Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday. Cathy Kelly
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this was the dream? But Danae knew this was no dream; this was her new, horrible reality and the fear possessed her, the fear of what would happen when he woke up. The fear of telling anyone.
And if she did tell, who would believe her? Antonio was the epitome of a hail fellow well met, a charmer. Everyone loved him. Nobody would believe he could do a thing like this. She could hardly believe it herself.
Wincing with the pain, she took a towel and a facecloth and tried to cool down her bruises and wipe the blood off her face. Apart from her face, he hadn’t hit her anywhere that would show. Shaking, she found the jar of aspirin she used when she had her monthlies and took two, fearful that she’d drop the glass of water, her hands were shaking so much.
Carrying the towels into the living room, she used them to make up a bed on the couch and laid herself down there, as comfortably as she could in her pain. Tomorrow, it would have to be different. Wouldn’t it?
In Avalon, Mara sat outside with the hens at her feet and Lady leaning against her, and struggled to make out the words through the tears in her eyes. Danae’s diary was the saddest thing she’d read in all her life.
The psychiatrist wanted me to write this. I don’t trust psychiatrists that much. I used to. They were doctors and doctors were gods.
Like I used to think anyone with a degree was brighter than me. I hadn’t been to university. I’d barely been to school, what with the way we moved when I was a child. My mother didn’t have much faith in education.
‘Life is the best university,’ she’d say, tapping the side of her nose.
The first psychiatrist was very young.
The last one was older, a man, kind and gentle, brains bursting out of him. He even had one of those big foreheads where it looked as though the brains needed more room than most people’s did. And yet, he didn’t really know. He said things to me, but I could tell from his eyes that he knew I was clever and that there were no absolutes. He said that once. Those exact words. ‘There are no absolutes.’
That was when I realized that nobody knew anything for sure. It was all guesswork. Guesswork made up of history and science, past cases and studies, but guesswork all the same.
Nobody knew what had been going on in my head or in Antonio’s head. They could postulate till the cows came home, but nobody knew for sure. That was when I began to realize that we were all clinging to the rock, hoping. Everyone was the same. Some people had better rocks and a better foothold, but it was all a matter of clinging on. Once I understood that, I began to get better, although I didn’t know it at the time.
I have nobody to visit. There’s only one person I’d like to come, my brother, but I told him not to. I don’t want him to see this place or me in it. The lack of dignity would shock him.
Sleeping in a ward with other women, no privacy, wearing a rag-tag collection of clothes because someone’s always stealing yours. At one time, I’d have thought there was no dignity in living like that, but it isn’t a worry to me now. I know none of that has anything to do with dignity.
The people here are trying to help us. They are tough but nice. Nobody hits you. Nobody on the staff shouts at you. They’re trying to give you back your actual dignity, which means giving you back your mind and your soul.
That’s dignity. All the rest, like peeing with the toilet door open, is immaterial. Did you know that when your mind goes, so does your soul? Like a dandelion blown in the wind, it floats away.
I had a visitor from the shelter today. Mary. She wears red a lot, that’s what I remember most: huge red cardigans wrapped around her and red necklaces. Her hair is yellow from a home-dye kit, something my mother would be scornful of. Mary is the kindest woman I have ever met. She hugs me and I try to let her. I don’t think I deserve hugs. I am stiff in her embrace and I know it. I try, really I do, but this kindness almost hurts. It’s wrong. I cannot have it.
When I cry, she has tissues in her pockets. She’s always had a never-ending supply for the never-ending tears.
‘You deserve to be loved,’ she says to me. It’s exactly what the older psychiatrist has been saying.
Mary has no education except for running the shelter, but she knows as much as he does.
When Mary goes, I sleep. They’re trying to get my medication right and that means lots of changing doses. This week, the drugs are making me even more tired than usual. I have to nap all the time. I lie on my bed with my eyes closed. I can blot out the noises around me. It’s safe here. Even though that banging-head woman is wandering around, the only one she wants to hurt is herself. Another girl came in today, half-crazed with pain. She’s in a room they have under camera surveillance all the time in case she tries anything. So I am safe. Safe in the nuthouse. If I could laugh, I would.
In the shelter, where I felt safe for the first time in years, we talked about our lives and our men. I said I’d never got used to being hit. Used to the idea, sure, but the pain and the fear was as bad every time. Except I knew I deserved it. He said I did. He said I couldn’t spend any money. He kept the housekeeping money and it was doled out every week. None to spare, none to let me buy a lipstick: ‘What do you want with lipstick? You think another man would look more than once at you? I’ll make sure no man looks at you, bitch.’
One woman had lived with her husband for twenty-seven years before she ran away to the shelter. Her son wouldn’t take her in. He blamed her for not leaving his da years before, blamed her for putting him through the fear of growing up in their house.
‘I couldn’t tell him how trapped I felt,’ she said, crying.
We all comforted her and we all understood.
You’re trapped, like the mouse that a cat’s playing with. Paralysed with fear. You believe all the things he says to you.
You believe you’re worthless. Eventually, you reach the point where he doesn’t have to be there for you to believe it. A little voice in your head tells you non-stop: ‘You are a worthless piece of shit. You deserve this. You drive him to this. It’s all your fault.’
One woman lost two babies to her husband’s boot. She’d had six kids by then, it was all she could do to cope, and she didn’t know how she’d manage with seven. She told herself it was God’s way of making sure she didn’t have to cope with rearing another child.
I never had to cope with rearing my own baby. The first one I lost, I thought he’d be a boy. I felt it. Nobody did the trick with the ring on a piece of thread over my belly or said I was carrying low or high and that meant a boy or a girl. I didn’t have women friends to say or do these things. Antonio didn’t like me having friends. Friends got in the way.
It was all about control, I began to understand.
Control and fear was how they kept us under their boots and their fists. The beatings were just a way of reinforcing their control.
We’d been married six years when I lost the baby. He wanted sex off me and I was so tired, bone weary. I guessed I was somewhere near three months along. That’s when you’re tiredest, the books from the library said. I hadn’t been to the doctor about the baby. Our doctor said he hated treating me, seeing the bruises and the scars, when I would do nothing.
‘But my husband’s a good man, Doctor,’ I’d say. I didn’t add that it was me who made him do it and I had to stay with him, to take care of him.
I’d never refused Antonio sex before, never dreamt of it. Who knew what he’d do? I didn’t refuse him that night either. But I couldn’t