Pam Weaver - For Better For Worse

‘Three weeks,’ said the woman.

Annie stayed rooted to the spot. Three weeks? Henry would be stuck in jail for three weeks when he hadn’t done anything? ‘So what do I do now?’ said Annie, more to herself than to anyone else.

‘You can visit him once he’s been transferred,’ said the woman. ‘You don’t have to apply for a permit for prisoners on remand. Next.’

‘Thank you,’ said Annie faintly. She moved out of the way and the man shuffled forward again.

‘If you want my advice,’ the receptionist muttered, ‘you’ll choose your friends more carefully next time.’

Annie felt her face flame and she turned on her heel. ‘Well, nobody asked you for your advice so I’ll thank you to keep your opinions to yourself,’ she snapped.

The woman looked deeply offended, but with head held high, Annie walked back to the door, ignoring another person in the queue muttering a breathy, ‘Well, really …’

In desperate need of refreshment, Annie wandered into the café next door. She felt a bit guilty being so rude to the woman in the town hall, but how dare she judge her. Henry was innocent, and even if he was caught up in something, she wasn’t going to be a doormat, nor the brunt of other people’s ill-informed opinions. Sitting in the window seat and watching people going about their normal business had a calming effect. She had resisted having a quiet cry all morning and when at times her hands had a visible tremor, she’d made a point of gripping her handbag on what was left of her lap so that no one would see how upset she was. She wasn’t about to let that silly old cow in the town hall reduce her to tears now. The waitress put the teapot in front of her and the rattling teacup and saucer brought her back to the here and now.

‘Nice day,’ the waitress remarked.

Annie managed a thin smile and her mouth said, ‘Yes, yes it is,’ and at the same time thinking, well, it may be for you but my world is falling apart …

Left to her tea and her own thoughts, Annie wondered about little Jenny and her mother. Henry had insisted it was all trickery, but the child had seemed genuinely upset. What sort of a mother would expose her child to such an awful scene? If she had something against Henry, why didn’t she confront him when they were on their own? What the woman said couldn’t possibly be true, and yet the magistrates had believed her story. They must have done if Henry was to be sent for trial. Annie’s eyes drifted towards the newsagent across the road and in particular the billboard outside. What if the newspapers got hold of the story? She shuddered at the thought of being the object of shame and gossip and gripped her cup with both hands to stop them shaking the tea onto the tablecloth as she pictured herself trying to dodge the reporters in the same way people did on the Pathé newsreels.

And what about Henry? This could ruin him. For the first time since it happened, Annie suddenly remembered his job. She would have to tell them where he was, but how could she? Once they knew he was in Lewes prison, he’d get the sack. He had already lost his freedom, and if she let him lose his job, he would be totally humiliated. It was grossly unfair. She couldn’t let it happen. As soon as she’d finished her tea, she would go round to the jeweller’s shop in the High Street where Henry worked now and make some excuse. But what on earth would she say? She could explain away a day or two with a bad cold or a hacking cough, but three weeks? Think, she told her jumbled brain, think carefully and logically. Rhodesia. He’d told her that he’d grown up in Rhodesia. She knew that much anyway. It was only as the detective asked her questions that she realised how little she knew about him. Did he have brothers and sisters? She didn’t know. Where was he educated? She hadn’t a clue. She’d told the policeman that Henry had been a POW during the war but when he’d pressed her on that one, she had no idea where he’d been. She’d never thought to ask and she’d never really realised before that even if she did mention something about his past, Henry always changed the subject. The policeman had exposed her lack of knowledge and she’d felt such a fool, but she’d made up her mind that as soon as Henry was back home, she’d make a point of finding out everything she could.

But for now what was she going to tell the people where Henry worked? If she couldn’t tell the truth, she’d have to make something up. What if someone out there, his mother or his brother, had sent for him? His father was dying … yes, that was it. She would tell them that his father was dying in far-off Rhodesia and that his mother had sent for him. He’d gone at once and he’d be back in three weeks. Of course he didn’t have the plane fare and there was no question of waiting to save up, so they’d sent the plane ticket by wire from Rhodesia. What with all the changes, it took four or five days to fly out there which was why he needed to go at once and why it would take at least three weeks to sort everything out. She drained the last vestige of her tea and took a deep breath. She was no good at lying. Her parents always knew when she wasn’t telling the truth. She thought back to 1940 and the last time she’d been with Ellen Slattery shortly before she was killed. They were both ten and supposed to be going to GFS after school. The Girls’ Friendly Society was fun, but Ellen had persuaded her to play Kiss Chase with the boys instead. They’d had a great time and when it was time to go home, they’d synchronised their stories. Ellen got away with it, but somehow Father had known that Annie was lying. If she closed her eyes she could still feel the unbearable sting of his wide hand as it met the tops of her bare legs. She’d been sent to bed with no tea and spent the next few days pulling her dress down to hide the bruise marks from his fingers, which were still clearly visible. This time she had to get her story right if the people Henry worked for were to believe her.

*

Sarah was going through the motions. She’d got the children up and Jenny to school, but she kept away from her sister. She was still annoyed with Vera that she had refused to have Jenny and Lu-Lu for a bit and she certainly didn’t want to have to talk about what had happened in Horsham. She did her shift in the pub, which was particularly unpleasant that day because someone had been sick in the gents, and then a little shopping. She avoided Mrs Angel’s shop because she couldn’t face putting what happened yesterday into words there either. She tried not to, but she couldn’t help wondering what Henry was doing now. She hoped his cell was freezing cold and that they’d taken away all his clothes. She hoped his bed was made of rusty nails and that he had rats for company. Of course, in this day and age that was impossible, she told herself, but she wished for it all the same. The puzzling thing was, why had the police arrested him? If only she had stayed outside the back door a bit longer, then she might have heard.

Where did she go from here? She should jolly well make Henry pay for his children’s upkeep, but how did she go about it? Besides, if she flagged herself up to the welfare people, they might decide to take the kids away from her and if that happened, she couldn’t go on. Without Jenny and Lu-Lu, she might as well be dead. She had no money for solicitors and the like, so she was in a cleft stick.

Before picking Jenny up from school, Sarah went to the phone box to look in the dog-eared Directory Enquiries book for the number of the Horsham police station. Then she lifted the receiver and asked the operator to connect her. Once she had pushed the money in the slot and the operator told her she was connected, she pressed button B and heard a gruff voice saying, ‘Horsham Police. Desk Sergeant.’