For Better For Worse. Pam Weaver

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СКАЧАТЬ him it was his own fault because he would keep buying her pretty dresses and scarves as well as things that were for his eyes only in the bedroom. Henry was exciting, passionate and all hers …

      When she’d written to tell her parents they were married, Mum wrote back protesting that they’d never received the invitation.

      ‘Of course they did,’ Henry had said crossly. ‘I posted it myself.’

      ‘I’ll pop over and see them,’ she’d said, but Henry didn’t feel it was wise.

      ‘Why ever not?’ she’d protested.

      ‘Leave it for a while,’ he’d counselled. ‘Let things settle down.’

      Annie was reluctant, but then her new husband had given her a wounded look and complained that everyone was ganging up on him, so she’d let it go.

      Annie had settled down to domesticity and looking after Henry. He wouldn’t hear of her getting a job. ‘No wife of mine will ever have to go out to work,’ he’d declared stoutly. It was fun at first, but she soon got bored.

      She had only been married for five months when she discovered she was pregnant. Henry was over the moon and did his best to treat her like a piece of delicate china.

      ‘I’m only pregnant,’ she’d laughed, ‘not ill.’

      Henry had screwed up his nose. ‘Don’t use that word, darling,’ he said. ‘It sounds so vulgar.’

      She was taken aback. ‘Then what …’

      ‘Say you’re in the family way,’ he said, kissing her ear. He was funny like that. Prudish over some things and yet such an accomplished lover in the bedroom. She supposed it might be because of his Rhodesian upbringing. Henry had come to this country as a boy to get an English education and for some reason far beyond Annie’s understanding, had never gone back.

      As soon as she heard Henry moving about upstairs, Annie put a pan of water on the gas stove and lit the flame underneath. She took the loaf out of the breadbin and unwrapped it. She always kept it covered with a damp tea towel to keep it fresh. Her neighbour, Mrs Holborn, had given her that useful tip. All she had to do now was make the tea.

      Annie had met Henry just over a year ago. He didn’t talk much about his past or his wartime experiences because he had been captured in the early days and spent almost all of the war years as a POW. He was a lot older than her. She was eighteen and he was thirty-six today. She’d adored him from the start, but her father, who had taken Henry on in the jewellers’ shop, had been more cautious.

      ‘He’s deep that one,’ Father had said. ‘He may be a good worker, but we don’t really know much about him.’

      Of course, her parents were concerned because their courtship had been so short. ‘All I know is that I love him and he loves me,’ Annie had said stoutly, and now that Henry was her husband and she was expecting his baby, she had high hopes that Henry and her father would make friends again.

      ‘I know Father can be difficult,’ she’d pleaded with Henry, ‘but please try and like him just a little bit.’

      ‘I do, darling,’ Henry protested. ‘Really I do, but the man is impossible.’

      She sighed. Perhaps he was right. She’d written to her parents several times, but they’d never replied.

      She could hear Henry coming out of the bathroom, so she put the eggs into the boiling water and two slices of bread under the grill.

      ‘What are you doing up so early?’ he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

      She indicated his chair and he sat down. Putting her arms around his shoulders, she kissed the top of his head. ‘Two boiled eggs, three minutes, just as you like them, coming up,’ she said, putting the toast and butter in front of him.

      Henry smiled. ‘Thank you, darling.’ He patted her arm. ‘When I’ve gone to work, I want you to go back to bed.’

      ‘Henry, I’m fine,’ she said, reaching for the teapot.

      ‘A woman in your condition …’ Henry began again.

      ‘Please don’t worry about me,’ she protested as she put one egg in the egg cup and the other on the plate. ‘I’m fine.’

      ‘Please don’t argue with me,’ he said, his pale eyes narrowing slightly. ‘I think that as your husband, I’ll be the judge of what’s best.’

      ‘Yes,’ she faltered. She mustn’t make him angry. It was a bit scary when he shouted. ‘You’re right. I’ll go back and lie down once you’ve gone to work.’

      ‘I only have your best interests at heart,’ he said, slicing off the top of the egg smartly with the knife. The yolk, a thick, rich orange, spilled over the side of the egg cup and onto the plate. ‘Yours and the baby’s.’

      ‘I know,’ she sighed. She sat opposite him and drank her tea, but she was in no mood to eat.

      As her pregnancy advanced, Henry was most insistent that she lead a quiet life. ‘First babies can be difficult to carry,’ he told her. ‘I want you to rest as much as possible.’

      As he constantly reminded her, Annie had promised to love, honour and obey him, but at times it was very boring. She cleaned the house and did the shopping, always remembering to buy his favourite coffee crunch sweets and settling into a weekly routine. On Mondays it was washing, Tuesday cleaning upstairs, Wednesday she did the ironing and Thursday she tackled the downstairs. On Friday it was a little light gardening until she got too big and then it was time to get the sewing machine out and make a layette for the baby. On Saturdays and Sundays Henry was home so she read books and knitted and sometimes they went for a walk. She loved the little market town. It seemed so bright and cheerful after the war. She loved the striking façade of the Black Horse Hotel with its pretty window boxes, and the Carfax, a sort of market square with its own bandstand. Even the posh new toilets in the Bishopric were a talking point, but with so little else to stimulate her mind, Annie could hardly wait for the baby to come.

      A man came to decorate the nursery. He was good-looking, funny and friendly, but Henry said he didn’t like the standard of his work, so they had to find another. The new man turned out to be rather dour, but despite his advancing years, he got the job done eventually.

      She set her teacup down on the table. ‘I thought I might write to my mother and ask her over,’ she said as he tucked into his second egg.

      ‘I don’t think so,’ said Henry tartly. ‘You know how awkward your father can be and I won’t have you upset.’

      Disappointed, she showed no emotion as she handed him a present. ‘Happy birthday, darling.’

      ‘Birthday? Oh! So it is.’

      She was slightly surprised that he hadn’t bothered to remember his own birthday, but his enthusiastic praise for the box of handkerchiefs she’d given him put her in a better mood. She went with him to the front door but he kissed her in the hallway.

      ‘Don’t let anyone see you looking like that,’ he said, pushing her behind the door. ‘Back to bed now.’

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