I’ll help you down. Your Sally is going to be thrilled.’
Chapter Eleven
M ary watched the tail end of the van as it rumbled down the street, only going inside when it turned the corner.
Feeling listless she climbed the stairs and entered her mum’s room, empty now except for a chest of drawers. The silence of the house felt oppressive and she shivered. What was the matter with her? She had railed against her mother’s disgusting habits, dunking biscuits in her tea, stuffing that revolting snuff up her nose and her interfering, always interfering. She had dreamed of having the house to herself again, but now that it was a reality, she felt bereft.
It had been dreadful since it happened, the atmosphere tense, and her mother refusing to be in the same room as Harry. She had wanted to tell her, to try to explain, but somehow she could never find the words; it was too embarrassing, too personal. Dejectedly she closed the door and went into her own room, curling on her bed in a foetal position, the memories flooding back …
It was her wedding night and she and Harry were in Brighton for their honeymoon. They had just finished dinner in the hotel, smiling at each other across the table, his hand covering hers.
She had refused any intimacy with him before their marriage; it had meant a lot to her to walk up the aisle a virgin. Of course she knew it had been hard on Harry, and during their two-year courtship there had been many moments when he had nearly exploded with frustration. Yet looking at him now and seeing the love in his eyes, she was glad she had waited. Tonight would be so very special.
‘Why don’t you go on up, darling,’ he urged. ‘I’ll follow you after I’ve had a quick drink in the bar.’
She smiled gratefully, nervous yet excited too. Harry was so thoughtful, giving her this time to herself, and she loved him so much. He was a perfect gentleman, kind and considerate, and so handsome too with his dark brown hair and eyes.
Wallowing in a bath filled with rose-scented crystals, she felt some of the tension ease. It would be all right, she told herself; she trusted Harry, sure that he would alleviate her fears.
Stepping out of the bath she dried herself and slipped a pretty new nightdress over her head. Then, after brushing her hair, she climbed into bed to wait for him. Where was he, she wondered, her eyes growing heavy with sleep. Why was he taking so long to come up to their room?
Her next memory was of waking up to a nightmare. The room was in darkness and hands were tearing frantically at her nightdress. There was the strong stench of sour whisky as a wet mouth devoured hers, making her stomach heave. She twisted her head away, opening her mouth to scream, but a hand was placed brutally over her lips, cutting off the sound.
‘Come on, you’re my wife now, stop struggling.’
She froze momentarily in shock. It was Harry! Her legs flailing and her fists beating his chest, she fought to throw him off. With a swift movement he dragged her to the edge of the bed and turned her over, face down. One of his hands held both her wrists, pinning her arms above her head, while she writhed ineffectually beneath him. Then there was pain. An agony of excruciating pain, that seemed to tear her apart …
She pushed away the awful memory now and sat up, shivering. Her eyes felt gritty and she rubbed at them impatiently. Leaning back against the headboard she thought about their marriage and the sham it had become.
Harry had been so ashamed when he awoke the next morning to find her sitting awkwardly hunched in a chair, still wearing the shreds of her stained and bloody nightdress. She had reared back from him in terror when he approached her, refusing to listen when he tried to explain that the whisky he had drunk to steady his nerves had made him lose control.
After that, every time he tried to touch her she became hysterical, fighting him off like a wildcat, never able to forget the pain of
Chapter Eleven
M ary watched the tail end of the van as it rumbled down the street, only going inside when it turned the corner.
Feeling listless she climbed the stairs and entered her mum’s room, empty now except for a chest of drawers. The silence of the house felt oppressive and she shivered. What was the matter with her? She had railed against her mother’s disgusting habits, dunking biscuits in her tea, stuffing that revolting snuff up her nose and her interfering, always interfering. She had dreamed of having the house to herself again, but now that it was a reality, she felt bereft.
It had been dreadful since it happened, the atmosphere tense, and her mother refusing to be in the same room as Harry. She had wanted to tell her, to try to explain, but somehow she could never find the words; it was too embarrassing, too personal. Dejectedly she closed the door and went into her own room, curling on her bed in a foetal position, the memories flooding back …
It was her wedding night and she and Harry were in Brighton for their honeymoon. They had just finished dinner in the hotel, smiling at each other across the table, his hand covering hers.
She had refused any intimacy with him before their marriage; it had meant a lot to her to walk up the aisle a virgin. Of course she knew it had been hard on Harry, and during their two-year courtship there had been many moments when he had nearly exploded with frustration. Yet looking at him now and seeing the love in his eyes, she was glad she had waited. Tonight would be so very special.
‘Why don’t you go on up, darling,’ he urged. ‘I’ll follow you after I’ve had a quick drink in the bar.’
She smiled gratefully, nervous yet excited too. Harry was so thoughtful, giving her this time to herself, and she loved him so much. He was a perfect gentleman, kind and considerate, and so handsome too with his dark brown hair and eyes.
Wallowing in a bath filled with rose-scented crystals, she felt some of the tension ease. It would be all right, she told herself; she trusted Harry, sure that he would alleviate her fears.
Stepping out of the bath she dried herself and slipped a pretty new nightdress over her head. Then, after brushing her hair, she climbed into bed to wait for him. Where was he, she wondered, her eyes growing heavy with sleep. Why was he taking so long to come up to their room?
Her next memory was of waking up to a nightmare. The room was in darkness and hands were tearing frantically at her nightdress. There was the strong stench of sour whisky as a wet mouth devoured hers, making her stomach heave. She twisted her head away, opening her mouth to scream, but a hand was placed brutally over her lips, cutting off the sound.
‘Come on, you’re my wife now, stop struggling.’
She froze momentarily in shock. It was Harry! Her legs flailing and her fists beating his chest, she fought to throw him off. With a swift movement he dragged her to the edge of the bed and turned her over, face down. One of his hands held both her wrists, pinning her arms above her head, while she writhed ineffectually beneath him. Then there was pain. An agony of excruciating pain, that seemed to tear her apart …
She pushed away the awful memory now and sat up, shivering. Her eyes felt gritty and she rubbed at them impatiently. Leaning back against the headboard she thought about their marriage and the sham it had become.
Harry had been so ashamed when he awoke the next morning to find her sitting awkwardly hunched in a chair, still wearing the shreds of her stained and bloody nightdress. She had reared back from him in terror when he approached her, refusing to listen when he tried to explain that the whisky he had drunk to steady his nerves had made him lose control.
After that, every time he tried to touch her she became hysterical, fighting him off like a wildcat, never able to forget the pain of
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