‘I’m afraid I cannot agree with you there.’
He struggles for a moment, seeming to have trouble dealing with this, which I don’t wonder at. ‘Then I can only apologise on my son’s behalf.’
‘Isn’t that something he should do for himself?’ I suggest.
Jeffrey makes a gesture with his hands, conceding my point. ‘Grace finds this hard to accept because Oliver has been brought up in a morally upright home. We always insisted on him attending church every Sunday, and I made it clear to him when he was growing up that women are delicate creatures and should be treated accordingly. If they care for us and nurture us; love, honour and obey us, then we should treat them with all due appreciation. While a husband may deserve all due deference and duty from his wife, in return he should show her loyalty and love.’
There’s something slightly troubling about this statement, bland and well meaning as it might sound, and I try to work out what it is. I instinctively want to protest that I’m not in the least bit delicate, that normally I can stand up for myself very well. I’m a modern, intelligent woman but I don’t expect to be constantly belittled and humiliated, or beaten black and blue by my husband. Then I realise that Jeffrey’s view of a wife’s role is very like that of his son’s: believing her chief role in life is to nurture and care for her man. I never actually thought of myself as a feminist, leaving that particular battle to Emma, but neither do I see men and women’s roles in this clichéd, traditional way. I believe there should be equal caring, and respect, from both parties.
Fortunately I’m saved from going into all of this, and possibly becoming embroiled in an uncomfortable argument, by Grace returning with a tray of tea and biscuits. We all sit and politely drink it while she plays with Katie on the rug.
She still hasn’t addressed me directly, and I attempt to talk to her about Katie, giving details of her weight and progress at her latest check-up. Even then she responds by talking only to the child, saying, ‘Who’s a clever girl then? Aren’t you getting to be a big girl?’ and suchlike nonsense. I glance at Jeffrey who smiles sympathetically. He is clearly concerned and means well, but I wonder how much his old-fashioned views on marriage, and Grace’s obvious spoiling, have influenced their son and helped to turn him into the selfish, demanding creature he is.
We’re just finishing our second cup when the door bell rings. Grace is still engrossed with Katie, so it is Jeffrey who gets up to answer it, but he hesitates as he reaches the hall.
‘Oh dear, it’s Oliver, I’m afraid. What would you like to do, Carly? Perhaps it would be better if you left by the kitchen door. We don’t want a scene.’
I hastily agree and begin to gather our belongings together, Katie’s coat and feeding cup, my own jacket and bag, feeling flustered and nervous at the prospect of a confrontation with Oliver.
Jeffrey calls out to his son. ‘Hold on, lad, we won’t be a moment.’
It’s one of those doors with a narrow panel of stained glass down the centre, and I suddenly see Oliver’s face peering through it. I realise instantly that he will have seen the stroller in the hall. I’m filled with trepidation as I make a dash for it, dragging it backwards into the kitchen. My fears are confirmed as a roar of rage explodes through the letterbox.
‘Is that you, Carly? Open this door, Father. I wish to speak to my wife.’
‘Not right now, son. Hold on a minute.’
Grace is outraged. ‘I will not shut my son out of his own house.’
‘This isn’t his house any longer, Mother,’ Jeffrey reminds her, in the kind of stentorian tones which issue a chilling reminder of Oliver’s own.
I’m trying to stuff Katie into the buggy but she’s screaming and resisting every effort by stiffening her legs and arching her back. Grace is also hindering me by accusing me of being cruel to my child and deliberately keeping her from her father. I’m beginning to panic, tempers are growing short when suddenly Oliver loses his entirely and smashes the door in. He simply slams his fist straight through the glass.
I don’t linger to check if he’s hurt, or to see how Grace and Jeffrey deal with this disaster, I snatch up my bag, grab the buggy and run out of the kitchen door, down the back garden and out on to the street behind the house where thankfully I parked my car. I’m all fingers and thumbs, gasping and sobbing with fear as I struggle to fasten a distressed child into her car seat. I can hear voices raised in argument, roars of fury emanating from my husband, Jeffrey clearly in the throes of issuing a stern, moralising lecture, and hysterical sobs from his mother.
Nausea clogs my throat. If he can smash in a door and behave like this with his own parents, what will he do to me? Oliver bursts on to the street just as I finally manage to stuff the key into the ignition and fire the engine into life. I drive away leaving him shouting after me, much to the entertainment of the neighbours.
I’m so distressed by the time I get to Windermere, Emma urges me to see a solicitor. ‘You can’t allow him to hound you like this. Do you think Oliver followed you to his parent’s house?’
I’m appalled by the very idea. ‘Surely not?’
‘Then how did he know you were there?’
‘I’m not saying he did. I assumed it was simply chance that Oliver happened to call to see them while I was there. A coincidence.’
Emma raises her brows in disbelief. ‘When has Oliver ever relied upon chance or coincidence? Whatever the reason for his dreadful behaviour, you must get someone on your side. You need to see a solicitor.’
Recognising this as sound advice, I do so before the week is out. He’s a large, flabby man with a bald head, spectacles, and a crumpled dark blue suit. He half glances up as his secretary shows me into his office, before continuing with whatever he was scribbling on a file, completely ignoring me. I take a seat and wait, glancing about me at shelves lined with dusty legal tomes, black and white etchings of Helvellyn, and Ullswater. Finally, he puts down his pen and looks at me over the top of his spectacles. His eyes are pale grey, too small for his round face, and would probably have shown more interest had I been a grubby mark on the beige carpet.
‘Mrs Sheldon, I understand you are wishing to sue your husband for divorce.’ I half expect him to yawn, feeling very much as if I’m nothing more than an item on a conveyor belt.
‘I am, yes.’
‘On grounds of adultery, I assume. I’m sure you’ve no wish to wait two years for desertion, or embark upon a long-drawn out battle over who has behaved the most unreasonably by refusing to help with the washing up or eating fish and chips in bed.’ His face twists into a grimace and I realise he’s attempting to make a joke and raise a smile. It’s not particularly effective.
I clear my throat and take a breath, preparing myself for a lengthy explanation. I’ve carefully practised what I wish to say because I’m afraid of saying the wrong thing and making a fool of myself. But before I get a word out he reaches for a bunch of forms and starts firing questions at me in a bored tone of voice which clearly states he’s done this more times than he cares to count. Mainly he’s asking for basic details: names, ages, address, date of marriage, employment.
I tell him about Perfect Cottages.
‘Hmm, in that case I doubt you’ll be granted much in the way of legal aid.’ He informs me of the likely cost and I blanch, thinking I might be obliged to ask Dad for a loan.
Pushing financial considerations to the back of my mind for now, I confess that I’ve no idea who my husband’s latest mistress is. ‘I’m aware of the names of two other women with whom he has had affairs,’ I hasten to add. ‘But with this latest one I know only that she’s also married, has left her husband and she and Oliver are living together, in Heversham I believe. She’s older than him by ten years, or so I’ve been told.’
He snaps up his head, quite sharply, and clicks his tongue. ‘Ten years! I doubt it will last. Are you certain you wish to proceed? Perhaps marriage counselling. . .?’
I’m surprised by this remark and show it. ‘I’m absol
utely certain. There were other problems in my marriage.’
‘I’m sure, I’m sure.’ He sighs, looking mildly irritated, shuffles papers about on his desk, glances at his watch, as if to make clear that his time is precious, and certainly expensive, and he really has no wish to sit listening to the moans of an abandoned wife. He makes a great show of clearing his throat. ‘Supplying names won’t be necessary, and could only serve to put you in a bad light were you to offer such details, unless the divorce were to be contested. He isn’t planning on defending the case, is he?’
I swallow, not sure how to answer this. Oliver has given ample evidence in recent months that he has no wish to let me go or end our marriage, yet the news that he’s co-habiting with another woman so soon after our break-up, has shaken me somewhat. It’s left me feeling confused and unsure of him, but then there’s nothing Oliver enjoys more than confusing me. I stiffen my resolve with a quick indrawn breath. ‘I hope not.’
The solicitor shrugs. ‘There would be little point in any case, if one party is determined the marriage is over, it generally is.’
‘I most certainly am determined.’
He nods. Pulls out another form. ‘Is there a child of the marriage?’
I tell him about Katie, then try a question of my own. ‘What will happen about custody? Can he contest it?’
He gives me a hard stare. ‘Is there any reason why he would? Are you having an affair yourself?’
‘No, of course not, only Oliver has threatened to fight me on custody.’
‘He has every right to do so, of course. Young children are generally left in the care of their mothers although the judge may decide it can be shared equally between you. It’s increasingly common these days.’
My heart sinks and I feel slightly sick. Shared custody isn’t something that I’ve considered and it comes as something of a shock. I try again. ‘I’m worried because he isn’t in a particularly stable frame of mind at the moment. He was involved in a terrible row with his parents the other day, and his behaviour. . .’
He interrupts before I have time to finish. ‘These things happen. Divorce is a traumatic experience for all parties concerned.’
He isn’t looking at me, apparently too engrossed in pulling out yet more forms, pencilling in the odd detail here and there. I’m growing increasingly bemused by his lack of interest, and by the pile of paper stacking up on the desk before him. I’m still trying to find a way to lead in to a discussion about Oliver’s true nature, to describe how controlling he is, but the solicitor isn’t making it easy for me. I take a breath but once again he interrupts me.
‘How long did you say you were married?’
‘Just over two years, but problems emerged fairly early on. He was violent.’ There, I think, in quiet triumph. I’ve said it.
He puts down his pencil and I wait for him to ask for a full explanation, for me to describe some of these events. Instead, he asks, ‘Any broken bones, photos of bruises, visits to A & E?’
I shake my head. ‘He was very careful where he hit me.’
‘The adultery should be sufficient to prove irretrievable break down of the marriage. Why hang out all your dirty washing?’ and he hands me a bulky fistful of forms.
I’m apparently expected to furnish him with all necessary financial details: income and expenditure, rent or mortgage payments, community charge, water rates, premiums on endowment policies, insurance, bank accounts, pension. Copy of my most recent P60. Even the age of my car, its make and model and probable value. He reels off a list that sets my head spinning, then gets to his feet and I realise the interview is over.
‘My first task is to file a petition which gives notice of your intentions to the respondent, your husband. I’ll call you when I receive his acknowledgement of service. Hopefully it should all be perfectly straightforward. In the meantime, I would advise you to work out some sort of visitation rights. You’ll find it less expensive in legal costs if matters regarding children and finance, always stumbling blocks, can be worked out amicably between the pair of you from the start.’
I feel a beat of fear. Do I trust Oliver with Katie? Although the solicitor has made it plain that I’m legally obliged to allow him access, the prospect terrifies me.
Moments later I’m out on the pavement, feeling bemused and bewildered. I know in my heart that Oliver will do his utmost to make this divorce anything but straightforward. I’m alarmed that the solicitor didn’t seem interested in hearing details of Oliver’s treatment of me, of how he beat and humiliated me. Was he doubting my word simply because my leg wasn’t in plaster or I hadn’t taken gory photos of my injuries? His one concern was to achieve a fast and cheap divorce. But then isn’t that I want too? So why should that bother me? Do I want my personal and private affairs plastered all over the local press, as might well happen if I insist on revealing what went on behind closed doors? My dirty washing hung out on the line, as he aptly described. Of course I don’t. A fast and simple divorce sounds good.
The following Sunday, Oliver calls at my parents’ house to collect Katie. Dad and I are alone, Mum and Gran having been packed off to the neighbour’s house next door, well out of the way. I’m shaking with nerves, sick to my stomach at the prospect of seeing him again, let alone handing Katie over. What if he hurts her again? Or if he refuses to hand her back? I keep thinking how vulnerable she is, and what little interest he’s shown in her until now.
He’s taking her out for the afternoon, for a gentle stroll and a picnic by the lake, something he’s never done in his life before. His solicitor rang to arrange it yesterday, a woman with a crisp, no-nonsense sort of voice. Dad took the call and, after relaying the details to me and gaining my agreement, made the necessary arrangements. I’m so glad he’s here with me now.
When I hear the knock on the door I feel suddenly faint and light-headed, close to collapse. Dad opens the door and addresses my husband in brisk tones.
‘Good morning, Oliver. We have Katie all ready for you. Carly has packed her bag with nappies, food, everything she might need. Please have her back by four o’clock sharp, in good time for her to have her tea and bath before bed.’
I wonder if he’ll accuse me of creating an incident at Grace and Jeffrey’s house, but he doesn’t even mention it. ‘Of course,’ Oliver says, smiling. ‘I wouldn’t dream of interfering with her normal bedtime routine. Hello, sweetie,’ he says to Katie, who turns and buries her head in my neck.
Dad lifts her from my arms and my heart clenches. I feel as if she’s being torn from me, but I make no protest as he straps her into the buggy. I crouch down to kiss her. ‘Have a lovely afternoon with Daddy. I’ll be here waiting for you when you get back?’
There’s a small puckering frown on her smooth brow as she looks first at me, and then at Oliver, as if none of this seems quite right to her but she can’t work out exactly what is wrong.
‘Wave bye-bye to Mummy,’ Oliver says, then picks up the bag, hooks it on to the buggy, and with a curt nod in my direction, wheels Katie away.
How I stopped myself from running after him and snatching her back, I really can’t say. Dad’s gentle hand on my arm perhaps.
Katie flaps her small hand, her small face beaming at me.
The BMW is parked some distance from the house, presumably in a pathetic attempt to avoid being seen by the neighbours. Dad and I stand at the door watching as Oliver straps Katie into the car seat, stows the buggy in the boot, and with a cheery wave, drives off. Only then does Dad close the door with a heavy sigh, and I collapse on to the sofa, arms wrapped about myself, and begin to rock back and forth in great distress.
The afternoon seems the longest in my entire life. I’m comforted by both Mum and Dad, and Gran is a tower of strength with her calm, wise way of looking at the world.
‘Don’t let it worry you, he’s only making a point,’ she tells me.
‘I’m sure he isn’t doing any such thing,’ Mum argues. ‘Whatever Oliver and Carly may feel abo
ut each other, they both love Katie.’
Gran thinks differently. ‘I’m not so sure. When have you ever seen that young man take any interest, Viv? I’ve never seen him so much as walk his child down the road, or take her to the playground. Did he ever offer to do so, Carly?’ I shake my head. ‘Or to feed her, or change her, or put her to bed?’
‘No, never.’
‘There you are then,’ Gran says with satisfaction. ‘He’s making a point, and once he’s made it, he’ll soon grow bored and leave Katie alone.’
I’m not so sure. I think that Oliver may well do all he can to win Katie, like a prize, just to prove that he can.
It’s the following week and I’m back at the agency, working nine till two, making an effort to move forward and be normal. Katie is back with Jo-Jo and I’ve given my sister strict instructions not to let her out of her sight, and never to allow Oliver to take her without ringing me first to check if it’s okay.
When Katie returned from her Sunday afternoon outing, she was strangely quiet and subdued, clinging to me like a limpet for the rest of the evening. I learn later, from our garrulous neighbour, who seem to have spies in all the right places, that there was also a woman in the car, his fancy piece, as she describes her to Gran. I worry what Katie made of that, of seeing her daddy with another woman, and how the pair of them behaved in front of her. I wonder whether this woman, this stranger, held my child, fed her and changed her nappies. Somehow I find the idea revolting.
‘Please instruct your good friend not to pass on any more details about my husband,’ I tell Gran. ‘I really don’t want to know.’
She looks at me with sad, faded eyes. ‘Ignorance is not the best policy right now, Carly. You need to know as much as possible about what he’s up to.’
I guess she’s right, but why is it so unbearably difficult?
It’s on Friday afternoon that Tim Hathaway clatters up our stairs in his great big boots, and strides, grinning, into my office. My heart does a little flip at sight of him, and I’m quite certain that my cheeks redden for no reason whatsoever.
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