by Marian Keyes
Looking from the outside in, I should have left a long time ago. But the first time he hit me it was a one-off, a unique aberration. He was in the horrors, crying, begging for forgiveness. The second time was also a one-off. As was the third. And the fourth. At some stage the series of isolated incidents stopped being a series of isolated incidents and just became normal life. But I didn't want to see that.
I was too ashamed. Not just by the humiliation of being smacked and punched by the man I loved but because I had made such a big mistake. I'm a smart woman, I should have known. And once I'd known I should have legged it.
It complicated things that I loved him. Or had loved him. And, shallow as this may sound, I'd invested a lot of time and trouble in him being The One; seeing how wrong I'd been was hard to suck up.
Especially because we sometimes had our good days. Even now. There were times when he was like the person I'd first met. But I wasn't. My stomach was always a walnut of nerves, wound tight with anxiety, wondering what would happen to tip his mood. A telemarketer calling when he was having his dinner? A button missing from his shirt? Fiona ringing me?
The more he hit me, the less sure of myself I became. At times he almost had me convinced it was what I deserved.
I used to lie awake at night, my head racing, wondering if there was any way out of the trap. Perhaps he 'd grow out of it and eventually stop? But even I could see he was getting worse, as he got away with more and more stuff. Go to the police? But they wouldn't help if I didn't press charges. And I couldn't do that. It would make my mistake, my shame, so horribly public and tawdry.
I could leave him, of course. Well, I'd tried that, hadn't I? And look where it had got me? Him going ballistic and flinging me down the stairs and fracturing my skull.
Down here, in the silence, everything seems calm and logical. Sometimes all you need is a little time out to see these things clearly. It 's a bit like being on retreat. (Not that I've ever been on one, but I like the sound of them. Just not enough to submit to a weekend without telly and double-ply loo roll.)
Imagine, if I die, he 'll have murdered me. He 'll have done what he 's threatened to do so many times. Although I never really believed him. In fact, I don't think he did either. He might have scared even himself with how badly he 's injured me this time. Bottom line is, if I die, he 'll be guilty of murder. But I'm the only witness. So if I die, he 's in the clear.
But if I don't die . . . ? Well, it 's obvious: I will leave him. Even press charges. Why not? You can't go round hitting people and flinging them down flights of stairs. It 's just not on.
But I might be too late, because down here something is changing . . . The darkness is filling up with white light. Not just ordinary white light, but super-intense, like it 's being backlit with cleverly concealed halogen bulbs, the type they have in boutique hotels. And the light was forming itself into a shape—a roundy tunnel, with a pulsating circle of intense white light at its end. Suffused with wellbeing and serenity I am compelled to walk towards it. It 's exactly like the stories in the National Enquirer from those near-death merchants!
I'm dying! Other than a small tinge of regret that I wouldn't get to fix Chris, I'm, actually, excited.
I keep on walking towards the white light, which throbbed hypnotically at me. And then . . . surely I was imagining it . . . was the light fading a little . . . were the walls of the tunnel becoming more insubstantial? Yes, they were. They definitely were. Going, going, fast. Now there were only wisps, like dry ice, then they were entirely gone, the whiteness replaced with familiar darkness.
"Hey, what 's going on?" my head called.
"It 's not your time," a voice boomed.
"But I'm all set. I liked the feeling. Bring it on."
"It 's not your time."
"Well make your bloody mind up!"
A pause. Had I gone too far. Then the boomy voice, sounding a little sheepish, murmured, "Sorry. Administrative error."
I waited a little while, to see if the white light would return. Nothing. Nada. Rien. For a countless time, I eddy about in the silent nothingness, and for the first time since I came down here, I'm a little . . . well . . . bored. I watch carefully, alert to any signs that the light might return, any little chinks at all in the darkness. But there 's nothing; it won't be back.
Well, I decide, if you're not going to let me die, I might as well live.
I take a deep breath and dive towards the surface. I'm coming up from under.
The Mammy Walsh Problem Page
Those of you who have read any books featuring the Walsh family will be familiar with Mammy Walsh. I hope others will enjoy this too.
Introducing Mammy Walsh, mother, wife, homemaker, troubleshooter. She won't dress it up, she won't tone it down. Mammy Walsh tells it like it is.
Hello everyone, my name is Mammy Walsh. Send me in your problems and I'll do my best to help. Now, just so as you know, I haven't had any official training. Instead I have learned at "the university of life." In other words I have five daughters who, at various times, have been a heartscald to me. My eldest, Claire, she was always a bit wild, but she got married and got pregnant and I thought she was all set up until that scut of a husband of hers ran off on her the day she had her first child. I mean, it all worked out in the end but at the time it was no fun, let me tell you.*
* You can read about it in Watermelon.
Then the middle daughter Rachel decides she has a drug problem and has to go to this rehab place that cost a bloody fortune.* Myself and Mr. Walsh could have gone on the Orient Express to Venice and stayed in that Chipper-iani place for a month for the same money. Then, and this was the biggest shock of all, Margaret, the only good daughter, does a runner on her—admittedly, dull as ditchwater— husband and hightails it to Los Angeles where her pal Emily lives.** Anna, the second youngest, was always a bit away in the head. To be perfectly honest I thought she had a bit of a lack. But it just goes to show because, after years of being useless, isn't she after getting a great job in New York, working for a cosmetic house. You've probably heard of them, they're a "hot" brand called Candy Grrrl and me and the rest of the girls get a rake of free stuff, often before they're even on sale in the shops. We 're all very proud of her, even though it 's still a bit hard to believe. And Helen the youngest, she was another one that was worse than bloody useless but now she 's after getting a great job too. She 's a private investigator, "a private eye," we sometimes call her, or "a PI." (Or a "pain in the backside," Mr. Walsh is telling me to put in, although that 's just his little joke.) Sometimes, when she 's very busy, she begs me to go "on stakeout" with her and if it 's not my bridge day, of course I do, because I don't like to let her down. Twice I've helped her break into people 's apartments and look for documents and yokes and I'm telling you something, you wouldn't the dirt of other people 's houses when they're not expecting visitors. Of all my daughters, Helen probably has the best job apart from the night that someone threw a brick through our sitting room window during EastEnders to "put the frighteners" on her.
* You can get the gory details in Rachel's Holiday.
** You can get the full story in Angels.
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, I am writing to you because I have no one
else to turn to. I think my wife is having an affair. We've only been
married seventeen months, but five times in the last month there
have been tire marks in our drive that aren't from my car. They
might be from a Saab. (I drive a Ford Mondeo.) Then I found a
small piece of foil wrapper under my pillow, it looks like it belongs
to a condom packet, but not a brand I use. Also my next
door neighbor has taken to looking at me very sympathetically,
like someone has died, and he has never been that pleasant before
now, he didn't invite me and my wife to his homebrew evening. I
really love my wife and this suspicion is doing my head in. I've
; asked her straight out if anything is going on, but she has denied
it. What should I do?
David, Dublin
A. Dear David from Dublin, you're in luck. I can indeed help you. My youngest daughter Helen is a private investigator and she specializes in just this kind of work. I believe her rates are quite high, but this is because she is amoral and has no fear of breaking the law. However, I can ask her as a favor to me if she 'll knock a couple of euro off. She gets great results; she sets up cameras in bedrooms and catches people up to all kinds of shenanigans. Also she hides in garden hedges and photographs people going in and out of houses. I wish she wouldn't do this, she 's forever catching throat infections and I'm the one who has to listen to her whining. She also happens to be very "good-looking," men are forever falling in love with her, there 's a chance that you might too and the situation with your wife would no longer matter. It 's only fair to tell you, however, that in such an eventuality, Helen will still charge you.
P.S. I spoke to Mr. Walsh and he tells me that Saabs are very good cars, much better than Ford Mondeos. Actually he said Saabs were "sexy," which I find highly annoying. Everything has to be "sexy" these days. Tell me, how is a car "sexy"? Bottoms are "sexy" (or can be). Eyes are "sexy." Not white couches or risotto or indeed cars . . . Sorry, I lost my train of thought there, where was I? Oh right, Mr. Walsh says—and I can only apologize if this sounds harsh but I'm just passing on what he said—he said if he was a woman he 'd sleep with the man with the Saab.
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, I wonder if you could advise me. I have a
boyfriend whom I love very much. We've been seeing each other for
over two years and recently we moved in together. Last night he
told me that his parents, who live in Nottingham, are coming to
spend the weekend with us. This is not really a problem, the problem
is that he says his mother will expect me to cook a large roast
on Sunday, and I am a vegetarian. I find meat disgusting, and the
thought of even touching it makes my skin crawl. However, my
boyfriend is quite insistent that I must do this, his mother won't
approve of me if I don't, he says. What should I do? Should I insist
that he cooks the roast lunch and pass it off as my efforts?
Angie, London
A. Are you off your skull? Do you want your flat burned to the ground? Men are hopeless in the kitchen, everyone knows that. No, you need to cop on to yourself and knock off that vegetarian nonsense. My middle daughter Rachel was a vegetarian for a while, but she was only looking for notice. Then she became a drug addict and tried to kill herself and was able to stop being a vegetarian because she got all the attention she needed. The thing is, Angie, is that meat is delicious, there is no point in a dinner without it and you need it to get iron and other essential nutrients. Otherwise, you'll get ear infections and dropsy, and who'll end up running up and down the stairs minding you? That 's right, your mammy. Start with some chicken, Marks & Spencer do some very tasty all-in-one dinners, and before you know it you'll be on the fillet steak! Good luck!
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, you seem like a devout, respectable
woman, with very high standards, yet you swear like a trooper. I
have often heard you use the expletive "fecking." I don't under
stand.
Byron, Auckland
A. Byron pet, you're not Irish, are you? Let me explain. "Fecking" is a lovely Irish word Our Lord gave us when we 're irate enough to want to say "fucking" but we're in polite company. It 's barely a swear word at all. "Fecking" is a beautiful, effective catchall phrase that you could say to a bishop. As a result I almost never employ "fucking." Rarely, very rarely. Like the time when Margaret arrived home to tell me she 'd left her droopy-drawers husband, and even then I waited until I was in my bedroom and only said it to Mr. Walsh. (I believe the exact phrase I used was, "For fuck's fucking sake, why can't just fucking one of my fucking daughters stay fucking well married for five fucking minutes?" And Mr. Walsh replied, "Fucked if I know." And then I said, "No fucking need for language like that." Then we had a little laugh because you have to under those sorts of circumstances.) I hope this clears the fecking matter up for you.
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh. My problem is that I'm addicted to
chocolate. I have to have something every afternoon around
three-thirty (usually a Hazelnut Caramel or a Biscuit Boost). I
mean, I HAVE to have it. Then, coming home from work, if
I'm a little later than usual and hungry, I sometimes buy some
thing for the walk from the bus stop to my flat. (Often a Time
Out or a Twirl.) But the biggest problem of all is with boxes of
chocolates. Once I open a box I can't stop. I literally can't. I keep
saying, this will be the last one but it never is and the next thing
you know the box is empty apart from the coffee cremes and those
yukky strawberry ones that—weirdly—are my sister's favorite
but I hate them. Sometimes we get given boxes of chocs at work
and they're handed around and everyone takes one and goes back
to work, but I keep thinking of the open box with all the uneaten
sweets and can't concentrate on anything. Last week, under such
circumstances, I sneaked the box into the stationery cupboard
and ate eleven—I counted—eleven chocolates in under five seconds.
That really worried me. I do have some abandonment is
sues from my childhood and I wonder if I should see an addiction
counselor.
Fran, Newcastle
A. I am sick to the back teeth of all this addiction stuff. If you're not addicted to shoes, you're addicted to drink and if you're not ad dicted to drink you're addicted to Pringles. In my day, Fran, you didn't have "issues" (unless it was of Woman's Way magazine) or twelve-step program or "codependence" (whatever that is when it 's at home). Nowadays you want to be addicted to everything and it 's only because it 's fashionable. Not so long ago it was fashionable for you girls to be lesbians and before that it was vegetarians. Chocolate is lovely, everyone knows that. Only a "weirdo" doesn't love it. We have a tin in our house, with a great selection in it, and I myself enjoy a fun-sized Twix with my cup of coffee every morning, and most days after lunch Mr. Walsh and myself share a Kit Kat. (Not the chunky kind, the old-fashioned four-finger ones. I actually bought them for Helen, she was in bed with a throat infection and asked me to get her Kit Kats when I went to Dunnes. However, being Helen, she didn't specify that it was actually Chunky Kit Kats she wanted and when I arrived home with the non-chunky variety, she nearly ate the head off of me. It was so bad that Mr. Walsh got back into the car and drove around till he found the chunky ones. Since then we have been working our way through the non-chunky ones and very nice they are too.)
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, I'm writing to you with quite an embar
rassing problem. It's my boyfriend. When he "wees," he sprays it
everywhere. The bathroom is spattered with drops and smells disgusting.
I've asked him to be more careful but he hasn't. What
should I do?
Fiona, Edinburgh
A. In the early days of our marriage, Mr. Walsh was guilty of the same carry-on. My advice to you is, rub his nose in it.
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, I have a daughter who says she's a lesbian
and she walks up and down our road holding hands with her "partner"
in broad daylight. I am mortified. What should I do?
Anon, Address withheld
A. Dear Marguerite (I recognized your writing), I won't soft talk you because I've seen them myself, with my own two eyes, and everyone in the cul-de-sac gawking out from behind the curtains at them. They don't care who sees them and they even stopped beside my hedge for a "snog." But the thing is that Angela is a lovely girl and she 's only lo
oking for notice. They all do it, daughters, and I have often wondered if a son would have been any easier. If daughters are not being lesbians, they're insisting they're vegetarians or drug addicts or hiding in wet hedges with a long-range lens, catching throat infections, then spending a week in bed bellyaching for Lemsip and Chunky Kit Kats. It's the cross we mothers have to bear. Offer it up, Marguerite. Think of Our Lord on the cross, with six-inch nails through his hands and feet, dying for our sins, and several people not even grateful.
P.S. Maybe your husband Mr. Kilfeather, for once in his lazy, gombeen life, could help out by having a little word with her. Small wonder she thinks she 's a "lezzer" with him as her only male "role model."
Q. Dear Mammy Walsh, can you help with a dilemma? I love to
read "chick-lit" books, they cheer me up, especially the happy
endings where the heroine always gets her man. However, I recently
read an article where a leading feminist criticized these
books as being "anti-feminist" and deleterious to the cause of fe
