Free Wartime Wife by Lizzie Lane

exuberance as her friend, Aggie.
    The moment was too silent for too long. Aggie came and stood beside her, picking up the tea towel from off the draining board.
    ‘Is anything wrong, Mary Anne? You seem a bit – well – quieter than usual.’
    Mary Anne shook her head vigorously. ‘Nothing!’
    ‘Where’s Henry?’
    ‘Upstairs. Asleep. He did the night shift last night.’
    Aggie took the last cup from her hand. Mary Anne saw her knowing look and dropped her eyes.
    ‘I saw him come home. The whole street saw him come home.’
    Mary Anne snatched the tea towel from Aggie’s hand. ‘It’s no one else’s business.’
    Unlike her own family, living in ignorance of their father’s true character, the women of Kent Street were more circumspect.
    ‘I don’t know how you put up with it,’ said Aggie.
    Mary Anne spun round on her. ‘At least I have a husband. There’s plenty who ain’t and plenty who entertain the husbands of other women!’
    She could see from Aggie’s face that the barb had hit home. It was a well-known fact that Aggie had been ‘carrying on’ with the husband of a woman in the next street, the poor wife prone to intermittent fits.
    Aggie headed for the door.
    Mary Anne instantly regretted her remark. ‘Aggie!’
    Aggie paused. Her merry expression was replaced with hurt.
    Mary Anne wiped her hands over her hips and attempted to make amends. Her smile was weak but her sentiments were genuine. ‘I hope everything goes well for your Joe. I hope he doesn’t travel any further than the south coast.’
    Aggie’s hardened expression softened. ‘Thank you.’
    Only minutes after Aggie had left, the sound of movement came from upstairs.
    Mary Anne raised her eyes to the ceiling, fear prickling her flesh. She tried reassuring herself, though it wasn’t easy. Perhaps he’d fall back into bed and not surface until the girls got back. He kept his hands to himself when the family were around. It was only when they were alone that his temper and physical demands seized him, no matter what she did or said. It was worse after a night shift. Henry Randall with the drink inside him was bad enough. Henry Randall when sobriety was enforced on him – there were no pubs open at that time in the morning – was something else.
    She tried to dull her fears by peeling potatoes, one of the little household chores that dulled her sensitivities. Carrying out simple tasks left her mind free to wander, sometimes in sheer fantasy, sometimes to a past that might have been different if it hadn’t been for the Great War. The best thing about her past was Edward’s lips on hers, the pale pink beauty of the child she had borne. There were a number of worse things: the news of his death, giving the child up for adoption—A dull thud came from the room above, shaking the ceiling and shattering her thoughts. The potato knife clattered into the sink and the colour drained from her face.
    ‘Woman! Woman!’
    He was calling down for her to come up. He was in
that
mood. She knew what was coming and her mouth turned dry. She had to swallow before shouting back. ‘I’m coming.’
    Climbing the stairs was a slow and painful process, her legs heavy with reluctance. When she opened the door, he looked up at her, his eyes glassy and red-rimmed, his face flushed and his jaw hanging so low, it seemed to be resting on his chest.
    ‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
    Smiling weakly, she leaned against the closed door, herhands behind her, fingers clinging to the doorknob. She found her voice. ‘I was peeling the potatoes.’
    ‘You was peeling the potatoes.’ He mimicked her voice in a high, squeaky tone. His eyes dropped to her breasts then her belly. ‘You’re getting a fat belly. Not expectin’, are you? I’ll kick it back in if you bloody well are.’
    ‘’Course not,’ she said. She tried to laugh it off. ‘At our age?’
    His eyes stared, though his face clouded. ‘Why not at my age? Do you think I’m not