by June Gadsby
Greg still couldn’t refer to Callum without incorporating a derisive sneer.
“Who was the star-guest who cancelled?” I asked.
“Some radio presenter or something. Didn’t recognise the name. Can’t be too well-known.”
***
So, that’s how I started seeing Hilary Andrews again and from then on, we saw each other on a regular basis. I didn’t feel proud of myself, but she seemed anxious for my friendship. I couldn’t imagine that she was lonely, surrounded as she was all the time by friends and deeply involved with her committee work. But she insisted that I go around at least once a week and she gave me tea and cake, always home-baked and delicious. And she talked about Callum and I pretended to be vaguely interested. I devoured every word she said about him.
“Do you miss him?” I asked her one day when she seemed to be particularly obsessed with talking about him, more so than usual. I didn’t want to know the answer, but felt it was the kind of question people asked of women whose husbands were away from home for any length of time.
She looked at me questioningly, then looked away, rubbed at an eyebrow and gave a short laugh.
“Do you know, Megan, I’m not really sure.” she said and laughed again. “I enjoy having him at home, naturally, but I’m quite used to being on my own. A grass widow…isn’t that what they call it? I could go with him, of course. I’m afraid I’ve been a great disappointment to Callum because I do so detest travelling and being in foreign countries. I did it once or twice when we were first married, but then I swore never again to leave England’s green and pleasant land. These other countries and the people who live there just don’t interest me, foreign food appals me, and I can’t stand the heat. And, as you know already, I have absolutely no ear for music. I would be so bored by the whole thing it would make Callum tetchy and he’s not at all easy to live with when he’s in that kind of mood.”
“I can’t imagine Callum being anything else but charming,” I found myself saying and she grimaced at me.
“Megan, my dear, you’ve no idea what he’s been like lately. It seems to me he’s been irritable for months. Do you remember when you used to come around and have all those long sessions with him, painting and sketching him in all his glory?” I nodded, and she closed her eyes briefly and shook her head. “You weren’t to know it, but I used to look forward to you coming because he was always on his best behaviour around you. It was wonderful. You wove magic spell around him, but the minute you were gone he was back to be the bear with a sore head.”
“Male menopause.” I said with a light laugh and she shook her head again.
“Oh, I daresay it’s all my fault really. He should have married someone younger. I’m ten years older than he is, did you know that, Megan?”
“No, I didn’t. Does age matter?”
“It didn’t at first, when we were young,” Hilary sighed wistfully. “Now, I don’t know. We’re both getting older, but I feel sometimes that I’ve left him behind. I’ve aged so much faster than he has. Different attitudes, I suppose.”
I swallowed hard and forced myself to look her straight in the eye to say the words that I felt I had to say right then, to comfort her. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about, Hilary. Callum is still very fond of you.” I couldn’t bring myself to say the word ‘love’.
She stared at me for a long time, mulling over my words no doubt, then her shoulders jerked, and she laughed again. She laughed, but the humour didn’t always reach her eyes.
“Well,” she said, offering me another piece of chocolate cake, “we’re still together after all these years. That says a lot, doesn’t it?”
“I’d say it was very good.”
“But I want you to promise me something, Megan. When Callum gets back from this American tour of his, you and Greg must come around often.”
“Yes…thank you, Hilary…we’d love to.”
Oh, God, how we can lie when we must.
Chapter Twenty-Five
“I’m bloody sick of you going out all the time!” Greg leaned heavily on his walking stick and shouted at me from the kitchen door. “What the hell am I supposed to do all evening, eh? Sit here twiddling my thumbs?”
I thought the peace treaty between us had been too good to last.
“Greg, it’s business.”
“I’ll give you business if you don’t damn well settle down to what you’re supposed to be!”
“And what’s that, for goodness sake?”
“My wife! That’s what. You’ve done nothing but go traipsing off left right and centre ever since Christmas. Not a thought for me having to sit here waiting around like a beggar hoping for a charitable handout.”
“Oh, come on, Greg. It’s a case of the biter bit, isn’t it…and if that’s bad English I’m sorry to hurt your literary sensibilities, but I need the work and the money, and I love every minute of it.”
“It’s got to stop, Megan. I didn’t marry you for this.”
“No? Then what did you marry me for, Greg? Tell me please, because I’m damned if I know. You’ve spent most of our married life doing just what you pleased and now the boot’s on the other foot and I don’t care if you don’t like it. It’s my life too, you know.”
He limped into the kitchen. His right leg was no longer encased in a strong support, but the bones had not mended true and they told him at the hospital that he might end up with a slight, but permanent limp. That news went down like a load of pre-set cement. What a blow to his pride. Especially now that he had shed some of his unwanted weight and was looking pretty good again.
I didn’t expect him to move as swiftly as he did, but without warning he threw aside his cane and was on me in a rush of violent anger that burned reddish purple beneath his swarthy skin. My arms were gripped and twisted behind my back with such a force I thought they would break. With his pelvis pinning me against the kitchen sink, he wound his fingers in my hair and held me so that I could not escape his descending mouth with its loose, wet lips.
His kiss was without tenderness. It was a bruising punishment that made me cry out with the pain of it. I tried to free my hands to push him away, but my struggle was in vain. He had me trapped and helpless.
“Stop it, Greg.” I ground out breathlessly. “You’re hurting me.”
“Good! I want to give you something to remember.”
With his fingers still entangled in my hair, he dragged me from the kitchen, across the hall and into his makeshift bedroom. Even before he threw me onto the bed I knew what he was going to do, but he had to spell it out for me so that there was no doubt.
“I’m going to fuck the hell out of you, woman, until you scream for mercy. That’s what I married you for, Megan. Because you were good to fuck. Only I don’t get to do it any more, do I? You’re too bloody busy being the famous artist. Friend of the wife of the famous ruddy musician that’s setting the world on fire. Callum ‘bloody’ Andrews! I bet he couldn’t get hard enough to fuck a pink blancmange!”
“Greg…please, don’t.”
His hands were fumbling at my clothes, ripping them from me. I’m no weakling and I fought back, but I was no match for Greg. He had taken me by force before now, but this time it was different. This time, there was an unbridled violence behind his every move, as if he had been saving it up in a great reserve during his convalescence.
My arms and my back were breaking with the strain of trying to push him off me, fighting off his big hands with fingers that dug into my flesh like iron pokers. I had often viewed rape victims with scepticism, but this would change my mind. When a powerful man, such as Greg, was determined to get what he wanted, no woman would have the strength to repel him.
When he entered me I stopped fighting. Struggling would only make it worse. I let my body sag beneath him, closed my eyes and waited for him to finish. It was soon over, thankfully. He had been celibate for too long and couldn’t hold back. But I still hurt all over where he had hit and punched and pre
ssed into me.
“Bitch!” he hissed at me, rising over me and aiming a blow at my head.
I tried to jerk away from his flying fist, but he caught me heavily on my cheekbone, his signet ring splitting the skin.
“What did I do to deserve such kindness?” I asked hoarsely as blood seeped out of my wound and ran down onto the pillow.
He stood up, rising like a triumphant bear on its hind legs. I fully expected him to beat his chest like Tarzan. If I hadn’t been hurting so much I might have laughed. But it wasn’t that funny.
“Bitch!” he repeated more venomously with a sob in his voice. Then his shoulders hunched, and he wept bitter tears. I think that’s when I realised that I was not the bitch he was referring to, but I had taken her punishment. It was said that men who were violent towards their women were punishing their mothers. Greg hated his mother. She had been a hard, dynamic woman who had passed on all her antagonistic genes to her son. Unfortunately, none of the affectionate gentleness of his father had got through.
I hauled myself up to a sitting position and with difficulty swung my legs to the floor and struggled to stand. Greg was still hovering over me, swaying drunkenly. He collapsed in a heap, his arms encircling my legs, his big head pressed into my stomach. He was weeping bitterly. I could feel his hot tears rolling down my thighs.
“Oh, Meg! Meg, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you…I just got carried away. I don’t want to lose you. I don’t know what to do. Don’t leave me, Meg. Don’t leave me, for God’s sake. I couldn’t live without you. Can’t you see that?”
No, quite frankly, I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t see anything anymore. Nothing, that is, that made sense. I was married to this pathetic man and I promised to stick by him for better or for worse and I’d done that, for worse, during almost the whole of our marriage. I had listened to and accepted his apologies, his promises to change. Those promises had less structure than a puff of steam.
“Let go of me, Greg.”
His arms dropped lifelessly by his sides. He sat back on his heels and looked imploringly up into my face. Tears dripped from his nose and chin. He sniffed, snorted, choked and sobbed. I watched him. I was no longer a human being. I was a statue, turned to stone. I felt nothing. I didn’t think I would feel anything ever again.
“Please forgive me, Megs,” he went on pleading, still using the old pet name. “I’ve changed. You know I have. Haven’t I been good these last few weeks? This…this just now…it was just a slip…I couldn’t help myself. It’s been so long since you were my wife in the full meaning of the word. Say you forgive me, Megs. Please! Say it!”
“I’m tired, Greg. Let’s…let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
He let me walk out of the room. I went slowly and painfully up the stairs and ran a hot bath. I locked the bathroom door. Later, cleansed and revived, I went to bed in our bedroom, but turned the key in the lock, just to make sure.
I slept, but nightmare scenes of what had passed earlier illustrated my restless slumber and I was glad when the morning light touched my eyelids. I got up, showered and dressed. Ros was away visiting some old friends, so I didn’t have her shoulder to cry on. I went out, feeling like the saddest person in the world. It was good to distance myself from the house and Greg.
It was Sunday morning and the town was still quiet. I think I must have walked miles and finally sank down on a park bench and turned my bruised face up to the sky to soak in some of the gentle warmth of the spring sunshine. People gradually started to appear; parents with young children, walking their dogs, elderly couples walking in harmony, thinking of a family Sunday lunch, planning a cosy evening by the fire doing whatever happy couples or families do.
I envied them all. It was obvious they did not envy me, the lonely woman on the park bench, trying to hide the blue swelling on the side of her face that was threatening to close her left eye.
After a time, I don’t know how long, I got up and walked some more, still stiff and hurting. A taxi pulled out of a lane, having dropped off its passenger. The driver, seeing me and hoping for a bonus fare, slowed down and peered at me, raising curious eyebrows that asked if I needed his services. I dismissed the idea, then thought better of it and flagged him down.
“You all right, luv?” He was the friendly, fatherly sort. “You look a bit tired like.”
“I’ll survive,” I told him and smiled, though it hurt my bruised and split lips.
“Accident was it?” He nodded towards my colourful face.
“A flying plank,” I said with a painful frown and he gave a knowing nod.
“Nasty things, flying planks. Where to, luv?”
I started to give him my mother’s address, then wondered why the hell I should go and see her. She would just wallow in the fact that I was in trouble and she knew it would happen all the time. And I hope none of the neighbours saw you arrive in this state.
With a quick change of mind, I gave the cabby the Andrews’ address and hoped I would find her alone for a change.
My luck was in. Hilary took one look at my face and drew me gently into the house. “Oh, my dear! Whatever’s happened to you?”
“I had an accident,” I lied, but avoided the flying plank story and told her instead that I had fallen down the stairs.
“How awful! But why aren’t you at home resting? Where was Greg?”
“We had a row,” I told her simply, without going into details. “He doesn’t have much sympathy with people who fall down stairs. He thinks it’s clumsy and careless.”
“Oh dear. You come and sit down, and I’ll go and make a cup of tea… or would you prefer something stronger perhaps. Callum always has some Armagnac in the house, not that he drinks a great deal, but…”
“A cup of coffee would be great,” I suggested and attempted a grin. “And perhaps we could steal a drop of Callum’s Armagnac to tart it up.”
“What a good idea. Now, you just lie back and try to relax. I won’t be a moment…” As she spoke the telephone rang in the hall. She ‘tutted’ impatiently. “Now who on earth could that be? Excuse me, my dear.”
I lay back as instructed and closed my eyes, hearing her voice drifting in from the hall as she spoke to her caller, keeping her voice low. Whether to be confidential or whether not to disturb me I didn’t know. But she talked at some length and with some urgency in her voice. I think I dozed off, tired out by my ordeal and the miles I had walked that morning. I didn’t hear her come back into the lounge until she called my name and I came to with a start.
“Megan, dear, it’s Callum calling all the way from New York. I told him you were here, and he’d like to say hello.”
“Oh?” My mouth immediately went dry and there was that familiar fluttering against my battered ribcage.
She showed me where the telephone was located, then went off to the kitchen and I heard her rattling the cups and saucers as I picked up the receiver and spoke into it after a long moment’s hesitation.
“Callum?” My voice sounded young and weak in my own ears; I dreaded to think what it sounded like to him on the other side of the world.
“Hello, Megan.” I closed my eyes and absorbed the sound of his voice. He sounded so close. I wanted to cry. I couldn’t swallow back the lump that had formed in my throat. “What happened? Hilary tells me that you’ve had some sort of accident?”
“I…er…yes, silly really. I fell down the stairs. It’s nothing serious.”
“That’s not what Hilary said.”
“Wh-what did Hilary say?”
“That you looked as if you’d been beaten up.”
“Did she? I can’t imagine why she should think such a thing.”
“She’s no fool, Megan. Was it Greg?”
My silence was too long. He already knew the truth before I opened my mouth to reply to his question. “Yes, he…he hit me, but it’s nothing to worry about.”
“But I am worried, Megan.”
“There’s no need, really.”
&
nbsp; The silence between us seemed loud in my ears. “Is Hilary there with you now?”
“No. She’s making coffee in the kitchen.”
“Megan…I….”
“Yes?”
“Oh, God, I miss you, my darling.”
“Do you?” my voice cracked, and I gave a little sob and stared up at the ceiling, my knuckles growing white as I gripped the phone tighter and tighter.
“I’m so terribly sorry for what happened…for what’s happening. My fault entirely.”
“No…no, of course it isn’t…wasn’t…Oh, Callum.”
I heard him clear his throat. “Hilary’s a good person…”
“Yes, I know.”
“What I mean is…she’ll look after you. Stay there as long as you want…as long as you need to…”
“No, I can’t possibly. I should go back home. It was just…this morning…I needed to get away…to think things out. I didn’t know where else to go. Greg’s sick, I know that now. It’s strange, but I feel quite sorry for him.”
“You don’t love him, Megan.”
“No, but…”
“Leave him.”
“I can’t…not right away…not now… Oh, Callum, I can’t explain.”
“Will I see you again?”
“No,” I said it quickly before I could change my mind. “No, Callum. I don’t think that’s a very good idea, do you?”
“I don’t know what I think any more. I only know how I feel.”
Don’t you see, Callum! If I leave Greg, I’ll be free. If I’m free I might be tempted to lure you away from Hilary. We would have to live with that. What would it do to our relationship, knowing that we had hurt her so much, the husband she adores, the friend she trusts.
“Callum! Remember what you said? It was just a case of us both having too much to drink. And it was New Year, after all.”
“Megan…”
“Goodbye, Callum,” I said quickly and hung up as Hilary bustled through with a tray laden with coffee and Callum’s bottle of Armagnac. “Oh, I’m sorry, Hilary, did you want another word with Callum?”