“I’ve had enough…”
“Darling, you’ll frighten the boy… Hes our only, our precious son… Please, dont!” I yelled, just as Claire raised her arm.
Claire anxiously listened to the muffled sounds coming from the hallway. Judging by the uneven footsteps, someone stumbling up the stairs, it could only be one person. She sighed heavily.
“Peter…”
Turning to little Jamie, our seven-year-old, she whispered firmly, “Love, go to your room and lock the door. Dont turn on the light, alright?”
“Is it Dad again…?” he began, but understanding, he nodded and disappeared into his bedroom. In there, he would sit as quietly as possible, barely daring to move. Jamie dreaded attracting his fathers attention whenever Peter staggered home like this. Drunk, Peter was fond of coming up with awkward questions, mocking every answer with a sneer.
“What more can I expect from you, you mousy little thing? Just like your mum!”
Jamie did his level best to be invisible on nights like this. He learned quickly: if Dad didnt see him, maybe hed forget he existed. That was why Claire always gave him the warning, telling him to disappear quickly.
Within moments, I heard the lock snap, and in walked Peter, reeking of cheap lager. He couldnt seem to get his shoes off, muttering curses under his breath, stuck halfway between balance and collapse. Then he barked out, “Anyone in this house alive? Claire, for Gods sake, come here and help me with these wretched shoes!”
Claire took a deep, steadying breath, then stepped into the hallway, eyeing him with undisguised disgusta look Peter never appreciated.
“Bloody hell,” he grumbled, slurring. “No respect left for a bloke in his own house. Just stands there looking sour, acting above her station. Did you even make supper, or do I get to choke on your dry pizza again? They call that food? Not in this country, they dont… I want a proper stew, something hearty, meatynot another plate of rabbit food. Youd be delighted with a bag of lettuce. Might as well be a cow.”
On and on he muttered, slating her cooking, her attitude, anything else he could think of. Struggling out of his shoes, he tottered off towards the bathroomwhatever state he came home in, he never forgot to wash up and grab a change of clothes, knowing his wife always laid out clean things for him. Scrubbed and changed, he shuffled into the kitchen, almost tripping over the threshold.
“Whats with that step? Any decent woman wouldve got rid of it by now so her fella doesnt break his neck. Leaving it there on purpose, are you? Want me crippled?”
With a stony expression, Claire ladled out a steaming bowl of soup, slid it in front of Peter, who immediately sniffed it with theatrical delight.
“Hilarious! Will you ever lighten up? Standing there like youve just run the marathon for making dinner, expecting a medal. Its your job, girl. Hardly going beyond the call of duty, are you? You were born… well, with one brain cell, Id say. The rest of yous like a busted Meccano setall useless parts.”
Claire busied herself quietly, preparing a couple of pork chops, some fluffy rice, and a fresh salad on the side. Peter slurped his soup in a single gulp, shoveling food into his mouth with all kinds of unpleasant noises, burping, and licking his lips, grunting as he watched her from beneath his brows, ready to sling another insult with each of her movements.
This time was no different. When he finished eating, Peter let out a braying, mocking laugh.
“Honestly, your facewhat was I thinking marrying you? Even my arse is prettier than that mug of yours!”
Claire hissed in fury, but Peter only shrieked with laughter.
“Oh, I cant copelook at you! Thats right, the cows pretending to be a wolverine… What a menace you are; Im shaking in my slippers!”
“Go to bed,” Claire said, voice tight.
“Whats that? Muttering under your breath, are you?” he goaded her, scratching his belly as he heaved himself upright. “When youve finished with the washing up, love, come and give me a massage. Im knackered.”
Claire bit her lip. “Massage”
She had grown to hate that word, especially since Peter started demanding massages while half-cut, reminiscing about some long-forgotten childhood aches. Every protest earned her a shouting match and threatsso, to keep the peace and protect Jamie from the rows, she always complied. Peter had worked out how easy it was to get his way, tormenting Claire without a flicker of conscience. Now with Jamie around, it was even easier, for she was determined their son never hear his parents at war.
Peters mother, Mrs. Pauline Edwards, had disliked Claire from the moment we married. “Shes a dreadful wife and mother, and everyone in town knows it,” she declared. She suggested to Peter that Claires loyalty was dubious, repeating, “Youll regret not listeningyoull end up with antlers while she carries on behind your back for miles.”
Peters boozing especially irked Claire. To him, Friday nights were sacredhe had to unwind, and it never mattered with whom. Claire was reduced to a silent servant, expected to lay out a spread and cater to every guest. Peter bragged to all and sundry, “Thats what you want in a wifeone who can whip up a banquet from crumbs and doesnt mouth off. I trained mine well. Shed pull down the stars for me. Because Im the best thing that ever happened to hershed be nothing without me, and she knows it.”
Claire would force a polite smile, but Peter had no use for her feelings. When he got going, hed spout such nonsense that even his mates would have to rein him in. Claire sometimes wondered how long she could go on. She wanted to pour her heart out to someone, but dared not. She thought, “Shouldve thought about this before marrying him. Now all I can do is put up with itbut for what?”
One night Peter came home blind drunk, launching into a tirade, accusing Claire of sloth and infidelity, filth and everything else. Claire stayed silent, hoping he would pass out soon. But he was oddly agitated. He stormed into Jamies room, seized the boy and dragged him towards the balcony.
“If you dont tell me whose son he is, Ill throw him over!” he snarled, wild-eyed. Panic-stricken, Claire glanced between Peter and the balconya couple metres between them, a metre to the door. Not really thinking, she grabbed a hard rubber ball from the floorthe one she used for her feetand hurled it at Peters forehead. It struck squarely; Peters eyes rolled back and he collapsed. She snatched sobbing Jamie from his arms, clutching him to her chest, placing him safely away from his father. Then, burning with rage, she spun on Peter, who lay dazed.
“What the… was that you, Claire?” he babbled, confused.
“Yes,” she hissed, brandishing a heavy rolling pin. “Were you really going to throw our son off the balcony? Answer me, you swineor Ill break your legs!”
Peter was terrified. What on earth had got into her? His legs refused to work; it was as though his head was filled with cotton wool. All these years, shed never dared so much as raise her voice. What had changed?
“H-how dare you…” he muttered feebly. “Dont you threaten me, Claire. Ill”
“Oh, Ive waited long enough for this…” She rolled up her sleeves, eyes blazing. Peter saw by her movements that she meant business. He backed away, edging towards the door, voice suddenly soft and pleading, nothing like the usual bravado:
“Love, youll scare the boy… Hes our only, our precious son… Please, dont!” he screamed as Claire raised her arm. Without a backward glance, Peter bolted out the door, barefoot, bellowing, “Help! Shes going to kill me!”
Claire chased him onto the landing, but he fled so fast she just waved a hand after him: “Run, you coward.”
Back inside, Claire hugged Jamie tightly, whispering, “Dont be afraid, sweetheart. No one will hurt you now. I wont let anyone ever again…”
Claire could hardly believe herself. Years of quietly enduring Peter’s insults, first towards her, then toward Jamie. Many nights shed cried herself to sleep, then composed herself each morning and went off to work, pretending nothing was wrong. No one could’ve guessed what she put up with from a man shed once thought she loved.
Whenever Peter felt sorry for himself, hed go on benders that lasted for days. Hed ignore the family, and just drink through every bottle of beer and vodka in his locked cabinet. After enough drink, hed loudly call up friends and invite anyone and everyone over for a knees-up, until the neighbours, or even the police, shut it down.
Sometimes, even the neighbours stepped inafterwards, hed take out his anger on Claire, blaming her for not defending him. All the while, Claire’s thoughts flitted to Jamie, which only made Peter angrier.
“You gave birth to this snivelling boy who looks nothing like me! Why is he such a wimp? Disgraceful. Gregs boy is a right tearaway at school, strong as an ox. Or Alexs girlshed have any boy running scared. Ours? He hardly dares breathe in my presence. What kind of lad will he become?”
“You scare him, Peter. What do you expect?” Claire always avoided arguing, but Peter would just rage harder, until finally collapsing into a restless sleep.
Once, Peter woke with excruciating stomach pain. Panic-stricken, he shouted for Claire, Claire, ring a doctorquick!
With trembling hands she called the NHS, sitting beside him anxiously.
“Where does it hurt, love? Is it bad?” she asked, trying to help, but Peter wailed.
“Are you deaf? Of course it hurts! Is that all you can say? Useless!”
He was rolling in agony when the doctor arriveda dignified grey-haired man. The stranger wrinkled his nose at the stench of alcohol as he briskly felt Peters stomach.
So, when did the pain start? Whatve you eaten or drunk? Any medicines?
Hearing that Peter hadnt had anything, the doctor nodded.
Good. No point messing about with self-prescribed rubbish. And you, my friend, shouldnt be pouring that much drink down your neck. Its not clever. Youre destroying your stomach, liver, intestines. All that fat and meatcarry on like this, youll soon wish you hadnt. And wholl be to blame?
Why should it be me? Peter whimpered weakly. Its her cooking
She doesnt hold your nose and pour whisky down, the doctor smirked. She cooks because someone like you would drive even a saint up the wall if she didnt. Am I wrong?
Peter snorted with indignation. If my wife was any good, I wouldnt have to drink. Its the misery, doctor, not me.
“Discussion over,” the doctor snapped, getting out a drip. Ill set you up with this. Itll flush your liver and everything else. If you want to live, you need to stop drinking and eating so much, and blaming everyone else.
Peter realised the doctor wouldnt indulge any complaints about Claire or anyone else. He couldnt wait for the drip to end so he could snap at his wife, Whered you find that grumpy old sod? Is he here to treat patients or preach at me? Or do you fancy him, ey? Bit of a toy boy for the old folks now?
Oh, just shut up, Peter, Claire pleaded wearily. Do you even hear yourself?
The next day, she had to call a paramedic againa heart scare this time. Peter, frightened, wallowed in self-pity.
If I die, that trollopll dance on my grave, he thought, losing himself in melodramatic fantasies. No, Peter Edwards, you must show that cow her placeat your feet, on a leash if need be!
These thoughts soon had him up and about, never suspecting that Jamie was terrified to even be in the same room with him. Claire, meanwhile, bitterly reflected on how she had lied to herself for years.
He doesnt care for either of us. As long as he has his beer and a band of drinking mates, hes happy. Wants nothing, aspires to nothinghis only skill is bullying Jamie and me. How did I let myself be so blind? How could I have thought that having a child would make him change? Hes only gotten worse
Her mind wandered to the many times shed had to rush to the rehab unit with Peter, because he demanded she be by his side.
What am I supposed to do with Jamie, Peter? Your mother wont even watch him. When she turns up, all she does is find some excuse to scold him. What for?
Mind your mouth, you cow, Peter roared, shaking his fist. Dont you dare slander my mum. Shes a saint, deserves a statue. Youre not fit to touch her shoes.
Yeah, alright, Claire replied flatly, which Peter didnt like one bit.
What do you mean, eh? Repeat it! he snapped, and Claire, staring blankly, murmured,
Your mothers a living saint, deserving of a statue, and Im not fit for her shoes. Got it, love.
Peter scowled. It sounded like sarcasm, but despite the words, she showed no outward emotion.
Womenwho can figure them? he mused. Deciding to play the affable husband, he softened.
I do all this for you and the boy, he said, taking her hand. If you respected me and Mum, didnt nag, talked things over with meyoud be living like a queen. Thats how I want Jamie to turn outa proper man. My dad pushed me hard, but look at me now. Jamie needs that too, else hes got no hope. Youre too soft with him.
Hes still just a child. As soon as she said it, Peters face twisted in rage.
May as well chop his off and be done with it,” he sneered, storming off to his room.
He expected Claire to follow, apologising for upsetting him, but she didnt. Through the window, he glimpsed Claire speed-walking to the gate, wiping tears away fiercely. He felt a tiny pang of remorse.
“Any woman would protect her child,” he admitted, grudgingly. “My mum wouldnt let anything happen to me…”
But apologise? Never. Dignity wouldnt allow it. So what if his wife got upset?
“Itll heal quick enough,” he thought, downing the last of his beerthanks to the old boys next door for sharing.
After that nightthe night Claire floored Peter with a rubber ballsomething changed. When Peter, finally sober, appeared at the flat, acting nonchalant, Claire met him with the rolling pin poised, her eyes cold as steel.
“Let me in. Ive calmed down now,” Peter begged, shifting uncomfortably. “Got anything to eat?”
“Of course,” said Claire, lips tight. “A couple of slaps, perhaps, and a good hiding. For dessertthe rolling pin.”
“What? Are you mad? Got a bit too cocky, havent you? Lets see whos boss now! Come on, open up.”
“Just you try,” she growled, adjusting her grip on the rolling pin. “I know how to use this. Ill send you flying.”
“Youve really lost your mind! Whats this, amateur dramatics?” protested Peter, but inwardly, he was rattled.
“Yes, I really did lose my mind, when I saw what you could do to my son,” Claire uttered, her voice trembling with something new. “Ill let you in, but only to collect your things. Youre outfor good. I never want to see your drunk face again.”
Peter considered protesting his right to relax, but at the sight of the rolling pin, he silently slipped in and began hauling his suitcases onto the landing. Claire, ever efficient, had packed everything. As soon as he arrived, with barely a word, she ushered him out onto the street.
Sitting in a black cab on the way to his mothers, Peter mulled over where hed gone wrong. Hed expected Claire to beg for mercy, but a rubber ball to the headand a massive lump for all to seewas all he got. Pulling his cap low, he scowled out the window.
“Here at last,” he sighed as the cab pulled up outside a familiar three-storey terrace with shabby blue doors.
The house was ancient, too dilapidated for anyone to want to buy, but Peters mumPaulinestill hoped shed get a flashy offer from a developer. She was holding out for a hundred square metres with fancy renovations, while all she owned was a pokey flat with peeling paint.
Shes got ideas above her station, the neighbours muttered, Wants a mansion for her shoebox. Fat chance.
Undeterred, Pauline kept believing some rich fool would give her a kings ransom. Shed tried internet dating, but her sharp tongue and quarrelsome ways preceded her wherever she went. She was convinced Claire was to blame for her bad luck with men.
“Never trust the quiet ones,” shed spit through clenched teeth. “Shes not fit for my Peterwish hed just leave her!”
As if her wish was granted, there was a knock at the door: Peter, with his suitcases.
“Whats happened at this hour? You left your wife?” she demanded.
“I didnt leaveshe threw me out,” Peter grunted.
How dare she? Pauline was furious. I told youyouve got to keep a woman in her place! She shook her fist for emphasis.
Peter gave a twisted smile. I did everything you saidand look what its got me. If you dont mind, Mum, I need a shower and my bed.
Passing his mother, she recoiled at the smell of booze. How dare you come into my house in that state, stinking of beer?
Thats how it is, he shot back. You always said I could drink whenever and wherever I pleased.
Pauline bit her tongue. In truth, shed only said it to rile up the daughter-in-law, never expecting a half-sozzled son at her doorstep, wrecking her routine. Now shed have to cook proper meals again, with loads of meathardly her style, as she preferred a takeaway curry to slaving by the stove.
But Pauline, ever the martyr, always told everyone she sacrificed everything for her darling boysleepless nights, twelve-hour shifts, going hungry for his sake. No one knew if that were true, and Claire didnt care to find out.
“Of course I wouldnt turn you out, my only boy,” Pauline said sweetly. “Settle in, you know where everything is. Ill get the kettle on.”
Peter vanished into the bathroom for half an hour. Pauline twitched with anxiety thinking of the water meter ticking up.
They sat down to a midnight tea. Peter rummaged in the fridge, unimpressed with the limp leftovers.
“Mum, isnt there anything better than old fried chips?” he grumbled.
“Dont start. How was I to know your little madam would throw you out in the middle of the night?” she replied icily. “So, what happened?”
Peter could lie to anyone, but not to Pauline. A mother, he thought, always knew best. So, he came clean about Claire, the rubber ball, and the rolling pin.
“Shes snappednever thought shed have it in her,” Pauline muttered, astonished. “The quiet ones, honestly.”
“I wouldnt say that,” Peter sighed, unexpectedly bursting into tears. “Nobody wants me, nobody respects me, everyones just out to use me…”
His mother said nothing, barely restraining herself from telling him to get lost. She grudgingly sympathised with Clairefew people could stomach that sort of treatment daily, as she knew all too well from living with Peter herself.
“My very own offspring,” she thought. “Clever, canny, a go-getterjust like me.” Forgetting, of course, that hed got the worst of her own traitsnagging, dramatics, and the habit of spinning lies.
Claire soon announced shed be filing for divorce. The prospect sent Pauline into a tailspinwould she and Peter afford the aftermath?
“Lets just live separately for a while,” Peter pleaded, whod always threatened divorce to frighten Claire. “Dont do anything drastic, let me prove I can be a good husband and father.”
Claire relentedon condition Peter only came over at set times, and left her alone otherwise. For weeks, he was exemplary. Jamie even said, “Its a shame were not togetherDads really changed, hes nice now…”
Claire decided to give him one last chance. But she warned him: any slip-back to old behaviour, and hed be out for good.
For a while, domestic peace reigneduntil Peter reverted, demanding massages and cursing Jamie.
This time, Claire called the police. Peter was indignant:
“How dare you? Im your sons fatheryou cant treat me like this!”
“Why not?” Claire said quietly. “Wasnt it you who kept saying Jamie wasnt your son?”
Pauline, too, piped up:
“You cant do thisits not right, youre taking away the boys father. What will people think, knowing you threw out your own husband? Do you think any man will want a divorced woman with a child? You should use your feminine wiles, be cleverer about this…”
But for Clairefor onceenough really was enough.
