City Girl

by Patricia Scanlan

  As for intimate dinners with her husband, they rarely ate alone, in or out. There was the invariable social function to attend and the rare nights they were at home and not entertaining themselves, Richard usually worked on his briefs until the early hours. She found herself becoming excruciatingly and stultifyingly bored.

  Her only real pleasure was the couple of hours she spent on Tuesdays and Thursdays doing Meals on Wheels at the nearby senior citizens complex. Caroline enjoyed the company of the elderly people who were always ready for a chat and a bit of a laugh. Well most of them were, there was the odd moaner who never had a good word for anybody or anything. Mrs Newton was a holy terror! ‘You call this chicken? It tasted like a shuttle cock! There wasn’t a bit of meat on it and tell them over in the kitchen that I said so!’ These had been her first words to Caroline the first time she had called to collect her dinner plate. Her ingratitude always left Caroline speechless but amused and she never managed to have the last word no matter how hard she tried. One day she had entered with a steaming plate of roast beef, carrots, and creamed potatoes, a bowl of soup and a dish of fruit and ice cream.

  ‘I’m sayin me rosaries!’ Mrs Newton informed her in a tone that dripped icicles, as if she had just been interrupted while on her personal hot line to heaven. She had three rosary beads and a stack of prayer leaflets and missals around her.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Caroline cheerfully, ‘but your dinner will go cold if you don’t eat it now.’

  ‘Huh! You call that dinner!’ was the sarcastic retort, nevertheless her old fingers quickly lifted the lid off the plate to see what was on offer and she began to eat hungrily.

  When Caroline had called back for the dishes and the small charge she had said pleasantly, ‘You can carry on with your prayers now and say one for me.’

  Mrs Newton had raised one deeply unimpressed eyebrow. ‘I pray for ALL sinners.’

  The other women had roared with laughter when Caroline told them. ‘The hypocritical old bitch,’ Mrs Molloy said. ‘You know she’s loaded. She could well afford to live in a private nursing home but she’s too bloody tight. She’s so mean she dries out her teabags and uses them again.’

  ‘Ah go on!’ Caroline couldn’t believe her.

  ‘It’s true. Just have a look on her kitchen window the next time you call.’ Caroline laughed. She’d believe anything of Mrs Newton. But not all of them were cranky and crotchety. There were some lovely old people that Caroline became very friendly with. She would sit listening to their reminiscences of the past, wide eyed. One old lady knew Maud Gonne MacBride, another one had been a gun runner in the civil war and had an uncle who ended up in a workhouse. The tales were fascinating. One incorrigible old lady, Mrs Knowles, who read ‘hot’ books brought by the library girl, told Caroline about her last heart attack. She’d had about ten, and was in her eighties, but had a mind as sharp as a razor and a wonderful sense of humour.

  ‘Dere I was, on the flat of me back in the ambiance, an’ this fine thing wuz holdin me hand an I sez to him, “If I faint ye can give me the kiss of life.”

  ‘“It’s the priest I’m getting for you, Missus,” he told me, roarin laughin. Anyways true to his word when I gets to the hospital in arrives this priest, a real dry ould stick. “I’m on me last legs, Father,” sez I. “I better make me last confession.”’ Mrs Knowles paused and drew a deep breath, her blue eyes twinkling. ‘Well I told him everythin an then I remembered. The dirty books! “I forget ta tell ya Father,” sez I. “I’m always askin the library girl ta bring me hot books, an when she brings ’em, I enjoys ’em. I wuz readin one when I had me attack.” “Is that so!” sez the priest. “Well don’t worry about it, and when you’re finished with the book ye can give it to me!”

  ‘Well Caroline, luv, I nearly had another heart attack there an then.’ Mrs Knowles chuckled heartily at the memory as Caroline guffawed. She always left the old lady’s flat laughing at her witticisms. Caroline enjoyed the camaraderie of the group of volunteers who cooked and served the meals. It was hard work, but at least she felt she was doing something worthwhile and it was a time in the week that she really looked forward to.

  Richard had not been impressed when she informed him that she was doing Meals on Wheels; it was hardly a glamour charity.

  Caroline was determined, her stubborn streak making a rare appearance, so apart from a few dry comments about cooking for geriatrics, he left her to it.

  Twenty-seven

  By the time their first anniversary arrived Caroline had been the recipient of several severe beatings. Concerned as always about public appearances, Richard would never mark her face, but the rest of her body was fair game and she would have to drag herself to Doctor Cole’s surgery on each occasion.

  She tried to analyse what triggered off the beatings, but could come up with no pattern, although the arrival of her period would always leave him tense and edgy. Richard brought her to see a gynaecologist who assured her that there was no physical reason why she could not conceive and to give herself time. Richard refused to have tests himself. There was nothing wrong with him, he told her brusquely.

  ‘For Christ’s sake, Caroline!’ he said in exasperation one day. ‘Thousands of women conceive every day. Why can’t you?’

  ‘Maybe if I had a husband who loved me and made love to me, as opposed to having a five-minute quickie every so often, I’d succeed,’ she retorted.

  His face reddened and he turned away from her, his hands clenched. ‘I do love you,’ he said tonelessly.

  ‘Well, you have a very funny way of showing it,’ Caroline murmured.

  ‘I’m sorry, Caroline. You don’t understand . . .’

  ‘Why won’t you try and let me? For God’s sake Richard, I’m your wife, not some stranger.’ She was almost crying, frantic to try and understand his true feelings towards her. He sighed deeply, his back to her.

  ‘Please, Richard!’ she pleaded. ‘Doesn’t our marriage mean anything to you?’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, Caroline!’ His voice had a strangely despairing tone that caught at her heartstrings. ‘Caroline, I . . .’

  The phone rang, its harsh shrill tone piercing the fragile moment of communication between them. They stared at each other and Caroline knew instinctively that the moment was lost. He had been going to tell her something, something that might explain their unhappy relationship. She cursed the caller at the other end of the line. It was Charles Stokes. Silently Caroline handed the receiver to her husband. Since their marriage Charles had not taken up her invitation to visit them and the only time she ever saw him was at the various functions they attended. He never seemed entirely comfortable in her company and their conversations were stilted awkward occasions.

  Once, after Richard had given Caroline a beating, they had been in O’Dwyers for a few drinks after a concert. The place had been packed and they had had to stand. Caroline had been wearing a loose chiffon top with long sleeves to conceal her bruised arms. Richard had left her with Charles as he made his way through the crush to order another round and as they stood, making polite conversation, someone brushed against her, drawing her sleeve up over her elbow. Caroline, wincing, had quickly covered the ugly yellow and purple bruises on her forearm, but Charles had seen them and given a smothered exclamation.

  ‘I fell,’ she lied quickly.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he queried intently, his blue eyes staring into hers.

  ‘Of . . . of course,’ she stammered, flustered.

  ‘Did Richard do that to you?’

  His directness and perception stunned her. Instinctively she knew that he, knowing Richard better than she did, even though she had been married to him for over a year, guessed he was capable of battering his wife.

  ‘Please, Charles! I don’t want to talk about it,’ she said miserably, knowing that it was pointless to lie. From what she had heard her husband say about his friend, she realized that Charles knew her husband better than anybody. Maybe he had even confided in Charles
about the beatings.

  ‘Do you want me to talk to Richard about it?’ he said gruffly, but there was kindness in his voice.

  So Richard hadn’t confided in his friend.

  ‘No! No please don’t! He might . . .’

  ‘All right,’ Charles agreed hastily, seeing her husband battling his way towards them.

  ‘But please, if ever you . . . you are afraid of getting another beating, ring me.’

  ‘Oh!’ His response surprised her as up to this she had felt that Charles rather disliked her. ‘Thank you,’ she murmured. ‘Maybe it won’t happen again.’

  ‘Well, please . . . if you need help ring me,’ he repeated earnestly as Richard arrived with the drinks.

  Needless to say her husband had beaten her again but she hadn’t rung Charles, nor could she bring herself to confide in Devlin, who was back in Dublin, or in Maggie. She just couldn’t tell them about the failure of her marriage. How she longed to have the guts to walk out of their sterile marriage. But she was afraid to.

  Materially Caroline lacked for nothing and was the envy of many. Her long years of drudgery at home with her family were over. She lived in a luxurious penthouse with all the modern conveniences any woman could wish for. To the outside world she had the perfect marriage. How could she just walk away from it all? If she had to stand on her own two feet and support herself, how would she manage? Everyone would know that she had failed at marriage too, and separation was nearly as big a stigma as spinsterhood.

  Life was so difficult, she would decide, downing another double vodka and watching yet another video. Her consumption of alcohol at home had increased, much to her husband’s dismay. ‘You’re drinking too much, Caroline. It’s not good for you. Some day you’re going to get drunk in front of our friends and disgrace us!’

  ‘That’s all you’re worried about, isn’t it? Don’t worry, Richard, I won’t let you down in public,’ she snapped, her tone bitter. Despite Richard’s ruling that she should no longer meet Devlin, Caroline religiously spent one day of every week with her, telling her husband that she was visiting her aunt or family. He never questioned her further, utterly confident that she would not have the nerve to go against his wishes.

  With Devlin, Caroline was able to forget her troubles for a few hours and it had given her a measure of self-esteem to lend her friend the money she so badly needed. After all the years of support and friendly guidance from Devlin, she felt as if some of the debt was being repaid. Devlin never probed, but Caroline knew that she sensed that all was not well with her marriage. Devlin had her own problems, she reflected; she wasn’t going to burden her with hers as well. Caroline pitied her living in her high-rise one-bedroomed flat struggling on a pittance, yet she envied her friend’s complete independence and especially her sense of pride. Nobody told Devlin where to go and what to do! God, Richard was so domineering, he wouldn’t even let her learn to drive.

  ‘You drink too much. I wouldn’t have a minute’s peace worrying about you.’ This was his response when she broached the subject. He had a point, she supposed, but it was only because of him that she was drinking in the first place. If only she could conceive and have a baby. At least, then, she would have some reason to exist. With secret envy she watched Maggie, who was pregnant again, and Devlin, both engrossed with their offspring. Sometimes she held Devlin’s baby, pretending it was hers. She would never forget Lynn’s first footsteps. It had been so exciting to watch the first tentative and finally triumphant moves. The pride on Devlin’s face had surprised Caroline. She had never thought of her friend as maternal but Devlin had certainly changed a lot since becoming a mother. Her old cocky self-confidence had been toned down and there was a vulnerability about her now that Caroline found very endearing. She would never forget the look on her friend’s face when Maggie and she had arrived to help her settle in.

  When she saw Devlin’s circumstances, her plans for walking out on her marriage would recede like the ebbing tide only to resurface the next time Richard assaulted her. Once, as she lay at his feet crying in pain and begging him to stop, he had fallen on his knees beside her and started to cry. ‘I’m sorry, Caroline! I’m sorry! I don’t know what comes over me. What am I doing to you? Oh Caroline, I hate myself. If only you knew . . .’

  His harsh dry sobbing shocked her in spite of herself and in spite of the beating he had just inflicted on her. She said faintly, ‘Richard . . . I think you need some kind of help, some counselling. Please let me get help for you.’

  Composing himself, he said, ‘There’s nothing wrong with me. I . . . it won’t happen again!’

  It was the only time she had ever seen him express remorse for what he was doing and as their marriage descended into a morass of misery and despair, her drinking worsened. Nothing went right for her. As if she hadn’t enough to worry about, she was walking from the bus stop one night after her weekly visit to Devlin when two youths had jumped out from behind a shrubbery and demanded that she give them the leather jacket that she was wearing. Stunned she stood motionless, her mouth open. This was Clontarf for heaven’s sake, not Sean MacDermott Street. People didn’t get mugged in Clontarf!

  ‘C’mon give us the bleedin jacket, ya stupid bitch!’ One of them was grabbing her by the arm and pulling the jacket off her. It was over in seconds, seconds that remained etched in her memory for months and caused her to have nightmares. She knew that Dublin, like other capital cities, was crime-ridden but somehow crimes always happened to other people. Now she was a crime statistic as well as everything else!

  ‘It’s the latest thing now,’ the world-weary sergeant had told Richard as, stunned and shaken, she had made her statement. ‘Leather is the fashion now. We get incidents like this every night of the week. We’ll look into it, Ma’am. Go home and have a cup of tea and try and forget about it,’ he said kindly, patting her arm.

  Caroline had gone on a drinking batter that lasted for three days.

  Twenty-eight

  A visit to London with her husband marked the nadir of Caroline’s existence. Richard liked to do his Christmas shopping in London. Like an Arab sheik, Caroline thought, unimpressed. She dreaded it. He always made out lists and would spend hours searching for exactly what he was looking for. This year his mother had decided to come, and between the pair of them she was almost demented. She disliked her mother-in-law intensely. Sarah Yates ignored Caroline and treated her son as though he was six years old. ‘Don’t argue with me Richard, I’m still your mother,’ was her constant refrain and Caroline felt like telling her to shut up and let him alone. Sometimes she felt that Richard had never grown up in his relationship with his mother and he was constantly seeking her approval – approval that was always withheld.

  ‘I won an important case today, Mother,’ he would inform her proudly.

  ‘I should think so,’ would be the response. ‘Your father would expect it of you. He never lost in court.’ Only by the grim tightening of Richard’s lips would Caroline know how much this annoyed her husband.

  She would feel like yelling, ‘You stupid old bat! Why can’t you say well done for once and give him his moment of pleasure and glory?’ But she never did and so it went on.

  Now she had to put up with Sarah coming to London with them. It was a horrific weekend. Sarah had criticized everything, from the flight to their hotel accommodation, her haughty nasal voice grating on Caroline’s already taut nerves. She needed a drink badly but Richard had refused to let her drink at the airport or on the flight. He was afraid that it might start a binge and even more afraid of what his mother would say if she caught her daughter-in-law knocking back the vodkas.

  They had spent the day shopping, pushing their way through the pre-Christmas throngs until Caroline was exhausted. Sarah thrived on it; she had come to London to shop and shop she would. If she had to go into every store twice until she was satisfied with her purchases, so be it. By the time they got back to their hotel, Caroline had visibly wilted. They were supposed to be go
ing out to dinner and a show that Richard had managed to get tickets for, but all Caroline wanted to do was to have a drink and go to bed.

  Wearily informing them that she was too tired to go, she sank into an armchair and kicked off her high heels. She shouldn’t have worn the bloody things, they were murder on her feet.

  Richard was furious. She could see it in the coldness of his eyes. Ah to hell with him, she thought tiredly, she’d had enough. Let him go with his mother so she could have a few blissful hours alone.

  ‘I’ve bought the tickets, Caroline, and they were damned expensive and hard to get,’ Richard snapped. ‘Mother will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come.’

  ‘No she won’t, Richard!’ Caroline retorted tartly. ‘And I’m not going and that’s final.’

  Richard’s mouth dropped open. Caroline never answered him back and she always yielded to his wishes. Caroline could see his surprise. Well this time she was doing what she wanted. Her stubborn streak came to the fore as he persisted.

  ‘Go on and get ready,’ he insisted.

  ‘No, Richard, I told you I’m too tired to go.’

  ‘You’ll enjoy it.’ He changed his tack and started wheedling. ‘It’s the show everyone is talking about. Martin and his wife were over last week and they raved about it and Shaun O’Rourke was mad because he couldn’t get tickets for it.’

  ‘Richard, for the last time I’m too tired and I’m not going. Give Shaun O’Rourke my ticket when we get home,’ she said irritably.

  ‘I just don’t know what gets into you, Caroline. You can be most ungrateful. We were lucky to get those tickets. Lots of people would give their eye teeth for them.’ He angrily shed his suit, which was still immaculate despite the travel and shopping.

  ‘Bully for them!’ Caroline muttered drily, observing her husband’s bony knees. Richard’s legs were not his most attractive feature. Grimfaced he marched into the bathroom and Caroline reflected wryly that in all the time they were married, she had never seen her husband completely naked, except for the time she had seen his bare buttocks when he had left the room in disgust after their disastrous attempt at normal lovemaking. Richard was such a prude as regards appearing naked in front of her. It was hard enough to get him to wear something casual instead of his perennial suits. She heard of a guy she knew who was so addicted to suits he even wanted to bring one to Cyprus on holiday until his girlfriend got her hands on it. She should introduce Richard to him; they’d be well . . . suited! Smiling at her little private joke, she heard a smart rap on the door and knew it was Sarah Yates. It was no wonder Richard was the way he was with a mother like her.