The Most Precious Thing by Rita Bradshaw Page A

despair overwhelmed her.
     
    The room was clean - they had been round the last two evenings and scrubbed it from top to bottom - but that was all that could be said for it. There were no curtains at the narrow sash window, just a faded paper blind which the last occupant had left. The meagre scraps of furniture were their own. These consisted of Carrie’s bed from home which her mother had let them have with the proviso that if they got another one she wanted it back for Billy, along with its old lumpy mattress, grey blankets and two flock pillows. They had placed the bed under the window, and although it was only a three-quarter size it seemed to fill the room. Next to the range was a small, worm-eaten table holding a few pots and pans, items of cutlery, a sharp bread knife, two plates and mugs and a washing-up bowl - all courtesy of the local pawn shop, along with the big black kettle sitting on the hob. On the other side of the range a battered tin bath was propped against the wall. Mrs Symcox had given them this, having recently acquired a new one.
     
    The flagstones beneath their feet were devoid of the smallest clippy mat, and apart from an orange box which was more than adequate to hold their few items of clothing - there were three pegs on the wall near the door for coats and hats - and an old patched armchair that was losing its stuffing, which David had bought for a few shillings from a pal, the only other items in the room were a dented brass coal scuttle standing in front of the tin bath and a large and rather ugly oil lamp above the range.
     
    Carrie wasn’t aware of the expression on her face as she glanced round what was now officially her new home, but when David said, his voice hearty, ‘This is just to tide us over, lass, until we can get hearth and home together,’ she nodded quickly.
     
    ‘Aye, I know, I know.’
     
    ‘It won’t always be like this.’ He took her two icy-cold hands in his, chaffing them gently as he spoke. ‘You do know that?’
     
    She nodded again, but now her voice was soft when she said, ‘David, what you’ve done for me . . .’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t ever thank you enough but I am grateful.’
     
    ‘No, don’t say that.’ Her russet hair fell over her ears in silky waves and it rustled beneath her hat as she moved her head. The skin of her cheeks was a soft creamy white, porcelain pale.
     
    Too pale, David acknowledged painfully. And she always went a shade whiter when he touched her. But that didn’t matter. She was his wife, his wife , and in time he would make Carrie love him like he loved her. He just had to be patient, that was all. Ever since she had agreed to marry him he’d been tied up in knots, scared to death she would change her mind at the last minute and refuse to go through with it when push came to shove. But she had gone through with it.
     
    He began to tremble inside as he surveyed the girl in front of him. And now her face was drained of colour and she was saying she was grateful to him. He didn’t want her gratitude. He wanted--
     
    He forced himself to let go of her hands, saying evenly, ‘You’re freezing, lass, and no wonder. It’s like an ice-box in here. I’ll light the fire. I set it ready yesterday so it’ll soon take, and once that’s going it’ll make everything more’ - he had been about to say bearable but perhaps that was clumsy - ‘cheerful, eh?’
     
    ‘Yes, thank you.’
     
    Thanks again. He wasn’t going to be able to stand this if she kept thanking him all the time. As he reached for the matches on the shelf above the range, there was a knock at the door. He turned to look at Carrie in surprise.
     
    She, in her turn, stared at him wide-eyed before she walked to the door. She opened it to Mrs Bedlow, their landlady, who began to speak before Carrie could say a word.
     
    ‘I thought you could both do with a nice cup of tea, the weather bein’ so bitter. Am I right, lass?’ The tray in the