Out of the Blackout by Robert Barnard Page A

concern.
    â€˜Well, strike a light! Don’t tell me you’ve been married.’
    â€˜I’m afraid so. It didn’t work out.’
    â€˜Well, I’d never have thought it. How old are you? And divorced!’
    â€˜Separated. We will get divorced. I’m twenty-eight.’
    â€˜Dear me. And that’s not old. You could knock me down witha feather. Here’s me thinking of you as fresh out in the big wide world, and now it turns out you’ve been hitched, and not just hitched but separated and all. Well, I am sad. Like I would be if you was my own son. It’s the way of the world these days, I suppose. It wasn’t like that in my generation, I can tell you. For better or worse, that’s what we believed. All I can say is: you try a bit harder next time, son.’
    â€˜Oh, I mean to,’ said Simon, flinching at that casual use of the word ‘son’.
    â€˜Take your time. Look about you.’ Len was becoming more expansive, as if the role of counsellor to the young was one he relished. ‘The fact is, you’re a nice-looking, well-set up young fellow, in a good line of work. There’s plenty around would like to get their hands on you for that reason alone. Keep a weather eye out. Take a bit of care. You want to be a bit luckier next time.’
    â€˜That’s what my mother says.’
    â€˜And she’s dead right. You want to find a nice, quiet girl who’ll devote herself to you, body and soul; one who’ll be a help in your career.’ He made it sound quite deadly. He thinks I should marry someone who’s only half alive, thought Simon. ‘Someone who’ll work for you, unobtrusive like, in the background. Bring up your kids in the right way, the old-fashioned way. That’s what you want. That’s what I call a happy marriage.’
    â€˜Like yours,’ said Simon.
    â€˜That’s right. Like mine. Because Mary was a self-effacing soul, and the better for it. Not that she couldn’t stand up for herself if needs be. But there’d be no argument for the sake of argument. Mary knew there was nothing to be gained by that. Even when we married—don’t get me wrong, young feller, we were in love, oh my word yes—but there was also her Pa, and my Ma, both strong churchgoers. Baptists, they were—the Ma still is: can’t get there often, but the Minister calls. So Mother and Mr Spurling, they thought it would be ideal if we two got married and set up home in Farrow Street (that was where we lived). They thought it all out between them. And Mary was influenced, naturally, because her father was a very fine man—real head of the family, like you had in the old days. So we got married, and you might say that love, in the fullest sense of the word, came later.’
    Len seemed somewhat confused as to when love had come, and Simon was not convinced it had come at all. Len, perhaps unused to being listened to so meekly, was now in fine flow, more unbuttoned than Simon had dared to hope. His long, angular body had relaxed from its usual spasmodic tenseness, and the watchful testing of Simon had been forgotten. He sat, relaxed and reminiscent, over his empty glass. Simon nimbly fetched him another, and then said:
    â€˜And of course you had the little boy, didn’t you, to bring you close together?’
    â€˜We did. Later on we had him. You saw that picture, did you? Had that taken in the war, when the raids started, thinking you never knew what might happen. How right I was! Now it’s my only memento. Though that’s not true: I’ve got my memories. And they’re the best mementoes, aren’t they?’
    Len dabbed at his eyes, and Simon had to repress an involuntary retch of disgust.
    â€˜She looked as if she’d be a very good mother,’ he said.
    â€˜Oh, she was. Second to none. It was what she lived for. I just can’t describe how happy she was when she realized a