Run, Mummy, Run

by Cathy Glass

  She gave a little knock on the door, then slowly opened it. She could see Mark at the far end of the garage rummaging through his toolboxes, tidying them, she thought. Going right in, she closed the door behind her so that her parents couldn’t hear. ‘Mark, I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. My parents are here. Will you come and join us, please?’

  There was no reply.

  ‘Mark,’ she said again, unable to hide her desperation. ‘I’m sorry. Please come in. Mum and Dad are in the lounge, I want us all to be together and have a nice time.’ Her words sounded pathetic, even to her ears.

  Mark slowly turned, and she saw that his eyes were cold but not unyielding.

  ‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ she said again. ‘It was completely unintentional. Will you come please so we can all be together like we planned?’

  His gaze shifted from her to the car as though he wanted her to know he was considering his other option – of going out. At that moment, if she’d been in any doubt, she knew exactly where the power lay, and so too did Mark. They both knew it would have crucified her if she’d had to go back to her parents and admit something was wrong, that Mark wouldn’t be joining them because they’d had an argument and he’d gone off in the car.

  ‘Please, Mark,’ she said again. ‘It means a lot to me. I’m sorry.’

  His gaze returned to her and he nodded. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. ‘Tell them I’ll be there shortly.’

  Relief flooded through her. ‘Thank you, Mark. I do appreciate it. I’m so sorry,’ she gushed. Then with a ridiculously light and forgiving heart, she returned to the lounge. ‘Mark won’t be long,’ she announced gaily to her parents. ‘He’s just finishing off something in the garage. Oh, it’s so good to see you both, so very good,’ she chattered in nervous anticipation of Mark’s arrival.

  When he appeared ten minutes later, Aisha glanced at him anxiously, looking for any sign of his previous anger. But he appeared to be recovered and his usual charming self. He kissed her mother and complimented her on her sari – exactly the right thing to do because it was new, and the first time she’d worn it, which Aisha should have noticed if she’d been thinking straight. Mark then shook her father’s hand and for the first time called him Dad; Aisha could see how touched her father was as he already looked upon Mark as a son. As Aisha sat nervously in the armchair and Mark talked politely and respectfully to her parents, always saying exactly the right thing, she dismissed the bump to her head as another silly misunderstanding: it was as Mark said – she needed to think before she spoke, which was something her father had pointed out many years ago.

  Her mother unpacked the contents of her bag: baby toys and clothes for Sarah, flowers and chocolates for Aisha. Aisha’s heart melted at her mother’s thoughtfulness and the two of them went through to the kitchen to finish the last of the preparations for the meal. They worked side by side and chatted about Sarah’s routine and how well she was doing, while the ‘men folk’, as her mother called them, sat in the lounge and talked business and cars. Aisha thought it was quickly turning into the afternoon she’d envisaged and her happiness was out of all proportion to what should have been a regular visit from her parents.

  At five o’clock they sat around the dining table in the lounge and Aisha served the tea, using the old china. Her mother complimented her on the food: ‘What a lovely spread, Aisha, you have been busy.’

  ‘A great improvement!’ her father joked. He’d never been impressed by Aisha’s cooking at home, and used to tease her that she should keep to her banking and leave her mother to the cooking.

  Mark agreed that Aisha had done them proud, and picked up his plate to help himself to the aubergine quiche. By pure misfortune he had the plate with the crack. He paused and looked pointedly across the table at Aisha. ‘This plate is cracked,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you use the new Dalton china for your parents visit? You know, the wedding present from my firm? Don’t you like it?’

  She met his gaze and felt the tingling sweat of fear creep up her spine; her heart began to race. Not now, Mark, please, she thought. Dear God, not now.

  She looked around the table and saw her parents smiling at her, expecting a response. She forced down her fear and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Yes, of course I like it,’ she said quietly. ‘I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ll make sure I use it next time. This will do for now, won’t it?’

  Mark nodded and continued serving himself, but she saw the smile that crossed his lips: the acknowledgement that he had won, was all-powerful and now fully in control. And when you’ve accepted it once, apologized, ignored, and allowed yourself to be humiliated, there’s no going back. For once you cross that barrier, it’s easier the next time – for the abuser and the victim.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Seven years passed during which time Mark’s occasional ‘out of character’ punches developed into a regular battering which left Aisha in fear of her life and Mark firmly in control. She lived as though balanced on a seesaw which was so finely tuned that she never knew when it was going to tip and send her crashing to the floor. Mark said that she should be more assertive and stand up to him. He said his mother had been the same, always kowtowing to his father, even though he battered her. Then one day she had sent him a solicitor’s letter threatening legal action, and his father had changed immediately and had never hit her again; they were still together after nearly forty years of marriage.

  But Aisha had forgotten how to be assertive, if she ever knew. Women in her family, her culture, didn’t. It wasn’t so very long ago that wives walked behind their husbands as a sign of respect and to emphasize their more lowly status. Aisha was no more likely to send a solicitor’s letter to Mark than fly to the moon, and Mark knew that.

  When Sarah was nearly two years old, Aisha discovered that she was pregnant again. She was being made to sleep downstairs by then, on the sofa, and Mark came to her once a week and took her roughly and out of necessity. It wasn’t making love, for there was no love in it. It was more like marital rape, although Aisha never put up any resistance and would have never used that term. Mark always left straight after he’d climaxed to shower thoroughly. He said that because of her skin colour he couldn’t tell if she was clean or not, and it was better to be safe than sorry; he didn’t want to catch anything nasty.

  So Aisha had another child, James, and the three of them lived isolated, in fear, and hidden from the outside world; and the beatings and mental torture continued. There were no visitors; they weren’t allowed visitors, and Mark saw his friends away from the house. There was no money either. They had never opened a joint bank account, and when Aisha had first stopped work Mark had given her housekeeping money, which he’d handed to her in an envelope marked ‘Aisha’s Wages’. But by the time Sarah was six months old, that had been replaced by the odd £10 note left on the table after Aisha had asked for money to buy food. That too had quickly dwindled to a pile of loose change, which he threw in her face if she asked too often.

  Once, out of desperation, she suggested that perhaps she should find a part-time job, in the evenings, to help out with the money. It was the wrong thing to say, but she was desperate and didn’t know what else to do. ‘No wife of mine is going to work,’ Mark flared. The resulting battering left her right eye closed for three days, and a cut to her eyebrow which should really have been stitched, had he allowed her to go to the hospital.

  When Sarah was three, she started nursery and Mark said Aisha could take her as long as she came straight home again. Aisha was never going to be one of the group of mothers chatting at the school gates, arranging coffee mornings and fund-raising events. Head down, under a permanently knotted scarf to hide her cuts and bruises, and with James in the pram, she hurried straight there and back. She spoke to no one and no one spoke to her – like many victims she had become invisible and it was doubtful if anyone even noticed her. Another year passed, and then two, and time contracted for Aisha and it be
came meaningless. She took each day one at a time, concentrated on the little practical things like trying to feed and clothe the children on only a pound a day, and prayed that things would change.

  There were no birthday parties for the children, no friends to tea. As Sarah and James grew and made friends at school, they seemed instinctively to know that it wasn’t possible. Without any explanation, they knew that theirs wasn’t a normal family and they would all suffer the consequences if anyone found out. The children never asked, not once, if they could invite a friend home to play, and the thought of what they were missing broke Aisha’s heart more than anything.

  ‘But how did it get to the point?’ the inspector asked, with a scepticism Aisha had seen before. ‘Why let it get so bad? And when it had, why stay? You could have left him, surely?’

  Aisha shifted uncomfortably in her chair. How to make the inspector see? How could anyone understand other than another battered woman?

  ‘It didn’t just happen,’ she said quietly into the dark. ‘It stole up on me. Like a burglar in the night, it ransacked the house and took everything of value. I fully believed it was my fault and if I could only find the right way, the magic formula, then I could bring back what I’d lost. I was proud, Inspector, I couldn’t admit what was happening even to myself. I was also frightened and completely isolated. By the time I realized, it was too late and I was impotent to act.’

  ‘But your parents?’ he persisted. ‘Why didn’t you tell them? They would have helped, surely? You were close once and you must have seen them?’

  ‘To begin with we saw them occasionally, when Mark said it was convenient. But the times grew less and less frequent. Once, they dropped by unexpectedly, possibly even suspecting something, I don’t know. Mark bundled us into our coats before opening the door. He was curt to the point of rudeness and said we were going out. We walked past them to the car and got in, then sat on the driveway until they had gone. I phoned them the next day while Mark was at work, and apologized. They were hurt, obviously – who could blame them? – and I couldn’t tell them the truth. Mark stopped me using the phone after that, and if they phoned again I never got the message. But it would have crucified them to have known that the daughter they had invested everything in was a beaten, pathetic wreck. I wanted to protect them, and I really believed it was all my fault, and I had let them down. Survival bleeds you dry, Inspector, there’s nothing left over for rational thought, let alone action.’

  ‘But I still can’t believe,’ he said, ‘I can’t believe there was not one single person you could have turned to and confided in. The women’s refuge? The Samaritans? There must have been somewhere you could have run to before it came to this?’

  Aisha clasped her hands together. The room was very dark now and a familiar shadow was forming in the corner. ‘There was one,’ she said slowly. ‘One person I went to in a final, desperate bid. Seeing him gave me the strength to do what I did, which was ironic when you consider what he was.’ And she gave a little humourless laugh.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The two statues either side of the driveway were carved from grey stone and appeared to be a cross between a dragon and a dog. They were seated on their haunches and were nearly as tall as her; their huge eyes seemed to follow her with a fixed, unyielding scrutiny. Aisha should have known what they were, which part of the teaching they represented. To come here so badly informed, she thought, was disrespectful and presumptuous on the community’s generosity.

  She paused between the statues and looked up the drive to the rambling Edwardian house beyond. It stood in its own grounds on the edge of the green belt, surrounded by trees and open countryside, and wasn’t as austere as she’d expected. There were no cars on the driveway, there wouldn’t be. But there were net curtains at the windows, and the neatly cut lawn that ran out from the house was dotted with large terracotta pots much as you’d find in any North London suburb.

  Aisha took another step and began falteringly up the driveway, forcing her legs onwards and forwards. To walk the length of the drive, ring the bell and wait to be admitted, then have to talk to someone she didn’t know was more than she could bear. She doubted she was still capable of conversation; it had been so long since she’d spoken to anyone apart from the children, let alone a stranger. She could have turned and fled; run back down the drive and caught the next bus home, had she not gone to so much trouble. All those months of planning and saving the ten-and sometimes twenty-pence pieces, which she’d secreted in an old sock at the bottom of Sarah’s drawer until she had enough for the bus fare. Then daring to stop at the bus stop on the way back from school and quickly memorizing the timetable in case he was watching her. Her heart had pounded uncontrollably as she’d arrived home and began calculating the time she would need: the length of the return journey, added to the walk either end, plus an hour spent there. Then having to choose a day, one from five, almost impossible with nothing to set them apart, and the risk spread evenly. She had finally decided on Friday because it was the last day she could possibly choose before beginning all over again the following week.

  That morning, after Mark had gone to work, and before she took the children to school, she’d done the housework, set the potatoes and cabbage in salted water and cooked the brisket, ready for her return.

  Yes, she could have turned and fled, had she not gone to so much trouble. And she knew that if she did, there would be no second opportunity.

  Aisha stood in the tiled porch and looked at the old-style bell chime with its brass handle swinging on the end of a rod. The brass was so highly polished it glinted in the wintry sunlight; she was surprised that they bothered with such a secular chore as polishing when they must have more spiritual matters on their minds. She raised her hand and steeled herself, then gave the bell rod one short tug. She heard its single note echo down the hall and then peter out. She licked her dry lips and waited. No one came. She hadn’t much time She tugged the bell rod again, and then the door began to open. Aisha instinctively took a step back.

  She watched as by degrees he slowly came into view, then stood framed in the doorway and looked at her expectantly. She looked back at him and opened her mouth to speak, but all the months of preparation vanished; she stood helpless, and mute.

  ‘Yes?’ he said softly, after some moments. ‘How can we help you?’ His voice was low and almost choral in its serenity.

  ‘I … I’m sorry,’ she began. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you. I need to talk to you.’

  He studied her for a moment, as though gauging the level of her sincerity, his shaven head slightly bowed, his hands folded in the voluminous sleeves of his saffron robe. Then, releasing one hand slowly from its sleeve, he moved aside and gestured for her to come in.

  Aisha stepped past him and into a long, bare, wood-panelled hall. The house was perfectly quiet, as though he was the sole occupant. The monk closed the door behind her and turned slowly to face her, his hands once more concealed within the sleeves of his robe.

  ‘We have a visitors’ room at the rear of the house,’ he said softly. ‘We can go there to talk if you wish. We won’t be disturbed.’ His voice was encouraging in its quiet confidence.

  Aisha nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  He glided round her as though on a cushion of air, only his feet were visible beneath the hem of his robe. She followed him down the hall, her footsteps echoing harshly on the wooden floor compared to the sandal silence of his own. He was short, only as tall as she, and his skin was more bronze than brown. Stopping at the far end of the hall, he raised his eyes briefly to hers. ‘Would you like a hot drink? You must be very cold.’

  ‘No, no thank you.’ She smiled nervously, unsure of how she should address him.

  He pushed open the door on their right and went in first. Aisha followed and looked anxiously around her. The room was bare except for an old upholstered chair and a marble altar dominating one wall. The altar was scattered with fresh petals and in the centre was a lar
ge wooden statue of Buddha, seated cross-legged. Slightly above the altar was a small leaded-light window, which looked out over the gardens at the rear. In the distance she could see the other brothers at work in the gardens, their robes little flicks of moving orange against a background of green and brown.

  The monk bowed low before the altar then slowly backed away. Aisha was familiar enough with Buddhist teachings to know that you never turned your back on Buddha, and she waited a little behind the monk.

  ‘Please, sit down,’ he said, nodding to the one chair.

  She went over and perched nervously on the edge while the monk lowered himself effortlessly to sit cross-legged on the floor in front of her.

  He bowed his head and sat silently in prayer for a moment. With his shaven head and all-enveloping robe, his age was impossible to tell. After a moment, he slowly raised his head and studied her, quietly and at peace.

  ‘Tell me your name, child,’ he said, his manner echoing the gentleness of his voice.

  ‘Aisha,’ she said. ‘Aisha Williams.’

  ‘A Western surname?’

  ‘Yes, I am married to an Englishman. My parents are from Gujarat.’

  He nodded and the next question, which she had half-anticipated, held no hint of criticism. ‘I don’t think I have seen you or your family at the temple?’

  ‘No, my father converted to Christianity many years ago. And my husband is an atheist. He doesn’t believe.’

  ‘And you, my child? What do you believe?’

  Aisha hesitated, and felt again the imposition of her coming. ‘I don’t know. I was born a Buddhist. My parents’ families still are. Was it wrong of me to come? I’m sorry if it was.’

  His face flickered a smile and bore no trace of censure. ‘No, it was not. All gods are compassionate, particularly in the face of pain and adversity.’

  Aisha looked down at her hands wrung tightly in her lap, then up again at the monk. ‘If it’s so obvious,’ she blurted, ‘if my pain is there for all to see, why doesn’t my husband see it? Why, if it’s so obvious, does he continue? Why doesn’t he stop if my wretchedness is so clear?’