Page 55 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
And I hate myself for defending him. If this was an ordinary hospital visit, an ordinary mother and daughter relationship, I would maybe ask how Mick is, but I don’t care how he is and so I don’t. But as if she knows I’m thinking about him, Mum brings him up.
‘You know Mick still works here.’
I go a bit cold. Of course. He’s a porter. He wheels people to and from the operating theatre or appointment rooms or scans. I’ve always thought the people in hospital deserve better than him. Chances are they need a friendly face, a bit of kindness. Not Mick’s gruff, unsmiling face. Will I see him, while I’m here? It’s unlikely, I decide. The hospital is big.
‘I don’t want him to know I’m here,’ I say.
‘What? I can’t keep something like that from him, Shell.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because he’s my partner. We talk about our days. I can’t just ignore the fact that I’ve been to see my daughter in Intensive Care in the very place where he works. What would he think if he found out?’
‘I don’t care what he’d think.’
Mum bites at her short nails, gives me a look as if to say ‘I knew you’d be like this.’
‘Mum,’ I say, wishing we could start again. ‘Thank you for coming. I’m a bit lost, if I’m honest. I’m not going back to David, and I don’t know where I’m going to live or anything.’
‘I can ask Mick if he minds you using the spare room for a while. He’s put some of his things in there but there’s still a bed.’
The spare room, as she calls it, is my old bedroom. I’d always thought the deal was that you could go back, to your home, if you needed to. But I don’t want to so there’s no point arguing about it.
‘No, I didn’t mean that. I’ll sort it. I just feel a bit… untethered.’
Mum looks a bit blank. I can’t help but wonder whether she’s ever got to this point, of being determined to leave. I suspect not. Is it because the violence has never escalated to this level for her? Would I have got here without ending up in hospital? I’m not sure.
‘Shall I get you a sandwich?’ Mum asks. ‘I passed a WH Smith on the way in. That potato doesn’t look too appealing.’
‘Yes please,’ I say. ‘Maybe something with salad? Ham, or chicken?’
When Mum is gone, I bite my lip to hold in the tears. How has it come to this, where all my own mother can offer me, when I’ve come pretty close to dying, is a sandwich? There’s no support, practical or emotional. I resolve to ask the question I’ve always wanted to ask the second Mum gets back. It’s not as if there’s anything left of our relationship to protect.
‘Why do you stay, Mum?’
She looks about her wildly, as if she thinks I might be talking to someone else. ‘I got you tuna and cucumber, and a packet of cheese and onion. Here. Now, what are you saying? Why do I stay where?’
‘With him. Mick. Why have you let him get away with it for all these years?’
A cloud passes over her features, and I think she’s going to shut down completely. So I’m surprised when she answers.
‘You don’t just throw away a relationship, love, because everything isn’t perfect.’
‘It wouldn’t be because everything isn’t “perfect”. It would be because he hurts you. Physically hurts you. And because he hurt me, too, for years.’
Mum puts her hands in the air as if warding off an attack. ‘Now listen, Shell, I didn’t come here to talk about that. And from the looks of things, you’re not really in a position to preach about happy marriages, are you?’
She looks at her watch, and I know she’s going to make an excuse to go and it doesn’t really matter what time it is.
‘You can go,’ I say. A pre-emptive strike.
Mum opens her mouth and closes it again. ‘Shell, I drove for half an hour in traffic to get here. I cancelled my nail appointment. And now you’re asking me to leave?’
‘I’m not asking you to leave. I’m giving you permission to leave, because it looks like you want it. I’m sorry I called you. It was a mistake. I thought we could come together, because we’re both victims of the same thing, but it seems like I got that wrong.’
‘I’m not a victim of anything,’ Mum says, standing up and putting her coat on. ‘You know, Granny Rose would hate to see us like this.’
And then she’s gone, and I am left with those final words, and I know they are true. Granny Rose would hate the fact that her daughter is still with a man who is abusive to her, and the fact that her granddaughter has married an abusive man. And most of all, Granny Rose would hate to know that I am in hospital, that I came close to losing my life to the man who was supposed to love me. But Granny Rose isn’t here. And there’s nothing that anyone can do about that.
