imbibing their wives’ housekeeping money. A part of him envied them their freedom; another part said, Irish peasants! No wonder their kids have rickets and dress in rags. Charlie did not voice his thoughts: Rita, being of Irish stock, would not take kindly to the criticism.
‘There has been a lot of late-night business recently,’ Rita said quietly.
‘That’s because there is a lot of war talk,’ Charlie answered with a sneer. ‘Those that won’t hear of their children being evacuated are insuring them to the hilt!’
‘Are they really?’ Rita asked, horrified.
‘Well, if anything happens, they can rest assured they’ll have a few bob to spend in the alehouse to drown their sorrows.’
‘Charlie! That’s a terrible thing to say!’ She caught sight of her tousled, fiery mane reflected in the dressing table mirror opposite and likened herself to a madwoman. Before she had fallen pregnant, Rita had been training to be a nurse and though she was young, she understood the stories that the women on the wards told each other when they thought no one was listening. About what went on in the bedroom and how husbands and wives were supposed to be with each other. Rita knew that she and Charlie weren’t like other couples. Maybe he thought her unattractive. Charlie shrugged her hand off his arm and, feeling another wave of rejection, Rita moved back to her side of the bed.
Even if she could not make out his expression in the darkness, she knew from the unyielding position of his body that his countenance would be grim. He stretched a little but he did not turn towards her.
‘Charlie, I …’
‘Rita, how many times have I told you not to call me Charlie? You know it irritates Mother.’ His voice was cold, so different from the light-hearted, almost loving way he had expressed his affection for her earlier.
Your mother might as well be here. Rita moved her hands from their temporary resting place on the candlewick counterpane, and pummelled the lumpy feather pillow in silent frustration.
‘Why can’t you just relax?’ In the heat of the darkened room, Charlie’s tone was belligerent now.
‘I am relaxed.’ Her body stiffened as she smoothed the freshly laundered, white cotton case over the grey striped pillow. ‘It will be different when we get our own place.’ She ignored the small but obvious stiffening of her husband’s body.
The light of a passing vehicle heading to the docks arced across the mottled ceiling, filling the darkened room with glaring light. Then a sudden knock on the bedroom door shattered the hush of the night.
‘Charles! Charles! Are you awake?’ Mrs Kennedy’s strident enquiring would have woken the inhabitants of Ford Cemetery, Rita thought. If they had been asleep before his mother started ran-tanning on the bedroom door, they certainly would not be now!
‘I can hear someone in the back yard!’ Mrs Kennedy’s penetrating voice was getting louder and more impatient.
Charlie raked his hands through his thinning floppy hair and plastered it back against his scalp. After sucking a long, slow breath of sultry night air through his teeth, he pulled on his dressing gown over his pyjamas. ‘It’ll be a cat, Mother, go back to bed.’
By the landing light, entering through the small window above the bedroom door, Rita could see a rivulet of perspiration trickle down his neck and knew he would never do something as outrageous as sleep naked beside her.
Another impatient knock rattled the bedroom door and Rita pulled the covers up to her chin, worried now that her mother-in-law was going to barge right in.
‘What if it isn’t a cat, Charles?’ Mrs Kennedy persisted through the closed bedroom door. Rita knew he would go and see what was wrong; he was unable to say no to his mother.
‘I’ll see to it now,’ he said wearily, and for a moment Rita felt quite sorry for him.
‘Shall I wait for you to come back?’ she asked, feeling her gritty lids scratch her eyes every time she blinked. The busy day had caught up with her now. However, if Charlie wanted her to stay awake and wait for him, she would ignore the fact that she had been up since five this morning for the paper delivery.
Stealing a furtive glance at the luminous hands of the round-faced alarm clock, Rita could clearly see the glowing fingers had gone way past midnight.
‘There is no point in both of us being awake.’ Charlie’s answer was brusque, his back towards her.
He did not turn round when Rita said tentatively, ‘We wouldn’t be disturbed if we had our own place, Charlie.’
‘Enough, woman!’ he snapped, and she flinched at the ice in his voice. ‘I won’t be long.’ He sounded preoccupied, as if talking to a stranger. ‘Just go to sleep.’ Charlie’s voice was sharp. Final. It brooked no inducement to further intimacy, and Rita experienced that awful stomach-churning emotion that always seemed to accompany their bedtimes. She quickly fastened the buttons on her nightdress, pulling it down over her hunched knees.
‘Good night then, Charlie,’ she whispered, trying to retain a small crumb of dignity. However, he did not reply as the bedroom door closed firmly behind him. Turning towards the fireplace wall, Rita wept silent tears as she wondered if there was anything she could do to make their marriage happier.
‘Just go to sleep.’ He had never been one to raise his voice, as that would show he had feelings he could not control. Control meant everything, and Rita knew he simmered constantly. His resentment bubbled away but never erupted into a full-scale shouting match, like some of the people around here. Passionate people, who got things off their chests, and got on with their lives. They did not harbour grudges and resentments. They certainly did not feel sorry for themselves.
As her mind drifted back and forth, sleep eluded her. She wanted to do something out of the ordinary … Make love in a huge verdant field, sandwiched between the earth and sky, feel the scratch of sand on her back, or wallow in the crash of waves. She wanted to …
Oh, what is the use of having those feelings now? Rita silently raged, throwing herself onto her stomach. Nothing would come of it. How she yearned for strong arms to hold her and to hear soft words whispered in her hair. She was only twenty-four yet she felt as undesirable as a dried-up shell of a woman. Rita knew that she could make Charlie happy if only he would allow it. But she must try harder to stop thinking about Jack.
‘Ta, love,’ Rita said without lifting her head, as the flat-capped dockworker handed her the coins for his Daily Mirror. Quickly she continued on to the next customer impatiently waiting to be served.
‘I see all the lights are on at number four.’ Mrs Kennedy was looking out of the wide shop window and doing not much else.
‘It’s not unusual for the light to be on in Mrs Faraday’s parlour this early,’ Rita answered, serving the morning papers two at a time now, knowing the dockers were eager to be on their way. ‘She’s always pottering about at odd hours.’
‘But isn’t it strange that she should have every light on, upstairs as well as down?’
‘I don’t know.’ Rita nodded her thanks to another customer. ‘I haven’t got time to stand around and ponder.’ Last night’s interruptions had left her feeling unsettled. Charlie had not looked worried by what had indeed turned to be an intruder. In fact, thought Rita, when
