Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  As if sensing my panic in the days and weeks following that family discussion, I often sense him smiling at me with sad compassion in his grey-blue eyes, those same eyes which I once fell in love with. ‘The problem is that you’ve let yourself go, Carly, which is a pity, because you used to be so sexy.’

  He’s right, I think. I am a mess. I’ve lost weight, and I’m appalled by the dark rings under my eyes, by the gauntness of my face. I slob about the house all day in old jeans and a T-shirt, rarely bothering to even put on lipstick. No wonder he’s having affairs.

  ‘We’ll be okay,’ he promises. ‘We just have to try a bit harder.’

  By we I realise he means me, but the fact he’s willing to try is such a relief that I hang on to the belief that a solution to our troubles might be found.

  There are days, though not so many now, when my brain clears slightly and I begin to work out a solution. I look for a place to hide, for some means of escaping. But I always come up against the same obstacles. I have no job, no home other than this one, no money of my own, and absolutely no confidence in myself that I could cope. My head starts to buzz with half-formed plans, then it all gets far too complicated and I give up. My brain feels paralysed, my emotions frozen.

  My only consolation is that since the punishment he meted out to me following that disastrous family meeting, he hasn’t lost his temper once, or laid a hand on me. He’s his old charming self again, attentive and caring. Nothing is too much trouble. Seeing how tired I am he tells me to put my feet up and rest. He brings me breakfast in bed, the first time ever.

  I should be feeling the smallest degree of optimism for a new beginning, but somehow I’ve lost heart. I feel numb, utterly devoid of emotion. All hope gone.

  Katie’s first Christmas passes in a blur, not special at all, despite my eagerness to make it so. The piggy bank is still empty and there is no evidence of any savings account being opened in her name, and I’m only too aware that the overdraft at the bank has still not been paid off.

  I’m going through the motions of normality, when really nothing about my life is the least little bit normal.

  In January, we do go on holiday, exactly as Mum suggested. We fly out to Tenerife and stay at a small family hotel by the sea in Los Christianos . The sun shines and the days are pleasant enough. I take lots of happy photos of Katie enjoying dipping her toes in the sea for the first time, and patting at the sand castles I have built for her.

  Oliver is surprisingly tolerant and attentive, apparently making every effort to save our marriage, but there is an awkwardness between us, a distance we can’t quite bridge. I look at this man I married and see a stranger. We’re not coping well, superficially pretending to get along, perhaps for Katie’s sake, or because we’ve grown accustomed to keeping up appearances.

  The nights are pure torture. Were I able to contemplate a return to normal sexual relations between us, it would be impossible. Katie absolutely refuses to settle. She spits out her comforter and screams the place down hour upon hour. I try every desperate measure I can think of to quieten her, pacing the floor of the bedroom as I sing to her in my arms, bathing her in case she’s too hot, rubbing her back and tummy, feeding her, changing her. Nothing works. Oliver’s patience is evaporating rapidly and I’m close to exhaustion. I decide that she’s missing her own cot and the familiarity of her daily routine, or maybe she’s picked up on the heavy atmosphere between the two of us. Whatever the reason, her behaviour is profoundly embarrassing.

  Not unreasonably there’s a complaint from the hotel management. Oliver loses his temper and orders me to pack our bags. We’re leaving. So much for happy families.

  Back home, Katie instantly returns to her old sweet self. She is my pride and joy, my sanity. I devote my entire day to her, making her delicious, home-made puréed food rather than buying ready prepared. I take her for walks, and endlessly play with her. Late each afternoon I try to remember to clear away all her baby things in good time before Oliver comes home. He hates to see the lounge littered with her stuff: the bouncy baby chair where I rock her, her squeaky duck and the cuddly teddy that I knitted for her, her plastic bricks and little post box into which she posts each one, with my help of course.

  One day he comes home slightly early, as he likes to do sometimes, just to keep me on my toes, and he finds the knitted teddy lying in his own chair. He picks it up, about to toss it into the stove when I rush in and stop him.

  ‘You can’t do that, it’s Katie’s favourite toy. I knitted it for her myself.’

  ‘Good lord, don’t tell me you’ve learned to knit. Then why aren’t I saving myself a fortune by having you knit my sweaters in future?’ He’s hanging on to the teddy and there’s an undignified tug of war going on between us.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Oliver, you know I’m not capable of knitting a sweater.’

  ‘You’re not capable of doing anything right,’ he scoffs, ‘and for God sake shut that child up. Does she never stop crying?’ Thankfully he releases his grip on the teddy, and I take Katie upstairs.

  I’m desperately tired, never quite getting enough sleep, partly because of listening out for Katie, but partly because the moment I wake, I start worrying about the future.

  Every evening I bathe and feed her, then I sit in the rocking chair in the little nursery and cuddle her before putting her down to sleep. Sometimes she goes all night now without waking, but I never mind if she does wake up because it gives me the opportunity to cuddle her again. Babies, I’ve discovered, are exhausting creatures, and Oliver still shows little interest in her, but I no longer care. I love her to bits. Nothing else matters so long as I have my child.

  Life continues in this way for some time, outwardly peaceful, but it’s a shaky peace. In theory Oliver has turned over a new leaf, ditched the lovely Jane, and is a devoted and attentive husband. In practice nothing very much has changed at all. Oliver continues to go out several evenings a week and I’m quite convinced the affair with my erstwhile friend is very much on-going. Inevitably his good intentions falter and the sulks and the black moods return, together with his long-drawn out gloomy silences. And his desire to control is as strong as ever. I never complain, never say a word. I suppose I’ve reached a kind of acceptance of my lot, a dangerous one perhaps, but a state of complete resignation.

  Another spring is upon us with the sweet scent of bluebells and May flowers on the air. Katie is almost ten months old now, sitting up and taking an interest, but the minute she sees Oliver she just waves her little hand, as if assuming Daddy is on his way out somewhere. She doesn’t see him as a part of her life. I’m beginning to feel very much the same. Could I at last be growing less dependent upon him, and is this a good thing, I wonder?

  I’ve begun to think that violence turns him on. After he’s gone through the usual ritual of apologising and nursing me better, begging for my forgiveness, sometimes in tears, then follows the love making. I find that sickening. It certainly doesn’t turn me on, and our sex life, so far as I’m concerned, is of little interest to me now.

  I go through the motions, trying not to expect too much and not to imagine how he must have enjoyed making love to Jane, my one-time best friend. Perhaps still does. But it’s hard, and there are obviously times when I am less than enthusiastic. Refusal to have sex, however, is not an option, not unless I want the whole spiral of his anger to start up all over again. I never object, even though I rarely feel in the mood these days. But then Oliver isn’t a man who takes no for an answer.

  He no longer troubles himself with foreplay, irritated that I’m not as sexy as I used to be, as he frequently and caustically informs me.

  ‘You’re useless in bed. You don’t even try.’

  ‘Wanting to make love doesn’t start in the bedroom,’ I tell him, but he doesn’t understand. I loathe this ability Oliver has to dismiss his treatment of me as of little consequence, and to use my vulnerability to his advantage.

  One night I wake to find him on top of
me.

  ‘What the hell are you doing?’ I’m only half awake but he’s pulled up my nightdress and he’s pushing himself inside me, obviously willing to take me even while I’m asleep.

  I try to push him off but he grabs both my wrists with one hand and holds me down while he thrusts himself into me. Hard. He’s strong and powerful, his body heavy on mine, and there’s no way I can escape. I’m dry and closed, not even remotely aroused, if now wide awake. I cry out as he hurts me badly, but he takes not the slightest notice, ramming into me with everything he’s got.

  When finally it’s over, he slumps to one side, ignoring my tears just as he’d been oblivious to my protests.

  I’m shaking now, and crying. ‘You raped me!’ I’m screaming at him as I try to get out of the bed, away from him.

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish! How can it be rape? You’re my wife!’

  I look at him in disgust. The sex was brutal, awful, degrading! He didn’t care that I might not have felt like it, that I might still be upset over the beating he’d given me only hours before, that I was asleep. He wanted sex so he took it. He seems to imagine he has that right, simply because we’re married. When I go to the bathroom to wash myself I find I’m bruised and sore. I feel unclean, dirty, used, as if he really doesn’t care who I am or what I want. As if the only reason I exist is to please him.

  Carly’s father was becoming concerned about his daughter. He didn’t think she was looking at all well, and the holiday, by all accounts, had not been a riotous success. He was beginning to wonder if he’d tackled that family discussion quite as well as he should. Was there something more he could have done, some aspect of their relationship that perhaps they were unaware of? He never had taken to Oliver quite as much as his wife, but Viv had laughed at that, saying what man could ever be good enough for a precious daughter, in a father’s estimation. Just as she was laughing at him now for suggesting they might be missing something.

  ‘All our Carly has missed out on is more discipline when she was young. You spoiled that girl something shocking.’

  ‘Rubbish! You don’t spoil a child by loving them. She’s not happy, Viv, I can see it in her eyes.’

  ‘If she isn’t, then it’s for her husband to put that right, not you. Though she must be partly to blame. He’s a lovely man is Oliver, and she’s neglected him something shocking, been too full of what she wants, instead of being a good wife to him and giving him the kind of attention he deserves. I always said her starting that business was a bad idea. It takes up far too much of her time, and that Emma is so demanding, and very left wing.’

  Ken let out a heavy sigh. ‘Please don’t bring politics into this. We’ve enough to worry about already. Emma is a nice girl. A shrewd businesswoman, friendly and outgoing. I rather like her.’

  ‘She wears dungarees and has pink streaks in her hair.’

  Ken laughed. ‘She’s young, so why not? Anyway, the pink sets off those auburn curls of hers nicely. She’s really rather sexy.’

  Viv looked at her husband and made a little scoffing sound in her throat. ‘Don’t you start getting ideas.’

  He grinned at her. ‘As if.’

  ‘Our Carly wants things too much her own way. A woman shouldn’t give up and run away just because her marriage hits a problem,’ Viv repeated, like a mantra. ‘We’ve not brought her up to be a coward.’ So saying, she marched off, head held high, not prepared to listen to any possibility that the gorgeous Oliver could possibly be to blame.

  At lunch time when Viv popped home to make the old folks’ dinner, she found the precious daughter in question standing on her doorstep with tears in her eyes, baby buggy, bags and baggage clustered about her feet. Viv took one look and said, ‘If you’re going to tell me you’ve left him, I don’t want to know.’

  ‘That’s exactly what I’ve done.’

  ‘Well, don’t think you can stay here. As your father and I have already made clear, we’ve no wish to interfere in your marriage. We’ve done what we can to help, now it’s up to you two to sort out the mess. I certainly don’t think it’s a good idea for you to leave Oliver on his own right now. What about that other woman, whoever she is? She might move in and take your place.’

  ‘She’s welcome to him,’ Carly replied, an unusual asperity in her tone.

  Viv was not amused, nor showed the slightest sympathy. She folded her arms across her chest and regarded her younger daughter with a steely eye. ‘So what happened to the fresh start?’

  ‘Can I at least come in? I’ve no wish to discuss my personal problems in full view of all the neighbours.’

  Seated in the kitchen with a mug of tea in her hand, Carly tentatively pointed out that there were further problems, besides the affair, which she was convinced was still going on. ‘What if I told you he forced himself on me?’

  ‘Oh, for goodness sake!’ Her mother put her hands to her ears and refused to listen. ‘I don’t want to know. What happens in a marriage is personal and private. There’s nothing I, nor your father, nor anyone else for that matter, can do to help. Whatever it is, another women, money, sex, the problem is yours, not ours. The pair of you have to sort it out for yourselves.’

  Carly said, ‘On the grounds I’ve made my bed so must lie in it? Thanks a bunch for your support.’

  Viv sighed. ‘In any case, Carly, I’m beginning to think that you’re very prone to exaggeration.’

  ‘You’ve made it very clear that you always believe him, and not me. But what if I’m right and your belief in him is wrong, what then? What if he does more than force sex upon me?’

  There was the smallest hesitation as Viv considered her daughter. What was she trying to say? What was she hinting at? For a fraction of a second Viv experienced the slightest shiver of a doubt, one she swiftly dismissed, her faith in her son-in-law unshaken. If her daughter wasn’t looking quite her normal self right now, she put that down entirely to her having to cope with a young baby. Every young mum had dark rings under their eyes from lack of sleep. ‘You always were stubborn, Carly, but refusing to forgive your husband when he’s humbly apologised for that stupid affair, is taking obstinacy too far, and refusing to have sex won’t help either. Give the man a chance.’

  Carly stared at her mother, her eyes becoming oddly blank, totally without expression. ‘What about Katie, doesn’t she deserve a little consideration?’

  Viv glanced down at her granddaughter, whom she adored, before issuing a further lecture on the responsibilities of motherhood.

  Carly gave a bitter little laugh. ‘That’s rich, coming from you.’

  Viv bridled. ‘I’ve always been a good mother to you.’

  Tears shimmered in her daughter’s eyes. ‘That’s true, actually, in a rough and ready sort of way you have been a good mother to me, despite your hectoring and criticising. So be one now.’

  In the end, Viv reluctantly agreed that Carly could stay for one night only. It was her husband who insisted on this when she rang to tell Ken she’d be a bit late getting back to the shop because Carly had come home and wanted to stay. She’d been forced into a corner, the pair of them ganging up on her, but she’d no intention of making things easy for the girl.

  ‘You can’t have your old room back. The elderlies have that now, and your father uses Jo-Jo’s old room as a home office. Not that you’d be wanting to stay long, I shouldn’t think, once you’ve made whatever point it is you’re trying to make to your lovely husband.’

  Carly sighed. ‘I’m not sure what I want. That’s the whole point. I need time to think, but the sofa will do for now.’

  ‘You might as well make yourself useful then. There are a couple of chicken breasts in the fridge I was going to cook for the old folks’ dinner. Then you could do the ironing for me, peel some potatoes ready for when we come home, and . . .’ The list went on, quite oblivious to Carly’s stifled sigh.

  When she returned that evening, Viv remained adamant in her decision. ‘One night only, remember. Then you’ll have to
make other arrangements, or sort out this latest problem, whatever it is, between you.’

  ‘She can stay as long as she likes,’ Ken corrected his wife.

  Carly cast her father a grateful smile and hastened to explain that she desperately wanted a little more time. ‘I just need some space to get my head together then I might be able to work out what I should do. The way I’m feeling right now I’m quite unable to make a decision of any sort. If Oliver calls I don’t want to see him. Don’t even tell him that I’m here.’

  Ken assured his daughter that they would do as she asked. ‘And so will your mother.’ He gave his wife a stern glance.

  Viv snorted her disdain and absolutely refused to discuss the matter further, particularly not in front of the old people. She marched over and switched on the television set, thereby effectively closing the discussion.

  Carly spent the evening huddled in a corner of the sofa, not saying a word and trying to ignore the curious glances from her grandparents, although as always both of them were very kind and loving towards her. She offered no explanation as to why she was there, quite unable to tell her sorry tale, and they didn’t ask.

  She slept that night, or rather didn’t sleep, on the sofa. Viv could hear the girl tossing and turning, sometimes prowling about the kitchen, perhaps getting a cup of tea in the early hours. Carly fell asleep from sheer exhaustion just before dawn. Moments later, or so it seemed, she was shaken rudely awake.

  ‘It’s Oliver,’ her mother said. ‘I’ve put him in the kitchen, but he’s anxious to see you.’

  ‘You’ve what? I told you I didn’t want to see him, that I needed some space, and time to think.’