squinting. (Soon, she will be able to read only through round-framed National Health glasses, which will make her look owlish and somewhat foolish.)
“Whas this mean, George?”
“It means, Missus Ackroyd, that in three months we are going to be out of this dump. That we’ll have a place of our own.”
“You put us down for a council house?”
“Damn right I did. That’s the least we deserve.”
“Whyever dint yer say nothun?”
George shrugged. “There’s a waiting list. It might’ve been years. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ruth sat down. “Bloody hell, George.”
He grinned at her.
“Where’s 11 Lovelace Road, anyhow?”
“The Millfields estate. Off the Aylsham road.”
“What, in Borstead?”
“Of course in ruddy Borstead. You noticed a new council estate in Bratton Morley?”
She gaped at him. “You expect us to move to Borstead?”
He put his cup down. “No. I don’t expect. There’s no expecting about it, Ruth. There’s a nice new house waiting for us. It’ll be ours from September, and we’re going to go and live in it. I thought you might be pleased, to be honest.”
“Well, I . . . Thas all a bit sudden, George, is all. I dunt know what mother’ll make of it.”
“It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Of course that is, George. She’re lived here all her life.”
He smiled hugely. His mustache stretched itself toward his ears.
“Well,” he said, “she can live here the rest of it an’ all, as far as I’m concerned. If you take another look at that letter, you might see that 11 Lovelace Road is down for Mr. George Ackroyd and his dependents. Who are, if I remember correctly, Mrs. Ruth Ackroyd and Master Clement Ackroyd. No mention of a Mrs. Win Little.”
“George, you can’t mean . . .”
He finished his tea and stood up.
“George, we can’t leave mother here all on her own.”
“Why the hell not? Listen, it’ll be the happiest day of her life when I walk out of that door for good. She’ll hang flags out. Mind you, she’ll miss having me to bitch about.”
“George!”
Clem had turned to watch them, licking his spoon. Ruth saw and rolled her eyes at George, who understood. He took the letter from her, folded it, and put it in his overall pocket. He went and sat on the step next to his son, ruffling the boy’s hair. He laced up his work boots and then, whistling, walked down the garden path. At the decrepit shed he stopped and studied it as if it were a man improperly dressed on parade. Smiling, he stepped forward and kicked the door until it was reduced to kindling.
Clem, thrilled and frightened, turned to his mother. “Whas Dad doing that for, Mum?”
In stolen moments and in muted voices, Ruth and George argued throughout that summer. George, most of the time, maintained a dogged, bland resolve. But on a Saturday night in early August, he lost his temper. They were at the end of the garden, splashed by the moonlight spilling through the elms. He aimed his finger at her face.
“Listen,” he said, “this is bloody stupid. This is our chance to have a life. I didn’t fight a war to live with your ruddy mother. I didn’t marry you to live with your ruddy mother. I was in charge of men who died, in case you’ve forgotten. What I went through you can’t even imagine. And I end up back home being treated like something she trod in. I won’t have it, Ruth. I won’t sodding have it, you hear me? You and me and Clem are going to have a life of our own whether you like it or not. And that’s an end to it.”
“Thas all very well for you to say, George, but she’s my mother. I can’t just —”
He’d heard it all before and couldn’t bear it again, so he hit her. He slapped her face. The sound was a wet plop. She turned her face away and stared down for several seconds, as if she were inspecting the rows of vegetables close to her feet.
“Ruthie,” George said. “I . . .”
Then she looked up, her eyes silvered by tears, and
“Whas this mean, George?”
“It means, Missus Ackroyd, that in three months we are going to be out of this dump. That we’ll have a place of our own.”
“You put us down for a council house?”
“Damn right I did. That’s the least we deserve.”
“Whyever dint yer say nothun?”
George shrugged. “There’s a waiting list. It might’ve been years. I didn’t want to get your hopes up.”
Ruth sat down. “Bloody hell, George.”
He grinned at her.
“Where’s 11 Lovelace Road, anyhow?”
“The Millfields estate. Off the Aylsham road.”
“What, in Borstead?”
“Of course in ruddy Borstead. You noticed a new council estate in Bratton Morley?”
She gaped at him. “You expect us to move to Borstead?”
He put his cup down. “No. I don’t expect. There’s no expecting about it, Ruth. There’s a nice new house waiting for us. It’ll be ours from September, and we’re going to go and live in it. I thought you might be pleased, to be honest.”
“Well, I . . . Thas all a bit sudden, George, is all. I dunt know what mother’ll make of it.”
“It’s nothing to do with her.”
“Of course that is, George. She’re lived here all her life.”
He smiled hugely. His mustache stretched itself toward his ears.
“Well,” he said, “she can live here the rest of it an’ all, as far as I’m concerned. If you take another look at that letter, you might see that 11 Lovelace Road is down for Mr. George Ackroyd and his dependents. Who are, if I remember correctly, Mrs. Ruth Ackroyd and Master Clement Ackroyd. No mention of a Mrs. Win Little.”
“George, you can’t mean . . .”
He finished his tea and stood up.
“George, we can’t leave mother here all on her own.”
“Why the hell not? Listen, it’ll be the happiest day of her life when I walk out of that door for good. She’ll hang flags out. Mind you, she’ll miss having me to bitch about.”
“George!”
Clem had turned to watch them, licking his spoon. Ruth saw and rolled her eyes at George, who understood. He took the letter from her, folded it, and put it in his overall pocket. He went and sat on the step next to his son, ruffling the boy’s hair. He laced up his work boots and then, whistling, walked down the garden path. At the decrepit shed he stopped and studied it as if it were a man improperly dressed on parade. Smiling, he stepped forward and kicked the door until it was reduced to kindling.
Clem, thrilled and frightened, turned to his mother. “Whas Dad doing that for, Mum?”
In stolen moments and in muted voices, Ruth and George argued throughout that summer. George, most of the time, maintained a dogged, bland resolve. But on a Saturday night in early August, he lost his temper. They were at the end of the garden, splashed by the moonlight spilling through the elms. He aimed his finger at her face.
“Listen,” he said, “this is bloody stupid. This is our chance to have a life. I didn’t fight a war to live with your ruddy mother. I didn’t marry you to live with your ruddy mother. I was in charge of men who died, in case you’ve forgotten. What I went through you can’t even imagine. And I end up back home being treated like something she trod in. I won’t have it, Ruth. I won’t sodding have it, you hear me? You and me and Clem are going to have a life of our own whether you like it or not. And that’s an end to it.”
“Thas all very well for you to say, George, but she’s my mother. I can’t just —”
He’d heard it all before and couldn’t bear it again, so he hit her. He slapped her face. The sound was a wet plop. She turned her face away and stared down for several seconds, as if she were inspecting the rows of vegetables close to her feet.
“Ruthie,” George said. “I . . .”
Then she looked up, her eyes silvered by tears, and
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