The Soldier's Bride by Maggie Ford

tea, a futile token of comfort but all she could think of, found him curled up under the coverlet, keeping to his own side of the double bed as though the half that had once been his wife’s must forever remain sacrosanct.
    He was asleep. Scant lashes lowered gently against his thin cheeks, his mouth beneath the droop of his moustache looked even more drawn down, full of sadness. Looking at him Letty felt fresh tears spring, felt she was intruding upon his sleeping grief. Gently she put the cup down on the little cane table beside the bed without waking him and retreated quietly back to the parlour.
    ‘Oh, David,’ was all she could say as she buried her face in his shoulder, seeking the comfort of his understanding arm.
    The parlour with its empty chairs, its lonely ornaments, even its wall emanating a sense of something gone from the flat, seemed as if it would never again be filled with sound. It was as if the flat had died – the same impression she’d had in David’s house – and now she understood. The place had absorbed love but was no longer able to give it back.
    Even though Mum’s old friend, Mrs Hall, was stillbusying herself clearing away the remains of the wedding feast – just as she had done the funeral lunch – energetically brushing crumbs off the parlour rug, her presence nowhere near compensated.
    ‘Doin’ me bit for yer poor mum, Gawd bless ’er,’ she said in a low respectful whisper and nodded lugubriously towards Letty. ‘You look just about done in, luv.’ And then to David. ‘You give good care ter that gel, son. She’s worth every penny there is on Gawd’s earth.’
    ‘And I know it,’ he said in a low firm tone.
    Her obligation performed, Mrs Hall finally left. ‘Yer’ve got a good man there, luv,’ she said as Letty went downstairs to show her out. ‘Don’t you ever let ’im slip through yer fingers.’
    ‘I won’t,’ she said fervently. ‘Thanks for all you’ve done.’
    ‘Me pleasure, luv. Glad to of bin of ’elp to yer poor muvver, Gawd bless ’er.’
    Letty, sitting in one corner of the sofa as the light faded from the room, watched David come back in with his hat from the hallstand in the passage, was very still as he came to stand in front of her, ready to leave and yet loath to go. In desperation, she took the initiative.
    ‘David, stay here the night. I don’t want to be on me own.’
    ‘Your father is here,’ he said, but he had read her expression; knew the empty aura of the place appalled her. Once it had been so full of life with her sisters moving busily about the flat, chattering, voices raised in laughter or argument; her mother restoring order.
    ‘I’m being silly,’ she pleaded. ‘Me nineteen in a few weeks’ time. But I ain’t strong enough, all on me own, with Dad shut in his room and me …’ She gazed up at him with imploring eyes, a child at this moment. ‘Please stay, David. You can have Lucy’s room. I can take my old one. At least I’ll have you near me to call on.’
    Sometime in the night Letty awoke and found herself crying. Her room full of morning light, Mum had come in to tell her off for still being in bed instead of up and ready for school. She’d been well again, that spring in her step Letty well remembered with the old zest for life that had given Dad impetus in making his shop the success it had once been.
    She had sat up to defend herself against Mum’s scolding, but she was already crying, something inside her telling her it was all a wishful dream; the room dark, empty and silent, full of bitterness of reality, and nothing she could do about it.
    A gentle tap on her door stopped her in mid-sob. Holding her breath, she gulped back the rest, whispered huskily: ‘Who is it?’
    ‘David,’ came the answer. ‘I heard you crying.’
    She hadn’t realised she’d been overheard, the thin ceiling letting through every sound to Lucy’s old room below; felt suddenly jealous of her private grief, nourished for a