Seasons of Love by Anna Jacobs Page B

last.
    Red-eyed for lack of sleep, she struggled through an interminable series of days and nights which blurred into one another.
    She was near collapse herself by the time her husband began to recover, but she dared not give in to her weariness, for fear Harry would suffer.
    As Robert improved, he grew more querulous.
    ‘That damned baby never stops crying.’ He scowled at Harry.
    Helen picked him up and shushed him, rocking him until he was asleep.
    When she served some oat gruel, Robert flicked her hand with one fingertip and grimaced. ‘Your hands are all red and cracked. You look like a kitchen maid.’
    When she brought him more gruel later in the day, he pushed the spoon away. ‘Why do you feed me this slop? I need some proper food if I’m to get well enough to work.’
    At that her patience snapped and she turned on him. ‘Shut up, shut up, shut up! Don’t you dare complain to me!’
    Someone thumped on the floor above them.
    She spoke more quietly, but the tone of her voice was still anguished. ‘You're worse than a baby!
    Lying there complaining! If you want better food, then give me some money to buy it, for I can afford nothing else. You won't eat well till you go out and earn something. I've nothing left -
    nothing! - and you haven't even got a job to go on to! The company's changed hands.’ She gasped and clapped her hand to her mouth. She had intended to wait until he was nearly recovered before telling him this.
    ‘Closed down! Why didn't you tell me before?’
    ‘You were too ill. I thought - I thought you were going to die.’ She fumbled her way round the bed, collapsed upon it next to him and buried her head in the pillow. ‘And I can't take any more, I can't.’
    He realised matters were serious and tried to pull himself together. Her sobbing penetrated his awareness, so he patted her heaving shoulders and kept murmuring, ‘It'll be all right. We'll come about. You'll see. I'm definitely getting better now.’
    Gradually her sobs stopped and her breathing deepened. Mercifully the baby had fallen asleep too. Robert lay there and thought things over. So he'd been that ill, eh? Like to die. Good thing he'd had her to look after him, then. He owed her something for that. He eased himself off the bed. Helen didn't wake, only rolled over and muttered in her sleep. There was little sign of beauty about her now. She was stick-thin, and her eyes had dark circles round them. Even her hair looked dull and lifeless. That's what marriage did to people, he thought grimly, took all the fun out of life. Gave them responsibilities they didn't want. He scowled at the sleeping baby. Stupid things, babies!
    On legs that felt nearly boneless, he staggered over to the fly-specked mirror above the fireplace and studied his face. He looked even worse than she did. Not much sign of his good looks now. And he wouldn't get another acting job till he looked right again. He knew that as well as anyone. He had few illusions about his own acting capacities.
    Feeling a sort of greasy nausea after even that minor exertion, he tottered back to the bed and flopped down on it. Look at him, couldn't even walk across the room! He’d definitely be dead if it wasn’t for her. At that moment began a conviction that was to last him the rest of his life, a conviction that with Helen to look after him, he could survive anything. She was - dash it, she really was - a sort of lucky piece for him. And she still had her money. Forty pounds wasn’t much, but it was steady.
    The next day, Robert began a deliberate programme of self help. He got up several times to walk round the room, and sat for a while in a chair by the window, where he could get a bit of sun on his face. He always felt better when the sun shone.
    ‘Here,’ he said later. ‘You’d better go and pawn my signet ring.’ He always kept it as a last resort, and considered it another lucky piece, for he had never yet failed to win it back again. ‘And for heaven’s