The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  A heavy sigh.

  Rita-Mae sat as still as a waxwork, the telephone receiver pressed tightly to her ear. She was conscious of her breathing – controlled, inaudible, so as not to disturb the client – a list of emergency numbers pinned to the board in front of her, and the thrum of the strip light: a light that filled with brash effulgence the all-too-tiny cubicle.

  It was important she remain immobile in these situations. In training sessions they’d told her that if you scratched your nose, doodled on the pad in front of you, even rolled your eyes, the person on the other end of the line could sense it, intuit that you weren’t really listening – which meant you didn’t really care – might cut the call and go out and kill themselves.

  And the reason this man was speaking now into Rita-Mae’s right ear was because others had stopped listening, stopped caring, and that was why he wanted to kill himself. She was his last hope. Hers might be the ultimate voice he’d hear before departing this life. But she hoped not. As a Samaritan it was her business to save him from the rope, the knife or the river – three of the more popular methods used by men to end it all.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” she said gently. “I’m Rita, by the way. Would you like to tell me your name?”

  A pause.

  “Rita, did you say?”

  “Yes. Rita.”

  Stertorous breathing, low-pitched and snuffly.

  “You don’t have to give your real name if you don’t want to . . . and only your first name is necess—”

  “Lenny.”

  “Lenny. I’m sorry, Lenny . . . so sorry to hear that you’re not feeling the best.” The words slow, careful, a calculated pause. Then: “How long . . . how long have you been feeling this way?”

  “Och, now . . . ” She heard him suck heavily on a cigarette, exhale the smoke, shift in his chair. Leather or vinyl, judging by the squeak it made. “Been like this a good wee while. That’s why I wanna kill meself, ’cos nobody cares what happens tae me no more.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that, Lenny. But killing yourself is a permanent solution to a temporary problem.”

  She’d been trained to say that too, with emphasis on the words “permanent” and “temporary”.

  “I am here to let you know that nothing is ever as bad as it seems, that every state we find ourselves in is a temporary one. That tomorrow is another day and there is always light at the end of the tunnel, even though you may not be able to see it at this precise moment in time.”

  “Aye, right,” the caller said, in a tone that conveyed that he was not at all convinced by Rita-Mae’s string of fridge-magnet platitudes, tripped out for his reflection.

  He took a swallow of something and Rita-Mae knew, by the greedy guzzling sound he made, it was likely alcohol. She waited. The telltale report of glass on wood confirmed her guess – mugs made a duller sound – and it was five o’clock on a Saturday morning after all.

  “Have you got family?” she asked, maintaining that quietly comforting tone.

  “Nah.”

  “So you live alone?”

  “Sort of, aye.”

  Another drag of the cigarette, another gulp of the drink. “She – the wife – left me ’cos of the drink. Crashed the car on a skinful last year and the oul’ leg isn’t what it used to be . . . have to use crutches to get about. Nothing down there is what it used to be, if you get me drift. She sez tae me: ‘I married a useless alcoholic, now I’m married to a bloody crippled alcoholic, so you can just go feck yerself.’ That’s what she said, if you’ll pardon me French.”

  Rita-Mae had winced at the coarse language. But she must not judge; that was another injunction from the Samaritan rulebook.

  “Aye, pardon me French, Rita, but that’s what she said, the bitch. And then she fecked off herself, so she did.”

  “You’re in pain then and you’re living on your own. That can’t be easy, Lenny.”

  “Nah, not aisey atall. The drink takes me mind off it. I’m drinking even more than afore the accident. So out of it all I’ve got a shot liver, a dodgy dick, a wrecked leg and a broken heart. Is it any wunder I wanna kill meself?”

  Rita-Mae flinched again. She’d better steer him on to more positive ground.

  “Hmm . . . I understand, Lenny. Do you . . . do you have any hobbies?”

  “Used to play football, but can’t kick a ball about no more with me leg.”

  More drink was sloshed into the glass.

  “Nah, can’t kick the ball about no more,” he sighed.

  “Do you . . . do you have any children?”

  “Aye. Livin’ with me daughter these days.”

  Another drag of the cigarette. Then: “And would you be married yerself, Rita?”

  She hesitated. “That’s neither here nor there, Lenny.”

  Long pause. Pauses were good. Her trainer had assured her that a caller’s pauses could speak volumes. That she shouldn’t rush into them right away, like a fireman with a hose.

  She relaxed her grip on the receiver and waited.

  “I know it’s neither here nor there,” he said at last, “but I just wanna know anyway. ’Cos a married woman would understand better what a man like me’s goin’ through, like.”

  “No . . . no, I’m not married,” she lied.

  Her admission was met with an exhalation of breath. Was that a sigh of relief or . . . ?

  Then: “What colour of knickers would you be wearin’, Rita?”

  She tensed.

  “That’s . . . that’s neither here nor there.”

  She squeezed her eyes tight. He was one of those. TM callers – telephone masturbators in Samaritan-speak. The instructor had warned her about those too. The TM callers shunned sex lines because sex lines cost money. Besides, an automated voice in Belfast demanding one’s credit-card details was no match for a soft-voiced woman with a sympathetic ear, alive and breathing in the middle of the night, somewhere in mid-Ulster, completely free of charge. This was the third TM caller she’d had in as many hours. She’d have to terminate the call.

  “Aye, I know it’s neither here nor there,” Lenny was saying, “but are yer knickers big flowery ones, or them nice wee skimpy boys?” Breathing heavier now, more laboured. “I hope they’re the wee skimpy type ’cos they’d be aisier to take off you.”

  She was fighting to control herself. Wanted to scream down the line, “You’re wasting my time, you selfish cretin! Someone in real need could be trying to get through.” But she reined herself in, steadied herself, shifted her tone into pragmatic official-speak and said: “I am sorry, but I am now going to have to terminate this call.”

  “Aye, so . . . ”

  She was careful not to use contractions. People listened more attentively when one shunned them in favour of complete words. “It is always best to call the Samaritan helpline when sober. That way, we can discuss all the options that are open to you in a clear and frank manner.”

  “Aye, so.”

  “If you have a problem with alcohol you can call the Alcoholics Anonymous helpline, day or night. You will find their number in the front section of the Yellow Pages. You can avail of our services at any time. If you wish to speak to any of us face to face, you can make an appointment and come into the office. I hope this information has been helpful. Goodnight, Lenny.”

  “Och, yer no fun atall, Rita. Wait a wee minute—”

  Click. She’d put the phone down.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Rita-Mae took the memory of Lenny all the way back to Willow Close and in through the front door of her rented semi-detached house on the outskirts of Killoran. Yes, in the front door and right through to the kitchen, where she peeled off her gloves, shed her coat, set down her handbag and let out a sigh. She’d been advised about that too during training sessions: taking “emotional baggage” home with her.

  “Everything you hear within these walls must stay within these walls,” the director, Mrs Emmeline Wilton, had said. A retired hospital matron with
powdered cheeks and a mouth that resembled the artwork of a toddler. “If you have problems dealing with what you’ve heard, talk it over with a fellow-volunteer before leaving the Centre. Do not discuss it with family or friends. That is a cardinal rule.”

  She sighed again. Caught sight of herself in the mirror above the sink. She was thirty-four, and without sleep looked ten years older. Her short hair, bluntly cut, emphasized her elfin features and wide-set eyes. In the playground she’d been nicknamed Pixie-Mae, and as she grew into womanhood, the taunt stuck, resulting in her eschewing adornment of any kind – no cosmetics, no earrings or necklaces that might draw attention. At times, especially when wearing a scarf tucked behind her ears and tied at the back, she bore a passing resemblance to Audrey Hepburn in The Nun’s Story. But all that effort to remain inconspicuous only served to spark the interest of the onlooker even more.

  It was what had attracted Harry, her husband. He saw in her a child-woman he could bend to his will.

  She banished the thought of him and switched her focus to making tea. Snatches of Lenny’s conversation came and went as she put the kettle on and prepared a tray. His was not a “serious” case. That was a comfort. He had no desire to kill himself and was most likely sleeping off the incident on his vinyl sofa, oblivious to the fact he’d even made the call. Alcohol did that to a person. Messed with the memory. She never touched the stuff herself, but Harry’s binges had shown her more than enough of its diabolical effects. There were mornings when she’d find him fast asleep on the doorstep, clothing in disarray, the car-door wide open. It would have been laughable had he not been such a brute.

  In Larne she’d been a Samaritan for over three years. It was the only thing she’d been permitted to do outside the home – apart from shopping, and the occasional stint at the local hairdresser’s if one of the girls called in sick. The sole reason Harry had agreed to her becoming a volunteer was because his own brother had committed suicide. In his twisted logic it eased his conscience somewhat to have his wife do penance for this grave wrong.

  She’d been happy to learn that Killoran had a Samaritan Centre. She could continue to do the good work she’d committed herself to in Larne. Listening to the many anguished callers gave her perspective on her own life. Made her feel useful. Kept her focused. “No matter how bad you think things are, there’s always someone worse off than you.” Yes, she’d heard some tragic tales down the helpline.

  This thought lifted her momentarily out of the funk that had followed her home. She was doing important work by listening. Nobody really listened any more. They were too busy with their own problems to be bothered. As a Samaritan you stopped the ceaseless chatter in your own head – deliberately so – and tuned into the fears and trials of another human being. Listening attentively and not judging could save lives.

  At first she was both surprised and shocked to discover that there were so many women just like her, living at the mercy of abusive husbands. So many men like Harry driving their wives, with breaking voices, to the refuge of the suicide helpline. She imagined shoals of them tossing about on a turbulent sea, their hands grasping for the lifebelt that was her voice. The fearful clung on! Oh, how they clung on!

  “. . . for the sake of the children.”

  “. . . because he loves me.”

  “Deep down he’s really nice.”

  “It’s the drink, you see.”

  “Och, he doesn’t mean it really.”

  “When he’s not on the tear he’s the best in the world.”

  “It’s the cross I have to bear.”

  “I’ll just have tae offer it up, like me mother before me.”

  All the excuses trotted out to keep them netted, just as Rita-Mae had allowed herself to be kept netted and bound for so long. Trapped in a two-up, two-down council house, accepting the black eyes, the broken ribs, the splintered teeth and jawbones. Better to suffer the beating than find oneself alone. Living life on one’s own terms was simply too scary to contemplate.

  “Run!” she wanted to tell them all. “Just pack a bag and run. It’s never too late.” But as a Samaritan she wasn’t permitted to dole out advice. Simply listen. Listen and be there for the desperate. Besides, how could she ever tell those women to cut and run when she was too cowardly to do so herself?

  Too cowardly, that is, until three weeks ago. Yes, a mere three weeks ago something extraordinary had occurred.

  It all started with Harry’s scrawled note.

  Got job on site in Croydon. Cause we needs the feckin money and your not gonna make nuthin you useless naggin bitch. Ye cut my bloody face. Yer gonna pay for that when I get back. I’ll see you before you see me.

  As she was reading it, a mix of joy and terror mounting – joy that he was gone, terror because he was accusing her of hitting him, something she’d never dared to do – the local newspaper was pushed through the door. Normally she’d have taken it from the letter box, run an iron over any creases, carried it into the sitting-room and placed it on a table by “his” TV armchair. For that was the way Harry liked things done, and what Harry liked, wanted or demanded, Harry got. It was safer all round. She’d learned that lesson the hard way.

  But now he was gone. The newspaper shook in her hands. It was her paper now. Really hers. Or was it? She’d never been allowed to read it. The realization caused her to drop it.

  Pages fanned out at her feet. In a panic, she scrambled down to gather them up. That was when Fate winked like a precious gem and she found herself staring at the property page and the photo of a house framed in black.

  A quaint, Tudor-style semi with bay windows, flowers flourishing in pots either side of the door, and a neat little garden out front. It was the kind of home she’d always dreamed of.

  An excitement took hold of her. A tightly folded bud of desire, kept in check for so long – by Harry and the world at large – began to quiver and unfurl as she read through the fine print: one bedroom, box-room, bathroom, kitchen and lounge. A lounge. How lovely that sounded! Newly renovated. Fully furnished with fitted carpets throughout. The best part of all was the price: £30 per month. Cheaper by far than the poky dungeon she called home.

  She looked up from the page, sensing that this was a seminal moment. A reckoning point, once glimpsed, that might never come again. Fifteen years of marriage hung in the balance. Fifteen years a drudge, at the mercy of a man who’d never really loved her, had never really cared.

  How often had she dreamed of escaping? How often had she summoned the courage, only to waver at the last minute with his voice booming in her ears: “If yeh ever try tae leave me, yeh bitch, yer dead.”

  She glanced back at the page.

  Located on the outskirts of Killoran.

  Contact Abraham Hilditch on 082 796282 for details.

  She faltered.

  Waves of fear rose up. Images quick and terrifying: images of the consequences this action could bring. Harry’s hands throttling her. The room spinning round and round. Her world turning black.

  She stared at the printed telephone number. Felt her body flood with purpose. Should she? Could she? The tiny numerals lined up in heavy type held the promise of a new life. The advertiser, Abraham Hilditch, held the key to her release – literally.

  With trembling fingers she dialled the number.

  The phone rang several times. Her heart quivered. Give it up, a niggling voice in her head said. You’ve never succeeded at anything. Just give it up!

  Yes, maybe I—

  Then suddenly on the line a man’s voice: “Good morning. Abraham Hilditch speaking.” The tone was cheery, businesslike.

  “Hello . . . I’m . . . er . . . I . . . I . . . was wondering about the . . . er, house . . . ”

  “You mean the rental?”

  “Y-Y-Yes, the rental.”

  She heard Mr Hilditch rustle through some papers. “Yes, now let me see . . . ”

  “Is it . . . is it still available?” She hoped he didn’t detect the desperation in
her voice.

  “Indeed it is, Miss . . . er . . . ?”

  “Oh, Ruttle . . . Rita Ruttle . . . ”

  “Miss Ruttle. Anything further you’d like to know?”

  “Yes, I’m living in Larne at the moment. Where is it exactly?”

  “Outskirts of Killoran . . . just off the Tailorstown road . . . if you know where that is?”

  “Killoran, yes. I . . . I’ve heard of Killoran.”

  “Excellent. Since you’re in County Antrim, you’re about . . . let me see . . . I should say a couple of hours at most by car.”

  Far enough away, she thought: far enough away not to be known by anyone.

  Later in the day, that photograph in the newspaper had become a reality, when she found herself pulling up outside 8 Willow Close.

  Abraham Hilditch opened the door on the first ring. He was a short man, the shape of a Russian nesting doll, brown hair crenellated across the brow, eyes as blue as a summer sky, inquisitive.

  “Miss Ruttle!” He checked his watch approvingly. “You’re an excellent timekeeper. I like punctual people. Shows respect.” He held out a hand. “I’m Abraham, but everyone calls me Bram. Come in. Come in.”

  He was dressed impeccably. A grey three-piece suit, white shirt, the toecaps of his black shoes buffed to the gleam of an eight ball.

  “Her Grace didn’t want me to let this one until I’d redone everything from scratch.”

  “Who?”

  “Sorry, my mother. She gets ‘Her Grace’ because she’s very fussy . . . very particular when it comes to tenants.” He was showing her round the house, keeping up a running commentary. “Likes respectable people. No riff-raff. That presents a bit of a problem, since – generally speaking – it’s people of limited means who tend to rent.” He stopped suddenly. “I’m babbling. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you were a lady of limited means. Is it just for yourself?”

  “Yes,” she said, knowing that she was indeed a lady of limited means. But she had enough to cover the deposit and a couple of months in advance. Money she’d been saving religiously for the “unexpected”. Now that “unexpected”, which had been no more than a faint hope for so long, was actually happening. She could not quite believe it.