Say You Love Me

by Marion Husband

  In the panic and pain of those first few hours after she’d lost the baby he had told her they would have other children. Last night he had lain in bed and wondered if he really did want another child with Joy. He found himself gingerly probing at his own feelings as though they were rotten teeth; he didn’t reach any conclusion, couldn’t come up with any concrete plan of action. All he could think was that his life had somehow come off the rails; he was stranded in a small town he barely knew with a wife he wasn’t sure he loved enough. At least he would have his work – a new department to make his mark on. He wondered if it would be enough.

  Staring out of the window he thought of the girl who was to be his housekeeper. She hadn’t been very talkative, rather silent in fact. She had answered his questions bluntly, telling him that yes, she was married, and yes she had children, two boys. She had lived in Thorp all her life, her husband too. He thought that for a moment she’d looked at him with curiosity, as though wondering why he had so many questions about her life, although she had smiled fleetingly when he’d asked her children’s names. She’d said, ‘Mark and Ben, they’re five and six.’ There was such pride in her voice that he had almost expected her to forget her reticence and take out a picture of these boys. He was relieved when she didn’t. Since Joy’s miscarriage he’d found he couldn’t look at other people’s children without a painful, surprising surge of jealousy.

  He closed the kitchen window and looked at his watch. It was almost visiting time. He pictured driving to the hospital in the car he’d hired that morning. The hospital was only a couple of years old, a plain, forbidding block of concrete surrounded by car park. There, he would wait for the lift to the fifth-floor maternity ward, surrounded by young men, each a new father carrying flowers or holding the hand of a small child, a brother or sister to the latest arrival. For a moment he imagined disguising himself in a white coat, his stethoscope dangling casually around his neck. Those young fathers wouldn’t pay him any attention then. No longer one of their number, he could be totally anonymous. He sighed. Taking a sheet of newspaper, he wrapped the daffodils up and went in search of the car keys.

  Chapter 3

  Turning the corner into Tanner Street, Annette saw Ben and Mark sitting on their front door step. Ben had his arm around Mark’s shoulders, his other hand pressing a bloodstained handkerchief to his little brother’s nose. Annette ran the last few yards towards them. Seeing her, Ben shoved the handkerchief into Mark’s hand and scrambled to his feet, jerking Mark’s arm so that he stood up too. As she crouched in front of them Ben said, ‘He’s locked us out.’

  ‘What are you doing home from school so early?’

  ‘He came to fetch us.’

  This was something new. Danny had never set foot in Skinner Street Infants before. Wondering what he was up to made her heart race faster. To hide her panic she forced herself to smile as she gently lifted away the handkerchief he was holding to his face. His nose was caked in drying blood. He looked dazed, like a boxer who had lost too many rounds. She lifted him into her arms and he buried his face in her neck. He was silent as always; she barely noticed his silence any more. She patted his back absently, rhythmically.

  Sullenly Ben repeated, ‘He’s locked us out.’

  Carrying Mark, Annette began to walk along the street. She turned into the alley that led to their back gate. Ben slipped his hand into hers. She looked down at him. ‘Were you being naughty?’

  ‘No. He just told us to get out. He hit Mark because he wasn’t quick enough.’

  Annette squeezed Ben’s hand reassuringly although fear made her guts feel loose, a shaming, cowardly feeling. Cautiously she asked Ben, ‘Was he shouting?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Did he smell of the pub?’

  Ben shook his head. They had reached their gate. The large, European-style number seven that Danny had painted across its panels like the insignia of a dictator made it stand out starkly from their neighbours’ gates. They stopped and Mark held on to her more tightly; he whimpered, the first sound he’d made since she arrived home. As if to show that he was more grown up, Ben let go of her hand. He squared his shoulders and glared up at her, a defiant look in his eye that was pure Danny. Stubbornly he said, ‘He’s locked us out.’

  She tried to laugh. ‘No! He’ll let us in now. Besides I bet the gate’s only stuck.’ She pushed it gingerly as though it was a delicately sprung trap. The gate creaked open. Across the yard she could see the closed back door. Yellow Submarine blared through the open kitchen window; she could hear Danny singing along. She let go of the breath she’d been holding.

  ‘There,’ she said. ‘He probably only wanted to listen to his music in peace.’

  Gently she disentangled Mark’s arms from around her neck and set him down, holding on to him for a moment to make sure he was steady. As she released him he clasped her hand, turning to press his face against her thigh. Wanting to hold him again instead she said, ‘Stand up straight now Mark. Like a soldier, eh? Soldiers don’t cry, do they?’

  Annette felt him shiver. After a moment he stepped away from her and let go of her hand. He kept his eyes fixed on the yard’s cracked flags as Annette whispered, ‘Good boy. If we’re good Daddy won’t be cross.’

  The music stopped abruptly and she felt her heart leap as Danny swung the door open. He stepped back, bowing deeply and theatrically. ‘Queen Annette – welcome to my humble abode.’

  Danny said, ‘Don’t take your clothes off, I just want a quick fuck.’

  Annette paused, her jumper half off and covering her face. She pulled it down again and lay on the bed. Danny knelt beside her, grinning. He reached out and hooked a strand of her hair away from her face. Through long practice she stopped herself from flinching.

  He asked, ‘Where have you been today?’ He was still grinning, watching her closely.

  ‘I went to the shops.’

  ‘But you didn’t buy anything.’

  ‘No.’

  He snorted and lay down on his back beside her. Looking at the ceiling he said, ‘You can take your tights and knickers off. I can’t fuck you if you keep them on, can I?’

  Downstairs, when he had straightened up from his bow, he’d grabbed her arm and jerked her inside. To Ben he’d said, ‘Didn’t I tell you to stay out in the street until I told you to come back in?’

  Trying not to sound frightened she’d laughed a little. ‘Danny – they’re cold and tired. Let them in, eh? They’ll be really quiet and good–’

  He’d frowned at her. ‘You’re wheedling. Don’t wheedle.’ Turning back to the boys he said, ‘Fuck off until I call you.’ He closed the door. To her he’d said, ‘Get upstairs now.’

  On their bed Annette squirmed out of her underwear. Rolling on to his side, Danny pushed her skirt up to her waist and placed his palm heavily on her thigh. ‘You should be here when I get home. You shouldn’t be out gallivanting.’

  ‘Sorry. I didn’t expect you back.’

  ‘Didn’t expect you back.’ He mimicked her, his fingers digging into her flesh. In the morning there would be a ring of fingertip bruises to fade to yellow beneath her skirt. With his head propped on his elbow he looked down into her face. ‘Where were you really this afternoon?’

  Fearfully she said, ‘I told you, I looked round the shops.’

  ‘Honestly?’

  She attempted to laugh. ‘Yes, honestly.’

  ‘You’ve got blood on your shoulder.’

  She couldn’t think what to say, knowing that if she told him it was Mark’s blood it might re-ignite his anger. Both of his sons provoked him but it was Mark who seemed to irritate him the most. It was Mark’s silence, Annette thought, his total lack of defiance. Danny hated to see such blatant fear.

  Danny circled the spot of blood with his thumb. ‘I gave Mark a bloody nose. Little bastard. Mummy’s boy!’

  Cautiously she said, ‘He’s just a baby, Danny.’

  ‘He’s growing into a right bloody pansy! I’ll have to
take my belt off to him again.’ He rolled on to his back and groped for her hand. They stared at the ceiling; she felt her exposed flesh grow cold.

  At last Danny said, ‘Mark’s not mine, is he?’

  He had said this before; sometimes she could believe he was joking, other times when he was roaring and spitting and jumping with rage she knew he thought it to be true. Now though his voice was calm, there was even a hint of a smile on his face as he turned to see her reaction.

  As calmly as she could she said, ‘He’s yours, Danny. He’s the spit of you.’

  At once she realised she’d said the wrong thing. His eyes closed. He sighed heavily. Wearily he said, ‘If I find out you’re lying to me…’

  ‘I’m not, honestly. Really I’m not.’

  He unzipped his fly. ‘Lie on your front.’

  She began to tremble. ‘Danny – please…Not that…’

  ‘Get on your front! Unless you want your little bastards to stay out all night?’

  The other girls in the sugar factory were jealous of her when Danny Carter asked her to dance one Friday night at the Corporation Hall. All the girls were after him; he was gorgeous, like Elvis: a slim, slight Elvis, neat-looking, clean. Most Thorp men looked like they’d been hastily modelled from clay; they had big hands and heavy, muddy-looking features; their fingernails were dirty and they smelt of sweat and the steel they worked with. Given the slightest encouragement they pushed their big hands up inside your bra, all the time gobbling up your face as though you were made of pastry. Annette had dated enough of them to know she could never bring herself to go all the way with one of them. They were too awkward, too charmless; she wanted to lose her virginity to someone who knew the right words.

  She began to gain a reputation for being a cock tease, then for being frigid, then, with more malice, for being stuck-up. As her reputation morphed Danny Carter watched and waited. She sensed him watching her, was pleased by it; it was her secret. She knew he would step in one day and claim her.

  That Friday night at the Corporation Hall she had been standing with Mary and Carol. The two of them nudged her as Danny, on the other side of the hall, stubbed out his cigarette and walked across the emptying dance floor towards her. He was wearing his uniform; he was a corporal in the Marines, home on leave. As he approached her she felt such a want for him she pressed her thighs together against her body’s softening; it was indecent to want a man so badly. He fixed his gaze on her, ignoring her friends completely.

  ‘Dance with me?’

  She nodded, transfixed. She had hardly heard him speak before and his voice was lovely, like serious, clever music. He held out his hand and she took it, thrilled at its coolness, its hardness. The floor was filling with couples for the first of the slow, smooching dances. His arms went around her waist and he pulled her to him carefully as though she was fine porcelain. He moved sensuously. She wanted him to speak but he was silent; he seemed to concentrate on the steps he took, on the way he held her. Resting her head on his shoulder she swayed with him in time to the music, mesmerised.

  Towards the end of the last dance he began to whisper, his mouth close to her ear. He said, ‘You’re lovely,’ and ‘You’re not like other girls.’ He held her tighter. A moment before the music ended and the lights came up he said intently, ‘I’m in love with you.’

  She’d drawn away from him. Around them other couples snogged or laughed and broke apart, staggering from the floor drunk or weak-kneed. Danny stood his ground, holding her with his dark, sober eyes. A man bumped past her and his eyes moved towards him, a flicker of anger that passed so quickly she believed she’d imagined it. He met her gaze again, his face expressionless. Around them the bustle of the emptying dance hall seemed to recede, she felt as though there was just the two of them in the whole world, each watching the other. She realised he hadn’t smiled. Soft with desire, she stepped towards him. He looked away, towards the crowd streaming out on to the street.

  ‘I’ll walk you home,’ he said.

  Annette watched as Danny slept. She had to make sure he was sleeping, not just pretending so that when she tried to get up he would catch hold of her and force her to stay in bed with him. He snored and broke into garbled speech. He rolled on to his side, dragging the covers away from her. She was naked from the waist down, her jumper pushed up over her breasts, her bra cutting beneath her arms; she looked filthy, like a dirty picture. She stank of him, his stink leaking from her. Afraid to move, to breathe, she lay on her front and tried to listen for the boys.

  She could hear other children playing in the street. Ben might join in with them but Mark wouldn’t; Mark was too shy, too frightened of anyone who was even a little bit bigger than he was. More likely, Ben would stay with him, mindful of his duty, and the two of them would watch whatever game was going on like grave little linesmen.

  She hoped the other women in the street wouldn’t notice the rusty stains of blood on Mark’s grey school shirt, or the fact that Ben’s socks didn’t match or that both boys’ clothes were too small for them. But of course they would notice. She imagined Joan from next door grasping Mark’s face and examining his bloody nose. She would tut-tut-tut. She would take his hand and lead him into her house and sit him on her draining board to clean him up. She would feed him bread and jam. If she got the chance she would give Danny a mouthful of abuse. The other women on the street weren’t afraid of Danny as she was. The other women thought she was weak and useless. They had begun to shun her. Even Joan sometimes told her off; she would tell her to stand up to him, to ‘Show the bastard you’re not his bloody punch bag.’ How easy it seemed to Joan, whose own husband was mild and patient and took his boys fishing; laughably easy, as though Danny was a fly to be swatted away when he got too annoying.

  Lying very still, Annette listened to Danny’s snores. They seemed real enough. His body looked relaxed, it had a sleeper’s looseness, but it was hard to tell, he was a good mimic. She held her breath and gradually tugged her bra and jumper down. He rolled on to his back and her heart almost stopped. Still as stone she watched him, relieved when he began to snore again. Very carefully she swung her legs over the side of the bed. She sat up. She waited, listening, her body stiff and aching from his assault on her. The next stage would be to stand up and she knew that the bed would dip and that the floorboards would creak treacherously. She could only pray that he would sleep on long enough for her to escape, although once she had got half way down the stairs before he charged after her. She had been made to pay for that.

  She stood up, her legs trembling. Her skirt lay in a crumpled heap on the floor and she put it on quickly. She pulled on her knickers not bothering with her tights, which would involve sitting back down on the bed. Watching him, she edged past the bed and dived towards the door. Breathlessly she ran down stairs, unlocked the front door and, barefoot, went out on to the street.

  Ben and Mark were sitting on the kerb. They both turned to look up at her, a heart-breaking mixture of hope and anxiety on their grubby faces. She smiled at them reassuringly.

  ‘Come on in.’

  Warily they glanced past her through the open door.

  ‘It’s all right – he’s asleep. Fast asleep. We’ll be quiet, eh? Like little mice. We won’t wake Daddy, will we?’

  They didn’t need to be told. In the house neither of them spoke much above a whisper. Ben stood up. Sullenly he said, ‘Mark’s wet himself.’

  ‘It’s all right. Don’t worry. Come on in now, quickly. We’ll have some tea.’

  Chapter 4

  Half way up the A1, Mark stopped for petrol. He leaned against the car, watching the dial on the pump roll up the pounds and pence. At the pump on the other side of his an Indian woman in a sari distributed tubes of sweets to the three children squabbling on the back seat of her Volvo. Her plait swung against her back. She turned and caught him watching her. She smiled. ‘Kids, eh? Who’d have them?’ Petrol overflowed from Mark’s tank, spilling onto the forecourt. He cursed, a
mild, soft curse, the only kind he ever used and the woman frowned and got back into her car. From the Volvo’s back window three faces poked out their Smartie-coated tongues at him.

  In the petrol station he paid by credit card, massing more of the points he never used, the accumulation of which would be enough to buy an ipod or a Dyson vacuum cleaner – it wasn’t as if he didn’t flick through the points catalogue imagining sending away for such stuff. He walked back to the car, shoving the receipt and card into his wallet and wondering if Ben and Kitty might have a use for his points. When Nathan was born he had sent them a cheque for a thousand pounds. It was too grand a gesture – he realised that now. Kitty had written him a thank you card purporting to be from the baby himself, all baby language and thank-you-thank-you-thank-you Uncle Mark. The card had a picture of a cartoon pram with a baby throwing its bottle over the side. He tried to imagine what was going through Kitty’s head when she bought such a card. He suspected she thought him humourless and that this was a way of making him laugh.

  Mark rejoined the motorway. Radio Two was running a debate about noisy neighbours that became an argument over the usefulness of ASBOs. He pressed the button tuned to local radio. Otis Reading sang Sitting on the Dock of the Bay.

  Mark gripped the steering wheel more tightly. He felt himself easing his foot from the accelerator as he listened. This was Annette’s song; it always conjured her: Annette washing dishes in the house on Tanner Street, her slim waist clinched by her apron strings, the little transistor radio at her elbow, her voice sweet and yearning as the song’s lyrics. Mark watched her from the kitchen doorway, not wanting her to turn around and see him but to go on singing. He knew he made her sad and he wanted to be invisible so he could watch her being happy.

  Mark sang along softly, ‘I left my home in Georgia, heading for the ’frisco bay…’ Tears ran down his face, unnoticed.

  Annette sang, ‘I had nothing to live for…’ She turned from the sink, soap suds dissolving on her arms. She smiled at him and for once she didn’t look sad. ‘I love you,’ she said, ‘you’re my sweetheart.’