One Saturday afternoon I’m ironing in the kitchen when my elderly neighbour from across the street comes running in to tell me that smoke is pouring out of the upstairs window. I grab the nappy pail which I’m using to soak the towelling nappies I put on Katie at night, and run up the stairs while my neighbour pauses only long enough to fill another bucket. Flames are leaping out of the linen cupboard and we fling the contents of the two buckets on to the fire to quench it. Water, Napisan, wet nappies and all. We both then dash to the bathroom to refill them and keep going until the fire is finally out and we are both coughing and choking, and the linen cupboard is black with smoke.
I’ve dragged some items out of the cupboard, hoping to save them. Among them is my grandmother’s quilt which she made for me when I was a small girl. She would tuck it round me as I sat on her lap drinking hot chocolate, listening to a bedtime story. It’s starting to smoulder and blacken, here and there a ripple of flame and I grab it and run out on to the drive where I beat it against the tarmac, afraid of this treasured memory going up in flames too, along with everything else.
I stamp on it hard, pounding the soft fabric with my feet, stamping and stamping, quite unable to control my emotions as tears roll down my cheeks. The quilt can be repaired but so much else has been lost. It’s a disaster! I should feel deeply fortunate that my neighbour spotted the smoke and was so quick off the mark, otherwise the entire house might have burned down. Even so, I’m devastated.
I feel rage inside, as hot as the flames which consumed my precious belongings. I’m filled with anger, not simply at this terrible loss, but because I know Oliver will blame me for this fire, even though I didn’t cause it.
Every scrap of linen I possessed, every sheet and pillow case, every towel and item of bedding for the baby has been destroyed. It has either been burned or blackened beyond any hope of salvation. A good many of Katie’s clothes and several of my own which were airing in neat piles, have also gone up in flames. I’m absolutely heartbroken.
My neighbour is very kind and makes me sit down to calm my nerves and dry my tears, while she makes us both a cup of tea.
‘What will your husband say?’ is her first question as she hands the cup to me, and I look up at her in startled silence, quite unable to answer.
This is the lady who saw Oliver throw me over the sofa, and I don’t have the strength left to keep on pretending it was all some silly game, not right now. I shake my head and say nothing. Katie is still blissfully asleep in her pram in the hall, completely unaware of the panic going on around her.
We sip our tea in silence for a long while then very quietly my neighbour says, ‘Don’t worry, dear, I’m sure everything will be all right. It wasn’t your fault, after all. It was just an accident.’
I clear my throat but nothing comes out beyond a croak, and even that hurts my throat which feels raw with smoke. A trivial problem by comparison to the fury I still have to face from Oliver, and my heart skips a beat. My fault or not, he will undoubtedly blame me, as he does for everything that goes wrong in our lives.
She puts out a consoling hand and gently squeezes mine. ’I have no wish to interfere, and won’t say a word to anyone about what goes on here. You can rely on my discretion, if that’s what you want, dear. But in my experience, violent men generally go worse, not better.’ Then she sets down her empty cup, kisses the top of my head, and leaves.
I put my face in my hands and sob.
Strangely, and to my huge relief, when I tell Oliver about the fire, for once he does not blame me. He doesn’t fall into a tantrum or one of his black moods. He calmly calls the insurance company and they come to inspect. They can find no obvious cause and decide it was probably an electrical fault on the immersion heater. They pay up without argument. Nothing in that cupboard was more than eighteen months old, being all wedding gifts and baby items, save for my grandmother’s quilt which had fortunately only been charred around the edges and can be repaired.
But I don’t see a penny of that money. Oliver cashes the cheque and that’s the last I hear of it. I tentatively mention that the fire has made us rather short on sheets and towels, and that Katie has scarcely an item of clothing or bedding left to her name. He dismisses the former problem by saying we can ask relatives to buy us more for Christmas, and the baby’s losses as immaterial.
‘She’s growing at such a rate they’d be useless anyway in a month or two,’ is his comment.
Mum, bless her, picks up her knitting needles and sets about helping to replace the perished baby clothes, and perhaps for the first time begins to question the state of my marriage.
We’re browsing through the market in Kendal and she’s holding up a pretty lemon cotton dress that’s for sale on one of the stalls. ‘Surely Oliver didn’t really say it wasn’t important that Katie didn’t have any clothes to wear?’
I concede that he may have a point when he says she’s growing at such a tremendous rate many of the items we’ve lost would soon be too small for her anyway.
Mum considers this argument and then nods. ‘Ah, well, that’s generally the way with babies. Still, that’s easily remedied. You simply replace the items with a larger size. This is lovely, don’t you think? Shall I buy it for her?’
‘There’s really no need.’
‘Of course there’s a need. The poor child has barely a stitch to wear following that fire. Thank God she was downstairs and out of harm’s way. Anyway, I’m her grandmother and it’s my privilege to buy baby clothes for my adorable grandchild.’
The stallholder dutifully gushes over the sleeping Katie while she wraps the gift and Mum digs out her purse. Then as we walk away, she returns to the subject of the insurance claim. ‘You’ll need to replace her bedding too, I suppose. Might I ask how much you’ve got to play with?’
The one good thing about Mum is that she’s easily distracted, so I mumble something about having forgotten to buy cheese while we were on the market, and rush back to get some. I also buy wool so that she can crochet Katie a new cot cover, which makes Mum very happy. The question about money is thankfully dropped.
The following week Oliver gives me fifty pounds and I’m so thrilled I impulsively kiss him. And then I discover where he got the money from. He’s sold my car.
Chapter Sixteen
I’m confined to the house even more now that I have no car. There is a small convenience store on the edge of the estate where we live, although not as good as my parents’ shop. They act as a small post office too, which is useful for stamps and such like, but if I wish to visit my sister, or my parents, or go to Kendal, I have to catch the bus at the end of the road. It’s infrequent and slow, and I have all the hassle of negotiating a baby, baby buggy and the usual proliferation of shopping bags. An absolute nightmare!
Not having a car will also mean that I won’t easily get to call in at the agency office to keep in touch with Emma. Catching the bus to Bowness and back could take the entire afternoon. I realise that I’ll be worn out by the time I do arrive back home, but I’m determined to go. I desperately need to get out of the house for a break.
‘You should’ve given me a ring,’ she scolds me, as I struggle into the office looking all hot and bothered, bitterly complaining about buses which take forever wandering around every back lane and stopping at most hamlets and villages en route. ‘I can’t believe you came all this way by bus. You should’ve said if the car was out of commission. I could’ve popped over to pick you up.’
‘I don’t need you to pick me up. I can manage fine, thanks very much,’ I tartly respond, aware I’m being unnecessarily short with her, but I hate to appear needy. I do little enough in the way of work for the agency as it is, without demanding Emma act as chauffeur for me as well.
‘Okay,’ she says, backing off. ‘I’ll put the kettle on in a minute, when I’ve just dealt with this client.’
Katie is crying, the wheels of the buggy have got caught up with the door mat and a young man steps forward to he
lp extricate the tangle. I’m filled with shame, embarrassed by my sharpness in front of a client, and a rather good looking one at that.
He’s tall and dark, in his late twenties or early thirties, I guess, with clear green eyes and designer stubble on his chin. ‘I’m so s-sorry,’ I stammer, as I wheel the buggy over his foot.
He grins. ‘Didn’t feel a thing. These boots are made for walking, and pretty tough.’
I look more closely at him, at his fleece and waterproof trousers, notice a huge rucksack leaning drunkenly against the door. ‘You’re on a walking holiday?’
‘Right.’ He’s gazing at me so intently I find my cheeks growing warm and I turn quickly away, thankful when Emma comes to my rescue.
‘This is Mr Hathaway, one of our regulars for our more rural lets.’
He thrusts out a hand, large, and capable and lightly tanned. ‘Tim. Pleased to meet you.’
His grip is firm and solid, like its owner, I assume, and he holds on to my hand rather longer than necessary. His smile is wide and friendly and I find myself smiling back at him. ‘Carly Sheldon.’
‘Carly is my partner, and part owner of the agency,’ Emma informs him.
‘Ah, excellent!’ He looks strangely pleased. ‘We’re bound to meet again then, so feel free to run over my foot any time.’ This comment reminds him that I have a child in tow, and he quickly adds, ‘And this is . . .?’ He glances down at the squalling, red-faced infant who is my pride and joy.
‘This is Katie, but she’s not at her best right now.’
Emma butts in, all efficiency, perhaps thinking I might descend into baby talk if she doesn’t interrupt. ‘Right Tim, here are the keys. Thanks for calling in to pick them up. I hope you enjoy your stay. Any problems, you know where we are.’
He gives me one last smile before hoisting up his rucksack and easing himself with difficulty through the door and down the stairs.
‘Wow!’ I say, unable to stop myself.
Emma laughs. ‘Yeah, what a hunk. Makes you wish you were single again, doesn’t it?’ She heads back to her desk, gathering up papers and files as she does so, half glancing at them as she continues, ‘So, what happened to the car?’
She looks very efficient and in charge as she sits in her office chair and slides it up to the computer, very content with life and her place in it. Wanda, she informs me, is out supervising a new cleaner who is preparing a property for new clients arriving later that day. I feel out of touch, old suddenly, a frumpish housefrau, and experience a spurt of envy for Emma’s obvious confidence at managing this business without me. But then I know I couldn’t hope to achieve what she has in such a short time. I don’t seem able to cope with anything.
I concentrate on lifting Katie out of her buggy, and, finding she’s dirtied her nappy, start rummaging in the changing bag for a clean one. ‘The car has been sold,’ I finally confess.
‘Goodness, that’s a bit drastic, isn’t it?’
‘I – I decided I didn’t need one at the moment,’ I lie, not wishing to go into detail.
‘I see. Well, you might have warned me,’ she says tightly. ‘I assume that means you’ll now be stepping down from the agency altogether?’
‘What?’ I look at her, stunned. ‘Are you asking me to resign? To sell out my share? Just because I’ve sold my car?’
‘It’s an option you should perhaps seriously consider.’
‘Why?’
Emma gives a little grimace of distaste as I peel off Katie’s dirty nappy, then gets up to switch on the kettle and starts to spoon coffee into two mugs. ‘Actually, not simply because of the car, although I’m surprised you’ve decided to get rid of it. But because of the baby. How old is Katie now, nearly five months? You’ve hardly been near the office in all that time so you’ve obviously decided you prefer to stay at home. The sale of your car confirms the issue, otherwise how would you manage to come back to work without transport? But then, it’s your prerogative to choose.’
I open my mouth to say that it wasn’t actually my choice at all. But I can’t really do that without admitting it was Oliver who sold my car, and that he did it without my permission. That it is Oliver who makes all the decisions in our house.
‘Let me think about it,’ I say, feeling harassed as I struggle with baby lotion and nappies, and a screaming infant on my lap. ‘I need a little more time.’
‘Okay.’ Emma watches all of this performance with a sympathetic smile, and when I’m done and Katie is clean again, picks her up for a cuddle. ‘But I should point out that I don’t actually have much, time, that is. It’s almost Christmas, bookings are pouring in, and we’re up to our eyes in work. As you know, this is nothing to what it will be like when next season really gets going. Like it or not, it will soon be make-your-mind-up time, Carly. Either you’re coming back to take a full part in this business, or you sell up. I do need to know pretty soon.’
‘Do you think we could have lunch?’ I suddenly blurt out. ‘I need to talk to someone and . . .’
‘. . . and I’m it?’ She smiles, and I remember what good friends we’ve always been, that we did start this business together, that she is my daughter’s godmother. Could I find the courage to tell her everything? Dare I risk it? And if I did, what could she do to help? What do I want her to do? Offer sanctuary and protection? Is that even realistic?
I’m still chewing over these questions in my mind as we stroll down to the John Peel, our favourite pub, and order a ploughman’s lunch each. Emma is chattering on about the healthy state of the agency’s profit and loss account, of the rush of bookings they’ve already had for next season, and describing the new properties they’ve taken on. I’m feeling more and more left out of the excitement of it all, my fragile confidence rapidly evaporating. My life seems to be in free fall and I have no control over it whatsoever.
‘That’s enough of me rabbiting on about the agency. So what was it you wanted to talk about?’
Our lunch arrives and I postpone the evil moment as we dig in to the delicious food. We talk about Katie of course, and the christening. I tell her about the fire, although I don’t add that by refusing to replace all the lost linen and clothing, and by selling my car, Oliver is punishing me for my apparent carelessness for allowing it to happen. I don’t say that he blames me for everything, that our failing marriage and his brutal treatment of me is apparently all my fault too. I’m trying to find a way to admit my marriage isn’t working without actually going into too many details, but the words stick in my throat. How could I possibly tell her the truth?
Well, actually, my husband kicks me about the bedroom like a battered old ball. How would Emma react to that? Or if I told her of the other things he does to me, the way he puts me down all the time, makes me look stupid in front of my parents, intimidates and bullies me, and uses more sadistic tricks? If I told her that I was afraid of him. What would her opinion of me be then?
I sigh, knowing only too well. That I’m a fool for putting up with it, which of course I am. So why don’t I just walk out the door? It’s easy, isn’t it? As simple as a mouse running away from a cat. How can I explain that not so very long ago it was too soon for me to leave him, and now it’s too late.
Maybe she reads something in my silence as she suddenly says, ‘You didn’t choose to sell the car, did you? Oliver did.’
I stare into my empty coffee cup, unable, or unwilling, to meet her probing gaze.
‘Silence isn’t the answer, Carly. I’ve suspected for a while that there’s a problem. Look, if there is, I don’t believe for a minute that it’s your fault, so tell me. Speak! This is what you wanted to say, isn’t it? Why did he do that? Why did he sell your car?’ When I still say nothing, she sighs. ‘Okay, let me guess, he sold it in order to keep you at home. What else does he do to control you? Come on, you can tell me. I want to help. How can I help?’
I shake my head, indicating there’s absolutely nothing she can do, too choked with emotion to speak, my mind paralys
ed by indecision and fear.
She gives my arm a gentle squeeze. ‘Tell me, Carly. Spill the beans. Get it off your chest for God’s sake.’
I look at her in anguish, open my mouth to speak and close it again, the unspoken words blocking my throat. Wouldn’t it be a betrayal of our marriage if I revealed these problems? Wouldn’t it prove that I’d failed? My mind is a turmoil of emotion, Oliver’s face looming large amongst my jumbled thoughts. He would never forgive me.
‘Why aren’t you open and honest with me like you used to be when we used to giggle behind the girl’s lavatories at school?’ She sounds irritated but then looks into my eyes, a quick indrawn breath and in a quiet, shocked voice, says, ‘My God, you’re scared of him, aren’t you?’
I’m on my feet in an instant, glancing at my watch, mumbling something about having to hurry to catch the bus. A moment later I’m rapidly walking away, pushing the baby buggy out on to the pavement and heading back up the hill. Emma hurries along beside me, strangely silent.
I suddenly say, ‘The key . . . the key you lent me . . . the one I foolishly used that time.’
‘Yes?’ I sense her casting me an anxious, enquiring glance.
‘I wondered if maybe you’d like it back.’ Now why on earth did I say that? Isn’t it my only life-line?
‘Do you want to give it back?’ she asks, sounding shocked.
‘I – I’m not sure. I . . . ‘
‘Carly?’
I look up and see Oliver climbing out of the BMW which he’s double- parked outside the office. My mouth goes dry and I’m swamped with relief that I’ve said no more, that I’ve held on to my chilling secret. What was I thinking of to even imagine I could reveal the smallest part of it?
‘What brings you to our neck of the woods?’ There’s a note of cool animosity in Emma’s tone, and I know she’s thinking that he must have followed me here, checking up on me as he has done so often in the past. I’m thinking this too and it’s really rather disturbing. Oliver’s grey-blue eyes narrow in his unsmiling face as he swiftly assesses the situation, no doubt trying to guess what we’ve been talking about. He’s bound to assume we were talking about him. I forget sometimes, how very paranoid he can be. I simply want to get in the car and escape before Emma irritates him further. I start to unbuckle Katie and lift her out of the buggy.
Trapped Page 20
