Narrator (51:04)
1 Louise Henley on Thames, 1953 the fog is rolling in low across the Thames as I shutter the secondhand shop on Bell street for the night, the mist weaving its way tentacle like, into the alley where my bicycle leans against the side of the gray brick building. The sudden gloom seems to signal a change, the start of something ominous. I draw my woolen scarf closer around my neck against the brisk September air, then climb onto the rickety shopper and begin to pedal home. I navigate through the town centre, then left on Hart street and toward the base of Henley Bridge, welcoming the stillness. There's no one out at this late hour to require a greeting or stare at me oddly. When I moved here seven years ago after marrying Joe, the bucolic Oxfordshire town had at first seemed like a haven, a welcome refuge from my mum's dismal flat in South London. Only later would I realize how small the town actually was, how stifling it would become. Ten minutes later I reach home. Our low two story house on the outskirts of town at the end of Wargrave Road is identical to the half dozen others in the row, grey brick with a tiny front yard just large enough for a single rose bush each. It is situated in one of the new housing developments that had been erected hastily after the war. The site had formerly been a crater where a bomb had fallen, and I sometimes breathe deeply and imagine that I can still smell the gunpowder, though the house appears well kept from a distance. Closer, I can see the little faults even in the near darkness, the cracks at the foundation, a bit of trim around the window that is beginning to fall. I glance at the coal bin and make a mental note to ask Joe to fill it in the morning. Of course, he will be on his third brandy, or perhaps fourth, so he won't remember if I mention it now. Inside, the house is still Joe is asleep in his chair, reliving the battles he fought as he does every night. His newsboy cap sits on the table, and he is still wearing his white dress shirt from his long day at the accountancy firm, sleeves rolled. Joe's auburn hair remains military short, though his face is a bit fuller now with age. I lift the tilted glass gently from his hand and stub out the cigarette, a player's medium in the ashtray. Though I worry about him drinking too much, I don't begrudge him the temporary escape liquor provides. At least he drinks at home, bottles purchased from the off license rather than getting pissed at the Old Bell or one of the other pubs like some men in town do, staying until closing or even later for a lock in and stumbling home at all hours, embarrassing their wives. I touch his cheek, then nudge him gently. Go up to bed, dear Joe rouse himself, mumbling unintelligibly before shuffling off. I watch with a pang of sadness as he retreats. Joe had served in the British army during the war and had spent more than four years on the ground in active combat. Lucky, some call him, because he was never captured or even wounded. I can see the scars brought on by living under that kind of strain, though, watching friend after friend killed, never knowing if each day would be his last. Neither Joe nor I had ever talked in detail about what either of us had done during the war. It lies silent and unspoken between us, A dark divide. My mind reels back to the other day when the children had been playing hospital. They were using an old gauze bandage, wrapping it around a doll. Seeing this, Joe, usually so even tempered, had become distraught. You're wasting medical supplies. He cried. Don't you know that some people don't have enough of those? His eyes had been wide with horror as he surely remembered men bleeding out when there hadn't been bandages to save them. I had taken his arm. It's okay. That's just an old scrap of cloth. It really can't be used for anything else. His eyes seemed to clear then. Yes, of course. Sorry. He retreated, his old calm returning, but I could see in that moment the deep places where he hid his anger and pain. Eight years have passed since the war ended and Joe came home far longer than he was over there. Time to get on with it, stiff lipped English folks seem to say, and Joe has gotten on with it, putting his bravest face on to mask the pain. He goes to work and keeps the garden neat and pays the bills, everything that a good husband and father is supposed to do. Only I'm close enough to see the scars that will never fully heal, and I wish there was more I could do to help him. I walk to the kitchen and pick up an empty packet of crisps from the counter, left there by one of the children, no doubt. I consider being annoyed, and then decide it isn't worth the trouble. I move around, cleaning and straightening. It is late and I'm exhausted. Tidying up might have waited until morning, but my own childhood had been a never ending stream of empty beer bottles and unkempt rooms, and I don't want that for my family. I simply cannot rest unless things are in order. When I've set the kitchen to rights, I walk into the living room and sit down by the low table to work on the jigsaw puzzle that Joe gave me for Christmas, depicting a lovely image of the Welsh countryside in summer. I pick up a piece and study the jagged, half done puzzle, finding a spot and trying it. The piece snaps satisfyingly into place. That is the thing I love most about puzzles. Something that moments earlier had made no sense at all now fits. I reach for another piece. I should go to sleep, I know, but these few minutes of solitude are worth more. Five minutes later, I tear myself away from the puzzle and start upstairs in the nursery, a fancy word for the children's shared room, which is just large enough for two single beds. The twins, Ewan and Fedra, are sleeping soundly. I pick up a Beano comic from the floor and place it on the nightstand. Winnie the Pooh lies open, spine up, and I regret not making it back to read to them before bedtime. I normally only work when the children are at school, wanting to be home for them in the afternoons and evenings. Joe doesn't mind my helping at the shop as long as it doesn't interfere with taking care of the house and children. But Midge had asked a favor. Something came up and she was called away suddenly. Could I stay and close up and straighten things for the night? So I'd left dinner and Joe agreed to put the children to bed. At first I'd worried whether he could manage it, but despite his demons, Joe is good at being there when I need him to be.
