by June Thomson
‘Time for bed,’ he said with a self-conscious smile.
I undressed slowly. By the time I was changed, Ash was already in bed. I slid in beside him and he put his arms around me. I spent my wedding night with my mother-in-law in the next room. It just felt so wrong.
The following morning I was awake before daylight. Ash was still asleep as I fled from the flat, leaving my wedding dress hanging in the wardrobe. For all I know, it may still be there. The second I was in the safety of my own home, I pulled the wedding ring from my finger and hid it behind the clock on the mantelpiece.
I never wore it again.
Chapter 7
The Honeymoon Is Over
‘Once they had control, there was no need of a mask.’
Ian Stephen
June: It wasn’t long before Rab was laying down the rules.
I folded the aluminium foil with care around the top tier of my wedding cake. Tradition demanded that it be preserved and brought out to celebrate the christening of our first born. Generations of brides had done the same.
I could hear Rab’s voice raging from the living room.
‘Your cousin! Who the fuck does he think he is? Telling me how to treat you?’
I ignored him, shutting out his anger. I was clinging to the legacy of goodwill and happiness from yesterday, hoping that I could carry it into today. It was a forlorn hope. It had not taken long for the old Rab to reappear. We had been home for only a few minutes when he exploded. I had gone to bed alone the night before, exhausted and confused, leaving Rab drinking into the night. I was weary. It had been such a long day that I immediately fell into a deep sleep. It would have taken a bomb to wake me.
My first recollection of morning had been hearing Rab’s snores. The curtains were drawn and the room was gloomy. My eyes were gummed with sleep. I saw him in the half light, lying next to me. He had managed to take off his wedding suit, which had been pristine the day before but now lay in a crumpled heap. He was lying on his back, his mouth gaping. Our first morning as a married couple and I was already burdened by regret. I leaned across, nudging his bicep, and he awakened with a final ear-splitting snore.
‘Wha …? he said.
‘Time to get up. We have to get home.’
Rab never had any trouble getting out of bed. My words had barely died when he slid from beneath the covers and padded to the bathroom. I rose and dressed quickly. I’d shower when we got home.
My cousin Joe was already up. I could hear him in the kitchen and the smell of bacon greeted me as I made my way down the stairs.
‘Awright, lass?’ he said as I entered.
‘Fine, Joe,’ I said.
‘How’s that man of yours?’
‘On his way down.’
Rab entered the kitchen.
‘Gimme some tea,’ he ordered.
Joe poured it into a mug and said, ‘Get that down you and I’ll get you up the road.’
When we were settled at the table, Joe broke the silence.
‘You know how much I love June,’ he said to Rab.
Rab grunted into his tea.
‘So I want you to look after her,’ Joe went on.
His voice was calm but his words carried a veiled threat. Rab grunted once more. Joe rose from the table.
‘I’ll get the car,’ he said.
Half an hour later we were on the road to Kilbirnie. When we arrived I invited Joe in for a cup of tea but he was anxious to get home. Rab had remained silent while in his company, but the moment Joe left he began ranting about my cousin’s ‘warning’ to look after me.
‘Nobody fuckin’ tells me what to do!’
Before he could work himself into a fury, I retreated to the peace of the bedroom, taking the top tier of my wedding cake with me. It was now enclosed in the tin foil and secreted beneath the bed. I had made a special wish for a child not yet conceived. I returned to the living room with a heavy heart.
‘You’re my wife now,’ shouted Rab. ‘I’ll fuckin’ make the rules.’
His words lacked the subtly of my cousin’s.
Rab’s warning was all too clear.
Giselle: I hated having to lie.
‘Where were you yesterday? I was trying to get a hold of you.’
Katie’s question brought me out in a cold sweat. I would have to lie to her for the first time in my life. My eyes were drawn involuntarily to the mantelpiece.
‘Were you away for the day?’ Katie went on.
My eyes were still fixed on the mantel clock and the secret that lay behind it. I felt as if the hidden ring were glowing and that it would, at any moment, attract Katie’s attention and expose me. Don’t be daft, I thought. I shrugged mentally, pushing away the nonsensical thought. This wasn’t an Alfred Hitchcock film.
‘Ash arranged a day out,’ I heard myself say. It was only half a lie. ‘I didn’t get back till late.’
‘Anywhere nice?’ Katie asked.
‘Just round and about.’
A proper lie. I was ashamed but Katie was satisfied.
‘I’ll put the kettle on,’ she said, rising from her chair.
I exhaled. How was I going to keep this up? The thought of telling lies to my family made me sick to my stomach. I was disgusted with myself. I leaned forward and buried my head in my hands. Katie’s departure gave me a few moments to reflect. It was a ludicrous and unnecessary situation. Few people will recognise, let alone understand, my dilemma.
I knew in my heart that my mother and father – and brothers and sisters – would forgive me anything. All I had to do was throw myself on their mercy and tell them I had let them down. That would have been the rational thing to do. I could explain that I, too, had been duped; that I had believed it would just be me and Ash at the wedding.
But I persuaded myself that it was too late now. Ash had betrayed me. His mother had not only known about our wedding; she had been the guest of honour. I feared the effect it would have on my parents if I came clean. I would have died with shame at the thought that they believed I had deliberately excluded them.
I know it was incredibly stupid of me to think that way. They would have accepted my explanation, but I was racked by guilt. I didn’t want them to think I had betrayed them. I had spent my life protecting and caring for them. I could not bring myself to disappoint them, even for a second. Silly, I know, but that was the corner I had boxed myself into.
Katie emerged from the kitchen, carrying two mugs of tea.
‘There you go,’ she said, handing one of them to me.
‘So where did you get to yesterday?’ she asked.
My head swam. I was raising the mug to my lips, trying to buy time, when I heard the key turning in the lock. Ash! My stomach somersaulted. The living-room door opened and he stood in the doorway.
‘Hi Ash,’ Katie said.
‘Hello,’ he replied.
My eyes bored into his, willing him to say nothing. How was I going to escape exposure?
Katie saved my life.
‘God, is that the time?’ she said, looking at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I’m late. I’d better run.’
She leapt from the chair, grabbed her handbag and made for the hallway.
‘See you later,’ she shouted as she closed the front door.
My relief was immense. Ash didn’t speak at first. He went to the chair opposite me and sat down with a heavy sigh. I said nothing, waiting for him to break the silence. I was still angry. I loved him but at that moment I didn’t like him. He had let me down, very badly. How could I trust him again?
‘Giselle,’ he said.
I held up my hand. ‘Don’t! There’s nothing you can say.’
‘But Giselle, let me explain,’ he pleaded.
‘There’s nothing to explain. You lied.’
‘No! I wanted to surprise you, to make you happy.’
‘I was surprised, Ash, but you didn’t make me happy.’
He slumped back, bludgeoned by the truth.
I
went on quickly, ‘You had no intention of us living together as man and wife in our home. You decided that I would live with your mother, in her home.’
Ash interrupted. ‘When my father left us, I promised I would care for her.’
‘I want you to care for her,’ I told him. ‘I wouldn’t have it any other way. I wouldn’t hurt your mum for the world. But you made decisions without asking me. I won’t have that. We’re married now and I love you. We should have a normal life. We can look after your mum and have our own home, and our own family.’
‘Mum says she will go into a home so that we can be happy.’
I was puzzled. ‘How could that make me happy? I don’t want her in a home. I want her in her own home with us looking after her.’
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘It’s going to work out.’
He rose from his chair and joined me on the sofa, putting his arm around me and kissing me.
‘It’ll be all right,’ he soothed.
It was difficult to resist Ash and I felt the anger seeping out of me. I kissed him and said, ‘Are you hungry?’
‘Starving.’
‘I’ll make something to eat,’ I told him.
I kissed him again, this time on the forehead, and went to the kitchen. I took a pack of meat from the fridge and laid it on the work surface. I took potatoes from the vegetable rack and piled them into a colander. I was switching on the cooker when I heard the chirrup of Ash’s mobile phone. A few moments later he appeared at the kitchen door. I stared at him. He looked defeated.
‘It was Mum,’ he said.
As I turned back to the cooker, I heard the front door close behind him.
Chapter 8
The Way It Is
‘Men like Rab and Ash often have difficult relationships with their mothers. Insecure to a paranoid degree, they must control at all times, at all costs.’
Ian Stephen
June: I learned to live on a knife edge, but it would soon be no longer just about me.
We had been married for only a few months and I had already learned hard lessons. The most important was not to challenge Rab when he was in what I began to call his ‘black mood’. To do so was a cardinal sin, an act of defiance he would not tolerate. When he was in a fury, it was simple. I stayed out of his way if I could, if he would let me. There was no escape if I was the focus of his rage, which would detonate with the suddenness of an explosion. The distance between Rab’s brutish behaviour and the deep well of anger that provoked it was veneer-thin. One minute he was almost affable; the next he was a caged beast trying to batter its way to freedom.
I was learning to judge the mood, recognise which Rab was coming through the door. Later, much later, after he had taken my children, Rab’s behaviour would be tentatively diagnosed as ‘morbid jealousy syndrome’ by the eminent forensic psychologist Ian Stephen. But if it had been suggested to Rab that he was suffering from any form of psychological disorder he would have killed the bearer of such news with his bare hands.
Those who suffer from the condition have a complete but delusional belief that their spouse is unfaithful. I was never unfaithful to Rab but, looking back, it explains so much about his behaviour and that first ‘smack’ he had given me.
However, until I had his ring on my finger, I had only glimpsed the man behind the mask. Once we were married, Rab had no more need of any disguise.
‘What’s that filth on your fingers?’ he would demand to know.
‘What filth?’ I replied.
‘That shit!’
He was talking about the varnish on my nails.
‘It’s nail polish,’ I said quietly.
‘Get if off!’
‘It’s only nai—’ I started to say.
‘Get it off!’ he bellowed. ‘Whores paint their nails. Wives don’t!’
That was an end to nail polish.
His notion of how ‘whores’ behaved extended to my hair and my clothes. I wasn’t allowed to wear jeans and, according to Rab, only prostitutes wore high-heels. He took control of how I thought, how I looked, how I acted. The one task I was allowed to do on my own was the shopping, which Rab regarded as ‘women’s work’.
However, even that mundane excursion could not escape his paranoia. I would be putting the groceries into cupboards when the interrogations began. They could go on for hours. Whom had I met? What had I said? What had they said? How did they look at me? How did I look at them? It was as if Rab believed that a visit to the shops was my opportunity to find a new man.
‘You were a bit dressed up just to go to the shops,’ he would say after every trip to the supermarket.
‘No, I wasn’t!’ I would reply.
By now I was especially careful about my appearance, but my considerations were not those of a normal young woman – or man. I did not look at my reflection in the mirror and ask, ‘Do I look good?’ I was establishing whether or not I was dowdy enough to placate Rab. In fact, any visit to a mirror could be construed as a sin, as far as he was concerned. One day he ‘caught’ me brushing my hair.
‘Who are you trying to look good for?’ he said.
‘I’m getting ready for work.’
‘Who are you meeting?’ he demanded, his voice rising.
‘No one. I’m going to work,’ I said, turning from the mirror.
He moved so quickly that I didn’t see the blow coming. I felt the impact of his fist glancing off the side of my face. Rab turned away angrily, as I stumbled and slid down the wall.
I heard the front door slam. I remained where I was for several minutes before rising and going to the bathroom. I flicked the light switch, my eyes closing in the sudden brightness. I shuffled to the sink and the mirror above it, dreading my reflection. I brushed my hair from my eyes and saw the tender red patch on my cheek. I must have moved my head involuntarily at the moment Rab lashed out. Thankfully, this blemish, while painful, could be hidden. I would soon become adept at hiding bruises with clever make-up and pathetic excuses.
Why put up with such a life?
I hear you scream the question. It is one I have asked myself more times than I care to remember. Millions of abused women, from every walk of life, ask themselves that same question every day. None of us has the real answer because there is no answer. Was I afraid of people telling me, ‘I told you so!’? Yes, I was. Was I afraid to admit I had made a dreadful mistake? Yes, I was. Was I afraid of being left alone? Yes, I was. Desperately so. And on top of all this, there was my granny’s famous bed. I had made it. I would have to lie on it. I had no choice but to get on with it. That’s the way it was.
I was neither blind nor stupid. I saw other married couples who lived another kind of life, one that seemed happier and more contented. It was not my life. I had no illusions. Rab was undemonstrative, incapable of affection. That was the least of his sins. We did not make love. We had sex when he demanded it, no matter how I felt.
In time, his sexual demands would assume a more sinister and violent nature.
I would, in the meantime, have to learn how to live on a knife edge. I tried to make the best of everything and there were moments of light in the darkness. I learned to take pleasure from the small things, like when we moved into our first real home, a two-up-two-down in a terrace in Brownhill Drive, Kilbirnie. I threw myself into making the house as nice as I could, in the hope that it might become a proper family home. This was no longer just about me and Rab.
He was going to be a father.
Giselle: I had my own special news and I prayed that, at last, it would cut the apron strings.
‘Ash, I have something to tell you,’ I said.
He had arrived from work moments earlier. I had watched him from the kitchen window of my flat as he left the post office and entered my building. He was barely in the front door and was still struggling out of his coat.
‘What?’ he said, a look of alarm creeping into his eyes.
For weeks now, I had been nagging at him about the strangeness of o
ur life, demanding that it change, that he display a greater commitment. I had also told him that I didn’t know how much longer I could put up with the situation. We had been married for two months and he was still returning to his mother each evening.
‘What have you got to tell me?’ Ash asked.
He was looking more worried. I think he believed I was about tell him that it was all over. I took a deep breath.
‘You’re going to be a daddy.’
His face froze and then dissolved into an expression of unadulterated joy. He was crying.
‘A daaa-dddy,’ he said, savouring the word.
He was almost dancing as I ushered him into the living room. I was happy for the first time in weeks. I had been living in this state of tolerable unhappiness, the anger building in me because of Ash’s apparent inability to cut the apron strings that bound him to his mother. In that moment my anger drained. I don’t think I have ever seen another human being so happy. I couldn’t help but be infected by it. I laughed with him.
‘If it’s a son,’ he said excitedly, ‘we’ll call him Matthew, after the apostle. I’ll send him to a private school and, when he’s 18, I’ll buy him a Mercedes.’
He was almost shouting.
I put my hand on his shoulder and said, ‘Whoa, I’m just two months pregnant. Give us a chance – and anyway, what if it’s a girl?’
‘Girls love their daddy,’ he said with enthusiasm. ‘Girls give their father respect.’
Ash was overjoyed. I shared his joy. I was going to be a mother and the knowledge overwhelmed all of my misgivings.
‘When did you find out?’ Ash asked.
‘I think I’ve known for a while, but the tests confirmed it.’
I had realised that I had conceived on our wedding night. After all the trauma and unhappiness of that day, something wonderful had come of it.
‘Wait till Mum hears,’ he said. ‘She’ll be so happy for us.’
‘I know she will,’ I said.
Ash’s eyes took on that faraway look. He was conjuring up new dreams.
‘We’ll get a shop,’ he said. ‘Mum can make her special dishes and you can sell them in the shop. My son – or my daughter – can help out after school. It’ll be a proper family business.’
