Caryl Phillips - Crossing the River

Len came back today. He told me that he still loves me. He’d had time to think things over. I might not realize it yet, but the truth was that in spite of everything, he couldn’t help himself, he loved me. I liked that. In spite of everything. Bloody charming. That made me feel really wanted. But I didn’t say anything. I just looked at him standing in front of me, looking around his kingdom. He didn’t have to say anything. I knew what he was thinking. I knew what he felt about me being in his place. But I wasn’t going anywhere. He could look all he wanted to, but this was also my place now. He wanted to say something. I wanted him to say it. But he said nothing. So I spoke. Len, I said. I don’t want to live with you as man and wife. What do you mean? His look said that. Nothing else. Just, what do you mean? I mean, one of us will be sleeping on the settee in future. I don’t really mind who. I don’t care. Len sat down. In fact, he half sat, half collapsed. Then he began. I hear there’s talk about you and an American. I knew there would be talk. In fact — I shouldn’t say this — I had been hoping that Len might find out. I knew it was cruel. But what could I do? It’s how I felt. I was hoping that I wouldn’t have to find some awkward way of telling him. Yes, I’ve got a friend, I said. Now it was my turn to sit. I faced him, and passed him the torch of conversation. He could say whatever he wanted to say. And so he did. I don’t think you should have friends like that. It makes a bloody fool out of me. I laughed. And getting put inside. Getting yourself carted off to jail doesn’t make me look like a bloody fool, is that it? Len stood up. He pushed his finger into my face. He jabbed at me to punctuate his sentences. You won’t see him, or any of ‘em. You won’t go to town, to the pub, have them in here, talk to them, nothing, as long as I’m here. I’d never have married you, or taken you out of that bloody slum, if I’d known you were going to behave like a slut. Now am I making myself clear? Yes, Len, I say. You’re making yourself perfectly clear. But I won’t have any of it. It’s not for me to say what you do, any more than it is for you to talk to me in this way. His poor jaw dropped. I’m your bloody husband. Yes, I said. You’re my bloody husband. In name only. His fist caught me across the left side of my face. I could feel the swelling right away. As though somebody was puffing up my face like a balloon. And then he kicked me in the stomach and I doubled up. I’m your bloody husband whether you like it or not. Not in name, you slut. In fact. In law and in fact. Now, like I told you. We’re leaving. I’ve got work north of here. We’re selling the shop. It’s half mine, I gasped. And we’re not selling. I didn’t see why I should have to bother with this conversation. So I said nothing further. We’re leaving, said Len. I remained silent. Do you hear? A piece of coal fell, and for a few seconds the fire blazed as the unburned coal caught. It made a crackling, definite noise. We both stared at the fire. For a moment we were caught by its performance. Then we looked at each other. I knew he wouldn’t touch me again. He’d made his point. And then there was the shame. I suspect there’s always a certain amount of shame involved for all men. After they’ve thrown the punch. They look and see you cowering. And the thought crosses their mind that perhaps they ought not to have done this. That perhaps this is not a proper way to hold a conversation. They’re sorry. It’s pitiful. I looked at him and dared him to continue to talk to me. I dared him to hit me again. But he wouldn’t. I knew this, but I taunted him with my silence until he left for the pub.

Half an hour after he left, it became clear to me what I should do. I pulled on my coat. I was in a hurry. I closed in the door behind me and began to walk briskly towards the pub. I looked up. The moon was wrapped in a thick and heavy fog, and I was cold so I started to run. It was Friday night and I was sure that they would all be there. I was sure of it. I opened the door to the pub and all eyes were on me. I walked in and stopped. The place was full. My heart was pounding away and I couldn’t catch my breath. Len saw me. He frowned. He might as well just look on, I thought, because I’m in the pub and I’m not going anywhere. He was sitting in the corner with his friends. So I went over and sat next to him. I think he must have already realized that the strange man in the pub was my husband. But he didn’t do anything. Except reach up and touch my face. What happened? I didn’t say anything. I just looked across at Len. Why? Now I looked back at Travis. His friends fired questions. Her old man beat her up? Because of you, man? They tried to ask without making things uncomfortable for me. Then they remembered. One of them asked me if I’d like a drink. Like a drink, Joyce? I don’t think I do. This is what I said. That I didn’t think I did, thank you. And so I waited for a while. But I could see that I was making them uneasy. I got up and decided to go. Travis stood and said that he would walk with me. No, I said. Again I glanced purposefully at the husband. Then I left. Before I did so, I touched his hand. I just wanted you to know. These were my parting words. But know what? I thought.

Len was drunk. That’s not something I have to remember. Len was usually drunk. His arms and legs were moving at the same time. Like a machine. He made big circles and small circles. And like a machine Len struck every time. And then suddenly he was there, pulling Len away. He knocked him down with a punch. I watched Len’s mouth open and close, and these words. These ugly words coming from my husband. Len climbed to his feet, but again he was knocked to the ground. And then two more soldiers. His friends. They were trying to hold back the man who had rescued me. They were saying, no. Enough. Travis was holding Len by the throat. Len had fear in his eyes. Travis told him that if he ever laid a finger on me again, then he would be found somewhere in a ditch with an American bullet in him. Len had to be brave, so he continued to spit out his ugly words. But it was not really bravery. He just wanted to look brave. That was Len. But he wouldn’t say anything to me. He didn’t care enough about me to actually say anything to me. My friend. He is my friend. Maybe he cares too much. I didn’t feel I deserved this. To be rescued like this. Truly. To me it seemed strange.

Len has gone to his new job in the north. He’s said I can have the divorce. No point in squabbling about it. He reckons we should be able to get a special quick one, what with him having a record and everything. In the meantime, I’m to run the shop. He asked me if I would. I said yes. After the war he says he’ll come back. If I decide to leave before the war’s over, I’m to let him know. He’ll sell the shop. But meanwhile he gets a share of the profits. That’s Len’s way. There’s always something in it for him. Before he left he told me that I’m a traitor to my own kind. That as far as he’s concerned I’m no better than a common slut. And everybody in the village agrees with him.

Today I checked to make sure. I was right. Pregnant women get extra concentrated orange juice. An extra pint of milk a day. An extra half-ration of meat a week. An extra egg (up to three a week). Free cod-liver oil. Free chocolate-covered vitamin tablets. And a baby.

Today’s the day that everyone’s been waiting for, but it’s all confused. It’s over, but it’s not official. We know now that there will be no more sirens, searchlights, or blackouts. But somebody has to make it official. I spent the whole evening looking out of the window. At about ten o’clock, people began to give up and drift back inside. The street party will have to wait. Greer slept through all the excitement. Up above, the light, damp clouds have now begun to swell. It will bucket down all night.