You Promised

TW: This story contains themes of abuse and mental health.

You promised…

A voice calls from the half-open door. 

“A quick word, Barbara?”

Judging by the tone of the voices, something’s afoot. 

“Of course.” 

My favourite teacher Mrs Swanson confers with Miss Berry, the school secretary. As they exchange confidences, my unease increases. 

Neither have glanced my way, but something’s definitely rotten in the state of Denmark. I can’t think of anything I’ve done amiss – unless you count my turning up late to school a few times because of “difficulties at home” – a euphemism if there ever was one. You might have thought Mrs Hick, my form tutor, would have been more sympathetic, but apparently not. When she gave me a detention and ordered me to put up all the stools in the lab, it hurt. Even now, the memory stings – it seemed so unfair on top of everything else. When I refused, I was sent to see the Head of something or other to explain. But maybe the lowered voices have nothing to do with me. Whatever it is, I wait for it to to be confirmed.

Here I am standing out for all the wrong reasons. All I want is to blur into the background.

**

The woman sitting in the posh car with the coiffed hair and stylish suit is Mrs Barrett. She’s waiting for me in the school parking area. Which right now, is eerily silent.

She leans over, opens the door. “Step inside, Pam.”

I do, heart hammering.

“Things have come to a head, I’m afraid. As we expected they might.” She taps my arm consolingly.

“Right.” 

 “Don’t worry. We’ve found a place. Your mum will be waiting for you there.”

The time on the dashboard is 2.15. Lessons are in progress till 3. A quick check before we sweep out of the main school gates. The car speeds past shops I often visit during lunch breaks; I’m hit with an acute nostalgia. There’s the gasometer, hardly the most scenic feature of the urban landscape – tugging at me – will I ever get to see it again?  I’m constantly on the lookout, expecting him to appear round every corner. This is going to sound crazy, given the circumstances, but I even find myself feeling sorry for him. Yet, he’s the last person I should be thinking about now. It’s just the part that cares about him. I know he will feel betrayed. You see, this isn’t the first time. Memories swarm, overwhelming me. I mustn’t think like that.

If I do, I’ll never get through this.

**

He was all over Mrs Barrett when she visited my parent’s house after mum called social services. She never admitted she’d called them, but who else could it have been? Once Mrs B had her foot in the door, he put on quite a show offering her cups of tea and the best chicken soup ever. She played along, often saying “Quite,” or “Just so,” but she wasn’t taken in. When she told him she was a few years off retirement, he said he’d never have guessed. Mrs B is a smooth operator. This is all in a day’s work for her, whereas it’s my life. 

Continuing the car ride, the familiar landmarks start to fade. Everything feels different, making me want the journey to last forever. That way, I won’t have to face whatever lies ahead. Before long, we are heading into another town. After passing a row of high street shops and other buildings, we come to a road with a church at one end where she turns right. My stomach churns.

“Soon be there,” she says. “We were lucky to get a place at such short notice.” Another pat on my arm. “Don’t worry. You’ll be safe.”

**

Finally, we draw up at a suburban house. Apart from the hedge at the front, it looks much the same as the neighbouring houses – unless you happen to know it’s the women’s refuge. I will later learn that the first Women’s Aid refuge in Britain opened its doors at Chiswick in 1971 to protect women from domestic violence and help them with the financial problems they faced if they left abusive partners. 

My stomach carries on unpredictably. I’m constantly thinking he’ll jump out of some hedge, but the coast is clear.

“Come on,” she says as we leave the car and head for the front door with no window. 

This is the days before mobile phones. Mrs Barrett announces her presence by rapping on the knocker five times.  

There’s a flurry of activity within. It seems to take forever, but eventually a gap forms in a door held back by two sturdy chains. 

“Yeah?” A woman in a long baggy top stares blankly at us through the gap. 

“Oh dear.” Mrs B raises her eyes, explains who we are.

 A few minutes later, we find ourselves standing in a corridor with a carpet that has seen better days.

“It’s going to be a struggle to find a room for you,” the woman says, and my heart sinks.

“Well, never mind that now.” Mrs B flings open the door to the front room. “Go and sit in there, Pam. I’ll sort things out with Janice. She runs things here now.”

“Janice is in the office with the new lady. She’s in a bit of a state,” the woman explains. 

This is horrible. I think of mum. However bad things get, sometimes it’s easier not to change things. Maybe she shouldn’t have bothered.

I know I don’t mean that.

**

The last time he hurt mum, I got between them. The bruises weren’t visible beneath my clothes, but I was sore for days. He later told me hadn’t meant to hurt me – “usually, you’re such a good girl, but you shouldn’t have got in the way.” Then he made me promise not to tell anyone about what had happened. 

“It’s a private matter. I can’t let you out until you promise. You must promise not to repeat any of this to anyone.”

I promised.

**

A few days after this, mum grabs me as soon as I get in from school.

“I don’t think I can go on much longer.” She’s whispering and crying at the same time.

“Where is he?”

“Popped out to the shops. He could be back any minute. I can’t stay here.”

“Are you sure, mum?” It’s not the first time she’s spoken like this, but my mind leapfrogs at the idea of a better life. A life free from arguing and pain.

If the walls could talk, I wonder what they would make of this latest “betrayal.” Talking behind his back, we are like fish gasping for air. I expect him to appear and put a stop to it. “How long has he been gone, mum?”

“He left twenty minutes ago.”

Too risky to leave now (he might catch us on the way out) and there’s no time to pack anything. Mum gave me some cash the last time we escaped. Knowing he wouldn’t rummage there, I hid it in my tampon packet. “Have you any money?” I ask. 

“I’ve put a bit aside – just in case. I’ve been in touch with Mrs Barrett. I asked her not to call round. Don’t want him getting suspicious.”

“What did she say?”

“She said if things get desperate to call her and she’ll sort something out.”

My heart beats thick and fast. “Mum?”

“Yes.”

“Are you serious about this?”

“Yes. I really think so.”

“It will be too much to go through it all again if you’re not.”

“I am.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

**

In the refuge, they keep the front room curtains permanently closed giving it an “us and them” feel. Other than a lumpy settee, some mismatched armchairs, and a scratched coffee table, the only thing of interest is a flickering tv with the volume turned down. People are usually too distracted to watch it properly. I later come across a record player tucked away in some corner and make good use of it.

Mum comes in pale and trembling. I want to hug her but can’t. However awful things have been at home, it was still home. Here, until we get settled, it’s just displacement.

“I got here alright,” I say.

Mum is shaking, even though it’s not cold. “Mrs-B-said-she’d-collect-you.” She sounds like she’s been dragged from underwater which is how she’s lived her life for years. I feel if I touch her, she’ll disintegrate. But she’s been crumbling away for so long, how could I tell? I can’t remember when she last smiled with her eyes. 

“I hope I’ve done the right thing.” She keeps repeating this.

Sometimes her inertia makes me angry. This is no time for doubts.

“Of course you’ve done the right thing.”

“He’ll have been in such a state when he got back from shopping and saw I was gone.” Her body is fragile, wrenched by sobs. It’s hard to believe that body once gave life to me. How could he ever hurt her?

“Why are you so worried about the state he’s in?”

“I feel like I’ve betrayed him.”

Me too, but I’m not going to admit that.

**

A friendly woman with long copper hair and colourful bangles breezes in and places a cup of tea and a plate of biscuits on the coffee table.”

“Hi, I’m Lily,” she says. “There, there Jenny.” She puts her arms round mum. “Cry it out, love. You’ll feel much better for it.” Then, she turns to me. “I know it’s not much fun in here with the curtains closed, but we had a bit of trouble the other night. We don’t want anyone peering in.”

So, the men do know about this place. I’d forgotten about that. Of course, they do. Gaslighters are experts at getting what they want out of women.

I suddenly feel terribly thirsty.”

“We ask the women not to say anything, but…” Lily smiles at mum. “How’s the tea?”

“The tea is fine, but I can’t manage anything else. This is my daughter, Pam.”

“Hi, Pam. Sorry, I should have got you a drink. If you go into the kitchen, you’re bound to find something. It’s at the end of the corridor. Last door on the left. There’s lemonade and coke in the fridge if you don’t fancy tea.”

Its alright. I know the way.

**

It turns out there are no rooms available, so the first night I sleep next to mum on makeshift cushions on the front room floor while she has the settee. I can’t sleep but it feels nice to be close. For once, there are no intrusions, no shouting, no disturbances. Just mother/daughter time together. Feels like heaven. 

It feels even more like heaven when a room becomes available. At the last minute, one of the women says she’s going to give her “old man another chance” so we are given the one she’s been sleeping in with her two young children. We’re considered lucky. It has a nice view of the garden.  There are trees, swings and a slide provided for children. People are queuing up for a place here.

Gradually, I get to know the others in the house, form tenuous friendships. The women come from all walks of life. Some are friendly, others distant, all of them are in pain. One I want to permanently wrap my arms around when she tells me she was repeatedly raped by the man who is the father of her son. I worry there are no good men out there but then remember the male history teacher at school who has always been kind and professional —he helped with my studies when things got tough, told me to keep believing in myself. Some of the women say they hate men; one says everything was fine till she and her partner “tied the knot.” Then it all went downhill because he acted like he owned her. Some have relationships with other women that might or might not turn sour. A few say they have given up on relationships for good. All the talk, however justified, upsets me, because how can couples, whatever their sex, ever make it work? How does it go so wrong and how can the violence be stopped? 

**

Mrs B and the refuge workers are trying their best to help mum. They arrange financial aid, deal with the legal side of things, get a court date sorted and a restraining order to keep him away from me and mum. 

The hardest part is sitting round the long table at the family court. Seeing him there. He keeps looking at me. Then, having to say things when my knees are shaking. How can you measure love and hate and all the bits in between? He has his solicitor present, as does mum. 

What do you want to do? The judge asks me. 

I opt for a quiet life. I want to be with mum. 

How do you feel about your dad?

What kind of question is that? I try my best to answer truthfully. The words come out, rushed and inadequate. 

I do care about him. Of course I do. I just can’t stand the way he treats mum.

**

When me and mum return home to start a life without him, Mum finds out he’s staying in a private hostel. He asks to see me, but I don’t want to.

It takes a while, but gradually mum’s confidence returns. She manages her money well and buys a few bits for the home. She gets rid of all the clutter he insisted on hanging onto. For me, it’s like Spring arriving after a dark winter.  She starts talking of going back to work, something he put a stop to. She encourages me to decorate my room. I get my hair cut and start inviting my friends round without feeling anxious.

A burden has been lifted.

**

One day I’m gazing out of the living room window at the daffodils in the garden. Mum touches my shoulder but avoids eye contact.

“I’ve something to tell you.”

“What?” The chill I feel has nothing to do with the cold.

“I’ve asked him to come back.” 

“What! Why would you do that?”

“He says he’ll change. Try and do better.”

“I don’t understand.”

“He means it this time.”

“But he promised to change last time, and it didn’t happen. Also…”

“What?”

“You’ve been doing so well. You’ve transformed the place. It’s lovely here now.”

“He says he misses us.”

“What made you agree to meet him?”

“You wouldn’t understand. You’re too young.”

“But it’s terrible when he’s around. He tries to control everything you do, and he hurts you if you disobey him. You can’t have forgotten. He wouldn’t even let you go out to the shops without his permission. You’ve made such progress.”

“He’s promised to get help.”

“He said that before. It lasted less than a week and he was back to his old self. Also….” Inside I’m shattering into a thousand pieces — “you’re doing so well. It’ll be like going backwards.”

“I’m sorry, Pam. I don’t expect you to understand. He is my husband. Maybe you’ll see it one day.”

“Mum! After all we’ve been through!” The past six months have been the happiest of my life. It’s been so peaceful. No more arguments.

“I’ve said he can come back next week, Pam.”

My tears are blurring the view from the window, stinging my eyes. 

You promised.

The air outside is chilly. I run into the small garden, snagging myself on a rose bush with closed buds. The daffodils, however, remain defiantly open and the velvet jackets on the magnolia tree are bursting with white flowers. Yet my life seems to have shrunk to a pinprick. Why did I bother painting my bedroom walls a vibrant blue? Will he force me to change the colour? It’s hard to see a way out of this but find it I must. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but soon. If I’m to stand any chance at all. 

But back to mum. It’s true I don’t understand. Maybe one day I will, but right now I’m working on words to express what I feel. What is it?

A sense of betrayal?

That she chose him.

**

To anyone suffering from an abusive relationship, our minds and bodies deserve to be loved and respected. It is possible to break the cycle — providing you can get help. Sadly, for social, economic, and other reasons, not everyone is able to do that.