This time after I’ve clicked off, I switch off the phone completely. Then I panic, worried in case Emma or Mum need to reach me. I make a mental note to get a landline installed, ex-directory, as quickly as possible.
Right at this moment the cottage no longer feels likes a safe haven, or the symbol of a new beginning. I feel suddenly very alone and extremely vulnerable. I’m terrified Oliver might still be around somewhere, watching me even now. I‘m scrabbling in my bag for my car keys when the door bell rings and I drop the whole lot on the floor, giving a little cry of fear.
A face appears at the window, ghostly and pale. ‘Carly? Are you in there?’
I run to the door with relief. It’s Tim, and oblivious of everything I pull open the door and fall into his arms. He feels so strong and safe, holding me in a warm embrace, his chin pressed against my hair. I breathe in the scent of him with heartfelt relief, clean fresh soap and the tangy scent of spring grass.
‘He rang again, right?’
I nod, quite unable to speak. Tim quietly collects up my bag, address book and all the detritus that fell out of it. He finds my keys, jiggles them in his hand.
‘I just called to check you were okay. Since it’s your first night at the cottage I thought you might welcome a friendly face. Are you sure you want to stay here tonight, or would you like me to take you to your mum’s?’
I shake my head. ‘No, I’m fine, thanks. A moment of panic, that’s all, I’m determined not to allow Oliver to chase me out of my new home.’ I take a breath. ‘Coffee?’
He grins at me. ‘Sounds good.’
Dusk is falling and I go over to the window to see Tim’s old Jeep standing right outside the cottage. As I pull the curtains closed, I try not to imagine my husband watching us from some shadowed corner.
A day or two later I’m at Mum’s house, helping her sort through some old curtains, looking for something suitable to cut down to fit the small window in Katie’s room. We’re trying not to talk about the divorce but it’s on both our minds. The whole thing has affected her so badly, she can hardly bear to mention Oliver’s name.
‘He’s made a fool of us all,’ is her constant complaint, taking his betrayal almost as a personal insult. ‘If only I’d known what was going on.’
I don’t answer this, don’t even attempt to remind her of the times I tried to talk to her, my every effort blocked. What good would it do? Guilt is already consuming her. She feels she’s let me down, failed to protect her own child.
‘It’s so unfair that you’re grubbing around through other people’s cast-offs while he’s swanning off with his fancy woman and we don’t even know where he is to serve him with the damn papers. It’s so wrong!’
‘He’ll crawl out of the woodwork eventually,’ I say, with more confidence than I feel. I’m desperately trying not to reveal to Mum that I too am anxious. Surely the longer he manages to evade me, the harder it will be. I’m frightened my solicitor might suddenly decide that the whole thing is hopeless, or that I’ve run out of time. Is there a time limit, I wonder? That’s something else I must check. A divorce will surely cost more the longer and more complicated it is, and money is something I don’t have much of. My head aches with everything I’m trying to remember and cope with.
‘Oliver isn’t good at responsibility, or accepting blame, so he isn’t going to make this easy for me.’ I’ve no sooner spoken these words than the door bell rings. I go to answer it, feeling decidedly weary and increasingly defeated. Could Oliver win this battle simply by disappearing off the face of the earth?
‘Mrs Sheldon?’
‘Yes.’
It’s a young man with a clip board. ‘Sorry for the delay but I went to the wrong address. I used the one on your husband’s credit card, instead of the delivery address, and then your neighbour across the street directed me here. I’ve come to deliver your new bed.’
‘My new bed?’ I frown at him, not understanding.
He nods, looking almost pleased with himself for having so diligently tracked me down. ‘That’s right. The one you chose on Monday at our Kendal store? If you’d just sign here, I’ll bring it in, Mrs Sheldon.’
‘My God,’ Mum softly remarks, as she comes to stand beside me. We look at each other, as we both realise what has happened. Oliver, or his new woman, has ordered a bed and it’s arrived here, by mistake, thanks to my nosy neighbour friend who lives across the road and has witnessed more of my travails than I care to recall.
‘Young man,’ Mum says, all polite smiles and easy charm. ‘Do you have a record of the correct delivery address?’
‘Oh, yes,’ he says, frowning at his clip-board. ‘But I was assured by Mrs Sheldon’s neighbour that I would find her here, so this is where I must bring it.’
We’ve found him at last! I make a mental note to thank the dear lady the very next time I see her.
Mum says, ‘Why don’t you come in for a cuppa? Leave the bed in the van for the moment. I think there’s a little favour you can do for my lovely daughter here.’
As the young man happily tucks into ginger nuts and coffee, Mum carefully explains the circumstances. As she talks, his cheeks seem to puff out and go all red, rather like a hamster who has swallowed too many nuts. He is so embarrassed by his faux pas at attempting to deliver a bed ordered by the mistress of a straying husband to the house of the abandoned wife, that he is more than willing to hand over his new address. Oliver turns out not to be living in Heversham at all, but in Silverdale, much further away. No wonder the young man was anxious to avoid the long drive.
‘I’m afraid you will still have to deliver the bed. We certainly don’t want it here,’ my mother tells him.
‘No, no, course you don’t.’ He hastily thanks us for being so understanding over his ‘confusion’ and takes off as fast as he can get out the door.
Mum and I hug each other, then I pick up the phone to give the good news to my solicitor. He sounds rather less bored when I tell him Oliver’s address. ‘Progress, at last.’
‘Onward and upward, love,’ Mum says, giving me another hug. ‘We’ll show the bastard he can’t beat us.’
My phone rings constantly over the next few weeks, twenty or more times a day, but whenever I see Oliver’s number come up, I don’t answer, determined not to give in to his bullying. He starts ringing me from different phone numbers: from his office, from call boxes, or from friends’ houses, which throws me completely. I’m never sure if it’s him or perhaps a client wanting to rent a house, until I answer.
When I get wise to that too, he calls in at my parents’ shop and accuses them of deliberately keeping him from his child. They listen in shocked silence, my mother in particular is very distressed by this show of temper and for the first time begins to see what I have had to put up with.
I don’t attempt to stop him from seeing Katie. That wouldn’t be wise, although I always arrange to meet him at Mum’s. I have no wish to encourage Oliver to come anywhere near the cottage. It breaks my heart every time he calls for her, knowing he isn’t in the least interested in his child, only in hurting me.
‘I’ll try to have her back on time,’ he’ll say, a smirk twisting his handsome face, meaning nothing of the sort.
‘Please make sure that you do. Last time you were very late and she got quite fractious. This has all been very confusing and upsetting for her, so I would appreciate it if you didn’t take out your venom on our daughter. Routine is very important to a child. Where are you taking her, to your mother’s?’
With Katie clasped tight in his arms, he sticks his face up close to mine and hisses, ‘What business is it of yours? None, unless you start to be a proper wife. I’ll take her where I damned well please.’
I swallow the protest that comes instinctively to my lips, smile at my baby and kiss her, then clasp my hands tightly together so that Oliver can’t see they’re shaking as he strolls nonchalantly away. Once again I’m left with the bitter taste of defeat in my mouth.
I’ve at least received the necessary acknowledgement forms from his own solicitor now, and various others have been filed and signed. I was afraid for a while that Oliver might contest the divorce and refuse to admit unreasonable behaviour, or a break-down in our relationship.
‘He’ll admit to anything,’ Emma scoffed, ‘except that he’s laid a finger on you. He won’t want the fact that he’s been violent towards you becoming public knowledge, or his bosses might not like it.’
I look at her and frown, but I think that she’s probably right. Oliver is a proud man, with high ambitions, anxious for people to see him in a good light. And exactly as Emma predicted, all the papers are duly signed and returned and the divorce is at last back on track, proceeding smoothly, save for the fact that we still haven’t discussed financial details, or Katie.
I’m filled with relief and a strange, surreal sort of happiness as I suddenly see a light at the end of a very dark tunnel. The divorce is going to go through, and within a few short months, I’ll be free.
My celebrations are somewhat premature as we instantly hit another blockage. Oliver is outraged at having to provide details of his mistress’s income, in addition to his own. No doubt she is too, whoever she may be. It’s not something I care to know about either, but apparently it’s the law. I ask my solicitor about this and while he agrees that the courts have no jurisdiction to compel the cohabitee to pay anything to the wife, or children, nevertheless her income is usually taken into account.
‘She will be contributing to the living expenses of the house they share and a court will very likely take the view that her income is therefore relevant. She might not think it fair, but . . .’
‘It wasn’t exactly fair of her to steal my husband,’ I finish for him with a wry smile.
He continues as if I hadn’t interrupted. ‘. . .the Family Proceedings Rules empower a judge either to order her attendance, should he deem it necessary, or for her to disclose documents such as pay slips or bank statements. This often causes bad feeling but the information can be insisted upon.’
In due course the information is indeed forthcoming but Oliver makes me pay for having won the first round so easily by harassing me with a further stream of abusive phone calls.
Everywhere I go I’m constantly glancing over my shoulder, fearful that he may emerge at any moment to confront me, that I’ll see him lurking somewhere, watching me. I often see his car parked at the end of the lane, or crawling in the traffic a few cars behind me as I drive to Windermere. I start to change my routine, leave home at different times, become quite neurotic about varying my route, but no matter what I do, his car will suddenly appear in my mirror, silently pursuing me.
I can feel him, a dark presence, a shadow stealthily moving just out of my sightline. He’s stalking me, harassing me, making it very clear that no matter what I do, or where I go, I can never escape him entirely. It’s as if he wishes to make it very clear that he is still very much in control of my life.
I’m sinking into depression again, fearful of going out. I may have won the odd skirmish, but I feel as if I’m losing the battle before I’ve hardly started. How can I hope to win the war? Wouldn’t it be easier to just accept defeat and go back to him?
When such traitorous thoughts creep into my head, I look at my darling daughter and remember what he did to her. I warn myself that he would hurt her again, and worse, if I went back. I’ve no intention of allowing my child to suffer the kind of abuse that I came to take so much for granted. At whatever cost, I must protect her.
One evening as I’m making my hot chocolate before going up to bed, I hear a scuffling noise at the door. My heart jumps and I rush to turn the key as I realise I’ve stupidly left it unlocked. The door swings open before I can reach it and Oliver is in my living room, hands in pockets, his mouth twisted into a grimace of distaste as he stands glaring at me.
‘Get out! You’ve no right to walk into my cottage uninvited.’
‘I have every right. I’m your husband.’
‘Not for much longer. I’m warning you, Oliver, either you go now or I’ll call the police.’
He laughs. ‘Go on, call them. We’ll see who they believe this time.’
I glance frantically about the small room, desperate to recall where I set down my mobile phone, but before I can move a muscle he grabs me by the throat and forces me to my knees.
‘That’s where you belong, on your knees, doing as I tell you. Don’t think you can win, or steal a penny from me to which you’re not entitled, you whore.’ Then he walks out, slamming the door behind him, leaving me breathless and weeping. I run to lock the door and shoot the bolt. Never will I make that a mistake again.
My sister is now surprisingly sympathetic, her change of attitude very much tinged with guilt. Even so, her sisterly advice is still coming thick and fast, if will a little more consideration for my plight.
‘So what are you going to do about child care? I’ve been glad to help out but I’ll admit it’s been a bit of a strain. I’m not Superwoman, and with four children of my own . . .’
‘I know, don’t worry. I do realise I shall need to make alternative arrangements,’ I assure her, giving her a hug. ‘I’m truly grateful for your help, Jo-Jo, but I’m looking for a nursery that’s not too expensive, and a bit closer to Windermere.’
There’s so much to organise I feel quite exhausted at the daunting prospect of finding something within my budget. Katie too is obviously tired, her pupils big and dark. Is she teething again, I wonder, or disturbed by all the changes in her little life? She stiffens and starts to cry, rubbing her face and resisting my attempts to slip on her coat.
Jo-Jo scribbles something on a slip of paper and hands it to me. ‘Try these people. They don’t charge the earth and have an excellent reputation. She’s jotted down the name and telephone number of a small private nursery quite close to the office, and I quickly secure a place for Katie. The cost of it is rather alarming, but I’ll find the money somehow.
My sister’s solution to being short of money, of course, is perfectly straightforward. ‘Screw hubby for more maintenance then.’
‘It isn’t quite as simple as that.’
Maintenance payments are proving erratic. My solicitor has arranged for Oliver to pay a sum into my account each month but it’s very hit and miss. Sometimes it’s there on time, more often than not it’s late or not paid at all. But I say nothing, make no complaints, unwilling to create yet more hassle, as it only rebounds on me rather than Oliver. If not paying me the proper amount each month means he’ll stay away, then so be it, I can live with that. I want him out of my life.
Early one morning just as I’m getting ready to leave for work, I take a call on my mobile. It’s Oliver, of course, and he’s even more irate than usual. ‘I understand from my solicitor that you are considering court action over non-payment of maintenance.’
I’ve considered no such thing but I don’t say that. This threat has obviously come from my solicitor, or perhaps the Child Support Agency is on to him, I’m not sure, but I realise it wouldn’t be wise for me to get involved. I feel the usual shakiness inside as I mumble some non-committal response.
‘Are you listening to me, Carly? You need to understand that if you pursue me for money, I’ll make your life absolute hell.’
‘You’re doing that already, Oliver. I’m aware of your car following me everywhere I go. Have you nothing better to do with your time? Can’t you let go and get on with your own life?’
‘You still aren’t listening, you stupid cow. You are my wife! You will remain my wife for as long as I say, until I’m ready to let you go. And you will be content with whatever money I can afford to pay. You will not sue me for non-payment, or anything that I’ve done to you in the past will feel like a walk in the park compared to what I will do if you defy me in this.’
I find my voice at last. ‘I won’t sue you, Oliver, but if you persist in following me, or harassing Katie, I’ll slap a writ on
you so fast your head won’t stop spinning till you land in jail. I’ll hit you where your heart is, right in your pocket.’
I put down the phone. Minutes later I have my head down the loo, vomiting up my breakfast.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Life falls into some sort of routine over the coming months. Katie is happy in the new nursery, and Emma and I are busy keeping the tourists suitably accommodated as summer progresses. Tim makes a point of calling to see me most weekends, either by coming to the office or to the cottage. I try to dissuade him from doing this, afraid Oliver might spot him, but he’s so friendly, so very kind, and makes no unwelcome approaches, that it’s difficult to object too much. Besides, I like him, and enjoy his company. He’s turning into a good friend, but I’m careful to make it clear that it can be no more than that.
We’ll walk by the river or through the woods, sometimes going for a picnic in Kentmere or by the Lake, and once up Coniston Old Man with me carrying Katie in a sling on my back, and Glen and Emma chugging along too. None of these outings are in any respect a date. Tim doesn’t seem to mind. He’s sensible enough to realise that this isn’t the time for me to be taking on a new relationship, and seems quite content to wait for all this muddle of a divorce to be dealt with.
I haven’t seen much of Oliver for weeks now. He’s not even demanded to take Katie out. Just when I’ve convinced myself that, as her father, he has a perfect right to see her as much as he likes, he seems to have tired of that particular game, proving to me that he isn’t really interested in his daughter at all. But I’ve begun to relax a little, to see an end in sight to my torment. I begin to think of a future when all of this will be settled and I’ll finally be free, when I’ll be in a position to consider the future and think about my own happiness. I can’t wait.
Perhaps it’s because I feel as if I’m almost there that when Tim asks me out for a meal, I accept, albeit with some degree of caution. Or because Emma has barged into the conversation and offered to mind Katie for me.
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