by Mary Hayward
Billy was pleasant and easy going enough. He seemed to enjoy chatting with our little group between songs, buying us drinks and joining in on our jokes, with saucy comments. It seemed that we were all having a great time. The wine bar became a regular haunt, meeting with the girls and enjoying their company. It was such a relief to be able to get out and put all my troubles behind me.
Now that I had a stable house and friends to share my worries, my mood lifted. I saw hope in my life once more.
The last thing I was looking for was a relationship, though. I just wasn’t ready. But soon Billy started to single me out from the rest of the group, talking to me more frequently whilst we waited for the others to arrive.
33
Beating Up
BILLY WAS TWENTY-SIX and I was thirty-two, when we met. A Scotsman, over six feet tall, dark, slim and good looking. Intelligent, or so I thought. He had won a scholarship and came top of the class at school; he carried his grades in his back pocket. Studied Civil Engineering and Astro Physics at university. Dropped out twice. Why didn’t I pick up on that?
At least he had been to university, something I or my friends never managed to achieve.
Martha’s wine bar was a frequent outing and I used to stay and play charades with the owners on a regular basis. On many occasions Billy would join us, playing his guitar, and singing. Soon we were left alone to talk at the bar.
“Would you like to come out next Saturday?” Billy asked
“No, I’m having a house warming party.”
“Aye, right,” he sounded disappointed.
“Would you like to come?”
For some reason my mouth just blubbed it out, like some flustered schoolgirl on her first date.
“I’ll bring a bottle!” It didn’t take him long to answer.
“Oh…” Something made me feel I wished I hadn’t offered, but it was too late.
He brought some of his friends with him, and some gate crashed. I felt uneasy with six of them in the house. I didn’t like someone coming I didn’t invite. It didn’t feel right, and I wasn’t used to this. I told myself it would be all right. I put it down to first date nerves. Billy was such a kind, generous person, I was sure he would keep everything under control.
Yet this anxious butterfly feeling persisted in making me tense.
Everyone had a great time, but I started to have doubts about some of Billy’s friends, who left two cigarette burn marks in my brand new carpet, right by the doorstep.
Billy came round the next day to help me clear up. I showed him the burn marks, but he didn’t take too much notice and seemed unconcerned. Whenever I opened the front door, they stared at me, like devil’s eyes. It gnawed away at me until I could stand it no more. I cut some remnants of carpet to hide the marks, but it was never the same after that.
In the months to come, Billy became a regular visitor and I was flattered by the attention. The memories of burn marks slipped away, lost in dreams of a family, Billy, Colin and me.
Was I being selfish with my own needs for a partner?
I worried that my young son, now nine years old, might not approve. It was his home too.
Mother asked why I needed a man. “They’re all no good,” she would say. “Always after only one thing.”
She was always so bitter, and blamed Dad for everything, even after he had left.
I didn’t listen. She enjoyed being bitter, and I wasn’t going to be the same. What was the point of having my own thoughts, if I took notice of everyone else? Right or wrong, it would be my decision. Struggling alone, could I give Colin the best without a father? A strong feeling of unity was important for me.
It wasn’t about me anymore, it was about bringing Colin up in a safe and loving family. To experience all I never had. I couldn’t let him suffer as I had done. It wasn’t fair on him. He had seen his own father walk out the door. He didn’t talk about it, but I knew he must have felt it. Loss—I felt it at his age. I didn’t so much lose it, as have my childhood surgically removed as the victim of some awful experiment. It wasn’t going to happen to my son. Not now, not ever!
I wondered if this was my opportunity to make everything right for him, to show him a family could be happy with a father, albeit a stepfather. Not only did I have to feel secure, Colin had to share those feelings. I so desperately wanted to do the right thing that my mind flip-flopped faster than a politician on polling night.
A thought flashed in my mind, as if in a passing mirror—did I mistakenly reflect myself as the child? In truth, did I want to rescue myself after all these years? Suddenly the notion was lost almost as fast as it had appeared, and I was preoccupied with Billy and Colin once more.
Billy would make a fuss of Colin, bringing him little presents, and lark about with him. Much to my relief they got on very well, and for a moment I put all doubts behind me.
I had found everything. I had my home, and now a new father for Colin, and things were looking up. It wasn’t long before Billy and I were setting a date, in spring 1980, to get married.
It was a beautiful day for the wedding. I wore a pale pink suit and a floppy hat. Billy wore a cream jacket and pale blue shirt. We married at Enfield Registry Office. Jack and Florrie, my motherin-law from my marriage to Terry, prepared all the sandwiches and food for the reception. She was lovely.
Jane, now twenty-four, made a cake, which was a nice surprise. Mother didn’t contribute anything. Well, she came and watched.
Florrie phoned the following morning.
“Mary, I don’t know how to say this, but there’s £100 missing from my handbag.”
“No!” I sat on the end of the bed, “I can’t believe it.”
“Yes Mary, I had a hundred pounds in my purse when I went to the wedding.”
“Oh, Florrie,” I said, “I don’t know what to say.”
“I checked this morning because Jack wanted some cash…” she started to get upset “…and it’s all gone.”
“I’m sorry, where did you leave your bag, Florrie?”
“I left it with the coats in the bedroom,” I heard her cry.
I was lost for words. She had been such a help with the wedding, and I never wanted to see her hurt in this way.
Suddenly I felt ashamed, and let down. I looked down at the burn marks in the carpet. I didn’t know anyone who would do that sort of thing. I understood her frustration. I wanted to try and help her.
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“No, no, don’t do that,” she said. “I don’t want to make a fuss.”
I suspected she didn’t want to tell Jack, her husband, she had brought so much cash with her to the wedding.
“Are you sure, love?”
“No, please don’t. I just wondered if you’d found anything?”
“No Florrie, I haven’t. I’m sorry love, if I do find it I’ll ring you straight away.”
“All right, thank you Mary.”
I did recall seeing Billy’s friend, George, coming out of the bedroom. He flew down the stairs right past me, and I thought it a little strange at the time, because he didn’t have a coat. There was little I could do, and the guests were long gone.
I told Billy exactly how disappointed I was, let down by him and his dubious friends. I wanted to know if he was going to do something helpful; raise the issue with his friend, perhaps, or offer to replace Florrie’s money somehow, but no.
He shuffled uncomfortably, and so I wandered upstairs for a shower. I Just wanted it all to go away.
I emerged on the landing after about thirty minutes, when Billy took a call in the hallway. I didn’t think he realised I was listening, but I wanted to know if he was going to do something helpful—raise the issue with his friend, possibly help Florrie out by offering to replace the money, but no. It was one of his friends—‘cronies’, my mother would have called them—congratulating him on his marriage, or so I gathered from the end of the conversation that I could hear.
“I’m very
lucky,” he cupped his hand to the phone, “I have a good package. The house, all the furniture and everything ready made.”
Suddenly I was reminded of the struggle I had made to get everything. Had I woken up to the realisation that I had, in an instant, given it all away? I felt as if I had been taken as a fool, and wondered if I had made a horrible mistake in marrying Billy. He didn’t have a regular job, paying tax and National Insurance like everyone else. His entire working life seemed to have revolved around the income from busking. In my mind things were starting to add up and I found myself resenting his lifestyle.
A few weeks after the wedding the electricity bill dropped through the door. I thought it was time I spoke to Billy about how we would manage the finances. I was no longer a single parent, I was married with a child to support, and I felt it reasonable that we share the cost of running the home, but other events seemed to overtake me before I was able to raise this issue.
George started to drop in on a regular basis. He would stay for lunch, and by dinnertime I was still feeding him.
I went upstairs and spoke quietly to Billy in the bedroom.
“Billy,” I said, “your mate George comes here for lunch, then stays for dinner. I can’t keep paying for all this food.”
“Aye. Well, he’s my mate, that’s what mates do. So what should I do?”
Sling him out, I thought, but didn’t say.
“So how are we going to pay for it then?”
“We’ll manage, and besides, he’s nay got anywhere else to live.”
“Don’t you think that as we are married you ought to pay towards the running of the house?”
“I give you what I have, I doon’na have anything more to give.”
“But don’t you think you need to get a proper job, instead of busking all the time?”
“I give yer £30, is that nay enough?”
“No Billy, it isn’t. I earn £200 per week, you earn £30.”
“Well, I only eat £30 worth of food, so what’s tha problem?”
“I need you to share the cost.” I could see this was going to be difficult.
He said that he couldn’t get a regular job because he hadn’t declared any income tax for five years. I didn’t believe him. All he wanted to do was sing and play his guitar in a bar.
I suggested he telephone the tax office, and be honest. They would probably wipe the slate clean and let him start again, but he wouldn’t hear of it. Officials made him stutter, and in his frustration he would simply hang up. I spoke to the tax office for him, and they confirmed he could start all clear. It removed the last obstacle for Billy to make a new career for himself. I gave him a copy of the local paper to look for a job, but then he pointed out he didn’t have a driving licence.
Undaunted, I got in contact with the local Driving School, organised and paid for a dozen driving lessons, and set a date for the test. He passed first time, appeared confident and now all the obstacles to employment had been removed. To celebrate, I bought a used green Renault 5 on credit, confident his earnings would pay off the debt.
Looking through the local paper he spotted a job for a milkman. I practised interview technique with him, and was delighted when he was offered the job. It wasn’t a great salary, but it was a start.
As a milkman he would have to get up at five in the morning, and I didn’t think he had given that any serious thought! He wasn’t good at getting out of bed. I did everything to get him up, but nothing seemed to work. I tried to pull all the covers off him and make his breakfast and coffee, but still he would not stir. It became so embarrassing the company would send down drivers to knock on the door at 5 a.m., but he wouldn’t open the door. I told him to sleep in his car outside the depot, so they would have to come out, and wake him up: nothing.
On the rare occasions when he did manage to get there on time, he still couldn’t finish the round. Winter brought with it the rain and ice, and more whinging from Billy. He just couldn’t cope with it.
Coming back from a music gig, late at night, he decided to set off for his milk round. But when he came home he said that he was scared of the dark, and refused to go back to work. They fired him. It was a relief.
Colin was away at his father’s for the weekend and Billy was playing at a gig. After the gig I drove Billy home in our little green Renault 5 in the early hours of Sunday morning. As I approached Dendridge Close, the exhaust pipe collapsed and the engine roared like some gigantic machine gun on bonfire night. He couldn’t bear the noise. Nursing the car gently, now only yards from our home, I cautiously drove into the close. I tried to minimise the sound of the exhaust, but still it was too loud for him.
“Stop the car! Stop the car now!” Billy exploded from the passenger seat, lashing out in frenzy, flaying punches hard into the side of my face. Again and again, his clenched fist ripped into me, leaving my face feeling like a lump of meat.
“What the...”
I fumbled for the door handle, but missed it. I tried again. The door flung open, but my seat belt was still locked. I reached back to release it. Another hail of blows landed; one caught me full on the side of my left ear, violently jerking my head to the side. I turned my face away from him, pulling frantically at the car handle with all my might.
The door gave. I fell out sideways, and then half tumbling, half spilling, I toppled backwards out onto the hard concrete. Grabbing my handbag, I scrambled to my feet and ran off down the road as best I could in my high heels. Finally, I reached the relative safety of the Plough Inn, on the corner of Turkey Street and Cambridge Road. It was closed. I sat on the little wall that surrounded the car park and rested before wandering home in a daze, my face stinging.
Silently I put the key in the lock and slipped into the kitchen. It felt strange. I sensed the heat from the kettle. I wandered into the living room. There was an awful stench of rubbish. Curiously I switched on the light.
“Oh. Fuck!” I didn’t normally swear, but there in front of me lay the entire contents of the large kitchen waste bin, tipped up, emptied and then scattered all over my beautiful wine coloured carpet.
Forgetting the pain of my face for a moment, I collapsed in a crumpled heap. I was crushed, unable to speak. I cried at the sight of it. How much I had fought for everything, and in one selfish act, Billy had done this to me! I felt something snap inside me. I rose from the floor. Angry? I’d say I was! I was furious.
“You fucking bastard, where are you?” I mouthed the words.
Walking up the stairs, I slowly searched in the darkness of the landing, but saw nothing. I opened the landing cupboard. There he was, spread-eagled against the back wall. I walked away and down the stairs and straight into the living room, where he followed me in.
“You had better leave,” I said quietly.
“I’ll patch things up.”
I raised my voice, and pointed at the door.
“Pack your things and Get Out.” I got louder, forcefully sweeping my arm and stabbing my pointed fingers in the direction of the door.
“I’ll clear it up.”
We both looked at the mess on the floor.
“How could you do that?” I squared up to him. He stood there like some naughty child caught with his pants down.
“I’ll clear it up,” he said
“How could you, after everything I have done for you? Go on!” I shouted. “Fuck off.”
He just stood there.
“I’ll clear it up,” he said, “I’ll clear it up,” over and over again. But I couldn’t hear him because it made no sense to me.
I stood there in a daze. I just felt so puzzled as to why he had done it. It was his home as much as mine. Did he think that he was doing something to hurt me? I didn’t understand how this person I loved could hit me so hard. It was not like it was just a slap around the face, like some men might have done—this was full on, fists clenched with the bare knuckles of a mugger.
I felt I had been raped.
I just left him there an
d wandered up to the bathroom. This was new to me. Terry never hit me, not once, no matter what we rowed about.
I looked at my face in the mirror, all swollen on the left-hand side as if I had hit a wall. Colin was staying at his father’s house, so I went up to my son Colin’s room, and went to sleep.
34
Living with Billy
MY LIFE LURCHED ALONG with Billy, but like some antique bus, it kept breaking down. Things would be patched up for a while and he would say sorry. In the aftermath of these episodes of violence he couldn’t have been more helpful. I told him I wasn’t going to put up with the violence anymore. He promised to deal with his temper, and get another job.
After a few weeks of searching he managed to get work in the sales office at Polyliner. For a few months we were getting on fine, or so I thought. He used to tell me about problems at work—how the manager kept holding reviews with him.
“The managers at work held another performance review with me on Friday.”
“What did they do?”
He lowered his head, then he looked out the window.
“The manager called me in the office after lunch …” He cleared his throat. “…and, er, he asked me how things were going with the work.”
“What did they want to know?”
“They wanted to know, er,” cough, “how was I coping?” He kept wringing his hands.
“So what did you say?” I waited patiently.
He was sweating. I wondered what he was hiding.
“Oh, I’m getting on fine like,” sniff, “enjoying the job an’ that. Yer know, the usual thing.”
“But it’s not fine, is it Billy?” I took the bull by the horns.
