Oliver is equally unconvinced. ‘What client was this?’
‘Just a client. I can’t remember her name. When did you see Jo-Jo?’
‘I called on my way home through the village, in case you were still there, gossiping. Who gave you the lift?’
Jo-Jo had asked that too. I give Oliver the same answer I gave my sister. ‘A client.’ It sounds a feeble excuse even to my own ears, so I concentrate on shaking the washed lettuce in a colander. My heart is thumping and I know that Oliver must have called on Jo-Jo deliberately, just to check up on me. He always needs to know what time I leave, which bus I catch, what time I arrive home.
‘Anyone I know?’
‘What? Of course not. How would you know any of our clients?’ He’s still waiting for further details, so I supply them. ‘A rather nice elderly couple actually, from . . . from Liverpool, I believe. They were going this way, saw me battling with my umbrella in the rain, and offered me a lift. It was very kind of them, don’t you think?’ I’m amazed how easily the lies slip from my tongue. They make me feel rather breathless, and I turn away to hide my burning cheeks. I toss the salad, and go to check on the salmon poaching gently in the oven.
‘You should have given me a ring. I would have come and collected you.’
‘No need. I was fine. I wouldn’t need a lift if I still had my own car. Ah, good, the salmon is perfect. I think we’re ready to eat now.’
The very next day I talk to Dad about the problem I’m having with transport and he solves the car issue for me by shaming my penny-pinching husband into buying me a cheap, second hand Fiat. Ed checks it over for me and pronounces it healthy and safe.
I’m thrilled and delighted. I can just about afford to run a car now that I’m earning again, and Oliver will have no reason now to come and pick me up. It feels like a minor miracle, a triumph. One up for me at last.
My small burst of optimism doesn’t last long. One morning Mum rings to say that my grandfather has had a stroke and is seriously ill. She’s nursing the old man at home because he’s too ill to be moved. Mum seems to have spent half her life caring for people, first her father who was crippled with multiple sclerosis, then her own mother when she became old and sick, and now my father’s parents. No wonder it all gets a bit much for her at times. She had a difficult childhood and money was tight, so if at times she seems tough and inflexible, it’s because she’s had to be. Yet at five foot nothing she has more energy than an entire rugby team. She makes me feel totally inadequate. I just wish she could learn to be a bit less hard on herself, and on me. But she’s my mum and I love her to bits.
As if that’s not bad enough, Gran goes down with the ‘flu. There seems to be an epidemic in progress this spring and people are falling sick in droves. Jo-Jo is sick too, and her children are going down with it one by one. Oliver’s mother also has the ‘flu so I have to take Katie into the office with me and look after her myself. I think Emma would have preferred me to stay at home, particularly when I hear her curse as she trips over the baby buggy in the tiny, overcrowded office, or Katie starts to cry. But I’m determined to keep going and maintain the progress I’ve already made. And then I go down with it too.
I can’t remember ever being so ill. I feel dreadful. Oliver remains robustly healthy and refuses to take any time off work to help, leaving me to suffer alone even though I have a small baby to look after. He still doesn’t consider he should take any responsibility for Katie. I spend a miserable week in bed, trying to keep warm, hoping Katie doesn’t become ill with it too. So far she seems quite lively, with nothing more serious than a runny nose.
I’m just beginning to feel marginally human again when Emma rings to say that she has the ‘flu now, as has Wanda, and could I possibly get in to work tomorrow as there’s no one to man the phones.
I drag myself out of bed the following morning, still feeling decidedly ropy although the worst of the aches and pains have gone. I fasten Katie into her car seat and drive to the office. Thank goodness I at least have a car now.
Fortunately we have no changeovers today, but I’m kept busy replying to emails and answering telephone queries. By the end of the day, I’m exhausted. Instead of going straight home I pop up to Mum’s to see how Grandad is, and find that she too is in bed with the dreaded influenza. His condition remains unchanged. The poor old man is drifting in and out of sleep, with Gran sitting by his bed feeding him occasional sips of water or trying to persuade him to take a little beef soup. The old lady is seventy-eight and not in the best of health herself, so every now and then poor Mum has to crawl out of her sick-bed and go to help her to turn him, or let him use the bottle, then crawl back to bed again.
Dad has to carry on as best he can opening the shop each day, with precious little in the way of assistance because of the ‘flu epidemic. He works long days so I promise to do what I can to make things easier for them all.
The next ten days or so are an absolute nightmare. Coping alone at the agency isn’t easy. The phone never stops ringing, as if everybody has suddenly decided to plan their holidays in order to make themselves feel better. I’ve also a couple of changeovers later in the week for which I could really do with Wanda’s help. Every night when I arrive home after another exhausting day I cook a large casserole, big enough for the entire family, for Gran and Dad and Mum, as well as for Oliver and myself. I take the food up to Mum’s and do whatever I can to help while I’m there: making cups of tea, doing some of the washing that has piled up, generally tidying and seeing to Gran and Grandad.
Oliver complains bitterly, objecting to my ‘neglect’. I can’t believe how selfish he is. Why didn’t I notice that before I married him? I certainly won’t be accused of neglecting my family.
‘My grandfather is ill,’ I tell him. ‘He’s dying! Why don’t you help instead of criticising?’
He looks at me in astonishment, as if I’m mad to suggest such a thing, then slams out of the house saying he’ll go and eat at the pub.
‘Yes, you do that,’ I shout after him, and throw the meal I prepared for him into the pedal bin. It’s a small triumph but short lived. He returns in an even more foul mood and, despite being as stone cold sober as ever, insists upon sex, which I’m not in the mood for at all. Not that this troubles Oliver. He never bothers with romancing me now. Making love is all about pleasing himself, not me.
This time I don’t let him bully me. I carry on going over to Mum’s, doing what I can. Jo-Jo does her share, once her own family are on the road to recovery. She seems bursting with energy, filled with unexpected exuberance, and finally confesses that Ed has undergone a vasectomy.
‘So there’ll be no more little accidents, no more bambinos. Four is enough, even for Ed.’ She leans close and whispers in my ear. ‘And it’s also reawakened my libido, knowing I’m safe from falling pregnant again. Joy of joys, now we can bang away without a care in the world.’
‘I’m glad for you,’ I say, truly meaning it, but for the first time in my life, I feel a burst of envy for my sister.
My lovely grandad still needs to be watched like a hawk, even though the stroke has hampered him. Sometimes the old man forgets where he is, struggles out of bed and goes wandering off. We have to keep the front door locked at all times, just in case. Mum’s rest is constantly disturbed as she has to coax him back into bed, then calm Gran’s fears.
The two women spend a good deal of time drinking tea together, and worrying. The doctor calls regularly but there’s nothing he can do. Just a matter of time, he says. Keep the old man comfortable, give him a little water to drink. Then one morning Grandad suddenly sits up in bed and starts asking for toast and his favourite marmalade. It must have been his final burst of energy because a few short hours later, he dies.
The funeral is hard for us all. My grandfather was a sweet and gentle little man, barely five feet two inches tall with white wavy hair, glossy black when he was young, a real dandy in his hey-day. I remember, as a child, how he filled my head
with exciting stories of Robin Hood and King Arthur. I recall family holidays where he would take me to visit ancient castles and historic mansions, Roman forts, and Scottish glens where the clans clashed in battle, filling my young head with a passion for history and for books in general. I love him dearly and grieve for his loss.
I’m also grieving for my marriage, which seems to be going nowhere. A week or so later it dawns on me that I haven’t had a period for some time. I came off the pill for a while when I was weighed down with sickness and depression, and only started taking it again once I’d recovered from the ‘flu. Now I realise that I must be pregnant.
My heart skips a beat and I’m filled with trepidation. I love children and normally would have welcomed a brother or sister for Katie, even if I have no wish to match my sister’s quartet. But another child is the last thing I need right now. I know it would spell disaster for my marriage. I’m proved to be absolutely correct. I don’t expect Oliver to be pleased by my news, but even I am shocked by his blunt reaction.
‘Get rid of it!’
I vigorously protest. Abortion is not an option so far as I am concerned. The pregnancy may be unexpected, even unwanted in the circumstances, but surely not a total disaster? I try to explain all of this to him, but he’s too busy reminding me how incompetent I am.
‘I haven’t done a test yet,’ I admit, my voice going all shaky. But wouldn’t a new baby be lovely? It might be just the thing to cheer us up.’ I don’t quite believe this myself but I’m doing my best to be positive.
Oliver is adamant. ‘You’re not having another child, and there’s an end to the matter. I won’t allow it. See the doctor and fix up an abortion.’
Chapter Twenty-One
By the end of the week I still haven’t made an appointment to see the doctor, nor have I done the pregnancy test. Inside my head something is telling me that whatever the result, it isn’t going to help. I’m beginning to question if my marriage is even worth saving. Before I can actually do the test and face the truth, whatever it might be, I feel a desperate need to be alone, to think, and to work out exactly what I feel about this latest development. I leave Katie with Jo-Jo, now fully recovered, and drive out to the nearby dale of Kentmere.
I must have walked for miles. I gaze at the wild amphitheatre of mountains that circle the head of the valley, which look as bleak on the cold spring day as I feel. Yet I need to be out in this empty landscape, breathing in the freedom of the open fells. There are precious few farmhouses in this scattered hamlet and I welcome the loneliness of the place. I’m desperate for some privacy right now. The lofty mountains seem to represent escape to another world, far beyond Windermere which lies a few miles to the north-west, to a world I’ve hardly had the chance to explore yet. I’m still only in my twenties, but feel like an old woman. I pass Kentmere Hall with its ruined pele tower and wonder how many women throughout history have faced the prospect of an unwanted child. How many have lived with a brutal, controlling husband, and walked, crying, over these fells, as I am doing? How many of my friends and neighbours, I wonder, are also keeping quiet about what goes on behind closed doors? What dark secrets do other people keep from their neighbours?
What is it in a man that makes him turn violent, that causes him to beat and humiliate the woman he once claimed to love? I wish I could ask my sympathetic neighbour from across the road. But despite her having witnessed two of my disasters, the sofa incident and the fire, she painstakingly avoids intimacy, doing little more than passing the time of day with me. She will send me the odd reassuring smile from across the street, as if to remind me of our shared secrets, and of her continued discretion. Very occasionally she will stop to drool over Katie, but if she sees me out with Oliver, she doesn’t even glance my way.
I wipe away my tears and watch the sheep crop the lush grass in the rolling pastures. I come to a small copse and I’m captivated by the display of fresh green leaves and wild lilac. The sweet fragrance is calming, a balm to my troubled soul. I lie beneath the trees, breathing it in as I go over the details of my marriage in my head, thinking everything through with a rare clarity.
I wonder why I never saw through his charm from the start. Perhaps because he didn’t allow me to. He clearly uses it as a mask to disguise the flawed man beneath, and to manipulate me, his victim, in order to keep me under control. Oliver seems to believe that he’s entitled to order his own private universe according to his personal needs, and he wishes me to see him as the centre of it.
A skylark soars high in the sky, singing joyously, reminding me of the carefree days of my youth, of the dreams I once had. All I’d wanted was to love him, to have a family and carry on working in my little business. Was that too much to ask?
I stare at this innocent piece of plastic in my hand, which apparently holds the answer to my future. If I am pregnant, and agree to an abortion, what then? Do we carry on as if nothing had happened? Can I continue to love a man who treats me with such contempt? A man who beats and controls me, and wants to kill his own child? I don’t think so.
And if I’m not pregnant, will that make everything all right again? It would be a relief in the circumstances, yes, but would it make me happy? Would it solve the problems in my marriage? I very much doubt it. Wouldn’t I be living in constant fear of this happening again? Wouldn’t I feel compelled to give up all hope of another child, a brother or sister for Katie?
I feel a lump of raw emotion in my throat. Pain and regret for what might have been. Isn’t it time to stop fooling myself and start making some tough decisions?
I take the test and it comes up negative. As I sink back on the soft turf with a sigh of relief, my eyes fill with tears, and my heart twists with fresh pain as if a knife has been plunged into it. What do I do now?
When my crying finally abates, a strange calmness comes over me and I begin to walk again, my vision and my thoughts becoming clear and unwavering. It’s as if I’m reaching down inside myself to the young girl I once was, to the core of me that remains Carly Holt, a person who is no one’s wife, or mother, or daughter, but simply herself. I feel that I’ve at last found the part that is the real me. I may have lost that youthful innocence which was once full of joy and hope, the girl who had boundless faith in the future and in herself. In her place is this beaten, broken shell. I’m now the kind of person I loathe: someone who lives in fear and jumps at her own shadow. Yet surely the core of her is still present, still burning somewhere deep inside?
I begin to talk to myself, which could mean either that I’m going mad or I’m getting it together at last. Whatever, it seems like a good way to drum up my courage. I’m speaking quite firmly, ordering myself not to be a wimp.
‘You have to stand up for yourself and not allow him to bully you any more. Okay, brave words easier said than done, but you’ve done well these last few weeks,’ I say, mentally patting myself on the back. ‘Getting back to work was a real milestone. There might not be as much money as I would have liked in my secret account, but I’ve surely gained in other ways.
‘I’m stronger, feel slightly detached from Oliver for some reason, less needy and dependent upon him.’ I think this must be a good thing. Evidence, surely, that I’m making progress.
Oliver will be relieved, naturally, when I tell him it was all a false alarm, that there is to be no pregnancy. He will no doubt use the false alarm to berate me even more about my alleged incompetence. But what then?
Mum and Dad have suffered enough recently and the last thing I want is to inflict the break-up of my marriage upon them at this juncture. Yet I have to consider my own future, and Katie’s. I have to be brave and explain to Oliver that I’m leaving him, and this time I mean it.
I move my things out of our bedroom. I do it quickly, before he comes home. It feels like a huge step and I’m nervous of his reaction, but I have no intention of continuing to sleep with him while I make the necessary alternative arrangements for my departure.
As expected, Oliver ta
kes the news of the mistaken pregnancy as further proof of my own stupidity, and coldly instructs me to take more care in future.
I’m in the nursery changing Katie’s nappy, and Oliver is leaning against the doorjamb, a look of pure disdain on his face. He makes no move to pick her up and kiss her. I do so, giving my daughter a loving cuddle.
‘The reason I’m having irregular periods is because I’ve lost so much weight, and feel so unwell. Had you even noticed?’ I ask.
He gives a heavy sigh of exasperation. ‘You should stop going on those fad diets and eat properly, Carly. It’s all your own fault if you’re too skinny.’
Is he deliberately missing the point? Does he prefer to turn a blind eye to the fact that he is the one who is making me ill? I could take issue with him on the subject, tell him that my weight loss, my constant headaches and sickness are a result of being forced to live with his brutality. But it would only degenerate into another row. Instead I take a deep breath, desperately striving to ignore the slow, heavy thud of my heart as I summon up every ounce of courage I possess. My hands continue with the task of cleaning and changing Katie while I tell him, in quiet, measured tones, that I’ve moved into the spare room. ‘It’s only temporary. I would like us to be civilised about this, but I truly believe that our marriage is over. By the end of the week I fully intend to have found alternative accommodation for Katie and myself, and we’ll be moving out. Permanently.’
The silence following this carefully rehearsed statement is long and frightening, and, apart from a slight narrowing of the eyes, his face is totally devoid of expression. He seems to be waiting for something, perhaps for me to offer some sort of explanation, as if such a thing were necessary.
I lift Katie in my arms, trying not to meet his gaze as I cuddle her, feel the warm weight of her against my breast. She is so very precious.
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