The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  “Now, sprinkle that in there and start scrubbin’.”

  She did as she was told. “All right, I’ll do it again.” Trying to pacify. Always trying to pacify. “You go on to bed, Harry. You must be tired.”

  It was well past midnight.

  “Don’t you fuckin’ tell me how I feel or what I’m to do in my own house.”

  He snatched the brush from her. Thrust the toothbrush at her. “I’m stayin’ right here and you’re gonna use this toothbrush to do the cleanin’, not that scrubbin’ brush. Oh, no, yeh don’t get away that easy.”

  He pulled a chair into the bathroom, produced a six-pack of beer. “But, before yeh start, get me a glass and pour that.”

  She’d learned from her honeymoon how to pour a beer “properly”. Half in first, slowly, with glass tilted. Wait for froth to settle. Remainder in slowly while easing glass upright. He watched her very carefully as she went through this ritual, waiting for the traitorous bead of liquid to escape down the side and so seal her fate.

  She handed him the beer – hoping she could get through this episode without being hit – and started on the bath rim with the toothbrush, mentally imprinting that she’d need to buy herself a new toothbrush the following day.

  “Fuckin’ kneel down when yer doin’ it,” he roared, kicking her hard on the shin. “I like tae see a woman on her knees. If I had my way they’d never be off their bloody knees.”

  She tried not to cry because that would make him worse. Maybe he’d fall asleep on the chair and she could just go and lock herself in the spare room. Often when he woke up the next morning he’d no memory of what he’d put her through. Unless of course there was evidence: a split lip, bruised eye, puffy face.

  “Have you been knockin’ into doors again, Rita?” he’d say, tut-tutting in mock sympathy. “Yeh’ll have tae watch that, yeh know. What if yeh were to lose an eye, what would you do then? Even worse, if you were to hit yer head so hard you knocked yourself out, and I wasn’t here to get you an ambulance. You’d just die here on your own. So I’d watch that if I were you.”

  “Yer not doin’ that quick enough,” he bellowed now, bringing his boot down hard on her coccyx as she leaned over the bath.

  She yelled out in pain, collapsing.

  He was on his feet, bearing down on her. “Shut the fuck up, d’yeh hear?” He pulled her up by the hair, shoved her against the wall, gripping her throat.

  “P-P-Please, Harry, I . . . I’m sor . . . sorr-y. I . . . I did-n’t . . . ”

  The ceiling was spinning, her legs going numb, every nerve and muscle on strike. She shut her eyes tight to block out the horror of his face and stop the tears he hated so much to see.

  “What’s wrong with yeh now, Rita?” he said in a mocking voice, loosening his hold slightly so she could breathe.

  “I . . . I . . . I’m sorry . . . ” she stammered.

  “Good! That’s more like it.”

  But in spite of her best efforts, the tears she was trying so hard to hold back came anyway.

  “Don’t fuckin’ whinge! I don’t like it when you whinge, Rita . . . yeh should know that by now.”

  He threw her back against the bath. “Now, get on with it.”

  In Willow Close the toothbrush trembled in her hand. She stared at it, threw it into the sink, went into the bedroom, switched off the light and got into bed. But the memories followed her in there like vengeful ghosts. Ganging up on her as she pulled up the bed-covers. The spectre of Harry on top of her now, pinning her down . . .

  “Now yer gonna do yer duty as a wife.”

  She shut her eyes, reliving the pain of the many rapes all over again, the horrors bursting back like sewage through the manhole covers of self. The post-drinking aftermath of sexual violence was a given. But then she’d got used to it all. Could leave her body – actually leave it – and make this mental leap, which would see her floating out of her physical self, up to the ceiling where it was safer – much safer – than being that poor, defenceless woman suffering down there on the bed.

  It was scary the first time it happened, this disconnect from self, but the more she had to do it the easier it became. She’d just hover up there till sleep overtook him then return to consciousness and the painful fallout, roll his weight off her, go into the bathroom and wash him away.

  Several months into the marriage it had become the norm. Harry had never wanted a wife, but a slave, a chattel, and Rita-Mae fitted the bill perfectly: pliant, biddable, reserved.

  It was pointless to resist him. Physically she could never fight back, being as fragile as a twig. “I could snap you in two if I wanted to,” he used to say. “Aye, snap you in two and bury yeh out there in the garden. Nobody would be the wiser. I’d say yeh’d just left me for another man.”

  And she knew he meant it. He really meant it, for she had no one to turn to. What few friends she’d had he’d insulted early on, so they stopped calling. She’d no family to speak of. Her mother, a harridan who hated the sight of her, was only too pleased when Harry came along, passing her over to him like some unwanted parcel. How often she’d longed for the company of her twin! Her mother told her that she’d died at birth, but one day in a temper said that she’d given her away. Couldn’t afford the two of them. How different Rita’s life might have been had that not been the case!

  He kept a knife by the bed, just in case she got “uppity”.

  Yes, he’d stitched her well into the warp and weft of his life over those few heady months of courtship. Played the loving, attentive boyfriend she’d always dreamed of.

  But all too soon Harry was deciding everything. How she was supposed to think and feel. When she would eat and sleep. If she didn’t understand something he made fun of her, because Harry knew everything and never got anything wrong. His sole aim seemed to be to bolster his ego by sapping her self-esteem. It was easier to go along with it all, because to unpick the pattern that he’d set seemed too risky an undertaking.

  The insults, the beatings, came almost as soon as the wedding band was on. And she had to accept those too because the alternative was worse. Much worse.

  It was going to be one of those nights. Recalling the dark past, dwelling on it, reliving it, suffering it again and again and again stopped Rita-Mae from thinking about Lenny the stalker, the new ogre in her life.

  He knew where she lived. Or did he? If he knew where Vivian-Bernadette had lived, he knew where she was living.

  That thought made her switch the light on, to dispel the implications of what she could not face.

  It was 2 a.m. She’d go downstairs and make a nightcap.

  It was cold in the room. The heating had turned itself off hours before.

  She crossed to the bureau to fetch a cardigan.

  Pulled out the top drawer. The action sent something flying out at her.

  She stepped back, and was astonished to see that at her feet lay the mysterious letter she’d thought was missing. There was a long crease running across it. Aha, thought Rita. That’s why I couldn’t find it. It was wedged there all along.

  So Bram Hilditch had not taken it.

  Vivian-Bernadette had returned.

  Whether for good or ill, the new tenant would now learn the truth the former tenant could not tell.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Bram the photographer was in his studio above the pharmacy for the first time, enjoying a lazy afternoon. He was not a little chuffed with himself that he’d managed to achieve a long-cherished ambition without interference from Her Grace.

  He knew he could never have managed to create such a workspace in the family home, roomy as it was with four bedrooms in disuse. She would never have allowed such “disfigurement of my ancestral residence”. She’d used the phrase often enough when his father had proposed creating his taxidermy workshop indoors.

  “I’ll not have dead animals in this house. What sort of a hobby is that? Isn’t dealing with dead people enough for you?”

  Well, she did h
ave a point, Bram reflected now, as he poured developer into a film tank. Father had finally ended up in a shed in the garden, which was perhaps the best place for him, given his weird pursuit.

  He set his stopwatch. It would take half an hour to develop the film. And for every minute of that time he’d have to agitate the tank for ten seconds. A tedious process, but well worth the effort.

  He sat down by the window, which looked out on the backs of some houses facing on to a minor street called Master’s Avenue. It was not such an inspiring sight and the attic of Lucerne House would have been much more pleasing to look out from, especially now in early spring: rolling pastures, plumply garnished hedges, fat snowy clouds advancing over sheep-dotted hills. That’s the view he’d have preferred. But with the mother’s hearing 100 hertz above that of the average bat, he had no desire to tiptoe, quite literally, around up there in order to keep his hobby secret.

  And it had to be a secret for the time being. Octavia was highly suspicious of anything new entering the established order of her days. Most especially now, when that established order had been so effectively thwarted by the fall at Mrs Baldwin-Piggott’s house only the previous week. Dr Sweeney had ordered a week’s bed rest – putting a brake on her hair appointments, her chiropodist’s appointment, her bridge, her parish council meetings, Women’s Institute get-togethers and cocktail parties with various widows just like herself.

  He agitated the tank again, checked the stopwatch. Almost wished his father were still alive to keep her distracted. The fall and subsequent confinement were making her even more cantankerous and demanding.

  It was just as well Blossom Magee was waiting in the wings.

  He’d telephoned her in desperation, to beg for her help.

  “That’s no problem at all, Bram. I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. Could come earlier if you want.”

  “No, that’s fine! There’s just one thing, Blossom . . . ”

  He was uncertain about how to put the next bit. Had to be a trifle delicate about it because he knew that Her Grace would have a fit at the sight of Mrs Magee.

  “Yes, Bram. What’s that?”

  “I wonder, would you mind not mentioning to Mother that I hired you? It’s just that she likes to be in control and doesn’t like being overruled. Being indisposed has disheartened her somewhat. You know how it is.”

  “I understand that sure enough, Bram. People get down when they have to stay in bed for a while, God love them. And your mammy being such an active woman! I know it must be hard for her.”

  “Yes, indeed. It’s just that . . . ”

  “You want me to say I was sent by the doctor or the Friendship Club, do you?”

  He was amazed at Blossom’s prescience.

  “Something like that, yes.”

  “That’s no trouble, Bram. Whether you sent me or they sent me, it doesn’t really matter. It’s all in God’s plan.”

  “Excellent, Blossom! You are most understanding. Until tomorrow then.”

  Yes, Blossom would be making her inaugural visit on Thursday. He was in no doubt that sparks would fly, with a bonfire of words erupting from the bedroom at the sight of her. No way would he be hanging around for that little pantomime!

  He sighed and agitated the tank once more.

  Down below he could hear the faint murmur of voices where J.P. was conducting the business he’d been doing for decades. Pharmacies were always such busy places, and by rights the proprietor should have retired long ago. He was in poor health, wheezing his way towards seventy with a dicky heart and smoker’s cough. One wondered why he bothered getting out of bed at all. But he was a bachelor, and if he didn’t have the shop and the townspeople to blather to about their haemorrhoids and hip problems, what purpose would his life indeed have?

  Old J.P. made Bram feel a little sad. For he represented what Bram could become if he didn’t succeed in finding himself a wife. If only Mother were out of the picture he’d be totally free to pursue such a notion. Marriage could only be countenanced upon her passing. She would not tolerate another woman on her patch.

  The face of Miss Ruttle rose before him – a beauty, and one with “a good heart” according to Blossom Magee. Perhaps Blossom could pave the way for him. Get to know her better. Make things easier because at present, his new tenant, like a quadratic equation, was very hard to figure out.

  She was far more interesting than his former tenant, Miss O’Meara. Vivian was one of life’s eternal victims. Was it any wonder things ended so badly?

  It wasn’t for the want of trying to get to know her, he reflected.

  She’d no car. Had to walk everywhere. Was an ardent church-goer. And the church was a good three miles distant. So on one particular Sunday morning, when the sky looked promisingly overcast, he’d attended Mass, in the hope of offering her a lift home.

  He’d offered her a lift several times before, but the weather always seemed fine and she told him she enjoyed the fresh air, and sure wouldn’t the walk do her good anyway?

  Fair enough. He could hardly argue with that, or insist she got into his swanky red Daimler. But fortunately, on that particular morning, as he’d been hoping, a storm broke out during the Prayers of the Faithful. Thunder rumbling so loudly you’d think the Devil himself was doing a clog-dance on the roof. Rain battering so fiercely, Father Moriarty’s words could scarce be heard.

  “You can’t walk home in this, Miss O’Meara,” Bram had said, catching up with her as she hurried towards the gates.

  She turned, long dress flapping in the wind. Face wet with rain.

  No hat. No umbrella.

  She could hardly refuse him. The courteous landlord – whom she now saw was a Mass-goer.

  “Oh, Mr . . . Mr Hilditch, it’s . . . it’s you.”

  He was conscious of the fear in those haunted green eyes. Ready excuses dying on those pretty red lips.

  “You could catch your death, Miss O’Meara,” he said with concern. “Come, I’ll give you a lift.”

  “Y-Yes. Maybe . . . maybe you’re right. Thank you, Mr Hilditch.”

  And he escorted her to his car. Ever the gentleman, springing to open the passenger door for her. Anything to ease her obvious anxiety.

  She hadn’t given much away throughout the journey. Sat tightly wedged up against the door. All his attempts to draw her out were met with noncommittal replies.

  On their arrival at number 8 he thought – really thought – she’d invite him in for tea by way of a “thank you”, but she hurried from the car. Couldn’t wait to get away from him – or so it seemed.

  He still had nightmares about her. And they’d become depressingly more frequent since Miss Ruttle’s move to Willow Close. It was as if Vivian-Bernadette were trying to tell him something. Or did she resent the house being occupied again?

  Always the same dream and in the same sequence. He, Bram, on the threshold of the box- room, unable to move, and she there in the corner, just a handful of fragments suddenly rising up, reconstituting, taking shape from the bloodstained mappings on the floor. Her face an eyeless orb, the lips mouthing something from behind the tawny tumble of her hair, then a hand reaching out to clasp him.

  Sometimes he’d wake with a start, believing she’d touched him. And at such times, sweat-soaked and shaking, he’d rise and dress, pick up his camera, creep down the stairs and out into the broad, silent safety of early morning.

  Oh, the freedom of it: the light, the sky, the immensity of being outside and away from that grotesquery!

  Last night had been such a night. The latter part of the film in the tank was a record of what he’d seen as he tramped the fields, crunching over the bracken of Crocus Wood with only the bird-song and breeze and the sound of his softly pounding heart.

  What was it she was trying to tell him? She, Vivian-Bernadette, or the spirit of what once was her? He had an idea, but . . .

  He could not share these ordeals with anyone, least of all his mother. Father Moriarty, the parish priest, perhaps
. Priests knew things about the afterlife – or believed they did. He and the clergyman, collaborators over so many coffins slowly lowered into the clay of St Clement’s graveyard at the sorry end.

  Maybe Father Moriarty held secrets about the dead that only his sort were privy to.

  But could Bram trust another human being with the secret he was carrying?

  That was the question.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Portaluce, Antrim Coast

  Dorinda Walsh was a little calmer now, aided by the fact that the wind blowing in off the ocean had lessened considerably.

  A safe distance from Marcella’s Cafe, she turned and looked back, not really knowing what she was expecting to see; a man in a black trilby and a little girl in a bright green coat, perhaps. Could they still be in there? Hiding from her.

  She had seen them, hadn’t she? Yes, as clear as day. She wasn’t going mad. She wasn’t.

  You’re not going mad, Dorrie. You’re not. Those two gossiping women and that girl Jane are the mad ones, not you. But soon all this will stop. Very soon you will find the means to stop, look back and laugh at them all.

  “Yes, Mama, you’re right. You’re always right, Mama.”

  She turned again to resume her walk – and collided with another pedestrian.

  “Oh God, I’m sorry!” she blurted. “So dreadfully sorry.”

  A knobbly old hand shot out and clasped her wrist. She looked up into the rheumy eyes of an elderly woman, dressed in black.

  “What are you saying, dear?”

  “W-What?”

  “You were talking out loud, dear,” the woman said, her gaunt face creasing with concern. “Weren’t you aware of that?”

  Dorrie swallowed hard. “Y-Yes, maybe . . . erm, sometimes I forget myself.”

  Her eyes were taking in the woman’s strange attire. And it was strange. She saw now that she wasn’t wearing a coat – odd, given the time of year – but a black dress of layered lace with a woollen shawl. Her grey hair was woven into a thick plait and wound about her head in a kind of halo. Her neck was all but obscured by a choker of bright turquoise stones.