I hate house work! You make the beds, you do the dishes - and six months later you have to start all over again.
Joan Rivers.
The Beating
Wham! the fist slammed into Rose’s ribs and she reeled backwards unable to breath, never mind cry out. Her back hit the wall with a thud and she began to side towards the floor hoping that he wouldn’t hit her again. But it was a vain hope, as she had known deep down it would be. He grabbed the front of her dressing gown, hauled her upright and punched her in the stomach, doubling her over. This time she did hit the floor and curled into a protective ball against the blows still to come. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed that he would tire soon and go to bed.
She didn’t need to open her eyes to see him standing swaying over her, his face bloated red with the drink and his piggy eyes screwed into vicious pinpoints of drunken rage. She had seen it all so many times before on a Friday night, every Friday night in fact. He only beat her up on Fridays when he was drunk out of his mind. The rest of the week when he was only morosely drunk, he ignored her and she was pathetically grateful for that.
Why did she put up with it? She asked herself that question every time and the answer she got every time? It was her fault that he was, as he was. Tom was a deeply disappointed man who had turned to drink and it was she that had made him that way. She wished it wasn’t so, but it was and she had made her bed and now she must lie in it, as her mother was fond of saying.
They had been happy back in 1968 when they first got married, he caring and attentive and she head over heels in love. At the time they both had fairly good jobs. She worked as a telephonist in the Co-op offices and he was a bricklayer working for a local builder. With two wages coming in they had decided to forgo trying for a family until they were comfortable and could manage to live without her wage coming in. Being a relatively well off young couple they could afford to furnish the house, run a small car, go out with their friends at weekends and still manage to save a little each week.
A happy life that in the January of 1971 began to change slowly from an idyll into the nightmare that it was to become. When Tom was made redundant on the 2nd of January Rose wasn’t worried, she had a good job and they would manage. After all Tom was a good worker and there would always be a job for a good, time served, bricklayer. Unfortunately that turned out not to be true as the build trade was going through one of its periodic slumps. Tom tried everywhere for work and was becoming more and more depressed with his lack of success. Then one evening as he was reading the paper he looked up and said excitedly, ‘Listen to this. It says here that the Australian government will give an assisted passage to anyone with a trade or occupation on the approved list that wishes to emigrate. It will only cost ten pounds each and they need building workers and office staff too.’
Rose was stunned, she had lived in the town all her life, she had been born only two streets away from where they lived now. She had never thought of moving anywhere else, let alone another country at the other side of the world.
‘Well, what do you think?’ Tom asked
For the first time since he had lost his job he looked happy and excited.
‘Whoa! Wait a minute, let me get my head around the idea,’ she said, All the time knowing that if made him happy, she would probably go along with the idea in the end.
They discussed the idea over the next few weeks and finally she agreed to go. It didn’t happen. Two weeks later she found out that she was pregnant and she changed her mind about traipsing half way around the globe. She tried to soften the blow by saying that she would think about going after the baby was born. The offer did noting to pacify him and the terrible rows began. Then six months into the pregnancy just when things had settled down, she lost the baby. She was totally devastated, and Tom, who was already drinking by then, lost the plot completely. He started coming home drunk and while he didn’t argue or hit her, he told her over and over again that she had spoilt everything by not going to Australia.
The trouble was that she believed it and still did. Two month later he came home drunk on a Friday night and the beatings began. They had been going on for five years now and still she believed it was her fault.
He kicked her in the back and this time the pain that shot up her spine was excruciating and she blacked out. She didn’t know how long she was out. But it had been long enough for him to strip her off, drag her upstairs to the bed and begin to rape her. She kept her eyes closed and lay still until he had finished. It didn’t take long before he fell on top of her in a drunken stupor. She lay without moving for a further ten minutes. Then slid out from under him, went into the bathroom, took down the curtains and removed the two and a half foot long, two inch thick curtain rod from its bracket.
Returning to the bedroom she raised the rod above her head brought it crashing down over and over again and was half way down his back before his eyes opened. But by then it was too late he couldn’t move. She had begun at his shoulders and had worked down to his buttocks and with every blow she screamed, ‘It’s not my fault you bastard.’
The next morning the whole of his back was black, blue and yellow. He lay there for another four days before he could move and when he did she helped him put on his clothes, assisted him downstairs and threw him out into the street.
