by Maureen Lee
The picture was almost finished when he heard a knock on the door and went to answer it, hoping it wasn’t Dominic wanting to come in and play.
He wasn’t quite sure what to think when he found his dad standing outside on the pavement.
‘It seems me key won’t fit the lock any more,’ his dad said curtly as he pushed past into the hall. Tony followed nervously. He never seemed able to do the right thing as far as his dad was concerned. Apparently he’d done the wrong thing straight away, because, after throwing his kit bag on the floor, Dad nodded at the painting and said contemptuously, ‘What the hell’s this?’
‘It’s for me mam,’ Tony explained in a small voice.
‘You should’ve spread a newspaper out. You’ve got paint on the cloth, see!’ His long, nicotine-stained finger seemed to quiver as he pointed to the spots.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So you bloody should be. And it’s cissy, a lad painting flowers.’ He folded the sheet in two and stamped on it with his fist. Tony realised the wet picture would be ruined. ‘Can’t you paint something to do with the war, like a tank?’
Tony bit his lip. ‘Annie gave me a tank for Christmas. I’ll paint that, if you like.’
When his dad nodded, Tony ran upstairs to get the tank. Halfway down, dad shouted, ‘Fetch me the Johnnie Walker and a glass out the parlour.’
Tony had no idea what Johnnie Walker was, but felt too terrified to ask. But if he wanted a glass, it must be something to drink. He opened the best sideboard cupboard. There was only one bottle there and although he couldn’t read yet, he recognised the initials on the label.
‘Ta.’ His dad was removing his overcoat when Tony went in. ‘Does your mam usually leave you by yourself when she’s at work?’ he asked. He poured himself a drink, swallowed it quickly and poured another.
Tony shook his head. ‘Annie looks after me, or me Auntie Sheila. I came home to do some painting.’
‘Huh!’ Dad said contemptuously. He rubbed his hands together. ‘It’s cold in here. Why didn’t you pull the flue out on the fire?’
‘I’m not allowed to touch it.’
‘So, you could freeze to death, could you, and she doesn’t give a damn?’ He removed the fire guard and pulled out the flue, then turned impatiently on his son. ‘Come on, then, get on with it!’ When Tony gave him a puzzled look, he snapped, ‘The painting!’
With trembling fingers, Tony began to mix the paints to get a khaki colour. He desperately wished he’d stayed with Dominic and prayed his mam would come home soon. He’d only make a hash of things with his dad watching over his shoulder. At one point, Dad leaned across and squeezed his arm so hard that the little boy felt tears come to his eyes.
‘You’ve done that bit wrong!’
To his relief, after a while Dad seemed to lose interest and, taking off his jacket and shirt, went into the kitchen in his khaki vest and began to get washed.
At last, mam’s key sounded in the door. She was laughing as she spoke to someone outside.
‘Thanks, Jess. I’d love to read them,’ she called. Then, ‘Tony, I’m home.’
She took her coat off in the hall and hung it up. He looked up at her beseechingly as she entered the room. Her face seemed to freeze when she saw his dad standing in the kitchen doorway. She came across, kissed Tony’s cheek and said, ‘Go on over to your Auntie Sheila’s for a minute, luv.’
Tony leaped off the chair and was out of the house like a shot.
The slam of the front door seemed to reverberate through the house as Francis Costello stared at his wife. He couldn’t understand her. He’d never cared much for women and had felt no inclination to get married until the suggestion had been made that he might get into parliament, and he realised a wife and family was a necessary appendage for a man in the public eye. He’d chosen Eileen Doyle, who was presentable and came from a good family. As far as he was concerned, she now belonged to him. He owned her, just as he owned his child, and the furniture in the house. That she should refuse to do his bidding was as incomprehensible as if one of his chairs refused to let him sit in it. At the same time, he felt confused. What was she complaining about? What had he done wrong? He didn’t quite know how to deal with the situation.
‘I see you’ve changed the lock on the door,’ he said cuttingly.
‘Both doors. It was me dad’s idea,’ Eileen replied.
His face darkened as he took in the implication of her words. His mentor, Jack Doyle, had turned against him.
‘So, you told him,’ he growled.
‘Told him what, Francis?’
‘Told him lies, that’s what.’
She pushed past and began to fill the kettle with water. ‘I didn’t tell him half the truth,’ she said. ‘Now, if you don’t mind, Francis, I’d like you to finish getting washed and go. If y’don’t, then I’m off to me dad’s with Tony. So, take your pick.’
‘I’m staying. This is my house, and I’m staying.’ The smouldering anger in Francis’s head turned into a wrathful blaze.
‘Please yourself. In that case, I’ll pack a few things in a minute.’
The anger exploded. His head felt as if it was on fire. ‘Oh, no you don’t! You’re my wife! You stay where I tell you to stay and you’re staying here.’
‘I’m sorry, Francis,’ she said with a cool smile.
He knew he had to make her see sense once and for all, otherwise his entire world would collapse. He lifted the roller towel off the rung behind the kitchen door and put it in the sink, which was half full of water.
‘What d’you think you’re doing?’ Eileen exclaimed.
Francis wrung the towel out, twisting and twisting until the coarse cloth became a thick rope. Then he turned on his wife and lashed out. The towel caught her around the neck and she screamed and fell against the wall. He lashed out again and again, first one way, then the other, until she slid, sobbing, down the wall onto the floor.
Staring down at her cowering form, Francis felt a sense of power, mixed with a throb of excitement. ‘So, who’s your husband, Eileen?’
‘You are, Francis,’ she said shakily.
He smiled. She’d learnt her lesson. ‘And whose house is this?’
‘It’s yours.’
‘Right then. And my wife’s staying in my house, and that’s all there is to it.’
He turned away. The matter was settled. There’d be no more whining from now on.
‘But you won’t be me husband for long, Francis. I’m getting a divorce. And as for the house, you can keep it. I’ll find another one for me and our Tony.’
She was looking at him, eyes full of hate. Francis felt the sense of power, the excitement, ebb away, to be replaced with a rage greater and blacker than anything he’d felt before. The woman was stupid. She had to be taught an even harder lesson.
She was on all fours, trying to get back on her feet. He bent over and wrapped the towel around her neck and pulled. As he pulled and heard her choke, the excitement returned.
‘You bloody bitch!’ he snarled.
‘Francis!’
He felt hands tugging at him, but scarcely noticed. The hands had no more strength than a bird. A woman, not Eileen, began to scream, but he still ignored it, too intent on punishing his wife to care. It wasn’t until the scalding water touched his neck that he yelped in pain and let go.
Sheila Reilly was standing over him with a kettle of boiling water. She must have let herself in with a key.
‘Get away from her!’
Francis stumbled blindly out of the kitchen and went upstairs. Sheila bent over her sister, who was lying on the floor, thankfully not dead, but panting hoarsely for breath.
‘Eileen! Oh, luv! Are you all right?’
Eileen gave a little nod. ‘Where is he?’ she croaked.
‘Upstairs.’
‘I never want to see him again as long as I live.’
‘You won’t, luv, not if I’ve got anything to do with it. The minute you feel up to
it, I’ll help you over to our house.’ Gently, she began to stroke Eileen’s long fair hair. ‘Oh, Sis,’ she went on in a rush, ‘I wish I’d come before. Tony said his dad was home, and I didn’t give it a second thought. Then, all of a sudden, I got a funny feeling there was something wrong.’
‘Thank God you came when you did.’
‘Oh, Eil! I poured boiling water on him!’
‘Well, it did the trick, didn’t it?’ Wincing painfully, Eileen sat up. Sheila helped her to her feet and into the living room, where she sank, groaning, into a chair.
‘I never thought I was capable of such a thing!’ Sheila said in an awed voice. ‘But it seemed the only way to stop him. How d’you feel? Could you make your way across the road?’
‘In a minute. I wish he weren’t upstairs.’ Unable to help herself, Eileen burst into tears. ‘He nearly killed me!’
‘Oh, Sis!’ Sheila was in a dilemma. She’d left six small children at home, seven, if you included Tony, and she was worried about Ryan, who was crawling around, getting into everything. But how could she abandon Eileen in this state and with Francis still upstairs? To her relief, there was a knock on the door and she ran to open it. Jessica Fleming was outside, carrying an armful of magazines.
‘Your sister said she’d like to …’
‘Come in, quick, and look after our Eileen while I get someone to take care of me kids.’ Sheila dragged the woman inside. ‘I’ll be as quick as I can.’
‘Why?’ asked Jessica in astonishment. ‘What’s the matter?’
‘You’ll see.’
Jessica went in, to find Eileen Costello with her blouse undone, examining an assortment of angry weals on her body. Her neck was red raw. She looked up at the newcomer, eyes swollen with tears.
‘What the hell’s happened?’ Jessica demanded in astonishment. ‘Who did that?’
Eileen made a wry face. ‘Me husband,’ she whispered.
Jessica’s jaw dropped. ‘The bastard! Where is he?’
‘Upstairs.’
‘Upstairs! Have you called the police?’
‘What’s the point? A man has the right to do what he likes to his wife, so long as he don’t kill her.’
Jessica Fleming lost her temper easily, but even she hadn’t realised she was capable of such fury on behalf of someone she scarcely knew. It took her completely by surprise. To think a man could do this and get away with it! Her blood boiled.
‘I’ll kill him! I’ll bloody kill him.’ She picked the poker up off the hearth.
‘Please don’t!’ Eileen grabbed her arm, wincing. ‘I’ve had enough. I can’t stand the thought of more trouble. And there’s Tony to consider.’
Jessica flung the poker back. She noticed the khaki shirt and jacket on the chair, the overcoat, the kitbag, and collecting them together, threw the lot into the hall.
‘Eh, you up there!’ she screamed. ‘Get these on, and be out of the house before I come up and smash your bloody face to a pulp! If you’re not gone in five minutes, I’ll fetch the Bobbies to you.’
To her surprise, when she went back, Eileen was actually grinning.
‘You should have heard yourself. You sounded a right ould Mary Ellen.’
‘I feel like a right ould Mary Ellen at the moment,’ Jessica replied unashamedly.
They both stopped and listened to the sound of footsteps descending the stairs. Jessica stood by the fire, ready to take up the poker if the man came in. She saw a tall, handsome figure pass the door into the hall without a sideways glance at the waiting women. No-one spoke as Francis put on his clothes. A few minutes later the front door slammed.
‘He’s gone,’ Jessica announced, unnecessarily. ‘Good riddance to bad rubbish, as they say.’
Eileen sank back with a sigh of relief.
‘How long has this been going on?’ Jessica demanded.
‘Since not long after we were married. Though he’s never hurt me this bad before,’ she added hastily.
Jessica said nothing. One of their old friends, a doctor, had told her once about the women who came into the Emergency Department of the hospital, with their broken bones and black eyes and bleeding faces, come by at the hands of violent, brutal husbands. The police were never called, charges were never pressed. The women were attended to and went back to their tormentors, to return to the hospital again and again for their wounds to be tended.
‘I can’t understand it,’ the doctor said. ‘I can only assume they’re stupid. They must like being beaten black and blue.’
Jessica, who wouldn’t have put up with it for five minutes, couldn’t understand it, either. Yet Eileen Costello wasn’t stupid. Jessica had a horrible feeling she might have overstepped the mark. Perhaps Eileen hadn’t wanted her husband thrown out so unceremoniously. Perhaps this was just par for the course and in half an hour, if Jessica hadn’t been there, everything would have been back to normal. She glanced at the woman; her eyes were closed, her breath came in little faint gasps, and her white face had a slightly blue tinge.
‘Shall I send for the doctor?’ she asked worriedly.
Eileen opened her eyes. ‘No, ta. I already feel better than I did. I’m awful sorry you got involved,’ she added apologetically. ‘I bet this sort of thing doesn’t happen round Calderstones.’
Jessica smiled. ‘I’m afraid I completely lost my temper. I can’t remember feeling so worked up before. I hope I did the right thing.’
‘Well, you got rid of him in a hurry. Thanks.’
So, it was all right then! Jessica felt relieved. ‘It’s none of my business, but you’re not going to sit back and let this happen again, are you?’
Eileen shook her head. ‘He only tried to strangle me when I told him I wanted a divorce – though I haven’t a clue how you go about getting one.’
‘You need to see a solicitor,’ Jessica advised.
‘Yes, but in the meanwhile, there’s nowt to stop him coming back whenever he likes. I daren’t tell me dad what happened. He’d only track Francis down and kill him. It was him who changed the locks, though he’d no right. It’s Francis’s house, and by law, he can come and go as he pleases. I’ll start looking for somewhere else. I’m earning enough money meself to pay the rent and buy a few odds and ends of furniture.’
Jessica glanced around the neat little room, noting the modern fireplace, the electric light. ‘It seems a shame. You’ve got this place looking very nice.’ If it had been one of her properties, the rent book would have been in Eileen’s name by tomorrow!
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ she asked.
‘Please! Me throat’s aching for one.’ As Jessica went into the back kitchen, Eileen noticed the magazines she’d brought on the table. The top cover showed a model dripping with diamonds and wearing a glamorous satin ballgown with an off-the-shoulder neck trimmed with bunched organdie flowers. The woman was standing on a balcony, her lovely face silhouetted against a panoramic view of London by night. In one hand she casually held a fur coat, most of which was draped on the floor. The picture bore so little relation to her own life that Eileen gave a cracked, sardonic laugh.
‘What’s so funny?’ Jessica called in surprise.
‘I just remembered something. I was planning on going to a ball on New Year’s Eve with some of the girls from work.’
Jessica appeared in the doorway. ‘You can still go. It’s days off yet.’
‘I haven’t got a frock. I can’t try one on in a shop looking like this, can I? What would the assistant think?’
‘I’ll lend you one,’ Jessica offered. She glanced at the magazine and smiled. ‘It won’t be as grand as that, but I’ve two wardrobes full of clothes. We’re the same height. You can always tighten the belt or take it in a bit if it’s too big around the waist.’
‘I’m not sure if I’ll be in the mood.’ Eileen made a face. ‘Dancing’s the last thing I feel like at the moment.’
‘It’ll do you good,’ Jessica said brightly. ‘Take your mind off things.’
Despite Sheila’s protests, Eileen went into work the following day, covering her still raw neck with a scarf – the last thing she wanted was curious comments from the girls. But by the time the tea trolley arrived, she was beginning to wish she’d heeded her sister’s advice and stayed at home. The heat in the workshop was tremendous. Her neck and the weals on her body began to burn and she felt as if she’d been branded with hot irons. Reaching across the machine was such agony it was all she could do not to shout out loud in pain.
‘Are you all right, Eileen?’ Doris called, once work had recommenced. ‘You don’t look a hundred per cent today.’
Eileen didn’t answer. The question had seemed to come from a long way away. She felt herself begin to sway and had enough sense to step back from the machine before sinking onto the floor. Someone shouted, ‘Catch her, quick!’ and Eileen remembered no more until she came to on a bed in a little white-painted room, with Sister Kean bending over her.
‘You’ve certainly been in the wars!’
Sister Kean was a stocky, thickset woman with an abrupt manner and a faint black moustache, which was the subject of much hilarity in the workshop, where she was referred to as ‘Hitler’s sister’.
Eileen became aware her overalls and scarf had been removed and her blouse was undone. ‘I had an accident,’ she said defensively.
‘You don’t say! How are you feeling?’
‘A bit dizzy, that’s all.’ She tried to sit up, but failed.
‘Miss Thomas has gone to get you a cup of tea.’
Eileen groaned. Miss Thomas would be bound to want to know how she’d come by her injuries.
When she arrived, in the sensible flat shoes and navy striped suit she wore every day, Miss Thomas duly did. She sat on the edge of the bed and demanded in a shocked voice, ‘Who did this to you, Eileen?’
Somewhat annoyed, Eileen nevertheless tried to be polite. ‘I know you’re only doing your job, but it’s none of your business.’