Walking towards the main road was like wading through suet. Libby was weighted down by her engorged body. There was a painful pull deep, deep inside her, the straps of her shoes cutting into her swollen feet. She wasn’t sure her legs could hold her up for much longer.
‘Libby! Libby! Wait!’
Freddy easily caught up with her, his anger disappearing as he took in the tear tracks, the pain evident on Libby’s face.
‘He’s gone and he’s feeling pretty ashamed of himself too,’ Freddy said. He put down Libby’s smaller suitcase and carpet bag, which Libby had completely forgotten about, and fished a piece of paper out of his coat pocket. ‘Left me with the deeds. Come back to the house.’
‘I won’t ever go there again,’ Libby said. She had to cling on to someone’s garden fence to stay upright. ‘I just want to go home, Freddy.’ Then she remembered. ‘I don’t even have a home to go back to.’
‘Come on, old girl. Things aren’t so bad,’ Freddy said though all evidence pointed to the contrary. ‘Stop crying, Libs. You never used to be this much of a crier. Can’t be good for the baby, you weeping every five minutes.’
‘It’s not even born and already I’m a terrible mother,’ Libby all but wailed.
‘Enough of this,’ Freddy said sharply. He took the case and her carpet bag in one hand and put his other arm round her. ‘You look like you need a drink and Lord knows, I could do with one. Let’s stop here for a while.’
There was a large pub on the corner of the Archway Road. Freddy hustled Libby through the door. She was almost knocked sideways again by the comforting fug of tobacco smoke and warm beer, the lively hum of people talking and laughing. Freddy guided her through the public bar to the saloon where there was a fire burning and a table free in the corner, where he deposited Libby as if she were a package marked fragile.
‘You’re a shocking colour,’ he noted with a frown and watched as Libby unbuttoned her coat and tugged off her gloves. Despite the warmth of the cosy room, she shivered and Freddy took her hand. ‘You’re cold too. I’ll get you a brandy.’
‘A whisky mac would warm me up just as well,’ Libby insisted and as Freddy walked to the bar, she tried to light a cigarette with shaking hands.
The wireless was playing something light and orchestral and on the other side of the room, a young girl sat with her sweetheart who gazed besotted as she sipped a pink gin and twirled a strand of corn-yellow hair around her finger.
By the time Freddy returned with their drinks, Libby was quietly sobbing again. With a sigh he pulled out a slightly grubby handkerchief and passed it to her. ‘It will all come good in the end, you’ll see.’
Libby shook her head. ‘No, Freddy, it won’t. Hugo’s got money and he’s respectable so if he insists on going to court, they’ll find in his favour. I know they will. They’ll take the pickle right out of my arms. I’m the mother. I should have some say, shouldn’t I?’
The pull in her gut now felt like a belt tightening sharply round her middle, so Libby longed to loosen it a couple of notches. She shifted in her chair, unable to get comfortable, and she was so very cold yet sweat was breaking out on her forehead, her upper lip. She rubbed her arms while Freddy nibbled the tip of his thumbnail.
‘I’ll think of something,’ he said hoarsely then he looked at Libby as if she were naked in front of him. Not just unclothed but as if he could see past her skin and bones, right down to her heart and past even that, to all her secret hopes and desires. Then he nodded as if he’d reached a decision. ‘There’s nothing else for it, Libs. We’ll have to leave London. Go away.’ Freddy pinned her with another penetrating look. ‘I really don’t mind taking the kid on. I owe you that much. Owe you a damn sight more than that, if I’m honest about it.’
Libby lowered the handkerchief from where she’d been trying to stem the never-ending flow of tears. Freddy was offering her everything that she’d wanted so desperately when they’d said their wedding vows.
One year later. The world had turned full circle. ‘You don’t love me,’ Libby stated calmly because it was the simplest of truths. ‘You never did. No, it’s all right,’ she added when Freddy drew himself up, opened his mouth to protest. ‘I rather forced your hand, didn’t I? It wouldn’t work, Freddy. You really don’t want to be saddled with a wife and a child, especially a child that isn’t yours. I’d rather be on my own than with a man who didn’t really love me.’
‘I do love you, Libs. In my way,’ Freddy amended when she raised her eyebrows at him.
‘Love is for fools.’ Libby could hardly get her words past the pain, which sharpened then blunted to a dull, dull ache, so it was a perfect match for the agony in her heart. ‘I thought he loved me. But then I always do, don’t I? None of you have ever loved me enough.’
‘Don’t say things like that.’ Freddy took her hand and rubbed it. ‘You’re so cold. One day, I promise you, you’ll find someone who loves you like you deserve to be loved and I wish it were me. Look, I’ll stay —’
‘Keep it down over there!’ someone shouted and Libby and Freddy looked up to see that everyone had gathered round the wireless on the other side of the room. ‘Eddie’s about to give his crown the big heave-ho, isn’t he?’
The papers had been full of speculation for days that Edward would abdicate if parliament refused to allow him to marry Wallis Simpson, but Libby had barely glanced at them. It seemed so long ago that the old King had died and she’d travelled across the city to a hotel in Victoria to meet a man, her fate, her future.
Only the pain was the same and she screwed her eyes tight shut as she listened to the plummy tones that sounded as if they were coming from a distant room.
‘But you must believe me when I tell you that I have found it impossible to carry the heavy burden of responsibility and to discharge my duties as King as I would wish to do, without the help and support of the woman I love.’
‘It’s so romantic,’ the girl with the corn-gold hair sighed. ‘Giving up his throne for her.’
What use was a love like that? So selfish and destructive that it scorched anything that got in its way.
‘… one matchless blessing, enjoyed by so many of you and not bestowed on me – a happy home with his wife and children.’
‘It has to stop,’ Libby whispered to Freddy who was listening transfixed. ‘No good can come of this.’
‘What’s that?’ Freddy turned to her and his mouth hung open, eyes wide. ‘Libby! What’s wrong?’
‘… I lay down my burden. It may be some time before I return to my native land.’
Oh! The pain had Libby on her feet, then falling back down to land hard on the chair, which was damp under her skirt and she didn’t need to bring her fingers down and have them come away stained red or hear Freddy’s shocked gasp to know that she was bleeding.
‘Not again! Dear God, not again.’
Libby slumped forward and Freddy fell to his knees to break her fall. He said something. People were crowding around them all talking at once. Then they faded to silence so all Libby could hear was the old Sunday school catechism echoing in her head.
Betwixt the stirrup and the ground, mercy I asked, mercy I found.
Not much of a life to look back on and beg repentance for her sins. A life full of loss. Of goodbyes.
Libby slips through time and space, away from the pain, to a place where she’s with her dear departed.
Her father, in his shirtsleeves by the fire, his kind eyes and smile, the soft tickle of his droopy moustache as he holds her close and kisses her cheek, runs his fingers through her hair still damp from the Sunday evening bath.
Her mother hums a tune, claps her hands, skirts twisting and twirling, her long hair free and flowing in the summer breeze as they dance in the long grass together, their picnic things forgotten. ‘There’s few things in life so bad that they can’t be made better with a dance and a song, my darling.’
Charlotte. Sweet little Charlotte. The steady sound of her breathing as she sleeps and her smile when she wakes is like the sun coming up.
Her grandparents. Her uncles, Clarence and Albert, dying in the same foreign fields as her father. The brother that had only lived a few hours. Libby sees them all.
The years speed by in a procession of dressing rooms and cheap digs. Blinded by the footlights. The smell of greasepaint, cheap perfume and rough tobacco. Girls she’s known, men she’s loved.
The married theatre owner who seduced her. The ageing matinée idol who was the first man to break her heart. The director who Libby had followed all the way to America for all the good it did her. Then Freddy. Foolish, fickle Freddy, and Hugo who, when all was said and now was done, was simply the last man in a long line of men who’d promised her everything and given her nothing but ashes.
Two last faces float into view. The little boy she’d lost. Nameless, faceless, but now she sees him so clearly; dark hair, dark eyes, delicate limbs and a smile that melts her soul.
And the child that would never be born. Pickle. Funny little pickle whom Libby would have loved best of all if she’d been given the chance.
Then they’re gone. All the ghosts. Libby is on her own because she’s been on her own since she was fourteen. She’s had friends, she’s had lovers, but she’d always been so lonely.
‘Libby? Libby? Hold on, Libs. Please hold on.’
It’s not been much of a life but she’s lived it as best as she could.