Keepsake (37 page)

‘Fritillaries,’ supplied Etta, then added an appreciative murmur and held them to her nose. ‘They’re lovely, thank you. Would you like a cup of tea?’

He nodded and rubbed his hands self-consciously. ‘That’ll be grand.’

Whilst Etta turned away to brew the tea and then to put the flowers in water, Marty turned to his children, who were still beholding him with shy smiles. ‘No school today?’

‘It’s Saturday!’ Celia laughed.

‘So it is, what an eejit.’ Marty feigned stupidity and pulled a face, causing the youngsters to laugh too and inch closer.

‘Well now…haven’t you all shot up?’ The last time he had been there William had been a baby. Now he was three. Pretending not to see him peeping from behind a chair, Marty frowned and looked about him. ‘But are there only the three o’ yese? I thought there was another…’

Chortling, the others pointed.

‘Sure, is that our Willie? Why, I’d never have recognised him he’s grown so big – and look at the cut of Eddie, why he’s almost a man!’ Gradually their inhibitions began to wane and they gathered round to drape themselves over his limbs. ‘And what have you all been learning at school while I’ve been away?’

Alex jumped in first, her warm little hands pressed to his thigh. ‘Mr Brown taught us about mountain climbing.’

‘Is that so? There’s a lot of call for that in York.’ Marty chanced a grin at Etta who smiled benignly as she placed the vase of flowers on the table.

Then Marty gave an exclamation. ‘I think it’s somebody’s birthday coming up soon, is it not?’

Both Celia and Edward bellowed into his face, ‘Mine!’

Their father pretended to be deafened, then reached into his pocket. ‘Here you are then.’ He presented the eight-year-old with an embroidered handkerchief. ‘Look, it’s got a C for Celia on it – come all the way from Ireland with the shamrocks on it an’ all. And this is for you.’ He handed over a tin whistle to Eddie.

‘Oh, thank you most kindly,’ Etta offered insincerely at the discordant shrieks that followed, ‘I’ll enjoy listening to that.’ But a wry smile overthrew the look of disapproval.

Marty smiled back, aching to take her in his arms. Then, turning again to his children he saw that Alex and Willie were looking extremely disappointed and he quickly appeased them. ‘I know it isn’t your birthdays for a while, but I thought I’d bring the pair of you an early gift.’ And out came some emerald-green ribbon for his daughter and a bubble pipe for the youngest.

‘Grandad!’ Willie stuck the pipe in his mouth, crouched over and puffed on it in an imitation of his grandfather, making the adults laugh.

Etta patted the little boy fondly. ‘I shall make you some bubbles for it later if you sit quietly and allow Father and I to talk.’

‘And to make it easier, here, take these.’ Their father handed over four sticks of barley sugar, which were eagerly grabbed.

Then, whilst the children’s mouths were occupied, Marty sat back in a wicker chair and, over a cup of tea, looked warmly at his wife who was now seated opposite. ‘Well, now…here we are.’

Her only response was a faint smile and a sip from her cup. She looked far from relaxed.

Faced with such lack of communication, Marty saw that the first move must be his. He set his cup and saucer aside. ‘You can’t know how much I’ve longed for this, Ett.’

Briefly her eyes caressed him yet remained guarded, this wariness displayed in her change of topic. ‘How many years have you to serve?’

‘Another three, I’m afraid.’ He looked gloomy. ‘I won’t be out till 1917.’

‘Still, you’re looking very healthy on it.’ Despite inner reservations, Etta found herself issuing this compliment, then, hoping to disguise just how wonderfully attractive she found him, raised her cup to her lips.

He grinned. ‘All that fresh air and exercise – and might I say you’re looking very well yourself.’

With a diffident tilt to her head she took another quick sip of her tea, concentrating more on this than on him.

There was a lengthy silence, then Marty asked outright, ‘D’you think you’ll ever forgive me, Ett?’

‘Right, children!’ She put aside her cup and jumped up with artificial gaiety. ‘Time to make those bubbles!’

Interpreting this act of cowardice, Marty set his jaw and dealt his children a sad smile as all abandoned him in their exodus for the yard.

But when Etta left them playing and returned to her seat and to sip from her half-finished teacup, she was to face the same daunting question.

‘So, now they’re out of the way, you can speak frankly. Will you ever forgive me?’

Even with the children gone she felt reluctant to embark on intimate discussion, forcing herself to look up into his face, studying him deeply, then, after another long interval, said simply, ‘I don’t know, Martin.’

His tone and expression disputed this. ‘You must have some idea how you feel.’

Immediately she bristled. ‘How can you expect me just to forget about your other so-called wife?’

‘I don’t expect that!’ He put aside his cup, the wicker chair creaking as he leaned forward earnestly. ‘I wasn’t being pushy, I just want you to know that I never felt for her what I feel for you.’ He shifted onto the very edge of his chair, wanting desperately to stroke her, to make her see. ‘I mean, Amelia was a lovely person but –’

‘Don’t!’ She held up a hand to silence him, her cup and saucer rattling in protest.

‘I’m just trying to –’

‘I don’t want to know!’ Her dark eyes teemed with suppressed horror, even the woman’s name causing affront.

Marty gave a nod of surrender, and, sitting back in his chair and retrieving his cup of tea, was to utter naught of substance for the remainder of the morning. He just waffled on about what he had been doing in Ireland, the people he had met, the weather, anything to disguise the long silences and the creaking of the wicker chair.

Hence, when Aggie and the rest of the family returned there had been nothing more intimate than a few exchanged smiles. Weighed down by defeat, now that others were here and wanting to share news, Marty did not let it show but chatted amiably, projecting marvel when Uncle Mal boasted, ‘I’m eighty-eight, now ye know, Marty,’ though throughout he constantly watched Etta from the corner of his eye.

After dinner, with his wife at work that afternoon there was no hope of any attempt at conciliation, and so he was to pass the time by taking his children for a walk, aided by his younger brothers, and afterwards helping his father sort through a pile of scrap metal.

Seeing him still there when she got back in the evening, Etta was alarmed that Aggie might be trying to engineer them into spending the night in the same bed, at which she would have strenuously protested, but, half an hour after
the children had gone upstairs Marty patted his knees and rose, saying it was time he too was making a move.

‘Will you be coming for dinner tomorrow?’ asked his father.

He glanced humbly at Etta. ‘If I’m welcome.’

Upon her brief nod, he said he would look forward to it, then left.

‘Sure, your man’s looking as handsome as a mackerel,’ opined Uncle Mal after the door had closed on Marty, to which there were nods and murmurs of agreement, except from Etta, who sat quietly contemplating her husband’s return.

On Sunday afternoon, after much serious thought overnight, Etta deigned to accompany Marty on his walk with the children around Heslington, although other than this the day was spent much the same as the day before, with nothing of significance being uttered between them.

On Monday the children went back to school, but not without posing the anxious query: would Father still be there when they came home?

Much to their relief, Father
was
there and continued to be so for much of the week, during which the atmosphere between the parents improved so well that by Wednesday Marty was almost back to his old jaunty self, in his children’s eyes at least. For some reason this appeared to make Etta peeved, for she snapped at him out of the blue that he needn’t think that fatherly duties were confined to having fun and games – Alexandra had a toothache, he could take her to have the offending molar removed by the cobbler’s pincers. However, that he did this without quibble seemed to win her over and they were soon once again on an even keel.

Though privately frantic that nothing had been settled between himself and his wife, Marty wanted to make this, his last evening, an event that his children would remember,
and was in the throes of organising a shadowgraph theatre for them, his deeper intention being to have that vital conversation with Etta once the show was over and they had gone to bed. Considerately, his parents and Uncle Mal were off visiting another relative. There were still his younger brothers to be taken care of but that would be relatively easy to fix, and he did so now.

‘This is going to be too tame for a man of your years, Tom, so here y’are!’ He handed over a sixpence. ‘Take yourself and Jimmy-Joe off for some chips or fags or whatever takes your fancy.’

Issuing effusive thanks, his brothers grabbed their coats and dashed off.

‘Right!’ Marty clapped his hands and, with a sheet strung across the room, he addressed his young audience who sat cross-legged on the floor. ‘Do I have everyone’s attention?’

Alex bemoaned to her brother, ‘Jesus, Mary ’n’ Joseph, will you ever stop tooting that bloody whistle!’

Stunned, and only now realising that her children were developing an Irish accent, Etta gaped at Marty, the spark of amusement kindling in both their eyes, before she responded firmly, ‘That’s quite enough of that, thank you! Father is speaking.’

Marty put aside his mirth and took on the role of compere. ‘Thank you, Mother – if you’d be so kind as to pass me that lamp and draw the curtains, I should like to introduce you to The Great – the
Magnificent
– Lanegan
o
!’

Etta chuckled as she took her seat and her husband gave a bow. ‘Lanegano?’

‘Oh, ye must have an Italian name if you’re a showman,’ he instructed her and the children with a most serious expression, ‘it’s compulsory. Now, using only my bare hands, I shall begin!’ With a last flourish he dived behind the curtain where, with the aid of a strategically placed lamp, he was to project onto the sheet a series of impressions.
‘First – a rabbit!’ Encouraged by the round of polite applause instigated by his wife, he went on, ‘Next – a horse!’

Etta chuckled again. ‘It looks the same as the rabbit.’

Marty’s head popped from behind the curtain. ‘You’re splitting hairs – hares, get it?’ At the laughing groans he grinned and ducked back behind the curtain, there to perform for the next fifteen minutes or so a menagerie of silhouettes with his hands, often having to repeat the same ones several times, his repertoire being limited. But the children seemed greatly impressed, as did Etta, who instigated the round of applause which followed and also led calls of, ‘Encore!’

Afterwards there was tea and bread for supper, then finally it was time for Marty to give his children one last kiss, a time he had been dreading, for until now they had no idea that he would not be there tomorrow when they came in from school.

Naturally they could not hide their disappointment and anxiety, Alex wanting to know, ‘Will you be coming back?’

Before he could respond, Etta cut in, ‘Of course he will!’

Heartened by this, Marty used similar endorsement. ‘Of course I will – as soon as the army’ll let me. They’re a bit stingy with the leave so it might not be till summer, but be assured I’ll be back. Be good for your mammy now.’ He gave each one a tight hug, inhaling each individual scent before waving brightly as Etta took them off to bed.

But the moment they had gone he sank onto the sofa and rubbed his hands over a face that was drawn and worried. He was left to contemplate this state of despair for a good five minutes, Etta having to supervise prayers, to tuck each child in and to pay them the appropriate amount of affection before coming down, finally, to sit beside her husband.

‘Well, they seemed to enjoy your little theatre.’ She smiled at him.

‘Does that mean you didn’t? I’m hurt.’ He pretended to look wounded, though in fact he was heartened by her proximity.

‘No, no,’ she chuckled, ‘I thoroughly enjoyed it too.’

‘Even if the horses looked the same as rabbits?’ he joked.

‘Oh, I was only teasing.’ She did not look at him directly, for the lazy droop of those eyelids and the sensuous bow of those lips had such magnetic appeal that she feared she might spontaneously weaken, but her voice was kind. ‘They were really very good.’

‘Ah, well.’ He stretched his limbs for no particular reason. ‘I’ve had a lot of time to practise – army life can be very boring.’

Etta nodded thoughtfully, then maintained the topic. ‘Have you anything else in your repertoire?’

He shook his head. Then a wicked glint appeared in his eye. ‘Oh, hang on, you might like this, though.’ Reaching for a packet, he removed the one cigarette that was in it and put it on the table then began to fold and tear little sections from the flattened card, eventually handing her the result.

‘Oh, it’s a little man,’ smiled Etta.

‘Pull on his feet,’ advised Marty.

Intrigued, she did as instructed and was rewarded by the appearance of an extra piece of male anatomy and immediately gasped over this risqué performance and dealt him a scolding. ‘That’s completely outrageous!’ But it was delivered with a laugh and he laughed too and leaned towards her in intimate fashion, his eyes twinkling. ‘Not really the thing to do for a man desperate to be forgiven, is it?’

‘It most certainly is not!’ For a brief moment her eyes sparkled back at him. ‘Naughty boy, now behave, or I shall put you in the corner and make you recite fritillaries a hundred times.’

He continued to smile at her warmly, his eyes holding a certain plea. ‘And after that might I hope for absolution?’
When she did not immediately reply, though her gaze remained warm, he added, ‘Seriously, Ett, we need to discuss what’s going to happen to us: am I just to keep visiting like this or can I expect something more permanent?’

Her face altered then and she looked away, quickly objecting, ‘It’s too much of a rush.’