Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  I still have some worries on my mind and as I help Grace make coffee at the end of the meal, I take the opportunity to ask her what Oliver was like as a child.

  She laughs. ‘Always needing to be the centre of attention, as he did just now by springing that surprise on you. Of course it’s a lovely thing to do, and I’m not denying he’s a sweet, generous man, always ready to help others, but he also loves to be appreciated and applauded. He does like everything to revolve around him and his perceived wounds. That’s why I was so pleased when he took up with you, Carly. You’re so very sensible, with your head screwed on right. You’re good for him.’

  I’m slightly startled by this, turning her words over in my mind as I set out her best china cups and saucers. But it doesn’t resolve the one question that is pounding in my head. I try a more oblique approach.

  ‘It must be quite hard bringing up children. My sister has three, is expecting her fourth as a matter of fact. How she copes I cannot imagine but I’ve never seen her so much as lift a hand to smack them when they’re naughty.’

  ‘Quite right,’ Grace Sheldon stoutly agrees. ‘Physical punishment shouldn’t be necessary if you have a loving rapport with your child.’

  ‘What about tantrums?’ I ask her. ‘Ryan is coming up to two and can be a bit of a handful in that respect. He just loves to lie on the floor and kick his heels and scream, particularly in the middle of Tesco.’

  She laughs. ‘Oh, I remember the terrible twos. Oliver was dreadful at that age. Tell your sister to sit him on the naughty step for a while. He’ll soon stop screaming and making a fuss when he realises he’s missing out on all the fun. But she’s quite right, smacking is not the answer. I never lifted a hand to Oliver, nor did his father.’

  I frown, trying to absorb the import of this remark as she waits for the coffee to brew, and I see a pink flush creep into her cheeks. ‘I don’t mind telling you, dear, although it’s not something I care to talk about too much, but I lost two babies before I had Oliver, so he was always a very special child.’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t realise.’

  ‘It was such a joy to at last hold my own child in my arms, and because there were to be no more babies, I’m afraid we have both rather spoiled him. We tried not to, but every single day I blessed my good fortune. Our entire life was largely geared to that boy’s needs. I gladly became a stay-at-home mum and devoted myself to his care, and when his father came home from the office he’d always make time to play with him. We sent Oliver to a good school, had his friends in for tea, gave him a safe routine, and provided him with everything he could wish for. Too much, I suppose, as elderly parents tend to do. Of course we expected him to behave like a proper little man when we took him out for dinner, which we did quite frequently, or in church on Sundays. We were firm but loving parents, I believe,’ she tells me with a smile. ‘Quite old fashioned in that he had to do his homework on time, and say his please and thank yous. Children like to know where they stand, don’t you think, and your sister sounds like she has a similar set of standards. But she’s quite right, physical punishment is definitely not the answer. Fetch that dish of chocolates, dear, will you?’ she breezily reminds me as she sails away into the dining room, carrying the loaded tray aloft.

  I follow, stunned by her little confession, but it’s perfectly clear to me that Oliver must have had a very stable and loving upbringing, and a good relationship with his parents. They absolutely adore him, and I do not believe for one moment that they ever abused him. But if that’s the case, why did he make out that they did?

  ‘Paris? My, my, lucky you!’ Jo-Jo’s eyes are green with envy and, for once, I don’t blame her. My sister looks tired, worn out by her pregnancy and the demands of three young children. Mum too is having a hard time of it with the elderlies, and I know she’s bursting to spill out her latest worries on that score. We’re all in her kitchen enjoying a bit of a gossip, eating a slice of her best fruit cake and putting the world to rights. I’ve told them all about the proposed trip and Mum is once more singing Oliver’s praises.

  ‘You are so fortunate in your husband, Carly. I do hope you appreciate him.’

  ‘Yes, Mum . . . I do,’ I sigh, but there must have been a slight hesitation in my manner because she gives me a stern look. ‘I hope you are treating that man right.’

  I stifle a sigh and assure her that I am. ‘There are times though when I do wonder why . . .’ I begin, and then fall silent. They both wait, somewhat impatiently, for me to finish, but somehow I can’t find the words.

  It’s Jo-Jo in the end who snaps, ‘What? Why he doesn’t take you to Paris for a week instead of just a few days, or a fortnight perhaps? Why not a cruise on the Med?’

  ‘Stop it, Jo-Jo, that’s not what I was about to say at all.’ I wonder what exactly I did intend to say. Faced with my family’s certainty of my husband’s good will I can’t think, so I improvise. ‘I wonder sometimes why he chose to marry me.’

  They both look at me in wide-eyed amazement, and then at each other. Mum lets out a heavy sigh. ‘Because he loves you, pet. Hasn’t he told you so a thousand times? Now stop being so demanding and be thankful for your good fortune. I for one am delighted that both my girls have such lovely husbands. You should both consider yourselves very lucky.’

  ‘If you’re complaining that Oliver is no longer romantic,’ Jo-Jo says, ‘then welcome to the club. You’re an old married woman now. Husbands have neither the money nor the motivation to shower you with flowers and gifts once they’ve caught you. Welcome to the real world.’

  ‘Have you never considered society’s attitude towards marriage, women in particular?’ I suddenly blurt out, and they both stop chewing cake to look at me askance. ‘All that stuff about ‘love, honour and obey’, the vicar saying ‘who giveth this woman’. It’s so medieval, don’t you think?’

  There’s a short silence and then Mum bursts out laughing. ‘So that’s what’s going on in your head. You’ve gone all feminist like that Emma.’

  ‘She’s not that Emma, she’s my friend and partner, and no, I haven’t gone feminist at all.’

  ‘Sounds like it. Oliver says that Emma - your friend Emma - is very demanding. That as well as working you too hard, she expects you to sacrifice quite a bit of the time you should be spending with him, to be with her.’

  I roll my eyes heavenwards. ‘That’s simply not true.’

  ‘He says he had to drag you out of the John Peel the other night.’

  ‘It was one drink after work, that’s all. We sometimes need to discuss business, and there’s little opportunity for that in the office with the phone ringing all the time and clients popping in and out.’

  ‘That’s not what Oliver says.’

  ‘Oliver isn’t right about everything.’

  She frowns with disapproval, as if I’ve committed a cardinal sin by criticising him. ‘What’s come over you, Carly? You should be dashing home to be with your lovely husband, not spending the evening drinking in a pub with your girl friends.’

  Jo-Jo interrupts. ‘Leave it Mum, if Carly’s working too hard, or drinking too much, she’s no one to blame but herself. She’s too selfish, too full of ambition and a desire to make money to give her husband a bit of the care and attention he deserves.’

  I sigh with frustration, stunned and hurt by this joint attack on me. I try to explain that’s not how I am at all, but my sister turns away to stop Ryan from chewing a crayon, and Mum abruptly changes the subject to some tale about Grandpa having started to hoard food. ‘He hides slices of apple pie or fruit cake among his socks, would you believe? You have to laugh. Maybe he gets hungry in the night, bless him, and likes to have secret snacks when he’s wandering about wondering what time it is.’

  ‘Oh, Mum, that’s so sad,’ Jo-Jo says. They’re talking now as if I wasn’t even in the room.

  ‘I certainly don’t starve the poor old soul. He eats like a horse, everything I put in front of him. Most of the time he hasn’t the fir
st idea what day it is, let alone what time. Dad has caught him twice this week about to leave the house at dawn, still in his pyjamas but with his cap on and bait box in hand, ready to do a day’s work. And one evening when he saw your father going off to the football, he asked him if he had enough spending money in his pocket. What year he was in, I’ve no idea, but clearly not the present. Ken just answered that he was all right for money, thanks very much. Poor old chap. It’s easy to smile but I don’t know how much longer we can cope. It’s nerve-racking not knowing what he might do next.’

  Listening to this, and her very real concern, I don’t have the heart to make things worse by pouring out my own troubles, even if either my mother or sister had the patience to listen to me. My problems seem so petty by comparison. Surely I can sort things out for myself. I’m a big girl now.

  Haven’t we talked things through, Oliver and I? And although I still can’t quite get my head around his claim of being abused, which doesn’t gel at all with what Grace told me the other day, he does seem much more relaxed. And a trip to Paris could well put everything right between us.

  Paris is indeed wonderful, everything I could have hoped for. Just the sights and smells of this beautiful European city seem to bring me alive and revitalise us both. I love sitting at pavement cafes sipping fragrant coffee and watching the world go by. Isn’t that what Paris is all about? And Oliver is so attentive, so loving, quite his old romantic self as we devote ourselves exclusively to each other. This holiday is exactly what we need to grow close again.

  We have a great time wandering along the Avenue des Champs Elysee, go up the Eiffel tower to marvel at the view, enjoy a show at the Moulin Rouge, a romantic cruise on the Seine and make love at every possible moment. It’s like old times.

  We talk more than we’ve done in an age and I try to explain why I love my job so much, how it makes me feel fulfilled as a person in my own right.

  Oliver listens and concedes that he should loosen up a little, give me a bit more elbow room to do my own thing. ‘Maybe I’ll learn to like the fact you have a business of your own, since you’re doing rather well, for now at least. As an accountant I can never say no to a good profit, but you won’t always need to work, Carly. Once I’m properly established with a partnership, you can stay at home and be a proper wife.’

  I let the comment slide by as we obviously aren’t going to agree on that one, and this isn’t the moment for any more confrontation. We’re having a marvellous time and I’ve certainly no intention of spoiling it by feminist talk, as Mum calls it. In fact, we don’t have a single cross word the entire holiday. It’s just wonderful, and I return home refreshed and elated, thrilled that we’ve grown close again on this fabulous romantic break.

  As I tell Jo-Jo all about it, her eyes once more turn green with jealousy. This time I don’t care, I’m just so relieved that my marriage seems to be back on track.

  And then three weeks later I discover that I’m pregnant.

  Chapter Eleven

  Oliver is furious. A baby is the last thing he wants right now. I’ve waited to tell him until I’m absolutely certain, taken the test and everything. Tonight we made love, as we have most nights since we got back from Paris, so it seemed like a good moment to come clean. How wrong I was.

  He leaps out of bed and starts prowling about the room in an agitated fashion. ‘How could you be so stupid?’ he rails at me.

  ‘I don’t know. I made a mistake, sorry. I must have missed taking the pill for the odd day. It’s easy to forget. Anyway, does it matter, it’s happened?’

  ‘Of course it bloody matters! Why do you have to be so incompetent, woman? You’ve ruined everything. But then you’ve been determined to ruin our marriage from the start.’

  He snatches up our wedding photo and smashes it to the floor, storms about the room getting angrier by the minute and sweeps all the stuff off my dressing table like a man demented. Or perhaps a two year old who can’t get his own way. In that moment he reminds me of Ryan having one of his temper tantrums in Tesco. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he’d lain down and drummed his heels on the floor. Yet this is not a child but an adult, with the strength of a grown man.

  I’m shocked, appalled by his reaction. I was aware that Oliver was in no hurry to have kids, but didn’t expect him to react quite so badly to the news. I felt pretty stunned by the news myself at first, and yet secretly thrilled when I realised I was having a baby. I love children and a child of my own would be wonderful. I kneel at the bottom of the bed and try to calm him, to placate him with a teasing, sexy smile.

  ‘Look, don’t worry, love. It’ll work out fine. Our mothers will be thrilled. Yours certainly will be, she adores babies.’ This gives him pause for thought, and I hammer home my small advantage. ‘And you should know that an abortion is not an option for me.’

  His face is wearing that familiar shuttered look, and I’m beginning to feel slightly sick. ‘Damn you Carly, this is your doing. You’ve done this to me.’

  I manage a nervous chuckle. ‘I think you had something to do with it too. It’s not so surprising, is it? We have been hammering it a bit lately. Blame it on Paris, which was your idea, remember. They say it’s a city for lovers, and we’ve certainly proved that, haven’t we? But it’ll be great, you’ll see. Twenty-six is a good age to start a family, don’t you think?’

  He puts his clenched fists to his head and almost screams in despair. ‘No, I don’t! I’m far too young to have all that baby crap, bottles and nappies, and sleepless nights. I don’t want it yet, thanks very much. I need to concentrate on my career and getting a partnership. What the hell were you thinking of to be so careless?’

  I’m wondering why everything must turn into such a big issue with him when he hasn’t planned it himself. Why he can’t simply be happy for us, say it’ll be okay and we’ll manage. ‘What’s so terrible about my falling pregnant?’ I say to him. ‘It’s not as if we’re short of money, and a baby will be lovely. A product of our love.’

  ‘Don’t talk utter crap, you stupid whore!’ His hand snakes out and he drags me off the bed to fling me down on the floor. Before I realise what’s happening, he starts to kick me. Instinctively I curl into the foetal position, as I’ve learned to do to protect my head and stomach, but this time he goes on and on kicking me in the back and I scrabble across the floor, desperate to escape, fearing he might never stop. He lunges for me, picks me up and throws me across the room. I’m crying and sobbing, quite hysterical as he starts battering me about the head, apparently forgetting his own rules not to hit me where a mark might show.

  This is the worst attack yet and I’m terrified. I know I have to get out before he kills me so I make a run for it. Clad only in my nightie I run down the stairs, out of the kitchen door and down the drive. I can hear him chasing after me but I can’t run fast enough. My bare feet skid on the wet tarmac and I fall to my knees, scraping them badly, but I don’t even notice the pain. Before I can get up, he grabs me by the hair and starts to drag me along the ground, back up the drive into the house.

  ‘You’re going nowhere unless I bloody say so,’ he yells.

  I catch sight of two middle-aged women standing at the bottom of the drive aghast at what they’ve just witnessed. I hear one of them ask the other if she should call the police.

  Oliver hears them too. He shoves me into the house, slams shut the door and locks it. Running away was the worst possible thing I could have done. I’ve shamed him in public, in front of perfect strangers, not simply friends or family.

  Terrified the police might arrive at any minute and be less accommodating this time, he switches off every light in the house, shuts us both in the bedroom and orders me to stay absolutely silent. I lie curled up tight in bed, shivering in the dark. I’m listening for sounds of a police siren but all I can hear is my own heart pounding. I’m frozen with fear. What should I do if I hear the bell ring? There’s no way I can escape, but dare I shout? Would the police break in if they
heard me? Will it be the same two policemen? We lie there pretending to be innocently asleep for what seems like hours but no one comes. I realise that the two women must have decided not to interfere in a matrimonial, a ‘domestic’. The usual ‘let’s not get involved’ sort of reaction to this type of problem. Oliver realises this too and starts to chuckle. The sound chills me to the bone.

  ‘The cavalry isn’t coming,’ he sneers. ‘No one gives a shit what I do to you.’

  For the first time in my life I feel a curdle of real fear, frightened of what he might actually do to me. I’d wanted him to be pleased about the baby, but he’s concerned only about the loss of his freedom, the changes a family will make to his own life. A baby will no doubt upset his well-planned routine, and mean I have less time to devote myself to him. Or maybe he’s just furious because he didn’t plan it, didn’t give his permission.

  Convinced that he isn’t about to be carted off to jail, Oliver starts to call me vile names: bitch and slag and other choice words to belittle me. He goes on and on insulting me for my careless stupidity, and for my reckless show of independence by running out the door. He bitterly complains that I’ve humiliated him in front of the entire neighbourhood. I cower on the edge of the bed, too afraid to attempt another escape, trying to make myself as small as possible, wishing I was invisible, while he works himself up into a fresh frenzy.

  ‘Are you listening to me?’

  When I don’t respond he grabs me by the throat and shakes me as if I were a rag doll, squeezing and squeezing till I can see sparks of red before my eyes. My lungs are bursting for air and my head is spinning. Any minute now I know I’ll pass out and I’m quite certain that he won’t stop till I’m dead. Some instinct kicks in telling me to close my eyes, and I go limp. Maybe if he thinks I have indeed passed out, he’ll stop.

  It works. Eventually. Just as I’m on the brink of despair. Of course my little play acting hasn’t fooled him at all. He stops choking me when he’s good and ready, before he does too much damage.