The Seven Streets of Liverpool (12 page)

‘It looks very snug,’ Lena said.

‘Sit down, luvvie, make yourself at home.’ The old man fussed around spooning tea into two badly stained tin mugs. He had removed his cap and his gentle, rosy-cheeked face was surrounded by a halo of pure silver hair. ‘I’m Godfrey, by the way. I retired from the London and North Western Railway more than twenty years ago, but was brought back because of the war. This sort of weather don’t suit an old chap of eighty-two.’

‘You don’t look that old,’ Lena remarked. ‘I’m Mrs Newton – I mean Lena.’

‘D’you take sugar in your tea, Lena?’ He had a Lancashire accent rather than a Liverpool one.

‘I used to, but I got used to doing without once the war began.’

Godfrey sighed. ‘I wish I could do the same.’ He put two heaped spoons of sugar in one of the mugs, a spoonful of tea leaves in both, then poured in the water followed by milk. ‘I’ll put this on the floor beside you; the handle’ll be too hot to touch for a while.’

‘Thank you. Don’t your family mind you having to work on Christmas Day?’ she enquired.

‘There’s only me wife, Elsie. We had six sons; one was killed in the Great War, and the others live in different parts of the country. They send us cards, tell us about our grandsons and granddaughters. We’ve had a couple of great-grandchildren over the last few years.’ He smiled ruefully at Lena. ‘As for minding, it’s wartime, isn’t it? I’m only too pleased to have the chance of doing me bit at my age, and Elsie’s pleased too. She’s at home knitting scarves for Russian sailors.’

‘Well, I really appreciate you being here to look after the trains.’

‘I’ll only be here till seven; there’ll be no more trains after that.’

‘Won’t there?’ Lena gnawed her lip. According to the big clock over the fireplace, it was half past three. By the time she got to Eileen’s –
if
she got to Eileen’s; it was still snowing hard outside – it’d be almost time to leave. ‘I think I’d best catch the next train to Liverpool,’ she told Godfrey. Home seemed so much more appealing now that she wasn’t there.

‘It’ll be the same train you came on, going back,’ he said. ‘Does that mean you haven’t had your Christmas dinner?’

Lena shrugged. ‘I’m afraid so. But it doesn’t matter. It’s not the end of the world.’ Although she had thought so earlier, in her flat.

There was a noise in the corner of the room, a little squeaky sound coming from a cardboard box beneath an ancient desk that she hadn’t noticed before. When she looked, Lena came face to face with a black and white cat that climbed slowly out of the box and rubbed itself against Godfrey’s legs, leaving behind two absolutely irresistible kittens: a tabby, and a black one with a white patch on its chest and one white foot.

‘You’re not going to like it out there, Beth.’ Godrey spoke to the cat in a chatty way, as if it were human. ‘It’s snowing something awful.’ He opened the door and the cat disappeared.

Lena picked up the tabby. ‘That’s Tommy,’ Godfrey said. ‘After Tommy Handley on the wireless. The other’s Patch, after itself, I suppose. Beth had seven kittens altogether and five have been given away. There’s only Tommy and Patch left. Are you short of a kitten in your house, Lena? If so, we’ve got two to spare.’

‘I wouldn’t want two.’ But she’d love one. Her mother had always had a cat at home.

‘Tommy’s the healthiest.’ Godfrey said. ‘Patch is the runt of the litter; I think that’s what they’re called. He’s smaller and not as tough as the others.’

‘Then I’ll have him.’ She put Tommy back and picked up the tiny black and white kitten, which felt as light as feathers in her hands. ‘Could I take him with me?’

‘Of course, luvvie. I’ll get a box and a bit of rag to go in it. Have you got somewhere for him to sleep at home?’

‘I’ll find somewhere.’ There were empty boxes in the dairy. She kissed the tiny cat on his forehead. ‘Me and you are going to be best friends,’ she whispered.

Godfrey must have had excellent hearing. He nodded approvingly. ‘I’m pleased he’s going to a good home. If you know anyone who’d like Tommy, then he’s still available.’

‘I’ll ask around,’ Lena promised. How precarious a cat’s life was, she thought. Handed over to any Tom, Dick or Harry, or their female equivalents, with no guarantee that they’d be looked after properly.

‘You’re awfully quiet since you got home from that party.’ Winifred looked anxiously at her daughter. ‘Are you sure something didn’t happen?’

‘Nothing happened, Mum,’ Phyllis replied impatiently. ‘I mean, it was only a party. What could have happened?’

‘I could think of a hundred things. You’ve been very quiet, and it’s not like you to be quiet, Phyllis.
Ever
,’ she emphasised.

‘I’m tired, that’s all.’

‘It’s not like you to be tired, either.’

‘As we’re not going out tonight, I think I’ll go upstairs and take off me new dress and put on an old one,’ Phyllis said, changing the subject. She left the room before her mother had the chance to ask more questions. Upstairs, she sat on the bed and relived the moment when her father had walked into the house in Chancer Street.

‘
Phyllis!
’ She had never seen anyone look so shocked and frightened before. It was as if he’d genuinely seen a ghost. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’

‘I’m at the party. More to the point, Dad, what are
you
doing here? Me and Mum thought you’d lost your memory, which you obviously haven’t or you wouldn’t have known who I was. We were also worried that you might be dead.’

‘Is your mother here?’ His jaw, which had already fallen quite a bit, fell further.

‘Not at this party, no. But she’s at home in Pearl Street.’

‘Where the hell’s Pearl Street?’ His face had gone completely white. Phyllis was genuinely worried he was going to have a heart attack.

‘It’s about five minutes’ walk from here,’ she told him.

‘Bloody hell!’

‘Don’t swear,’ she said sternly.

‘Sorry. How long have you been in Bootle?’ he enquired in a shaky voice.

‘Just over a year. We’ve been looking for you everywhere. Is this where you’ve been all the time, in this house?’

‘Ahem!’ exclaimed the boy who had been hoping to kiss Phyllis. ‘We’re supposed to be playing a game.’

Phyllis opened the parlour door and shoved him back inside. ‘Tell them something important has cropped up,’ she ordered.

Her father grabbed her arm. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’

The bedroom they entered smelt of cheap perfume. Phyllis and her father sat beside each other on the end of a lace-covered bed.

‘Is this where you sleep with Dawn?’ Phyllis asked.

Her father’s face went from white to red in an instant; and she knew she had sized up the situation accurately. ‘It is; yes, it is,’ he acknowledged sheepishly.

‘So what happened, Dad? I mean, what name do you go under these days? Mum couldn’t find a Leslie Taylor anywhere.’

‘Mick O’Brien.’ He groaned. ‘Look, Phyll, I’ll tell you what happened from beginning to end, save being cross-questioned. I know what you’re like when you’ve got the bit between your teeth.’ He coughed, cleared his throat and began. ‘I met Dawn at a party in this very house, as it happens. It was about the time the air raids were exceptionally bad. She’d been living with a Mick O’Brien who’d just walked out. She thinks he went back to London. He had a wife and family there.’

Dawn would seem to be attracted to men with families, Phyllis thought, though she didn’t interrupt her father’s explanation about why he’d apparently disappeared off the face of the earth.

‘Anyway,’ he continued. ‘Dawn and I …’ He paused. ‘We fell in love. I don’t know if it was her idea, or if it were me, but after the raids were over, I decided to …’ He paused again.

‘Die?’ Phyllis suggested.

‘Well, yes,’ he conceded. ‘Die. It so happened Mick O’Brien had left his identity card behind, so I became him instead of me. I didn’t go back to work or to my lodgings.’ He made a helpless gesture with his hands, as if he’d had little choice in the matter. ‘Your mother and I had never got on. I didn’t think she’d miss me …’

‘
What!
’ Phyllis interrupted angrily. ‘She’s been heartbroken, and desperately worried. At first we took it for granted that you’d been killed in the raids, though no one could find evidence that you were dead. Then she saw this picture,
Random Harvest.
The hero, it was Ronald Colman, has an accident and loses his memory. Mum immediately decided that that was what had happened to you, so we let the house in Beverley and moved all the way to Bootle just so she could look for you. It was literally only this morning that I managed to persuade her to give up.’

Her father hung his head in shame. ‘Are you going to tell her you’ve found me?’

‘Of course not. I wouldn’t dream of telling her. She’s already been upset enough.’

‘When will you go back to Beverley?’ There was a tinge of hope in his voice.

‘Not for a long time,’ Phyllis snapped. ‘Our place is here, in Bootle, until the war is over. Where are you working anyway?’ she demanded.

‘In a pub in Seaforth.’ He looked downcast.

‘As a barman?’

‘Yes.’

‘But, Dad,’ Phyllis said impatiently, ‘you’re a naval architect; you have dozens of letters after your name. What are you doing working in a pub?’

He regarded her sadly. ‘Where else could I go without giving away my real name? It’s what love does to you, Phyll. I’d do anything for Dawn.’

Phyllis had left the party soon afterwards, forgetting all about telling Dennis, who had invited her there. She was outraged by what her father had told her, but there was nothing she could do. She would just go on supporting her mother, who came into her bedroom at that very moment and said that she was convinced something really awful must have happened at the party and to
please
tell her what it was.

‘Nothing, Mum.’ Phyllis ran across the room and hugged her mother so tightly that she gasped for breath. ‘You know I love you very much?’

‘Well, I rather took that for granted, Phyllis. You are, after all, my daughter and only child.’

‘Aren’t there any nice-looking doctors at that hospital that you could get off with?’ Phyllis asked.

‘I haven’t noticed.’ Her mother laughed. ‘And as far as I know, dear, I’m still a married woman.’

‘I think you should assume you are a widow from now on. Dad was never up to much, was he? You’re better off without him.’

‘Phyllis, what a terrible thing to say!’

‘It might well be terrible. Mum, but it’s also true.’

As soon as she arrived home, Lena relit the fire, found a bigger box than the one she’d been given at the station, folded an old but warm scarf inside and placed the kitten on top of it. He merely sat, a tiny bunch of fluff, and looked at her pathetically with his big blue eyes.

‘Oh dear,’ Lena cried. ‘I expect you’re badly in need of milk and something to eat.’

She rushed around and found a saucer, filled it with milk, then opened a tin of corned beef, cut off a slice and crumbled it into another saucer. She’d boil a couple of potatoes in a minute and make corned beef hash for her Christmas dinner.

The kitten drank the milk, ate the food and weed on the floor. ‘I shall have to train you to do that outside,’ she told him. He was probably missing his mother terribly.

Downstairs, the front door opened and Brenda Mahon called up, ‘It’s only me!’

She came into the room wearing a lovely royal-blue dress that she’d made for herself for Christmas. ‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘Sheila was expecting you for dinner. I came to look for you, but you were out.’

‘I didn’t realise I’d been invited. I went somewhere else.’

Brenda was probably about to ask where the somewhere else was when she noticed the kitten. ‘Ah,’ she breathed, dropping on to her knees beside the box. ‘Isn’t it
lovely
! Is it a boy or a girl?’

‘A boy,’ Lena said proudly.

‘What’s his name?’

‘Godfrey.’ It was more dignified than Patch.

‘Godfrey! That’s a mouthful for such a little kitten. Can I pick him up?’

‘He won’t always be little, and yes, you can pick him up.’

Brenda picked up the kitten and sat down in Lena’s chair. ‘It’s been a day and a half,’ she complained. ‘It was murder at Sheila’s. I’ve never known such a noise. Her dad was there and he spent half the time putting the toys he’d made for the kids back together. It was dead noisy. I’m glad I’ve only got the two kids and they’re nice quiet little girls.’

‘Would you like some tea?’ Lena asked. She glanced jealously at Godfrey, who was lying, purring for the first time, on Brenda’s chest.

‘No, ta, luv.’ Brenda placed the kitten back in his box. ‘In fact, I came to see if you were in and invite you to tea at Sheila’s.’

‘No thank you. I wouldn’t like to leave Godfrey on his own so soon. He’s only just been separated from his mother.’

‘Of course you can’t leave him, luv. I weren’t thinking proper, like. But you can’t take him to Sheila’s either. Those kids’d kill him with kindness within the first five minutes.’

Lena nodded her agreement. She didn’t want Godfrey going anywhere near the Reilly children, not even when he was a fully grown cat.

‘If you like, you can come round ours a bit later, bring Godfrey with you and we’ll have a natter and a drink – one of me customers gave us a bottle of sweet sherry. Me girls will love meeting Godfrey and I’ll make them promise not to touch. Actually,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘they’re constantly on at me about getting a cat, I might do it one of these days.’

‘Well I know a place where you can get one, Bren. He’s a tabby called Tommy.’ How nice it would be, Lena thought excitedly, to have Godfrey’s brother living just along the street. It would almost be as if she and Brenda were related.

Chapter 10

Boxing Day

At half past ten on Boxing Day morning, the village of Melling was deserted. The snow was thick on the ground and outside there wasn’t a soul to be seen. The lights were on in most houses and an occasional decorated Christmas tree could be glimpsed. The snow on the pavements was mainly undisturbed; few people had braved the outdoors and left tracks.

Peter Wood had only encountered two other human beings by the time he arrived at Eileen Stephens’s cottage. Not a footprint could be seen anywhere, though there was an orange glow coming from the living room, as if a fire had been lit.

He hung about, stamping his frozen feet in the snow. He should have stayed in the Liverpool hotel a mite longer, arrived here at lunchtime. It almost certainly wasn’t done to barge in on people this early in the morning on Boxing Day. It was not even as if Eileen was a friend. Well, he wanted to be more than friends, but she would probably regard him as virtually a stranger. They had only met twice before, though it would have been much more than that if the circumstances had been different and Peter could have brought himself to be a bit more forward. Normally he was an extremely confident person, but with Eileen he felt like an awkward schoolboy.

Nick Stephens was staying at the Mallory family home in Wimbledon, and Peter had been sickened by the chap’s behaviour with Doria, who was apparently pregnant with his child. He’d shocked his parents by making himself scarce well before it was time for Christmas dinner and making a beeline for Euston station. There were plenty of trains running. After all, there was a war on and troops had to be moved.

His parents doted on Stephens. They were convinced that when the war was over, he’d get divorced and marry their daughter. The chap had been an officer in the Royal Air Force, a hero, and they believed his every word. His father had told Peter that one of these days his future son-in-law would be in receipt of a medal.

Peter was looking at his feet, buried up to his ankles in snow, wondering what to do next and unaware that the front door of the cottage had opened. He was startled when a voice said, ‘Would you like to come in, Mr Wood?’

Eileen was standing in the open doorway, unaware of how beautiful she looked in a plain navy jersey and skirt to match, her blonde hair like satin. He could see the blue of her eyes from where he stood.

‘Mrs Stephens,’ he stammered.

‘Please hurry, I’m letting in the cold.’

He almost ran down the path; almost fell over in his anxiety to not let in the cold.

‘Good morning,’ she said as he approached. ‘Merry Christmas, if it’s not too late to wish you that.’

‘Thank you.’ He’d had a bloody awful Christmas, anything but merry, but he couldn’t very well tell her why.

‘Have you been to see your uncle?’ she asked.

‘Uncle Johnny, yes.’ He stepped inside, she closed the door and he banged his feet on the mat.

‘It was Uncle Jimmy last time you were here. I think you should take your shoes off, Mr Wood,’ she went on without a pause. ‘I’ll fetch you a pair of my husband’s slippers from upstairs. What size do you take?’

‘Nine.’

‘Nick takes ten so they’ll be a bit too big. Are your socks wet?’

‘No, they’re fine.’ He’d sooner have frostbite in his toes than wear Nick Stephens’s socks.

He had unlaced his shoes and removed them by the time she came downstairs with a pair of tweed slippers. ‘Thank you.’ He slipped them on.

‘Come into the living room. Nicky and I have just stopped what we were doing to have a cuppa. Would you like one?’

‘Please.’ He loved this room, with its white walls, black beams and old pictures on the walls. A bowl of what could only be waxed fruit stood on the polished table and a nice warm fire was burning in the grate. Nicky – he must be two years old by now – was sitting on the floor in front of it drawing on a pad with crayons, while the cat, Napoleon, was stretched full length beside him. A prettily dressed tree stood in the corner, and there was a half-done jigsaw on the table, not quite childish and not quite adult either. They’d clearly been doing it between them. ‘Did you and Nicky spend Christmas on your own?’

‘Yes, my family had planned to come for the day, but couldn’t because of the snow, and the friend who normally lives here is in Norfolk. But me and Nicky enjoyed ourselves, didn’t we, luv?’ She ruffled the little boy’s hair.

‘Yes.’ The smile he gave his mother was like a ray of sunshine.

Eileen went into the kitchen and returned with a cup of tea. ‘This is very weak,’ she said. ‘I just added water to the tea leaves left in the pot and stirred like mad. I can’t remember if you take sugar.’

‘I don’t, thank you.’ He felt angry that she’d spent yesterday alone with her son in this isolated house, but remembered that the snow had been relentless.

‘Me dad will probably come and see us on his bike today, now that the snow has stopped.’ She drained her own cup and put it on the table. ‘Tell me, Mr Wood, if you haven’t an uncle living in the village, what are you doing here? This is the third time you’ve been.’

Just imagine if he told her the truth! Just imagine if he said, ‘Well you see, Mrs Stephens, your husband is having an affair with my sister and she’s expecting his baby. Initially I came to tell you what was going on, but I fell in love with you at first sight. If things were different, I would have been here a hundred times, not just three, and would almost certainly have proposed marriage by now.’

Instead, he sat there dumbstruck, not having the faintest idea what to say. It was she who spoke first. ‘I’m beginning to wonder if I should throw you out, Mr Wood. For some reason, you’re here under false pretences.’

‘At Easter …’ he began, then paused, his mind having gone blank.

‘Yes?’ Eileen said encouragingly. ‘Easter was the first time you came – to the garden party if I remember rightly.’

‘That’s right. I’d been to a wedding,’ he continued haltingly. ‘A wedding in Kirkby. It was a friend from university – we’d been at Oxford together. There was a pile of us and we all got drunk, very drunk. Next morning, I went for a walk, to clear my head sort of thing. I passed your house, saw what was going on, so came in. I paid my sixpence entrance fee,’ he assured her, just in case she thought he’d sneaked in.

‘That was very good of you. Why didn’t any of your friends come on the walk with you?’

‘They were much more drunk than I was,’ he lied.

‘And why the need to invent an uncle that you’d come to see?’

‘It seemed rather more acceptable than the truth; that I was walking off a hangover.’

She laughed at that and he felt relieved. ‘And why did you come again – why are you here now?’ she asked. She was still smiling. ‘Has there been another wedding?’

Peter supposed that it was time for at least half the truth. ‘Because I’m in love with you,’ he said thickly. ‘I’ve been in love with you since the first moment we met.’

‘Oh dear.’ The smile disappeared and she frowned. ‘But Mr Wood,’ she said seriously, ‘you know very well I’m married. What makes you think my husband wouldn’t have been home for Christmas? What if it had been him, not me, who looked out of the window earlier and saw you hanging about outside?’

Oh Lord! He was tying himself in knots. What excuse could he give? It had to be time for the whole truth, every single bit of it. ‘Because I knew he wasn’t here,’ he said hoarsely. It was the only possible answer. ‘Because he’s with my sister in my family’s home in Wimbledon. She’s having his baby. My sister is Doria Mallory and I’m Peter Mallory, not Wood. That was another lie.’

‘No!’ It was a cry of pain that seemed to have come from the very depths of her being. ‘No, not Nick.’ Her expression was tragic.

‘I’m sorry,’ Peter whispered.

‘He said he was working Christmas Eve and had to be back in the office tomorrow.’

‘I’m afraid he’s not,’ Peter said, somewhat inadequately. ‘I think I’d better go.’

He was about to get to his feet when Eileen shouted, ‘
No!
Don’t you dare leave me by myself after telling me such a terrible thing.’

‘Can I get you something? More tea, perhaps. Or have you got anything stronger to drink?’ He wouldn’t have minded a large whisky himself.

‘The last thing I want to do is drink.’ She set her burning gaze on Nicky, who was still happily drawing pictures with a crayon. ‘What’s he going to do without a dad?’

‘I think your husband is coming home for New Year,’ Peter said hastily.

‘Oh yes, he is,’ Eileen said bitterly. ‘He has graciously agreed to spend a few days with us.’ She leant forward in the chair. ‘How old is your sister? And what does she look like? What did you say her name was?’

‘Doria. She’s eighteen and very pretty.’

‘When is she expecting the baby?’

‘Summer some time. June, I think. She’s …’

‘Don’t tell me any more. I don’t want to know.’ She drew in a sharp breath. ‘I shouldn’t have asked that much. Oh, and I do think you should go. Before you know it, I’ll be asking more questions and I really don’t want to hear the answers.’

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ Peter said. He’d never felt more sorry about anything in his life before. This was the worst thing he’d ever done. ‘The last thing I want is for you to be unhappy. And I know it doesn’t help in the slightest, but I really do love you.’

He went into the hall and removed Nick Stephens’s slippers. When he had his own shoes on again, he said, ‘Goodbye, Mrs Stephens.’

‘Goodbye, Mr – what did you say your real name was?’

‘Mallory. Peter Mallory.’

‘Goodbye, Mr Mallory.’

Peter opened the door, then turned. ‘There’s just one thing …’ It was the most awful cheek.

‘And what’s that?’

‘May I come and see you again?’

A slight pause, then, ‘Why not?’

At previous New Years, people had told themselves that the war was bound to end before that particular year was over. They’d thought it in 1942 and 1943, and now it was about to be 1944. Surely it would finish before this year was out. It felt as if the country had been at war for ever.

They were fed up with rationing, with shortages of so many essential things, with the blackout and blackout curtains, with seeing barbed wire and sandbags all over the place, with the tape covering their windows; they were fed up with worrying that the air raids would start again and with having to live with the devastating results of the previous raids – there were places in Liverpool that resembled deserts of bricks instead of sand.

Most of all, they were fed up with their husbands, sons and sometimes daughters being posted to dangerous places where they could so easily be killed. They were fed up with getting telegrams saying that their loved ones had died, sometimes in places they’d never heard of, or with someone else in the same street or the next street getting the same sort of telegram.

In Pearl Street, and every other part of the country, on the first day of 1944, people woke up praying that this time next year the war would be behind them. One day it would become a distant memory. The time might even come when they could hardly remember it at all.

Eileen Stephens had woken early on New Year’s Day with her husband asleep beside her. She was aware that she was on the verge of losing him, but she wasn’t going to give up without a fight. Not that Nick would be aware that he was being fought over.

She had no intention of painting her face, showering herself with scent, wearing see-through nightclothes – not that she had any, or the coupons to buy such things if they were available; her old cotton nightdresses would just have to do. Nor was she prepared to slobber all over him, paw him and kiss him in a way she never had before.

No. What she had decided was to stop waiting for Nick to come round, to be himself again of his own volition. She should have done it before; it was just that she hadn’t wanted to put pressure on him. She’d felt certain that one day he would realise that she had never stopped loving him, that the loss of his arm had only made her love him more, something she hadn’t thought possible.

She was angry with him too, though she couldn’t imagine ever railing at him because of it; angry that he was having a child with another woman, in effect deserting Nicky as well as her. She had thought that she and Nicky – in particular Nicky – comprised his entire world.

Yesterday, when he had let himself in, she had followed Nicky when he ran to greet his dad, and they had hugged Nick together. ‘We’ve missed you,’ she had whispered in his ear.

She had told him so again after they had eaten, then sat there smiling while he and Nicky played on the mat in front of the fire with the lorry her dad had made his grandson for Christmas. The smile hid a variety of feelings. How much forgiveness did you owe a man who had slept with another woman, who was now expecting his child? How much of an allowance should be made for him losing his arm? This Doria,
pregnant
Doria, made a pretty tough competitor, plus she had the advantage of seeing Nick daily. Did Eileen stand much of a chance of keeping him?

Of course I do, she told herself. This is Nick, the love of my life, my
husband
, for God’s sake. We were made for each other. Could he possibly love this other woman as much as he loves me? Or should I say, as much as he
loved
me?

Now, on New Year’s Day, she lay in bed watching him sleep. She’d seduced him twice during the night, touching him until he was wild with desire. Now he was worn out. For the first time ever, she had exaggerated the effect their lovemaking was having; she had put on a bit of a show. There’d never been a need for it before; she had just lain there enjoying the feeling of utter delight building up inside her until it exploded into something that was so exquisite it was beyond description. They would usually arrive at this point together, and so they did last night; twice.

‘That was wonderful, darling,’ he whispered the first time.

‘That was even better,’ he claimed when they’d made love again at her instigation in the middle of the night.

She wondered if he was ready for a third time, but decided to let him sleep. At least by now she might have dispelled his belief that she no longer found him attractive. And it looked as if pretty eighteen-year-old Doria hadn’t completely put him off his wife. She would pray, light candles, do everything possible to ensure their relationship returned to the way it had been before he lost his arm.