by Laura Elliot
Her hand shook as she raised the fork to her mouth.
‘It’s the alcohol,’ he said. ‘Don’t worry. It’ll pass.’ He cut her toast and fed her, coaxed her to swallow. Somehow, she managed to finish her breakfast without throwing up.
‘What happened last night?’ she asked when he had cleared the tray away. ‘I remember being in the bath with you but I can’t remember getting out of it.’
‘You were pretty far gone,’ he admitted. ‘I’m not surprised it’s all a blur.’ He tilted his head, quizzingly. ‘Can you remember what we talked about?’
‘Were you angry with me?’
‘Why should I be angry?’
‘Peter. That silly dance.’
‘That’s all it was. A silly dance.’ He traced his finger across her lips. ‘We talked about love.’
‘I’m sorry, Nicholas.’ She shook her head, helplessly. ‘All I remember is being frightened of the water.’
‘Initially, yes. But you overcame your fear, as I knew you would. Even when you slipped in the bath, you didn’t panic.’
‘I slipped?’
‘You were trying to stand. That’s how you bruised yourself.’ He pulled back the duvet and exposed her legs. Shocked, she stared at the swelling below her knee and the bruises on both thighs. ‘I helped you out of the water and dried you off. I put you to bed. I’m amazed you can’t remember.’
‘I didn’t realise I was so drunk.’
‘Then rest and recover. Everything will come back to you in time.’
‘You said we talked about love?’
‘We did. You told me you would love me until the day you die. I need to believe you meant it.’
The silence stretched as he waited for her reply. Her mind remained blank, unmapped, without direction, and he was waiting—no, he was demanding an answer.
‘I meant it,’ she replied, dully.
‘I made the same commitment to you,’ he said. ‘Only death can ever separate us.’
Alone again in the bedroom, her mind raced. He had helped her to face her fears. Why would he lie? And why did the terror she had spent her life trying to curb now feel even more overwhelming? It was so bad that, later, when she entered the en suite and switched on the shower, she was too frightened to stand underneath it. Nicholas found her hunkered on the floor, naked, weeping. He switched off the shower and filled the handbasin with warm water. He drew her to her feet and began to wash her. She quivered, her skin shrivelling, or so it seemed, as he gently ran the sponge over her and wrapped her in a towel before carrying her back to bed.
Twenty-Seven
The nightmares returned, only this time it was her father’s face staring back at her from the waves. Nicholas always woke her. Talking it through with him would banish these night terrors, he believed. Drowning, she said. My dreams are always about drowning. She didn’t tell him the same images haunted her during the day. Water pummelling… bubbles… his face disappearing, appearing, disappearing… cocooned in a towel, on the bed… what then – what then…? At night, in his arms, she was unable to respond to him. Afraid of upsetting him, she faked a pleasure she was far from feeling, her limbs heavy, her mind dull and unresponsive.
’Til death do us part. This then was her marriage. Her wardrobe was filled with his choices. Structured suits, high-collared blouses, sensible shoes, shapeless jogging pants. A blueprint for conformity.
Couples counselling had been cancelled too many times for her to bother making another appointment. Nor had she attended the Well Woman Centre. Nicholas had found the appointment on her phone when, mistaking it for his own – or so he claimed – he picked it up accidentally.
A phone call from Terry Wall, part-owner of Knob Needs, snapped her from her lethargy. The family business in the centre of Dublin had specialised in doorknobs for a hundred years and Terry believed this anniversary was the perfect time for a makeover. Eric, his father, disagreed. Why fix something that wasn’t broken? Amelia, having arranged a meeting, was convinced she could persuade Eric to change his mind once he saw her presentation. She checked the wardrobe and chose a navy suit from among the clothes Nicholas had bought for her. She buttoned a pink blouse with a bow and tucked it into the skirt. Matching navy shoes with block heels and light-coloured tights, densely woven. She chose a lipstick from the row of pink shades on her dressing table. Clutter, Nicholas believed, was the sign of a disorganised mind. Her hand shook as she applied the lipstick and smudged her top lip. Simple acts that were once second nature to her were becoming laboured and clumsy.
Knob Needs had the grey slump of a building long neglected. The interior, though clean, felt oppressive, as if old dust clogged the crevices. Eric greeted her with a grudging handshake but Terry, whose certificate was framed on the wall behind him, had the confident smile of an entrepreneur with a master’s degree in retail marketing.
Amelia switched on her laptop and began her PowerPoint presentation. Eric jutted his bottom lip and crossed his arms, barricading himself against this intrusion into tradition. She ignored his body language and explained how she could lift the old building out of its grimy past. The construction industry was moving out of recession and this was the perfect time for Knob Needs to introduce its doorknobs to a new generation of house buyers.
Suddenly, her mind went blank, like a light switching off, and she floundered in darkness; the words she had rehearsed were forgotten and she was unable to move her hand towards the laptop— …the sea roaring – no – in the bath… water cascading, bubbles… her legs going from under her… floppy body – eyes open… watching – unable to fight back…
Terry was staring at her in alarm and even Eric had abandoned his truculent pose and was sitting straighter in his chair.
‘Is everything okay, Amelia?’ Terry reached her before her legs collapsed and helped her into a chair. She pressed her face into her knees and waited for the dizziness to pass.
‘I’m so sorry.’ She held the back of the chair as she stood up. ‘I’ve no idea what all that was about.’
‘We can call it a day if you like.’ Eric was clearly eager to get back to his doorknobs; but Terry handed her a glass of water and nodded at her to continue. She managed to finish her presentation without any further mishaps but was still feeling shaky when she switched off her laptop.
‘You take care.’ Eric winked at her as she was leaving. ‘And make sure you get plenty of rest. The early months are the toughest.’
Twenty-Eight
Nicholas was thrilled. Blame it on a faulty condom, he said. Water churning. Steam rising. A bedroom door opening. Her body spread-eagled— Amelia forced the bewildering images from her. Yvonne and Henry arrived at Woodbine with champagne. They toasted the future. The first of many babies, Yvonne said. Amelia smiled as she sipped iced water. There was still a hope, faint enough but worth holding onto, that once their child was born, everything would be different. New beginnings were always imprinted with optimism, no matter how dark the circumstances.
In the early bloom of her pregnancy, Amelia felt wonderful. No morning sickness, just some tiredness in the evenings, which passed by the third month. But her hope that her pregnancy would make a difference to Nicholas’s jealousy was short-lived. One night, having returned late from meeting Leanne, who was visiting from New York, Amelia lay doubled up on the floor. Afraid to battle back, as she had done in the past, she was nonetheless no longer thinking only of her own safety as she struggled to catch her breath and pacify Nicholas.
‘Our baby,’ she gasped. ‘What are you trying to do?’
‘My baby?’ He knelt before her and grabbed her shoulders. ‘Swear to me it’s my baby you’re carrying.’
‘You tell me you love me yet you have the nerve to ask such a question.’ Still on her knees, she cradled her stomach protectively.
‘As your husband, I’ve every right to ask it.’ He spoke fast and furiously. Her lies and deceit. How could she blame him for being suspicious? Like moths to a flame, she attracte
d other men with her tight skirts and low-cut tops. In an effort to appease him, she allowed him to help her to her feet. She knew the pattern by now. She had married a man who uttered meaningless apologies, found meaningless excuses for actions that stemmed from only one source. Violent anger. She was no different from the battered wives who she had always imagined as being meek, bedraggled women, worn down by constant abuse. She had refused to equate herself with them. Allowed love to blindfold her. It was easier to be in denial than to admit she had made a catastrophic mistake. Her father had been right all along. Emptiness. Her husband’s eyes were devoid of emotion if one cared to look deep enough into them, as he was now forcing her to do.
* * *
He arrived home the following evening with flowers, a twine-tied bouquet of pale pink lilies and roses. His ability to act as if everything could continue as it did before his outbursts had baffled her in the beginning. Was it a deliberate ploy to normalise their lives in the aftermath or did he genuinely believe his behaviour could be forgiven and forgotten so easily? When he was relaxed – and she was still able to recognise the man she loved – he always dismissed her efforts to reason with him as overreactions, exaggerations, histrionics. Somehow, in the flow of words between them, she had lost the power to argue. In doing so, she minimised his brutality. Boxed it off until the next confrontation.
Unable to tolerate another token of his repentance, Amelia took the bouquet with her when she left Woodbine the following morning. She braked at the spot where her father’s body had been found and hunkered down before the small white cross she had erected soon after his funeral.
Cremation was what he had wanted when he died, he had told Amelia once. Her mother had also been cremated. Both of them had had their ashes scattered from the summit of the Sugar Loaf. She was five when her mother’s ash-scattering took place. The ashes whirling in the wind had reminded her of the starlings that speckled the sky above Woodbine in the evenings.
She had felt unable to let go of John’s ashes until the first anniversary of his death. Billy Tobin had accompanied her and Nicholas to the Sugar Loaf. She had been standing a short distance from Nicholas when she emptied the urn and the wind, turning freakishly, had blown the ashes back into his face. Shocked and repulsed, his hands over his eyes, he had stumbled down the mountain. She had been unable to keep up with him. When she reached the spot where he had parked his car, she discovered he had left without her. Billy drove her back to Woodbine, where she found Nicholas in the bath, scrubbing furiously at his skin.
The white cross on the crest of the grassy embankment had become Amelia’s place of repose. Once a week, she left fresh flowers in front of it, and she stopped there every day for a few moments to remember her father. Not that John was ever far from her thoughts. She removed a bunch of wilting daffodils from a terracotta vase and replaced them with the pink bouquet.
That evening, as she drove past the white cross, she noticed that the vase had toppled over. She stopped her car and crossed the path to the grass. The flowers had been removed.
Below her, she heard the low gurgle of water running, wending its way past clusters of bluebells and cowslips. It sounded louder than usual, rising as it always did at this time of year. The roaring filled her ears… and the choking sensation returned, of not being able to breathe, her face in water… in the bath… Jagged images, their velocity shocking her to a standstill. That was how those images came, like rags fluttering on a prayer tree, too scattered to form a coherent shape.
When she got back to Woodbine, the cloying scent of lilies filled the hall. The bouquet had been returned to the glass vase on the console table. The roses had yet to open but the orange stamens on the lilies arched towards her like vulgar tongues. She entered the kitchen, where Nicholas, wearing a striped butcher’s apron, was preparing their evening meal.
‘How was your day?’ He smiled across at her, knife in hand as he sliced peppers and tomatoes. Minced beef and onions, flavoured, she could tell by the smell, with cumin, paprika and chilli, sizzled in a saucepan on the hob.
‘Busy, as usual.’ She unbuttoned her jacket and laid it over the back of the chair. This game could be played by two. ‘When did you arrive home?’
‘About thirty minutes ago. The traffic was okay for a change. I made good time.’ He added the peppers and tomatoes to the saucepan. ‘I hope you’re hungry. I’m making chilli con carne.’
‘Sounds good.’ Her eyes stung from the spicy aromas as she set the table. She strained the rice, dressed the salad. They worked well together, a coordinated team. When they sat down to eat, he opened a bottle of Merlot. She drank Ballygowan water with a slice of lemon. The flowers were never mentioned.
They wilted over the following fortnight, their leaves browning, the blowsy rose petals falling. Dust from the stamens peppered the console table and their overpowering scent nauseated her whenever she walked through the hall.
Finally, one evening, they were missing when she returned from work. The table had been polished, the rancid water emptied from the vase. A small victory? She felt no elation, no sense of having scored a point. This was a waiting game and she had no idea how the next round would go.
* * *
He lay beside her in bed, his hand on her stomach making a gentle, circular movement that was meant to soothe her. His touch was repugnant to her but she stayed still, afraid to jeopardise the tiny life they had created.
The following day as she was discussing a project with a client, her mobile rang. She was about to cancel the call when she realised it was Billy Tobin. Startled, she apologised to the client and walked out of earshot. Billy would never ring her at work unless it was an emergency.
‘Is something wrong, Billy?’ she asked.
‘I’m not sure,’ he replied. ‘I thought I’d better check with you, just in case. There are a couple of boyos here from the council. They’re taking John’s cross down. They say they’ve permission to do so. You didn’t mention anything about it when I was talking to you a few days ago, so I’m just letting you know.’
‘I never gave anyone permission to touch that cross. Where are you now?’
‘I’m standing right beside them.’
‘Let me speak to whoever’s in charge.’
‘Jim Jackson here, Missus.’ The tone was brusque, impatient. ‘What’s your problem?’
‘My problem is that you’ve no right to touch that cross. I had permission from the council to erect it.’
‘There’s been complaints. It’s a traffic hazard.’
‘That’s nonsense. It’s such a small cross. It’s hardly visible from the road.’
‘Orders are orders, Missus. I’m afraid it has to go.’
‘We’ll see about that. Don’t dare touch it until I speak to someone in authority.’
‘That’ll be Maura Gowan.’
‘I want her number.’ Amelia jotted it down, conscious that her client was glancing at his watch.
‘I’m so sorry for that interruption.’ She returned to her drawing board, where she had sketched some preliminary ideas.
‘You look upset,’ he said. ‘Is everything all right?’
‘It’s a mix-up. I’ll sort it out later.’ She tapped a pencil on the sketch. ‘As I was saying, vertical blinds would be the best option on those windows.’ She hurried through the remaining details and rang Maura Gowan as soon as he left. An automated voice asked her to press a number, then another. Finally, she reached the woman’s voicemail. Clipped and authoritative, Maura Gowan ordered her to leave a message.
She rang Billy. ‘What’s the situation?’ she asked.
‘They’re still here but they haven’t removed the cross yet,’ he replied.
‘I’m on my way.’ The waiting game with Nicholas was over.
Twenty-Nine
The traffic had yet to reach its evening peak when she drove onto the N11, heading for Wicklow. The council workers were gone by the time she reached Kilfarran Lane where poppies, crushed by the
boots of the workmen, splashed a blood-red stain on the embankment. The last flowers she had left there had also been trampled underfoot and the terracotta vase was broken in half and partially covered by a mound of mud. It marked the spot where the cross used to stand. She knelt down and touched the earth. When she closed her eyes, the same well-known image assaulted her. She gasped aloud, as she did so often in her nightmares. Only now she was awake and conscious of the hard earth under her knees. The chilling east wind rising.
Her mobile rang. ‘Mrs Madison, Maura Gowan here. Regarding your query about the roadside shrine―’
‘Why was my father’s cross removed?’
‘We wrote to you twice outlining the complaints we’d received from motorists. As you ignored our correspondence we had no option but to take action.’
‘I never received any letters.’
‘They were sent from this office. The second one was registered. I have the details of its delivery in front of me. And when your husband spoke to us―’
‘My husband?’
‘We rang your landline, Mrs Madison, and left a message with him. I’m sorry for any distress the removal of the cross has caused you. But we did give you ample opportunity to address this issue with us.’
* * *
No sign of Nicholas downstairs, no cooking smells emanating from the kitchen. A sound from an upstairs room alerted her. She opened the door of the room they had chosen as the nursery. A two-sided, folding ladder stood in the centre of the floor and Nicholas, in paint-splattered dungarees, was painting the ceiling.
‘You’re home early.’ He replaced the roller in the paint tray and climbed down.
