Читать книгу Street Kid Fights On: She thought the nightmare was over - Judy Westwater - Страница 10

After the wedding party was over, there was no honeymoon. Roger and I moved to a small brick house opposite his Grandad’s place in Compass Street, Openshawe, and everything changed completely. We didn’t have marital relations that first night because he was too drunk but on the second night of married life he insisted. For some reason, I hadn’t made the connection between marriage and sex but now I realized I’d just have to put up with it. It was extremely hard for me because I had been raped twice as a child: once on a beach on the Isle of Man when I was eight when Freda and Dad had left me on my own all day; and then again when I was twelve and sleeping rough in an alleyway in Johannesburg. I hadn’t told Roger about those occasions but he must have been able to see how nervous I was about going to bed with him.

As soon as our marriage was consummated, everything changed. Roger made it clear he considered himself the master of the house and as far as he was concerned it was his job to keep me in line. From the moment we first walked through the front door into the small, dark rooms inside, I sensed a difference in my new husband. He was no longer loving or warm towards me. When people realize that you’ve got no one behind you and nowhere to run, they can become very manipulative and controlling. I was his chattel, his possession. He’d made me give up the job at Belle Vue so now he controlled the purse strings and he was determined I was going to earn my keep. Overnight, my time at the circus became a distant dream and the run-up to the wedding and our courtship days seemed like an impossible fairy tale. I was back in a position of being abused, but at least I knew how to deal with that. It’s what I had grown up with after all.

I tried to be positive. There was some furniture that had been left by the previous tenants but it was pretty sparse, and that was all we had, along with a frying pan, a pot, two plates and two sets of cutlery. That didn’t matter to me though. As I explored the place for the first time I was sure that I could turn it into a home.

I missed the excitement and glamour of the circus but that wasn’t where my duty lay now. I wanted to be there with a meal when Roger got home. I wanted to be the loving homemaker, a good wife, cooking and washing and doing all the things that I’d always dreamed about. It even crossed my mind that I would love to have a child. I knew things didn’t have to be the way they had been when I was growing up. I wanted everything to be different and I was determined to do my best.

However, I didn’t realize then that my best would never be good enough for Roger. From that first moment the house on Compass Street became a prison and Roger was my brutal jailer. Life became a series of rules that he dictated and the punishment for coming up short was extreme.

We hardly ever went out. The lazy days of wandering around the rides at Belle Vue were gone and Roger relentlessly bullied me and told me how worthless I was. He wanted to control me completely yet when I let him take charge he seemed to despise me for it. It was as if, having married him, I had lost everything.

‘You are disgusting,’ Roger raged. ‘Why would I want to take you anywhere?’

If I started a conversation or voiced an opinion he would cut in immediately. ‘You have nothing of importance to say, Judy, so shut up.’

It quickly became clear that Roger had a temper as foul as my father’s and that the consequences of not following his orders were a beating that was all too familiar. It may sound strange but I can’t even remember the first time he hit me. If you came from a decent family where you hadn’t ever been beaten up, I’m sure your husband hitting you would come as a huge shock, but I just accepted it. I believed that’s how relationships were. I remember Freda once saying to me, ‘You go to the ends of the earth for your husband,’ and I’d witnessed at first hand all the abuse she took from Dad. So this is how it was going to be. If I just tried harder, surely I’d get things right and then Roger wouldn’t have any reason to hit me?

Each morning I had to rise early and make breakfast. Roger insisted on having this in bed. I was to make fried eggs on toast perfectly to his specification. The eggs had to be whole and the yolks had to have a white surface, no yellow showing. I was terrified of those eggs breaking in the frying pan not least because I didn’t have much money to buy food. If the eggs were broken Roger would attack me and make me cook more, and then if there were no more left God knows what he might do. The toast also had to be just the way he liked it. No burnt bits whatsoever. There were many times when one way or another the breakfast was unacceptable and it was hurled at me viciously, hot tea and all.

After breakfast, Roger’s clothes had to be laid out in a particular way for the morning and once he’d finished eating I was expected to dress him. This was a daily ritual and he would not get up for work until I had performed it. All the while he criticized and mocked me, telling me how useless I was. I tried to keep silent and not provoke him in any way but that wasn’t always possible. If Roger was in a bad mood then there was nothing I could do.

‘You useless bitch!’ he screamed when I dropped a cup one morning, and he lunged to grab my hair and hit me round the face, back and forwards, over and over again. ‘Do you think I’m made of money?’ Close-up his eyes glowed with hatred, just like the devil eyes my father used to have when he beat me senseless as a little girl. I’d feel his hot breath and drops of spittle on my cheek and I became as passive as I could, not even raising my hands to protect myself, just waiting for the rage to diminish. As a child, I had learned not to answer back, not to struggle, and now I reverted to the same behaviour.

I was horrified to find that I had married a man with remarkable similarities to my father but at the same time I had the sinking feeling that it must be my own fault. If only I could manage things properly then surely Roger would be pleased with me. I wanted to turn things around, to go back to something like the relationship we had before we were married. I desperately believed it was possible but no matter what I did Roger was relentlessly suspicious of my motives. I sat downstairs, bewildered, for days on end, completely alone apart from my husband’s vicious company, going over the vow I had made in Church. I had promised to obey and that’s what I had to do.

Then there was the daily round of endless accusations. When Roger got home he’d want to know where I had been, who I had spoken to, and who had been to the door. He forbade me from going to the shops alone; nor was I allowed on a bus by myself but had to wait until he was able to accompany me. If I wanted to go out I needed his permission. He accused me of having affairs behind his back, and told me that I was nothing but a whore who slept around. I remembered the questions he’d asked me when I used to go touring and how jealous he’d seemed and I realized that this was the same feeling that had now escalated out of control. I remembered how he’d once made a comment about a dress I’d worn or how he’d browbeaten me a couple of times to tell him about my family or spoken over me when we were out for dinner. These were the early shadows of more extreme behaviour, and I couldn’t understand how it had got so out of hand. Still he was my husband, he was bigger and stronger than I was and the truth was I had nowhere to go. If I ran away to the circus, after all, Roger would already be there.

‘If you ever leave me, I’ll come and get you,’ he threatened. ‘If you leave me, I’ll bloody kill you.’

I knew he meant it. I felt trapped and instead of making an escape plan I determined to fix it by being better at everything I did. If only I could be a good-enough wife, everything would be fine.

One day, when I’d still only been married a couple of weeks, I took our washing to the laundrette. Roger had said this was all right. ‘You’re a scrubber anyway,’ he sniped.

At that time no one did laundry at home. I packed all our dirty stuff into two big carrier bags and set off down the road. When I got there it was busy. Women were standing round chatting as they waited for their loads to finish. Up at the back there was a kettle and someone had made a pot of tea. I got in the queue.

It was certainly better than when I was growing up and I used to have to go to the washhouse with Freda. Even when I was under school age she made me haul a heavy steel bath full of laundry for her. Washing the linen would take her all day. In Openshawe, where Roger and I lived, there was a brand new laundry with big, steel machines. You just had to wait for the machine to do your washing and then transfer your load into one of the driers.

In front of me there was a cheery woman who was sorting out masses of kids clothes.

‘Looks like you’ve got quite a brood there,’ I said.

‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Keeps you busy. How about you?’ she glanced over at the contents of my bag.

‘No. Just married a fortnight ago,’ I said, trying to smile bravely.

‘Oh that’s a good time of your life. You savour it, love. I’m Kathleen McAvoy.’

I shook her hand. ‘Judy Lethbridge.’ My married name still sounded foreign when I said it.

‘Well, Mrs Lethbridge,’ she said, ‘it’s nice to meet you.’

Kathleen helped me operate the machines and showed me how much washing powder to use. She told me about her sons, Brian, Gary and Mark. Mark, the youngest, had only just started school. The older boys, she said, were wild.

‘They’re good kids though. Mind you, the noise sometimes! Still, it’s lonely round the house without the little one there,’ Kathleen said. ‘But you never know. I hope I’ll have a little girl next. What are you planning?’

I shrugged my shoulders.

‘Oh,’ she laughed, as if that explained my reticence. ‘Newly wed. I forgot.’

Once the washing was all done Kathleen and I left the laundrette together and wandered back up towards Compass Street. I told her about my time at Belle Vue and it turned out she had come to see the show a few months before with her cousin.

‘Ron stayed in with the kids for once. Was that you on the trapeze? I can’t believe it. Lord, you must miss that, love.’

‘Do you fancy coming in for a cup of tea?’ I asked.

‘Aye,’ she said. ‘That’d be nice.’

I put the key in the lock and we left our laundry bags in the hallway.

‘Nice for you and your husband to be just starting out together.’ Kathleen took in the sparse surroundings as I put on the kettle. I made a pot of tea and put it on the kitchen table to brew. I was just about to pour it when I heard the key in the front door.

‘That’ll be Roger,’ I said, and immediately anxiety filled the pit of my stomach. It was too early for him to come back. There shouldn’t be a problem, I told myself. I’ll just introduce Kathleen to him. It’ll be fine. She’s a neighbour. But one look at Roger’s face and it was clear he was furious.

‘What the hell is this? A tea party?’ he spat at me.

Kathleen got up uncomfortably. ‘I’ll just pop off then, shall I?’

‘Just pop off then, shall I?’ Roger mimicked her and then turned his wrath on me. ‘Swanning round all day with your mates, are you? Doing whatever you want? Enjoying yourself, are you? This is my house, you know.’

I could see he was building up to a real fury. He looked as if he might smash something.

‘You’re my wife!’ he shouted. ‘Mine! And you go bringing people back to my house without my permission. Jesus! You’re so two-faced. I never know what the hell you’re up to.’

Kathleen started to make for the door.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I said to her.

‘Don’t worry about me,’ she said, staring right at Roger. ‘You watch out for yourself.’

Roger’s jealousy got worse and worse over the weeks and it became clear that he didn’t want me to see anyone or do anything. On another day I was on my way back from the corner shop when I met one of the neighbours opposite who had a new baby. She had the little girl swaddled in a pretty blanket.

‘Oh congratulations,’ I said. The baby looked so sweet.

Suddenly, Roger burst out of our front door with a bright red face. He marched straight across the road, grabbed me by the hair and hauled me back towards the house without saying so much as a word. I knew why. He had told me to fetch him something and, as far as he was concerned, stopping to talk to a neighbour was an unnecessary and rebellious delay. Behind me, the woman was horrified.

‘Do you want me to call the police?’ she called after me as I disappeared into the house.

‘No,’ I said, gritting my teeth against the pain in my scalp. ‘No. It’s fine.’

I was miserable but I wanted to deal with the problems myself. The idea of anyone else being involved mortified me. I had wanted my marriage to be perfect. I had believed it when Roger told me that he loved me. And now, as that image cracked and crumbled I felt that it was all my fault. Here I was, trapped again, with no money, no family and no friends. The echoes of my childhood were deafening.

‘You’re useless,’ he ranted at me. ‘Just look at you!’

And I believed him. I wanted to hide away, to withdraw from sight.

One of the neighbours tried to help. Old Mrs Burgess had probably seen just about everything in her day. One afternoon, when Roger was out, there was a rap on the door.

‘Hello, pet,’ she said kindly. ‘Can I come in?’

I glanced up and down the street, nervously. Roger had gone over to Belle Vue and wouldn’t be back until late. I nodded and let her into the hallway.

Everyone on the street knew what was going on. Roger made no secret of it. When I was growing up my father had made a big effort to cover his systematic violence and abuse. By contrast, Roger thought he had a perfect right to grab me by the hair or scream at me in public. In a small community like Compass Street I was painfully aware that all my neighbours knew what my husband was like.

Mrs Burgess sighed. She had kind blue eyes and a steady air that gave her dignity. ‘I’m sorry for your trouble,’ she said. ‘Is there anything that I can do for you, love?’

I felt like crying but I held everything in. ‘No. No. It’s fine.’

‘Are you sure?’

I cast my eyes to the floor. ‘Yes.’

All my life having anyone else involved had only made things worse. I was determined to deal with this myself. I could bear anything as long as it was only up to me. I’d fix it. I’d survive. I always had. Mrs Burgess reached out and touched my arm.

‘You know where I live,’ she said. ‘If you ever change your mind.’

Slowly, Roger got worse. Sometimes there were a couple of days when things seemed almost normal, but then, without any warning he flew into a jealous rage. He didn’t trust me, or anything that I said.

‘No wonder none of your family want you, you’re disgusting’ he screamed at me one night when he had been questioning me about my past. He refused to believe that I hadn’t had any boyfriends before him.

‘Just tell me. Just tell me,’ he shouted over and over again.

‘There wasn’t anyone,’ I swore.

It was desperate. I wasn’t lying to him – there had never been anyone in the way that Roger meant and I was too afraid to tell him about the terrible things that had really happened. I wanted my past to remain where it was. I had been the one who had suffered it and dealt with it, and to air it for his dissection, his mocking condemnation and intolerant opinions, would have been too painful. I hid my bruises under long sleeves and kept away from the neighbours.

Over the weeks I felt worse and worse. My whole world contracted into the tiny rooms inside the house. I shied away from the door if anyone knocked and tried to stay out of sight of people passing my window and casually looking in. I didn’t think I was of any value; I believed it when Roger screamed abuse at me and I took the beatings without fighting back.

Worse than the beatings were his violent, unwanted sexual attentions. In his bizarre fantasy life, he saw me as a slut and ordered me to do ever-more degrading things that made me feel sick to the stomach. It might start with him insisting I went out of the house without underwear on, then deteriorate into situations in which I was used like a piece of filth from the gutter. In all of the scenarios he wanted me to act out, he was totally dominant and if I ever baulked at anything, it would end with me being brutally beaten and raped by him.

What he didn’t know was that my terror in those situations was absolutely real. Every time, I would relive the night I was raped in Johannesburg by a man who stank of beer and sweat, who grabbed my hair, yanked my head back and grunted, ‘Shut up, you dirty slut!’ I remembered the panicky feeling of not being able to breathe when he grabbed my throat, the punches and kicks, and that mean expression in his eyes. Roger did all this to me and more, night after night, but there was nothing I could do except put up with it. At that time there was no court in the land that would accept that a husband could ‘rape’ his own wife. It simply wasn’t recognized.

Then one day while I was washing, I noticed that my breasts were painful. I actually flinched as I rubbed them with the soap. Wrapping a towel around me, I caught a glimpse of myself in the tiny mirror over the sink. In that moment I counted the days and realized what had happened – and despite everything I was over the moon. I must have been about two months gone. Perhaps this would make everything better. Surely, surely.

‘Roger,’ I said that night when he got home. ‘I’m feeling a bit strange. I think I’m going to have a baby.’