by Dawson, H A
‘More beer,’ one man yelled.
She kept her eyes fixed on the space in front of her, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Yet she could still sense Jack’s watchful gaze as he leaned against the wall, proud and smug. Wanting to get the moment over with, she scurried away and returned with more alcohol.
The language was vulgar and the jokes cheap. She blocked out the sounds and allowed them their pleasure. Stoically, she started from the room.
A high-pitched comment brought her to a standstill. Shocked, her gaze darted to the corner of the room, to a dark-haired woman slumped on a chair and smirking. Distraught, Catherine gave Jack an enquiring look. His eyes rolled, he gestured for a kiss, and he made an inaudible comment. Disgusted by his behaviour, she turned to leave.
He grabbed her arm and yanked her to his side. ‘I need someone. I can’t do a lot with you in this state.’
The room exploded with laughter. She pulled free her arm and dashed into the kitchen where she thumped the surface with her fist. Her body quivered and her breaths were tight and short. She thought of Amelia and her unburdened life. She thought of the letters.
Having cleaned the kitchen, Catherine returned to the bedroom, opened the correspondence, and swamped her mind with another life. Reading Amelia’s tales of extraordinary cultures and landscapes, her envy grew wild and disobedient. It did nothing to ease her tremors or extinguish her raging fire. She had become nothing more than a servant to Jack and was powerless to resist his demands.
Whilst Jack’s social gathering continued, she drifted in and out of sleep, and all the while, she clung to Amelia’s tales and pleaded for an escape. Yet who would help when no one knew of her plight? Her burden was her own and one she must bear.
A while later, an overpowering odour of smoke and alcohol caused her to awaken from her erratic sleep. Jack wrapped himself around her and nestled his face into her neck, dropping hard gritty kisses along her tender skin.
She pulled herself free and ordered him to stop. Glaring with disapproval, he yanked her towards him. Determinedly, as tears stung her eyes, she struggled and screamed, and kicked out her legs until her energy failed her. No longer could she resist his demands and allowed him to lift her nightdress and thrust himself into her. Biting her lip, trying to block out the stench of his putrid breath, she turned her head to one side, scrunched her face and shut her eyes.
A whimper interrupted the sound of Jack’s heavy breaths. Her little boy was in the doorway with his hands tight across his middle and his anxious face illuminated by a strip of light. Fighting a deepening pain, she forced her face to melt and mouthed him away. Obediently, Arthur withdrew.
Suffering the continuing torment, tears dripped down her face. She thought of Marie, grateful that her little girl was in a better place; she thought of her unborn child and she wished for the same.
Chapter 21
Present Day
Michaela scampered downstairs with the tin in her hand, and the lid in the other, and scattered the editorials across the coffee table. Scanning the headlines, she noticed they either discussed the woman’s right to vote or the woman’s role in the home, and her heart sank. Why she had ever thought there would be clues into Catherine’s plight? She had been a fool.
Sam peered into the room. She held a rigid pose and stared at the table, her eyes glassy. The silence was stressful, and she waited for him to voice his annoyance regarding their sudden departure and question her ill-placed hope. After a while, it didn’t seem as though he intended to do either, yet her guilt remained.
‘Look, I’m sorry!’ Michaela blurted. ‘I’m a bit ditsy. I should never have dragged us home.’
‘No luck then?’
She peered at the articles and then back to Sam. ‘You’re not angry?’
‘What’s the point? We’re here now. Being angry won’t change anything.’
She averted her shamed gaze.
‘So, what are they about?’
Women’s rights.’
‘All of them?’
Apparently so.’ She passed him a nervous glance. ‘I think I’m wasting my time.’
Maybe not. Let’s go through them together.’
Sam sat on the sofa, thrust one of the articles into her hand, and encouraged her to look. It was about a woman’s need for work, and Amelia talked about the importance for a woman to achieve fulfilment and thus raise self-esteem. She claimed that working would help in her role as wife and mother, and believed it would not at all detract from her main priorities as others had suggested. She said she understood that many considered a woman’s role in the family a full-time job but argued that there was no reason why other tasks could not be squeezed in alongside.
Michaela mulled over the script. Amelia was a forward thinking woman, and she must have had many battles, even with her peers. Her views, for the time, were extreme, and it would take nearly a century for them to be commonplace. How different Amelia’s life had been from Catherine’s. Had she viewed her sister’s choice for simplicity as distasteful? Had she tried to convert her to a modern way of thinking? Holding the article between her fingertips, Michaela wondered what had instigated Amelia’s views, and contemplated if the hardship Catherine faced had played a part.
She placed the article back into the tin and skimmed the scatterings across the table. Another piece talked about a woman who had chosen to be a doctor, and as a result had faced regular discrimination, not only from men but from women too. It talked about the frequent abusive comments she had received from patients and bystanders, and how they often refused to see her and would sooner suffer ill health. Other patients wanted diagnoses confirming by male doctors since they struggled to accept a woman could be as knowledgeable. Bullish in her attitude, the woman persisted with her profession.
The difference in their lives astounded Michaela and the articles only just touched the surface. It was hardly any wonder, in a world biased towards men, that Catherine had an insurmountable task of proving her innocence in her crimes. She had no money to fight her battles and no one on her side, not even her husband. It made sense that she had taken her life, if that was what had happened. That outcome would have been preferential to what the courts offered, which would have been a public slaying.
Sam passed an article to Michaela. ‘Look at this.’
She retrieved the flimsy paper from his hand and studied the text. This time Amelia was talking about mental illness, and should it occur in the husband explained how difficult it would be for the wife to gain help and understanding. Referring to her knowledge of a couple in this position, and taking care to avoid leaving a trace of their names and whereabouts, she wrote about the man having hallucinations and frequent panic attacks. Yet he remained in denial, talking his way out of receiving treatment. Since her family had refused to become involved, she had no choice but to tolerate his strange behaviour.
‘She’s talking about Jack and Catherine,’ Michaela stated.
‘That’s what I thought.’
‘I did say that Jack was sick.’
Sam gawped, as though to speak, but did not reply.
‘What is it?’
‘I was just thinking that Amelia could have been protecting Catherine by switching the facts. I think it was her that was mentally ill.’
‘No Sam. No.’
‘But it makes sense. She could have been out of control when she killed her children. It would have given her a reason, or at least explained it.’
‘No Sam, remember the letter. She said she was innocent.’
Michaela saw an expression in Sam’s face that was so familiar, but normally one she saw in her mother. She could hear Judith tell her she was being naive, and she could feel her blushes surface.
She caught his eye. ‘Yes, I know, don’t say it, I am far too gullible.’
‘And I love you for it.’
Mentally fatigued from her ponderings regarding the articles, Michaela was slumped in front of the television with Sam whe
n a news bulletin on stolen pets caused her to think of Bloomer. His progress had been slow but significant, and he no longer slept under the floorboards, instead choosing to curl up on a chair in their bedroom. Nevertheless, he still feared human contact and scurried away at the first sign of a threat. She recalled an incident a few days previous.
The scrawny little cat had been absorbed in grooming himself on the staircase, and whilst he must have been aware of her edging closer, he had failed to flee. Taking a chance, she reached out her hand and touched his fur. He leapt into the air, crying out in a high-pitch squeal of disapproval. It had raised a chuckle, but at the same time, her frustrations surfaced and she released a heavy sigh.
It had been weeks since she had seen the little animal hiding in the bushes, and she felt they had made little progress. Would he ever see her as a comforting presence, and curl up on her lap and offer quiet purrs of approval? She had made a deliberate attempt to allow the cat to progress at his own speed. Maybe that had been her mistake; maybe she should have encouraged some contact.
She remembered Bloomer’s one eye, matted grey coat, and emaciated figure, and without a doubt, she knew that there had been improvements in his condition. Even without touching his fur, she could tell that the silky softness had replaced coarseness, and there was not a spot of dirt visible. Yet he was far from beautiful; his black patches were not symmetrical and his eye socket was a ghastly sight. Michaela wondered if it needed treatment, as periodically it wept a glutinous substance. Taking him to the veterinary surgery, though, was an impossible task.
With a plan in mind, Michaela went into the kitchen to prepare his evening meal. Attracted by the rattling sound of the biscuits, Bloomer bolted down the steps, shuffled his feet in rapid succession, and meowed repeatedly. Smiling, she placed half his normal ration of meat into a dish and placed it onto the floor. Unaware, Bloomer ate with his usual verve.
After a few moments, he had finished eating and was licking the juicy remnants. Since her task was not yet over, she selected another chunk of meat with a fork, crouched down and stretched out her arm. Remaining as still as possible, she willed him to approach. Nothing happened. She called to him in a quiet voice. He shifted positions and shuffled a few steps, one way and another, but he still would not move. Relenting, she placed the meat into Bloomer’s dish and hurried out of the kitchen.
Undeterred, and deciding it could take a while, she returned with a footstool, carried it to the far end of the kitchen, and sat down. Her movements had caused him a little nervousness, but as soon as she offered him another chunk of meat on a fork, he sniffed the air, his concerns forgotten.
Seconds became minutes and Bloomer did not approach the fork. She made frequent soft requests and watched his hesitation, but he refused to relent. Determined to achieve success, she shifted his dish to her feet and dropped it inside. Then, she listened to the quiet sounds of his chewing motion.
Once again, Michaela extended her arm, and once again, Bloomer hesitated to take the meat from the fork, but she was not willing to surrender, and as she persisted, memories of his nightly ritual filled her thoughts. Almost without failure during the last few nights, he had stared through the bedroom window during the early hours, scanning the darkness and meowing a happy song. His high-pitched almost melodious tone caused shivers to pass through her body, and she wondered about his behaviour. Was he remembering how his freedom connected to his starvation? Was he calling out to female cats? Was he happy and announcing to the world he had a home?
Bloomer licked the piece of meat that rested on her fork, and her adrenaline surged and her skin prickled. Quivering with her pleasure, she watched the brave little animal wrap his teeth around the segment and break it free. His purrs mingled with his chews.
Without hesitation, he took a second piece and then a third. Deciding to encourage him closer, she bent her elbow and held the fork nearer to her legs. For a couple of seconds, he was uncertain of how to respond. It did not take long for him to regain his confidence and step forwards to claim his reward. Michaela was ecstatic and couldn’t believe she was so close to the animal she had loved and cared for, for weeks.
Sensing a breakthrough, she placed the slippery chunk of meat on her fingertips and held out her hand. Given that she did not eat meat or poultry, the sensation was repulsive, and the smell equally so, yet it was a small price to pay. Grinning, she watched Bloomer approach. His sandpapery tongue slipped onto her fingers. He pushed the small piece around and his small white teeth took the prize. Gleeful, she stroked his head.
Bloomer dropped the food and regarded her with anxious eyes. She feared she had pushed him too far, and for a moment wondered if she should remove her hand, but before she could make a decision, he returned to his segment of food.
Careful not to break the trust, she placed more meat into his dish, stroked him once more, and left the room. Michaela was alight with pleasure, enjoying their breakthrough moment.
The following day she should have remained in high spirits, but Michaela had a restless night, and rather than Bloomer’s song soothing her, it seemed more persistent than normal, and her irritation had mounted. She had placed her arms over her head to try to deaden the sound, and she had placed her fingers in her ears, but nothing had eliminated the high-pitched songs of the cat.
Her head was pounding when she decided to get up. With leaden legs, she went straight to the bathroom, removed her nightclothes and stepped into the shower. There was little force in the water, and it trickled onto her head applying no pressure to her taut back and shoulders. It did not usually frustrate, but today it caused her anger to mount.
As she washed, images of her inadequate living conditions battered her self-worth. Was it too much to ask to have just a little comfort? It had been months since they had moved in, and what was there to show for it? Many rooms had exposed brick, the floors were without carpets, and the dust was a constant. She thought of their small flat, and remembered the luxury of being able to walk barefoot between the rooms; there were the shimmering tiled bathroom and a power shower, a fitted kitchen with plenty of cupboard space, a grime-free cooker, and a small dishwasher, and the cosy living space.
Moping, she towelled herself dry, placed on her slippers and strode to the bedroom. She tried to blank out the scene, but with only a small wardrobe and two large chests of drawers for both her and Sam’s clothes, and with most of her collection in suitcases or boxes, it was difficult not to feel frustrated. She dressed in a grumpy silence and headed downstairs.
Her eyes saw more of the same, and as she leaned against the shabby kitchen worktop and waited for the toast to pop up, she searched for irritations. New cobwebs had formed on the window and dust littered the floor beneath the untreated brick wall. It was a horrendous mess and she wanted it gone.
Sam was walking along the hallway, heading to his office.
‘When are we going to start work on the kitchen?’ she asked.
Sheepish, he stopped and turned. ‘It won’t be too long.’
‘Why can’t we start on it now?’
‘We could rip it out, but-’
‘Then let’s do it.’
‘I’m waiting for a plumber. A couple have been recommended to me - neither is available for a few weeks.’
A few weeks! I can’t wait that long Sam.’
He turned and headed back into this office.
She shadowed him. ‘Why can’t we start on the rest of the kitchen and replace the plumbing afterward?’
‘I would rather do it in one go,’ he said.
‘Do you have a clue what it’s like for me living like this? It’s horrible . . . unhygienic. I can’t clean it any more than I do.’
‘I’m not expecting you too.’
She glanced at the grit on the floor. She could do better if she tried, but she lacked motivation. A clean house in its current state was no better than a dirty one.
‘I’m doing the best I can,’ Sam said. ‘I hate it too, but it’s n
ot forever.’
Deciding her efforts were futile, she pressed her lips together and returned to the kitchen. It may not be forever, but it felt like it was. And there appeared to be no end in sight. How would she cope if one of her friends turned up unannounced? Her shame would be intolerable. Was it any wonder she had disregarded their pleas to meet up?
The toast sat in the toaster, cold and brittle, and she hated cold toast. Thrusting it into the bin, and noticing the smears of grime on the outside, she decided it was time to do something about it. Disregarding breakfast, she started to clean.
Michaela removed the lingering dirt from the floor and walls of the kitchen before she washed and dried the dishes. Then she progressed to the cooker. Irrationally, she had hoped that the vigorous circular motions would convert the age-old piece of equipment into something more modern and appealing, and even though she could see her distorted reflection, it had made no difference to her sense of poverty and lack of worth.
Angry developed into sorrow, and she tried hard not to regret her move into Primrose Cottage. She thought of the sweet sterile aroma in the hotel she used to work at and the regular banter she had had with her colleagues. It had created a sense of fulfilment, and as she made the comparison to her current situation, she felt a desperate lack of direction. She had no job, a house that caused much exasperation, and a limited social life. Michaela slumped onto the sofa, exhausted and fretful, and wondered if her life would ever improve.
Would they ever achieve their dream home? What if they ran out of money? What if they couldn’t complete the work? No one would want to buy the house in its current state and no builder would want to work inside. They might have to live like this forever, in this horrendous mess. Her stomach tightened. What if a plumber never became available? What if Sam became sick or injured and couldn’t work on the renovations? She would never be able to entertain anyone and would have to live her life in permanent solitude.