Читать книгу Street Kid Fights On: She thought the nightmare was over - Judy Westwater - Страница 11

Roger was pleased about the baby, or at least I thought he was – he didn’t say much. But for that matter, neither did I. I was quietly ecstatic. The pregnancy didn’t stop him constantly demeaning me, of course, but now we had a secret together. In the first weeks we didn’t tell a soul.

One Sunday we went to his parents’ house for lunch. It was the usual overwhelming Lethbridge onslaught, though now we were married Roger openly criticized and mocked me in front of his family and sometimes they joined in.

‘You look a state,’ he picked on my appearance. ‘Look at you in that old dress. What a sight!’

I was mortified. I had never cared much about clothes and I knew I didn’t turn myself out smartly like Roger’s pretty sisters. Of course, now that he controlled the budget I was never allowed any money to buy new clothes but I didn’t mention that. Instead I hung my head and stayed completely silent.

Roger’s mother had come to openly dislike me by this time. It was a particular bugbear for her that I didn’t have any family.

‘Judy must have done something really awful in the past,’ Roger said, ‘because she won’t talk about it.’

Mrs Lethbridge eyed me up and down and I knew she was disappointed with her son’s choice of wife. I wasn’t what she’d hoped for. I dreaded going over there, even though it was the only time that I left Compass Street to do something that should have been sociable.

That Sunday I felt sick and I couldn’t finish my meal.

‘Is my food not good enough for you?’ Mrs Lethbridge snapped.

I didn’t want to tell her that I was suffering from morning sickness and Roger didn’t step in to defend me, so I just shook my head silently and looked at my lap.

‘See how useless you are,’ Roger said on the way home on the bus. ‘Can’t take you anywhere. Keep your bloody eyes to the floor, I don’t want you looking out.’

In his paranoia he had convinced himself that if I looked up, and my eyes caught a man inside or outside the bus, I was flirting with him. Often I was punished for that when we got home and protesting my innocence only made the screaming and the beating worse. He’d slap me, punch me or hit me with the poker or any other implement that came to hand, fuelled by a rage that I was a whore who was lying and cheating and couldn’t be trusted. Looking back, I see now that his jealousy was pathological, almost verging on clinical insanity. That’s the only explanation I can think of. But back then, I still didn’t know how far from normal married life mine was.

Being pregnant changed things for me. It gave me a sense of purpose and I was excited about the future despite everything. I counted the months until I was due to give birth and planned my first trip to the doctor for when I was three or four months gone. Every day I felt the subtle changes in my body and I treasured those feelings, keeping them to myself. Each time I sensed something different I convinced myself that after the birth, things would surely change.

Much to Roger’s amusement, I scrubbed the small bedroom upstairs. We might not have much, but at least it would be clean and tidy. Roger’s granddad, who lived over the road, gave us several half tins of paint, rolls of odd wallpaper, and bits and pieces of D.I.Y. equipment so I set to painting and decorating the house. From the moment I knew that I was pregnant, it was very important that I did everything to be a wonderful mother. Back in South Africa, during the very worst times – when I was beaten senseless by Dad the night he recaptured me after my escape to the circus; or staring at my bloodied, puffed-up face in a station toilet mirror after being raped in a back alley – I got myself through by imagining how I would bring up my children if I was ever lucky enough to have any. I had so much love to give and I was just aching for someone to give it to.

Roger didn’t change, though. He squirreled away every penny he earned, drank a great deal and gambled what was left on the slot machines. He did give me a housekeeping allowance but it was tiny and out of that I had to buy the expensive food that he liked – bacon and eggs and meat. I couldn’t afford that kind of thing for myself as well, and as a consequence we ate different meals. For myself I made soup out of a few vegetables and a bone that the butcher would either give me or sell for a penny or two. A lot of the time I was hungry and during the pregnancy I found myself craving meat and other luxuries, but there was no way I could afford them.

One night, a few weeks into the pregnancy, I felt very tired. Roger had gone to the pub that evening with his uncle and I wasn’t sure when he might be back. Roger’s extended family was huge and many of them lived quite close by. It meant he was out of the house quite a bit in the evenings and that was fine by me.

I had to get some sleep, so I made some food and left it on the kitchen table for when he got in. Then I went upstairs and fell asleep immediately. I had been painting all day and the pregnancy was taking it out of me. I was exhausted.

A few hours later I woke up with a jolt. Roger was shaking me so hard that the bed was moving beneath me. I jerked into consciousness and immediately my heart pounded with terror. The room was completely dark and I couldn’t see anything. Roger was shouting. His breath stank of beer and he was furious.

‘What the bloody hell do you think you’re doing?’ he screamed. ‘I come home, my dinner’s cold and you’re in bed, you lazy bitch.’

He hauled me out from under the covers as I tried to find my footing and then dragged me behind him across the wooden floor. My mind was racing – it was always better to just let Roger rage. Any resistance was futile and only made things worse. Still, it was dark and I was terrified. I knew that he was usually even more violent than normal when he’d been drinking.

‘Christ,’ he shouted. ‘What the hell am I going to do with you?’

Still sleepy, I was completely disorientated as he pushed me ahead of him into the black hallway and gave me a shove in the direction of the stairs. In the dark I stumbled and lost my balance, falling awkwardly onto the stairs and tumbling for several feet until I hit the floor of the hallway below. It happened so quickly that I was confused and all the time Roger was screaming: ‘You been out screwing other men? That’s why you’re tired, isn’t it?’

As I landed, a sharp jab of pain in my stomach crippled me. It was difficult to breathe. I tried to get to my feet, but it hurt too much. Roger took the steps easily and, showing no concern for my welfare, grabbed me by the arm and hauled me into the kitchen. He pushed me roughly against the cooker. I felt another sharp jab in my stomach and tried to bend double. Roger caught me and pushed me upright, shouting right into my face.

‘…Too much to expect my bleeding wife to cook a bleeding meal for me when I get home, is it?’

My breathing was shallow and I felt sick. I could feel things weren’t right in my body and my mind was racing with the possibilities. Over-riding everything else was the thought that I had to protect the baby. And then, sickeningly, I felt something sticky between my legs. I looked down and in horror, saw that there was blood pouring out of me.

‘The baby, Roger,’ I gasped and he stopped in his tracks, seeing what had happened and realizing that this was serious.

‘Stay there.’

Roger ran out of the house. In a panic, I pressed my legs together to try to stem the crimson flow that was leaking onto the floor. I thought if I just stayed still it wouldn’t get any worse. My mind was racing. I was scared that Roger might just disappear and then what would I do, standing bleeding in my own kitchen, waiting for help that wasn’t on its way? That wasn’t his tactic though. A few minutes later he came back through the door, his face flushed. We didn’t have a phone in the house so he had run all the way to the call box on the main road.

‘I dialled 999,’ he said. ‘They’re sending an ambulance.’ A tear rolled down my cheek and a sense of relief flooded me. He does care after all, I thought to myself.

The ambulance came quickly. Two paramedics put me on a stretcher, carried me into the street and loaded me into the back of the vehicle.

‘How far gone are you, love?’ one of them asked.

‘About three months I think, maybe a little more’ I said.

I couldn’t bear to ask about the baby. I was too afraid of what the paramedic might say. Roger didn’t come in the ambulance. He was the last person I wanted near me in any case. One of the men sat beside the stretcher for the journey to Crumpsall Hospital. He was encouraging and kind, but I found it difficult to speak. I was so worried. The only thing that mattered was the baby being all right.

‘We’ve radioed ahead,’ he said. ‘The doctor will be waiting.’

At the hospital they rushed me up to the ward. The doctor examined me quickly and gave the nurse instructions I didn’t understand. The bleeding hadn’t stopped and I had cramps in my stomach that knocked the wind out of me. I didn’t mind the pain, as long as everything was going to be all right. A nurse smiled apologetically and held my hand. I could tell from the look in her eyes that something was very wrong.

‘Oh no,’ I thought, as a sense of annihilation engulfed me.

The doctor simply said ‘I’m sorry.’

It felt as though my world was caving in. The only good thing in my life was gone, finished. I couldn’t take it in completely. I just lay there in black despair.

‘We need to do a D and C,’ the doctor said, and then, seeing that I had no idea what he was talking about, he explained, ‘We need to go inside you and take out anything that is still in there.’

I felt wracked with grief but I was so shocked that I didn’t even cry when they wheeled me into the theatre.

Afterwards I was tucked into a bed on a ward with eight other women. It was late and I was completely devastated. My baby was gone. The nurses had been kind but for them it was a routine occurrence. I felt totally stripped, as if everything Roger had ever said about me being useless was all true. The nurse had left a cup of tea and a biscuit beside the bed, but I couldn’t touch them. I stared blankly at the empty hallway outside the ward and pulled the covers right up to my eyes. I had failed and all I wanted now was to hide from the world.

It must have been about midnight when I saw Roger striding up the corridor. For a moment I felt a sense of relief. Here was my husband coming to visit me. Surely he was as devastated as I was? Then, as he got closer, I realized he was still drunk. I glanced round. The other women on the ward had also lost their babies. They were mostly asleep, apart from one who was sitting up reading in the corner. I saw her glance towards the door as Roger came through. He didn’t even say hello to me.

‘You are bloody useless, aren’t you?’ he started in a whisper, and I thought at least his voice was low. However, as he proceeded into his tantrum, the volume increased.

‘Well, I don’t care,’ he hammered home. ‘It wasn’t my baby, anyway. Christ knows what you get up to all day, you two-faced bitch. It could have been anyone’s!’

His face was livid and contorted with anger and his eyes were bloodshot. I knew that everyone on the ward was able to hear those last words. The volume was getting too loud for anyone to sleep through.

‘I’m glad the baby’s gone,’ he said, grabbing hold of my arm. ‘Little bastard.’

Then he turned and, losing it completely, he began to verbally abuse all the other women, who were waking up sleepily and staring in disbelief.

‘You’re all whores,’ he screamed. ‘All of you! Sluts and bitches!’ he howled.

From the silent hallway I could see a flutter of nurses and a security guard approaching Roger, who was so loud by now that they had probably heard everything he’d said from several wards away. Everyone was awake and sitting up. I didn’t say a word. I couldn’t. I wanted to disappear.

Roger continued regardless. ‘You women! Bloody cows! Two-faced slags!’

‘Excuse me, sir,’ said a low, male voice and the security guard put his hand on Roger’s shoulder.

Roger shrugged him off and continued to shout in an uncontrolled fashion in my general direction. ‘You think I don’t know anything, you bloody tart. Well I do. I’m onto you.’

‘That’s enough, sir,’ the security guard said quietly but firmly.

Roger still didn’t stop. He continued to hurl abuse as the guard pulled him away. I watched, horrified, as my husband was escorted down the corridor, his shrieks receding. I could feel everyone in the room pitying me.

‘You all right, love?’ the woman in the next bed asked gently.

I nodded and sank back down onto the pillows.

‘What a bastard,’ I heard one of the other women say.

Then a nurse drew the curtains around my bed.

‘He’s just upset,’ I tried to excuse him as the tears came and my chest heaved.

‘Now, now,’ she said kindly and gave me a hug. ‘You didn’t need that as well, did you?’

Two days later I was discharged and I went home to Compass Street. Roger was waiting. As I came through the door he broke down.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said simply, crying. ‘Here.’ He handed me a present.

It was a pretty, wooden, music box. I opened the lid. It sounded like a piano. I think it was playing Auld Lang Syne. Roger looked really devastated by what he’d done and I was glad to think he finally realized that he couldn’t behave that way any more. We left the music playing and we cried together.

‘We’ll try for another baby,’ he promised. ‘I’m sorry, Judy. I’ll never do anything like that again.’

I wanted to believe him. After all, he was my husband. I set a lot of store by the fact Roger had apologized but I was still afraid of him. Fear was a familiar emotion for me, though, and I coped with it well. I actually felt optimistic. In contrast, my father had never once taken responsibility for his violent actions or said sorry. Sitting now, crying next to me, it appeared that Roger was distraught at what he’d done. I hoped that told its own story. Maybe this had needed to happen to make everything change. Maybe things would be alright now.