19

HELENA’S STORY

I am going to shock you with this next story, but I hope that when we’ve shared this, my friend, you will understand that, of all the evils in the world, beating a pregnant woman must rate one of the worst.

Yet it’s sadly a common picture today, as it was then, a battered wife. Nowadays it is referred to as domestic abuse. Traveller folks loathe a man who beats his wife. It is regarded as the despicable act of a coward. For a man to lift a hand and strike a woman is, in their eyes, the same as an Alsatian attacking a Westy.

Here is Helena’s story.

Bonny Helena adored Robert. Everybody knew it. Her family idolised him and his folks thought the world of her. Since the youngest age both were inseparable, and when old enough they married. For a few years he worked hard to give her a nice caravan and a good sizeable lorry for himself. Night after night he’d drive home after long hours breaking and collecting scrap metal, fall into her welcoming arms and sit down to a warm meal. Then one day Robert received his call-up papers. This meant his dreams of wealth and building a grand house for Helena were to be put on hold, for the duration of his national service of two years.

But suddenly a crack in the world appeared. A violent war was taking place in Korea, and Robert was thrown into a battle of, as we all now know, massive proportions. When it was finished he came home, like many of his comrades, a different man. Not so as one could visibly notice, but the smile had been replaced with a serious frown. Fewer people came calling on the couple because of his rudeness and lack of civility. He began to drink more and more, and worse was his treatment of Helena. He’d been seen hitting her, although she at first denied it and then made excuses blaming her nagging. It didn’t take long for his business to slip downhill, so one night after a bad bout of ‘supping wi’ the De’il’ he came home and beat her so badly she was taken into hospital. That was enough for her family to intervene and remove her from the scene. Her heart, though, was with Robert, and it didn’t take long for Helena to pack her bags and go back. This happened three times after that, with even the police arresting him; something seldom done in those days because wife-beating was looked upon as a triviality and usually solved over a cup of sobriety and tea.

They finally parted. Helena went away to live in the south of England where he would never find her. This seemed to sober him up, and he set about rebuilding his shattered business, turning away from the demon drink. After a teetotal year, Robert eventually persuaded her family to get her to write, and said he was trying to make amends. In spite of all that had passed she still loved and forgave him. In a short time he set about courting his estranged wife and this time he promised ‘no more tears’. Well, things went from fine, to good and better. He had indeed changed. A nice house came along, the business blossomed, and soon the happy couple awaited the arrival of their first baby. A lovely boy put the icing on the cake. Tragically, however, he only survived a week.

This sent Robert back into the so-called solace of drink, and Helena’s nightmare began all over again. Still, he had the good sense to draw back and not tip over the edge. They tried again and soon another baby was nestled in the womb. But Robert began to fall into deep black moods, and only a drink would help. Helena found his heavy hands were again finding their mark on her tender frame. One night, after his business had gone to the wall and their home was facing repossession, he set off to spend another drink-fuelled night with the amber spirit.

She was asleep when early morning brought him home. The final beating was horrendous! This was the final straw, the one that broke the camel’s back. I will tell what happened in the form of a poem.

Water of Life

As the demon from the bottle flows,

The spirit deep within him grows:

It tells him this, it tells him that,

‘Angry young man, go kick the cat.’

His blue eyes turn a fiery red,

While she sleeps soundly in her bed

He hears the amber spirit say,

‘Pack your cowardly soul away.

Wear the mantle formed for you,

Demand another drink or two.

Now see him standing by the door,

Hit him till he tastes the floor.’

The barman shouts,

‘Get out, listen here.’

While the demon whispers in his ear,

‘What you need is a knife, my dear.’

Out in the street, his money spent

He staggers home, head hung, back bent.

The spirit mutters, ‘She’s to blame,

When you get back show her some pain.

Never mind that pregnant bitch,

She’s the reason you’re not rich.

You don’t need me to tell you so,

You’re the boss, she should know.’

He kicks the door, bounds up the stair,

Grabs her long, soft, brown hair,

‘Look at you, fat, ugly cow,

I’m starving, woman, feed me now.’

‘You let her off, you’re much too soft

You will regret this at your cost

Before she rises from that floor,

Kick her, go on, once more!

Good lad! I’m glad you understood,

Now let her lie, enjoy the food.’

Shivering she watches till he sleeps

Then tiptoes out on darkened street.

The skin across her face grows tight,

He didn’t miss his mark tonight;

From head to toe she’s wracked with pain,

She knows he’ll swear, ‘never again!’

But she’s had enough, just can’t go on,

The sharing love has all but gone.

The stone bridge wall is a dark, cold place,

Water sprays her tear-stained face.

She whispers to her child unborn,

‘With life anew we’ll meet the morn.

He beats me black, he beats me blue,

But he won’t hurt you, my baby new,

I promise this, he won’t get you.’

The bell wakes him from drunken sleep,

Makes to the door on shuffled feet.

Policeman, helmet in his hand,

‘Can I come in’ he asks, ‘young man?

I have grave news for you,’ he said.

‘I’m sorry but your wife is dead!’