The Soldier's Bride (30 page)

‘We thought we’d make it as quick as possible,’ he was saying. ‘I mean, neither of us is getting any younger. Don’t want ter wait around too long. So we thought we’d make it next month.’

There was nothing Letty could find to say for the bitter confusion going on inside her. The man who had denied her marriage to David, having the audacity to announce his own – to that slovenly cow! The more Letty stared at the red-faced woman, bleary-eyed from sleep, smelling all fusty from Dad’s bed, from what Dad had done, the more she wanted to be sick.

She felt the bile rise in her throat, knew she could never touch Dad again as long as she lived, that it would defile her. Dad, once so fastidious when Mum was alive, doing what he had done last night to that unsavoury creature. It didn’t bear thinking about!

She turned away.

‘Do what yer like,’ she yelled over her shoulder as she went down into the shop.

Outside, the door swinging shut behind her, the November air hit her like a slap in the face. She was without a coat, hatless, running along the street, forced by the realisation that she’d have to go back or catch her death. She could go to Billy, but she had her pride. It was all she could do to turn back, ring the shop doorbell, to have Ada of all people to let her in.

Dad and Ada were married the Saturday prior to Christmas. It was a noisy affair. Ada had a regiment of relations as well as two married sons and their spouses, and two married daughters and theirs. There was Dad’s brother, Letty’s cousins on his side, none of Mum’s she was glad to note, Dad’s drinking companions from the Knave of Clubs, a few of his regular customers, a few neighbours. They crammed into the parlour, down the stairs, through the shop, the kitchen bursting at the seams with well-wishers. A friend of Ada’s had supplied the sandwiches, the drink had been brought in from the Knave.

Ada was in a nice grey suit, a fox fur stole, for once looking really neat and tidy, hair nicely brushed under a grey toque hat. At least, Letty thought, she ain’t in white!

Lucy, as shocked as Letty, didn’t come. ‘Showing off,’ Dad said, briefly vexed, then forgot about it, being too besotted by Ada.

Vinny too stayed away, using mourning as her excuse. That Dad accepted as right and proper and thought no more of it.

Letty kept to her room as much as possible, to stop guests using it as much as anything else; glad when everyone left
but detesting the knowledge that across the passage tonight, her father and Ada, now Ada Bancroft, would be enjoying their conjugal rights.

The next morning he took Ada off to Margate for a week’s honeymoon leaving Letty mercifully on her own. The flat felt empty, with Dad not there the first time ever, but Letty used the time to busy herself in the shop, dusting, tidying, re-arranging; rather enjoyed it really, felt happy, light, as if released from a dead weight. She began to regret that they must ever come back home.

Over the small round mahogany table she’d been moving to a more likely spot, Letty glared at Ada. Anger rose up inside her like a small explosion as the table’s polished edge scraped the side of a brass fender with a horrid grating sound.

‘Look what you’ve done! Can’t you leave things alone?’

‘I was tryin’ to ’elp.’ Ada’s florid face had gone even more red as Letty swept her angrily aside. ‘I thought it was ’eavy.’

It was April. Dad and Ada had been married four months. To Letty it seemed like four years.

Ada, certainly of herself, had slipped back into her customary ways, the flat becoming a mess which it was left to Letty to tidy up. True, Dad was far more sociable than he had been, but it didn’t compensate for the way he condoned Ada’s sloppiness. He himself was still meticulous with his own stuff, but besotted with Ada’s easy-going good humour, he didn’t see that her cleanliness had been but temporary, done to impress.

It was true, leopards never changed their spots, Letty decided. Merely camouflaged them when it suited. And there is none so blind as them that won’t see, she decided too, directing that one at Dad.

‘You’re not helping,’ Letty spat at her as she tried to smooth the minute scratch with a finger tip. ‘You’re interfering. The shop’s my concern, not yours!’

‘That’s enough of that!’ Dad came hurrying down the stairs, full of indignation. ‘You wouldn’t have talked like that ter yer mother.’

‘But she ain’t my mother, is she?’ Letty turned on him suddenly, startling him.

Four months of bickering was all but destroying her. It was such a silly thing. One tiny scratch – the table needed restoring anyway – but all her grievances against Ada compounded themselves into that single scratch.

‘And I tell you this for nothing, Dad – I wouldn’t have her for a mother if you roasted me alive. I can’t for the life of me understand what you can see in her.’

Dad’s face was livid. His blue eyes wide and staring, frightened her a little, his moustache standing out like a walrus’s.

‘I ain’t havin’ yer talk to my wife like that. You ’ave a bit of respect for ’er. You apologise to her.’

‘Your wife?’ Letty stood her ground. ‘Mum was your wife. You’ve forgotten her, but I ain’t. You’ve pushed her aside like you did me.’

‘And what d’you know about it?’ he retaliated. ‘About marriage? An old maid like you? Look at yer – nearly thirty. Yer act like forty.’

‘And whose fault’s that?’ she blazed at him, Ada thrust aside.

‘Yer got yerself ter blame,’ he shouted. ‘Ruined yer life fer that bloke. Left yer with a kid. Yer sister takin’ it ter give it a name.’

‘I don’t want to talk about it …’

‘Twelve years of yer life wasted ’cause of ’im,’ he ranted, hearing nothing but what he wanted to say. ‘Yer could have been married proper ter someone by now … ’ad kids …’

‘I have a kid.’

He didn’t even pause for breath. ‘Instead, Lavinia ’ad ter do what was best for yer – put ’erself out, she did, and no word of thanks from you, ever. Yer should have married someone from round ’ere. Someone of yer own sort.’

‘And you think you’d have let me marry anyone at all?’ She bent towards him, her pretty features now matured to a striking beauty, at this moment twisted with hate, hardly two inches from his.

She could see every line of his sixty-one years etched on his face, twisted like hers into bitterness and hatred.

‘You wanted my company so’s
you
wouldn’t be lonely. Your property that’s what I was, like your blessed ornaments – worse, because I had feelings, and you didn’t care. So long as you had someone to keep you company. Now you’ve got her, you say I should have got married! You act like I don’t count any more.’

‘You ain’t counted for a long time, miss,’ he railed at her.

He swung away from her, making for the stairs, but he
paused as he reached them and swung back to her, his hand spread in appeal.

‘I’d have wanted ter see yer marry, Letitia …’

‘Oh, don’t come the old soldier with me, Dad!’ Letty gave a burst of bitter laughter. ‘You couldn’t care less. Now you’ve got her, I could walk out of that door and it wouldn’t bother you.’

She saw his expression alter – the trace of appeal turn instantly sour.

‘Why don’t yer then?’ he challenged from the stairs.

‘Not until I’m ready,’ she said, her lips tight.

It was always like this, row after row, starting from a small incident, a remark, blossoming into warfare, smouldering resentment. It would blow over, like all their rows, but one day it would go too far, she was sure of it.

It was June, the first Sunday after her birthday. She was twenty-nine, nearing the thirtieth year when a spinster’s state can be truly confirmed, at least by Dad’s estimation during that row they’d had in the shop in April.

There hadn’t been any tiffs for weeks, everyone being amicable. Ada even making a big thing of her birthday, had excelled herself and made some sort of a cake for her, with everyone being convivial, Dad truly sociable. She should have known something was in the wind.

Something was. Letty had washed up and Dad had put his head down for a snooze in their room. Ada came up close as she was replacing the aspidistra on the table and put an arm lightly on her shoulder. Letty caught the faint stale whiff of underarm sweat, and tried to ignore it.

‘All right, love?’ Ada asked amiably.

Letty, feeling generous enough to forgive the odour, nodded, glad when Ada took her arm away and moved over to the dining chairs now back in their place along the wall each side of the piano.

‘We’ve bin thinking,’ Ada said, her tone cautious. ‘We’ve bin thinkin’ of settin’ up an ’ome on our own, Letty.’

Letty stared at her, dumbfounded. Ada was making a play of putting the chairs straight. They were already straight.

‘Me an’ yer dad, well, we need what all married couples need. You know – a place of our own. You know ’ow it is …’

No, she didn’t know how it was. Had never had the chance to set up home with a husband. She continued to stare at Ada who went rattling on.

‘Well, yer see, me brother’s got this ’ouse in Stratford. Wants ter sell it and move right out of London. Not that Stratford’s all that much London, you know – it’s a nice part of it – nice ’ouses some of ’em. But ’e wants ter move out to Essex. He’s willin’ ter let us ’ave ’is place, cheaper, being family. Well, yer can’t miss up on a thing like that, now can yer?’

Couldn’t they?

‘What’s Dad think about it?’ Letty said tonelessly.

‘Oh, ’e thinks it’s a good idea. But ’e’d like ter know what you feel about it.’

‘I wouldn’t have thought it mattered to him what I feel about it,’ she said, watching Ada still buggering about with the chairs.

‘He thinks it do.’

‘Can’t he ask me himself?’

‘’E reckoned I might make a better job of it.’

He would, Letty thought, always did leave others to do things for him. Mum used to do everything for him, think for him, do his business for him while he played fine art collector with all those bits and bobs that might have kept them in a bit more luxury if he’d sold them in the proper manner.

‘Well …’ She shrugged. ‘Whatever he wants to do is up to him. It’s his life.’

She was being hugged by Ada, the stale odour smothering her.

‘I knew you’d see it that way,’ Ada was saying. ‘Things’ll be better fer yer with us not ’ere. You’ll be able ter do whatever yer want. Yer won’t have yer dad treadin’ on yer toes all the time. Yer dad said ’e thought it might be a good idea fer you ter carry on managing the shop.’

Enthusiasm poured out of her. ‘We could get papers drawn up proper. You’d ’ave charge of the shop, all the profits yours an’ you payin’ yer dad rent fer it and the flat. What d’yer say ter that then?’

Letty was hardly listening. It was what she’d wanted, if the truth be known, wasn’t it? To be her own mistress? Yet underlying it was a pang of apprehension at being on her own for the first time; stronger still, her father’s betrayal. She hated him, wanted him to go as soon as possible, yet she needed him to stay here – needed him desperately to stay.

‘What d’yer say to it then, Letty?’ Ada was prompting.

‘Hope you and Dad’ll be happy then,’ she said obediently, hardly realising she had said anything at all.

Such a silly thing to get upset about, the sugar bowl slipping through her fingers, sugar and glass all over the kitchen floor.

For a moment Letty stared at it, unwarranted despair running through her whole body. In seconds it had turned into frustration and for no real reason she burst into tears, swung away from the mess confronting her, unable to bear the thought of clearing it up; unable to think of anything but that she needed suddenly to weep, to beat hysterically at the kitchen door with her fist, her forehead, wanted tears to engulf her.

This quite everyday accident was as good an excuse as any, she leaned with her face against the door and let herself be convulsed by great gulping sobs. She knew what she was doing yet could not – did not – want to stop, all the loneliness of these three months culminating in the fit of insane, ungovernable weeping.

Her eyes red and sore, she finally ceased from sheer exhaustion, becoming rational again, and turning her face to survey the mess. It would have to be cleared up.

Going into the parlour, she sat in Mum’s old wooden-armed chair, turned her eyes from the drizzly December
morning outside the window to gaze about the room. The faded flowery wallpaper, the ornaments no loving hands tended any more, the shabby furniture.

Fancy breaking down like that, bursting into tears. As if the mere sound of crying could take away the quiet. Crying to fill up something that had gone so deep inside her she no longer acknowledged it. She hadn’t realised just how lonely these last four months had been.

‘You should be accustomed to your own company by now,’ she said to the walls. She could go out whenever she fancied, couldn’t she? With Ethel Bock to the pictures – that was, when Ethel wasn’t out with some bloke or other. Having a good laugh at Charlie Chaplin, Charlie Chase, or being thrilled by handsome William S Hart. She saw Billy a lot. There was the shop too, the satisfaction of knocking it into shape without Dad or Ada to interfere. They’d hardly come near since they’d left. It didn’t matter.

Dad had been generous really, turning over the shop, taking only rent from her. Not that it had pleased Vinny or Lucy, still smouldering at what they saw as favouritism, unable to see further than their own noses. Would they fancy a swap then? Would they really prefer her life to theirs? Lonely. She was lonely. Oh, she was … But no more tears.

She really must control herself. All very well crying, but what did it achieve with no one to listen but herself?

Lucy, handing Letty a cup of tea, the bone china pretty with flowers, regarded her critically.

‘What
are
you doing to yourself lately? You look so dowdy!’

It was March 1920, a new era. Lucy had plunged into it, golden hair now cut short. Her slim apricot dress showing a deal of calf was light and pretty, like herself, and hid a bust brassiered flat as a pancake.

Jack was doing well in the printing business. His grandparents were both dead now having left him a substantial sum. Lucy and he were living on the fat of the land, making the most of it. The house was beautifully furnished, redecorated and repainted, the stone stanchions of the Victorian bay windows impressively white. Lucy employed a man to do the garden. Her girls at private school now, spoke with plums in their mouths, not even trying to disguise their contempt of Letty’s cockney vowels.