Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  He’ll yank my arm up my back till I collapse and fall to my knees, or he’ll pull back each finger as far as it will go, till I’m begging him to stop, terrified it might break at any moment. Of course, he makes sure that it doesn’t break. The visit from the police, busybody neighbours, particularly the two old ladies in our drive, has had some effect upon him. And Oliver has no wish to answer awkward questions in casualty or at the doctor’s surgery.

  Throughout this carefully calculated torture I’m not allowed to cry out or make a sound. Nor does he shout or rail at me. He carries out these peevish, sadistic acts in complete silence, sometimes with a smirk of pure pleasure on his face.

  He seems to have learned new tricks, and it’s absolutely terrifying.

  I’m eight months gone and I’ve finally given up work. Summer is almost upon us and the super-efficient Wanda now sits at my desk, dealing with my mail and regularly updating the website. She’s the one who dashes out to clean and prepare the cottages and apartments for our guests, answers their telephone queries and checks on them to make sure all is well. The timing of this baby is just about as bad as it could be, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m still hoping that by late summer or early autumn, long before the bookings start coming in for next season, I’ll be ready and able to return to work, albeit with a baby in tow.

  Oliver has at last been given the partnership as one of the other partners is taking early retirement. The firm is planning to hold a dinner dance before they all go away for their summer break, a sort of leaving party for old Don, to which all wives and girl friends are invited. Except me, apparently. I found the invitation quite by chance among Oliver’s cuff links in his chest of drawers, but he doesn’t think I should attend. Today’s argument is about why he refuses to take me.

  ‘For God’s sake, you’re pregnant! You’ve nothing decent to wear for a start, and it certainly isn’t worth buying anything new, now you’re so far gone.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. I can easily make myself something.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he says. ‘You’d need a bell tent,’ and he storms out, back to the office, his football match or his quiz league, or whatever he has planned for this evening. I sit and morosely flick through my latest library book, feeling fat and really quite tearful with disappointment, then I pick up the phone to speak to my sister.

  Say what you like about Jo-Jo, she’s generally there for me in a crisis.

  Once I stop crying long enough to properly explain my problem, she’s all decisive and positive. ‘Just let me get this lot to bed and I’ll be round.’

  She brings with her an out-moded blue chiffon dress with a long full skirt. She cuts off the bodice and lets out the gathers which she binds with a dark blue velvet sash that finishes in a trailing bow at the back.

  The alterations are soon done and I try it on.

  She teams the skirt with a lovely stretchy, sparkly, off-the-shoulder black top, and I have to say it looks fantastic. I’ve never been a skinny-minnie but my breasts are even fuller than normal, and draw the eye nicely away from the bump beneath.

  Even Oliver, when he sees it later, admits I look good, but still isn’t keen on my going, insisting it’ll be too much for me.

  ‘You certainly couldn’t dance,’ he tells me.

  ‘Why couldn’t I? I could waddle around the dance floor to the slow numbers at least, and I can still enjoy the dinner.’

  ‘What if you went into labour?’

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘We’d call the ambulance. Anyway, I’m weeks off yet. And if I were to go into premature labour, it would be even more frightening if I were on my own at home.’ I don’t remind him that I so often am these days.

  ‘I still don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I just don’t. Pregnant women shouldn’t go to dinner dances. I don’t want you making an exhibition of yourself.’

  I look at him keenly. ‘You aren’t embarrassed, are you, because I’m eight months gone?’ His ears turn bright red and I laugh and call him a Victorian fuddy-duddy, trying to tease him out of his ill humour. I’m absolutely determined to go. I’ve been stuck in this house for weeks now, and feel the need for some fun.

  The dinner dance is indeed great fun and I’m made a great fuss of by Oliver’s colleagues. One of them tells me he informed them I wasn’t well enough to attend. I laugh at this, assuring them all that I’m having a marvellous pregnancy, absolutely bursting with hormones and energy. Afterwards, I gently tease Oliver for being so old fashioned in his attitude.

  I never think to question that there might be another reason altogether why he didn’t want me to be there.

  The dinner is delicious and the guys all dance attendance on me, fetching me lemonade and nibbles, telling me I look gorgeous. And I’m never without a partner as they take it in turns to perambulate me gently round the floor.

  Tony and Jane are there too, of course, and there’s an awkward moment as we engage in rather stilted conversation, striving to be polite at least. I haven’t seen Jane since the time I called at her house and she told me Tony and Oliver weren’t as friendly as they used to be, seeming to think this was because we’d moved into a new house in a posh neighbourhood.

  ‘You never did call in for that coffee,’ I remind her.

  ‘No, I didn’t, did I?’ And taking Tony’s hand, she drags him on to the dance floor.

  ‘Goodness,’ I say to Oliver. ‘What did we ever do to offend those two?’

  ‘God knows!’

  It’s rather a smart hotel and I go to the Ladies powder room for a rest and to freshen up. I’m sitting in a comfy chair taking a breather when Jane breezes in.

  I smile, politely admire her dress while she pointedly assesses my condition.

  ‘Not long to go then?’

  ‘No, could arrive at any moment, in fact,’ I cheerfully inform her.

  ‘And Oliver is pleased, is he?’

  I smile tightly and assure her that he is. She turns towards the door as a pretty young girl enters. ‘Ah, Carly, meet Poppy. She works in the same office as Tony and Oliver. Poppy, this is Carly, Oliver’s wife.’

  ‘Pleased to meet you.’ I politely hold out my hand but she ignores it, a slightly dazed expression on her face. Not the brightest star in the universe, obviously, I think. I laughingly ask if my husband is a tyrant to work for, but she still looks lost for words. Shy perhaps, so I try again.

  ‘Does he insist you keep everything very tidy?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she blurts out, and then starts talking very fast. ‘Every paper clip and pen must be in its proper place, the filing done right away, phone calls recorded. He’s incredibly picky. You’ve got to get everything just right or he’s on to you.’ Her smile instantly fades as she suddenly remembers that she’s speaking to her boss’s wife. ‘But that’s only fair, I suppose. It’s a very busy office with some quite important clients.’

  Jane seems to have vanished but the girl watches me for a moment as I push off my shoes and wiggle my aching toes.

  ‘You look all in,’ she says, then adds, rather cautiously, ‘he never mentioned you were pregnant. At least, we only heard about it a few days ago,’ she acknowledged. ‘When he said that you were coming tonight after all.’

  I laugh as I stroke my swollen bump. ‘It was a last minute decision. Oh dear, and there was me hoping to disguise my pregnancy in this lovely outfit my sister made for me.’

  She looks at me with a puzzled frown. ‘Is that what you’ve been trying to do?’

  ‘I’m joking.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’ She gives an embarrassed little laugh.

  Silly girl, I think. Definitely one sandwich short of a picnic. She must drive Oliver to distraction. He hates stupid females.

  ‘I like your outfit,’ she says, studying me more closely. ‘You look very . . . very elegant. Oliver never said how lovely you were. Your hair is gorgeous, so thick and beautifully cut. I like the colour too. I
wish I was a natural blonde.’

  I smile in astonishment. ‘How very kind of you to say so. I’m flattered. Oliver obviously works with some lovely people. This evening has been a real morale booster for me. Generally nobody looks twice at a pregnant woman. I feel a complete frump most of the time. I can’t tell you what a relief it will be to be free of this bump.’

  ‘I’ve got to go,’ she says, and suddenly dashes off in her clumpy wedges and too-short skirt. I chuckle softly to myself. Nice girl, I think, if a bit dim, and clearly overwhelmed by meeting her boss’s wife. And it would seem that Oliver is every bit as fussy in the office as he is at home. An absolute tyrant to work for, every paper clip must be accounted for. Why am I not surprised? I can’t help but laugh. As I head back to the dance floor I wonder vaguely what happened to Jane, but mentally shrug the problem away. She obviously wasn’t for hanging around for a girly chat.

  I enjoy the dance enormously, have a wonderful evening despite my sorrow over the loss of this old friendship, and revel in this small taste of freedom. It’s been wonderful to get out of the house and enjoy the music and laughter, to listen to office gossip even if most of it does go right over my head. I’m disappointed when Oliver decides we should leave early. He collects my coat and firmly insists it’s long past time I should be in bed.

  ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ the guys from the office call out as we leave.

  ‘Wasn’t that fun?’ I say.

  ‘You certainly seemed to enjoy yourself,’ he replies.

  It all starts to go wrong the minute we arrive home.

  We’ve been in the house barely five minutes when he starts accusing me of flirting with his colleagues.

  I can’t help but laugh. ‘Don’t be silly, how can a pregnant woman flirt? Your friends would have more success with a beach ball.’

  ‘You certainly seemed to be enjoying their attention.’

  ‘Maybe that’s because I don’t get much of that from you these days. You’re rarely ever home.’

  ‘Oh, so it’s my fault now, is it?’

  ‘For goodness sake, Oliver, they were just being friendly.’

  ‘You made a complete fool of me.’

  ‘How?’ I blink up at him, surprised, as I thankfully slip off my shoes. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘You told everyone you’ve been perfectly well all through your pregnancy when I’d already said you’d been sick. You made me out to be a liar.’

  ‘No, I didn’t, don’t be silly. I just explained that I was mainly sick at the beginning, during the first few months, and only occasionally now. I felt fine tonight. Absolutely marvellous. Look, we’ve had a lovely evening, let’s not spoil it with a row. It’s late and I’m tired and I really can’t take your getting angry with me tonight.’ Shoes in hand, I pad off upstairs to bed.

  I realise at once that I’ve made a bad mistake. Oliver hates it when I walk away from him, or ask him not to get angry. He’s always the one who must decide when an argument is over, so he follows me, still ranting on about how I’ve no consideration for his feelings.

  ‘It’s you who makes me angry,’ he shouts. ‘You try my patience to the limit, you do really. I think you enjoy making me look bad.’

  ‘Don’t, Oliver, please.’ I slip out of the long skirt and sparkly black top, thinking I’ll be able to tell Jo-Jo tomorrow that the outfit was a huge success, very much admired. She’ll be pleased about that, never having been a wall flower herself, pregnant or not.

  Oliver snatches up the skirt and flings it across the room. ‘And you looked utterly stupid waddling round the dance floor in that home-made frock.’

  I can feel the traitorous tears starting to form at the back of my eyes. ‘Why do you always have to spoil things by picking on me? We’ve had a lovely evening, everyone admired the outfit and nobody was in the least embarrassed by my bump. Nobody except you, that is.’

  ‘And I don’t count, I suppose.’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Oliver, I’m not listening to any more of this. I’m exhausted. Even that silly little girl, what was she called, Poppy, thought my outfit looked elegant. And she seemed to think you should have mentioned what a lovely wife you had,’ I teasingly remark as I slip into my dressing gown and head for the bathroom.

  Oliver stands glowering for a second then strides after me. I automatically flinch away from him, realising he’s completely flipped, yet again.

  ‘Why won’t you ever listen to me?’ he spits at me, his face inches from mine, at his most intimidating. ‘Why are you so bloody stubborn? I told you not to flaming well come to the bloody dinner dance.’

  An icy shiver crawls down my spine but I turn away, determined to say nothing more. What is the point?

  I’ve reached the top of the stairs on my way across the landing when he suddenly lunges at me and gives me a hefty shove. To my horror I lose my balance and start to fall backwards. I cry out, try to grab hold of the banister rail but miss it completely. ‘Oliver,’ I shout. Then I’m rolling and bumping to the bottom of the stairs, my hands clutched about my swollen belly.

  Chapter Fourteen

  I’ve landed with a heavy thud, all the wind knocked out of my body. Oliver is still standing at the stop of the stairs, making no move to come and help. I’m so terrified I might have hurt my baby that I lie there for a long time before I find the courage to roll over on to all-fours and slowly get to my feet. By then there’s no sign of him. I assume he’s gone to bed.

  I stagger into the kitchen, shaking with shock, and make myself a mug of hot chocolate. The next few hours are an absolute agony as I wait to feel my baby move again. Even when it does, I remain fearful for its safety.

  Next morning I suggest I go to the hospital for a check up but Oliver won’t hear of it. I can see why he’s against the idea. It would mean difficult questions and explanations over how this ‘accident’ occurred.

  ‘We don’t want anyone poking their noses in our affairs. Anyway, you’re making a big fuss over nothing. The baby will be fine,’ he insists. ‘Don’t they swim about in liquid, or something? It was all your own fault. You would never have fallen if you hadn’t started an argument at the top of the stairs.’

  I stifle a gasp and try to work out how I could possibly have avoided falling when he shoved me so hard, but confine myself to gently pointing out that I didn’t start the argument, he did.

  He lifts his hands in a gesture of despair. ‘For goodness sake, it was only a little shove, meant to calm you down.’

  ‘I was perfectly calm. Quite tired, if you remember, and I did ask you not to get angry.’

  ‘I wouldn’t ever need to get angry, would I, if you weren’t so bloody obstinate? You’re always so ready to make me look a complete idiot in front of my colleagues. I surely deserve some respect in public. You ask for it, you do really.’

  When he finally goes off to the office, I crawl back into bed and curl up in misery, worrying about my baby.

  I must have fallen asleep because I’m woken by a voice downstairs in the kitchen. ‘Hello, is anyone in? Carly?’

  I realise it’s Dad. It’s not often he calls but I’m always glad to see him when he does. I quickly struggle out of bed, not wanting any awkward questions or have him start fussing over me, but I can hear his light quick tread on the stairs.

  ‘Are you up there, love?’

  ‘I’m coming,’ I call. ‘Put the kettle on, I’ll be down in a minute.’

  ‘Right.’

  I hear him go off into the kitchen while I quickly dress, run a brush through my hair then join him in time to accept the steaming mug of tea he puts into my hand.

  ‘What’s wrong, love? Aren’t you feeling well?’

  I laugh and try to make light of it. ‘We went to that dinner dance last night, and I’m afraid I overslept.’

  ‘Good for you. I should think Oliver encouraged you to sleep in, didn’t he? Did you overdo it a bit, love? Not drunk, I hope.’

  ‘Didn’t touch a drop. Come into the
lounge.’

  ‘Not on them white sofas, no,’ he demurs. ‘I’m happier here, thanks.’

  We sit at the kitchen table, chatting contentedly as we sip our tea.

  ‘I had a great time last night,’ I tell him, nervously wondering what Dad’s reaction would be if I revealed what took place after the dance. I have this slight ache in my back and I’m aware that both knees are badly bruised as a result of my fall. I keep them tucked under the table out of sight so he doesn’t notice as I surreptitiously rub them from time to time. Though maybe I should tell him. Maybe this is the moment to reveal all. ‘It was good to meet Oliver’s work colleagues at last, even though I had a job persuading him to take me.’ I’m tentatively trying to lead up to it slowly, but without much success as again he interrupts.

  ‘Too over-protective, I suppose. I was a bit that way with your mum when she was carrying Jo-Jo, though I wasn’t quite so strung up the second time.’

  ‘Oliver can be over-protective at times,’ I agree, ‘but not always. He hates it if I say the wrong thing in front of his colleagues. He’s not protective then, he just feels insulted.’

  Dad looks at me with a considering frown, then laughs. ‘He’s a man, full of pride and with a man’s fragile ego. We all have this grand image of ourselves as the big provider, the fount of all wisdom, particularly at work in front of our mates. You mam says I’m just the same.’

  I smile and sip my tea. My mind is whirling and I can’t think how best to deal with this. Dad is so happy for me, so proud. I’m still his little girl and the last thing I want to do is upset him. Or have him upset Oliver.

  ‘Apart from the effects of a late night, how you are feeling in yourself, Princess? You do look at bit tired. Don’t overdo it now.’

  ‘I won’t. Don’t worry. Anyway, you can’t call me that silly name now I’m an old married woman.’

  He looks affronted. ‘I can and I will. You’ll always be my princess.’

  ‘Didn’t you tell me that one day I’d find my knight in shining armour, my Prince Charming?’