Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  I hastily wipe away my tears with the flat of my hands, comb my fingers through my tousled hair and get shakily to my feet. My head is throbbing from the crack I gave it as I landed, and every bone seems to jangle and ache. By a miracle nothing seems to be broken, no serious damage done, so far as I can tell. Heart quaking, I go to the door. If this is some busy body poking her nose in, I know I mustn’t let on what has happened. If Oliver believed for one moment that I was gossiping about him to the neighbours I’d be in for worse punishment.

  It’s a very kind elderly lady who lives opposite us, just across the road. ‘Are you all right, dear?’ she asks, her face anxious.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ I beam at her with a false brightness. ‘I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?’

  ‘Well, I thought I was seeing things just now, only you looked like you were flying through the air. Then your husband came out slamming the door and I – I just wondered . . .’ She looks deeply embarrassed. ‘You are all right?’

  ‘Yes, of course. We were playing a silly game, which got a bit out of hand,’ I lie. ‘Just having fun, a bit of rough and tumble. You know how it is. Unfortunately, it made him late for his golf, so he dashed off in a terrible hurry.’ I’m deeply aware that I’m over-explaining and talking absolute rubbish. I can see disbelief writ large and clear in her sympathetic gaze, but I just want her to go away and leave me alone. I try a smile. ‘He never can close a door quietly.’

  She’s still hovering on my doorstep, as if half expecting me to invite her in, perhaps so that she can investigate the scene of the crime more closely. I keep on smiling inanely and finally she takes the hint and starts to back away, but not before suggesting I pop in for a coffee any time I want to talk. I thank her for her kind invitation, but have no intention of accepting. Oliver would really go mad if I risked such a thing. I watch her go with relief then stand behind the closed door breathing hard and shaking with nerves. Keeping up a front is not going to be easy.

  There’s a small voice at the back of my head telling me that I should leave, that I should get out now, while I still can. But we’ve been married only a few short months and I feel shamed by my inability to make my new husband happy. How can I admit that my marriage is over, after such a short time? Everyone will think there’s something wrong with me. Maybe there is something wrong with me, otherwise this wouldn’t be happening. I must have done something to deserve this battering. Oliver has said as much a thousand times.

  But if he is the one with the problem, then surely it’s my duty, as his loving wife, to stay and help him put it right. It would certainly feel like failure if I left and gave up so soon. I’m not yet ready to accept defeat.

  My parents too would be devastated. I’d never be able to convince them of what he is doing to me. Oliver would deny it and win them round into believing he was innocent, I just know he would. Besides, they’re still paying for the wedding.

  I’m twenty-five years old and in love, desperate to make my marriage work, to please my new husband. I don’t feel I have any choice but to stick it out and try to put things right.

  The sofa incident is typical because when he comes home later that day he holds me tenderly in his arms and kisses me, almost goes down on his knees to beg my forgiveness. I try not to analyse what happened and why, I’m just so grateful that he still loves me, still wants me. I have this constant yearning to feel his arms about me, for the man I love to reaffirm his love for me, and I’m so relieved when he takes me in his arms and does just that. Every new marriage has its teething problems, I tell myself, and I’ve come to appreciate how very much I depend upon him. I can’t bear him to be angry with me.

  I mention the neighbour calling to enquire after me, hoping this will embarrass him into behaving better in future. Instead, he sounds off against interfering busybodies, instructs me to buy blinds to put up at every window. ‘We don’t want that old faggot watching every damn thing we do!’

  I quake at the thought of shutting myself off from the world into a prison of my own making, making me feel more isolated than ever, but of course I do as he says. I order stylish Venetian blinds for every window. Far easier to do as I’m told.

  For some reason this morning my head feels remarkably clear, and I know I must do something. It’s a week or two later, the blinds have been fitted and our neighbour across the street barely glances at me as I walk by. She’s clearly got the message that her concern is not welcome. I feel awful about this, more isolated than ever, as if I’m rejecting her offer of friendship because of something awful and secret that is going on behind these blanked out windows. Which is true, and it fills me with shame.

  I bring Oliver a cup of tea as usual, then beg him to listen to me. I need to explain how I feel in the hope we can shape some sort of solution that will suit us both, try to bring some equality and happiness into our marriage. He dismisses my suggestion with a wave of his hand, not even having the patience to listen.

  ‘What is you want from me now?’ he snaps, rather like a petulant child.

  I sit quietly on the end of the bed, keeping my voice studiously calm. ‘I’d like you to go for counselling Oliver, to anger management classes or whatever they call them. I want you to speak to your doctor about this temper of yours. Maybe you’re sick.’

  His face darkens and he slams his mug down on the bedside table, spilling tea everywhere. ‘Are you saying I’m mentally deranged or something?’

  ‘I’m saying you need help.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ he scoffs, and, ignoring the mess, flings himself out of bed and starts to get dressed. ‘I haven’t time to listen to your nonsense. You’ll make me late for work. Haven’t you even started cooking my breakfast yet? In any case, we’ve been over this a thousand times. You’re the one at fault here, the one ruining our relationship. You’ve neglected me all summer because of that pathetic job of yours, assuming I’ll do your chores when you can’t be bothered cook me decent meals. You make no attempt to look after the house properly. You constantly ignore me by sticking your head in a book for hours on end, and by bringing work home. Yet you complain if I go out with my friends, as if I should be romancing you every bloody night. No wonder I get angry. You drive me to it.’

  I listen to his exaggerated claims of my alleged failures and feel like crying with frustration. He does not see any necessity to change his own behaviour or attitudes. Oliver has no ability to share, to give and take, or to see me as anything other than a creature put upon this earth to wait upon him, to kowtow to his every whim and be bullied and controlled if I get it wrong, which I’m bound to do since his demands are so unrealistic.

  I try to explain this to him. ‘You’re too demanding, Oliver. I don’t think I can take much more. I know you claim to have been let down by your ex in the past, but there must be more to it than that. You need to admit that you have a problem. If you can only explain to me why you behave in this way, I’m perfectly willing to listen, and to help in any way I can. That’s what married people do, they share their concerns and fears.’

  ‘There’s nothing to talk about, you stupid woman! Stop trying to manipulate me. Stop bloody nagging!’

  He’s hovering over me in an intimidating manner and I can see his ears growing red, the familiar white line of tension forming above his upper lip, which is always a bad sign. I push him away and start pulling clothes out of the drawers. ‘Then I’m leaving you. I can’t go on like this, I really can’t.’ My heart is in my mouth as I say this, knowing he could easily explode all over again, but I feel I have to use desperate measures to make my point.

  He doesn’t explode but suddenly sinks down on to the bed and puts his head in his hands. ‘Christ, Carly, don’t do this to me. How could I live without you? I need you.’

  ‘Perhaps you need me too much,’ I say. ‘You’re draining the life out of me, Oliver. You’re destroying us both!’

  ‘You don’t love me any more, that’s it, isn’t it?’ he asks, his eyes filled with such agony th
at my heart turns over.

  I go and sit beside him, gently take his hand. ‘That’s not true, I do love you, Oliver, but I can’t live like this. I cannot spend my life trying to appease you. I can’t cope with these black moods of yours; the way you suddenly blow up over nothing and start hitting me.’

  ‘But I couldn’t survive without you, Carly.’ Tears are shining in his eyes, his expression morose, the onset of depression in the droop of his shoulders. ‘I’d top myself, I would really.’

  My heart starts to beat rather fast, and I feel close to tears myself. ‘Don’t say such things. Please. I don’t want to leave you, I just want you to stop hitting me. I need to understand why you treat me so badly.’

  ‘It’s because I was abused too,’ he suddenly blurts out in soft, hushed tones.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s true. My parents abused me for years.’

  This really rocks me back on my heels. I look at him in appalled disbelief, his words sending a chill to my heart. Can this be the reason he’s so messed up? I can’t quite take it in. Mr and Mrs Sheldon have always struck me as a perfectly nice, friendly couple, a bit straight-laced perhaps, strong on religion, but decent, honest folk. I say as much to him. ‘No, surely not. I can’t imagine your mother, or your father, doing such a thing.’

  He reacts by snatching his hand away, giving me a furious glare. ‘Are you suggesting that I’m lying?’

  ‘No, not really, but . . . how did they abuse you? What exactly did they do?’

  He lets out a shuddering sigh. ‘I find it very difficult to talk about.’

  ‘I’m sure you do, but please try.’ I lovingly stroke his hand. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘They’ve always been strict and very religious. My mother in particular succeeded in making my young life an absolute misery. She was very impatient, always losing her temper with me. She’d get so angry she’d lock me in a cupboard or beat me with a strap.’

  ’Oh, my God!’ I watch my husband break down in tears and I’m filled with compassion. This must be the reason he abuses me. His parents are the ones to blame for all of this. Not only has he been hurt by a previous relationship, but his own mother has abused him for years. No wonder he has a problem relating to women. If Oliver’s life has been so difficult, is it any wonder he’s an emotional mess? This would surely explain his unpredictable and violent behaviour towards me, wouldn’t it? Doesn’t society generally assume that a bad childhood can cause a man to become an abuser? He’s as much a victim as I am. I feel a nudge of guilt that I hadn’t taken the trouble to learn this important fact about him already.

  What I don’t see is that he is the master of the hard luck story. It doesn’t occur to me that in describing his childhood as one of abuse, this is the best way to tug at my heartstrings and make me feel sorry for him. I don’t even consider that he might be lying, even though I’m aware he’s always keen to get to my parents before I do, to lay the blame for some squabble or other squarely on me, like the time he accused me of flirting with that damn waiter, never owning up to the fact that he’d hit me. I fail to realise that whether or not this story is true, it deflects attention away from the person really at fault: himself. And by focusing on his mother he gets to blame a woman for his mistreatment of women. I don’t understand any of this until years later. Right now I simply believe him. Yet another mistake.

  ‘Have you ever told anyone about this?’ I ask. ‘Have you received counselling for it?’

  ‘No, it’s not something I care to talk about,’ he confesses, as he pulls me close in his arms. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve taken out my misery on you and treated you badly, but it’s all due to this huge sense of insecurity I feel. I promise I’ll never hurt you again. I’m sure everything will be fine now that we’ve confronted my demons. It was so good of you, darling, to suggest I open my soul and explain. What a treasure and a comfort you are to me.’ As he kisses me, tender with gratitude, I’m blinded by my love for him, desperate to help my husband overcome his misery.

  Nevertheless, as gently as I can, I stick to my argument and try to make my case. ‘If you really were abused as a child then you will understand from personal experience how dreadful it feels. If you think about how you suffered, it may help you to stop falling into the trap of abusing others. Me, in fact, since I’m the only one you turn on.’

  ‘But that’s because I love you so much, because my feelings for you are so strong. They say you always hurt the one closest to you. I can’t seem to help myself.’

  ‘You have to promise that you’ll try. Remind yourself how awful it is to live in fear, and yet be told it’s all your own fault.’

  ‘Oh, I do see that, darling.’ He’s kissing me now, anxious to prove his love for me. ‘I do understand what you’re saying, and you’ve helped me so much, really you have. Now go and make my breakfast and let’s not talk about it any more.’

  ‘That’s not another bruise, is it?’ I’m again cleaning a bath and as my shirt parts company with my jeans Emma tugs it up still further to frown at the sight of the emerging bruise on my back. ‘What happened this time? Not the cupboard door again?’

  I hastily tuck the shirt back into place, turning my face away as I’m only too aware that my cheeks are burning. I give a shaky laugh. ‘Slipped on the floor when I was mopping it,’ I improvise.

  ‘What, not your non-slip tiled floor in your new designer kitchen?’

  ‘The very same,’ I jokily reply, in a parody of our earlier conversation.

  She says no more on the subject but later, as we drive back to the office, she suddenly says, ‘You’d tell me if there was a problem, Carly, wouldn’t you?’

  I look out at the lake, glimmering silver against the backdrop of woods and mountains beyond, at the glorious palette of colours, of red, saffron and gold. There is nowhere more beautiful than the Lake District in early autumn. ‘Why would there be?’ But even I’m aware of a slight catch in my voice.

  She falls silent again as we wind our way slowly up the hill through Bowness, as usual stuck in a line of traffic. Emma parks in the car park next to the cinema and turns to me, her face serious. ‘Marriage isn’t always plain sailing. Unexpected problems can crop up, and there’s no shame in talking things over with an old friend.’

  I’ve never given her any indication of the difficulties I’m having, but her soft hazel eyes are shrewd and kind as they quietly regard me. ‘Everyone has the odd hiccup,’ I agree.

  ‘I do realise things haven’t always been hunky-dory between the pair of you. Oliver made his feelings on your working evenings pretty plain from the start. He once rang to insist I allow you more time off.’

  My eyebrows shoot up in dismay. ‘He did what? Why didn’t you tell me? He really had no right to do that, I’m so sorry.’

  Emma shrugs. ‘No sweat, you were just married, still love’s young dream at the time, so I didn’t mind. Although the way he keeps turning up whenever we’re trying to grab a quick drink together or have a private chat about business matters, is seriously weird. As is the suggestion he made that you should give up your car, delivering you each morning and picking you up at the end of each day. How controlling is that?’

  I’m appalled that she’s observed everything so thoroughly, been harbouring these reservations about my marriage without saying a word, and arrived at some dangerously accurate conclusions. I quickly speak up in his defence. ‘My husband has a few problems, admittedly, but he’s dealing with them.’

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying so,’ Emma continues, as if I haven’t spoken, ‘he seems remarkably possessive. He’s far too demanding, seems to like having all his own way and keep you to himself.’ She holds up her hands in a placatory fashion as I attempt to interrupt. ‘Okay, you don’t have to say it, I know it’s none of my business. But the way he marched into the pub that time and ordered you home was appalling. I’d deck any man who tried that on with me.’

  ‘He didn’t order me,’ I say, feeling rather breathless and ann
oyed with her, not quite knowing how to deal with this.

  ‘Virtually. I do just wonder where this is all leading.’

  I’m smarting with embarrassment by this time, so perhaps my reaction to her concern is impulsive and instinctive rather than wise. Had she not gone into full criticism mode of Oliver I might have confided in her, as it is, I’m totally on the defensive now. I certainly don’t pause to think through the effect of my words. ‘Actually, you’re right. It is none of your business. I’ve already told you that he has one or two problems, which we’re dealing with, but I think that what goes on between myself and my husband is private, don’t you?’

  There’s a long awkward silence while we both sit there, breathing hard, trying to find a way out of this impasse. Emma is the one to break it.

  ‘Okay, I’ll consider my wrists duly slapped. I’m not one to pry. We’ll leave it at that, shall we? Except . . .’ She’s about to get out of the car but then pauses to rummage in her bag, and hands me a key.

  I look at it lying in the palm of my hand. ‘What’s this?’

  ‘It’s a key.’

  ‘I can see that. What’s it for?’

  ‘My front door. Should you ever feel the need to use it.’

  I look at her. ‘Why would I?’

  Em shrugs, gives a tight little smile. ‘Search me. It’s a spare, I don’t need it. Call it insurance. Now, what do you say to a coffee before we tackle today’s post and hopefully the latest tranch of bookings?’

  I swallow a lump that’s somehow lodged in my throat. How is it Em is so wise and all-seeing when my family are deaf, dumb and blind? Yet I know I can’t tell her. God knows what Oliver would do if I gave so much as a hint as to what went on behind closed doors. Besides, following our recent conversation on the subject, I’m convinced I understand his problem now. Everyone says that child abuse can really screw a person up. And even though he still refuses to see a counsellor, I have every faith that together, Oliver and I can put things right at last. I’m sure I can help him feel better about himself so that he’ll stop taking out his bitterness on me. I climb out of the car. But I have no intention of discussing all this private business with my friend. ‘I’ll go and buy some doughnuts, shall I?’