Agnes

I couldn't understand why there was no letter. My hopes rose each
morning when I did, rose higher as I heard the postman's footsteps
echoing on our stairs, then descended with a thump into the pit of my
stomach as he walked past and stopped at the next door. His cheerful
voice offended my ears, and I felt an unreasonable spurt of anger
towards him - as long as I could hold on to my anger I did not have to
recognise my fears.

I was becoming anxious - was he ill? He hadn't given me a telephone
number; probably didn't have one in a rented room. I had no other way
to contact him - and Birmingham was so far away. I had very little
money of my own, and the child moving inside me would make such a long
bus journey difficult anyway???
And I could come up with no reasonable excuse to give to James for my
absence; not when my daily outings extended no further than the few
local shops.

But why was there no letter? Apart from that first brief missive giving
me his address I had heard nothing, in spite of my daily outpourings to
him. My bag was packed in readiness and hidden at the back of the
wardrobe: I was ready to leave at a moment's notice; to answer the call
of my dearest friend.

I walked on eggshells, rarely able to spend time alone. At least the
passing days meant that some of the latest bruises were fading, and the
scratches on my neck did not look so red and angry - harder to hide the
cigarette burn on my cheek, which just didn't want to heal. He was
anxious about that was James, and made wear high, winding scarves any
time I left the house. James had been out of work for some time. He was
a clever, capable man, with a golden smile and a silver tongue; he
could have gained employment with very little effort. He preferred to
stay at home with me, watching me, brooding - until something I said
would ignite his anger???..The only peace I had was my two early
morning hours cleaning at the bus depot. The work was dirty and
unpleasant, but meant that I could hide a little of the money I earned
- and have 120 minutes of blissful escape.

I don't know when it went wrong with James; almost right from the start
really. My sheltered upbringing meant that I spent my teenage years in
books and dreams, and left me unprepared for reality. We met at the
local amateur theatre company, which was where I spent my happiest
hours. James was charming: popular - I felt privileged when he singled
me out for attention.

War had come to us, and in those dark days of fear and loss, I lived
for my time spent rehearsing in "The Engine Shed". I loved the
brightness of the laughter, the colours of the costumes, the way we
were able to make so much out of so little. They all told me I was
good; I dreamed of being even better. I suppose acting is a way of
hiding: behind the mask of my character I was strong and brave, funny
and sentimental. Wartime theatre had a poignancy that seemed to have
echoes in me, and I felt the power of taking the audience along with
me. The theatre was always packed. It was cheap to get in, and for a
couple of hours the audience saw the world as a better place. They
laughed loudly, they wept - but most of all they escaped.

As soon as we were married James jealousies became obvious - he was
unhappy with me out of his sight, and seemed to disapprove most of all
of my acting. I suspect he felt that on the stage I could not be
reached, could not be controlled by him. It was not long before an
'accident' kept me away from The Engine Shed. I missed it painfully,
but at that time James held the purse strings and made me well aware
that, if he provided, then it was my duty to stay at home. I hated
myself for my feebleness, but my nerves were in tatters, and my health
had become poor. My restricted life meant that I had few friends to
confide in, and it just seemed easier to give in.

Most of all James hated my knowledge that he was a coward, and he
regularly brought up the subject of his escape from recruitment, daring
me to put my feelings in to words. I was bitterly ashamed of my
actions. Early in our marriage, when James' call-up papers came through
the door, he begged me to help him. I used all my articulate powers in
that letter, but when the reply came back to say that he would not be
suitable for active service, I despised him - and he knew it. As I
listened to him making up some slick and even funny story as to why he
was not a soldier, I was aware of his eyes boring into me, challenging
me to speak. I never did, but my battles to remain silent left me
sickened both with myself and with him.

I met Michael when he was billeted in a neighbour's house. I noticed
him one morning walking down to the corner shop for his cigarettes. He
was broad and dark, and had a very ordinary face, but he smiled at me,
and it seemed so long since anyone had done that. We got into
conversation, and over the weeks I learned some of the true hardships
of a soldier in wartime. I heard how his own country had become
occupied, and how he and a small group of friends had fled rather than
live under oppression. They had trekked hundreds of miles, living on
their wits, and sometimes without food or even boots. Good fortune took
them to a boat, and Michael told me that one of the happiest moments of
his life was when the shoreline of Britain came into view.

I was drawn to Michael: compared with James and his cowardice, he
seemed to me brave and strong. He had beautiful eyes, and a way of
looking at me that made me feel interesting - as opposed to young and
trammelled with life as I was. He was so easy to talk to, and soon I
found myself telling him about James.

It was so easy to take the next step: blackout became our best friend,
and a small derelict house not far away our haven. I saw his eyes
darken as he discovered the bruises on my body, but in his company I
was unaware of any damage, only a depth and warmth in my life that had
never existed before. When he touched me, my body sang in
response.

He said to me, "Whatever happens, promise me that you will always be my
friend." It seemed a strange request. How could I ever know life
without him now? I promised readily enough.

However much I tried to hide my surging happiness, James became aware
that I was secretly stronger, somehow more confident. This knowledge
sent him into blind rages, and my life with him became even more
difficult. I knew that if he ever found out about Michael I would be in
serious danger; but it was Michael who kept me alive, Michael who
helped me to cope, Michael who made it possible for me to go back there
each day, who made me feel good and clean and beautiful. I could not
give him up.

War came to an end with all the noise and passion of a people free to
live in the sun again. Many lives were changed, many were forced to
count the cost of their losses, but the mood in the country was
buoyant, hopeful.

Only I lived in fear: fear that Michael would tell me he would be off
soon, back to his own land. My heart soared when he told me that he had
no desire to return, and so together we felt free to make our plans. It
was getting harder and harder to get away from James now, but my sense
of urgency made me take greater risks. Michael would move to a city,
find work and a home, and I would join him there. For the first time in
my life I dared to hope: hope that there could be a future for us, hope
that life really could contain a promise of happiness for me.

By now, I knew about the child. My heart leapt with joy at the
discovery, but I also recognised that time was short. I could not keep
my thickening waistline a secret for much longer, and I feared for my
child's safety - and my own - if James discovered the truth. Michael
was delighted about our child, but I sensed an uneasiness, a desire to
change the way of things. I knew this desire was based in an anxiety
for us and our future, and so I did not worry.

As a skilled engineer in post-war Britain, Michael felt he could secure
work easily in one of the larger cities, and so he made his
preparations to go to Birmingham. My heart was heavy as I watched the
train leave, and I knew that the next few weeks would be the hardest of
all????..

When I heard the scuffle of the letter landing in our hallway, my heart
began to batter wildly in my breast with the conviction that here at
last was my answer. For once James was out, so I had no need to hide
the evidence. The postmark on the cheap brown envelope was Birmingham,
but the handwriting looked unfamiliar. My heart lurched - he was ill
after all.

"Dear Mrs Anderson,
Michael is my friend now - he asked me to let you know. Please do not
write to him again."

The short letter was signed, "Eva".

When I stirred from the chair, several hours had passed. My body felt
numb, my movements sluggish and confused. The child kicked, unaware of
how dramatically its future had just changed. The movement seemed to
waken me, urge me back to life, tell me what I must do.

I could not go to Michael: that much was certain. I could not hide my
pregnancy from James for much longer: that too was certain. I could not
run away - I had nowhere to go, and not enough money to support the
child. With cold, hard clarity I knew what I had to do.

With shaking hands I boiled the kettle and made some tea - I knew I had
to be calm when James came home. I unpacked my bag, restored each small
piece of hope back to shabby reality. I heard the click of the latch,
drew a deep breath and painted a smile on my face. My husband was home,
and I was about to give the acting performance of a lifetime.