Alice feels tears welling, but she must not cry. She stares at her husband, Jack, sucking on his pipe and chuckling at the comedian’s jokes on the twelve-inch monochrome TV. His scalp is flaky. His cheeks are blotched red. Tufts of grey hair stick out between his ears and the arms of his glasses.
He turns to her, puts his hands on hers and smiles.
“A cup of tea, miss?” he asks and gets to his feet with a groan.
In the kitchen, the kettle hisses. She chews her nails, squeezes her handkerchief and looks at her son Bert smiling from a photo frame, smart in his army beret and uniform. The smile seems forced. He hated national service, hated taking orders, complained incessantly and was often confined to quarters. But Jack has always been proud of him, calling him a free spirit–said he wished he’d had his lad’s independent will.
She bites her lip hard and forces herself to look at their wedding photograph on the wall. It’s 1918, Jack’s still in his sapper’s uniform, a wound stripe on his arm, but she can’t recall him ever complaining. After their wedding, he’d worked nights at the copper factory for a wage they’d reduced again, but he said it was better than the dole queue. At dawn, he’d come home to the smell of bacon, exhausted but smiling, and head for bed soon after.
On the TV, the comedian is singing with a top hat and cane, but she’s remembering Jack trudging down the lane in overalls in the evening gloom. She recalls the back door creaking as Jack’s father entered, glancing over his shoulder. He’d stand in the kitchen, still the dapper Edwardian gentleman, the genial village entrepreneur, stroking his moustache and looking her up and down. She’d want to tell him about her day and hear the latest gossip. But he’d sigh and dismiss her with: “I’ve told you before, Alice, nothing ever happens around here.”
Only once had she thought, I can’t, I won’t, but then she’d think of the scrimping, the washing, the cleaning, the boredom, the loneliness. He’d move towards her and touch her waist. She’d smell the tobacco on his breath, pull him closer, and squeeze his shoulders. She’d offer him a drink knowing he’d refuse. And then she’d tiptoe to the bedroom, the one that Jack had just vacated, to check the curtains were still drawn and that Jack had made the bed. He always had.
It was always over quickly. He’d have a coughing fit, then leave with barely a word. A few months later, he didn’t want to speak to her at all.
Jack returns carrying the tea. He glances at the TV. His hands shake, and the cups clink on their saucers. One sugar for her, two for him; he never gets it wrong.
He hasn’t noticed she’s been crying. She wants to take his hand, bury her head against his chest. Tell him he’s a good man. Tell him he deserved better. But she stays seated.
He looks towards Bert’s photograph.
“Not long before our lad gets back from holiday,” he smiles. “With luck we’ll see him at the weekend.”
She hides her eyes behind her handkerchief, her shoulders trembling. Jack’s smile turns to a puzzled frown.
The credits are rolling on the TV, but her sobs drown out the surging applause.
~ Paul Goodwin