The Spinster Wife

by Christina McKenna

  Lastly, she opened the door to his workshop.

  In a glass case he kept his special collection of model warships. She turned the key and lifted out the ancient vessels with their frail white sails and beautiful shining timbers. Oh so elaborate and ornate in design! So cherished they needed a special cabinet all to themselves to keep the dust away.

  Pity.

  HMS Unicorn gone, splinters flying everywhere. Then Victory, Resolution, Neptune and Moth. My, did it feel good!

  She smashed them all. Swept the debris into a bin. Kicked over his workbench. Slammed the door on the chaos.

  Her arm aching, energy spent, she finally threw the hammer down. Carried the bin of fragments down the stairs and scattered the contents over the hallway floor.

  Returned to the supper table, calmly poured herself another cup of tea and sat waiting in the darkness.

  Ready and waiting with a flick-knife in her pocket and murder on her mind.

  Harry’s car arrived back at 2 a.m., the headlights gliding through the kitchen like an oil spill on the walls.

  Rita remained immobile, ears pricked for every sound he made. Sitting upright at the table, feeling the weapon in her pocket – the smooth horn handle resting so snugly in her palm.

  She heard the car door open.

  Heard his feet striking the gravel.

  The key turning in the front door.

  His shoes crunching over the rubble of her wrecking spree.

  “What the fuck?”

  The light went on.

  She’d left the door to the kitchen ajar. From her vantage point she could see him standing there, staring down.

  Hunkering down.

  Then: “Oh, Jesus Christ!” he moaned, falling on his knees, scooping up the pieces in his hands.

  He would never guess she was still up. Normally she’d be in bed, cowering under the covers, waiting, wondering what kind of mood he’d be in. What kind of vileness she’d have to suffer.

  She drew the knife from her pocket under cover of the table, but did not move. Released the blade.

  “Harry,” she said softly.

  He swung his head in her direction, startled.

  “What’s the matter now, Harry?” Her tone was mock-bullying. “Did somebody break your toys?”

  “Yeh bitch, yeh fuckin’ crazy bitch!”

  He was on his feet, lunging at her.

  She shot up, brandishing the knife.

  He halted.

  “Come another inch and I’ll kill you.”

  She held it out in front of her, poised for combat. “I’ll kill you and gladly go to prison for it. ’Cos y’know what, Harry? Since marrying you I’ve been in a damned prison.”

  He made a grab for the knife, missed and crashed against the table, sending the tea-things flying.

  She rushed him, thrusting at his chest, but he seized her wrist and they both collapsed on the floor.

  “Drop that fuckin’ knife!” he roared, holding fast to her wrist.

  But she was on top of him, blade trembling perilously, just inches from his throat. Here was her chance.

  “Now it’s your turn, you cheating, lying bastard!”

  With all her might, she forced the blade down. Saw the tip making contact with his flesh.

  Blood trickled out.

  “Arrr . . . agh!”

  He tightened his grip on her wrist, crushing it and causing her to scream. She tried to drive the knife deeper, but he bit hard into her free arm and the weapon slipped from her grasp, lying just out of reach.

  She fell to the floor, desperately straining to retrieve it. But Harry was on top, straddling her. He flipped her over.

  She yelled for her life as he clasped her head in both hands, shaking it savagely.

  “You’ll never fuckin’ try that again! Yeh hear me?”

  He smashed her head against the floor.

  She passed out.

  She came to, lying in the garden shed. Somewhere outside a light was flashing, sending its blue rays across the darkened timbers of the ceiling.

  A walkie-talkie squawked somewhere. People talking.

  Men’s voices.

  She tried to get up but a pain shot through her, so blinding that she went limp again.

  The voices were getting closer.

  “She’s in here.” Harry’s voice.

  The bolt on the shed door was drawn back.

  She shut her eyes.

  The door creaked open.

  They entered on a cold rush of air.

  “Aye, I had to put her in here for her own safety, Doctor,” Harry said. “As I say, she was trying to kill me.”

  The touch of fingers on her wrist, feeling for a pulse. A man’s touch, soft and gentle.

  “Rita . . . can you hear me, Rita?” he said. She got the smell of antiseptic – a hospital smell.

  She was too afraid to answer. Felt it was safer that way.

  “As I say, she knocked herself out when she fell. I was trying to take the knife off her.”

  “Hmm . . . ”

  Her eyelids were pulled up and a light shone into each one.

  She heard the doctor stand up.

  “She needs to go to the hospital right away.”

  “Why?” Harry said. “Is it serious?”

  “She’s badly concussed. There could be bleeding on the brain.”

  Memories of those initial days in the hospital were hazy.

  She lost track of time, slept a lot. Sometimes she saw the sun at the window, sometimes the moon. The medication they were giving her induced long periods of slumber. Which perhaps was just as well.

  Once, after admission, she awoke suddenly, her whole body in spasm, as if some callous deity was standing there, striking her down with sudden paralysis for the grave sin of having tried to kill Harry.

  They increased the painkillers and she didn’t suffer one again.

  Harry played the caring husband, as before. Visiting every day, holding her hand, the gifts of flowers multiplying on the bedside table and window-sill.

  She was in a room by herself, with an en-suite bathroom, which she was grateful for, but wondered why she’d been afforded the privilege.

  Did it mean she was very ill?

  Did it mean she was going to die?

  Did it mean she was a danger to others?

  “Wish my husband was as attentive as yours, Mrs Ruttle,” a nurse commented one evening, tucking in the sheets and plumping her pillows before lights out. “Take a lot for him to buy me flowers. Every birthday and anniversary I have to give him a nudge.”

  The patient gave a weak smile.

  “Nurse, how much longer will I stay here?”

  “Oh, only a few more weeks.”

  “Weeks!”

  “Yes, the doctor will tell you on his rounds in the morning.”

  The nurse checked the IV bag. Injected more solution into the drip chamber.

  “What’s that for?”

  “It’ll help with the pain. Now, I’ll just strap you in.”

  “Strap?” A fret of panic ran through her. “What strap? Why are you doing that?”

  “Now, now, Mrs Ruttle, don’t upset yourself. It’s for your own safety. We don’t want you to fall.”

  At sight of the two sturdy straps being secured over her arms she started to scream.

  “What is this place? Where the hell am I?”

  She thrashed her leg up and down, yelling at the top of her voice: “Let me out of here! Let me out!”

  The door flew open and a man entered, bearing down upon her, pinning her to the bed.

  “I told you nurse; don’t do the straps up until she’s asleep.”

  Through her screams she felt the sudden stab of a needle in her hip.

  Her body flopped back on to the bed.

  In seconds all was calm again. Someone switched off the lights.

  And she was left to the numbing darkness of another night.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Portaluce
, Antrim Coast

  Back behind the door of room number 5, Dorinda Walsh threw the bolt and turned the key. She was glad she’d made it to the Ocean Spray and up the stairs without being seen. Mrs Millman wouldn’t have registered her return. When she tiptoed past the dining-room an animated exchange over clinking glasses had told her that the proprietor had company. Male company.

  “Gladys Millman, you’re incorrigible. And it the Lord’s Day.”

  “Oh, Victor dear, I only drink champagne on two occasions: when I’m happy and when I’m sad.”

  Dorrie stood against the bedroom door, still enveloped in the fox fur, feeling faint. She’d stolen up the stairs with the stealth of a Persian blue and the effort had drained her. She might have escaped the house of Edith LeVeck, but she now had a desperate need to escape the torturous memories the strange woman of “discernment” had unwittingly dredged up.

  It’s all right, Dorrie. You’re safe now. Listen to the silence.

  “Yes, Mama. I know.”

  She held her breath and listened.

  All was quiet. Then a thought struck her.

  The raincoat.

  Had the maid been in?

  Uneasy, she let her eyes drift slowly about the room.

  Yes, Maureen had been in. The bed-covers were smoothed, pillows plumped. A set of fresh towels sat folded on the washstand.

  She grabbed a chair, crossed to the closet and climbed up.

  The trench coat was still in place, just as she’d left it. She decided to leave it up there. Couldn’t bear to look at it again. Tomorrow morning she’d be departing and would see to it then.

  Settle down now and have a drink, Dorrie. Mama’s voice. Oh, dear sweet Mama, always ready to reassure and comfort in times of need. Where would she be without her? There is nothing to worry about. You’ve earned it after all.

  The tension in her body eased immediately. Yes, she certainly had earned a drink or two after that courageous foray into the outside world. A sense of relief swept over her when she realized she was safely back, away from all those prying eyes.

  It was approaching 2 p.m. Had she been absent for so long?

  With reluctance she shed the coat and laid it carefully over the chair, sat down on the bed and opened her handbag. Wedged inside was the only purchase she’d made: a ten-glass bottle of whiskey.

  The transaction had been awkward and her stomach tightened at the memory of it. Sunday, no bars open, but she’d tried her luck at the back-door of the Sailor’s Arms, and was surprised when a man appeared and swiftly admitted her.

  “I suppose it’s for your grandma who’s come down with the flu,” he said sarcastically, gangstery face all glassed over with bifocals.

  An old woman in a baggy coat and cracked shoes leaning against the counter sniggered. “A wee drop of the grog’ll do you the world of good, daughter. Just visitin’, are you?”

  “Yes, just visiting.”

  “Odd time of the year tae be comin’ here.”

  She heard them titter as she pulled the door shut.

  I should never have gone out, she thought now, pouring a generous measure of whiskey and gulping it down. But the bottle of spirits was well worth the inconvenience.

  The outside world was far too scary; too many strangers probing her with reproachful eyes. She saw their faces staring out at her like criminals in a police identity parade: the pensioner with the outsize hearing aid, the fraught mother pushing the baby, the gaunt man in the trilby with the little girl. Edith LeVeck in her black clothes. The grinning skull of the skeleton lady, Catrina. Were they ghosts, all of them? Ghosts she’d conjured up to shadow and menace her for all eternity because she’d done something terrible?

  She bent down and removed her shoes, poured herself another full glass of whiskey and sat back on the pillows. No, she would not be leaving the room again. Not until tomorrow morning when the car was roadworthy.

  Several glasses later the turbulent sea of inhibitions and worry she’d been riding since waking up began to steady. Soon she was floating up, up and away into the endless sky above the clouds, where Mama dwelt in a land that was full of happiness and light. Oh, how she wished she could join her up there!

  The lyrics of a song came to her and she began to sing.

  I’m a single girl trying to live the single life,

  I’m a single girl who’s got no wish to be somebody’s wife,

  Not unless I meet the right kind of man,

  Who’ll give me all the love that he can.

  Her eyelids grew heavy and her vision faded. With “other” eyes she found herself gazing upon a scene: a beach scene. There was a little girl kneeling on a rug, digging into the sand with a yellow plastic spade. It was a windless summer’s day and the searing hand of the sun was pressing down on her back, the rough fabric of the rug chafing her knees. Filling the bucket was an endless task. There was so much sand, and the little spade trembled under the weight of each golden heap.

  A woman was lying beside her in sunglasses and a bright red swimsuit, milky arms spread wide, hair spilling like honey over the towel.

  “Aren’t you going in?” a male voice intruded. “Not much point in coming to the sea just to lie beside it.”

  The voice belonged to a man who was sitting half in, half out of the passenger seat of a black car, one foot resting on the sill, the suspenders of his grey socks showing. He had a glass of whiskey in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other.

  “All in good time, Jack,” the woman answered. “All in good time. Let me soak up this heavenly sun first.”

  “Did we have to bring her along?”

  The little girl felt scared. She wanted to run away from the man called Jack and hide. But the beach went on and on; the sand dunes seemed so very far away.

  “Well, of course. I could hardly leave her alone in the house. Now don’t be beastly! She’s only a child.”

  “She’s in the way.”

  “In the way of what?”

  “Of us. What d’you think?”

  Tears pricked the little girl’s eyes, but she must not let the adults see her sadness. It was dangerous to be sad when Uncle Jack was around. And he was around more often these days; now in their home at night in her mother’s bedroom, and in the morning at the breakfast table in pyjamas, his hair in disarray.

  She put the spade down and moved into the protective curve of her mother’s arm.

  “You mollycoddle her like she’s a baby.”

  “She is a baby.”

  “She’s six, for God’s sake.”

  “Oh, stop complaining, Jack. Can’t you just enjoy being here?”

  “Go in and have your bloody swim. You’ve got a customer at three, remember? It’s why I drove you here, for Christ’s sake. For if you don’t I’ll—”

  Darkness fell . . .

  Dorrie slid down on the bed. Dead to the outside world, she was pushing further and further into a past that could only be accessed through the dream state . . .

  Back on the beach the child became conscious that her mother was no longer beside her on the rug, but standing by the water’s edge, staring out to sea.

  She dropped the spade and ran to her, slipping her hand into hers. The feel of her mother’s hand was reassuring, along with the silky touch of the little waves tickling her toes.

  She gazed up at her, shading her eyes. There was something different about her. The long, flowing hair was all gone and her head was covered in the most beautiful flowers – daisies, blue and yellow daisies – all growing out of a tight white cap. It was the prettiest sight she’d ever seen.

  Her mother bent down to her.

  “Now, sweetie, I’m going for a little swim, but you can’t come with me. Go back and stay on the rug with Uncle Jack. I won’t be long. There’s a good girl.”

  “But I don’t want to stay with Uncle Jack. I want to stay with you.”

  The mother gripped her shoulders and pulled her close, the red lips a sudden pout of pain in her lovely f
ace.

  “Now stop that at once! Don’t be a crybaby. Go sit on the rug with Jack, there’s a good girl. I won’t be long.”

  The sea yowled.

  The gulls keened.

  In the pit of the child’s stomach something dark and dangerous twisted into life. She tried her best not to weep. Dug her heels deeper into the sand. Clenched her tiny fists. Refused to budge.

  “I said, go sit on the rug with Jack. I won’t be long.”

  Without warning, hands were lifting her. Big hands grasping her about the waist. She kicked wildly to get away from them.

  “Be careful with her!” the mother called out.

  But the more the child screamed and kicked the tighter and more painful Uncle Jack’s grip became.

  “You’re a pesky little bitch!” he spat, dumping her back on the rug.

  She tried to sit up. Saw her mother cleaving the waves, pale arms plunging in and out of the water. She screamed, but a boot on her chest took her breath away and forced her back down again.

  He bent over her, the pressure of his boot increasing. “If you move from there I’ll knock your feckin’ brains out. D’you hear me?”

  Terrified, she nodded vigorously.

  “Understand me?”

  “What on earth are you doing to that child?” From somewhere above: a female voice, sudden and strident.

  The foot was swiftly lifted. The terrified child turned to see a woman, dressed in dark blue robes, standing close by.

  She saw Uncle Jack raise his hat. “Good day to you, Sister. Didn’t see you there.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “She was misbehavin’. You know how kids are.”

  The strange woman ignored him, hunkered down, her blue robes spilling over the rug like an ink stain. Gently she cradled the little girl in her arms and helped her sit up.

  “Now, my child, are you all right?”

  She had a kindly, soft face, framed in stiff white cloth, like the Queen of Diamonds in her mama’s playing cards. The child gazed up at her, suddenly afraid. For the eyes were unsettling, the left one bright blue, the other much darker.

  “Are you all right, little angel? I’m Sister Clare.” She took a hanky from her sleeve. “Now, let’s wipe away all of these muddy old tears, so we can see how pretty you are.”