She lay in bed that night, desperate for sleep to take her. She always worried when Peter was on night shift, most of the time entirely unnecessarily, but she had been so unsettled these past few hours that it only compounded fears that something appalling was happening to him. She hated this with a passion beyond desperation; knowing how her mind could think these terrible thoughts and she had little to no control over the inner workings of her psyche. How she wished, just this once that a simple piece of paper would not cause her such anxiety; that she could sleep peacefully and just tell him joyfully of the news it bore.
She slept intermittently; a study of the clock as it ticked its way slowly and for her, painfully, towards 6 o'clock. She was so pleased when it came around and she heard a key in the lock. As she heard feet into the bathroom and a tap run she stared at the ceiling noticing that crack in the paint that, somehow for its mere presence it annoyed her more than she cared to mention. She closed her eyes and felt the bed dip beside her.
"Peter?"
He turned, just about to undo the collar of his uniform shirt.
"I didn't wake you up did I?" He always managed to make himself feel guilty if he woke her up knowing what ridiculous hours she could keep from time to time. At least he had shifts and knew when each one started and ended although never once did she complain.
"No", she paused, feeling entirely normal even natural now to follow it up, rather than pretend that all in the world was well. "I couldn't sleep properly".
He turned towards her so he was sitting across the bed
"Why?" he said, his voice laced with concern, seeing the open envelope on her bedside table and the letter, screwed tight into a ball having fallen to the floor. It took no more than a few seconds to tie the existence of the crumpled mass and his wife's frown together. It was too dark to determine whether she had been crying.
"Who was that letter from?" he asked, undoing his shirt, his voice having that low level of anger that she knew from time to time he displayed.
"One of the gels from school. Isobel. She's back in London for the rest of the year and wants to meet for tea".
"Well, that's not so bad surely?" he asked, ever so slightly relieved as he was expecting perhaps more serious news. There were a few people he went to school with that he would love to hear from, but he could see the worry etched on her face.
"Peter, its been nearly 15 years since I saw her".
"No wonder that letter went everywhere. Why are you so worried about her?" he questioned, clearly thinking that whoever this person was obviously wanted to find his wife after writing after all this time.
"It's not her. Particularly. Really" she replied, "Belle was probably one of the few true friends I ever had. I was heartbroken when her parents took her out of school to go back to Buenos Aires, but it's going back there; to that time. It just makes me...It's a time I thought I would never have to see again".
She heard a drawer shut in the darkness and felt him slide down into bed behind her. She sighed loudly, breathing through her nose feeling a kiss to her shoulder.
"She was your friend, right?" he said, as she felt him settle, an arm slipping over her stomach.
"Yes" she replied, still staring at that blessed crack the ceiling.
"She's sought you out to find you after all these years?"
"Yes".
"Then go and have tea with her and see what she wants" he paused. "It may help you".
"How?" she replied, not able to see his logic.
"To trying starting to close off all those things that make that beautiful face of yours sad".
She swallowed, stopping what would be tears and he saw her nod her head.
"We are going to have such a wonderful future but you need to put the past in the past". He knew how much weight she carried with her, odd things she would mention in passing which gave him an insight into what had been her world. Things she would pass off with a shake of the head or dismissing wave of her hand if he tried to probe further. Her past interested him; made her who she was and it always saddened him just that bit that she had to hold onto so much inside her all these years.
No fool would think that they had very much in common at all on first glance - the son of a dock worker too ill to be employed and, well, a Lady who should never have set foot in the slums of Poplar or married the local copper. Someone of such blood that she should never think these places and people existed and certainly not live amongst them. Or certainly, that would be what her mother would say.
"Did you have a busy night?" she asked suddenly, one of these rapid changes of subject that he knew could happen with his wife at any given time.
"So so. Too many drunks, a few fights. Nothing out of the ordinary", he replied tightening his grip on her, drawing warmth from her and feeling his eyes close as each second passed.
A while later he vaguely felt her lift his arm and slide out from their bed to her first task of the day.
When he woke several hours later, his stomach rumbing for a very late breakfast, the envelope and the letter was gone.