He had wept the long-suppressed tears of four decades, wept for the aircrews whose names he could no longer remember, wept for his dead wife, wept above all for his child. Liz had held him, patted his hand, stroked his hair, kissed his flushed face, murmured and comforted him. ‘Liz,’ he had said through his tears, ‘Marry me, Liz? You will marry me, won’t you? You won’t leave me?’ ‘My darling, don’t be silly,’ she answered. ‘Of course I’ll marry you.’ ‘I’ve got a ring for you. Bought it ages ago. Find it for you in the morning. Liz, you don’t know how awful I’ve been. I was awful to Mary. It’ll be different with you, I promise,’ he assured her. ‘You’re not awful at all,’ she told him. ‘You’re a very dear old heffalump.’ He smiled glassily at that, and repeated that he loved her, loved her and needed her, wanted her very much. At last, like a child who has cried itself out, he shuddered to a halt. Finally he had said, ‘I’m so terribly tired.
What do You think about A Rather English Marriage?
