Page 74 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘It was me, throwing a book,’ I say. ‘Let’s get you to the toilet.’
I follow him to the bathroom and he sits down on the toilet.
‘You know, you shouldn’t throw things.’
‘I know that. I’m sorry.’
‘It’s okay. You probably did it because you’ve forgotten that rule.’ He washes his hands carefully, pumping the soap and splashing his pyjama top.
‘When will you remember things?’ he asks, looking at me with wide eyes.
‘I remember some things.’
‘Is it scary?’
I consider this. It is, a bit. ‘It’s more like feeling out of control. Like if you’re on a swing or a roundabout and it’s going too high or too fast and you can’t do anything to stop it?’
‘Want to see my room?’ he asks.
I’m not used to kids, to how quickly the subject can be changed. ‘I do.’
He pushes open the door. A little light comes from a bee-shaped nightlight next to his bed, and there are books and toys and pictures on the walls and soft toys lining the wall at the edgeof his bed. He points to a poster which is a map of the UK with a big arrow showing where we live.
‘It’s wonderful,’ I say.
‘You can come and stay in here with me, if you ever get frightened,’ he says.
And then he gets into bed, turns on his side to face the wall, and is asleep almost instantly. I stand there for a few more seconds, just watching him. There’s a swell of love that can’t just be the result of knowing him for a couple of days. I remember him. I remember that I love him.
Back in my room, I reach for my phone and send a message to Matt.
I’m not at the hospital any more. I guess you probably know that. Can we talk?
His reply comes quickly.
I’m not at work until midday tomorrow. Want to meet somewhere in the morning?
We go back and forth, finally settling on the park at ten. Unlike Callum, I take a long time to get to sleep. It isn’t until I tell myself the story of proposing to Matt that I finally fall.
38
THEN
‘I’m talking big dreams,’ Matt says.
‘Big dreams,’ I repeat. We are in bed, lying on our sides facing one another, propped up on our elbows. I close my eyes, try to visualise what I want. And for the first time, it isn’t the Pheasant that I see. It’s him and me, side by side. Travelling, seeing things, making each other laugh. But I know that isn’t what he means. So I think again, about different ways I could spend my days and evenings, different ways my life could be arranged. This pub life is all I’ve known, but it doesn’t mean it’s all there is. Mum showed me how to work behind a bar and how to fall for someone bad for me, and now I’m learning how to do other things.
‘I’d like to open my own shelter,’ I say.
‘Wow, really?’
‘Yes. Rose at Female Aid is so great, but she can only do so much. We’re always having to turn people away, send them back to situations that aren’t safe. I hate it. There’s just all this need, and a huge void where the help should be.’
Matt furrows his brow. ‘Don’t you think you’d find it hard, like living through it all day in day out?’
I love that his reservations are around the toll this might take, rather than my ability to do it. I consider his question. It would be a bit like that, but I am confident that the satisfaction I’d get from doing something useful would outweigh it. Matt knows, though, that the scars run deep. A couple of times, he’s jumped up or moved quickly and I’ve flinched as if expecting to be hit. And he’s seen me after tough sessions at Female Aid, when I’ve been on my knees with the fear and frustration of it all.
‘There are so many women out there like me, living that awful life. And you just don’t know. I want to help them.’
