When he did come home, he barely spoke, least of all to me. He did converse with Mrs Wiggs, whose ears were conditioned to sense his footsteps on the pavement long before he reached the door, as if she were a loyal dog. I refused to race her for his attention. When he and I found each other in the same room, I would make efforts to start a conversation and be bright and cheerful, but he was always distracted and often ignored me. The black lashes and charming humour, I learned, were reserved for those with whom he was less well acquainted. I became another piece of furniture lying dormant about the house, waiting to be made use of. And use me he did.
We had flown into bed in our first few days as husband and wife, when all our built-up desire was released in a furious passion. Now, though, all that was left was frustration and anger. I wasn’t sure if it was his size or the rough texture of his skin that felt so strange, but I explained it away: I was unfamiliar with men and I knew no better. Thomas had an insidious need to control events in the bedroom, quite beyond what I’d anticipated in a dominating male. I can only describe it as an urge that couldn’t be satisfied. Rapidly, it went from us pleasuring each other to his entertainment being the only concern. It became a duty that had to be executed; my only one, really. I began to dread hearing his footsteps coming down from the attic study, because that was the only reason he bothered to seek me out. My stomach lurched every time. I became anxious before each performance.
My body stopped responding through sheer nerves. I had to imagine he was somebody else. He spent little time on me, only pushed and pulled me in different directions, paying no heed if I complained I didn’t like it. I became very sick of the press of his hand on the back of my head, of me gagging and him laughing. He issued orders as if he were leading an operation. I joined him in the brandy and drops and soon I was taking them alone in anticipation of him coming down the stairs. It was easier to imagine he was someone else when edges were blurred. He liked to make me yelp or wince in pain and then ridicule me. He accused me of being lazy, of being a stuck-up prude, of being no more fun than nailing a plank. He told me what to do and when, and how to do it. Make more noise! Not that noise – it’s as if you’re a corpse. At least act like you’re enjoying it.
He squeezed my throat until I couldn’t breathe. He enjoyed the sensation of me fighting him, I think. I didn’t know what he liked. I did not try to understand it. When I told him it hurt, he was dismissive and said that he was only playing. I was oversensitive. I was dramatic. I was overreacting, as usual. I assumed this was how all husbands were.
*
On a rainy Sunday in the middle of August we attended a hospital benefit. The weather was strange: dark the whole day, like dusk on the cusp of a storm, even in the morning.
I had been to an event like this once before with Thomas, but this would be the last I would attend with him. He may have gone to others after that, I don’t know, but he didn’t take me. I understood why: I was a terrible conversationalist, had no family to speak about, and no estates in Surrey, trips to the theatre or friends getting married to discuss. I could talk about the biggest goitre I had ever seen, what babies with congenital syphilis looked like, and how every nurse dreaded assisting an inexperienced surgeon for fear he’d faint on his first amputation, but these were not deemed suitable topics for polite conversation. I found myself on the fringes, forever wondering how to find a way in. Thomas watched me, shaking his head, as he talked with his peers, one of whom was Dr Lovett, the man from my wedding, with whom I’d still not had the pleasure of becoming familiar. Though I smiled and waved when I saw him, felt his face friendly compared to the rest, he simply nodded and continued his conversation. I felt so conspicuously tall; the burning maypole. Parties were things to be endured, like wet weather and stomach aches, and that day I suffered all three.
It was an elaborate house on the edge of Holland Park in Kensington and belonged to one of the governors of the hospital. I would never have been invited as a nurse. The reed-thin hostess with silver hair explained how Kensington used to be a small village but now felt positively part of the city, with the railway so near and the omnibuses flying around like cannonballs. When she asked where I came from, I hesitated and almost said Whitechapel. I opened and closed my mouth like a fish. She looked at Thomas, who told her I came from Reading, then ushered me away.
As he walked past, I heard her whisper to him, ‘Can she speak English?’
Thomas smiled and said how absolutely astute of her, how clever she must be, for, yes, my parents were Hungarian and had emigrated; they were merchants. She seemed pleased with this.
