Trapped

by Freda Lightfoot

  ‘Good idea.’

  Nothing further is said about the key but I tuck it into my bag anyway, for no reason I can properly explain. Maybe because I’ve always considered it wise to invest in insurance.

  Chapter Eight

  It’s as if Oliver is two persons. He holds me to this strict regime he’s devised, keeping me in line which he feels is his right, slapping me down if he thinks I’ve slighted or disobeyed him out of lack of consideration or whatever. If I fail in some way, if I overstep the mark and offend him, then I apparently deserve to be punished. He’ll call me all manner of abusive names to intimidate me, or refuse to listen properly to what I have to say, wearing me down with pointless arguments.

  The strange thing is he’ll then storm out of the house in a furious rage after one of these scenes and, minutes later, I’ll see him chatting happily with George across the road, or helping Mrs Thomas to trim her hedge. Mr Nice Guy doing his bit for the neighbours.

  Why is it, I wonder, that he’s so friendly with everyone but me? I wonder what it is about his own wife that brings out the devil in him, that triggers these black moods and changes him into this entirely different person? Other people, neighbours, friends, even my own family, think he’s great! He’s very liberal and supportive of women in public, but doesn’t practice what he preaches in private, certainly not with me at home. He presents himself as Mr Wonderful, so how could I convince anyone of this darker side to his nature?

  Em is surely beginning to suspect that our marriage is not quite as wonderful as it might appear. Why didn’t I tell her the truth? I wonder. Pride? Shame? Guilt? A hope that things will improve before I need to? All of the above.

  The trouble is, since I was the one who told everyone that Oliver was Mr Wonderful in the first place, I’m embarrassed to admit that I was wrong. It’s far too shaming to confess that I made a mistake when we’ve not yet reached our first anniversary, may never do so at this rate.

  I badly need some help and advice, but from whom? I’m not aware of any woman’s refuge available in this rural area. There must be somewhere I can turn for advice on how best to deal with my problem. I need to learn how I can persuade Oliver to get the help he so badly needs.

  I decide against going to see the doctor. Apart from a few bruises, rapidly fading now, I have no physical proof. Oliver has learned from his earlier mistakes and is now extraordinarily skilled at knowing how far he can go without causing too much visible damage. Besides, the doc has known me since I was a small child, knows my entire family very well indeed, and somehow it wouldn’t feel comfortable. I realise such information is supposed to be kept confidential but how can I be sure he wouldn’t let something slip to my mum.

  I go to see the vicar. Okay, I’m not the most religious person in the world but I’ve attended church sporadically all my life, and he married us after all. I’ve practised what I want to say but sitting before him in the church vestry I find myself stumbling over the words. I clumsily try to explain my dilemma, making it clear that Oliver is not an alcoholic, nor does he use drugs.

  ‘He claims to have been abused himself as a child, and I’m doing my best to help him deal with that, only it’s not easy. He is very violent, increasingly so, and I don’t know how much longer I can cope,’ I burst out, close to tears.

  ‘Oh dear, I’m sorry to hear all of this, Carly. I thought Oliver seemed such a nice young man.’

  I dig a bunch of tissues out of my pocket and blow my nose, wipe my eyes, struggling to bring myself back under control. ‘Most people do, but he’s a Jekyll and Hyde character, believe me. An absolute charmer in public, but not in private, with me.’

  The vicar’s expression is professionally sympathetic as he asks me how long this has been going on, how it all began. I relate Oliver’s sudden change in attitude over my erratic working hours following our marriage, the story of the failed quiche, and of his objection to the unsocial hours I work.

  He smiles and nods as if he understands perfectly. ‘A woman’s role is not easy, having to balance two disparate areas of her life,’ he admits. ‘Marriage is a sacred estate not to be lightly undertaken or abandoned, and it is certainly important, in the early years particularly, to be a caring and attentive wife. Have you managed to change your hours?’

  I look at him in disbelief. Shouldn’t he be asking why Oliver doesn’t change his attitude? ‘It’s a new business,’ I explain. ‘I can’t leave my partner to do all the awkward unsocial hours while I clock off on the dot of five every day. That wouldn’t be right. She allowed me what leeway she could in those first months of my marriage, but I have to do my share.’

  ‘Of course, of course.’ He coughs, shifts in his seat and looks slightly embarrassed. ‘May I ask, Carly, if there might be some other reason behind this problem. Are you for instance, withholding sex?’

  I walk out, slamming the church door behind me.

  Oliver is constantly criticising how I look, saying that I’ve let myself go, which I don’t believe is true at all. I enjoy looking smart and fashionable, as does any woman, but on a number of occasions recently he’s insisted that I take a garment back to the shop, accusing me of having no eye for colour. I tend to go for more neutral shades: cream and beige and tan, which set off my fair hair. Oliver says they make me look like a dull mouse. Am I dull? Is that how he sees me? I stand looking at myself in the mirror, a pile of clothes on the bed behind me, already rejected as I try to decide what to wear. I select a bright turquoise blouse, then reject that too. If I wear jewel colours, blues or reds, he accuses me of looking cheap. He likes my lipstick to be quietly restrained in company, barely visible, although he loves me to wear a dazzling sexy pink when we’re alone.

  We’ve been asked to go to Sunday lunch at my sister’s house, which is the first invitation we’ve had from her in a long while, but I’m taking great care not to overdress so that I don’t inflame her sarcasm. Jo-Jo loves to accuse me of showing off, of making myself appear better than her, and the last thing I want is to cause offence when she’s feeling particularly vulnerable over her latest pregnancy. But Oliver’s attitude isn’t helping. I feel torn between the two of them.

  I always try to compliment him when he looks good, which he generally does. I’m fortunate to have such a good looking guy for a husband. Oliver prides himself on his style and appearance, insisting upon creases in his trousers as sharp as a razor. He likes it when I praise him as it makes him feel good about himself, and he used to be very complimentary about me once upon a time, before we were married. There’s been little praise forthcoming recently.

  Maybe he goes on about my clothes so much because he no longer fancies me, or perhaps he senses a reserve in me. I freely confess, to myself at least, that I’m less interested in making love than I used to be, although I’m careful not to show it, or risk inflaming his temper by objecting to sex. I’m too worried to relax too, filled with anxiety over how best to deal with this problem we seem to have.

  Things are no better between us and I’m desperately trying to think of a way to help him over this child abuse issue. I wonder if speaking to his parents and getting the full story might help, but I quail at the prospect. They’re very correct and proper, and how would I go about it? I can’t just ask his mother, straight out, if she ever abused him. It’s unthinkable. So I’m still struggling to find a solution.

  And whenever I try to raise the subject again with Oliver, he’ll roll his eyes and moan. ‘Not another heart to heart, an in-depth discussion where you complain about the way I allegedly hurt you, or I’m supposed to bare my soul over some perceived problem which is apparently screwing up my mind. I’ve told you, I can’t bear to talk about it.’

  ‘I just want to help.’

  ‘Well you aren’t helping, not in the least. So stop going on about it, all right?’

  He’s developed a knack for blocking the problem out of his head, as well as refusing to accept the evidence of my hurt feelings. He’s even showing less compassio
n towards me these days, simply dismissing my distress by accusing me of making too much fuss.

  I can see that this whole situation is making him particularly tetchy, but I feel I must stand by him, and help him come to terms with his troubled past. Even if it weren’t my duty, as his wife, I love him and want him to deal with these negative feelings he has, which will hopefully improve the way he treats me as a result. The trouble is, he still doesn’t accept that he has a problem.

  ‘Just look at you,’ he says to me now. ‘I’m not taking you out to lunch in jeans.’

  ‘They’re my best, and we’re only going to Jo-Jo’s. In any case, they go so well with this lovely pale blue top. The very latest style, and quite sexy, don’t you think?’

  He glowers at me, puts his head on one side and sighs heavily. ‘Unexciting, too low in the neck, and the colour doesn’t suit you.’

  ‘But . . .’

  ‘I’m surely entitled to care about how my wife looks and what she wears, particularly in public.’

  I smile and pop a kiss on his cheek. ‘Stop fretting, Oliver. The top, and the jeans, are fine. No one else will be dressed up, not with the children present.’

  ‘You’re a damned stubborn, woman, you know that? You do so love to show me up and make me look bad in front of other people. Can’t you see that it reflects upon me if you don’t look your best? You should be flattered I still fancy you, when you make such little effort to please me.’

  I protest vigorously. ‘I do try to please you, all the time, Oliver. Of course I do.’

  ‘Well, it doesn’t show. There’s no easy way to say this Carly, but you look a mess. Sloppy. You know that I only want what is best for you.’ As he has told me a thousand times, over and over, like a stuck record. He looks pointedly at his watch, then orders me to hurry up and change into something more respectable, sounding very like a sergeant-major addressing a recalcitrant private. ‘And don’t shilly-shally. You know how your sister hates it if we’re late.’

  I go back into the house to change, as instructed. It’s easier that way. Besides, I can no longer judge what I look good in.

  He waits for me in the car and when I’m not out in the allotted five minutes, leans the heel of his hand on the horn. Up in our bedroom I dash about like a mad thing, scramble into fresh clothes, touch up my lipstick and hair, and I’m out of the house moments later in such a fluster that I forget to lock the door.

  Oliver shouts at me to go back and do it. ‘And don’t forget to switch on the damn alarm.’

  Finally I flop into the car and his eyes roam over me to appraise my choice of outfit this time: a maroon skirt suit, way over the top for a family lunch. He grunts with what might be termed approval. ‘I suppose it’s a slight improvement, but buy something in a more flattering colour next time, will you, and with not quite such a short skirt. We don’t want you looking like a tart.’

  It was only when her sister and brother-in-law walked in, looking all formal and smart, that Jo-Jo saw her home through their eyes, with baby stuff and toys everywhere and children running about demented. It must look very much like Bedlam. The handsome couple stood awkwardly before her, Carly trying to smile, Oliver wearing his holier-than-thou expression, his mouth tight and grim, making it very evident that he’d rather be anywhere than having lunch with a bunch of rowdy infants.

  ‘My, my, you do look smart,’ Jo-Jo caustically remarked to her sister. ‘I’m honoured. But for God’s sake don’t let our Ryan anywhere near that suit or he’ll be sick all over it.’

  Oliver kissed the air an inch from his sister-in-law’s cheek, then escaped out on to the patio with Ed and a glass of beer. Jo-Jo headed for the kitchen to check on the beef, Carly trailing after her. At least the pair of them were talking as they got the meal ready, stilted and awkward though it might be.

  The conversation didn’t flow too easily as they ate either, but then the entire lunch felt like a living nightmare to Jo-Jo, with one child refusing to eat meat, and another smearing mashed potato all over his high chair. It was a relief when the little terrors were finally sent out to play in the garden. Ed refilled their wine glasses, all except his wife’s who wasn’t drinking because of her condition, and the adults could at last sit back and relax.

  Jo-Jo was acutely aware of Oliver’s sideways glances of disapproval in her direction, no doubt aimed at her thickening waistline. It made her feel like a saggy pudding whereas Carly looked all sexy and shapely and smart. But then failing to find a way to stop having babies was a bit stupid. Inevitably, the conversation had moved on to the subject of babies and marriage.

  ‘Would you do it again?’ Jo-Jo cheekily asked her sister, as she sipped her boring orange juice. ‘I’m not sure I would,’ playfully patting her bump and making everyone laugh.

  ‘No, I don’t think I would either,’ Carly calmly answered, which wiped the smile off everyone’s face and stunned them all into silence.

  Oliver glared at his wife. ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

  Much to Jo-Jo’s amusement he sounded affronted and petulant, deeply offended by the remark, which made everyone laugh all the more. Her own lovely Ed, on the other hand, didn’t seem in the least put out by his wife’s apparent disloyalty.

  Carly gave a little half smile as she sipped her wine. ‘I don’t know why, maybe because I’m still young and feel I should have enjoyed life a bit more before tying myself down to all this domestic goddess bit. I’ve decided that I absolutely hate ironing, particularly shirts.’

  Jo-Jo roared with laughter. ‘Oh, I do agree. I think I’m turning into my mother, or worse into Ed’s mother, permanently attached to that ironing board.’

  ‘I wish I’d paid more attention to Mum when she was trying to teach me how to cook,’ Carly mourned, letting Ed refill her glass a second time. I have to ask the butcher what sort of steak I should buy for a casserole, and I’d no idea kidneys could look so revolting in the raw.’

  ‘I know exactly what you mean,’ Jo-Jo agreed, grimacing with distaste. ‘Although I do so enjoy a tasty steak and kidney pie, and I love to see Ed in a white shirt, so sexy, so I suppose I’ll have to go on ironing them.’

  Ed grinned, while Oliver continued to stare at them all in disbelief.

  ‘But couldn’t they occasionally do something around the house, at least wield the vacuum?’ Carly asked, waving her glass about to illustrate her point.

  ‘Come the revolution.’

  ‘Hey, hold on,’ Ed protested. ‘I often cook the evening meal while you’re putting the kids to bed. I’m not entirely hopeless in the kitchen.’

  ‘That’s true,’ his wife agreed, kissing him. ‘And I do appreciate it, really I do. But you don’t do cleaning, darling, do you? I don’t think Ed knows we even have a broom cupboard under the stairs, let alone what’s in it.’

  ‘Oh, Oliver doesn’t either. And he seems to think microwaves, cookers, washing machines and irons have one important instruction – ‘To be operated by females only.’ Carly kissed Oliver, his mouth wooden in its fixed smile.

  ‘Quite right too,’ Ed joked, and clapped his brother-in-law on the back. ‘I don’t you how you get away with it, mate. You must give me some tips.

  Jo-Jo was wiping tears of laughter from her eyes. ‘Married life not turning out to be quite so blissfully happy as you expected then, Sis?’ She couldn’t resist teasing her younger sister.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it’ll turn out fine, won’t it darling?’ Carly insisted, smiling at her husband who flickered the travesty of a smile in return. ‘Or it will be if we survive the first twelve months, or maybe the first twenty-five years which Mum insists are the most difficult. But I still say that marriage comes as more of a shock to women than men. We’re the ones who have to keep the home fires burning, do all the washing, ironing, cleaning, bed making, cooking, et cetera, et cetera, while you lads swan off whenever you please.’

  Ed said, ‘Aw, you can’t fool us. Women love all that home-making stuff.’

  ‘And men lik
e to play lord and master. Yet women have rights too,’ Carly continued, stubbornly sticking to her argument.

  Ed topped up her wine, enjoying the lively debate even as he conceded she might have a point. ‘We’re all equal, and I, for one, wouldn’t dream of depriving you lovely ladies of your due rights, what do you say, Oliver?’

  Oliver slipped an arm round his wife’s shoulders and gave her a tight little squeeze which caused her smile to slip a fraction, yet he was still smiling, flexing that easy charm of his. ‘Of course women have rights, haven’t I always said so?’

  Unfortunately, the wine had loosened Carly’s tongue and stoked up her usually fragile confidence. ‘Oliver, really, you certainly don’t give the impression to me of a man who understands equal rights,’ she retaliated, stifling a slight hiccup.

  Oliver’s laughter by way of response sounded hollow and unconvincing, and as he pretended to kiss her ear, he instructed his wife, very forcibly but quietly, to shut up.

  Ed was saying, ‘You have to admit though that we’re still little boys at heart, so surely deserve some fun once in a while, to escape the kids and the mess, the endless nagging and the do this, do that. To find a bit of peace over a pint.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of peace,’ Jo-Jo yelled, outraged by this remark, and prodding her husband in the chest with a sharp finger.

  He played along, laughing at her apparent fury. ‘Oh, yeah, are you planning on taking up pub crawls then? Or have you found yourself that lover at long last?’