The Rainbow Years

by Bradshaw, Rita

  ‘It isn’t eight yet.’

  ‘I don’t care what time it is. I told you, I’m hungry.’

  By the time they had eaten the dinner served by a stiff-faced Mrs Franklin, Amy was forced to recognise the truth she had been trying to ignore for the last six weeks. Charles was drunk. Maybe not the dancing and falling over or fighting kind of drunk, but drunk nevertheless.This time he had difficulty even rising from his seat, the empty decanter in front of him witness to the fact that his meal had been more of the liquid variety than anything else.

  On reaching their bedroom he fell on the bed fully clothed and was immediately asleep, snoring loudly. Amy cried herself to sleep.

  The problem with the restaurant continued and with it Charles’s increased drinking. No longer did he wait until he got home for his first drink, often he had had several by the time he arrived home. From eagerly awaiting his return as she had done in the first weeks of her marriage, Amy now began to dread it. She never knew from one day to the next if he would be drunk or sober, and whenever she tried to talk to him about it he would either laugh it off or turn cold and distant. In the mornings he would be her Charles again - mostly. Once or twice he awoke with such a thumping head he disappeared into his study before breakfast and Amy suspected it was to have a glass of something or other. She didn’t know what to do or who to speak to, not with Kitty and Bruce gone.And although she visited her grandma several times a week, she couldn’t confide in her. Her grandma was so happy at the Prices’, so bright and cheery that she couldn’t spoil things for her.

  By the time summer was over and October had been ushered in with hard white frosts, Amy was getting to the end of her tether. Her emotions were in a state of perpetual vacillation. On the occasions when Charles didn’t drink so much that he fell asleep immediately he got to bed, she told herself things were improving.They would make love in their big bed and although the smell of drink would be strong on his breath, he was the kind, charming and loving man she had married.They would talk about their plans for the future, about babies and fitting out a nursery and Amy would go to sleep feeling they might have turned a corner. Then the next night or the next he would return home the worse for wear and a different person, surly and uncommunicative.

  Then, at the beginning of November, something happened which began to change Amy’s feelings for the man she had married so happily only months before. The day had been a bitterly cold one with a savage wind and she hadn’t put her nose out of the house, spending the day sorting through the big boxes in the loft which were mostly full of old bits and pieces of bric-a-brac and rubbish the previous owners had left. She and Charles had had a good evening the night before, and when she emerged from the loft for a bath she felt content and hopeful. She had enjoyed doing something constructive; she was discovering she wasn’t made to sit about twiddling her thumbs all day receiving this person or that or visiting people Charles thought might be socially advantageous.

  She sang to herself in the bath and she dressed in a frock Charles particularly liked, arranging her hair with more care than usual and taking time over her appearance.

  At half past seven her stomach was churning. He was late, and usually that meant only one thing. Either he had been sitting drinking in his office or he had called in at the Gentlemen’s Club on his way home. Either way it didn’t bode well for the evening ahead. But she could be wrong. Maybe this time he had been tied up with business. She stared into the leaping flames of the blazing fire in the drawing room and began to pray like she hadn’t done for a long time.

  Two or three minutes later she heard his voice in the hall but gone were the days when she would spring into his arms. Now she always waited to gauge his mood. As soon as he opened the door she saw he was three parts to the wind and disappointment and anger made her voice tight as she said, ‘You’re late again.’

  ‘I have a business to run or hadn’t you noticed?’ He barely glanced at her as he walked across the room and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter on the side table near the cocktail cabinet.

  Amy warned herself to say nothing for the moment. Mrs Franklin would be calling them through to the dining room any moment and she didn’t want to quarrel in front of the housekeeper.

  They didn’t speak while Charles drank his brandy. His gait was unsteady as they entered the dining room a few minutes later and he thumped heavily into his chair. His face was morose as he glanced at the table. ‘There’s a stain on this tablecloth.’ He poked at a tiny pinhead of a mark. ‘If I can see it, why can’t that useless chit of a maid?’

  Her voice steady, Amy said, ‘You told Mrs Franklin and Lucy that the laundry bill was too high the last time. I suppose Lucy thought you would prefer the cloth to be used again rather than having a clean one brought out.’

  ‘She thought wrong.’

  ‘I’ll have a word with her tomorrow.’

  ‘Make sure you do.’

  Oh, she hated him when he was like this. After glaring at him, Amy reached for her bread roll and broke it in half, buttering a morsel before popping it in her mouth. Mrs Franklin entered with the soup tureen, and Amy knew the housekeeper had assessed Charles’s mood because there were none of the smiling pleasantries she sometimes indulged in as she served the soup. Instead she went about the duty silently and efficiently before noiselessly leaving the room.

  Charles barely touched his soup but he poured himself a glass of wine, drinking it straight down and then pouring another. ‘Want one?’ He raised his eyes to her.

  ‘No, thank you.’ If she had left it like that it might have been all right but after the night before when he had been so nice, the disappointment was keen. ‘I think you drink enough for both of us,’ she added tartly.

  She saw the muscles in his jaw clench but Mrs Franklin entered the room at that moment, wheeling in a trolley with several dishes on it, Lucy just behind her. Lucy cleared their soup bowls and placed their dinner plates in front of them before leaving the room, and Mrs Franklin lifted the lid off the meat dish and expertly placed two medallions of pork on Amy’s plate with the serving tongs. She bent over to do the same for Charles, the tongs with the meat in her hands, when he reached forward abruptly for the wine, knocking the tongs so violently the small pieces of pork fell onto his lap.

  ‘For crying out loud, woman!’ He leaped to his feet, brushing at his trousers as though he was covered when in fact the food had barely left a mark. ‘What’s the matter with you?’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Mrs Franklin stepped back a pace, her face tightening.

  ‘And so you should be.Well, see to it, see to it.’ He gestured irritably at the pork lying on the floor. ‘Damn it all, I don’t know why I’m paying you what I do.’ He strode to the window and stood with his back to the room.

  Amy said nothing while Mrs Franklin cleared up the meat, served Charles two more portions followed by their vegetables and then left the room. But the moment the door was closed, she spoke.

  ‘That was totally uncalled for,’ she said flatly. ‘It was your fault, not Mrs Franklin’s, and you shouldn’t have spoken to her like that.’

  He swung round, staring at her tense face. ‘Don’t be so ridiculous. The woman’s as clumsy as hell.’

  ‘She is not.’ Amy found she couldn’t leave it. ‘She’s an excellent housekeeper and you know it. You were totally unfair and you ought to apologise.’

  He came to the table and refilled his glass.‘You really don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no intention of apologising, ’ he said, his voice noticibly slurred.

  ‘And I have no intention of sitting here and continuing to eat this meal as though everything is all right,’ Amy said, rising to her feet and throwing down her napkin.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ he growled furiously.

  ‘To bed, but first to the kitchen to see if Mrs Franklin is all right.’

  ‘To apologise for me? Is that it? Over my dead body. Sit down and eat.’

 
; ‘I’m not hungry.’

  ‘Sit down, Amy.’ His face was red with temper. He thrust out his arm and tried to press her down into her chair. She resisted and he slapped her across one cheek so hard her head snapped back. She felt as though her neck had cracked.

  She didn’t have to think about what to do next. Instinct kicked in. She pushed at him with all her might, catching him unawares and sending him sprawling backwards. He made a vain grab at the table but only succeeded in sending the tablecloth and all the dishes cascading to the floor. He hit the ground with crockery and glass smashing around him.

  For a second she stood, her breast heaving, and then she turned on her heel and left the room.

  She walked swiftly towards the stairs, passing a startled Mrs Franklin and Lucy who had burst from the kitchen saying, ‘Madam? What’s wrong?’

  ‘Mr Callendar has fallen over.’ She didn’t stop. ‘You will need a dustpan and brush.’

  On reaching their room she shut the door and locked it, standing with her back against it as her legs threatened to give way. She stood like this for a full minute, unable to take in the enormity of what had happened so suddenly downstairs. She felt as sickened as when Perce had tried to rape her. Charles’s unexpected violence hurt her heart more than her bruised and stinging cheek.

  She half expected him to come ranting and raving after her but all was quiet downstairs. After a while she forced herself to move away from the door. She undressed quickly, put on her nightie and brushed her hair as she did every night. Her movements were jerky and mechanical, her eyes stretched wide as though she was staring into the dark.

  She was sitting on the edge of the bed when reaction set in and the tears came, and then she sobbed as though she would never stop, wild thoughts milling about in her mind. She would leave first thing in the morning before he was awake and go to the Prices’. She would tell them everything. Yes, she would do that. Or should she book into a hotel somewhere so he didn’t know where to find her? Perhaps even go to Newcastle.

  She cried herself to sleep but when she awoke again in the middle of the night the empty side of the bed brought fresh pain and anguish of a different nature. How could something that had been so good go so wrong? she asked herself, curling up into a little ball under the covers, missing Charles’s warmth and the comfort of his body. She didn’t understand it. He couldn’t love her any more, not to behave like this. He was regretting marrying her, that was it. Well, she was regretting it too, she hated him. No, no she didn’t, she loved him.

  On and on her thoughts tumbled until, her head aching and her pillow damp, she slept again.

  She awoke midmorning to a gentle tapping on the bedroom door. ‘Amy?’ Charles’s voice was husky. ‘Please, darling, let me in. Please, my love. I have to talk to you. Please.’

  ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’ She sat up in bed, brushing the hair out of her eyes as she spoke and her stomach began to churn.

  ‘I know and I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t blame you if you never speak to me again. But please, please, darling, open the door.’

  She climbed out of bed, her heart in her mouth, and padded across to the door. She unlocked it and then stood back as he opened it from the other side. He had been crying, she noticed that at once, and he looked dreadful. She stared at him and as he went to reach out to her, she said, ‘Don’t touch me, Charles.’

  ‘Oh, Amy, Amy, don’t look at me like that. I’m not going to hurt you.’ His eyes moved to the bruise already showing on one cheek and he groaned. ‘I’d rather cut off my right hand than hurt you again. I don’t know what came over me. I swear, I swear by all that’s holy that I’ll never do anything like this again. Forgive me or else I can’t go on. I mean it. I can’t live without you. I’ve said I’m sorry to Mrs Franklin.’

  This last was said in the manner of a little boy and as Amy felt her heart begin to melt she tried to steel herself against it. The hurt, neglected child in him who had become more apparent the more she had learned of his childhood always had the power to move her.

  ‘Please, Amy, forgive me. I’ll do anything you want, anything. I’ll get you the moon if you want it.’

  She stared at him, her face white except for the blue-red mark where his hand had landed. ‘I don’t want the moon, Charles. I just want the man I married back again.’

  ‘You have him, I swear it. I swear it, my love. Please, please. I worship you, I adore you. Please don’t shut me out.’

  She didn’t want to shut him out. She needed him every bit as much as he needed her. ‘Promise me you won’t drink again.’

  ‘I do. I won’t.’

  ‘Promise me, Charles. Say it.’

  ‘I promise. I won’t drink again. Anything. Just say you forgive me and you still love me.’

  ‘You know I love you.’

  As he took her into his arms, Amy shut her eyes, her heart racing. Maybe this had had to happen for him to finally see he couldn’t go on the way he had been going. Perhaps it was meant to be. If that was the case, it was worth it. She loved him, she would always love him. She didn’t want them to be at odds with each other or living the way her Uncle Ronald and Aunt May had lived, at virtual war within four walls. She would do anything to make this work for them.

  Charles managed to abstain for seven weeks but on Christmas Eve, after they had entertained three prominent dignitaries of the Gentlemen’s Club and their portly, well-dressed wives, he declared he had a spot of indigestion. He disappeared into his study with the last of the wine from the table and then opened a bottle of brandy. He spent the night snoring in an armchair, explaining his actions the next morning by saying the business was now verging on going into the red.

  Thus began a cycle of behaviour which was to sicken Amy. If Charles drank late at night in his study and remained downstairs, things were tolerable. True, she tossed and turned in their bed and cried herself to sleep as often as not, but the abusive behaviour which seemed to flare when he had consumed a certain amount of alcohol was contained.

  All too often, however, he drank before he got home and insisted on more with his dinner, by which time he was liable to fly off the handle at the slightest thing. When Amy tried to persuade him to discuss his business worries with her, he flatly refused, often becoming hostile in the process.

  Mrs Franklin left their employ in the middle of March and Lucy a week later. Amy couldn’t blame them. By July they had lost a second housekeeper and maid, and this pattern was to repeat itself once more before the end of the year.

  But still Amy fought for her marriage. She had promised before God to love, honour and obey, she told herself, even when she had to wear high-necked dresses with long sleeves to hide any telltale bruises. In sickness and in health. And she couldn’t help feeling this seemed like a sickness, a sickness in the mind. The man who lashed out at night was not the same individual of daylight hours. The real Charles, the Charles who needed her so badly and relied upon her love and support, had to be helped. She couldn’t abandon him.

  Kitty wrote to say she and Ronald had secured employment and were living in Manchester, but Amy didn’t mention her problems when she wrote back. She continued to visit her grandmother regularly but put on such a good act when she was with the old lady that Muriel never suspected a thing.

  Inwardly, though, the strain was taking its toll. For two years she had known Charles as a kind and generous employer whom she had come to see as her friend, then he had been an ardent suitor and finally a gentle and loving husband for the first couple of months of their marriage. In the worst of his drunken bouts Charles would accuse her of all manner of failings, declaring she wasn’t a good enough, caring enough, capable enough wife. He invariably backtracked in the morning, and Amy knew in her heart that their present situation wasn’t her fault, but in her low moments his words would come to haunt her.

  Whatever business concerns ailed him, he ought to be able to share them with his wife, surely? Why did he turn to the bottle instead of her? Wh
at could she do differently? She asked herself these questions over and over again in the dark moments before dawn when she couldn’t sleep, but she never took into account that she had only seen the man Charles wanted her to see in the time before their marriage. Neither did she fully understand that Charles’s addiction had the power to turn the most altruistic of souls into a self-absorbed being with little consideration for anyone else.

  Then, at the end of the year, two events occurred which gave Amy hope that all would eventually be well. She did not view the first in this light initially. Charles had communicated with his mother only by telephone since their marriage and the calls had been short, and rather tense at his end. So when he passed a letter over to her at the breakfast table one morning at the beginning of December, saying, ‘How do you feel about a couple of guests at Christmas?’ she looked at him in surprise before reading the short note. His mother had written that she and her sister would like to spend the Christmas holiday with them this year if this was convenient. That was all. No asking after their health or comments about the weather or any other polite social discourse. Amy raised her head and met her husband’s eyes. ‘Do you want them to come?’