Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘And so you did love, I’m pleased to say.’ Dad glances about him at my beautiful designer kitchen with its white painted cupboards and stainless steel equipment. The very best of everything. ‘You’ve done very nicely for yourself.’

  ‘I’m not talking about material things,’ I say. ‘All parents seem to promise their daughters a fairy tale marriage, and I do wonder sometimes why they do that. It’s not a very sensible thing to promise, is it? I mean, how many princes do you meet in the real world? It must be extremely rare, that happy-ever-after walk into the sunset.’

  ‘It is indeed, which is why you are so very fortunate, girl. Our Jo-Jo is lucky too, though she doesn’t always appreciate that fact. But making sure a marriage keeps on working is largely up to the two people concerned. It takes constant love and care, as your mum and I have told you both countless times. Plenty of give and take. I only have to look at my own parents, your Gran and Grandad. Fifty years they’ve been wed, and they’re still in love, even if Gramps is becoming progressively more senile and difficult to control.’

  I start to speak, to say that love isn’t enough, but he’s still talking, telling some tale about Grandad which is apparently driving Mum scatty.

  ‘The old man has started to save plastic bags from the supermarket, would you believe? He’s got a drawer full of them, and those labels off fruit cans. I can’t think why. Got very shirty with me when I asked. And you know how your Mum is passionate about her garden, and Grandpa loves to potter about and help. Unfortunately the poor old chap can no longer remember which are weeds and which are flowers. She has to watch him like a hawk or all her new plants end up on the compost heap. You have to laugh, or you’d cry,’ Dad admits with a sigh. ‘You can have me put down, love, if I ever reach that stage.’

  I try to interrupt. ‘Dad, I’ve got a bit of an ache.’ But he’s still talking and doesn’t hear me.

  ‘Mum found weed killer in among the sauce bottles the other day. We know it must have been him putting it back in the wrong cupboard, but where’s the point in telling him? He’d never remember. We need eyes in the back of our heads, we do really. As for the length of time he takes in the bathroom, I’d never get off to work if . . .’

  ‘Dad . . . I . . . I fell this morning.’ The truth is stuck in my throat, lodged there like an unpalatable lump of stodgy porridge. ‘Do you think I should go to the hospital?’

  He finally focuses on what I’m saying. ‘Fell? Fell where? Why didn’t you say? Good grief, don’t say your contractions have started?’ He leaps up, appalled, spilling tea on the pale blue kitchen kelim and I pause to worry over what Oliver will say when he spots the stain.

  ‘No, no, nothing like that. I feel fine, just the odd bruise here and there, but the baby’s been very quiet today. What if it was hurt when I fell?’

  Dad is suddenly all action ‘Get your coat on, I’ll drive you round to the doctor right now, just to be sure. No, I’ll fetch your mum first, that’d be best.’ He panics a bit, running on the spot almost like a cartoon, before finally hustling me out the door and helping me carefully into the car.

  ‘Don’t move. Don’t even breathe. No, cancel that, keep breathing. Just sit there and gently breathe for the baby.’

  ‘Right, Dad. Could you get in the car and drive please.’

  Mum and I sit facing the doctor and he naturally wants to know how and where I fell. I spin some yarn about falling off the back door step when I took out some washing early in the day, wearing only my bedroom slippers. I pretend I fell down one step, not thirteen. Unlucky for some, I think.

  He gently lectures me about proper footwear, listens to my tummy through his stethoscope and when he sees the anxious expression on my face, lets me listen to the tiny precious sounds of life, like a ticking clock in my tummy. ‘Can you hear it? Baby is absolutely fine. No need to worry at all. But take better care with those steps in future, no more wearing of bedroom slippers, and absolute rest for a day or two.’

  Mum takes me back home, fussing over me and issuing similar stern lectures. She offers to ring Oliver but I quickly put her off. ‘No! Don’t do that. I’m fine. The doctor says there’s no real cause for concern, so let’s not mention it to Oliver. He’ll only worry.’

  ‘Course he will, bless him. Never stops fretting over you, that man. Pops in the shop constantly to say how concerned he is that you aren’t getting enough rest. He’s a treasure is your Oliver. All right, we’ll keep this to ourselves.’

  I feel like a complete coward. I chickened out of telling Dad, now I can’t bring myself to tell Mum either. I can’t summon up the courage to say those dreadful words, that my husband, the knight in shining armour who came and carried me away on his white charger, the much longed for Prince Charming, actually pushed me down the stairs. And he did this knowing full well that I was carrying his child. ‘Oliver is very busy at the office now that he’s been made a partner,’ I say, rather weakly.

  Mum smiles proudly as she settles me in a chair in a sunny corner of the garden for the afternoon, brings me a sandwich and another cup of tea and tells me how lucky I am to have such a clever husband.

  ‘Yes,’ I agree. ‘He is clever. Very clever indeed.’

  The last month of my pregnancy is something of a trial. I’ve a pain right down my leg. Something to do with the baby resting against a nerve and the doctor insists I stay in bed a good deal with the foot of it propped up on a stack of encyclopaedias to raise it several inches from the ground. This is supposed to relieve the pressure. I worry that this pain may actually be a result of my alleged ‘fall’ but try not to dwell on that too much. I also suffer a good deal of heartburn, all of which bores Oliver to distraction. It’s impossible for him to sleep in the same bed at such an angle, so he moves into the spare room.

  I’m secretly delighted and find being alone in the big double bed a wonderful liberating experience, free of the fear of being kicked out of it, which has remained a favourite punishment of his, although not recently thank goodness. Having finally mastered knitting sufficiently to knit a woolly teddy bear for the baby, much more fun than a matinee jacket, I spend most nights with my legs propped up, sipping milk for the heartburn while I knit happily away. I feel remarkably calm, the nearest I’ve come to contentment in a long time.

  The birth is surprisingly easy, although my labour is long drawn out as is often the case with a first baby but with no real problems, not even a single stitch. I haven’t put on a great deal of weight, being only just over nine stone, but then I probably lost weight during the first months of my marriage, without my realising it.

  My beautiful daughter is born on a bright day in June and I fall instantly in love with her, knowing I can cope with anything now as she will make my life worthwhile. She seems so tiny and precious with perfect fingernails like miniature shells, inquisitive blue eyes and a downy fluff of fair hair, and so fragile at just five pounds twelve ounces, but I will take good care of her and I shall enjoy watching her grow and develop. At least something good has come out of this debacle of a marriage.

  I can see that Oliver is disappointed I didn’t provide him with a son. He looks at me with that expression on his face which loudly states, you couldn’t even get this right, could you? But I don’t care what he thinks and feels any more. I have my lovely baby, my beloved child. I call her Katherine, Katie for short. She is my star.

  Despite the fact we now have a baby in the house, Oliver’s routine remains unchanged. His bacon and egg must still be on the table by seven o’clock precisely each morning. Fortunately, Katie wakes me up early anyway, but I could do without the hassle of having a breakfast to cook as well as dealing with her. I try suggesting that Oliver cook breakfast for me for a change, since I’m the one awake half the night. He looks at me as if I’ve suggested he fly to the moon.

  ‘It was just a thought.’

  My smile is weary, my eyes red with exhaustion, my hair like a bird’s nest as I can’t remember the last time I shampooed it, but he d
oesn’t even notice. He’s already grumbling about the lack of attention I’m giving him since the baby arrived, and seems to think I should still have time to sit and enjoy breakfast with him in a leisurely fashion, as I used to. I explain that this isn’t always possible, that feeding a baby isn’t a five minute chore, but I suppose he’s right in a way. I am obsessed with the baby. I adore her and pour into this small scrap of humanity all the love I have kept bottled up inside of me.

  Katie is so small that she can only take a small amount of milk before she nods off to sleep, so a feed can take ages. I confess I frequently nearly nod off myself, so do usually go back to bed for an hour or two after the early morning feed. I’m dropping on my feet and need to catch up on whatever sleep I can, as all new mums do.

  Unfortunately, one morning, Oliver comes back to the house for something or other he has forgotten, and finds me still in bed.

  He stares at me appalled. ‘For God’s sake, what are you doing there, you lazy slag? It’s nearly ten o’clock.’

  I leap out of bed in a fright, terrified he might be about to give me a beating but he’s in a hurry to get back to the office so I get away with it. When he’s gone I find my heart is still pounding, which shows how very jumpy and nervy I am when he’s around.

  I make very sure on that particular evening that his dinner is ready on time, and, as always, every item of baby stuff is cleared away before he arrives home. Katie too has been tidied away into her cot, out of sight and out of mind. He hates to see any sort of mess, any evidence, in fact, that we have a child. The house must revolve around him, not a mere baby.

  I jokingly ask my sister how she copes with this problem, and Jo-Jo just laughs, saying Ed has to put up with the mess, and a great deal more besides.

  ‘He helped create these children, so they’re just as much his responsibility as mine,’ she cheerfully remarks. ‘You tell Oliver that.’

  Naturally, I wouldn’t dream of doing any such thing.

  I’m not permitted to sit on our new white sofa with the baby on my knee, in case of ‘accidents’, not even allowed to feed her in the warmth and comfort of the lounge. I must go upstairs to the nursery which he has had specially decorated and fitted out with all the latest equipment, baby alarms and gizmos. At first I’m secretly outraged at being shuffled off into a corner, but then come to see this room as a private haven for Katie and me, a place where we can feel safe and secure.

  I buy myself a rocking chair and love sitting cuddling her in the quiet of the night, listening to her soft baby noises as she suckles, the sound of her breathing.

  It irritates Oliver enormously if his sleep is disturbed, or when she goes through a spell of not sleeping because of evening colic. Nor does he take kindly to her crying, which interferes with his demands for peace and quiet of an evening. He complains he’s tired from too many disturbed nights so again moves into the spare room, as he did during the last weeks of my pregnancy.

  Again I feel nothing but relief.

  Mum and Dad are regular visitors, as they love to pop in to see their latest grandchild. I frequently hear Oliver declaring to them how proud he is of his new family, but then he’ll make it very clear to me, once they’ve gone, that the demands the baby makes are entirely my responsibility, and not his. The only time I ever see him hold her is when Mum puts her into his arms so that she can take a photograph. I can see quite clearly how very uncomfortable he feels, but I doubt anyone else notices.

  Oliver takes very little interest in his daughter, leaving me to do all the nappy changing and getting up at night with her, but if something seems to be wrong, if she sicks up her feed as babies tend to do, or if she screams the place down, then he instantly turns into some kind of expert. He tells me I must have left her too long between feeds, I’m neglecting her, or I’m giving her the wrong food and should change it. He thinks she shouldn’t ever cry, and if she does it must be because of my inadequacies as a mother.

  I’m concerned that my milk seems to be drying up. Perhaps Mum’s right and it’s because I’ve lost a bit too much weight too quickly. There never seems to be time to eat properly, and I don’t seem to have much appetite. I start Katie on a bottle and one evening I suggest Oliver feed her.

  He looks at me horrified, but I smile encouragement and show him how to hold her, how to hold the bottle to make sure there is no air in the teat, He doesn’t get it quite right and Katie starts to cry. He at once tries to hand her back.

  ‘No, try again, darling. Don’t worry, just let her take the teat right into her mouth.’

  ‘It might choke her.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. She loves her bottle. Go on, try again.’

  ‘You should be breast feeding her, not giving her this rubbish.’

  I have to laugh. ‘It’s not long since you were complaining that I’d ruin my figure by breast feeding. Oliver, please just offer her the bottle. She’s hungry.’

  But he loses patience, dumps her on my knee and tells me it’s not his job, and he won’t be responsible for feeding bottled poison to a child. Then he marches off downstairs to the quiet privacy of his office.

  ‘Never mind, my precious,’ I murmur to Katie. ‘I’m sure your dad loves you really. You just have to grow a bit first before he feels brave enough to cope.’

  As the family get caught up in their own lives again, and call in to see us less often, I begin to feel quite lonely and isolated, sadly lacking in adult conversation. I’m delighted, therefore, when Emma calls one afternoon. She’s brought a present for Katie, a pretty pink frock, and some flowers for me. She kisses me on each cheek, apologises for not having come sooner but explains that Oliver had insisted visitors were limited to family members only.

  I’m surprised by this but say nothing. Relations between us are still a little cool so I wonder if she’s making this up, or exaggerating what he actually said as an excuse to have a dig at him.

  I take her to see Katie, who is fast asleep, which is such a relief I daren’t disturb her.

  ‘Maybe you’d like to hold her when she wakes for her feed?’ I suggest.

  ‘Oh, I can’t stay long,’ Emma says, glancing at her watch. ‘Another time maybe. Don’t wake the little mite for me.’

  I make coffee and ask Emma to fill me in on what’s happening at Perfect Cottages. I feel desperate for some news, for a bit of girly gossip and chit-chat. I’m also eager to hear how Wanda, my replacement, is getting along. I’m already making plans in my head for my return to work but Emma’s answer is not encouraging.

  ‘She’s coping fine, an absolute gem. Wanda has taken complete charge of the website, keeps it regularly updated, and has found several other suitable tourist websites to link it with, which has bumped up our bookings enormously.’

  I smile and say how pleased I am, but feel slightly hurt that she’s doing so well and no one seems to be missing me. We all imagine ourselves to be indispensable and it’s never pleasant to realise that we aren’t.

  ‘I’ve every intention of getting back to work just as soon as I can, of course,’ I say, but Em seems unconvinced, almost uninterested.

  She shrugs. ‘Don’t worry about it. There’s really no rush. I dare say Wanda would be happy to continue indefinitely.’

  It’s not what I wish to hear and I suggest that maybe I could do some paperwork at home.

  ‘Such as? Accounts aren’t your thing, are they? I deal with those, and Wanda and I both handle the bookings. We’ve employed a couple of cleaners now, but you’re not up to coping with that side of things yet, are you? Besides, you know Oliver wouldn’t like it if you started work too soon.’

  I stifle a sigh and quietly concede this is true.

  ‘How is the new father coping?’ she asks, a certain tartness in her tone which I studiously ignore.

  ‘He’s getting the hang of things, slowly,’ I lie, not wishing to divulge my husband’s complete lack of interest in our child.

  ‘Good. Excellent.’ She glances about her as if at a loss
for words, then mentions one or two regular clients who have booked holidays this season and have asked about me.

  I’m pleased and flattered by this but then minutes later she’s gulping down her coffee, reaching for her bag and edging out the door. I appreciate how busy she must be but I’m sorry to see her go so quickly.

  ‘Call in any time you’re passing,’ I say.

  ‘Of course, and do take care of that precious baby.’

  Then she’s gone and the emptiness of the house folds in around me.

  A day or two later I drive down to the supermarket as I often do on a Thursday morning, Katie strapped in her baby seat in the back. It’s a pleasant break from the house and I deliberately make a detour so that I can call in on Emma at the agency. She seems surprised to see me again so soon, and I make an excuse about visiting Booth’s Supermarket at Windermere, but we both know I’ve come an extra couple of miles out of my way.

  ‘I felt like a drive by the lake,’ I say, by way of an excuse. ‘I thought you might like to see her awake.’ I place Katie in Emma’s arms and she is entranced.

  ‘Oh, Carly, she’s beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous!’

  Wanda too comes over and we all coo over the baby for some minutes.

  ‘I’ve also come to invite you to the christening. I forgot to mention when you called the other day. In fact, I’d like you to be godmother, well, one of them. Jo-Jo will be the other, naturally.’

  Em looks at me in astonishment, her cheeks faintly pink. ‘Oh, that would be wonderful. Have you asked Oliver? Does he mind?’

  I frown. ‘Why would Oliver mind? You’re my friend. Will you do it?’

  ‘I would be proud,’ and we smile at each with real warmth for the first time in months. Wanda is beaming too.

  ‘I’ll trot out and buy cream cakes,’ she says. ‘This surely warrants a celebration.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  The christening takes place on a beautiful summer’s day with Oliver proudly showing off our beautiful new daughter. He fusses over me endlessly, telling everyone how clever I am, how beautiful, what a lucky man he is. It always feels like a minor miracle to me that he can be so charming and affable in public. Emma and Jo-Jo both act as godmothers, with an old friend of Oliver’s as godfather. Katie cries at the appropriate moment and afterwards everyone comes back to the house where Mum and I had earlier prepared sandwiches and snacks.