The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

Sadly, she knew no other way to be.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “Receipts,” Harry demanded, “and make it quick. Haven’t got all day.”

  It had just gone 6 p.m. on a typical weekday. A year or two into Rita-Mae’s marriage and already Harry had moulded her, shaped the clay, which, over the years, would set and harden into the object that would be his alone.

  She’d just set down his dinner-plate and was halfway to the table with the teapot when he’d asked her for them.

  “The receipts. I’ll get them for you as soon as I’ve poured the tea,” she said.

  “I said now!”

  She turned back to the stove.

  “Where the fuck d’you think yer goin’ with that tay?”

  “You said you wanted to see the receipts.”

  “After yeh pour the bloody tay. Are you thick or what? Do I have to spell everything out for you, do I?”

  She could have remonstrated. Could have said, “I thought you wanted to see the receipts now and the word ‘now’ usually means immediately.” But she was too afraid to say anything. Was already, in the time she’d known him, planning moves, editing thoughts, censoring speech, just to keep his temper at bay. It was the best she could do – tiptoe carefully on the thinnest of ice, dreading that sudden cracking sound, which might propel her into casualty – or the morgue.

  It was Friday. On Thursday evenings, when he got his wages, he’d give her £20 for the week’s groceries. He needed to see receipts for everything, just in case she’d frittered some of it away on herself. In Harry’s book anything apart from the basics – food, drink, toiletries and cleaning agents – was unnecessary. Money spent on nonsense “upset” him. She could never have imagined how something as innocuous as a receipt would hold such terror for her. They were the evidence Harry needed to keep track of her when he wasn’t around, giving the how, when and where she’d spent his precious money. She’d had no idea that receipts contained not only date-stamps but time-stamps as well. Until of course those times of purchase became weapons in his war against her.

  “Sorry,” she said, pouring the tea. “I’ll get them now.”

  He thrust into the food without a word. She found the receipts in her purse and laid them by his plate.

  “From now on,” he said, gesturing with the knife, “I wanna see them sittin’ out here on the table when I get home. That way I don’t need-a keep lookin’ them off you.”

  “Yes, I’ll do that,” she said meekly, sitting down at the other end of the table to her own meagre ration. Baked beans on toast. Just the one slice of bread and a half can of beans. It was the safest food she could eat.

  One evening, after finishing a bowl of stew, he told her he’d put rat poison in it when her back was turned. She was immediately sick in the toilet bowl and he laughed at her for being so stupid as to believe him.

  But following that incident she never again left her food unattended. Every morsel she ate had to be protected, from sealed packet to mouth. That was the only way she could be sure.

  “How was your day, Harry?” she asked now, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

  “My day?” He loured at her. “Why are yeh tryin’ to change the subject?”

  “It’s just that it’s Friday and you’re usually in a good mood because it’s the weekend, that’s all.”

  “Aye, right. That fucker George was called away today and I’d to fill in for him, if you must know. Missus havin’ another wain, so he had to go down the hospital. But tell me, was that my fault? Why did I have to do his work on top of my own?”

  She could have asked why he hadn’t complained to his boss. Why he hadn’t just refused to do it. But she knew better. Harry never questioned those above him. Like most abusers he was unable to challenge authority and hated his own impotence in that regard. The cuts and bruises his wife took were his most expedient way of expressing such frustration.

  “No, it wasn’t your fault,” she said, trying to mollify him, “but you’ll get paid overtime? The extra money will come in handy.”

  “That’s not the point, is it? The point is that they used me to clear up after him, and I don’t like being anyone’s dogsbody. Nobody uses Harry Ruttle. Anyway, why are you so interested in my mood all of a sudden?”

  He’d almost cleared his plate, bolting his food greedily as if it was the last meal he’d ever see.

  “Just wondered. That’s all.”

  She had no appetite. Asked herself if she’d get through the evening unscathed. The morning-sickness was getting worse, but he was never a witness to that, thank God. Up and away by 7 a.m. with the lunch-pack she’d prepared the night before.

  “There must be something,” he growled, “something in these receipts . . . something you know I won’t be too happy about.”

  “No,” she said, shaking her head. “Nothing like that.”

  But she could see he wasn’t convinced.

  She watched him tear a slice of bread in two, a muscle beating in his right cheek. Tension was building, the very air around him vibrating.

  Yes, there was something: she’d been to the doctor and he’d confirmed what she’d already suspected. She was pregnant. Well past the first trimester.

  Harry snorkelled from the mug of tea, eyes as cold as ice chips. A predator’s eyes.

  “I said there must be something you don’t want me to know about.”

  She sliced into the toast, feigning concentration, measuring the lines, corner to corner, so that each quarter looked exactly the same. Aware of the silence and what words she might safely place into it. Forming them in her head. Choosing carefully, like a Scrabble player.

  “I hate the bloody way you do that!” There was a sharpening edge to his voice, her timidity and way of eating serving as a whetstone.

  No, the evening would not end well.

  “Do what?” she asked, trying to stall the inevitable.

  “The way you toy about with your bloody food. It’s for eatin’, not playin’ with.”

  “Oh, that. Well, it’s just the way I eat.” She glanced at his empty plate. “Do you want some more? There’s more in the oven if you want.”

  “Me ma used to eat like you. Me da called her The Mouse. Aye, Mary Mouse. You remind me of her y’know. Thin as a rake, nervous as a bloody rabbit, mad as a friggin’ hatter. But she was easy to run, like yerself. That’s what Da used to say. ‘Mary Mouse’s easy to run.’ That’s about the only good thing I can say about you too. The less you eat, the less I have to spend.”

  She got up. “I’ll get you some more.”

  “Aye, that’s a good idea, Rita. You just do that and I’ll take a wee look at these, ’cos from where I’m sittin’ I think you’re hidin’ something from me.”

  She reached for his plate.

  “Why are you wearin’ that loose thing?” He was staring at her belly. “Can’t be ’cos you’re puttin’ on weight, since you eat fuck all.”

  She’d taken to wearing a dress one size bigger, because she was beginning to “show” and needed to deflect his attention. She’d found it in a St Vincent de Paul charity shop for the paltry sum of £1.50. Hardly an extravagance.

  “Don’t think so,” she said, lifting the plate. “It’s this dress. It’s a bit on the big side.”

  He grabbed her wrist. His rough hand a manacle.

  “Then why did you buy it, if it was too big for you?”

  She had to think fast. “There was . . . no changin’ room . . . it being a charity shop, and I only realized when I got it home. It . . . it looked all right on the hanger. The dinner’s getting cold, Harry.”

  His grip grew tighter. “Looks like a bloody maternity smock to me. Hope yer not pregnant, Rita, ’cos if yeh are you’ll just have to get rid of it. The last thing I want in my life is a screamin’ brat disturbin’ my peace. D’yeh understand me?”

  “I know.”

  He released her. Dropped her arm like it was a diseased thing.

  “Now, get me the rest of that
dinner. And make it quick.”

  He took the calculator from the window-sill as she went through to the kitchen.

  She never thought herself capable of having a child, but now that it was happening she was amazed. A little one quickening inside her that was hers – all hers, because she was the one nurturing it, not him. Maybe if she broke it to him gently he’d have a change of heart. Now, however, was clearly not the best time.

  A week before they married he’d sent her to the doctor for the contraceptive pill. And she’d gone along with it because she was in love with him – or thought she was. But she’d stopped taking it on purpose. Her one act of defiance because she wanted a baby so much. She had so much love to give – love that Harry clearly had no need of – and what better way to feel complete and useful in the miserable situation that was her marriage? Becoming a mother seemed the only way of remaining sane in the circumstances.

  Slowly she refilled the plate, hunkering down at the oven. Everything was accounted for. But unfortunately there was a half-hour gap between the supermarket and her visit to the butcher’s. The time she’d spent at the doctor’s surgery.

  “What the hell’s this?”

  She heard his voice detonate in the dining-room.

  Immediately she got up and shut the oven door.

  “What’s what?” she said, returning with the food. “I’ll get you more tea.”

  He shot up off the chair, slapping the receipts with the back of his hand.

  “Don’t you come the innocent with me. How come there’s a half hour between yeh buying stuff in the supermarket and the roast in the butcher’s? They’re right next door.”

  There was no way she could broach the subject of that visit to the doctor. Not now. But she had already thought of an excuse. Had braced herself against this very sort of confrontation.

  “I . . . I met Grace outside O’Mahony’s a-and we chatted for a while. That’s all.”

  Grace Thorne, the hair-stylist she did stints for. The only person she was allowed to talk to. The only person she knew would defend her.

  “We’ll see about that,” he barked, heading for the phone in the hallway.

  She rushed after him.

  He lifted the receiver.

  “Look . . . Harry, don’t do that. Grace is at her tea now and your food’s getting’ cold and . . . ”

  “Right, what’s it to be?” Fingers poised over the dial, anger pouring from him like steam from a boiling kettle. “Am I gonna ring Mrs Thorne or not? ’Cos if I ring her and she says you didn’t have that wee conversation, that’s gonna make me look stupid. Now, what’s it to be?”

  “Go ahead,” she said, knowing she could depend on Grace.

  He dialled the number. Rita-Mae heard it being answered almost at once.

  “Hi, Norman. It’s only me. Is Grace there by any chance? Just need a wee word.”

  She left him in the hallway. Sat down at the table again. Stared at the congealing beans on the toast, heart beating wildly against her ribs like a caged thing.

  Then: “Oh, she’s in Galway, is she? Och, well, it wasn’t important. Sure I’ll see her when she gets back.”

  Her whole body went limp.

  The telephone receiver was crashed back on the cradle.

  She shot off the chair, backing into a corner as he blazed towards her.

  “Sorry, Harry, I—”

  “I knew yeh were fuckin’ lyin’! Grace Thorne’s in Galway these couple of days.”

  “B-But I can explain, Harry. Really Harry. P-l-e-a-s-e!”

  He lunged at her. “Where the hell were you for that half hour?”

  She ducked, missing the swipe of his fist.

  Ran upstairs, screaming.

  She was quicker and lighter than Harry. The only advantage she had over him: the gazelle fleeing the lion into the refuge of the bedroom – the only space in the house that guaranteed a soft landing with the first blow.

  She made it, got inside, slid the bolt in the lock. But not for long.

  She shoved her back against the door as his fists rained down. Every thump on the thin plywood a prelude to the beating her body would be taking very soon.

  “If I have to break down this fuckin’ door I’m gonna have to break yer fuckin’ neck. You’re pregnant, yeh bitch. Think I haven’t noticed them monthly rags not on the receipts this past while? Eh? Eh?”

  “Please, Harry, I can explain. Just let me explain. Don’t hit me. Please don’t hit me.”

  She pressed herself against the shuddering door, pleading, shielding her abdomen with both hands to protect the life inside her because she knew he was in the mood for murder.

  “I said, open this fuckin’ door. You start actin’ up on me again I’ll be lockin’ you in the shed and you can bloody well stay there. Now, open the fuckin’ door!”

  “No, I can’t, Harry. Until you calm down, I can’t open it.”

  The thumping ceased.

  “By Christ, if yeh don’t open this door now yer really gonna pay for it, and far worse than the last time. D’yeh hear me?”

  The last time she’d waited before opening the door he’d put his boot through it. She’d taken three broken ribs and a fractured arm against the cost of a new one.

  It was useless to resist.

  There was no escape.

  She opened the door, offering herself up like a saintly martyr.

  “Come out here!” he roared.

  She fell to her knees, crying, pleading. “Stop, Harry, please, Harry! I . . . I can explain. It’ll be all right. The baby’ll make us happier. You’ll be a father. Things will be different between us. I promise.”

  But Harry wasn’t listening. Harry was no longer himself, but the monster of her nightmares.

  He pulled her up off her knees by the hair. Dragged her across the landing.

  Held her chin in a vice-like grip and spat in her face.

  “I’ll teach you not to bloody lie to me, and I’ll decide if I want a wain or not. Not you.”

  “Please don’t hurt us, Harry, please. I’m begging you.”

  “See that beggin’ of yours? The more yeh beg the more annoyed that makes me! So shut the fuck up.”

  He punched her hard in the face.

  “As I was sayin’, Rita, at this present moment in time I don’t want a fuckin’ wain in this house. Is that clear?”

  She nodded, terrified, feeling the metallic taste of blood in her mouth. Knowing that this time, this time, she really could be a few short breaths away from death. And she didn’t much care. Maybe it was best that it ended now. All the suffering. All the pain.

  “What was that? I didn’t hear a bloody answer!”

  “Y-Y-Yes . . . I . . . I . . . I understand.”

  “Good. I’m glad we got that sorted.”

  The last thing she remembered was the world tumbling in on itself from the blow to her back that sent her flying headlong down the stairs.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Rita did not know how long she stood there in the aftermath of Bram Hilditch’s words, staring down at the drawer of receipts, thinking about Harry and how he’d put paid to her dream of becoming a mother. The Babygros were in her case upstairs – one pink, one blue. She’d bought them in expectation, and commemorated the tragedy each year with the ritual of washing and airing them on the day she lost the baby.

  She gazed out of the kitchen window. Saw that darkness was falling. So she must have been standing there a while, remembering. Looking back through the tangled, addled mess of memories, in a feeble attempt to block out the reality of the danger she was now facing. A real and present danger that had been visited upon her so suddenly.

  Well, hopefully the police will be able to catch the ruffian, she heard the landlord say again. They’ll want to have a word with you, being her nearest neighbour. You’ll be all right with that, won’t you?

  No, she certainly would not be all right with that. The last people she wanted to come into contact with were the police.r />
  She slammed the drawer shut on the receipts. Went through to the hall and switched on the light.

  The universe that had given her the courage to escape from the prison of her marriage was now forcing her back the way she’d come, throwing up roadblocks, erecting walls, cutting her off from sight. She heard doors slam behind her, sensed with a gut-dissolving terror that she was cornered in a drama of her own making.

  Battered Rita, spineless Rita, cowardly Rita. Soon Bram Hilditch would know she was all of those things. All of those things she’d worked so hard at masking. Oh, the shame! The respectable spinster with her good manners and modest needs. All a sham.

  Wearily, she climbed the stairs, all steadiness of thought gone. Halted at the butterfly case. Counted the specimens for no good reason. Glanced at the door of the box-room. The unpleasant smell had been strongest in there. It was there still. It was not the drains, as the landlord would have her believe. The dead bird that Madden had taken away was another ruse. Something terrible had happened in that room. She saw Vivian-Bernadette innocently combing her hair by the window.

  He photographed her, at the window, combing her hair: the faceless man. Her tormentor. The stalker.

  The shut door mocked her.

  He’d photographed her. Had Hilditch photographed her? Now he was suggesting she get in his car and accompany him to the seaside. How would she get out of that one?

  She backed away from it, down the corridor, fearful, acutely aware of the creaking floorboards. Silence was a terrible thing, deepening her aloneness. All the old feelings were coming back, taking up residence like unwanted guests she didn’t have the strength to order out.

  The bedroom seemed the only refuge for now.

  As soon as she put her foot over the threshold the phone rang.

  Police?

  She let it ring out.

  A couple of minutes later, it started up again, quivering like a shiny black toad on the bedside table.

  If it is the police and if I don’t answer it they’ll come in person to the door and that will be worse.

  She lifted the receiver.

  “Yes . . . ”

  “Hello, Rita. Susan Mulvey here.”

  “Who?”