Our Lizzie (33 page)

“If that's all you've managed to save, you've not done very well, lass. Keep your pound or two. I'm not in need of that sort of money.”

But she didn't tell him about her new savings.

No, it wasn't material things but tenderness Lizzie lacked—especially in bed. And he didn't seem to be aware of that, let alone to care. It was as if she were a doll for him to play with, she decided after a few weeks; a possession, not a person. She began to dread the nights and his appropriation of her body, absolutely dread them.

Sam approved of sewing and housewifely duties, but made it plain from the start that he wasn't having her doing things outside the house on her own.

“Which cinema are we going to tonight?” she asked the first weekend, for Overdale now boasted two picture houses.

“We're not.”

“Sam?”

“I've no need to court you now. I've got you, haven't I? An' it'd look silly, a married fellow taking his wife to the cinema. The lads would laugh at me.”

“But—”

He scowled, feeling guilty about the disappointment on her face. “Shut up about it, will you? I won't put up with nagging. And you're not goin' on your own, neither.”

She bent her head to hide the tears.

He went out on his own. Lizzie sat at home and wept.

He didn't approve of the way she borrowed books from the library, either.

“But, Sam, I need something to do when I'm at home in the evenings.”

“Other women don't borrow books.”

“Other women have children, or families coming round, or friends, and you don't want me to have any callers.”

“No, I bloody don't.”

“So I thought I'd get a book out to read.”

“Mmm. I'll think about it.”

Two days later, he said grudgingly, “All right. You can go to the library. But if I catch you reading when there's housework to be done, it'll stop.”

She forced herself to say, “Thank you, Sam.” It had come as a shock how much he insisted on controlling her life. Though not as much of a shock as his approach to their love-making. And she could have accepted his wish to be master, if he'd done it with love, but he didn't. She was beginning to think he didn't love her at all. Didn't even know the meaning of the word.

“Still, you keep the place nice, I'll give you that.” He glanced around proprietorially.

“It's a lovely house.”

“Aye. I've done well by us.”

“
Very
well, Sam. No one else has a house like this. Why, Mary Holden's had to go back to live with her family because her husband's out of work.” Lizzie hated having to say things like this, but if she didn't praise him occasionally, Sam got into a bad mood, for he seemed to think he was an ideal husband.

She made paper covers for the library books, saying it was to protect them, but actually it was to hide the books' own covers which would reveal to him how much reading she really did. It was her only way of filling in the tedious hours or escaping the misery she felt welling up in her sometimes.

Lizzie tried to understand her new life as she cleaned the house and kept it immaculate, which she did more for something to do than because she loved it—because she didn't, absolutely couldn't, love a place where she was so lonely and unhappy. She missed working at the shop quite desperately and often wondered how everyone there was going on. She hated, too, having to pass Emma Harper in the street with a mere nod of the head, when she was longing to talk to someone. But Sam had strictly forbidden her to have anything to do with the Harpers and she soon learned to obey him in things like that.

Percy came round to visit occasionally, but when she asked him why he didn't pop in more often, he looked at Sam and mumbled something about “not wanting to disturb you.” Then she realised that Sam must have told him not to come round too much.

The high spot of her life was Polly's Sunday off, which Sam allowed her sister to spend with them. Polly was always self-effacing and polite to him. He said once that she was a wishy-washy sort of a lass but he couldn't see any harm in her. He would stay around the house for the morning, which put something of a dampener on their conversation, but usually vanished in the afternoons, often coming home smelling of beer, for his friend Josh kept a good stock of bottles in the house for times when the pub was closed.

Polly seemed to realise without being told how things were in the bright modern house. She didn't ask awkward questions, just talked about the Pilby family, her work, the housekeeper's foibles, the other maids, the clothes she was making for herself—and she started giving Lizzie sewing lessons, so that she could at least keep her own and her husband's clothes in order, though they both agreed with a laugh that she'd never sew well.

*   *   *

One night in March Sam stared at his wife over the tea table and said accusingly, “You're taking your time falling for a baby.”

“It's not for lack of trying,” answered Lizzie with a flash of her old spirit.

“No.” He smiled complacently. “No, I'm always ready for my rations. There must be summat wrong with you, the way you are in bed.” For he could tell she didn't enjoy it, and that was a great disappointment to him. Other women had always praised his prowess.

Lizzie was glad she hadn't started a baby yet, because it was all she could do to cope with her own problems and she didn't feel ready to take responsibility for anyone else. Although she'd made a dreadful mistake marrying him, she still hoped they'd settle down after a while and things would get more comfortable. Surely they would?

*   *   *

It was late March before she first realised that Sam's other business activities were not always on the right side of the law, and that shocked Lizzie rigid. He came pounding in the back way one evening, shouting at her to come upstairs at once.

“What?”

“If anyone comes to the door, you're to tell 'em we've been in bed for an hour an' have been together all evening!” he ordered. “Come
on!
You'll need to get your clothes off, or they'll never believe you.” He broke up the fire, poured on some water to put it out and tugged her towards the stairs.

She pulled back, gaping at him. “But Sam—”

That was the first time he hit her, a quick backhander to the face. “Don't stand staring at me, you fool. Get up those stairs to bed! And don't put the bedroom light on up there, neither.” He shoved her out of the room so hard she fell sprawling into the hall. And by the time she got up, the kitchen light was out and he was standing over her in the darkness, muttering, “
Will
you hurry up, blast you!”

For once he didn't make love, just lay there, listening, and when she tried to ask him what was wrong, hissed, “Shurrup! Bloody well shurrup!”

Half an hour later, there was a knock on the front door. He stiffened and grabbed Lizzie's arm. “Wait!” he breathed. When the knock came a second time he pushed her out of bed. “Go down and answer that. You can put the light on now.”

She pulled on her warm new dressing gown. “W-what'll I say?”

His voice was a mere thread of sound. “Act stupid, like you've just been woke up. An' remember, we've been here together all evening.”

Lizzie opened the front door to find a policeman waiting there and her heart began to thump.

“Mrs. Thoxby?”

She could only nod.

“Is your husband at home?”

“Yes. He's in bed.”

“How long has he been home?”

“All evening.” She hoped the policeman couldn't see her face turning red. She hoped he believed her, too, because if he didn't, Sam would be furious.

“Ask him to come down, will you, Mrs. Thoxby?” The constable's face in the light streaming from the hall was grim.

She called up the stairs, “Sam! There's a policeman wants to see you.”

There was a grunt, then a few thuds before he made his way down to join them. He greeted the policeman with, “It's a bit bloody late to come calling.”

“No need to swear, Mr. Thoxby.”

Sam shrugged. “Never at my best when I've just been woke up. What can I do for you?”

“Where were you an hour ago?”

“Here.” He put an arm round Lizzie's shoulders and grinned. “Doing what a good husband should.”

“I see. Would you agree with that, Mrs. Thoxby?”

She nodded, then seeing he expected more, managed to force out a “Yes.”

“And before that,” the pause was quite marked, “sir?”

“I were reading me own newspaper in front of me own fire.”

The constable cocked one eye at Lizzie and she nodded.

“Right, then. Sorry to have disturbed you.” He started to move away, then turned round to say pointedly, “You should know, Mr. Thoxby, that one of our men has been injured and we don't take kindly to policemen being hurt.” His eyes said he didn't believe a word they had told him. “Not kindly at all,” he reiterated.

Sam closed the door on him, laughed and turned towards the stairs.

Lizzie didn't follow. “What happened tonight, Sam?”

He turned to stare at her, his expression forbidding. “None of your business.”

For once she didn't care if he did get angry. She felt angry, too. “It is my business if I have to lie for you.”

A scowl darkened his face. “Shut up and come to bed.”

“What happened, Sam?” she insisted. Surely, surely he hadn't attacked a policeman?

He lunged forward and dragged her towards the stairs. “So far as you're concerned, nothing—bloody—happened.” He emphasised each word with a shake. “We were here together all night.”

She tried to resist, pulling back. “I want to know, Sam.”

A cracking blow across the side of the head threw her across the hall. She slammed into the wall and fell sprawling on the new carpet, yelping in shock and pain. She lay there gasping, unable to move for a moment.

“Get up, damn you!” This was followed by a kick to the ribs and a command to “Come to bed, you bloody fool.” When she still didn't move, he hauled her to her feet by the back of her dressing gown.

Lizzie was too stunned to protest, and had to concentrate on not being sick as he dragged her up the stairs.

When they got to their bedroom, he shoved her towards the bed.

She moaned as her bruised ribs hit the wooden footboard.

“Maybe that'll learn you to do as you're told in future. I'm the master here an' don't you forget it!”

He got into bed, turned over and ignored her. Slowly she took off her dressing gown, still half-stunned, still unable to believe this was happening.

“Sam?”

“Shut up! I'm knackered.”

When his breathing deepened, she realised he was asleep. She huddled on the far edge of the bed, her arms clasped protectively around her sore ribs, then cold drove her in beside him. But she lay awake for a long time, absolutely terrified about what might happen if Sam was—her thoughts faltered—thieving. That would explain his having plenty of money, though. And—she swallowed hard—she could easily believe it of him, now that she knew what he was really like.

But nothing, nothing could explain or excuse his thumping and kicking her. Lizzie didn't weep but she lay there for a very long time, facing the fact that after just three months of marriage she hated him. Things were far worse than she had thought—and she could see no way of escaping from him. For one thing was very obvious. Though Sam didn't know the meaning of the word love, he was violently possessive of her and had been for years. Why? Why had his fancy settled on her? He had ruined her life. Tears ran down Lizzie's cheeks, silent trickles of pain. She wept for a long time.

*   *   *

In the morning, Sam stared at her bruises, then shrugged. “Maybe that'll teach you to do as you're told an' keep your bloody mouth shut in future.”

Lizzie turned over instead of getting up to prepare his breakfast.

He hauled her out of bed and dumped her roughly on the floor. “You have work to do of a morning, seein' to my needs. Go an' get my breakfast. Two eggs today.”

She stared up at him and this time no tears came into her eyes, as they had the other times the two of them had disagreed. This time she felt as if her face were frozen. But she decided to do as he wanted. If ever she chose to defy him it'd be over something more important than making breakfast.

She didn't say a word all the time she was cooking and getting his lunch box ready. Sam made a comment about what he wanted for tea, eyed her bruised face a couple more times but didn't apologise, uttering not a word of regret.

That evening, however, he commented on how quiet she was as they ate their meal.

“I'm doing as you told me,” she snapped. “Keeping my mouth shut.”

He made an angry sound in his throat, breathed deeply and carried on shovelling in food. When he had finished, he got up, shook out the newspaper and hid behind it in his favourite chair next to the fire.

Lizzie cleared up, then took out the mending basket and darned a pair of socks, making sure they came out lumpy. After that, she put the sewing things away and got out her book, but she didn't take in a single word. She just held it up in front of her face to block out the sight of him. And anger coursed through her, as well as fear, anger not only at him but at her own helplessness. She had no one to turn to for help, not with a family like hers. What was she going to do?

*   *   *

One day soon after that, when Sam was at work, she noticed he had forgotten to lock the cellar door and could not resist going down to peep at what was in there. It'd been locked since the day they got married and he'd not allowed her down, saying a man had to have a workshop of his own somewhere. Though there was precious little work to do around this new house.