Our Lizzie

by Anna Jacobs

  “What did the old bag say to you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Don’t lie to me, lass. What did she say?”

  Lizzie raised troubled eyes to his face, felt a shiver of fear run through her and burst out, “She said it’d hurt tonight.”

  “The old sow!”

  “Sam—will it?”

  He cast a quick glance towards the cab driver. “Shh!” Hell, he didn’t know how to answer her. He’d never had a virgin before, had he? “It might. Only a bit. Just at first.”

  Lizzie gulped back her fears as best she could and sat quietly, waiting for the horse to clop its way up the gentle incline to Maidham Street. All the glow had gone out of the day, somehow.

  When they got out, rain was threatening again and the sky was full of black clouds. Her suitcase was waiting for them outside the front door. Sam paid the cabbie and then came back to open the door with his new key.

  She waited for him to pick her up and carry her over the threshold, but another flurry of rain caught them just then and instead he grabbed her suitcase and pushed her inside, shouting, “Quick!”

  She stopped in the hallway and said reproachfully, “Oh, Sam!”

  “What? What’s the matter?” He hung his new bowler hat carefully on the hallstand.

  “You were supposed to carry me over the threshold.”

  “Oh, hell. I forgot.” Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s too late now. I don’t fancy going out again in that lot.” The front door was rattling with the violence of the squall. He dumped the suitcase at the foot of the stairs and walked on into the kitchen.

  Lizzie followed, still feeling like a stranger here.

  He kicked at the grate, scowling at the embers. “Bloody thing’s gone out.” In truth, he’d forgotten to bank up the coals before he left.

  She tried to speak cheerfully. “I’ll just go upstairs and change, then I’ll see to it. I’m good with fires.” She didn’t comment on the mess the table was in, but turned to pick up her suitcase. Sam followed her up the stairs, but he didn’t offer to take the case from her as Percy would have done.

  “I need to change, too,” he said. “This bloody collar’s nearly choking me.”

  When she got inside the bedroom, she couldn’t help noticing the mess there as well. Hadn’t he put a single thing away since he’d moved in? She’d straightened things up one day, after they’d gone shopping for food together to stock up the pantry. Now, clothes were strewn everywhere again and the bed was a tangle of sheets and blankets. She looked at him a bit shyly. “Do you want to change first?”

  “Nay, we can both do it at the same time.”

  Lizzie had to gulp in air. She hadn’t thought—he’d see her every day—it was only to be expected—but still she felt shy of getting undressed with him watching. “Yes.” Her voice came out small and afraid.

  “Want some help takin’ your things off?” He smiled, his expression that of a cat watching a bird in the back yard and waiting for the right moment to pounce.

  Lizzie wished he wouldn’t stare at her like that. “N-no. I’m fine. I’ll just—” She picked up her suitcase and put it on the bed. “I’ll just unpack and p-put on some ordinary clothes, then I’ll set to and sort this place out.”

  He was still standing looking at her, hadn’t moved an inch.

  She glanced sideways. “Is—is something wrong, Sam?”

  “Oh, no. Nothing’s wrong at all. Only I don’t see any point in you lighting the fire downstairs tonight. It’s cold and dark, an’ we’ve had a good feed. We may as well go to bed now.”

  “But it’s only seven o’clock!”

  He began to walk towards her. “Well, it is our wedding night, isn’t it? And we can go to bed what time we like in our own house.”

  She felt paralysed with fear and didn’t enjoy the smell of beer mingled with the sweeter odour of rum that gusted from his mouth as he loomed over her. “Can’t we—take things a bit—a bit slowly tonight? I’m nervous, Sam, and I—” Her words were lost as he pulled her towards him and covered her mouth with his, grinding his lips into hers, so that she couldn’t breathe properly.

  She felt terror rise up in her, and when he pulled away briefly, she whispered, “Sam! My new clothes.”

  He drew back a little. “Get ’em off quick, then, because if you don’t, I’ll tear them off.” His voice was thick and husky and his eyes held such a strange light they frightened her.

  She began to fumble for the buttons.

  He started removing his own clothes, casting sideways glances at her, predatory glances that sent chills of fear curling through her belly.

  One by one, Lizzie set her new clothes carefully on the bedside chair. Then, standing there in her camisole and fancy drawers, her face burning with embarrassment, she asked, “Could we put the light off now, Sam?”

  He threw back his head and laughed. “Hell, no! I want to see you, every blessed inch of you. You’re my wife now, Lizzie Thoxby, an’ I mean to make the most of that.”

  When she didn’t move, he slid down his woollen drawers, kicked them aside and came across to get her.

  She couldn’t take her eyes off him, never having seen a man in that state before. He was so big—terrifyingly big. Eva had told her that the man put his thing inside you, but Lizzie couldn’t believe Sam’s would fit into her. It would surely rip her apart. With a whimper, she turned to flee, but he was there beside her, one hand holding her fast by the upper arm.

  He laughed and then, excited by her fear, ripped the camisole from her and carried her across to the bed. There he pulled down her drawers and slung them aside, after which he started running his rough hands over her body, gloating at its softness. Her breasts were small but firm. He pinched one nipple and ignored her gasp of pain as he pinched the other, then sucked at it experimentally. Nice. When he moved his hands below her waist, she tried to fend him off, but he slapped her away.

  She lay there in sheer terror as he continued his exploration, sticking his fingers between her legs, doing things that shocked her rigid. But as he loomed over her, she knew she couldn’t fight him, could only lie there and let him do what he wanted. Because a woman had to go through this to be properly married.

  But when he pushed his thing at her, it hurt, and so badly that she couldn’t help screaming, then screaming again, the shrill sound ripping out of her throat involuntarily.

  One big hand came up to cover her mouth and hold it shut as he continued to grunt and push at her. She could only whimper and jerk against the pain from then on.

  “Ah!” He let out a shout of triumph. “Ah, ah!” Then he began to thrust inside her.

  A painful eternity later, he stiffened above her, gave a long, dull roar, and collapsed on to her. Lizzie could hardly breathe, even though his hand had now fallen from her mouth.

  When at last he rolled off her, she still didn’t dare move.

  He fumbled for the bedcovers and pulled them over himself. “I allus wanted to take a virgin,” he muttered. “Sorry it hurt, love. They say it’s better for the woman the second time.” He turned over, let out a long, satisfied sigh and fell asleep.

  Lizzie lay there with tears trickling down her cheeks, and not until he began to snore did she slide out of the bed and stumble towards the bathroom. Her mam had been right. It had hurt—a lot. But what had hurt most of all had been Sam’s total lack of concern for her feelings. Not once had he kissed or cuddled her or made her feel loved. He had only snatched and grabbed and pinched at her body.

  And inexperienced as she was, she knew that holding his hand over her mouth to keep her quiet was not the right thing to do. Couldn’t he have been gentler? She’d seen Mrs. D cuddling her husband and they’d seemed to enjoy touching each other. Lizzie hadn’t enjoyed Sam touching her, not at all.

  Sitting on the toilet seat, her head in her hands, all the fears she had been suppressing came rushing back and she whispered, “What am I going to do?”

  But there was nothing s
he could do. She was married to him and could only make the best of it. Except perhaps try to persuade him be more gentle with her.

  In the morning he proved how impossible that was, grabbing her as soon as he woke up and starting to touch her again, prodding her with his thing until he got it inside. And although it didn’t hurt as much, it was still not a pleasant experience. But Lizzie managed not to cry out this time. Or to weep. Though she wanted to.

  It was a relief when he finished, slapped her bare bottom and sent her downstairs to get his breakfast.

  Chapter Eighteen

  1914

  For the rest of her life, Lizzie was to wonder at how unaware they all were, in the year that followed her marriage, of the war that was looming. Oh, they knew there were troubles in the world, but they didn’t realise that these particular troubles would hit England so hard and would take so many of their menfolk away. No war before had ever made such a big difference to the lives of ordinary people, even those on what they soon learned to call the “home front.”

  And anyway, she was too engrossed in her own troubles at that point to care about anything else. As the year unfolded, she tried hard to make the best of her marriage. At least in her daily living she didn’t want for anything—food or clothes or nice furniture for the house. In fact, she sometimes wondered how Sam had managed to accumulate all this money, for he always had plenty in his pocket, and encouraged her to furnish the house in great style. Her weekly housekeeping money was reasonable and she could manage on it and even put aside a shilling or two—for she still felt insecure enough to need that. Sam knew about the savings she had brought with her, for he had gone through all her things quite openly. He had pounced on the savings book, then thrown it back to her with a laugh.

  “If that’s all you’ve managed to save, you’ve not done very well, lass. Keep your pound or two. I’m not in need of that sort of money.”

  But she didn’t tell him about her new savings.

  No, it wasn’t material things but tenderness Lizzie lacked—especially in bed. And he didn’t seem to be aware of that, let alone to care. It was as if she were a doll for him to play with, she decided after a few weeks; a possession, not a person. She began to dread the nights and his appropriation of her body, absolutely dread them.

  Sam approved of sewing and housewifely duties, but made it plain from the start that he wasn’t having her doing things outside the house on her own.

  “Which cinema are we going to tonight?” she asked the first weekend, for Overdale now boasted two picture houses.

  “We’re not.”

  “Sam?”

  “I’ve no need to court you now. I’ve got you, haven’t I? An’ it’d look silly, a married fellow taking his wife to the cinema. The lads would laugh at me.”

  “But—”

  He scowled, feeling guilty about the disappointment on her face. “Shut up about it, will you? I won’t put up with nagging. And you’re not goin’ on your own, neither.”

  She bent her head to hide the tears.

  He went out on his own. Lizzie sat at home and wept.

  He didn’t approve of the way she borrowed books from the library, either.

  “But, Sam, I need something to do when I’m at home in the evenings.”

  “Other women don’t borrow books.”

  “Other women have children, or families coming round, or friends, and you don’t want me to have any callers.”

  “No, I bloody don’t.”

  “So I thought I’d get a book out to read.”

  “Mmm. I’ll think about it.”

  Two days later, he said grudgingly, “All right. You can go to the library. But if I catch you reading when there’s housework to be done, it’ll stop.”

  She forced herself to say, “Thank you, Sam.” It had come as a shock how much he insisted on controlling her life. Though not as much of a shock as his approach to their love-making. And she could have accepted his wish to be master, if he’d done it with love, but he didn’t. She was beginning to think he didn’t love her at all. Didn’t even know the meaning of the word.

  “Still, you keep the place nice, I’ll give you that.” He glanced around proprietorially.

  “It’s a lovely house.”

  “Aye. I’ve done well by us.”

  “Very well, Sam. No one else has a house like this. Why, Mary Holden’s had to go back to live with her family because her husband’s out of work.” Lizzie hated having to say things like this, but if she didn’t praise him occasionally, Sam got into a bad mood, for he seemed to think he was an ideal husband.

  She made paper covers for the library books, saying it was to protect them, but actually it was to hide the books’ own covers which would reveal to him how much reading she really did. It was her only way of filling in the tedious hours or escaping the misery she felt welling up in her sometimes.

  Lizzie tried to understand her new life as she cleaned the house and kept it immaculate, which she did more for something to do than because she loved it—because she didn’t, absolutely couldn’t, love a place where she was so lonely and unhappy. She missed working at the shop quite desperately and often wondered how everyone there was going on. She hated, too, having to pass Emma Harper in the street with a mere nod of the head, when she was longing to talk to someone. But Sam had strictly forbidden her to have anything to do with the Harpers and she soon learned to obey him in things like that.

  Percy came round to visit occasionally, but when she asked him why he didn’t pop in more often, he looked at Sam and mumbled something about “not wanting to disturb you.” Then she realised that Sam must have told him not to come round too much.

  The high spot of her life was Polly’s Sunday off, which Sam allowed her sister to spend with them. Polly was always self-effacing and polite to him. He said once that she was a wishy-washy sort of a lass but he couldn’t see any harm in her. He would stay around the house for the morning, which put something of a dampener on their conversation, but usually vanished in the afternoons, often coming home smelling of beer, for his friend Josh kept a good stock of bottles in the house for times when the pub was closed.

  Polly seemed to realise without being told how things were in the bright modern house. She didn’t ask awkward questions, just talked about the Pilby family, her work, the housekeeper’s foibles, the other maids, the clothes she was making for herself—and she started giving Lizzie sewing lessons, so that she could at least keep her own and her husband’s clothes in order, though they both agreed with a laugh that she’d never sew well.

  * * *

  One night in March Sam stared at his wife over the tea table and said accusingly, “You’re taking your time falling for a baby.”

  “It’s not for lack of trying,” answered Lizzie with a flash of her old spirit.

  “No.” He smiled complacently. “No, I’m always ready for my rations. There must be summat wrong with you, the way you are in bed.” For he could tell she didn’t enjoy it, and that was a great disappointment to him. Other women had always praised his prowess.

  Lizzie was glad she hadn’t started a baby yet, because it was all she could do to cope with her own problems and she didn’t feel ready to take responsibility for anyone else. Although she’d made a dreadful mistake marrying him, she still hoped they’d settle down after a while and things would get more comfortable. Surely they would?

  * * *

  It was late March before she first realised that Sam’s other business activities were not always on the right side of the law, and that shocked Lizzie rigid. He came pounding in the back way one evening, shouting at her to come upstairs at once.

  “What?”

  “If anyone comes to the door, you’re to tell ’em we’ve been in bed for an hour an’ have been together all evening!” he ordered. “Come on! You’ll need to get your clothes off, or they’ll never believe you.” He broke up the fire, poured on some water to put it out and tugged her towards the stairs.

&nbs
p; She pulled back, gaping at him. “But Sam—”

  That was the first time he hit her, a quick backhander to the face. “Don’t stand staring at me, you fool. Get up those stairs to bed! And don’t put the bedroom light on up there, neither.” He shoved her out of the room so hard she fell sprawling into the hall. And by the time she got up, the kitchen light was out and he was standing over her in the darkness, muttering, “Will you hurry up, blast you!”

  For once he didn’t make love, just lay there, listening, and when she tried to ask him what was wrong, hissed, “Shurrup! Bloody well shurrup!”

  Half an hour later, there was a knock on the front door. He stiffened and grabbed Lizzie’s arm. “Wait!” he breathed. When the knock came a second time he pushed her out of bed. “Go down and answer that. You can put the light on now.”

  She pulled on her warm new dressing gown. “W-what’ll I say?”

  His voice was a mere thread of sound. “Act stupid, like you’ve just been woke up. An’ remember, we’ve been here together all evening.”

  Lizzie opened the front door to find a policeman waiting there and her heart began to thump.

  “Mrs. Thoxby?”

  She could only nod.

  “Is your husband at home?”

  “Yes. He’s in bed.”

  “How long has he been home?”

  “All evening.” She hoped the policeman couldn’t see her face turning red. She hoped he believed her, too, because if he didn’t, Sam would be furious.

  “Ask him to come down, will you, Mrs. Thoxby?” The constable’s face in the light streaming from the hall was grim.

  She called up the stairs, “Sam! There’s a policeman wants to see you.”

  There was a grunt, then a few thuds before he made his way down to join them. He greeted the policeman with, “It’s a bit bloody late to come calling.”

  “No need to swear, Mr. Thoxby.”

  Sam shrugged. “Never at my best when I’ve just been woke up. What can I do for you?”

  “Where were you an hour ago?”