Free GI Brides: The Wartime Girls Who Crossed the Atlantic for Love by Nuala Duncan; Calvi Barrett Page B

as if nothing had happened. He kissed her goodbye as usual and went on his way. The previous night’s behaviour must have been an aberration, she told herself, and she tried to put it out of her mind.
    The following night Margaret was already asleep when Lawrence came in, and they didn’t have a chance to talk. But on Friday, he once again returned home tipsy and produced a bottle of whisky from his pocket. He seemed to barely notice her as he set about pouring himself a large drink.
    Margaret felt instantly nervous. ‘Have you had any supper?’ she asked, and when he didn’t reply she quickly went to make him some food, hoping it might sober him up.
    But in the meantime he had drunk half the bottle. The wild, furious look was back in his eyes, and once again he seemed transformed into a completely different person. The Southern gentleman was gone and in his place was someone she didn’t recognise.
    â€˜I don’t want that!’ he slurred, as she put the food in front of him. He shoved the plate away, sending it crashing onto the floor.
    Margaret didn’t stay to see what he would do next. She ran into the bedroom, and this time she locked the door. From under the covers, she could hear crashing and banging noises, and dreaded to think what he was doing.
    In the morning, Margaret was woken by a gentle knocking on the door. When she opened it, there her husband stood, his brown eyes full of grief. ‘I’m so sorry, Margaret,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what came over me last night. I’m under so much pressure at work, I just can’t think straight.’
    He looked overcome with shame and regret, and she couldn’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said, shakily. ‘But Lawrence, please don’t bring whisky back to the house again.’
    â€˜No, of course not,’ he agreed. ‘Margaret, you are the finest wife a man could have.’ He kissed her goodbye, gave her an adoring look, and then he was gone.
    When she went into the kitchen, she saw that he had cleared up the broken plate and food, but in the living room she found that the electric heater had been smashed to pieces. So that was what the crashing and banging had been. She shuddered to think of him in such a violent rage.
    Margaret couldn’t help feeling angry towards the Army, who were clearly putting her husband under such terrible stress that he was buckling. She was worried he might have some kind of collapse.
    The next few nights Lawrence came home earlier and did not bring any whisky with him. Margaret was relieved, but she was still worried about him, since he seemed anxious and again wasn’t sleeping well.
    One day Lawrence came home and announced, ‘I’ve found somewhere much better for us to live. We’re moving immediately.’
    â€˜But don’t we have to give notice on our flat?’ she asked him.
    â€˜I’ve arranged all that,’ he told her. ‘Just pack our things and we can go there now.’
    Margaret was surprised, but she hoped that a change of scene might help her husband. She did as he said and followed him to an address in Rabbit Row, half a mile away.
    When they arrived, she found it was a small mews street that had been badly bombed earlier in the war. But she didn’t want to complain, so she got on with the unpacking.
    The new flat didn’t seem to do anything to lighten the considerable load Lawrence was carrying, however. One day, while putting away some laundry, Margaret discovered two empty whisky bottles in his sock drawer.
    Worse, a letter arrived addressed to her from their previous landlady, Mrs Campion, demanding payment for the electricity, phone and cleaning bills, as well as the cost of the smashed electrical fire. The woman said she had spoken to Captain Rambo several times about the bills, and he had promised to pay them, but she had received nothing. So that’s why we had