Not the Marrying Kind
They hadn't stayed on the Pier for much longer that night. Once Shirley had managed to take Walker's mind off the possible betrayal insinuated by that new bloke, Clarke, it wasn't long until she'd come back with him to the little flat he had in the High Street. They'd had a bit of fun, as ever – it was always fun – but now she was fast asleep, the blonde hair usually done up in her tight Betty Grable curls now loose and beautifully dishevelled on the pillow, not even wearing the pretty nightie from that consignment of parachute silk that was now missing a couple of samples.
The only sounds were the ticking of the clock and her slow, even breathing – very different to how it was earlier, Walker considered, with a smile on his lips that slowly died as he was left with his thoughts. She was a great girl, even if there were those (especially Mr Mainwaring's sort) that would always look down on her. She didn't ask for the family she had, any more than he had. There hadn't been too much affection growing up, from the little she'd said. No wonder she sought it out now.
Walker knew that she hoped their arrangement would become something more permanent, more 'respectable' – it was something she'd always wanted, to be able to walk down the High Street and not have the women of the town gossip behind her back and other men assume she was fair game – but he also knew he couldn't give it to her. His mother had said it, years ago, 'You're not the marrying kind', but she probably didn't understand why.
Girls had come into Joe Walker's life at a young age. As a teenager, he'd been worried about being sent off to fight in the last War without knowing what it was like, so had taken steps to rectify the situation, ending up down a back alley with a girl from the pie shop. She'd been sixteen, he was fifteen, and as eager to know about it as he was. Not long after that though, the War had been her escape from the poverty of the East End, and she'd ended up as a nurse in France. Then she'd been killed, when the field hospital she'd been working in was shelled. He never saw Grace again.
After the War, there had been no shortage either, as young Joe embraced the new clubs opening all over London, with their showgirls and society ladies only too pleased to get a bit extra when he served them behind the bar. There were the other girls too…growing up where he did, they were a constant presence. You knew who they were, even if no-one ever talked about it. He'd even gone to school with some of their kids…Mrs Pearce, she was one of them. Said she was a widow, and maybe she was, but either way, she had to make her money somehow. He made up his mind long ago though, even as a desperate teenager that he'd never pay for it. He'd seen the lives those girls led, and no-one should go through that. He'd have no part of it – besides, what was the challenge, or the victory, in catching a girl when what was on offer was available to anyone for a price?
He'd never asked any of them to marry him though. Too many marriages, it seemed, were cursed, almost. Many of them, in his experience, came about because they had to – because it was the 'decent thing'. All that often meant was one or the other turning to drink or violence, or at the very least a constant, gnawing dissatisfaction. He felt particularly sorry for the girls – they married young, round there, often to get away from their own families, and then the babies started coming and there was barely enough money to put food on the table. That, or they'd marry a man they'd convince themselves they could change – they never did.
His own father had never raised a hand to his mother, but he'd been in and out of prison all his life, leaving Ena Walker to bring up eight children largely on her own. Obviously, providing for a family that size 'on the level' wasn't easy, and Walker didn't blame his father for what he did. They'd been happy enough, when they'd been together, but even so, he knew plenty of other families that weren't. He could remember getting a clout from his mother once, when he was about five years old, after asking why Mrs Turner always had those bruises. She'd told him it didn't matter, not to be so nosy, but even at that age he'd seen the sorrow and helplessness in her eyes. For better or worse…would be his mother's attitude. They'd made their bed…regardless of the man that was in it.
No wonder then, that he'd never wanted to chance ruining a relationship with marriage. He'd have his fun, of course, and make sure the ladies did, but that was as far as it went. There would be no marriage, no kids. Shirley turned over then to face him, and he felt a stab of guilt, but covered it up by telling himself it was to protect her, really. It wasn't as though there hadn't been times when he'd thought about a family of his own, but had rationalised that his many brothers and sisters and their assorted children were enough, not to mention the company that some of his brothers kept.
Walker, although fully aware that some of the things he'd done over the years were not, in the strict sense, absolutely legal, had never crossed the line into the dangerous territory that his brothers Ernie and Harry had. They were known, in the murky London underworld, and he wanted nothing to do with them. Another reason not to let a woman get too close, or bring kids into it.
So, he reflected, turning away from Shirley, her body warm and soft beside him, his mother's words were true. He wasn't the marrying kind.