For Better For Worse. Pam Weaver

       Two

      Annie Royal crept downstairs and into the kitchen. It was 6.30 a.m. and Henry would be up soon. She had laid the table the night before, so there wasn’t a lot to do. Today was his birthday and she was planning a little surprise. Tying her ash-blonde hair up with a scarf, she put an apron on over her nightdress.

      She loved her little house. It was the sort of home every girl dreamed of. Fairly near the centre of town, it had its own backyard and even a tiny front garden. She had a dining room and an upstairs bathroom with hot and cold running water. When they’d moved in, they had spent several happy weeks redecorating. All the dark greens and browns of yesterday were gone so that the house was light and airy. The country was still suffering hard times after the war so their furniture was utility, but it was clean and sturdy, and Henry promised that as soon as he got a raise, they would look for some more modern stuff like the furniture she’d shown him in her magazines.

      Their wedding had been a quiet affair. It wasn’t what she’d dreamed of but she tried not to mind too much. She had always wanted a big do with all of the family there, but when Henry had worked in her father’s jewellery shop they had fallen out over something. She’d tried to find out what had happened, but both men were too stubborn to say. Henry had tried to make it up to her as they’d planned their wedding almost a year ago. The registry office was full of flowers and the woman who cleaned the brasses on the front door and a passer-by had been their witnesses. All through the ceremony, which was breathtakingly short, Annie kept looking around, hoping that Mum and Father would come dashing in muttering apologies that their car had broken down or the bus was late or they’d missed the train, but it never happened.

      Of course, Henry could see how upset she was and he was kindness itself.

      ‘It’ll be all right, darling,’ he’d nuzzled in her ear. ‘Don’t let it spoil our special day,’ and his tender kisses helped to take some of the disappointment away. So long as she did what he told her, Henry was her hero, her knight in shining armour.

      Instead of a reception, they’d had a meal in a pretty restaurant. Somehow the people found out that they’d just got married (probably Henry’s doing again) and they’d made a huge fuss of them, giving them a free glass of wine each and handshakes all round. Annie blushed modestly and thought herself lucky or blessed or a mixture of both. Henry was light-haired, suave and sophisticated and, in her eyes, even better looking than Ronald Colman, the star he so much admired. He was so loving and caring as well. Her honeymoon nights spent right here in their own home were full of his lovemaking and her days packed with his kisses. He paid her compliments all the time and she was convinced that she would be the envy of all her friends if ever she got to tell them. Henry wasn’t one for visiting. He said he preferred them to spend their weekends by themselves, so she hadn’t seen anybody for ages. Still, it didn’t matter. Not really. She smiled to herself. Henry was so romantic, just like the film stars at the pictures. Whenever she and Henry went out, he was even mildly jealous when other men looked at her. She’d laugh gaily and tell him it was his own fault because he would keep buying her pretty dresses and scarves as well as things that were for his eyes only in the bedroom. Henry was exciting, passionate and all hers …

      When she’d written to tell her parents they were married, Mum wrote back protesting that they’d never received the invitation.

      ‘Of course they did,’ Henry had said crossly. ‘I posted it myself.’

      ‘I’ll pop over and see them,’ she’d said, but Henry didn’t feel it was wise.

      ‘Why ever not?’ she’d protested.

      ‘Leave it for a while,’ he’d counselled. ‘Let things settle down.’

      Annie was reluctant, but then her new husband had given her a wounded look and complained that everyone was ganging up on him, so she’d let it go.

      Annie had settled down to domesticity and looking after Henry. He wouldn’t hear of her getting a job. ‘No wife of mine will ever have to go out to work,’ he’d declared stoutly. It was fun at first, but she soon got bored.

      She had only been married for five months when she discovered she was pregnant. Henry was over the moon and did his best to treat her like a piece of delicate china.

      ‘I’m only pregnant,’ she’d laughed, ‘not ill.’

      Henry had screwed up his nose. ‘Don’t use that word, darling,’ he said. ‘It sounds so vulgar.’

      She was taken aback. ‘Then what …’

      ‘Say you’re in the family way,’ he said, kissing her ear. He was funny like that. Prudish over some things and yet such an accomplished lover in the bedroom. She supposed it might be because of his Rhodesian upbringing. Henry had come to this country as a boy to get an English education and for some reason far beyond Annie’s understanding, had never gone back.

      As soon as she heard Henry moving about upstairs, Annie put a pan of water on the gas stove and lit the flame underneath. She took the loaf out of the breadbin and unwrapped it. She always kept it covered with a damp tea towel to keep it fresh. Her neighbour, Mrs Holborn, had given her that useful tip. All she had to do now was make the tea.

      Annie had met Henry just over a year ago. He didn’t talk much about his past or his wartime experiences because he had been captured in the early days and spent almost all of the war years as a POW. He was a lot older than her. She was eighteen and he was thirty-six today. She’d adored him from the start, but her father, who had taken Henry on in the jewellers’ shop, had been more cautious.

      ‘He’s deep that one,’ Father had said. ‘He may be a good worker, but we don’t really know much about him.’

      Of course, her parents were concerned because their courtship had been so short. ‘All I know is that I love him and he loves me,’ Annie had said stoutly, and now that Henry was her husband and she was expecting his baby, she had high hopes that Henry and her father would make friends again.

      ‘I know Father can be difficult,’ she’d pleaded with Henry, ‘but please try and like him just a little bit.’

      ‘I do, darling,’ Henry protested. ‘Really I do, but the man is impossible.’

      She sighed. Perhaps he was right. She’d written to her parents several times, but they’d never replied.

      She could hear Henry coming out of the bathroom, so she put the eggs into the boiling water and two slices of bread under the grill.

      ‘What are you doing up so early?’ he asked as he walked into the kitchen.

      She indicated his chair and he sat down. Putting her arms around his shoulders, she kissed the top of his head. ‘Two boiled eggs, three minutes, just as you like them, coming up,’ she said, putting the toast and butter in front