~
I need to know more about the photo. I have to find out who took it and why. I need to know, if only so I can be sure that my mother-in-law won’t harm my daughter and that Chloe isn’t in any danger. But I can’t ask Alex. Apart from the fact that it might open up old wounds if I show him the photo, he’ll be furious that I’ve been prying. I feel a stab of guilt for firstly looking through his phone and then opening the box.
It occurs to me that once upon a time Alex and I used to talk about everything. There was no topic we couldn’t bring up. Now, there are so many tricky subjects I avoid for fear of setting him off. Countless things we would once have confided in each other have become taboos. Instead of telling my husband secrets, I keep secrets from him. Most of what I do tell him is only half the truth. And often, anything I say seems to be weighted with the echo of every argument we’ve ever had.
Not knowing what to do, I pick up the mug of tea I didn’t finish earlier from the coffee table and take it into the kitchen, where I make myself a fresh cup. Then, sitting on the sofa, my hands shaking visibly every time I lift the mug to my lips, I try to convince myself that my daughter is in safe hands with my mother-in-law. Sandy won’t hurt Chloe. Sandy wouldn’t hurt Chloe. I repeat the words over and over in my head, like a mantra.
It certainly doesn’t cross my mind to tell my mother-in-law what I stumbled across in the box. But when she arrives home with Chloe, I’m in the living room with the photo on the coffee table, poring over it. I hear her come in, banging the front door against the wall as she tries to get the pram into the house, but my instinct is to run and check on Chloe rather than hide the snapshot.
Chloe is sleeping, her thumb in her mouth. Kissing her gently so as not to wake her, I decide to leave her in the pram in the hallway. I hear myself offering to make Sandy a mug of tea. I expect her to follow me into the kitchen, but she kicks off her heels before going into the sitting room and flopping down onto the sofa.
I can feel the look of horror on my face as I peer through the doorway and see my mother-in-law pick up the photo to examine it. I hesitate, but then I continue to walk towards the kitchen. I can’t ask Alex about this, but I might be able to get his mother to shed some light on it all.
In the end, Sandy needs no prompting. Putting the mugs on the table, I sit down next to her, trying to read her expression, but she won’t meet my eye. She’s still staring at the photo in her hands.
‘Alex was so young. No child should have to go through that,’ she begins. ‘His father used to take him down to the cellar and “discipline” him.’ She spits the word out vehemently, her husband’s word.
So, the photo was taken in the cellar. No wonder Alex keeps it locked and won’t go down there.
‘Did you take this picture?’
‘Yes.’
I’m about to ask her why, but she repeats, ‘No child should have to go through that.’ She pauses, then adds, ‘And no child should have to witness one of his parents … hurting the other one. Physically, I mean.’
‘Your husband hit you?’
It comes out no louder than a whisper and at first I think she hasn’t heard, but then she nods. ‘He beat both of us.’
I remember Alex said his father left when he was ten. ‘Why did you … what made you stay so long?’
‘I don’t know, really.’ Her voice becomes distant. ‘I still ask myself that question every day. The good times were very good. I loved them. I loved him. He was genuinely sorry after each of the bad times. He kept saying he wanted to get better and that things would improve between us.’
Her words bring to my mind what Alex said after our row on the night of the barbecue. I’ll do better. It’ll get better.
‘He said he needed me to help him,’ she continues.
You make me a better person most of the time. Please say you’ll help me learn to be that person all of the time.
‘I believed him. I also thought a lot of the time that it was partly my fault. I wound him up. Then when he lost his temper and lashed out, I retaliated. I shouted obscenities at him, too. I even hit him back or threw things at him sometimes. I thought I was being strong to stand up to him. Then, afterwards, I would tell myself I was as bad as he was.’ She sighs. ‘The truth is, I felt too weak to leave. I hoped he would sort himself out, but deep down I knew that was never going to happen. Things could only get worse.’
I want her to carry on, but she seems as surprised as I am that she has said so much.
‘So how did it end?’ I remember Alex’s description of his father as a serial adulterer, so I ask, ‘Did he leave you for someone else?’
‘What? No!’ Her voice is back to its usual shrillness again. She turns on the sofa to face me, her eyes narrowing. She waves the photo at me. ‘Did Alexander give you this?’ Sandy is questioning me with the same piercing eyes my husband has.
‘No. I found it.’
‘Oh, I see.’ Thankfully, she doesn’t ask where. She removes an imaginary thread from the leg of her neatly ironed trousers. ‘Well, perhaps it would be best if he doesn’t find out you’ve seen this. I didn’t know he had it.’
I can tell she doesn’t want to discuss this anymore, but I can’t let it go. ‘Alex said you’d … separated from his father. He told me no one knew where he was. Weren’t you afraid he would come back?’
‘No. I showed him that photo. It was the only one of Alexander. But there were others of me. My bruises. I had the film developed the following day.’ She brandishes the photo again. ‘And that evening, when he came home, I told him to get out. I said if he came back, I would go to the police and the press.’
So that’s why she took the photo. And that probably explains why she didn’t use a flash. She didn’t want her husband to realise she was there.
Sandy scoops up the envelope from the table and puts the photo inside. Then she picks her handbag up from the floor.
‘May I?’
I nod. Slipping the envelope into her bag, she gets up to leave. This conversation is over.
After she has left, snatches of her story run through my head. The good times were very good … I loved him … Some of the things my mother-in-law has said are resonating with me. He was genuinely sorry … There are similarities between her marriage and mine. Things could only get worse.
Then the voice of reason pipes up in my head. It’s Alex’s voice again. Not everything is always about you. My mother was abused. I’ve never laid a finger on you. My father didn’t love her. I do love you. It’s what he would say, or a watered-down version of what I imagine his reaction would be, anyway.
I feel bad about comparing Alex’s father to Alex. After all, Alex is trying so hard not to be like him. And I feel terrible for imagining that Sandy could have been complicit in her husband’s abuse of Alex and for worrying about leaving my daughter alone with her.
For a few minutes, I stay sitting on the sofa, my head in my hands and my eyes shut. I can visualise the photo. Alex’s father standing over him, about to beat him with a belt. I can see the detail as clearly as if the photo were in front of me. The shelves, the chair, Alex’s trousers around his ankles, the date stamped in the bottom right-hand corner.
There’s something about the date: 8th September 1987. The next day, according to Sandy, she threw Alex’s father out. That would have been the 9th of September. The 9th of the 9th. Numbers start swirling around in my mind. At first, I can hardly visualise them, but then they spin more slowly. The passcode for Alex’s mobile. The numbers after his name in his email address: 9987. It can’t be a coincidence. Perhaps Alex considered it was a new start. The first day of the rest of his life.
I resolve not to breathe a word about the photo to Alex. When he comes home, he finds me upstairs, giving Chloe a bath.
‘Hello, my two loves,’ he says, kissing me on the back of my neck. ‘How was your day?’
‘Fine,’ I say, just as my mobile phone starts to ring.
‘Where is it?’ he asks.
‘In my back pocket.’
I’ve lifted Chloe out of the bath, and she’s in my arms. Alex slides his hand into my pocket, gives my backside a little squeeze, and pulls out my phone. I lay Chloe on the changing mat, cooing to her and drying my hands in her towel. I assume Alex will take over with Chloe and enable me to take my call.
But he leaves the room and then I hear his voice booming from the upstairs landing.
‘Hello, Julie. How are you?’
I feel irritation spark up inside me. We’ve never answered each other’s phones. Not only has he taken my call, but he has also taken my mobile out of the bathroom. I have nothing to hide, but that’s not the point. Then I remember accessing Alex’s phone to check up on him and the spark of irritation is replaced by a pang of guilt.
‘No, she’s busy with Chloe right now … I don’t think that will be possible … You do know that she’s been …’ He either lowers his voice or goes into another room and I can’t make out any more of his side of the conversation.
I see Alex before I hear him. I catch sight of him in the bathroom mirror. He hasn’t got my phone, so he’s not going to put me on to Julie.
‘What did Julie want?’ I ask. I make an effort to sound curious rather than demanding.
‘Oh, she just wanted us to go down to Somerset to visit,’ Alex says. ‘I had to tell her that we really can’t get away at the moment.’
I’m still watching him in the mirror. He seems to be avoiding eye contact. He’s lying. When he looks up, he misinterprets my expression of disbelief for disappointment.
‘Oh, don’t worry, Katie,’ he says. ‘We can go down at the end of the summer if you like. You understand, don’t you? There’s so much going on at work in August.’
I notice my reflection nodding.
I want to call my sister back, but Alex doesn’t give me a chance. He follows me around, talking nineteen to the dozen about inconsequential things. After a while, I find it so exhausting trying to follow him that I switch off.
I think about texting Julie, but it would only cause an argument with Alex. I could do it discreetly from the toilet, I suppose. But I have no idea where Alex put my mobile after he spoke to my sister. Presumably he left it in our bedroom. Just as I’m trying to come up with an excuse to go upstairs, Alex suggests we go to bed. I sigh. I’ll ring Julie tomorrow. It can’t have been urgent or Alex would have handed me the mobile when she called.
I find my mobile on the bedside table before I go to bed. But the next morning, my heart sinks as, for the second day running, Sandy arrives before Alex leaves. I’ll have to wait until she goes homes before I can ring my sister back. Discreetly, I send Julie a text message while Sandy is fussing over Chloe.
The reply comes back a few minutes later.
I puzzle over Julie’s message all day. What does she mean, the rest of us are fine? And why would she be worried about me?
When I’m not trying to work out what her text message means, I’m wondering how I can subtly steer Sandy back to yesterday’s conversation. I’m desperate to find out more, but she seems determined to stay on safer ground with mundane matters.
I catch Sandy looking at me expectantly and realise she has said something that I haven’t taken in. I have one of those moments where you wonder whether to say ‘yes’ or ‘no’, or just grunt noncommittally. I stare at her blankly.
‘I’m going to get going.’
‘Oh.’ Inside, I sigh with relief, both that she has helped me out by repeating herself and that she’s leaving.
I pick up her handbag and hand it to her and I just about refrain from physically pushing her out of the front door. As soon as she has left, I call Julie. I actually cross my fingers, hoping she’s not at work – I don’t know what shifts she’s on – but she answers after two rings.
‘Julie, what was your message about?’ I burst out, dispensing with formalities. ‘I’ve been thinking about it all day.’
‘Hello, Kaitlyn. How are you?’ Thinking this is her big-sister way of reminding me of my manners, I don’t immediately pick up on the concern in her voice.
‘Oh, I’m sorry, Julie. It’s just I was a bit confused by your message. I’m fine. How are you?’ There’s a pause and that’s when I realise I’ve misinterpreted. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘Well, Alex told me … you know, but he said not to tell you he’d said anything.’
Another pause. Then I say, ‘Julie, I have no idea what you’re talking about.’
‘About your post-partum depression,’ she says.
‘Oh. That. I’m not depressed, Julie. Alex has got it into his head that I am, but I’m absolutely fine. I’d be even less miserable if his mother gave me some space!’ I give a hollow laugh at my feeble attempt at a joke.
‘Are you sure you’re OK?’
‘Yes. Chloe cries a lot, as you know. We took her to the health centre. Alex’s GP said there was nothing wrong with her, but he put me on anti-depressants.’ When Julie says nothing, I add, ‘I’m not taking them.’
She still doesn’t respond.
‘What’s this about asking us to come down to Somerset?’
‘Is that wh … What did Alex say to you exactly, the other night? Obviously, he told you I’d called?’
‘Yes. He said you rang because you wanted us to visit. He said he told you he’s really tied down at the moment.’ I’m about to back Alex up, explain to Julie how busy he is at work during the summer season, but then I remember thinking at the time that Alex was lying about something. He wouldn’t look me in the eyes in the mirror.
‘You make it sound like we invited you for the weekend or something,’ Julie says.
‘That’s sort of how he made it sound.’ A feeling of unease washes over me. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I expect Alex is trying not to burden you, you know, if he thinks you’re depressed. He sounded very worried about you on the phone.’
‘I’m not depressed!’ I spurt out. ‘Why did you ring yesterday?’ I ask. What didn’t he tell me? What has he kept from me?
She doesn’t answer straight away. I can almost hear her asking herself if I really am able to cope with what she rang to tell me. I think the best way to convince her I’m stable, strong and of sound mind is to remain silent.
After several seconds, I hear her take a deep breath. ‘Kaitlyn, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news,’ she says.