Page 89 of The Day Shelley Woodhouse Woke Up
‘I know. How are you?’
There’s a slight pause, and I fill it with worry. Is she about to say something has gone wrong? That she has decided to go back to him?
‘I wanted to let you know that I feel settled. Like I can relax for the first time in years.’
I let out a breath. ‘That’s good to hear.’
Mum’s voice is different, but it’s familiar, too. This is how she used to sound, before Mick. I didn’t notice at the time, and it probably happened gradually, but the fun and light went out of her. And now it’s back.
‘How’s the pub?’
‘I’ve been promoted,’ she says, and I can clearly hear the pride in her voice. ‘Assistant manager. I mean, there are only five of us so it’s not as fancy as it sounds, but the last one left and Clive said I was the best one to step into the breach. So here we are. What about you?’
‘I opened the shelter today,’ I say.
I’ve told her about it, and despite thinking I’m foolish to leave the safety of my own pub, she has been supportive, in her way.
‘I hope it’s what you need,’ Mum says.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, I’ve always felt like you’re looking for something. You’ve always had this way about you, like you can’t bear to settle and you’ve got your eye out for the next opportunity. I hope this is it.’
I don’t say anything, but to myself, I say that it’s Matt I was looking for, not this new venture. Or perhaps it was both. Still, Mum isn’t the person to talk to about how good my marriage is, how safe and protected I feel.
‘Do you ever see him?’ Mum asks. ‘Mick?’
I curl my free hand into a fist and imagine throwing a punch towards Mick. I see his nose gush with blood.
‘Never,’ I say. ‘And I hope I never do.’
45
NOW
In the early hours of the morning, while Mum rests upstairs, I think about telling Matt I’m ready to come home. But every time I imagine the conversation, it doesn’t seem quite right. Maybe another day or two. It feels like there’s something missing, one piece of the jigsaw still lost. But perhaps it’s just the strangeness of it all. The unfamiliarity of what was once my cosy life. The last time I look at the clock, it’s gone four, and I sleep in until nine. I send Matt a message.
Can you pick me up today? Any time.
He arrives when Mum and I are eating toast spread thickly with honey. I’ve told her I’m going, and I know she’s scared, but what can either of us do? We have to go on living despite these men who have tried to ruin us, or what else is there? At the door, she holds me close for a fraction too long, and when she pulls away, she can’t quite look at me.
‘I’ll come more,’ I say. I will find a way to make it true.
In the car, I feel like a weight has lifted. I feel as light as air.
‘Did it go okay, with the police?’ Matt asks.
‘Yes. Because Mum still has visible injuries, it felt like they were taking it seriously. I wish I could be there when they turn up at the hospital to arrest him.’
‘You and me both.’
I look out of the window at the houses racing by. Inside each of them, a family, or a couple, or friends, or a person on their own. And so many of those people living in fear, with violence as present as if it were another being in the household. But not me, now. And not Mum, either. I have to focus on that, and on what I can do with the shelter, because otherwise it just feels too big and too impossible.
‘I was thinking,’ Matt says, breaking into my thoughts, ‘we never got to go on that date.’
I’d forgotten all about it. Him, in the park, asking me if we could go back to basics, go out for a drink. I was looking forward to it, and then everything got complicated again.
‘We could still do it,’ I say.
