Run, Mummy, Run (13 page)

Aisha went to Sarah and fed and changed her; by the time she’d finished and returned to bed, Mark was curled on his side fast asleep.
Tomorrow
, she thought,
tomorrow I will approach him and explain how I feel. I will choose the right words and the right moment. Mark will understand because he loves me.
And she lay in the dark and convinced herself that in allowing him to do what he’d done, she’d proved that she’d truly forgiven him, and that their relationship would return to normal.

A
isha tried to talk to Mark the following day as they sat on the sofa sipping their mid-morning coffee, which Mark had made. She rested her feet on the stool he had put beneath them and said, ‘Mark, what happened last night … I …’ But his quizzical look of non-comprehension meant that if she wanted to pursue it, she would have to explain and risk creating a scene, which was not only alien to her, but hardly the best way forwards. So she let it go and decided that if he ever approached her again in the same way then she would gently stop him, and say that although she appreciated such things were acceptable to some consenting adults, it wasn’t right for her. But he didn’t. Mark didn’t ask for anything more than a cuddle until after her six-week postnatal check-up, when they made love properly, and then he was tenderness itself.

It had been five days since the inspector’s visit, or was it six? Aisha was unsure, with no day or night on which to pin the time. Any sleep came in snatches, sitting in the chair, with the lamp on. It felt safer downstairs with the light on, she could see what was going on. Night after night, on guard, with the inspector’s voice her only companion. Though sometimes Mark’s voice butted in and corrected her when she’d got it wrong. ‘Correctness is important,’ Mark said. ‘Be precise, and we won’t have this problem. I won’t have to get angry with you.’

Aisha tried, she tried to be precise, correct, tried to get it right, over the months, and then years that followed. She tried her best though she never succeeded.

‘It’s marriage,’ Mark said, ‘and parenthood. Learn to manage your expectations, Aisha, and we will be fine.’ It’s a phrase accountants use – management of expectations – and ironically her father used it too, though never in the context of marriage. Aisha tried desperately to ‘manage her expectations’; she recalculated, reduced, and even cancelled some out. She analysed every action, word and phrase before she spoke; tried to eliminate double meanings and inconsequential remarks that could upset and provoke Mark. But it was like walking on eggshells – tread very lightly and you might make it to the end of the day – might, if you were very careful and lucky. Which apparently, she was not.

‘So, when was the next time you saw the other side of Mark?’ the inspector asked from the dark. ‘When was the next unintentional act like the library book which provoked another out-of-character response?’

‘Perhaps there wasn’t one,’ she said quietly into the empty room. ‘Perhaps it really was a one off, and we put it behind us, and moved on, as I hoped. But you don’t believe me, and of course, you would be right.’

One Sunday afternoon in early June, Aisha’s parents were finally coming to tea. Sarah was eight weeks old and Aisha had wanted to invite her parents sooner, but what with one thing and another, she and Mark had never found the opportunity – there always seemed to be something that needed to be done. Her parents were due at three o’clock, and Aisha wanted everything to be just right to make a good impression, so did Mark. Together they had hoovered and dusted the house from top to bottom, made lunch, fed and changed Sarah, then settled her in the baby recliner in the lounge so that she could see what was going on. Aisha couldn’t have been happier, for now they were making love again, it seemed they were even closer. It didn’t matter that sometimes she had to pay particular attention to what she said and did, because quite clearly Mark was doing the same; they were both trying hard and having to readjust to life with a baby.

The new lace tablecloth Aisha had bought especially for her parents’ visit was on the table, and she was in the kitchen washing salad and making a cucumber raita. She and Mark had agreed it would be a ‘high tea’ rather than dinner, with various cold dishes to suit all their tastes – a mixture of East meets West, Aisha quipped to Mark. He laughed and kissed her cheek appreciatively.

Mark began taking down the plates, cups and saucers from the kitchen cupboard ready to lay the table so they wouldn’t have to do it when her parents arrived. Aisha noticed, as she seasoned the yoghurt for the raita, that Mark was using the normal china, the set he’d had before their marriage that was now dishwasher faded. OK for everyday, she thought, but not really suitable for her parents when they had an alternative.

‘Mark, let’s use the new Dalton,’ she said lightly. ‘You know, the wedding present from your office? We could christen it today.’

The radio was on and maybe he hadn’t heard her, for he continued carrying the old china through to the lounge. Aisha left what she was doing in the kitchen and poked her head round the archway that led to the lounge. ‘Mark, why don’t we use the new China Blue? It’s still in its box in the spare bedroom. Shall I fetch it?’ It never crossed her mind that he might see it as a criticism, a negative judgement of his choice, or she wouldn’t have said it, obviously.

Mark stopped laying out the plates and then began collecting them together again, hurriedly, so that the china chinked together and made Sarah jump. Aisha wiped her hands on her apron and went over to the table with the intention of helping him, so that it would be less noisy. As she drew near, he spun round to face her, and she saw his expression, pinched and white, and realized her mistake. There was a moment’s silence, a charged nanosecond before he shouted in her face.

‘What? My things not good enough for you? I’ll give you the fucking Dalton!’ It might have been laughable, except of course there wasn’t anything funny about his anger.

‘Sorry,’ she stammered, backing away, but not fast enough.

Large hands grabbed her shoulders and shook her like a rag doll. ‘Mark, let’s use the Dalton,’ he mimicked, spitting in her face. Then he picked up the plates and pushed past her with such force that she lost her balance and fell backwards, cracking her head on the wall.

Sarah shrieked, but ignoring her and Aisha, Mark marched into the kitchen and slammed the plates on the work surface with such force that one cracked. Yanking open the integral door to the garage he went in and slammed it shut behind him. At that moment, the doorbell rang and Aisha realized in absolute panic that it was her parents, having arrived early. Through the shock, fear and horror of it all, and the sharp pain in her head, one thought dominated all others – her parents must not find out what had happened, and she prayed they hadn’t heard.

She hauled herself up from the floor, touched the sore place on her head, then stood like a rabbit frozen in a car’s headlamps, not knowing what to do for the best. Go to Mark? Pacify Sarah? Or answer the door? She knew she had to do all three, but in which order? Sarah was crying louder now so instinctively she picked her up. ‘There, there,’ she soothed, then looked anxiously between the rear of the house and the front door. The bell rang again. She felt her head and looked at her fingers; it was sore but not bleeding. She took a deep breath and began towards the front door. It crossed her mind, in the ridiculousness of the moment, that if Mark had wanted to hit her then he could have chosen a better day – one when her parents weren’t expected.

Trying to remove the horror from her face, she went down the hall with Sarah in her arms and opened the front door. ‘Mum, Dad, so lovely to see you,’ she said, summoning a smile.

‘Hello love, great to see you.’ They both smiled at her naturally so that Aisha thought they couldn’t have overheard and she breathed a sigh of relief.

‘Come in,’ she said, her thoughts racing. What was Mark doing in the garage? Her parents came into the hall and her mother kissed her, and then cooed over Sarah.

‘Oh my,’ she said. ‘How she’s grown!’ Aisha felt a stab of guilt that her parents hadn’t seen Sarah since they’d visited her in hospital.

Sarah was burbling happily now with all the attention.

‘Look!’ her mother exclaimed. ‘She’s smiling at her grandma. What a treasure. Hello Sarah. Can I hold her?’

Aisha placed Sarah in her mother’s arms, then kissed her father and closed the front door. She led them into the lounge.

‘How comfortable and homely you have made it,’ her mother said, seeing the room for the first time. Her father hovered and looked like he was going to say something but thought better of it.

Aisha smiled at her mother. ‘Thank you, do sit down,’ she said with forced lightness. ‘I’ll just find Mark. I think he’s still in the garage.’

Her father nodded – he could relate to a man tinkering in the garage. He sat on the sofa next to her mother and Aisha left them fussing over their granddaughter. She went through the kitchen and to the interconnecting door that led to the garage, then stopped, her heart pounding, her palms sweating. She’d no idea what state she’d find Mark in on the other side of the door or what he could possibly be doing, but she was desperate to smooth everything over as quickly as possible so that her parents wouldn’t suspect anything was wrong.

She gave a little knock on the door, then slowly opened it. She could see Mark at the far end of the garage rummaging through his toolboxes, tidying them, she thought. Going right in, she closed the door behind her so that her parents couldn’t hear. ‘Mark, I’m sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you. My parents are here. Will you come and join us, please?’

There was no reply.

‘Mark,’ she said again, unable to hide her desperation. ‘I’m sorry. Please come in. Mum and Dad are in the lounge, I want us all to be together and have a nice time.’ Her words sounded pathetic, even to her ears.

Mark slowly turned, and she saw that his eyes were cold but not unyielding.

‘I’m sorry I upset you,’ she said again. ‘It was completely unintentional. Will you come please so we can all be together like we planned?’

His gaze shifted from her to the car as though he wanted her to know he was considering his other option – of going out. At that moment, if she’d been in any doubt, she knew exactly where the power lay, and so too did Mark. They both knew it would have crucified her if she’d had to go back to her parents and admit something was wrong, that Mark wouldn’t be joining them because they’d had an argument and he’d gone off in the car.

‘Please, Mark,’ she said again. ‘It means a lot to me. I’m sorry.’

His gaze returned to her and he nodded. ‘Apology accepted,’ he said. ‘Tell them I’ll be there shortly.’

Relief flooded through her. ‘Thank you, Mark. I do appreciate it. I’m so sorry,’ she gushed. Then with a ridiculously light and forgiving heart, she returned to the lounge. ‘Mark won’t be long,’ she announced gaily to her parents. ‘He’s just finishing off something in the garage. Oh, it’s so good to see you both, so very good,’ she chattered in nervous anticipation of Mark’s arrival.

When he appeared ten minutes later, Aisha glanced at him anxiously, looking for any sign of his previous anger. But he appeared to be recovered and his usual charming self. He kissed her mother and complimented her on her sari – exactly the right thing to do because it was new, and the first time she’d worn it, which Aisha should have noticed if she’d been thinking straight. Mark then shook her father’s hand and for the first time called him Dad; Aisha could see how touched her father was as he already looked upon Mark as a son. As Aisha sat nervously in the armchair and Mark talked politely and respectfully to her parents, always saying exactly the right thing, she dismissed the bump to her head as another silly misunderstanding: it was as Mark said – she needed to think before she spoke, which was something her father had pointed out many years ago.

Her mother unpacked the contents of her bag: baby toys and clothes for Sarah, flowers and chocolates for Aisha. Aisha’s heart melted at her mother’s thoughtfulness and the two of them went through to the kitchen to finish the last of the preparations for the meal. They worked side by side and chatted about Sarah’s routine and how well she was doing, while the ‘men folk’, as her mother called them, sat in the lounge and talked business and cars. Aisha thought it was quickly turning into the afternoon she’d envisaged and her happiness was out of all proportion to what should have been a regular visit from her parents.

At five o’clock they sat around the dining table in the lounge and Aisha served the tea, using the old china. Her mother complimented her on the food: ‘What a lovely spread, Aisha, you have been busy.’

‘A great improvement!’ her father joked. He’d never been impressed by Aisha’s cooking at home, and used to tease her that she should keep to her banking and leave her mother to the cooking.

Mark agreed that Aisha had done them proud, and picked up his plate to help himself to the aubergine quiche. By pure misfortune he had the plate with the crack. He paused and looked pointedly across the table at Aisha. ‘This plate is cracked,’ he said, ‘why didn’t you use the new Dalton china for your parents visit? You know, the wedding present from my firm? Don’t you like it?’

She met his gaze and felt the tingling sweat of fear creep up her spine; her heart began to race.
Not now, Mark, please
, she thought.
Dear God, not now.

She looked around the table and saw her parents smiling at her, expecting a response. She forced down her fear and tried to keep her voice steady. ‘Yes, of course I like it,’ she said quietly. ‘I must have forgotten, sorry. I’ll make sure I use it next time. This will do for now, won’t it?’

Mark nodded and continued serving himself, but she saw the smile that crossed his lips: the acknowledgement that he had won, was all-powerful and now fully in control. And when you’ve accepted it once, apologized, ignored, and allowed yourself to be humiliated, there’s no going back. For once you cross that barrier, it’s easier the next time – for the abuser and the victim.