BY ANNIE CROMPTON
I am a 58 year old grannie from the North East of England. I have written poetry, short stories and currently writing a novel. In 2020 I completed my MA in Creative Writing at Northumbria University, quite a challenge during lockdown.
Editor’s note: This is a fictional story in voice of a battered partner based on some of the women she’s worked with in the past, we thank Annie for giving a voice to those women with this heartbreaking & well written story. thanks, Anita Thompson
I have been awake for hours…scared I will sleep in. He doesn’t like the alarm clock…it wakes him up before He is ready.
I get up at 5am to wash the clothes. He hates to see me washing, I have to do it in the sink and He doesn’t like the smell of the powder or the noise. He hates noise. I have to be careful not to make a mess. He doesn’t like mess. Anyway it’s my job; I like to care for my family. I would like a washing machine but He’s right, they cost too much. I finish the washing by hand and hang it out to dry. It’s dripping on the floor and I spend ages trying to wring the water out. He hates mess. He likes it all nice and tidy.
I fill the kettle and wait for it to boil. I only added one mug of water; any more is a waste. He says I waste too much and He’s right I didn’t realise until He told me, I didn’t think. He’s right about that, I don’t think, but I try all the time, I try. I can hear him getting up and I get his mug ready with tea and two sugars. Sometimes I get it wrong and He has to remind me, like on Tuesdays when He goes to the gym he likes three sugars and then sometimes He doesn’t go and only wants two and then He has to remind me that I got it wrong.
Then with this lockdown everything has changed, at least for him. He has to stay in, like a caged animal He says. But He does it to help me, reminds me that is…I forget a lot of things. Sometimes I’m so stupid. He comes into the kitchen and puts his hand out for his mug. He doesn’t speak in the mornings and I have to remember not to look at him, He doesn’t like being looked at in the mornings. I realise it’s wrong, He pulls me to the sink and pours the tea over my hand
“It’s too hot bitch”
He’s right; I didn’t put the milk in right. He keeps shouting and I realise the baby is crying. I want to go to him but He says I’m too soft…boys have to be hard. I stand in the doorway waiting for him to speak. He is not happy, I’ve upset him again. If only I tried harder.
“Stop that kid…he’s driving me mad…stop the fucking noise bitch”
I go to the bedroom and pick the baby up, soaking wet, and I need to change him but He has the key for the nappy cupboard. He says I use too many and they cost too much. I know He’s right I always waste stuff. I go back into the kitchen and He puts me right. I know I’m a bad mother; I let the baby cry and let him stay wet. I know I should change him more.
He reminds me why I can’t have more kids; can’t look after one. I know what’s coming, if I want the key to the cupboard I have to pay for it. As He pushes me onto the carpet He reminds me that I’m lucky, some men hit their women for what I’ve just done. I know He’s right, He has to take charge, be in control. I want to cry but He says it only hurts because I don’t relax, I’m frigid and I know He’s right, and I have to learn, I have to try. It’s his right: it’s my job. He gets up and leaves the room, when He comes back in He throws the key at me.
“Get up slag and change that kid”
I know He’s right I have to be better, better mam, better wife. As I go to change the baby I notice the clock, it’s 8am. My day begins.
