I sipped my tea, replaced the mug on Phoebe Thompson’s best tablecloth. ‘Go home, Dad,’ I said quietly.
He inhaled deeply. ‘I’ve got no home. You are my home, love.’
I looked at my father, thought about his life. He had a factory and a grand big farmhouse with modern conveniences and green wallpaper. He had several bank accounts, a motor car, two vans and a workforce that adored him. He had a daughter who was getting married to a boy who was disliked by most people, and a wife who was hated by all who met her. He had tobacco smoke, silence and the Bolton Evening News. ‘Oh, Dad. I wish it could be different for you.’ If only Mother had carried on with her waywardness; if only she’d gone off with some rich man to America or Africa, or even to Manchester.
‘I’m not your responsibility,’ he said. ‘And I shouldn’t make you feel guilty. I’ve had my chance, and I’ve mucked some of it up, but I shouldn’t be holding you back.’ He looked at his watch, measured it against Phoebe’s mantel clock. ‘If you’re ever in bother, come to me.’
My dad was an old man, had been old for as long as I could remember. In 1960, he must have been about fifty-two, but as he walked out of Phoebe Thompson’s house that afternoon, I saw age in his walk, on his lined face, in his eyes. My heart was heavy and sad, because although my mother had been fashioning his coffin for years, I knew that I had just knocked in a nail or two.
Tommo found us a house to rent in Horsa Street on the other side of town, two long bus rides away from his clucky mother. With a cheque from my father, I bought furniture and utensils, and we moved into our new home on the day of our wedding. Dad gave me away, and Anne was my bridesmaid. Mother stayed at home with a chill on her kidneys, but Auntie Maisie and Uncle Freddie did me proud in their newest clothes and happiest smiles.
The best man was Frank, who had ordered a new pair of boots for this special occasion. It may have been my imagination, but he seemed to walk a little taller and straighter that day, as if making an effort to be whole under the critical gaze of his mother. Even so, she chided him outside the church, pushed and bullied him as we posed for the photographs.
After the strain of the wedding, I was tired to the point of pain. Pregnancy did not suit me, and I was glad to arrive in our pretty bedroom with its cream lace curtains and yellow bedspread. Tommo had been drinking, was listing somewhat to starboard as he entered the room. He stood at the foot of the bed and grinned at me, then launched an attack that left me bruised and sore. At the end of a few minutes, my wedding dress was in ribbons and the bridegroom was snoring in a heap on top of me. I looked at his handsome face, saw a twist in his lip, wondered whether he would always be so brutal in drink.
Downstairs, I brewed tea in a virgin pot, put balm from my father’s shop on the bruises, curled up on the couch and slept for a short time. When I woke with a jump, I knew with a blinding certainty that I had done the wrong thing. The realization came to me just like that, in a flash of burning light that seared my brain with its intensity. I had made a mistake. It wasn’t just the injuries, the torn dress, the lack of concern for my condition. No. It was a picture in my memory, an image of a man with red-gold hair and grey eyes. The man was not Tommo. It was his brother who sat in my head. Because I recognized the expression that had sat on Frank’s face when the service was partway through. It had been a look of pity.
Being married to a brute is completely demoralizing. From the very start, I felt stupid, was anxious to hide my inadequacies. My husband had little patience with me, and I was strongly convinced that everything was my own fault. I was even sure that Frank’s pity was born out of his knowledge that I was a poor creature. It never occurred to me that Tommo might be in the wrong, that his behaviour sprang from some sickness within him.
The knowledge that I was subnormal and unsuited to marriage made me determined to make a good stab at it, and my first efforts began in the kitchen. I made cakes and scones, pies and casseroles, spent the change from my father’s wedding gift on the best cuts of meat, the freshest vegetables.
Tommo came in from his day at the office, flung himself into a chair, ate the main course in silence, threw my rice pudding at the wall. ‘I don’t like skin,’ he said. I thought at the time that everybody liked skin. Whenever Auntie Maisie had sent up a pudding, Dad and I had always locked ourselves in hysterical combat about who should get the larger piece. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Most people like to eat the skin.’
He jumped from the chair and pinned me against the wall. ‘I’m not most people,’ he snarled. ‘And look at you, just take a look in that mirror.’ He dragged me to the chimney, thrust me towards my own image. He was my mother all over again, but I could not fight because my husband was right. I looked forty, all limp hair and dark circles round the eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ I said again.
This only served to infuriate him even further. ‘Years I followed you,’ he shouted. ‘I even gave up the chance of a degree to marry you. And what have I finished up with? A clerk’s job and a woman who looks like an unmade bed.’ He tossed me aside, stamped out of the room and plodded noisily up the stairs.
He was excited, would call for me shortly so that he could indulge that frantic need for physical contact with me. I was beginning to notice that Tommo always wanted sex after or during one of these one-sided arguments, that he was not interested in love-making when things were quiet between us. But I had no way of comparing him with anyone else, could remember nothing of my parents’ marriage, nothing that might guide and comfort me.
I lay under him yet again, saw the anger in his eyes, marked the instant when it changed to triumph as he dominated me, watched the upper lip curling in response to the premature end of his staying power. At least it was always quick. I had some vague idea that the process should last longer, should be accompanied by expressions of love and tenderness. I often felt that something important was missing, but since the act had never given me pleasure, I was uncertain of what this absent element was.
Until Frank. Frank was a complete accident and a shock to my system that would reverberate down many years to come. He was delivering some council papers to the Tonge Moor Branch Library, decided to pop in on his way back to town. As was the custom among families in those days, he let himself in at the back door, found me crying in a heap on the couch.
‘Laura?’ His voice did not match the uncertainty of his stance. ‘Laura?’ The second time, there was urgency in the tone.
‘Sorry.’ That was the word I used most in those days. I had almost forgotten its meaning, as it was so often on my lips.
He sat next to me, put an arm round my shoulders. The whole thing happened so quickly that I have never been able to recount it properly. I responded to him. At the time, I could only compare the situation to ice-cream, felt foolish about finding such a poor analogy. I touched that man and I could not stop touching him. My first encounter with a vanilla cornet had been like that, a veritable orgy of self-indulgence. Nothing much was said, but there was a lot of fast breathing as we stared into each other’s eyes. Very little happened for about ten minutes, but I could see that he, too, was feeling this unseen power that seemed to bear a close relationship to electricity. He moved away, I followed. I dropped my hand from his neck, he dragged it back. It was a dance, a sitting-down dance without music and without properly choreographed steps.
‘What is he doing to you? Come on, Laura, spit it out.’
I gulped, dried my face with his handkerchief. ‘I’m no good as a wife,’ I finally managed. ‘He doesn’t like my cooking and he gets really mad with me.’
He took the square of cotton and dabbed at my cheeks. ‘Is he hitting you?’
I shrugged. ‘Not hitting exactly. He … sort of throws things at me and pushes me.’
Frank nodded. ‘So that he has power over you. I’ve put up with that all my life, you know. When he pushes me, I fall over. Then he stands over me and curls his lip—’
‘Don’t!’ Tommo’s face hung in the air above me, was
insinuating itself between me and this man who was trying to understand my shortcomings. ‘I can’t bear it,’ I said quietly. ‘It’s my fault, all of it. I’m pregnant and ugly and I’m no good at keeping the house clean.’ I pulled away from him, tried to place myself on the outside of this unwelcome spell, but the magnetism still encircled me.
He kissed me. He kissed me for an endless time, and I thought that the baby had quickened, though I soon realized that I was the one coming alive. Like a woman in a trance, I allowed myself to be led to the rug, then I stood aside in my mind and watched while he undressed me. His hands on the bulge of my belly were cool and kind. There was no pain, although the experience was shattering, unnerving. Even though I worried about disturbing the unborn child, I had no wish to stop Frank as he made slow and gentle love.
He cried with me afterwards. ‘Oh Laura,’ he said. ‘There’ve been a few women, but not like this. Nothing like this, ever.’ Then he stroked my trembling body until all our tears had run dry.
‘I don’t know what to do,’ I whispered, practical as ever now that the pleasure was over. ‘I don’t belong with Tommo, but he’s my husband.’
‘I love you.’ His voice was sweet, made even gentler by the strength of his emotions. ‘Loved you the first time I saw you, hated him for marrying you. No-one would have me, not with this game leg.’
‘I’d have you, Frank. You are just so … so lovely.’
Frank was one of those people who teach others not to be fooled by appearances. He had a shrivelled leg and a mind that might have extended itself endlessly with the help of education. He had a shrivelled leg and a body that was beautifully strong. After our second coupling, the bad leg was a thing that was just fastened to him, an item that made walking difficult, a nuisance. He took off all his clothes and he was still a fine figure with one unfortunate flaw that detracted not one bit from his overall appearance. Somebody with a bit of sense would snatch him up soon, would marry him and take him away from me.
‘Why are you smiling?’ he asked. ‘And why is the smile so sad, Mona Lisa?’
I laughed, was invigorated, no longer felt lumpy and unattractive. ‘I’m a married woman and I’m frightened of losing you. I can’t lose you, because I can’t have you.’
‘Yes, you can.’
‘No. I belong to him. I must try my best to make it work.’
He sat up, dragged on his trousers, fiddled with the clumsy surgical boot. ‘When did you realize your mistake?’
I frowned, thought about my wedding night. ‘Soon after we were married.’ Strangely, I still had a lot of loyalty, still wanted to protect Tommo.
‘He’s brutal,’ announced Frank clearly. ‘He used to do things to animals, torture them, kill them. And I was a sitting target, of course, was there just for his amusement. He was always hiding the calliper I wore when I was young. Even lately, he has burned my boots so that I couldn’t go out.’
I sat up, covered myself with a cushion. ‘Why?’
‘Sadism.’ He fastened the lace, leaned across me to reach his shirt. ‘You are beautiful,’ he whispered hoarsely.
‘Don’t start again, Frank. You’ll be missed at work and Tommo will be here in an hour or so.’
He smiled, showed off those perfect white teeth. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but even I am out of steam now.’ He began to fasten the shirt buttons. ‘Bernard isn’t exactly a good lover, is he?’
I frowned, wondered what to say, decided on silence.
‘He used the twins to practise on – that pair called Irene and Enid. They’re nice girls, a bit free with their favours. They told me about him, about his problem. People talk to me, you see, because they think their confidences will go no further. I’m just about half a person, so my opinion of their morals is not important. He was having sex with both of them.’
‘Oh.’ This was the only syllable I could lay my tongue on. What I felt for Frank was not pity. It was empathy, because he had not been loved. I had thought I knew all about not being loved, yet I was still learning. Nor could I put a finger on my attitude to Tommo. We had been married for just a few weeks, yet I didn’t mind hearing about his other dalliances. There was no anger, just numbness. Also, I glimpsed the edge of pity for the brother who was truly crippled. Tommo was the one with the disability, I thought as Frank carried on talking.
‘Cruel, the twins said. Apparently, he enjoyed watching them suffer, got a kick out of giving them pain. He has to be angry to get … to be in a state where he can do anything. And no marathons for our Bernard, or so I’m told. That makes him even angrier. It’s a vicious circle, very vicious.’ He knotted his tie, picked up the jacket which had lain in a crumpled heap for the past hour. ‘More of a downward spiral than a circle, I suppose. He had to be sure of a virgin bride, had to get somebody who didn’t know the score. If you’d been with anybody else, you would have known the difference between Bernard and normality.’
‘I wasn’t a virgin.’
‘But there’s been just him?’
I nodded.
‘And now, I’ve shown you what you’re missing.’ There was no false pride in his tone, no hint of sarcasm. He struggled to his feet, gazed down at me. ‘In a way, I’m sorry about that. Perhaps if I hadn’t come, you might never have known about real loving.’ He grinned broadly, yet there was nothing lewd in his expression. ‘I shall come again, Laura. I’ve been offered a post as assistant librarian at Tonge Moor, so I’ll get along to see you quite often.’ He paused. ‘Do you want that? Do you want me?’
I wanted him. I wanted him to come back that night, to take his brother’s place. What I felt for Frank was not love, not yet, but my body screamed for more of his attention and affection. ‘I’ll have to think about it. If he ever found out …’
‘He’d kill me. And what happened here today is worth dying for, Laura. It was wonderful.’
My teacher walked out of the house after giving me a last kiss. I stood at the back window, watched as he limped out of the yard. He had shown me the possibilities, had steered me right into the eye of my own sexuality. For a moment or two, I even understood my mother. For a chance of repeating the day’s pleasure, I might well have laid my marriage on the line. My body glowed, was alive, aware. But I was still married to Tommo. And Tommo, as he often reminded me, was not like other people.
My head hit the edge of the open cupboard door, then I felt no more. When I came to my senses, I was naked from the waist down and the pain in my legs was intense. He must have flung himself on to my inert body, probably neglected to arrange my limbs into a natural position. I knew that one leg was broken. When I attempted to move, fire shot into my groin and I feared yet again for the innocent unborn baby who had shared the battering.
I summoned the tattered remnants of strength and yelled for him. ‘Tommo! Come down, I can’t walk.’ The sky outside was darkening, and I did not want to sit all night with my back propped against the kitchen cupboard, with my leg broken beneath me. The house carried the sort of echo that advertises emptiness. He was out. He would be drinking in the Starkie, would be back to make another attempt to prove his flagging manhood.
I reached for the pan rack, grabbed a saucepan, banged on the wall. After ten or fifteen minutes, a woman threw open my back door. She took in my appearance, ran her eyes over my effort to cover myself. ‘At it again, love?’ she asked. ‘I’ve heard him many a time. Can’t he get it up proper?’
I blushed, wiped some beads of sweat from my brow. ‘I’ve broken the long bone,’ I said. Even talking rattled the wound, made me cringe. ‘Get the ambulance, I need to go to hospital. And if you’d be so kind as to go upstairs for my dressing gown. It’s hanging on the bedroom door, pink candlewick.’
She poked her head into the yard. ‘Ernie? Run up yonder and do us a nine-nine-nine, ambulance. She should be getting the bloody cops to him, but we’ll save that for when she’s mended. He’s broke her leg, Ernie.’
She dragged her upper half back into the room. ‘That was Ern
ie,’ she said unnecessarily. ‘And I’m Ida Bowen. I only wish we could have met under better circs, if you get my drift. Now, I’ll fetch a pair of knickers and all. If you’ll point me to the scissors, I’ll fathom a road of making you decent. You can’t go riding in an ambulance with your ha’penny on show, can you?’ She went off to sort out my wardrobe while I continued to pour with pain-induced sweat. He had done this. He had done this to me and to my passenger, who was his son or daughter. And now I knew about lovemaking, knew full well that my husband was not a normal man. Was my dad normal? I wondered, probably in an effort to take my mind off my own tragedy. He would be, I felt sure. Perhaps Mother was one of those nymphomaniac people, then.
Ida Bowen came back, knelt beside me, cursed as she hacked at my underwear and pushed my arms into the dressing gown sleeves. ‘I’ll safety-pin you into these knickers, love.’ She puffed, panted, did her best to give me some dignity. ‘You want to report him, get him stopped. We’ve been worried ever since you moved in, lass. Thompson, isn’t it?’ She ignored my nod, went on chattering. ‘He wants to have a couple of years in jail, that thing you’ve married. They’d soon sort him out, the thieves and robbers in there. Decent folk, some of them, can’t be doing with a man who hits women. They’d separate him from his jukebox, they would. Aye, he’d soon be two balls short of a bowling match, yon feller. Is that all right?’
‘Yes. Thank you.’
She sat back on her haunches and wielded the scissors before my eyes. ‘You want to do it yourself, wait till he’s asleep and then cut off his privileges.’
Ernie dashed in. He was as thin as his wife was fat, as short as she was tall. ‘All right, lass?’ he asked of both of us.
‘You’d never hit me, would you, Ernie?’ asked Ida.
Ernie shook his head. If I hadn’t been in pain, I might have laughed at the concept of this tiny man taking on his gargantuan wife. ‘What’s up with your hair?’ he asked.
I lifted a hand, felt the blood. ‘I fell against the kitchenette door. It was open.’ The kitchenette was the article of furniture on which I was leaning, a green-and-cream affair with many compartments and drawers.
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