My mother was incredulous, Jim said nothing and Pat withdrew into the world of cartoons. He only spoke to me when I spoke first or when he needed food. He had a TV, a video recorder and a tower of trusty cartoons that never let him down, what did he need his father for? I tried to talk to him about Anna, to let him know why it wouldn’t work, but how do you tell an almost five-year-old that your wife and his new stepmother has such potential for violence? I told him that we were arguing too much and that we didn’t love each other anymore. He asked for a packet of crisps.
‘I don’t mean to judge, son,’ said Mum. ‘But you youngsters don’t know how to work at a marriage. You’re not even married a year and you’re splitting up? Crazy. I blame this whirlwind lifestyle you all lead. A quick fix and then move on. Things that are worthwhile don’t come to you as easy as that.’
‘Yes, Mum.’
‘Still, at least I’ll get to see more of you now.’ This was the first time that my mother alluded to the fact that she had seen less of me since Anna came on to the scene. A lot less. ‘Where has Anna gone to stay?’ she asked
‘I found a bedsit for her. I’ll look for something more substantial, a flat or something.’ We were talking in her kitchen. A place that we had often sat and talked over the years. We always sat on the same bone-hard seats, facing each other, cradling cups of strong tea in our hands, talking for hours. Even though my mother didn’t bake much anymore, the scent of scones, pancakes, fresh bread and jams still hung in the air like a sweet cloud. These four walls had listened to the growth of our family, its joys and its torments. I used to swear that my mother dropped something into my tea whenever we sat here, because I could never hide anything from her while we talked in this room. It became my confessional. My hopes, my desires, my sins were all disclosed to my mother while sipping tea and eating cake.
Mum would just sit and listen. Sip and chew. She would only speak to ask questions, draw a little more out from me.
This time, however, I couldn’t confide in her. I couldn’t tell her that my wife was violent, that my penis was bruised and lined with lacerations from Anna’s nails. What would she think of me? I was a man, a big man. Anna was a dainty woman, how could I have let her do this to me. This was one situation I would never be able to discuss. Shame stoked the furnace of my face. I buried my head in my hands to hide the deep flush on my skin.
Mum misread my actions.
‘Don’t worry, son,’ she offered. ‘It obviously just wasn’t meant to be. You’ll get over it. In time you’ll be able to put it down to just one of those things and you’ll move on, meet someone else.’
‘No thanks,’ I said vehemently. ‘I’ve learned my lesson. No more women for me. Widowed once, almost divorced once and I’m just in my early thirties. Married life obviously isn’t for me. Someone up there is trying to tell me something and I’ve heard them. Loud and clear.’
‘Never say never, son.’ Mum topped up my cup of tea. ‘You’re a young man yet. You’ve just not met the right woman.’
‘Yes I have, Mum.’ I said with finality. Patricia’s ghost hung silently in the air between us.
Mum sipped at her cup her eyes looking at me apologetically over the rim. Her obvious sorrow at my troubles touched me. Emotion tightened my throat. I smoothed my forehead with my fingers and waited until the threatened tears subsided.
‘Besides, Mum. I have Pat.’
We both smiled fondly at the mention of his name.
‘Yes,’ Mum agreed, ‘He’s a wee joy, isn’t he?’
‘And I can’t keep putting him through the process of meeting a new mum every so often. That wouldn’t help him. I’ll just have to live like a monk.’ I grinned, trying to inject some humour into the sombre room. ‘I’ll have to tie a knot in it.’
Mum laughed, ‘If you’re anything like your father then that’ll be impossible.’
‘Mum.’ I made a face. ‘Too much information.’
At work, the rumour mill swung quickly into action. My fellow employees loved nothing more than a good gossip and that doesn’t come much better than a marriage that has floundered within the first year. Reaction ranged from quietly spoken sympathy to people completely ignoring the subject.
Not keen on anyone knowing my business at work, I preferred the silent approach. With Roy Campbell, however, this was not possible.
‘Ah, Andy, Andy.’ He bounced into the room as if delighted to hear of another’s misfortune. ‘Sorry to hear about you and the Mrs. Still, better to realise you’ve made a mistake early on than spend twenty years in absolute misery.’
‘How long have you been married like?’ I asked
‘Twenty … ah, you cheeky monkey. You won’t catch me out like that. So what went wrong? Not giving her enough? She spending too much of your money?’
‘Roy,’ I groaned. ‘Do you have any idea what the word “sensitivity” means?’
‘Aye,’ he looked at me quizzically, ‘It means…’
‘It means that I’m telling you nothing and I’d rather be left on my own.’
‘Fine, fine.’ He looked wounded. ‘Miserable sod,’ he announced to no one in particular as he walked back out of the room. At least with Roy there were no surprises. You knew what to expect and he never let you down. I heard a brief conversation in the corridor and then another face popped in the door.
‘Hey, how are you?’ It was Malcolm.
‘Oh, you know. Bloody wonderful.’
‘Fancy going out for a pint tonight? Let it all hang out? Get it off your chest?’
‘Nah, no thanks Malcolm.’ This miserable sod didn’t want company. ‘Too raw just yet. Soon though, eh?’
‘Aye,’ he said retreating back out the door. ‘Soon.’
The truth was that I just wanted to be left alone. I didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t even want to think about it, but it was in my thoughts all of the time. It was sitting right on my shoulder, a boulder crushing bone, muscle and sinew. I couldn’t sleep, I couldn’t eat.
I wanted her back.
Four weeks passed while I lived in this purgatory. No one could reach me, I was living in my own little world of misery. I couldn’t escape the fact that I still loved Anna and that I would take her back in an instant. But every time I thought of phoning her a picture of a bowed, quiet woman would impose itself on my mind.
Sheila Hunter.
I recalled how that shrunken emaciated figure had talked to me in her house about putting up with a violent partner. I thought of all the films, books and articles that preached as soon as the violence starts, get out. It will only escalate.
Easy for them to say.
Get out.
What if you can’t? What if you are certain it will stop, despite all evidence to the contrary? You love the person, you don’t want to give up on them despite everything. You just tell yourself a suitable lie, and carry on. I had given Anna some time, convinced that her first attacks had been an aberration, something born of stress, her new situation, everything conspiring to get on top of her. But, just as all the experts might have predicted, the violence had returned.
And returned again.
I had to be strong. I would just have to make do without her in my life, no matter how much it hurt.
Work became my solace from confusion. The minute I walked into the office at eight o’clock my mind closed the door to thoughts of Anna. Behind the thick doors they stayed until six in the evening when I would go to pick up Pat from my mother’s.
He had now started school and seemed to be enjoying every minute of it. All the way home in the car he would chatter non-stop about what his teacher said that day and what his friends got up to. He talked of painting, of letters and of numbers, and his sweet soprano was a balm to the muddle in my mind all the way through to his eight-thirty bedtime.
It was one such night, however, that my world was thrown into more chaos. I picked Pat up from my mother’s, who had herself picked him up from school and fed him. That night his chatter was about a giraffe that he had drawn. His teacher, Miss Talbot thought that it was very good. He held it up so that I could peruse it in the car mirror, then, not waiting for my words of praise, folded it back up again. Obviously the fact that Miss Talbot thought it was excellent meant that my opinion on the subject was redundant.
Once home, he played with some toys while I heated and ate a microwave meal and then it was bath time. Occasionally I would join him in the water and that night I decided to do just that. We splashed each other, pretended to make his little rubber bath toys fly before diving into the soapy depths. We laughed a lot. There is something magical about father and son playing naked in a bath. Divested of clothes and of society’s mores we were simply two humans having fun. As we splashed I considered how sad it was that people would often feel too uneasy about playing with their child in such a way.
‘You’re really hairy, Dad.’ Pat interrupted my reverie. ‘Will I be as hairy as that when I grow up?’
‘Who knows, son. For your sake I hope not. Girls seem to prefer hairless chests these days.’
Dried and dressed, him in pyjamas, me in joggers and a t-shirt, we sat down to an animal programme on the Discovery Channel. Animals, the larger and fiercer the better, were Pat’s passion. He could sit and watch them all day. And if Disney caricatured and animated them, even better. Soon it was time for bed.
‘Aw, Dad. Can I not stay up for a wee while longer? There’s grizzly bears coming up.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘It’s bed time. You can watch the grizzlies another night. Come on, bed.’
‘Okay, okay. Will you read to me?’ He brightened at the thought.
‘Five minutes, okay?’ He raced up the stairs almost before the words were out of my mouth.
I had been reading for around fifteen minutes when I heard the doorbell.
‘Right. I’ll go and answer that. You get to sleep, young man.’ I tucked in his quilt, kissed his forehead and put on his nightlight.
‘Goodnight, son,’ I said from the door.
‘Night, Dad,’ Pat said and closed his eyes tight as if trying to convince me he was suddenly asleep.
Wondering who could be at the door at this time of night, I walked down the stairs. It would probably be Jim on the cadge for a couple of cans. Paula must have given him the night off, I thought as I pulled open the door.
And there she was.
‘Anna! What the … what …?’
‘Can I come in, Andy? We need to talk.’ She seemed swamped by her coat, her head bowed as if too heavy for her neck.
‘I thought we’d said all that needed to be said.’
‘Andy, please. I’ll just take five minutes and then you can fling me back out again.’
Intrigued by her tone and quiet demeanour I stood aside and let her in. She reached the living room and, as she walked, she looked around herself as if memories of happier times were filling her mind.
She faced me. Her eyes were circled in shadow. She looked thinner. She looked like she needed a hug. And at the thought I crossed my arms, as if that might curb the impulse once and for all.
‘He’s … he’s fine. What do you want, Anna?’ I wanted her out of my house quick. I also wanted to hold her and never let go.
She looked up at me. Her eyes large and moist. ‘I’m pregnant.’