Let me in. Please. I'm sorry.
The bedroom door stays stubbornly bolted, the brooding silence
testament to her transgression, her devoted husband either
unmoved or, more likely, already passed out. The futility of
pleading weariness oppresses her – her need for sleep no
excuse, punishable by days of simmering hostility turning her
frantic with fear and guilt.
Afraid of waking the children, she holds her tongue, reflects.
Earlier, ruddy-faced and red-eyed from drinking steadily
throughout the evening, he'd received a text message.
Farewell pint for a mate who's leaving town? Won't be late.
Seeking her assent was a formality, a feint to foster the
impression that the matter was up for negotiation. Against the
longed-for respite of a few hours on her own, she'd set the
knowledge of what more alcohol would bring.
You need rest after your operation. Maybe don't bring them
home? And don't show them your scar.
She'd made it sound jokey – showing off the battle wound on
his abdomen had become rather a party piece.
Later, torn from deep slumber by the familiar sound of
drunkenness, the clink of glasses, the whoosh of the fridge
door, the appreciative guffaws, she'd lain in that sickly,
buzzing fug, her heart pounding. Time ticked by, the cacophony
unrelenting. So she'd hauled herself up, wrapped her
dressing-gown protectively around her shivering body, and
hovered by the kitchen door.
Could you please come to bed?
His friends, sweetly apologetic, had gathered their coats and
left with beery exhortations to keep in touch. Brimming with
bonhomie, he'd seen them out, before disappearing without
another word. She'd cleared up, putting away food and bottles,
washing up, feeling her chest thud.
Now she's dead on her feet in the wee small hours with nowhere
to sleep. She leans her face against the unforgiving bedroom
door. The spare bedding is out of reach in the boys' room; she
has no resources left to soothe a wakeful toddler. She goes
into the box-room where her teenage daughter is curled up in
bed facing the wall.
May I get in with you?
A small nod of welcome, and she slips in gratefully next to
the warm sleepy form.
You should leave him, Mum.
The voice indistinct, the words crystal clear. Shocked out of
the creep of unconsciousness, she opens her mouth to protest
But I love him, and he loves me.
The words lie unspoken. Why insult the intelligence of a
half-grown girl who sees, hears, and records in her diary the
daily humiliations, the outbursts of pettishness and rage, the
family dance of appeasement which attempts to hold it all
together? How is that love?
As ever, the events of the evening slip through the fingers of
her mind. Letting sleep embrace her and lull her, she resolves
like Mary to keep everything in her heart, to mull things over
when she has the time, is not so busy, is not so bloody tired.
The needle sticks in the groove, the track plays on.