Annie and Harry passed like ships in the night.
He still found time to dandle the baby on his knee but what with the factory and his duties with the ARP, they were barely spending any time together as a family.
Anita was nearly five months old now, able to hold her head up well and stare at people with such a direct gaze, she seemed to look right into their souls. Harry doted on her; he still insisted on Annie and the baby sleeping down at Grove Road as much as possible because of the bombing.
Bill had spent ages out in the back garden making the Anderson shelter cosier for the winter. He’d made bunk beds, using wire and some planks of wood from one of the timber yards down in South Acton. The whole project seemed to have involved a lot of splinters and a fair amount of swearing.
Annie had sewn the siren suit for Elsie out of an old blanket, just as she’d promised, and Elsie had taken to sleeping in it most nights; what’s more, with no Ivy kicking her in the shins, she could make the most of having a bed to herself again.
When Harry had rest days from his ARP work, they’d stay up at their flat on Allison Road, even though it meant a sprint over the road to the public air-raid shelter in Springfield Gardens when the siren went. It was either that or hiding out under the kitchen table and praying to God that they wouldn’t take a direct hit. She’d started calling that dreaded siren the ‘Moaning Minnie’ and the shelter was ‘the bunker’. She hated that place – it was dank and sometimes the people in there got a bit rowdy, especially if they’d been down the pub first. No one wanted to have to bring their baby into that kind of atmosphere, but it really was a matter of life and death and it wasn’t as bad as some of the other shelters, which were so waterlogged you needed your wellies or you’d be up to your ankles in it.
She was hoping that tonight would be different, and the bombers wouldn’t come over, so they’d get a quiet night in together. She’d made a little stew, carefully dicing the veg and seasoning it just as he liked it. But Harry didn’t come home for his tea after work as they had planned. The hours ticked by and she busied herself, ironing the baby’s clothes, cleaning the kitchen floor, and doing some knitting for winter. By eleven o’clock, she’d sorted through all her clothes drawers and hung all Harry’s work shirts, nice and tidily, back in the wardrobe, trying to ignore a knot of worry that was building in her stomach.
She heard the front door open and bang shut, his footfall down the hallway, and then the scullery door swung open and Harry appeared. His tie and collar were undone and he had a ciggie dangling from his lips as he swayed slightly in the doorway.
‘Harry!’ Annie chided, standing up. ‘Have you been on the sauce?’
‘Can’t a man have a drink?’ he said crossly, glaring at her. He turned his back on her and stalked away to the bedroom, pulling the door shut behind him.
Annie sat back down. His evening paper lay folded in its usual place on the table, waiting for him, but he didn’t return. She sighed to herself and heated up some stew on the stove, taking him in a plate of it as a peace offering.
He was lying on the bed, fully clothed and with his shoes still on, staring at the ceiling.
‘I’m sorry,’ she began, going to his side and putting the plate down on the bedside table. ‘You’re working so hard, I didn’t mean to say you couldn’t go for a drink. Of course you can.’
He looked up at her and in an instant, his eyes filled with tears and then he started to sob, his shoulders heaving as his face crumpled. ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry!’
‘Harry,’ said Annie, reaching out to him. ‘What’s wrong?’
He sat up, grasping her waist, and pulled her to him, burying his face in her apron. ‘I just wanted to forget, just for one night. That’s not too much to ask, is it?’
Carefully, she laid her hands on his back and started to stroke downwards, just as she did with the baby when she was crying. ‘What is it?’ she said. ‘What is it you want to forget?’
‘Everything,’ he replied, turning away from her.
It was pitch black when Harry sat bolt upright in bed, his eyes wide open, and screamed. Annie shook him. ‘Harry! Harry! It’s all right, it’s just a dream.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said, lying back down. ‘I’m sorry.’
He turned over on his side, facing the wall, as he always did. Annie reached out to touch him, but he brushed her hand aside. ‘Leave me be now, Kitty. What’s done is done.’
Annie felt tears sting her eyes.
‘My name’s Annie,’ she whispered into the blackness enveloping her. ‘I’m Annie. And I’m your wife.’