Let's Start Again

She lay awake, listening to his breathing, hating him. Her eyes were open, dry. She was beyond tears. The sheets were sodden and she longed for a cool white bed where she could lie alone and unmolested. They never told me marriage could be like this, she thought.

When she heard the snoring start she moved gingerly to the edge of the mattress and slid quietly to the floor. She lay there a moment on her side, assessing the sensations between her legs. Something trickling, could be blood. It hurt but not enough to prevent her standing. Wincing, she got to her knees and crawled to the door. On the landing she stood slowly and crossed to the nursery. All well. Baby was fast asleep. I will do it for you, she told her silently. She watched the tiny hands, the fluttering eyelashes. She could feel her milk leaking through the nightgown. She’ll need feeding soon, she thought. Better get going.

She headed downstairs to the bathroom and switched on the light. Glanced down at the worn linoleum. No red droplets. Good. Now the test. The pain took her breath away. Peeing was agony. She didn’t know whether the stitches had burst or if it was some kind of infection. There wasn’t much blood but she might need to see the doctor. This could be the perfect opportunity, she thought. Dr. Barlow wouldn’t ask too many questions. She had been playing around with the idea for weeks. Now it was time to take action.

After using the toilet she had to wait for a time, to recover herself. Then she let herself look in the mirror. A tired young woman looked back at her, with frightened eyes and pale, freckled skin. Her hair stood out at crazy angles - I look crazy, she thought. Perhaps I am. She did her best to wash him off, smoothed her hair and got a fresh nightgown from the linen closet. Baby will wake soon, she thought, and I need some rest before I can face tomorrow. No choice but to go back to his bed but she knew he would sleep now until morning. She slid between the damp sheets to wait for Baby’s cry.

The next day she realised that a visit to the doctor was essential in any case. She was pretty sure the stitches had held, but peeing still felt like she was passing razor blades so he had probably caused an infection. As she carefully applied her make-up, she carefully prepared her story. She must play the part of the happily married young mother. The eyeliner made her eyes look bigger. Just a little blusher, too pale to go without. Her hand faltered as she applied her bright red lipstick. I will do this, she thought as she recalled the scene in the kitchen earlier.

“A husband has his needs, Dora. It may sound old-fashioned, but there is such a thing as wifely duty.” His fingers holding her chin, forcing her to look up at him. His voice was soft, his Scottish accent lilting and pleasant.

She had tried to talk about it to her mother once, the first time he had forced her, slapped her into submission when she was four months pregnant.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake Dora, grow up. You’re married now. It’s not all a bed of roses. He’s your husband. You’ll get used to it. We all had to,” she had told her, a sour expression on her face. Her mother was old before her time, bitter and arthritic. Dora was too ashamed to talk to anyone else. But it couldn’t go on.

She chose her high heeled sling-backs, to go with the little black jacket (her second best) and full crimson skirt. It was the outfit she had worn on the day trip to London, to see the Coronation decorations. It made her feel good to remember that day. The coach had fairly rocked with their laughter. All the girls together. “Roll out the barrel, we’ll have a barrel of fun!“ It was a day that belonged to a different life, although it would only be two years ago come June. She wondered if Queen Elizabeth and Prince Philip slept in the same bed.

As she descended the stairs with Baby in her arms, her heel almost caught in the rip in the cheap carpet. She righted herself, heart beating fast. Imagine if she had fallen with Baby! She continued carefully down to the hall, where she laid Baby in the big black pram and pulled on her gloves. Dora checked her list once more and took a deep breath. “Mummy has some shopping to do after the Doctor, sweetie,” she said. Then she opened the door and stepped out into the Spring sunshine.

The visit to the doctor went more smoothly than she could have hoped. Fat Dr. Barlow was far too old school to ask any questions, once he coyly confirmed that her problem was ‘in the downstairs department?’ When she nodded, the new young mother looking down shyly, playing her part, he briskly wrote out a prescription for an antibiotic and advised her to ‘take it easy.’ He cleared his throat noisily. “It was a difficult birth, remember,” he mumbled, not taking his eyes from his notepad.
“Of course, Doctor,” she replied. What an old fool, she was thinking. Did he think she could forget? And how could she take it easy with a four week old baby and a mother who was crippled with arthritis? That was the part of her life he knew about. But if the plan was to work, he couldn’t ever suspect the rest.
As she rose, and glancing at Baby in the pram, she asked, casually,
“Doctor Barlow - you remember last time I was here with Mam, you mentioned an ointment that might help her arthritis? Some kind of oil…?” She could remember exactly the kind of oil, but it wouldn’t do to let him know that.
“Ah yes, oil of wintergreen I think I said.” He looked up at her over his glasses. Haven’t I given her some?” She shook her head in what she hoped was a convincingly innocent gesture.
“Mam’s got very bad again,” she said, to spur him on.
“ She should come in to see me herself you know. Well, let me see. I can give you a small bottle for her. You need to be careful with it now. Just rub a little into the joints for relief, and make sure you wash your hands well. Not for ingestion.”

He rose, grunting with effort, and came out from behind the large leather topped desk, to lean over her. His breath smelt of whiskey and liquorice.
“Let me tell you something about oil of wintergreen my dear. It could kill you, you know!” He whispered in her ear.
Her red mouth made a little ’o’ of shock.
“Yes, yes.“ He crossed to a cabinet on the wall. “1tsp could kill a man dead. Aspirin, you see. Methyl salicylate. 1tsp contains 7g of it and that’s like giving a man 20 aspirin.”
She had listened to this speech from him twice before. She could have recited it perfectly. She nodded soberly. “I’ll be careful. Just rub into the joints, “ she repeated.
She thought,1tsp.

When she got home she fed and changed Baby and put her down for her nap. Then she began to make her cake. He loved cake, especially Victoria sponge.
“Four, four, six and two, beat and beat until you’re blue!” She recited aloud as she carefully set out the ingredients on the small Formica-covered kitchen table.
She felt oddly excited.
4oz margarine, 4oz sugar, 6 oz flour and 2 eggs, 1 tsp vanilla essence, 1tsp baking powder - 1 tsp oil of wintergreen. She frowned slightly and wondered if it would taste very strong. Dora carefully unscrewed the cap and sniffed. It smelled of mint. She decided to put more than 1tsp of oil of wintergreen in the cake and add a little extra vanilla essence to cover any possible taste or smell. That should do it. He might not eat enough of it to kill him if she only put 1tsp in. One ear out for Baby, she sieved and mixed and beat and was careful not to taste. Cake in the oven, she washed and dried everything with meticulous care.

A delicious smell of baking met him as he opened the front door. He stopped, surprised. Then, slamming the door behind him, he walked into the kitchen. She was there, sitting at the table, tea things set out before her, the picture of the dutiful wife.
“What’s all this?” he asked “Cake?” He looked at her curiously. “You’ve made a cake.”
She smiled.
“I know I haven’t exactly been a good wife to you lately,” she began. He laughed.
“A good wife? Dora, don’t make me laugh. You think baking a cake makes you a good wife?” He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “You think I don’t know you hate my guts? Poisoned it, did you? Oh don’t look so shocked. A wee mouse like you wouldn’t have it in you.”
With an effort Dora rose and went towards him. Her small hands held his arms and she looked up at him.
“Let’s start again,” she said. “I’ll be different, I promise. It’s just with the baby and such a hard birth…I’ll try harder. I’ll be what you want me to be. Just sit down now and have your tea. Please.” There were tears in her eyes. She almost meant it.
He looked at her for a moment, as if he was considering something. Then he pushed her aside.
“Stop whining.”
“Please,” she began.
“Stop your bloody whining!” He shouted. She froze and instinctively looked towards the door, listening for Baby’s cry.
“Oh for God’s sake, for one minute can you not think about that baby!” He took a step towards her as she shrank back against the wall. Then he raised a hand and slapped her face, hard.
“I’m off out. I just came back for a wash and a change. I’ll be late.” He strode out of the kitchen and she heard him run upstairs, two at a time. Even through the tears of pain and humiliation she was on the alert for Baby’s cry. Was he going into the nursery? She listened. She heard him in the bedroom overhead. Slowly she went to the sink and wet a tea towel. Then she sat at the table, holding the cool cloth against her stinging cheek. She had been mad to try. It would always be like this. She would never be rid of him.

The commotion of his fall woke Baby. It was a tremendous, thudding series of whumps, followed by a strange cracking sound. Dora thought she felt her heart stop, then she could hardly breathe for the hammering in her chest. She made herself walk to the door of the kitchen and stood in the open doorway, hardly daring to look. He lay face up, awkwardly, his neck oddly crooked at an angle, sort of wedged between the bottom step and the big black pram. The rest of his body sprawled halfway up the narrow staircase, legs akimbo. Baby’s wails were growing stronger but for the first time in her life, her mother did not rush to her side. Slowly, Dora went closer, calling his name, but she knew somehow that he wouldn’t answer.

“It was the rip in the carpet,” she told the ambulance men later. “It must have been.”
They had insisted that her neighbour come in to keep her company, make sure she was all right to look after Baby. She must be in shock, they said. She had to rest. She lay now upstairs on the big double bed, Baby sleepy in the crook of her arm. She thought they were right, she was in shock.
“You just get some rest, Dora,” the kindly neighbour said. “You need to keep up your strength for Baby. I’ll deal with everything.”
It was like a dream to her. She couldn’t believe that he was dead and she had had no hand in it. She dozed and hardly stirred when there was a knock on the bedroom door.

“Dora, Dora - sorry to disturb you love. It’s the police. I’ve told them to wait in the kitchen. They just want to ask a few questions. They say it’s routine, when someone passes - in an accident, like. I’ve made some tea and they’re going to wait until you’re ready.” She started to close the door, then opened it again, “I gave them some of that nice Victoria sponge, just to keep them occupied ‘til you’re ready. I hope you don’t mind.”

* * * *

The door of the interview room opened and the police officer came back in. He crossed the room and nodded to the WPC who sat in the corner. Then he sat down wearily at the table and sighed.
“All right Dora. Let’s start again, shall we?” he asked.