found perfectly understandable, and which was why he had undertaken the task. However, he was far from adept and Celia always seemed to treat the matter as a huge joke. Tonight was to be no exception. There followed a laughing struggle to lay her down and to try and keep her still whilst he fumbled over the removal of the safety pin and gingerly peeled aside the offending garment – and then, to his dismay, freed of the restriction, Celia made a sudden break for freedom, deriving great joy from kicking her heels violently in the air and also into the contents of the napkin, which were broadcast to every corner of the room. Laughing and swearing, he reared away to avoid being soiled, and quickly grabbed the napkin and bundled it out of the toddler’s reach, before pinning on a clean one, his attempts to do so causing her to gurgle and laugh like a drain and squirm even more enthusiastically.

Afterwards, he examined himself distastefully and asked Etta, ‘Have I any on me?’

Laughing fondly, she said she didn’t think so.

‘I must be the only thing that hasn’t.’ He studied the suckling babe for a moment, his eyes doting but his voice stern. ‘Has that man not finished yet? How come he always wants his tea the same time I have mine?’

Etta apologised again.

‘Ah, don’t fret, darlin’.’ His tone forgiving, he swiped at various suspicious stains on the wall, spent a moment looking here and there for more, then went to wash his hands. ‘Now, let’s see if I can salvage any o’ this stew before Ma gets here.’

There was nothing unusual in having burnt stew, and this was duly consumed, which was just as well for the visitors arrived soon afterwards – although Marty was still slightly embarrassed to be caught washing up. But any untoward observations were quickly displaced by compliments over the baby boy in his new wicker cradle, whom Marty
proudly displayed whilst Etta went to make a pot of tea for the guests.

No longer in awe of her, the in-laws felt comfortable enough these days to speak openly. Cup and saucer in hand, waiting for the insipid brew to cool, Red cast an eye upwards and, after a pensive moment, asked in a calmly reasonable tone, ‘Would that be shite on your ceiling, Marty?’

Groaning, the young father hurriedly pulled up a chair, used it to clamber onto the table and removed the offensive blemish with a cloth.

‘I’ve a suspicion there’s a bit here too.’ Uncle Mal nodded at the arm of his chair whilst sipping unperturbed from his cup.

Marty jumped down to rub at this also. ‘Ach, sorry, Unc! I thought I’d got it all.’

Red chuckled deep in his chest and, in mock fear, eyed the ceiling again. ‘Christ, how much more of it is up there? Have ye got cows on the roof, son?’

Whilst Marty was a little put-out, Etta was not offended in the least and laughingly explained, ‘I’m afraid Celia’s responsible for that.’

‘She’s an awful good shot,’ observed Red.

‘Martin was forced to change her napkin whilst I was busy with Edward,’ added Etta, using a foot to rock her son’s cradle. ‘She was very naughty for him.’ Her words scolded the toddler on its grandmother’s knee but her tone was kind.

Fearing disapproval, Marty darted an apologetic eye at his mother, but Aggie chose to swallow any condemnation and laughed kindly too. God love him, her poor son had enough to contend with.

Only an hour later when they had gone did he feel able to relax with a sigh. ‘Phew, the mammy must have mellowed!’

‘I think it’s rather that she prefers not to waste her breath
on me any more,’ Etta grinned, and, after taking Celia up to bed, she fed the baby and laid him down, enabling her and Martin to share precious time alone for what remained of the evening.

‘How soon before we can go all the way again?’ he enquired eagerly between kissing and nuzzling and caressing her curves. At her murmured response that it would be several weeks yet he groaned in frustration. ‘God, it seems like an age!’

Etta laughed softly and was less fervent than he in delivering kisses, though equally affectionate. ‘And from now on we really shall have to be more careful – though how I just don’t know.’

‘I hate rules and regulations!’ he grumbled with feeling.

‘As do I,’ she administered a humouring pat, ‘but we don’t want another child so quickly, do we?’

Marty reluctantly agreed and tore himself away to enjoy vicarious pursuit. ‘Better get the playing cards out then, hadn’t we?’

And this was the most he could enjoy for several weeks to come.

But, finally, to great applause, the time came round when Etta and Marty could indulge themselves in what they really did best, when any pre-arranged rules went out of the window and passion was allowed free rein. And in such a spirit of abandon was child number three conceived.

Born in the late summer of 1907, Alexandra Lanegan was as pretty a child as her siblings and equally undemanding. For now she posed no financial burden, but in a few years she would. Was Marty the only one to recognise this? Annoyed at his own laxity in begetting her, he declared that only by working longer hours could he provide for the additional family member. This might also help to take his mind off the sexual famine that had arisen.

‘But you’re away from us for twelve hours a day already,’ objected Etta.

‘And now I’ll be away fifteen.’ He tried his best to sound flippant. ‘It’s a man’s job to provide, Ett.’

‘But Alex doesn’t cost us any extra –’

‘I’ve just forked out twenty-five bob!’ he interrupted with a laugh.

Etta acknowledged the second-hand perambulator he had bought for her. ‘Yes, but you’d saved up for that reason. There won’t be anything else to buy, she takes sustenance from me and wears hand-me-downs from the others.’

Marty gave mirthless dissent. ‘For how long? Anyway, it’s not just food and clothing that matters. We don’t want three of them crammed into the one bed. I want better for my kids than I had myself – no disrespect to my da. No, I intend to keep my promise, they’ll have a room each before they’re much older.’

Etta began to suspect that his ambitions were not founded on the reasons he had given, but rather from a need to show off to others. But this was too hurtful and she put it aside to enquire, ‘And what about your wife?’

‘Don’t tell me you want a room to yourself too!’ He looked aghast, then chuckled at his own quip.

‘I might as well have, the way things are going.’ Etta did not find this so amusing.

His face crumpled and he hugged her. ‘Ah, now, honey, I know, I
know
it’s murder.’ He rubbed his hands over her longingly. ‘But we can’t afford to risk having another nipper.’

Subdued, she nodded. ‘I thoroughly agree, but we could at least find the time to chat as we used to.’ Marty was so tired when he came home that often she found herself performing a one-sided conversation, her partner fast asleep in the chair. Now she knew why Aggie was so irritable with Red.

‘And we will on Sunday, I promise,’ he told her. ‘Here now, cheer up! I forgot to tell ye me da’s got me a couple of inside jobs lined up for the bad weather – house-painting and the like.’

‘More work, how wonderful,’ murmured Etta facetiously. ‘Wouldn’t he rather take them himself?’

‘You’re joking! Me father an’ ladders are a dangerous mix.’ He smiled, then dealt her arms a last scolding pat before releasing her. ‘Ye should be grateful I’ve plenty o’ work for the winter.’

Nodding again, she allowed him to make ready for his labours.

‘Just concentrate on the nice house this is going to get yese,’ advised Marty as he slung the haversack containing his lunch over his shoulder, then left.

‘I’d rather have a husband,’ Etta murmured worriedly to herself, before turning to make the children’s breakfast.
True to his promise, by that winter, through extremely hard labour and enterprise Marty had managed to improve his finances to such an extent that he could afford to move his family to a house with four bedrooms. Whilst not that far from his parents’ home, less than a mile away in Lawrence Street and near enough for Etta to pop round to her in-laws if she needed anything, the living conditions were poles apart.

‘A bay window!’ breathed Aggie, examining the interior with awe, fingering a white lace curtain though wondering how long it would remain so pristine under her daughter-in-law’s misrule. ‘Sure, the lad’s done you proud, Etta.’

Red, taking slight umbrage that Marty was deemed the better husband, merely nodded his approval and opined to the children, ‘Then we’d better have ourselves a place like this too, some day.’ But knowing their father so well the girls rolled their eyes at Marty and proceeded to compliment him. And at last he began to feel he was getting somewhere in his quest to provide his wife with the accommodation she deserved.

He must have done well, for, whilst it composed barely a twentieth of the Ibbetsons’ grand mansion, Aunt Joan, who had regarded their previous abode unworthy of a visit, now deigned to call on a regular basis, fetching little gifts to further beautify their home – crocheted antimacassars and the like – not that this was particularly appreciated by Marty. But other than this, with a neat little garden at the front, a freshly painted entrance, and white lace curtains at the windows, now he felt able to invite just about anyone over his threshold, to display his wife and children in their best attire, even if this meant he was compelled to scoot round tidying up in order not to be embarrassed by Etta’s mess on catching sight of an uninvited guest coming up the path.

Watching him do so again today at the arrival of his aunt and uncle, Etta was at first amused, then irritated.
Martin was becoming something of a busybody. Why did he care so much what people thought, especially someone so shallow as Joan, when he cared not one jot for his wife’s opinion? Why did he not attend when she begged him to stay in bed for an hour, not to enjoy some raging passion, just a little intimate cuddle like the ones they had shared before the need to work took over? But all Marty could think about was where this might lead. Ironically, just at that very moment, as she watched her husband welcome the dreary Aunt Joan and Uncle John in with their Christmas gifts, it led Etta to think what she had given up to be here, and there came a fleeting glimpse of a dazzling ballroom bedecked with festive greenery and laughing revellers. Why, even the cottages of the tenant workers whom she used to visit with her mother to bestow charity had boasted more warmth and cheer than did her present domicile, which would be even less festive with the husband absent, as Marty would soon surely be in his haste to get back to earning a living.

But then the thought was just as quickly cast aside. Clinging to the belief that he was doing it for her, Etta forced a smile and went to assist in the management of Aunt Joan, laughing affectionately with her husband – once the relatives had gone and the children were in bed – over how bad his aunt had been, and making the most of her time with him before he must return to work.

Work, or rather the division of it, was finally to become a bone of contention in the coming year. Up before dawn, home after dark, Marty’s job was not simply a matter of transporting a couple of suitcases across the platform; amongst his clientele were commercial travellers whose wide variety of goods required a good deal of stamina to heft them a mile to the city shops and often beyond. He was far too exhausted to do anything other than sleep when he got into bed, leaving a saddened and frustrated Etta to
channel her energy into other things. Having often professed a desire to be educated, she was now at liberty to make a start on this, her borrowings from the library including mathematical tomes as well as the normal literature. Many hours were spent poring over these when the children were in bed, to no particular end other than a need to feed her brain – though of course the edification of their mother would benefit the children too.

She adored heaping attention upon the trio. After such a loveless childhood as she had suffered, Etta was adamant that her own babies would always know how much they were loved. But delightful though it was to take them for rides on a bus or walks in the countryside, to read them stories, to show them how to blow bubbles or to daub paint upon paper, there were times when she preferred to indulge her own artistic skills – apparently at the expense of others, Martin noted to his disconcertment when, on occasions, he came home to find no meal, his youngsters frolicking unattended whilst his wife sat reading or attempting to create some masterpiece. What had originally seemed a novelty – a reminder of his wife’s fine breeding – now began to pall.

The paints were in evidence again at his homecoming this April evening, and the baby still up, though thankfully the two older children were in bed.

‘Oh, hello, dear, is it that time already?’ said Etta, rather too gaily for Marty’s liking. ‘I haven’t even peeled a potato yet!’

Once he had overlooked her failings because he loved her. Lately, though, he had found himself doing things simply to prevent an argument. But, with every muscle of his body aching, he felt one brewing now. ‘I’ll feed myself then, shall I? Good job I’m used to it.’

Taken aback by the terse response, Etta immediately abandoned her portrait of Alexandra and rushed to hug and cajole him. ‘Now, now, that’s most unfair! You know how I’ve improved!’ Having paid great application to her
culinary shortcomings, she had for some time been able to provide an edible meal, notwithstanding her tight budget. ‘It’s just that I never know at what time to expect you and I don’t want to risk it burning. Wash your hands and I’ll have it done in no time!’ She pinched his cheek good-humouredly, but this time her affection was poorly received.

‘You’d better clear those up or there’ll be no room for the plates.’ Sick with tiredness and hunger, he did not look her in the eye but made a bad-tempered gesture at the cluttered table before rolling up his sleeves and grabbing a knife and two large potatoes.

The skin was whittled away in thick strips as the one wielding the knife tried to keep his anger at bay. Marty had always been a home bird who wanted nothing more than to have a house of his own, albeit a better one than his father, and a family with whom to enjoy it. Now, when he had achieved all of this, home had become the last place he wanted to be. Why should he be the one doing this? Why? He grafted all day long, the last thing he needed was another stack of work in what was meant to be a refuge – and it was not simply the lack of food which caused distress. Look at the place! One after the other he hacked through the potatoes and dropped them into a pan, which was noisily deposited on the stove. Did she not notice the tarnished brass, the greyness of the lace curtains? Did she imagine that they would maintain their newness without attention from someone? Did she not mind that some might perceive her a slattern. Well, he minded! He was embarrassed to invite anyone here now. What was the use of him working his backside off for Etta to reduce this lovely house to a hovel? The kitchen stank of ammonia from the yellowed napkins that were draped on the rail over the fire, whilst his eight-month-old daughter rolled happily back and forth across the rug, baring her bottom for all to see. Coming in and seeing her sitting there merrily painting amongst the chaos, it had been just one time too many.

He swiped at the offending articles. ‘What are all these nappies doing here?’

The portrait of Alexandra, done on the back of some old cardboard, was now propped on the sideboard, Etta hastening over the clearing away of her artist’s materials, a cheap tin of watercolours and some jam jars of water. ‘I’m just drying them over the fire.’

‘Aren’t you meant to wash them first?’ His tone had a sting.

‘I rinsed them,’ she objected evently. ‘It was only a little bit of moisture. Hardly worth the bother.’

Glowering with aggravation, Marty set upon some onions with his knife. ‘Aye, but a little bit every day all adds up to a big stink. You’ve probably grown immune ’cause you’re with it all day long.’

‘Don’t exaggerate!’ Etta tried to maintain her lightness. ‘She’s only a babe, how can her napkins stink as bad as you make out?’

‘Believe me they can! And it’s not just that.’ With a distasteful curl to his lip he tweaked the squares, which felt as rough as hessian. ‘It must be like wearing sandpaper for the poor little sod.’

Confused by the suddenness of his attack, for he had always been so tolerant before, Etta was too shocked to object, and, feeling guilty at being exposed as neglectful, she hurried to the drawer and withdrew a tablecloth, mumbling defensively, ‘I was only trying to keep the amount of washing to a minimum; I find it so exceedingly dreary.’

‘Then you should’ve married someone who could afford servants!’

He had gone too far. She wheeled on him. ‘And you should have married a washerwoman!’

Marty’s anger intensified. ‘Is it too much for a man to expect a meal when he comes in? I mean, I am the one paying the bills after all.’

‘Really, Martin, I’ve never known anyone with such a
capacity to slander!’ Efficient now, she spread the cloth and laid the cutlery. ‘I usually have something prepared.’

‘I should hope so, you’ve had all bloody day to provide it!’ In his heart he knew that in this one respect he was being unfair on her; but this wasn’t just about the food.

‘You speak as if it’s a regular occurrence!’ rallied Etta. ‘If I had some idea of when to expect you…I’ve got to have something to do whilst I’m waiting.’

‘Waiting for what? For the work to do itself? I’ve never objected to you having your hobbies but there is a limit!’

Alarmed by the raised voices, her blue eyes widening, baby Alexandra started to cry.

‘And what’s she doing up at this hour?’ demanded Marty.

‘I was about to give her her bedtime bottle when you surprised me!’ Red-faced, Etta set down a cruet then picked up her daughter. ‘I just wanted to put the finishing touches to my painting fir—’

‘Well, I’m sorry for coming home and spoiling your evening – better feed her now then, while I sort the bloody supper out!’

Eventually slammed onto the table, after the wailing child had been pacified and put to bed, the meal was eaten in silence, merely picked at before being scraped into a bowl and shoved away in the larder.

Later though, after washing up and having come to accept blame, Etta sidled up to join her husband on the sofa, apologised, attempted to coax him with kisses, and to some extent this worked, for he did lay a hand over hers as if putting the argument to rest. Yet not quite, for when she suggested they go to bed his agreement did not stem from the usual reason.

‘Yes, I’m worn out.’ Grim-featured, he made to rise from the sofa.

‘I didn’t mean for sleep.’ She gripped his arm and cuddled up to him like a kitten.

‘Anything else would be a bit risky, wouldn’t it?’ His
voice was slightly less cool than it had been before, yet lacked enthusiasm. ‘That’s if I could find the energy.’