APRIL 1937
She didn’t even knock. She just came straight into my room and stood waiting for me to say something to her. I couldn’t say anything because I couldn’t stop crying. It annoyed me that she refused to see this. That she wouldn’t even acknowledge the fact that I was really upset. He wasn’t replying to any of my letters. None of them. And there was nobody at the factory that I could tell. She took a long look at me, but all she could say was, It’s the first time in ages I’ve seen you without a book. And I thought about it. She was right. But she didn’t even ask me why I was crying. If she had have done, I would have told her. But it was as if she just wanted to see what the noise was all about. And once she’d found out, she left and closed the door behind her.
MAY 1937
After the abortion, I went to church with her. Or, as she put it, I came to Christ. I still worked at the factory, but I said even less than before. I didn’t talk to anybody at all, even if they spoke to me. It was part of my performance. I didn’t speak. But I thought that Christ might be prepared to speak with me. At least He might express some interest in me. But He didn’t. So I left the church. Or I left Christ. I could never figure out which. And then she left me. My abandonment of Christ was the last straw. I’d chosen to leave He who had made her life possible. This was, for her, the unkindest cut of all.
CHRISTMAS 1937
On the train down, I stared out of the window. I would be spending every penny I’d ever managed to save in my life. When I got to London, I moved into a bed and breakfast near King’s Cross station. It occurred to me that I could last — with some luck — perhaps a lot of luck — four days. And then I didn’t know what. I found Herbert on the second day. He was at the Lyric Theatre playing in Mother Goose. A different production. Even though it was London, it seemed a worse production somehow. Even the posters were shabby. The whole thing was disappointing. But not as disappointing as Herbert, who got me a seat in the stalls and said we could talk afterwards. In a pub in Hammersmith that was thick with tobacco smoke. The Dog and Pheasant. He bought me a gin, and a pint for himself. And then he said he couldn’t reply to my letters. He told me about his wife and his two children, and I listened with my mouth open. And then I spilt my drink. It toppled over and I watched as it pooled on the table. He bought me another gin, then said he had to get some Woodbines from the bar. I never saw him again. I sat there by myself, an idle finger spinning the ice. I’d been jilted. I realized that Herbert had no idea of what it was like to be anyone but himself. But this didn’t make any sense, because he was supposed to be an actor. And then it was ten o’clock and I heard the landlord shouting. Time, ladies and gentlemen, please. Let’s be having you. Time. Outside the pub, a man asked me if I had a light. Then, before I could answer, he winked at me and smiled. He had yellow teeth. My stomach turned a slow somersault.
FEBRUARY 1938
This morning I started a new job. In a warehouse which imports foodstuffs from all over the country and abroad. My job is to serve the people who come in. Shopkeepers, mainly, from all over. I’m supposed to look cheerful. And talk. The factory. Well, they’d had enough of me not saying anything. But I hate this new talking job. I hate this town. I’m trying to start reading again, but it’s not easy. Every night I hear the dull beat of her feet as she drags herself up the creaking stairs. Then I realize that I’m no longer sure of why I’m reading, let alone what it is that I’m reading. I just want to cry, but I’ve promised myself that I’ll never let her see me cry again. Never.
SEPTEMBER 1941
It’s autumn. I’ve been here two years now. I’ve resigned myself to the fact that I won’t ever like it. But at least I don’t pretend. Len knows how I feel. He also knows how I feel about the war. I hate the ‘Wings for Victory’ and ‘Salute the Soldiers’ weeks. I’m just waiting for it all to end and then I’ll be off. Today I asked Len about his parents. He’s usually reluctant to talk about them, but for some reason he rested down his cup on the kitchen table and began to speak. But he didn’t look me in the eyes as he did so. He talked for a good while, in fact until I thought he might cry. But he didn’t. He was quiet for a while, and then he simply stood up and went out. I knew then that we’d never really been married. We didn’t know each other. We didn’t trust each other. Later on, he came in drunk and talking nonsense. He told me that he thought Hitler looked like a hysterical lavatory brush. And that because Russia was the only country to stand up to Hitler, maybe their system was right. I expect he heard this rubbish in the pub. He slumped against me as I helped him up the stairs to bed.
DECEMBER 1941
Len’s in prison for doing what hundreds of others, the length and breadth of this country, are still doing. Namely, trading in the so-called ‘black market’. They took him away the day after the Americans were gracious enough to join us in the war. The fact that they chose to stand by and watch as we lost Norway, Belgium, Prance, Denmark and Holland only served to stir up plenty of negative passions towards them. I sat with Len and listened to the announcement on the wireless. When it was over he snapped the Star shut and dropped it by the side of the armchair. Then he stood up. I heard the door slam, and his boots register on the cobbles. And the next morning the inspectors arrived. Representatives of the Price Regulation Committee of the North East Region, based in Leeds. To pinch him. But Len had gone to town. He had been warned three times, but he wouldn’t listen. Eggs could be bought only for the purposes of hatching, but farmers, shopkeepers and customers formed a partnership that made a nonsense of such decrees. Only Len would have to pursue his subversive activities on a grand scale. One thousand eggs. Possibly more. Officially, you could only charge 33/4d. for an egg. But there were plenty who’d pay up to 15 shillings for a dozen. Len was well aware of this. They waited outside in the motor car until Len came back up from town. When he did, he knew straight away that something was up. They followed him ‘in the door. The two of them. Len looked at me, and then back at them. He spoke to them like he was talking to a pair of hounds. You two. What do you want in my shop? It’s you we want, lad, they said. We’ve found what we’re looking for. And we’ve got your mate. Now you’ll be coming with us. Len spun around and stared at me. What have you told them? I shrugged my shoulders. You didn’t tell them ‘owt, did you? The inspectors looked at him. Is there something she shouldn’t have told us, is that it? Course not, snapped Len. You’re a lying bastard, aren’t you. Len moved towards me. One of the inspectors put his hand on Len’s arm. All right. You’re coming with us, and the door’s this way. Your wife can bring your things along later. No need for you to get alarmed now. It’s all pretty straightforward. You arresting me? We’re taking you in, lad. I told you. We’ve already got your farmer mate. The two of you will have plenty of time to get your story straight. What about her? Are you suggesting we take your wife as well? Len glared at me as though I were somehow responsible. But he couldn’t say anything, otherwise it would look as though he was guilty of something. Which, of course, he was. So he allowed himself to be marched off in silence. And I slept well that night. I stretched out in the bed. I knew that whatever happened, I wouldn’t have to share my bed with him again. That if he came back now, I’d stand up all night in the corner of the room before I’d ever condescend to join him in bed. Something was lifted from me the moment they took him away. My chest unknotted. I could breathe again. He expected and received little sympathy from the Magistrate, who terminated his speech with the observation that for shopkeepers and prostitutes these lean years were proving to be years of plenty. Len was encouraged to view himself as a vulture picking at the carcass of his wounded country. I returned to the village alone. To face their accusing eyes. I had not ‘stuck by him’. It was now important for me to abandon any vanity. To learn to ignore whatever they might be saying about me. I’ve been training myself. In the evenings I attend to the blackout curtains, then sit by myself and listen to the wireless. I follow the war, listen to ITMA, and read. I often think of my mother. But I never ask her for help. I don’t ask for anybody’s help. And in the shop, no matter how they look at me, I always ask them for their coupons. I wonder if they realize that if the inspectors hadn’t have taken Len, then the services were about ready to take me. I was about to be classified ‘mobile’, as they’re getting desperate. My invalid husband would have just had to learn how to look after himself. As he will have to when he gets out.