Nowhere to Run: Where do you go when there’s nowhere left to hide?. Judy Westwater

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СКАЧАТЬ 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 СКАЧАТЬ