with Mary. And don’t come round to ours when I’m in. I don’t want to see yer.’
She walked away, her arms still folded tightly.
‘Jess!’
But she didn’t turn. Ned stood watching helplessly. Her shoulders were hunched, head held at a dejected angle, her thick hair escaping in wisps from its pins. He felt as if she was taking a part of him with her as she left. His whole being ached for her.
He sank down again on the bench and stared desolately ahead of him. He couldn’t stand the thought of going home.
P ART II
Eleven
June 1914
Mary laboured long and hard to produce her child. When Ned got in from work that evening the next week, she was well underway. Her mom, Mrs Smith, was up there with her, and Mrs Martin, a local woman who came in to help with birthing. The fire was lit and they were up and down the stairs for water and cups of tea, stoking the range, looking knowingly at him.
‘She’s doing her best, poor lamb,’ Mary’s mom said. She was a thin and wrung-out looking woman, forty-five years of age but appearing sixty if a day, though with a genteel dignity about her. ‘There’s a stew on the fire, Ned. Will yer have ’taters with it?’
He nodded, accepting as graciously as he could. He’d known when he married Mary that they’d live close to her mother in her little terrace in Handsworth. He just hadn’t bargained on it being next door. They were in and out of each other’s houses, Mary’s brothers and sisters too, as if they all lived together and there never seemed to be a moment’s peace. He knew he should be grateful. It saved Mary worrying, and Mrs Smith was close by to see her through with the babby.
It was just that sometimes he felt he was married almost as much to Mrs Smith as to Mary.
‘That all right for you now?’ his mother-in-law laid a plate of scrag-end in front of him, edged with potato. The whole meal was the grey of an old floor cloth.
‘Yes, ta.’ He tried to tuck in, glad once she’d shuffled off upstairs again in her badly fitting shoes. From the room above his head, he could hear the leg of the bed banging on the uneven floorboards and the women walking about, exchanging a word or two in low voices. Now and then came a low, muffled moan.
Ned ate up his tea in large, hungry mouthfuls, then took his cap and went down to the corner for cigarettes. God knows, he was going to need summat to get him through the evening. He didn’t want to think about what Mary was going through. It only stirred up the turmoil of emotion within him even further.
Once he’d bought ten Woodbines he still wanted to stay out. It was a still, summer evening and his pace slowed. The thought of going back to the cramped house full of all the disturbing, female things going on in it filled him with revulsion and guilt.
He passed a church and thought about going in to sit in the musty gloom to try and set his thoughts straight, but he could hear the chat and laughter coming from the pub so he went there instead, settled with his pint at a table awash with spilt drink, amid the smells of beer-soaked sawdust and smoke. He lit up a Woodbine, not wanting company. If he sat here for a bit, he might get home when it was all over. It was fuggy and comforting in there and his mind drifted. He couldn’t bear to think about the future or what he was going to do.
It was getting on for ten when he walked in. Nothing seemed to have changed in the hour and a half he’d been out. The kettle was boiling. Mary’s mom came down and brewed tea.
‘Getting a bit closer,’ she told him. ‘It’s not often very quick the first time you know, Ned. Nothing to worry yerself about.’
It only then occurred to Ned that he might worry. He thought of Mary upstairs, her scrawny body writhing on the bed. That was as far as his imagination went. He didn’t know what was involved, not really. He sat by the fire drinking tea, a saucer between his feet on the peg rug Mary had made. Over the mantel, a picture
She walked away, her arms still folded tightly.
‘Jess!’
But she didn’t turn. Ned stood watching helplessly. Her shoulders were hunched, head held at a dejected angle, her thick hair escaping in wisps from its pins. He felt as if she was taking a part of him with her as she left. His whole being ached for her.
He sank down again on the bench and stared desolately ahead of him. He couldn’t stand the thought of going home.
P ART II
Eleven
June 1914
Mary laboured long and hard to produce her child. When Ned got in from work that evening the next week, she was well underway. Her mom, Mrs Smith, was up there with her, and Mrs Martin, a local woman who came in to help with birthing. The fire was lit and they were up and down the stairs for water and cups of tea, stoking the range, looking knowingly at him.
‘She’s doing her best, poor lamb,’ Mary’s mom said. She was a thin and wrung-out looking woman, forty-five years of age but appearing sixty if a day, though with a genteel dignity about her. ‘There’s a stew on the fire, Ned. Will yer have ’taters with it?’
He nodded, accepting as graciously as he could. He’d known when he married Mary that they’d live close to her mother in her little terrace in Handsworth. He just hadn’t bargained on it being next door. They were in and out of each other’s houses, Mary’s brothers and sisters too, as if they all lived together and there never seemed to be a moment’s peace. He knew he should be grateful. It saved Mary worrying, and Mrs Smith was close by to see her through with the babby.
It was just that sometimes he felt he was married almost as much to Mrs Smith as to Mary.
‘That all right for you now?’ his mother-in-law laid a plate of scrag-end in front of him, edged with potato. The whole meal was the grey of an old floor cloth.
‘Yes, ta.’ He tried to tuck in, glad once she’d shuffled off upstairs again in her badly fitting shoes. From the room above his head, he could hear the leg of the bed banging on the uneven floorboards and the women walking about, exchanging a word or two in low voices. Now and then came a low, muffled moan.
Ned ate up his tea in large, hungry mouthfuls, then took his cap and went down to the corner for cigarettes. God knows, he was going to need summat to get him through the evening. He didn’t want to think about what Mary was going through. It only stirred up the turmoil of emotion within him even further.
Once he’d bought ten Woodbines he still wanted to stay out. It was a still, summer evening and his pace slowed. The thought of going back to the cramped house full of all the disturbing, female things going on in it filled him with revulsion and guilt.
He passed a church and thought about going in to sit in the musty gloom to try and set his thoughts straight, but he could hear the chat and laughter coming from the pub so he went there instead, settled with his pint at a table awash with spilt drink, amid the smells of beer-soaked sawdust and smoke. He lit up a Woodbine, not wanting company. If he sat here for a bit, he might get home when it was all over. It was fuggy and comforting in there and his mind drifted. He couldn’t bear to think about the future or what he was going to do.
It was getting on for ten when he walked in. Nothing seemed to have changed in the hour and a half he’d been out. The kettle was boiling. Mary’s mom came down and brewed tea.
‘Getting a bit closer,’ she told him. ‘It’s not often very quick the first time you know, Ned. Nothing to worry yerself about.’
It only then occurred to Ned that he might worry. He thought of Mary upstairs, her scrawny body writhing on the bed. That was as far as his imagination went. He didn’t know what was involved, not really. He sat by the fire drinking tea, a saucer between his feet on the peg rug Mary had made. Over the mantel, a picture
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