Unspoken: A story of secrets, love and revenge by T. Belshaw (i want to read a book .TXT) 📕

spoke a little too loudly, the rest made shhhh-ing noises that were actually louder than his voice.

I ducked down under the covers again and tried to sleep.

About an hour later, I woke again. Someone had apparently told the world’s funniest joke. The laughter was riotous. I sat up in bed again, thankful I had chosen the thick flannelette nightdress, although I still shivered.

‘Haven’t you got homes to go to?’ I asked, quite reasonably.

Flat cap stood up.

‘I have,’ he said.

‘Is that the time?’ said the blond man.

The man called Charlie threw his cards on the table and began sorting the cash into four piles.

‘What are you doing?’ asked a distraught Frank.

‘Game’s over for the night,’ said Charlie. ‘I agree with your missis. We’ve outstayed our welcome. I’ll get it in the neck from my old girl when I get in.’

The other two friends laughed and took back their share of the stake.

Frank sat, motionless, with a thunderous look on his face.

The men called goodnight to me, patted Frank sympathetically on the shoulder, and departed.

‘How will they get out?’ I asked Frank.

‘That bitch Irene will let them out,’ spat Frank. ‘We paid her five bob to let us bring the game up here.’

‘You shouldn’t have done that, Frank,’ I said quietly. ‘I was in bed.’

‘I fucking KNOW THAT!’ Frank shouted, his face a seething mask of anger. He rushed across the room, bounced off the wall and came to a swaying halt at the side of the bed.

‘YOU JUST COST ME TWENTY FUCKING QUID!’ he yelled. ‘TWENTY FUCKING QUID.’

‘I heard you the first time,’ I said. ‘Now, please stop shouting before the landlady comes up.’

‘FUCK THE LANDLADY,’ he shouted. He swayed and steadied himself by putting a hand on the bed next to my hip. He glared at me. ‘I’m not at work now,’ he hissed. ‘So, don’t think you can tell me what to do.’

His chin dropped to his chest. ‘Twenty, fucking quid,’ he whispered.

‘Will you shut up about the bloody card game,’ I said. ‘I’m tired and I want to go back to sleep.’

I turned away from him, but before I could get back under the covers, he grabbed me by the shoulders and swung me around. He pushed his face close to mine, the smell of warm beer assailed my nostrils. ‘You need a sharp lesson in manners, my girl, and I’m just the man to give it.’ He straightened up and pulled back his right hand. I screamed and threw myself across the bed as his fist came sweeping down, clipping my ear, before it crashed into the pillow. He pulled his arm back again and made ready for a second attempt.

‘No, Frank,’ I pleaded. ‘Don’t, please think about the baby.’

It was probably the only thing I could have said that stopped me receiving a black eye, or worse. Frank stood stark still, his arm still raised, then his head dropped to his chest and he began to weep.

‘Frank,’ I said. ‘Get some sleep.’ I tried to make light of it. ‘We’re on our honeymoon, remember?’

Frank continued to snuffle. He walked across the room and pulled our two overcoats from the hooks on the door. He placed one on the floor, lay on it, then covered himself with the other.

I thought about telling him to switch out the light, but as I needed to pee again, I got out of bed, picked up my still-damp flannel and revisited the toilet. When I returned, I picked up a spare pillow and tossed it onto the floor at the side of Frank’s head. The gas streetlight was flickering like an empty Ronson cigarette lighter, so when I turned off the bedroom light, I had to gingerly tip-toe my way across the pitch-black room, to the bed.

Chapter 45

April 1938

Surprisingly, after the events of the early hours of Sunday morning, I slept quite well.

I woke up to find that Frank had returned the overcoats to the hooks on the door, which told me he hadn’t done a runner at least. My bulging bladder forced me out of my warm bed, so I grabbed the flannel and towel and headed for the bathroom. When I came back, Frank was sitting at the table with our promised full English breakfast of sausage, bacon, two eggs, tomatoes, fried bread, toast and tea.

Had I been at home, I’d have been running for the lavatory again as the smell of the bacon hit my nasal passages, but here, it just made me hungry.

I didn’t speak to Frank; I just dived in, cutting a chunk of sausage and dipping it into the soft yolk of one of the fried eggs. Frank poured me a cup of tea and I took a huge mouthful before attacking the bacon.

When we had finished eating, I belched and apologised out of habit. Frank nodded in acknowledgment and piled the empty plates and cups in the centre of the table.

‘Last night,’ he said.

I stood up, picked up my overnight bag and began to pull out the change of clothes I had brought with me. Frank had already changed into a clean shirt and a hand knitted, V-necked jumper. I waited for him to apologise. He didn’t. Instead, he cleared his throat and said, ‘It won’t happen again.’

‘You’re damn right it won’t,’ I replied.

‘It was the drink, I was tired, there was twenty quid on the—’

‘Mention that blood twenty quid once more, Frank, and I swear it will be the last thing you ever say to me. I’m sick of hearing about it.’

Frank bridled, but then saw sense and bit his lip. ‘Okay, I understand it must be getting boring by now. I won’t mention it again.’

‘Good,’ I said, gathering up the bloomers and woollen knee length socks that had fallen to the floor. ‘I’m going to get dressed. Will they give us more tea or do we have to pay for it?’

I had a strip wash in the freezing cold bathroom. The Ascot seemed to have given up the ghost and