Keepsake (24 page)

‘Oh, well! Sorry, I’ll get down on my knees then, shall I? Oh yes, so bloody wonderful – it’s a bowl o’ frigging soup, for Christ’s sake! You’ve had all day to make it, ye hardly needed to call in Jason and the Argonauts – why,
why
in God’s name is it always me who’s doing the giving? What have you ever given, tell me that?’

Etta was devastated, so devastated that for the moment she could hurl no response. How could he ask what she had given? She had given herself.

About to take advantage of her stricken silence, Marty opened his mouth to press home his assault when the sound of a crying child interrupted the exchange. Instead he gave a snort and made towards the stairs. ‘Oh
shite
!’

‘Sit down,’ Etta found her voice. ‘I’ll go.’

‘No,
I’ll
go.’ He could be very anarchic when told what to do. ‘Christ, I hardly ever see them.’

‘And whose fault is that?’ Etta returned to form. ‘It isn’t I who insists you work all hours God sends.’

‘Hah!’ He paused. ‘No, but you like the money, don’t ye? How d’you think you’d be able to afford all these doodahs if I didn’t work me nuts off?’ He jabbed a finger at examples of her paintings and needlework that dotted the room.

‘There’s no call to be vulgar!’ Her eyes bulged red with the threat of tears. ‘I only indulge in such pastimes because I’m on my own! I’d much rather my husband were here on an evening.’

‘Well, he’s not because he has to work to earn a living – and d’you know why else he works so late? Because his wife makes it so damned unpleasant to be at home!’ At this, Marty went upstairs to calm his distressed child.

Too furious and upset to eat, Etta hurled her own broth into the sink along with the bowl, which smashed and sent the contents spattering up the wall. Then she flopped into a chair, listening to the sounds from upstairs, the murmurs of the father, the child’s sobs gradually fading.

Even after Celia went back to sleep, Marty remained upstairs for a considerable time, seated on the edge of her bed, just watching her angelic features. This was wrong. He and Etta could not go on upsetting their children like this. He supposed a lot of it was his fault for rubbing her up the wrong way – and what was the point, for it was impossible to change the idle baggage. Every night upon coming home he told himself to stay calm, not to bother if there was a mess or whatever, but he just could not help it. He had worked so hard for this and yet she treated it with such disdain. Even thinking about it made him angry. Something must alter, for he was fast approaching breaking point.

When he finally went downstairs, Etta had reheated his broth and now fetched the bowl back to the table. For the sake of his children he tried to be civil and thanked her, but instead of eating with him, she resorted to her usual tactic, encased herself in frost and turned to concentrate on some mending.

‘This is grand,’ he said truthfully of the broth.

But his attempts to appease her met with monosyllabic response. Knowing how he hated to be ignored, Etta took revenge for his deeply wounding comments by paying more heed to her stitches.

‘You’ll hurt your eyes doing that,’ he told her between spoonfuls.

‘I’m used to being hurt,’ she deigned to respond, though without looking at him.

He had been meaning to patch things up but now exasperation flared again. What the hell did she expect? Yet, bearing the children’s sensibilities in mind, he managed to curb his temper enough to say, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it to happen…we’re hardly ever together but even in the small time that we are all we seem to do is argue, so maybe it’s best if we try to stay out of each other’s way altogether. In future, just feel free to leave my supper on the stove and go to bed.’

Etta slammed her mending onto her lap and looked at him directly. ‘Oh yes, and have you abuse me for neglecting you again!’

‘I’m trying to think of a fu—!’ Marty fought the inclination to swear at her but it took all his resolve as he laid down his spoon and continued with great deliberation, ‘I’m trying to think of a solution, if only for the kids’ sake. Jesus, they must get awful sick of listening to us tearing the heart out of each other. I know I’m sick to death of it. I love you, Ett. God, I do, but…’ He shook his head and made a sound of such utter despair that she ran to him, her face oozing repentance as she knelt by his chair.

She wrapped her arms around him, pressing her lips to his arm, his hand, his fingers, reciprocating his endearments. Equally strenuous in his embrace of her, he sighed and rubbed his cheek against her dark head, his heart feeling as if every ounce of energy had been wrung from it, Etta feeling just as wretched.

After each had confirmed their regret several times over, her face resting on his chest, she tendered carefully, ‘You didn’t mean it, did you, about not wanting me to be here when you come in?’

He moved his head in an act of negation. ‘But we have to try and stay civil to each other somehow…’

‘It’s all this work,’ she scolded gently, stroking him. ‘It’s making you ill.’

‘If I don’t work we don’t eat, simple as that.’

‘But you don’t need to work so hard! Rather than seeing even less of each other, as you suggest, might it not be better for you to be home more often? To try and regain what we had? I ran away so that we might be together, yet I’ve ended up lonelier than before.’

But rather than be encouraged that she wanted to be with him, Marty saw it as yet another demand for attention. ‘I don’t like it any better than you, but if I worked less hours we’d have to give up all this.’

‘Would that be so bad?’ pleaded Etta. ‘I’d rather live in a smaller house and see more of my husband.’

‘I don’t want to live in a smaller house!’ His voice began to rise again.

‘No, and there’s the crux of it!’ She sprang away from him and went to perch stiffly in the chair on the far side of the room. ‘You don’t care for what I might want, it’s always been about what you want. You’re afraid of moving to a smaller home because you’ll no longer be able to brag! You’re just like my father! See me as nothing more than some ornament –’

‘I bloody do not!’ But Marty looked decidedly abashed for she had hit a nerve. ‘Look, see what I mean? We’re at it again!’ He rose and headed for the back yard. ‘Now, I’m off to the lav, and it would be a good idea if you were gone to bed when I get back.’

Etta threw up her hands. ‘As my lord and master pleases! I shall make certain I keep out of your way from now on.’ But as she dashed for the stairs she knew that this would solve nothing, and her heart was fit to break.

Of course, it was impossible for two people living in the same house not to see each other at some point, and with the quarrels continuing to flare, even during the odd occasions
they did come together, Marty was forced to concede that it had been a ridiculous suggestion; at least to himself. To Etta he would admit nothing and continued to stick to his guns, even as the daffodils unfurled into trumpets of gold, then shrivelled to make way for summer blooms.

But just because he saw less of her, that was not to say she was never on his mind. He thought of her constantly, veering between a desire to kill her and then, remembering how magnificent their passion had once been, wanting to rage out loud at the terrible injustice of it all, but instead wreaking his malevolence on strangers.

Today it was a little barrow boy, who was blocking his passage along a narrow, congested thoroughfare.

‘Get on the proper side of the road!’ He hollered ahead. ‘How many brains does it take to steer a barrow, for God’s sake?’ And a muttered addition to himself. ‘Fucking halfwit.’

The youth blushingly apologised. Remaining grumpy, Marty barged his way onwards through streets that were ripe with odour, the dung and sweat of horses as they heaved their loads, his own perspiration trickling down his brow as he tried to steer his cumbersome barrow into Spurriergate, giving frustrated growls at being constantly impeded, stopping and starting, stopping and starting, until he finally came to rest outside Leak and Thorp’s department store. Here he was commanded loftily to wait, whilst the commercial traveller who had hired him went inside.

Marty slammed the heavily laden barrow down in protest, angered by the way he was treated by people of no higher rank than himself – go here, go there, carry this trunk – jumped-up peasants, the lot of them! His hands relieved of the weight, he rubbed the numbness from them, picking at the calluses and glancing idly about him, his envious eye taking in the odd toff, the ladies in their large feathered hats and going-to-town costumes.

The narrow street was crammed with two-way traffic,
amongst the carriages and horses the occasional motor car and a multitude of bicycles. With a care as to his safety from one of the latter, Marty heeded the furious tinkling of the bell and took a quick sideways step into the gutter, complaining forcefully as the cyclist passed. How much longer would he have to stand here? After an upwards glance at the landmark figure of the Little Admiral and the clock on which this stood, he gave an irritated sigh at how long the traveller had been inside, before resuming his disgruntled observation.

Then his expression froze. An open-topped motor car was attempting to emerge from New Street, driven by a man in a top hat. But it wasn’t the hat which caught his attention. Alongside the driver sat Etta. His heart came up into his mouth. Oh Christ, that was it, she was finally sick of him and going back to her own kind!

His heart started to thump in panic. Would the car turn to right or left? If the former it would pass the spot where he was standing. No, it was turning left, carrying her away from him. But he could not move to stop it, could only watch her lovely mouth – a mouth that had not graced him with a tender word in months – laugh prettily, seductively, at her stylishly dressed companion as the vehicle slowly edged its way across the double stream of traffic. Oh God, what should he do? Any husband worth his salt would accost the pair and challenge them, demand to know what was going on, drag the bastard from his car. There was still time, for it was moving at snail’s pace – but, too stunned, his whole body a-tremble, Marty could not budge an inch.

‘Move along now!’

For a moment he ignored the command, barely heard it above the fevered thumping of his heart as he watched her go. Where was William, the only one to be left at home since Alex had started Baby Class? Obviously she had dumped him on her mother-in-law so that she might keep
her tryst. My God, how would he break this to the others when they came in from school?

‘I said, move along,’ ordered the constable sternly, endorsed by honks and tinkling bells and shouts from the rear. ‘You’re causing an obstruction.’

But Marty’s eyes were glued to his wife, who, from the way her head moved, was still flirting outrageously with her wealthy male companion as the vehicle moved away. ‘I’ve been told to stay here,’ he murmured distractedly, never taking his eyes off the adulterous pair. How long had this been going on? Oh, Christ, he was going to vomit.

‘Well,
I’m
telling you, if you don’t move you’ll be arrested!’

Marty suddenly became alert, though not to the constable. The car was picking up speed now – if he didn’t act now she would be lost to him forever. With a frantic gleam in his eye he made to run after her.

But the constable, near to losing his patience, grabbed his arm. ‘Take your barrow with you!’

Marty struggled to free himself. ‘No, my wife! I have to go –’

‘The only place you’re going is the bridewell,’ responded the policeman, and promptly arrested him.

Upon release, he did not return to work but went straight home, fearful of what he might find. It was such a huge relief to see Etta there – and actually smiling as she hurriedly placed his meal before him – that he could have wept with joy.

But this mood was short-lived. What if she were only being nice to him out of pity, lulling him into a false sense of security, her real intention being to sneak away when he was least expecting it?

Etta had been at first pleasantly surprised by his early homecoming, but now, noting that he was picking at the meal – after she had gone to the trouble of cooking his
favourite – she felt impatience begin to rise. ‘Is there something wrong with it?’

Marty glanced up at the crisp enquiry. ‘No, no, I’m just…’ Then he lowered his eyes again and stared at the table. ‘I’d better warn you, I got arrested today.’

‘What?’ The word was loaded with accusation.

‘I was in Coney Street, about two o’clock, and a copper told me to move on.’ He looked at her closely as he spoke, watching for her eyes to betray that she had been there too. He thought he saw a flicker, then it was gone. But she had always been a good liar – she was lying on the day he had first met her – he had thought it reserved for others but now he was not so sure.

‘Then why didn’t you?’ demanded Etta.

Mind a-whirl, he frowned. ‘Why didn’t I what?’

‘Do as you were told and move on!’

‘Oh, and you like me to do as I’m told, don’t you!’ He slammed down his cutlery.

‘Be quiet,’ she hissed, ‘you’ll wake the children.’ She made to take away his plate.

But he grabbed its rim with both hands. ‘I haven’t finished yet!’

‘Let me heat it up then, it must be cold the time you’ve taken.’ Etta felt cold too. Her marriage was falling apart.

‘Just leave it,’ ordered Marty through clenched teeth, and finally she let go. ‘Now, have you anything else to say?’

Confused and unhappy, she shook her head. She had been going to ask him to fix the baby’s pram – a nut that secured the chassis had sheared off whilst she had been crossing the road this afternoon. It had been extremely hazardous, the battered old pram had almost collapsed – but with the mood he was in she chose not to mention this.

‘Then I’ll get on with it!’ And he set about the rest of the meal in ferocious manner, clearing the plate in some five minutes and giving himself indigestion.

‘May I remove it now?’ His wife, who had been patiently standing by, reached out.

But before she could take hold of the plate, Marty gripped her wrist and looked up at her. ‘Don’t leave me, Ett.’