A Time to Tell

by Maria Savva

  ‘I can’t go on like this… We can’t go on like this, Dave.’ She stroked Andrew’s hair; the same straw-coloured hair as his father’s. He had cried himself to sleep, his head on her lap. The tears were still fresh on his face. The red patch on his forehead where the blow had landed was slightly swollen. She touched it gently, worry painting her countenance grey.

  ‘He’ll be fine,’ said David, suddenly appearing to recover the ability to speak and move. ‘He’ll have to learn to stand up for himself. You mollycoddle him. Do you wanna turn him into a mummy’s boy?’

  Carefully lifting Andrew’s head from her lap, she settled him on the sofa and raised herself up to her full height. She wiped the blood from her nose where David had hit her before he hit Andrew. ‘Get out, Dave,’ she said as calmly as she could.

  He shook at the sound of her voice, as if startled.

  ‘I’ll call the police, and I’ll tell them what you did to your son.’

  ‘I didn’t do anything—’

  ‘Get out!’

  ‘You’re a crazy woman, Penny. Don’t worry, I’m going, but I’ll be back when you’ve calmed down.’ Even as he said this, his eyes were lowered, incomprehension and shame written in the lines etched into his brow.

  He walked towards the living room door.

  ‘If you come back, the police will be here waiting for you,’ she warned.

  He mumbled a few words to himself as he walked away.

  She heard the front door slam shut and fought the little voice telling her that perhaps this would change him.

  Penelope looked again at Andrew asleep on the sofa: her baby. Tonight’s events echoed what had happened the night her father fled the family home.

  David had arrived home from work late and became angry because his food was cold and because Penelope and the children had already eaten. He started pushing her. As usual.

  Andrew came downstairs for a glass of water, walking into the room at the precise moment that David had punched her in the face. ‘Daddy!’ he’d shouted. ‘Leave Mummy alone!’

  Penelope felt a strange mix of emotions then: relief that Andrew had entered the room because she took it for granted that the beating would stop—David was usually calm around the children—but at the same time, horror that Andrew had witnessed his father’s violence.

  As she fell backwards onto the sofa, her nose bleeding from the blow, an image came to mind: that of her mother lying at the bottom of the stairs, her guilty-looking father standing over her.

  David had approached Andrew. ‘What did you say, son?’

  ‘Stop hitting Mummy.’ Tears fell down the child’s face as he beseeched his father.

  ‘I hit Mummy because she did a bad thing. It’s okay to hit someone if they’re bad, isn’t it, son?’

  Penelope, having by then regained her balance, had walked over to David. He’d punched her in the stomach. ‘Can’t you see I’m talking to my son?’

  Andrew reached out then and tugged at David’s arm: ‘Stop it!’ he sobbed.

  Then, in an apparent knee-jerk reaction, David swiped out and caught Andrew on the brow with the back of his hand.

  Andrew ran over to Penelope who was sitting on the sofa, reeling from the pain of the punches she’d sustained, one hand holding a tissue over her nose to stop the bleeding.

  Penelope knew she’d have to act quickly if she wanted to get away. David was stunned enough to back off for a while. What he did to Andrew would have sparked his deepest fear: that he would become his parents.

  After running upstairs, Penelope found her handbag, and opening the inside zip, she saw it: the card the policewoman had given her last month when the neighbours called the police for the third time in two weeks after hearing yet another row. She’d told the policewoman she didn’t need help but had kept the card, unable to bring herself to throw it away.

  As she dialled the number on the card, her hand shook. She trembled as she listened to the ringing tone buzzing in her ears.

  ‘Hensley Police, can I help you?’ The woman’s voice with a soft Scottish accent sounded friendly enough, yet Penelope still considered hanging up the phone.

  ‘Um…’ she began. ‘I need to speak to someone about…’ She hesitated, doubting herself. Would anyone even take her seriously? So what if David hit her now and then? Maybe she deserved it. But recalling the fear in Andrew’s eyes, his face wet with tears, she forced herself to continue: ‘Domestic violence.’

  ‘Hold on, I’ll put you through to someone,’ said the kind-sounding Scottish woman.

  Penelope sat on the edge of her bed, the phone in her right hand, her left hand still holding the card.

  ‘Hello, Lindsay Brown speaking.’ This woman had a London accent and the tone of her voice was louder than the Scottish woman’s. ‘How can I help you?’

  Penelope clenched her jaw, wanting to speak to the other woman instead; it would have been easier. This voice did not hold much compassion, as far as she could tell. ‘Um… I spoke to a policewoman, um… WPC Perkins. She gave me this number,’ said Penelope, ignoring the inner voice telling her to stop being silly, to put down the phone.

  ‘Okay,’ said Lindsay. ‘Can I take your name for our records, please?’

  ‘Penelope Truman.’

  ‘Do you live locally, Ms Truman?’

  ‘Yes, in Furley Avenue.’

  ‘That’s just behind the park, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘I used to go to school around there,’ said Lindsay. ‘But that’s enough about me. How can we help you, Penelope? You don’t mind me calling you Penelope, do you?’

  ‘No… that’s fine.’

  ‘So, I understand you’re calling about a domestic violence incident, is that correct?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Please tell me, in your own time, what happened.’

  ‘My husband… he’s violent… aggressive.’ She felt an urge to end the call again, didn’t want to be telling this stranger about her personal life, even worse over the phone. Paranoia took hold. Negative thoughts swam through her mind. She couldn’t see this policewoman’s face, couldn’t see her reactions. Would she be rolling her eyes at the story, inwardly blaming her for letting David behave that way? After all, she was just another faceless domestic violence victim to Lindsay.

  ‘Go on, Penelope,’ urged the policewoman.

  Penelope convinced herself more each minute that she was being foolish. Lindsay would probably have left Dave years ago, not put up with all the beatings. Her hand shook and she lowered the telephone handset, but then she remembered Andrew’s tears. She knew she had to disregard this doubt and go on for his sake. ‘I don’t know what he’ll do next.’

  ‘Right. Where is your husband now? Are you in immediate danger?’

  ‘I don’t know. He’s gone out. He usually disappears for a while after he’s—’ She stopped.

  ‘Did he hit you before he went out?’

  ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘And has this happened before?’

  ‘Yes, but today… I’ve never seen him like he was today: s-s-so wild.’ She closed her eyes. ‘He hit our son.’

  ‘How old is your son?’

  ‘Six.’

  ‘Please elaborate. You say he hit him. Tell me about that.’

  ‘He… He caught his forehead with the back of his hand. It’s swollen.’

  ‘When you say he caught his forehead, was it a deliberate action?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It happened so quickly. I think he reacted to our son pulling at him; our son had seen him hit me and was trying to stop him. He wouldn’t usually deliberately hurt the boys.’ Penelope winced. There it was again, that part of her that was forever defending David.

  ‘How many children do you have?’ asked Lindsay.

  ‘Two boys.’

  ‘How old are they?’

  ‘Six and eight.’

  ‘Has your husband ever hit any of the children before?’

  ‘No, it�
�s always only me. He usually stops if the boys come in, but tonight…’

  ‘Okay, Penelope. Have you ever taken any legal action against your husband for domestic violence—for example, an injunction?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We can put you in touch with a solicitor in your area, and they can help you to get a court order to keep him away from you and the boys.’

  ‘I can’t do that! He’ll go mad. He’ll kill me.’

  ‘He doesn’t need to know. You can go to court tomorrow morning and get the order. As soon as it’s served on him you’ll be safe. If he comes within a few yards of you, you can take him to court.’

  ‘But I don’t know where he is. How can I have an order served on him? What about if he comes back tonight? The policewoman I spoke to before mentioned a women’s refuge. I’d prefer to just leave. I don’t want to get a court order. I don’t want to see him again. I want to get me and the kids out of here, out of danger. It’s gone on for too long. Dave’s not normal. He won’t care about a court order.’ The words spilled out at a furious rate as Penelope felt hope dissolving into nothing.

  ‘Don’t worry, Penelope, don’t upset yourself; we’re here to help. We’ll do everything we can to make sure you’re safe. I need to assess your situation because there are so many types of domestic violence, some more serious than others.’

  Penelope started to cry.

  ‘Penelope, I need to ask you some questions to see if you qualify for immediate help. The number of rooms in the refuges, and other temporary accommodation, is limited.’

  Penelope took a tissue from the box on the bedside cabinet and dried her tears.

  ‘How many times have you had to call the police in the last month?’ asked Lindsay.

  ‘I don’t usually call. The neighbours have called a few times this month.’ What would Lindsay think about that? Penelope was cursing herself for not seeking help sooner, for letting David get away with all of the abusive behaviour. Seeing him hit Andrew had woken up a part of her brain that had been shut down, it seemed. She felt so removed from her former self and in disbelief that she had lived so passively for so long.

  ‘And you haven’t sought any help other than this phone call?’

  She shook at the sound of Lindsay’s voice. Hope was fading fast, ‘No. Does that mean you can’t help me?’ Her fingers were tightly crossed—an old superstitious habit she had in times of despair. She remembered keeping her fingers crossed all night when her mother was in hospital after her father left home. She’d kept them crossed for so long that in the morning they were numb.

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Lindsay.

  Penelope let out a sigh.

  ‘Why did you decide to call today?’ asked Lindsay.

  ‘I’ve already told you. Dave’s out of control.’ As she said his name, she could picture his cold dark eyes, the colour of night, boring deep into her soul.

  ‘Dave? That’s your husband?’

  ‘Yes. David Truman. He hit our son. I’m scared he’ll do it again. You have to help me. I’ve never been so frightened, and I’m sure that if my son hadn’t walked into the room tonight, he would have killed me.’

  ‘Okay, Penelope, you can come to the police station tonight for an interview with an officer in our domestic violence unit. If your case is as serious as you’ve outlined, we’ll help you to be placed in a refuge or other temporary accommodation until you can organise some legal assistance.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Penelope finally allowed herself to uncross her fingers. She’d taken the first step towards the lifeline she had been praying for and wished she’d made this move earlier. Now these people were going to help her get away from all the fear.

  Reality jolted her from this brief respite when she heard a burst of music coming from the television in Cara’s room. How could she leave? Who would take care of her grandmother?

  ‘Can you make your own way to the station, or do you need me to send someone to collect you?’ asked Lindsay.

  ‘I’ll drive to the station,’ she said, still worrying about what she was going to do about Cara.

  CHAPTER NINE

  ‘Aunty Cathy, hello, it’s me, Penny.’ Her hand trembled as she held the phone.

  ‘Penny, hi, how’s Mum? I’ve been meaning to come and visit but I’ve been so busy.’

  ‘Aunty, I need your help.’

  ‘Penny? Are you all right? You sound upset.’

  ‘I can’t go into it right now, but I’m leaving Dave.’

  ‘Why? I mean—’

  ‘I don’t want to talk about it on the phone.’

  Catherine remembered seeing Penelope and David a few weeks ago at Carl’s eighth birthday party. They appeared happy: playing with the children and chatting with their friends. ‘Okay, look, I’ll come and see you soon and—’

  ‘We don’t have time for that,’ snapped Penelope.

  ‘Time? What do you mean? You’re not making sense.’

  ‘I’m leaving tonight, and I need you to come and take Nan to stay with you.’

  ‘Er… I—’

  ‘Please Aunty, don’t ask any questions, just help me.’

  ‘I’d love to help, but we don’t have enough room.’

  ‘Then make room,’ Penelope said, uncharacteristically forceful.

  ‘Penny, I can tell you’re under some pressure, but we can’t have Mum here. I… Tom and I, we work such long hours.’ Catherine rolled her eyes, hating the lies.

  Tom was sitting in the kitchen, in the same position he’d been in for most of the day. He suffered from depression and took medication to help his mood swings. Catherine knew that if there was no alternative, she could make room for her mother on a temporary basis, but how could she bring her here to see the way they lived their lives these days? She and Tom hardly spoke to each other, and she’d had to work extra shifts to cover the mortgage payments since he lost his job.

  ‘I’m not asking you, I’m telling you,’ grumbled Penelope. ‘I’ll be gone tonight, and someone has to look after Nan. She’s your mum, for God’s sake! We’ll meet you at forty Furley Avenue in an hour.’

  ‘But you live at number forty-three, don’t you?’

  ‘I’ll explain it all to you later. Be there in an hour, or earlier if you can.’

  ‘Number forty, you say?’ She found a pen lying next to the telephone and wrote the address on a scrap of paper.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Okay, Penny, I’ll think of something.’

  Catherine placed a hand over her mouth when she hung up the phone. She had worked so hard at hiding her own problems from the rest of the family. If her mother came to stay, it would be virtually impossible to prevent her finding out about Tom’s depression.

  She picked up the phone again and dialled her brother’s telephone number. His wife, Emily, answered.

  ‘Hi, Em, it’s Cat. It’s been ages since we talked. How are you?’ she asked, trying to bridge the conversation.

  ‘I’m fine. Look, I’m sorry, Cat, but you’ve caught me at a bad time; I’m just about to go out.’

  ‘It’s Jamie I wanted a word with actually. I’m after a favour. Do you think you and Jamie could let Mum stay with you for a while?’

  ‘Have you spoken to him recently?’ asked Emily.

  ‘No, not for a couple of weeks.’

  ‘You should speak to him,’ she said without further explanation.

  ‘Is he around?’

  ‘No, try his mobile.’

  ‘Okay, but—’

  ‘Bye, Cat.’

  Catherine heard the humming of the phone line. Frustrated, she looked at her watch, aware time was running out; soon she would have to leave to collect her mother. Scanning the room, she wondered how she could rearrange everything, if her mother absolutely had to stay with them, to ensure Tom had as little contact with her as possible. She dialled James’s mobile number.

  ‘Jamie?’

  ‘Hi, Cat.’

  ‘Listen, would you and Emily be ab
le to look after Mum for a while? Penny and David are going through some sort of relationship crisis.’

  ‘What sort of crisis?’

  ‘I don’t know exactly, but it sounds serious. Penny’s leaving home tonight, and she needs someone to take Mum.’

  ‘Why can’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Where would I put her? We’ve only got one bedroom. Your house is big enough. You could put her in William’s bedroom. He could sleep on the sofa for a while; it won’t be for ever. I’m sure Penny and David will sort out whatever the problem is, and—’

  ‘Sorry, I can’t help.’

  ‘You can be so selfish—’

  ‘I don’t even live at the house. I’m staying with a friend.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m getting divorced.’

  Catherine’s mouth fell open. ‘I knew you and Emily were going through a bad patch, but—’

  ‘Well, now we’re going through a divorce. And I might be taking this job in South Africa I told you about. If I do, I’m leaving the country in a few weeks. I’m going over there next week for a trial period.’

  There was a melancholy tone to his voice. He was clearly burdened enough, and she didn’t want to put pressure on him. ‘What can we do about Mum?’ she asked, thinking aloud.

  ‘I don’t know. Have you asked Aunty Glor if she can stay with her? She’s been living all alone in that big house for years. She’d probably be glad of the company, even if she’s never really got on with Mum.’

  ‘But Mum and Aunty Glor haven’t spoken to each other for… it must be at least twenty years.’

  ‘Have you got any better ideas?’

  ‘Absolutely not!’ Gloria’s shrill voice said from the other end of the telephone line. ‘I won’t have that woman in this house!’

  ‘Aunty, please do this for me. We’re desperate,’ Catherine pleaded.

  ‘There’s nothing more to say,’ said Gloria. ‘It’s not my problem.’

  ‘Aunty, how old are you? Because, I have a five-year-old daughter who’s more mature than you. This is your sister we’re talking about. What if it were you?’