Our Lizzie

by Anna Jacobs

  * * *

  When Lizzie came to, she was lying on the couch in Mrs. Bailey’s parlour and Sam was sitting beside her, patting her hand. She closed her eyes again, trying to gather her determination together, then opened them and stared at him.

  “I’m not coming back to you, Sam, even if you kill me for it.”

  “You bloody are, if I have to drag you every inch of the way.”

  “That’s exactly what you’ll have to do, and then tie me up. If you leave me alone for even one minute, I’ll start walking away.” She had always promised herself that if he found her, she’d show no sign of fear and she wouldn’t give in to him, not in the smallest degree. She held her breath, waiting for him to thump her, but he didn’t, just sat there, looking solemn.

  When he didn’t speak, she didn’t either, waiting to see what he would do.

  “You’re my wife,” he said at last. “You belong with me. And I want you with me.”

  “Well, I don’t feel like your wife any more, not since you started thumping me—and I’m not coming back to live like that. I’d rather die.” And perhaps she would do just that tonight.

  “You’ve got another fellow,” he accused, his face turning a dusky red with anger.

  “No. I’ve never forgotten that I’m a married woman.”

  “If you’re a married woman, you belong with your husband.”

  “Not any more.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’ve told you. Because you thump me—because you don’t love me—because you don’t even know what love is.”

  He frowned and stared down at her ringless hand, which he was holding tightly in his. Then, suddenly, he told her about Ronnie and his promise.

  Lizzie listened quietly, then shook her head. “I don’t believe you. You may think you mean it, you may even stop hitting me for a while, but you’ll start again.”

  “You don’t understand—he was my best mate. He was dying!”

  “You’ll not be able to keep that promise.”

  “I told you…” He broke off, realising that he’d got hold of the front of her dress and was holding her up in the air like a rag doll. He let her drop back on to the sofa. “I told you—that sort of thing is all finished now.”

  “Even if it was, I’d not come back to you, Sam. We should never have married. We don’t suit. I make you unhappy as well as you making me unhappy.”

  Anger exploded in him, throbbing through his whole body, and he had to fight it back, fight the urge to smash his fist into her small, white face for saying something as horrendous as that. But he didn’t, no, he didn’t thump her as she deserved. He kept his promise to his mate. When he had control of himself, he repeated, “You’re my wife. You have to come back. And I’ve a right to force you.”

  She was lying with one arm covering her eyes, clearly expecting a blow. He stopped speaking to stare at her in bafflement, then at the softness of her arm, the gleam of her black hair, the slight curves of her breasts. Desire began to rise in him for the first time in years. He reached out one hand to touch the nearest breast and Lizzie tried to knock it away. He laughed softly then. He wouldn’t thump her. He’d keep his promise to Ronnie about that. But he had a right to her body.

  Sam took hold of her as if she were a child and began to take off her clothes, smiling and muttering encouragements to himself. He’d forgotten how small she always felt in his arms, how beautiful the white skin of her body was.

  She was sobbing and fighting and pleading with him not to touch her, but he ignored that. He had a right. A husband’s right. And he wasn’t hitting her.

  To his sorrow and annoyance, Lizzie continued to fight him every inch of the way, sobbing and pleading for him to stop. He pulled her to the floor and finished removing her clothes, then held her with one hand while he undid the buttons on his trousers and shrugged out of his braces.

  Then he lay down beside her and took her quickly and savagely, exploding into her like one of those bloody shells that crashed into the trenches sometimes. He roared out his pleasure, but as he began to come to himself again, looked down at her angrily, for she was sobbing as if her heart was broken.

  “You’re my wife, Lizzie,” he repeated quietly. “You always will be. And I’ll never let you go.”

  Then he pulled her into his arms, waiting for the tears to stop. A little later, as desire rose, he took her again, more slowly. And again, she wept.

  * * *

  On Christmas morning, Sam woke up and smiled to see Lizzie sleeping by his side, tied to his wrist. He lay there quietly and studied her face. She’d grown up. She looked like a woman now, not a girl. He liked that. And she had a scar on one arm. How had she got it? Then he felt that stirring again and was nearly inside her by the time she woke.

  “No!” she screamed. “No, no, no!” For she’d been dreaming that his return was just another of her nightmares. Only he was too big and sweaty to be a figment of her imagination.

  Struggle as she might, she was no match for him and he took her at his leisure. Then he made her get dressed and when she at first refused, said simply, “We’re going home. If you don’t put your clothes on, I’ll drag you naked through the streets, Lizzie. I mean that.”

  She bit back a sob and began to pick up her clothes.

  He watched her, enjoying the sight of her dainty underclothing, staring out of the window from time to time, for it had started to snow. “Now get all your things packed. There’ll be trains to Overdale this afternoon.”

  “I can’t go there. I’ve got a job here, in munitions.”

  “You can just forget that. You’ve a job looking after your husband now. I’ve been invalided out with this bleedin’ foot.”

  “Can I just leave them a note?” Maybe Peggy would think of some way to help her, for her friend would understand that she’d never go back to Sam willingly.

  “You can send them a letter from Overdale.” Suddenly he was anxious to get home again, anxious for Lizzie’s touch in the house. She’d make it shine like it used to. She’d cook him meals and wash his clothes. And he’d prove to her that he’d given up thumping her. It’d take a bit of time, but he’d make it all happen because that was how he’d planned it.

  She packed a suitcase, managing to leave Peter’s letters in their hiding place at the back of a drawer, and slipping her savings in among her things, hidden in the book she’d hollowed out specially to hide them. Sam was watching everything she did, but he didn’t seem to notice anything different about the book, though she’d had to glue the edges of the pages together to make the hiding place.

  With him carrying the suitcase and her arm firmly circled by his meaty fingers, she walked along the street beside him, hoping to see one of her friends but meeting no one she knew. Lizzie began to feel desperate. This was like a nightmare and she was still sore from Sam’s forcing himself upon her. But, she told herself fiercely, she wasn’t going to give in to her fear this time. She’d meant exactly what she said. Unless he spent every single moment by her side, he’d not be able to keep her with him. If she had to walk barefoot across the moors to Yorkshire to get away from him, she’d do it. Never, ever again, would she just stay passively with him, jumping to obey him.

  And anyway, she’d managed to bring her savings with her. The thought of the money was her only consolation at the moment. It might at least give her a start on running away to Australia. She’d not dare to come back to Murforth now.

  OVERDALE. She stared at the sign through the train window and Sam had to pull her to her feet. She’d thought about this place so often and now she was back—but not to stay. She was glad to get off the train, which had been crowded with people wishing each other “Merry Christmas.” When they’d said it to her, she’d just stared at them, unable to form a word in reply. It was the most ghastly Christmas of her life. Hell could be no worse than this.

  “My wife’s been ill,” Sam had said to the other passengers.

  After that, people left her alone,
giving her sideways glances as if they thought she was crazy.

  He kept hold of her arm all the way home, forcing her to walk with him through the whirling snow, for it was coming down more heavily now. They passed a couple of people she knew, but when they called out greetings and would have stopped to ask how she was, Sam just nodded and hurried her past them.

  By the time they got to Maidham Street, she was panting and he was limping badly. The little row of houses looked like a Christmas scene from a magazine, with roofs and window sills covered in white. People had decorations in their windows, bits of greenery, red paper flowers—every house had something. Except hers. Keeping up morale, that was called, or “giving our boys a taste of home happiness.”

  Sam had to thrust her through the front door, and even then Lizzie didn’t move till he shoved her roughly along the hall into the kitchen. It was bitterly cold and everything was in a mess. “I got some food in,” he said. “I’m bloody famished.”

  She sat down on a chair and folded her arms. “Well, I’m not cooking for you.” She stared into his face. “I mean it, Sam. I won’t be a wife to you in any way. I won’t housekeep for you, or wash for you, and you’ll have to force me every time you want to do it. I’m never going to live with you willingly again.”

  “You’ll live with me, willingly or not.”

  She just sat there.

  He raised his hand to thump her, then let it drop and muttered, “Sorry, Ronnie.”

  Lizzie was hungry and cold, but she’d sit here and freeze before she lifted a finger, she decided. So she just watched as he lit a fire, grunting awkwardly as he knelt and jarred his bad foot. Good. He deserved to be hurt. He’d hurt her already.

  He stood up. “Lizzie, please—”

  She just stared at him, not even bothering to shake her head.

  He turned round and thumped one fist into the door, cracking a wooden panel. But still he didn’t touch her and she found that unnerving. When he looked at her, anger was burning in his eyes, but something else gradually replaced it.

  “Well, lass, if you won’t do the housework, we’ll have to keep ourselves warm in other ways, to take our minds off our hunger.”

  When he reached for her, she let herself go limp and tried to slide to the floor. He had to carry her up the stairs. And take her clothes off. The thrusting and hurting seemed to go on for a very long time before he managed to get his release this time.

  “Why won’t you be a wife to me?” he yelled after he’d rolled off.

  “Because I hate you!”

  He smashed one hand into the pillow, then sat up again. “I need a bloody drink.”

  When he went downstairs, she got dressed again, as warmly as she could, then tiptoed after him, wondering if she could rush out. But he appeared in the doorway of the front room, with a bottle of rum in his hand, and grabbed hold of her. The bottle was nearly empty.

  He dragged her into the kitchen, which was a lot warmer now, and plonked her down forcibly on one of the chairs, then drained the bottle and stared at it in disgust. “A man needs a drink on Christmas Day,” he muttered.

  She wondered if he’d go out to find one. Unless things had changed greatly, he’d only have to knock on the back door of the Carter’s Rest to buy another. The landlord there was always ready to make a bit extra. Maybe that’d give her a chance to get away. She pulled her chair up to the table, laid her head on her hands and closed her eyes, exhausted now. “I’m not getting it for you.”

  He put his overcoat on again, keeping the hall door open, never for a minute letting her out of his sight.

  She lay still. Maybe if she feigned sleep …

  Suddenly he was beside her, a length of rope in his hand. “You didn’t think I’d leave you free to run away did you, Lizzie girl?” He chuckled as he tied her up. “I’m not that stupid.”

  “You’ll not keep me here with you for ever.”

  He grinned. “No, just till your belly’s swelling. Then you’ll find it a bit harder to run.” He thrust his face against hers. “And if you’re thinking of that money you’ve got saved up, I found that this morning when you were in the bathroom and I went through your things.” He fumbled in his pocket and waved the notes at her. “I left you the change, but this’ll come in useful.”

  She felt physically sick as she watched him pile coal on the fire, then walk out. The rope was firmly tied, too firmly for her to escape. She looked around desperately, hoping to find something sharp to rub it on, but she couldn’t even move the chair, because he’d tied that to the table leg. She was as firmly trussed as any chicken going to market. And as bound for disaster.

  Despair swept through her. She had never felt so bleak and unhappy, not even when she’d lived here with him last time, because now she had tasted freedom—and friendship—and the satisfaction of a job well done.

  * * *

  Christmas Day was just like any other at the Front. The first year of the war they’d called a truce for the day and some had even fraternised with the enemy, but now there was no question of that. You never knew when the fighting was going to start again, when a sniper’s shot would zip past you or tear into your flesh. Only the Americans seemed to have the spare energy to celebrate in any style—and the money.

  James Cardwell lay on his stretcher bed in the officers’ quarters, unable to sleep, wondering how Emma was. He’d written to his wife; sent little embroidered Christmas cards to both his children, pretty things made by the Frenchwomen who lived around here. Yet all the time he’d been doing that, he’d been thinking of Emma, longing to see her again. So he’d bought her a little embroidered card, too, but had only dared write an innocuous message on it.

  When he left Overdale, he’d asked her not to write to him, because if anything happened to him, his wife might find the letters, and though he didn’t care about Edith, he did care about his children, who were old enough to understand what was going on. He only wrote to Emma when he was sure he’d be able to finish the letter quickly and get it into the post. Twice he’d screwed the letters up and tossed them on a nearby fire as he’d rushed to arms. He didn’t dare risk someone finding a half-written letter to his mistress. You learned to think like that when your life was worth so little.

  He’d even changed his will while he was back in Overdale, leaving Emma a share in the business she and Walter had kept going all through the war. She deserved that if anything happened to him. And she’d keep things going so that his children had enough to live on at least. Edith couldn’t even manage the housekeeping money.

  The shell landed on headquarters in the small hours of Boxing Day, killing every officer there. It was the first shell in a short, sharp barrage, and the only one to make a direct hit. James had fallen asleep by then. Like the rest of the victims, he didn’t feel a thing.

  * * *

  Sam returned to the house somewhat the worse for wear and for a time didn’t release Lizzie from her bonds. There was something satisfying in seeing her helpless, with her bright green eyes glaring defiantly at him. Eeh, she’d make a fine mother for his children, she would that.

  He had to prepare the tea himself and when he untied her, stand over her with a threat of forcing the food down her throat before she’d eat anything. Afterwards, he brought her a cup of tea, hot and sweet.

  She hesitated for a moment, then drank it.

  He said nothing, just told her to sit down opposite him by the fire, and when, after another moment’s hesitation, she did that, he felt a sense of triumph. Little by little he’d win her over. When she saw that he no longer hit her, when she saw that he really wanted her for his wife, well, she’d be bound to come round.

  Two days passed. Two long, boring days for Lizzie. She wondered if she’d ever grow used to his fixed stare and even, occasionally, whether she’d manage to hold out against him and refuse to lift a finger in the house. He wanted his rations night and morning, and although she felt cold and unmoved by his attentions, he still got his own satisfaction
, as he always had.

  “You’ll be with child before the spring,” he promised her.

  “I’ll not. I’ll will it not to happen,” she threw back at him.

  But he just laughed and stroked her bare breast, laughing as she tried to squirm away.

  * * *

  A few days later, he took Lizzie shopping with him. Before they left, Sam tied her up and went into the front room on his own, fiddling around with something there. Then he came and untied her.

  At the market, he bought food lavishly, as if money was no object. It puzzled Lizzie where he got all his money, why he didn’t seem bothered about finding himself a job. She knew from what others said that the Government did little to help disabled soldiers and that many were in great want.

  Snow still lay on the ground, but dirty now, like piles of muddy washing. In the ruts ice crackled and they had to tread carefully so as not to slip. She saw Sam wince once or twice when his bad foot skidded, but he said nothing. He seemed determined to ignore his limp. In spite of herself, she felt a bit sorry for him. But not sorry enough to spend the rest of her life with him.

  When they got home, there was a knock on the door, the first since Lizzie had returned to Overdale. Sam took her arm and dragged her along to answer it.

  Percy stood there, staring at his sister. “They were right, then. You are back.”

  Sam kept hold of her and made a quick decision to let her see her family. “Come in, lad. Have a cup of tea. It’s been a long time since you two have seen one another.” He slammed the door with hearty good humour. “Eeh, it’s bad underfoot, it is that. Me an’ Lizzie nearly went arse over tit a few times while we were shopping.”

  Percy looked at the way Sam was holding her arm, puzzled.

  “She’s not used to being back yet,” Sam said, shaking his head in mock sorrow. “Wants to get away from me. But I’m not having that.”

  Lizzie didn’t say anything, just let Sam drag her along to the kitchen and plonk her down in a chair. When he was busy with the kettle, she said clearly and distinctly, “I’m not staying with him and he won’t be able to watch me every minute of every day and night. I’ll get away from him one day.”