Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘That was different, we needed the money, she doesn’t. Oliver is rolling in it.’

  Ed idly poured more washing up liquid into the hot water, then as the bubbles swelled and piled up, realised he’d rather overdone it and tried to pop them. ‘But your sister isn’t rolling in it. She’s even had to sell her car, which is a bit mean of him, don’t you think?’

  ‘Why would she need a car?’ Jo-Jo sulked, who drove a beat-up old Ford Fiesta, still going strong after twelve years.

  ‘Living out in the sticks as they do, I should think it’s essential. Don’t be prejudiced, love. She’s entitled to earn some money of her own, and to enjoy a bit of independence. Don’t you think that beneath all that charm and affable blokishness, Oliver is something of a control freak?’

  His wife considered this as she screwed the teat on the bottle. ‘I always thought the guy was a bit too full of himself, never did understand what Carly saw in him. To her he’s Mr Wonderful, Mr-can-do-no-wrong.’

  Ed took a moment before answering. ‘I’m not so sure. I think she’s been looking a bit below par recently.’

  ‘She looks a total mess,’ Jo-Jo agreed, with the kind of brutality only a sister can display. ‘Let herself go completely since she had the baby.’

  ‘Then maybe it’ll be a good thing for her to get out and about a bit more. Maybe she needs some stimulation, some of her old independence back.’

  Jo-Jo scowled. ‘She can only do that, so long as I’m willing to have her child.’

  ‘But at least your minding Katie earns you a bit of pocket money for yourself, eh?’

  Jo-Jo was outraged. ‘That’s what you think it is, do you, pocket money? I spent all of it, every last penny if you want to know, in the supermarket. I didn’t exactly use it for a girls’ night out.’

  Ed gave a wry smile, then pulled his wife into her arms, unperturbed by her fury. ‘Maybe next time we should spend the money on a grown-ups night out, just you and me.’

  ‘In your dreams.’ She slapped him away, tried to wriggle free. ‘Stop that, your hands are all wet and soapy.’

  He stuck a soapy bubble on the tip of her nose, then kissed her mouth so that they were both covered in the stuff. Jo-Jo squealed, gathered up a handful and rubbed the bubbles all over his face, like a clown might with a custard pie. Ed of course retaliated and by this time they were giggling, which excited the children who all gathered round, wanting to join in the game. Stacey grabbed a handful of suds out of the sink and slapped it on to Samantha’s head. Samantha screamed and slapped some back on her, which turned into a battle royal. Then Ed piled a coil of soap on each of his daughters’ heads, and Ryan, too small to reach the sink, started chasing bubbles and soap suds all around the kitchen, shouting with laughter. The dog caught their excitement and joined in the fun, barking and careering around like a mad thing.

  The silly game finally stopped only when the entire family was soaked through and they all collapsed on the sofa in a soapy heap.

  ‘We must be mad,’ Jo-Jo gasped.

  ‘Or happy,’ Ed agreed, cuddling his family close. ‘One of the two.’

  They both grinned at each other then cheerily set about the mammoth task of calming down four children sufficiently to get them dried and into bed. Later, as they sat with a cup of tea watching TV, Ed said, ‘I’ve made an appointment to see the quack.’

  Jo-Jo jerked as if struck, turned to look at her husband with horror-filled eyes. ‘You aren’t sick, are you?’

  ‘Nope, but I thought that before we have this night out, or better still a weekend away, assuming your mother will have the kids, of course, I should get a small matter attended to first. Four children is fine, five could be considered overdoing it a stretch.’

  His wife was regarding him in all seriousness, a small frown puckering her brow. ‘What are you saying, Ed? Are you suggesting that you . . .’

  ‘Have the snip? It was your suggestion, and it seems sensible, then perhaps you’d feel more relaxed and normal service could be resumed.’

  Jo-Jo began to cry. ‘Oh, Ed, I do love you.’

  ‘Will that convince you that it’s you I love, and nobody else?’

  ‘Nobody else would have you,’ Jo-Jo sobbed.

  ‘I should hope not.’

  Coping with the pressures of the agency and a small baby isn’t easy. I don’t expect help from my husband, and I don’t get any. Oliver is of that breed of male who believes that the roles of men and women are entirely different, which nicely excuses him from such boring chores as doing the dishes or wielding a vacuum cleaner. Instead he amuses himself by issuing a stream of caustic remarks, instructing me on how best to do these tasks.

  His mood is sour. He’s seriously annoyed that I’ve defied him by going back to the agency. Sometimes he’ll sulk in silence for days, which he knows unnerves me badly and makes me feel very jumpy. At other times he’ll lose patience and grumble, either accusing me of being obsessive over the baby or, perversely, of neglecting her and being too engrossed in my job. He naturally objects to the fact that I’m not giving him the attention he deserves, that I’m neglecting my wifely duties.

  ‘Being married means that you should spend time together,’ he sanctimoniously informs me, as if he’s devoted every moment of our marriage to nurturing our relationship.

  It’s like the early days all over again, with him commenting and criticising on any sign of a lessening in the high standards he expects in his home. He’s back to running his finger along the window sills, tut-tutting if he sees Katie’s plastic stacking bricks left lying on the rug, and is as unforgiving as ever if dinner is not ready on time.

  But I’m an expert now at deception. Pans and food can instantly appear almost out of nowhere, and if I hear the car turn into the drive and I haven’t tidied up, I have a remedy for that too. I throw everything into the nearest drawer, or under a cushion in the time it takes for him to lock the car and walk to the front door. When he enters I’m standing waiting for him, a smile of welcome on my face as I kick a plastic brick out of sight under the dresser. Perfect house, perfect wife, exactly as he likes it.

  There’s also a packed bag tucked away at the back of the linen cupboard. Just in case.

  I’m aware that none of these strategies is a long-term solution, but they help to get me through each day while I attempt to rebuild my confidence. If I make a mistake, or get something wrong, he takes his retribution with a smile on his face, reminding me how he said all along that I wouldn’t be able to cope. Any sign of failure on my part seems almost to give him pleasure.

  Oliver’s opinion of my career is low. In his view I sit about talking on a telephone taking bookings for a few hours, which must be easy, not like his own sweat and toil. He does everything he can to put me down. ‘It can’t last, this fad of yours to go back to work. You can’t cope with one job properly, with bringing up a child, let alone two. Trying to be in two places at once will prove too much for you and you’ll start making mistakes, which will alienate clients and damage the business.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ I agree, determined not to enter into an argument, or let his caustic comments get to me.

  ‘I suppose this is all to do with that chap I saw you talking to?’

  ‘What chap?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know his name, would I? The one you claimed to be a client.’

  ‘You mean Tim Hathaway? Mr Hathaway is a client. He lives in Manchester and comes to the Lakes regularly to walk.’

  ‘Mr Hathaway. I bet you don’t call him that when you’re cosying up with him in the pub.’

  ‘Stop this, Oliver. I don’t cosy up with him anywhere.’

  He leans close, almost spitting in my face. ‘You’re a slag, you know that? A whore. A lousy cook and a bad mother.’

  Again I remain silent, but in my head I tell myself very firmly that I am none of these things. I am absolutely determined to hang on to the fragile threads of my new-found confidence. I refuse to allow him to destroy
me while I make these first tentative steps to freedom.

  I open a building society account which I keep secret from Oliver. When - and I say when to myself now, not if - I finally summon up the courage to leave him for good, then Katie and I will need all the money I can lay my hands on. I hide the Building Society book in my undies drawer, sending up a silent prayer that Oliver never thinks to rummage in there.

  In the meantime, work is my salvation. Knowing that Katie is to be well looked after is vitally important to me, but being back in the office means there’s now a part of each day when I can start to find myself again. I can try to discover the happy girl I once was, the girl I seem to have lost.

  Chapter Twenty

  Despite my insisting that it isn’t necessary, there are days when Oliver comes to pick me up. How he manages to take the time off work I don’t dare to ask, but it’s happening more and more and it irritates me enormously. I’m quite happy catching the bus home, and although it’s a long walk from the bus stop and then the couple of miles home from my sister’s house, I quite enjoy it, as does Katie. Sometimes we stop off at the play area and I’ll push her on the swing for a little while. She loves that.

  But I’ll see the BMW roll up just across the road from the office, or Emma will warn me that he’s arrived, and my heart will sink. The moment I see him park the car I know that I must instantly stop whatever I’m doing, quickly grab my things and leave. Oliver does not care to be kept waiting.

  On this particular day as I dash down the stairs and out on to the pavement I bump right into Tim Hathaway.

  ‘Hey, we really must stop meeting like this,’ he jokes, grasping my arms to steady me as I almost lose my balance.

  Some instinct causes me to look up into his eyes and there’s that same shock, almost of recognition, and a warm glow kindles inside me at the sight of his smiling face.

  But I’m acutely aware of Oliver watching me from across the road, so my response is perhaps rather cooler towards him that it would normally be. ‘Sorry,’ I say, rather primly. ‘I’m in rather a hurry.’ He’s frowning at me, clearly puzzled by my abruptness. I feel awful, realising he must think me very rude. Then he shrugs and smiles in that good-natured way of his, showing perfect white teeth, and that he hasn’t taken offence.

  ‘I was hoping to ask you to join me for a coffee, or maybe a swift half at the John Peel?’

  ‘I’m married!’ I blurt out this remark without thinking, and instantly realise it’s a foolish, presumptuous thing to say. Why didn’t I simply point out that my husband was across the road, waiting in his car?

  ‘Um, it wasn’t an offer of holy matrimony I was making actually, just a chat over coffee or a beer, to talk about cottages, walking, and stuff. Course, I wouldn’t be averse to discussing other things, although I freely confess marriage isn’t on my mind right at this minute. That’s not to say it mightn’t have been, or something very like it, were circumstances different.’

  I’m thoroughly embarrassed now, at a loss to know how to extricate myself from this muddle of my own making. And then it becomes a whole lot worse as Oliver suddenly appears at my side. I’m instantly drenched in fear, terrified he might have overheard our conversation.

  Taking a firm hold of my elbow he glares at Tim. ‘I’d be obliged if you’d keep away from my wife.’

  Tim’s jaw drops open. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You heard.’

  Then Oliver marches me across the road and bundles me into the car. As we drive away, I’m all too aware of Tim standing watching me from the pavement. I’m shaking with suppressed rage, not sure how best to react.

  Oliver instantly launches into attack. ‘That was him, wasn’t it? Go on, admit it. That was your friend, wasn’t it? Had you planned to have lunch together?’

  I grit my teeth, desperately trying to remain calm. ‘I’ve already told you that Mr Hathaway is simply a client. I’m not getting into this argument, Oliver, as I’ve told you many times. And there’s really no need for you to take time off work to pick me up. I’m quite happy catching the bus.’

  He grabs my wrist and twists it. ‘It would suit you wouldn’t it, if I never came near? Well, I don’t want my wife acting like a slag with every Tom, Dick and Harry.’

  ‘Oliver, please stop this nonsense and concentrate on your driving.’

  ‘It’s your fault if I get angry. You drive me mad. I can see now why you were so keen to get back to work. It’s not your independence you’re missing, it’s lover boy.’

  He continues to harangue me all the way home, but I stop listening. I shut my mind to his filthy language and tell myself that I’m not any of these things he is calling me. I concentrate on the work I’ve done that day, each small achievement I’ve made. I’ve learned to be circumspect, and very careful. Agreeing with him, and smiling at my own supposed folly, is undoubtedly the best policy. Oliver still makes the rules.

  Tim calls again the next day and makes a point of apologising for whatever offence he might have caused, asking if there’s a problem.

  ‘No, of course not. There’s really no need for you to apologise. Why would there be? I’m the one who should be apologising. Oliver can get a bit – a bit possessive at times. I’m sorry.’ I smile dismissively, making it clear that I’ve no wish to discuss my husband’s paranoia. Far too embarrassing.

  ‘I can see why he thinks he’s a lucky guy.’

  There’s a small silence, one which I don’t attempt to fill as my cheeks are burning. I fuss over papers on my desk, trying to look busy.

  Tim says, ‘I thought you seemed a tad brusque even before he came over. I wondered if I’d offended you in some way, or stepped on your toes again with my big clumsy boots.’

  I laugh. ‘Don’t be silly.’

  ‘Good. Can I buy you that drink now then? A swift half down at the John Peel. Or a coffee perhaps?’

  I look up at him and freely confess, to myself at least, that I’m sorely tempted. ‘I don’t think my husband would approve of that either.’

  He looks at me quite calmly. ‘No, I don’t suppose he would, but the offer is still open.’

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ I say, and quickly walk away.

  Just before two o’clock, a little later than I usually leave as I was held up on the phone by a client, I’m rushing down the hill to catch the bus. I’m battling with an umbrella that’s turned inside out in the wind and the rain as the bus comes sailing past me. It doesn’t stop, it’s wheels splashing through puddles and drenching me in water.

  ‘Damn, damn, damn!’ Now I’ll have to wait for the next, which will make me late picking up Katie, earn me a telling off from Jo-Jo and cut it very fine for getting all my chores done before Oliver arrives home. I again regret the loss of having transport of my own, when I suddenly become aware of a car drawing up behind me. For once I’d be happy to face my glowering husband, except that it isn’t a BMW but a battered old Jeep that has seen better days, and Tim Hathaway is at the wheel.

  ‘Looks like you could do with a lift,’ he offers, throwing open the door. ‘Considering the weather.’

  I jump in. ‘Bless you! I’m supposed to be collecting my daughter, and waiting for the next bus would make me terribly late.’

  ‘No problem.’

  We negotiate the traffic in silence for a while, apart from my giving a few basic directions. Then Tim starts to chat, telling me about himself in a friendly, open manner. He’s thirty-two and a geography teacher at a school in Manchester, and he’s single, although he was involved in a long-term relationship for a time. Now his only companion is a tabby cat called Spiky (because of his fierce claws) and his hobby is walking. His aim is to climb as many of the Lake District peaks as he possibly can before he gets too old and decrepit.

  I laugh. ‘That will be a long time in coming. I should think you could climb them all at least twice before then.’

  ‘I’m doing a fairly short walk next weekend. Castle Crag. Maybe you and your husband would like to join m
e?’

  ‘My husband isn’t into hiking.’

  ‘That’s a shame! What a pity to live in the Lakes and not be interested in exploring this marvellous scenery.’

  ‘He’s a very busy man.’

  A slight pause, and then, ‘And a lucky one too.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, in all innocence.

  ‘Because he has you.‘

  I’m ashamed to find my cheeks grow warm and I turn to stare out through the rain-splattered windows, saying nothing as I sink into my customary shyness. I’m relieved when we reach the end of Jo-Jo’s road and I tell Tim he can drop me here. The last thing I need is my nosy sister catching sight of this gorgeous young man.

  Tim stops the car, pulls on the brake and turns to me with a wry smile. ‘Now you’ll have to return the favour by agreeing to have that drink with me after all.’

  ‘That’s bribery.’

  ‘Not at all. Quite a clever ruse, I thought. Surely one small glass of beer won’t hurt, although I realise I shouldn’t ask, since your husband seems to be the jealous type.’

  I say nothing to this but politely thank him for the lift and get out of the car.

  ‘It’s half term so I’m here all week. I’m doing Striding Edge tomorrow, so maybe Thursday? I’ll pop in the agency office around lunch time. Okay?’

  ‘I’ll see,’ I say, struggling to close the door of the vehicle which doesn’t seem to fit properly. By the time he drives off with a cheery wave, I find that my heart is pounding and I’m feeling decidedly flustered.

  ‘Your sister informs me that you got a lift home as you missed the bus. That was rather careless of you.’ Oliver has been in the house barely five minutes and already he’s finding fault and interrogating me.

  I privately resolve to be as pleasant as possible, give a small shrug as I reply with a smile. ‘The bus times are infrequent and irregular, and unfortunately I got held up on the telephone with a client and missed the one I usually catch.’ My subterfuge did nothing to put my sister off the scent either, since it was clear I hadn’t come by bus. I’d arrived at her house at quite the wrong time.