Because| Gary Couzens
Because I had finally had enough.
Because we had been married seventeen years. There was a wedding photo on the mantelpiece, more of them in an album which you had burned on to a CD-ROM. You transferred the video shot on the day to a DVD. I watched it many times over the years. It was a sunny July day. They said I looked radiant. I was grinning broadly in the picture we used as a screensaver, taken just as I was lifting up the bouquet to throw it back over my head, so that one of about twenty women behind me could catch it. But, and this was only with hindsight, my smile didn't reach my eyes. I'd made a lot of effort to lose weight so that I could fit into that dress. You looked very handsome in your suit. You always did. You wore a moustache then, which I did like on you, though you shaved it off a year later.
Because the girls at school called me stupid fat cow. In the queue, a foot would slip in front of mine at the last moment and I'd stumble or even fall over. I broke my glasses once that way. Clumsy girl. Stupid Vicky. Or they'd nudge me hard in the ribs. All an accident, Miss. Sorry I just bumped into her.
Because those girls cornered me in the changing room when there was no one else about. They took my glasses off so that I couldn't see. One of them kept watch at the door while the others held me down. They pulled off my clothes and laughed as I fumbled on hands and knees trying to retrieve them. No smartphones and no Youtube in those days, so no photographs and no evidence.
Because those girls said I smelled of wee.
Because I really needed to take care of myself.
Because I really needed to lose weight.
Because I was letting everyone down. Not least myself.
Because I really needed to be taught a lesson.
Because it was all my fault.
Because there was something comforting in a tub of ice cream. Even if I ate all of it in secret and felt sick and utterly disgusted with myself afterwards.
Because, at the age of seventeen, I sat in my room, tears running down my cheeks, as I gazed at a glass of water and a packet of sleeping pills and back again, for over an hour.
Because I failed all my GCSEs. They never thought I'd be up to sixth form college, let alone University, anyway. I found a job as a clerical assistant in a council office: faxing, photocopying, scanning, filing, making coffee for the bosses' meetings. I never told you that one of the bosses liked me wearing a short skirt in the office and would often rest his hand on my bum when I was near his desk. I had to go out at lunchtime and buy his wife, daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren presents at the appropriate times of year. Often he asked me to choose the ones for the women and girls. At one Christmas party when no one else was looking he slipped his hand under my top and the back and tugged at my bra, though that was as far as he went. Two months later he retired and kissed me on his last day.
Because I walked with my shoulders hunched and took the bus home every evening. I hardly ever went out, except occasionally for a drink with the women after work.
Because you were the one who noticed me. I was twenty. We met at my team leader Jacqui's fortieth birthday party, where I knew no one except those I worked with. I spent half of the evening near the buffet table. And you started talking to me. You took my telephone number and the next day called and asked me out. On the second date, I lost my virginity to you. We married six months later.
Because, very soon, I was pregnant. I may even have conceived on the wedding night. Possibly before. I went on maternity leave when I was seven months gone, very large, always tired, ankles swollen, feeling like a beached whale. We all went to the pub at lunchtime, although I was only drinking Diet Coke. One of the women in the office baked a cake and they put up a GOOD LUCK VICKY banner and I had lots of cards and presents. I hugged everyone as you came to pick me up. I finally said goodbye and burst into tears.
Because you said that you loved kids and wanted lots of them, six would be good. When we were older, grandchildren too. You said you saw yourself walking down a hill, all of them trailing after you. Your tribe. When I told Jacqui that, she said, It's okay for him to say that – he's not the one popping out the sprogs.
Because when I told you that, you said she was just jealous. We all knew that Jacqui and her husband had tried for children for years without success. She wouldn't have them now, not at her age.
Because Mum told me that childbirth was like twenty-four hours of trying to shit a crowbar sideways. And after she had my brother, she did it all again and I was the result. I told her when Kelly was born that that was too few hours.
Because Bethany and Olivia followed a year and two years later, so I didn't go back to work. You were particularly delighted when I gave birth to a son, Andrew, two years after Olivia. We finished at six children, with the twins Heather and Laura. You chose all the names. Everyone said what lovely children we had, how pretty all the girls were.
Because you never did like my name. I was Victoria to my parents, Vicky or Vic to everyone else. My middle name was Elizabeth, so I was Liz to you and your friends and work colleagues knew me as that.
Because I put on a stone with each pregnancy and didn't lose most of it. As my blood pressure shot up with my last two pregnancies, they said I really shouldn't have another baby as it might be dangerous for my health. So I had my tubes tied.
Because I met her at your work function. I won't say her name. The men were in suits and the women in evening dresses, and I was immediately out of place in my tent-like dress. When I first saw her she was standing in the corner, laughing at someone's joke. She was five feet one without her heels, an inch or so shorter than me, five or six inches shorter than you. It was difficult to talk to her without gazing down into her cleavage.
Because every time a man sent me a friend request on Facebook, you asked me who it was, if it wasn't my father or brother. It was often a cousin, or someone I used to work with or go to school with. Eventually I unfriended them all, leaving only the camp young gay guy. And you hadn't liked to talk to him anyway.
Because you told me to text you when I went out on the school run and to be back soon. You were only wanting to be sure I was all right, you said.
Because I was never naturally gifted in the kitchen. You bought me a Nigella cookbook for Christmas and I used it when you invited friends or our families round for dinner. I did practise and I did get better. You always watched Nigella on TV because you fancied her, but you hardly ever cooked anything yourself. When I'd been in hospital, you and the children lived on takeaways.
Because when you came home from work late after a bad day, you sat in front of the television with a can of beer. I'm not watching this shit, you said as you changed channel. When I asked you what was wrong, you grunted and said, Oh for fuck's sake Liz I've had a really shit day, can't you leave me alone? I soon recognised the signs: your lips turning down at the corners, the tips of your upper teeth bared, the veins standing out on your forehead, the fingers of your right hand curling.
Because one day the car wouldn't start and I had to get the bus to collect the children from school. The bus was delayed and standing room only. A man was pressed up against me and tried to slip his hand down the back of my leggings. I didn't tell you that. I was late to school and the children were there waiting at the gate, with a teacher who was short with me. You complained about the bus fares and took them out of the allowance you gave me.
Because I could never get things right.
Because when I drank a smoothie, you said it was just the thing for a thickie.
Because I was often out of breath, walking up the road. On hot days, sweat in folds of skin caused them to chafe.
Because when we all went out for a meal, you insisted we all finished everything, waste not want not. You insisted I ate my starter and main and bought me a dessert as well. I had to eat it all up. After all you were paying for it and a little appreciation would be nice.
Because one night we had an argument, and you called me a stupid fat ugly cunt and spat in my face.
Because, another night, you took me by the throat and banged the back of my head against my wardrobe, once twice three times, so that I was dizzy.
Because when I said I would take the kids and walk out, you said, Oh yeah, and where the fuck are you going to go?
Because in the morning you held me in my arms, said you loved me, you were so sorry, you'd had a bad day, you couldn't do without me, I was a wonderful mother to the kids. It would be better, you promised.
Because, once when you hit me, concealer barely hid the bruise below my eye. I walked into a door. Silly me. Clumsy Liz. After that you made sure it was somewhere it didn't show.
Because sometimes you did things everyone said were lovely. Not just on my birthday, Valentine's Day and our anniversary but sometimes just because. A bunch of flowers would arrive at home during the day, or you'd hide a box of chocolates for me to find. Or you would arrange a babysitter without telling me and take me out for the evening. Or leave the kids, three with each pair of grandparents, and we would go away for the weekend.
Because you liked if I walked around the bedroom in the nice underwear you'd bought me, or just in my knickers. You liked it if I gave you a blow job, first thing every morning just after you'd woken up. Spit or swallow? I swallowed, every time.
Because at that work function, you chatted with her for a long time. She gazed up at you, smiled, flicked her hair back. I was over by the buffet table with Rushna, the only woman not in a dress: she was wearing a hijab and a long top over trousers. It was Ramadan but after dark and she was drinking orange juice. We were sampling the vol-au-vents, sandwiches, chicken drumsticks and filo pastry parcels.
Because Kelly often had to help me with the younger children. She had my build and was a shy girl, walking hunched-shouldered, as if apologising in advance for the space she took up.
Because you often had to work late. Sometimes you didn't come home until after I'd gone to bed.
Because you had to go away for two nights on business, in Sheffield.
Because I found a key I didn't recognise on your key ring.
Because I secretly made a copy of that key.
Because I'd guessed where it was a key to.
Because I went to her flat just before I picked the children up from school, and I tried the key in the lock of her front door and it worked.
Because I rang the hotel in Sheffield instead of your mobile and they didn't have a record of you staying there. Nor did they have a record of her staying there either.
Because I thought of the two of you, at work, or in bed together, laughing at me.
Because I was sure everyone who worked with you both knew what was going on.
Because, in the late evening, after I'd put the younger children to bed, I told Kelly I'd have to go out for a little while. She nodded. I kissed her, said, Good girl. I won't be long. I love you. I went outside, waited in a cafe over the way and drank a couple of mugs of tea. I waited until just before midnight and drove over to her flat. I'd bought two pairs of pink furry handcuffs at Ann Summers, paying in cash so that it wouldn't appear on the credit card statement. I'd saved up old newspapers in a carrier bag I kept under the sink. I walked up two flights of stairs to her flat, pausing for breath for a few minutes at the top. I kicked off my shoes and tiptoed up to the door. I listened through the door but couldn't hear anything and I'd seen from the outside no lights were on. I let myself in.
Because you always complained about my snoring and took a sleeping pill on a work night.
Because you and she were in bed together, naked and asleep, no blankets and with the sheets up to your waists. You lay on your side, your chest slowly moving as you breathed, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed. She was lying on her back, one arm draped over your side, the other around a teddy bear. I cuffed your arm to the leg of the heavy bedside unit, her arm – the one around the teddy – to the headboard. The cuffs were just long enough to reach and I was afraid I'd wake her up, but she was sound asleep. I left the keys to the cuffs in the upper drawer of the unit. I closed the bedroom door quietly behind me. On the kitchen table, I left the cake with HAPPY ANNIVERSARY picked out in blue icing, and lit the three candles. I left the bag of newspaper by the cooker. I turned all four hobs of the gas cooker on. I left a box of matches on the kitchen unit next to it. I tiptoed back out, opening the bedroom door a crack. I hurried down the stairs and dropped the key down a drain. And then I drove home.
Because I had finally had enough.
Because we had been married seventeen years. There was a wedding photo on the mantelpiece, more of them in an album which you had burned on to a CD-ROM. You transferred the video shot on the day to a DVD. I watched it many times over the years. It was a sunny July day. They said I looked radiant. I was grinning broadly in the picture we used as a screensaver, taken just as I was lifting up the bouquet to throw it back over my head, so that one of about twenty women behind me could catch it. But, and this was only with hindsight, my smile didn't reach my eyes. I'd made a lot of effort to lose weight so that I could fit into that dress. You looked very handsome in your suit. You always did. You wore a moustache then, which I did like on you, though you shaved it off a year later.
Because the girls at school called me stupid fat cow. In the queue, a foot would slip in front of mine at the last moment and I'd stumble or even fall over. I broke my glasses once that way. Clumsy girl. Stupid Vicky. Or they'd nudge me hard in the ribs. All an accident, Miss. Sorry I just bumped into her.
Because those girls cornered me in the changing room when there was no one else about. They took my glasses off so that I couldn't see. One of them kept watch at the door while the others held me down. They pulled off my clothes and laughed as I fumbled on hands and knees trying to retrieve them. No smartphones and no Youtube in those days, so no photographs and no evidence.
Because those girls said I smelled of wee.
Because I really needed to take care of myself.
Because I really needed to lose weight.
Because I was letting everyone down. Not least myself.
Because I really needed to be taught a lesson.
Because it was all my fault.
Because there was something comforting in a tub of ice cream. Even if I ate all of it in secret and felt sick and utterly disgusted with myself afterwards.
Because, at the age of seventeen, I sat in my room, tears running down my cheeks, as I gazed at a glass of water and a packet of sleeping pills and back again, for over an hour.
Because I failed all my GCSEs. They never thought I'd be up to sixth form college, let alone University, anyway. I found a job as a clerical assistant in a council office: faxing, photocopying, scanning, filing, making coffee for the bosses' meetings. I never told you that one of the bosses liked me wearing a short skirt in the office and would often rest his hand on my bum when I was near his desk. I had to go out at lunchtime and buy his wife, daughters, sons-in-law and grandchildren presents at the appropriate times of year. Often he asked me to choose the ones for the women and girls. At one Christmas party when no one else was looking he slipped his hand under my top and the back and tugged at my bra, though that was as far as he went. Two months later he retired and kissed me on his last day.
Because I walked with my shoulders hunched and took the bus home every evening. I hardly ever went out, except occasionally for a drink with the women after work.
Because you were the one who noticed me. I was twenty. We met at my team leader Jacqui's fortieth birthday party, where I knew no one except those I worked with. I spent half of the evening near the buffet table. And you started talking to me. You took my telephone number and the next day called and asked me out. On the second date, I lost my virginity to you. We married six months later.
Because, very soon, I was pregnant. I may even have conceived on the wedding night. Possibly before. I went on maternity leave when I was seven months gone, very large, always tired, ankles swollen, feeling like a beached whale. We all went to the pub at lunchtime, although I was only drinking Diet Coke. One of the women in the office baked a cake and they put up a GOOD LUCK VICKY banner and I had lots of cards and presents. I hugged everyone as you came to pick me up. I finally said goodbye and burst into tears.
Because you said that you loved kids and wanted lots of them, six would be good. When we were older, grandchildren too. You said you saw yourself walking down a hill, all of them trailing after you. Your tribe. When I told Jacqui that, she said, It's okay for him to say that – he's not the one popping out the sprogs.
Because when I told you that, you said she was just jealous. We all knew that Jacqui and her husband had tried for children for years without success. She wouldn't have them now, not at her age.
Because Mum told me that childbirth was like twenty-four hours of trying to shit a crowbar sideways. And after she had my brother, she did it all again and I was the result. I told her when Kelly was born that that was too few hours.
Because Bethany and Olivia followed a year and two years later, so I didn't go back to work. You were particularly delighted when I gave birth to a son, Andrew, two years after Olivia. We finished at six children, with the twins Heather and Laura. You chose all the names. Everyone said what lovely children we had, how pretty all the girls were.
Because you never did like my name. I was Victoria to my parents, Vicky or Vic to everyone else. My middle name was Elizabeth, so I was Liz to you and your friends and work colleagues knew me as that.
Because I put on a stone with each pregnancy and didn't lose most of it. As my blood pressure shot up with my last two pregnancies, they said I really shouldn't have another baby as it might be dangerous for my health. So I had my tubes tied.
Because I met her at your work function. I won't say her name. The men were in suits and the women in evening dresses, and I was immediately out of place in my tent-like dress. When I first saw her she was standing in the corner, laughing at someone's joke. She was five feet one without her heels, an inch or so shorter than me, five or six inches shorter than you. It was difficult to talk to her without gazing down into her cleavage.
Because every time a man sent me a friend request on Facebook, you asked me who it was, if it wasn't my father or brother. It was often a cousin, or someone I used to work with or go to school with. Eventually I unfriended them all, leaving only the camp young gay guy. And you hadn't liked to talk to him anyway.
Because you told me to text you when I went out on the school run and to be back soon. You were only wanting to be sure I was all right, you said.
Because I was never naturally gifted in the kitchen. You bought me a Nigella cookbook for Christmas and I used it when you invited friends or our families round for dinner. I did practise and I did get better. You always watched Nigella on TV because you fancied her, but you hardly ever cooked anything yourself. When I'd been in hospital, you and the children lived on takeaways.
Because when you came home from work late after a bad day, you sat in front of the television with a can of beer. I'm not watching this shit, you said as you changed channel. When I asked you what was wrong, you grunted and said, Oh for fuck's sake Liz I've had a really shit day, can't you leave me alone? I soon recognised the signs: your lips turning down at the corners, the tips of your upper teeth bared, the veins standing out on your forehead, the fingers of your right hand curling.
Because one day the car wouldn't start and I had to get the bus to collect the children from school. The bus was delayed and standing room only. A man was pressed up against me and tried to slip his hand down the back of my leggings. I didn't tell you that. I was late to school and the children were there waiting at the gate, with a teacher who was short with me. You complained about the bus fares and took them out of the allowance you gave me.
Because I could never get things right.
Because when I drank a smoothie, you said it was just the thing for a thickie.
Because I was often out of breath, walking up the road. On hot days, sweat in folds of skin caused them to chafe.
Because when we all went out for a meal, you insisted we all finished everything, waste not want not. You insisted I ate my starter and main and bought me a dessert as well. I had to eat it all up. After all you were paying for it and a little appreciation would be nice.
Because one night we had an argument, and you called me a stupid fat ugly cunt and spat in my face.
Because, another night, you took me by the throat and banged the back of my head against my wardrobe, once twice three times, so that I was dizzy.
Because when I said I would take the kids and walk out, you said, Oh yeah, and where the fuck are you going to go?
Because in the morning you held me in my arms, said you loved me, you were so sorry, you'd had a bad day, you couldn't do without me, I was a wonderful mother to the kids. It would be better, you promised.
Because, once when you hit me, concealer barely hid the bruise below my eye. I walked into a door. Silly me. Clumsy Liz. After that you made sure it was somewhere it didn't show.
Because sometimes you did things everyone said were lovely. Not just on my birthday, Valentine's Day and our anniversary but sometimes just because. A bunch of flowers would arrive at home during the day, or you'd hide a box of chocolates for me to find. Or you would arrange a babysitter without telling me and take me out for the evening. Or leave the kids, three with each pair of grandparents, and we would go away for the weekend.
Because you liked if I walked around the bedroom in the nice underwear you'd bought me, or just in my knickers. You liked it if I gave you a blow job, first thing every morning just after you'd woken up. Spit or swallow? I swallowed, every time.
Because at that work function, you chatted with her for a long time. She gazed up at you, smiled, flicked her hair back. I was over by the buffet table with Rushna, the only woman not in a dress: she was wearing a hijab and a long top over trousers. It was Ramadan but after dark and she was drinking orange juice. We were sampling the vol-au-vents, sandwiches, chicken drumsticks and filo pastry parcels.
Because Kelly often had to help me with the younger children. She had my build and was a shy girl, walking hunched-shouldered, as if apologising in advance for the space she took up.
Because you often had to work late. Sometimes you didn't come home until after I'd gone to bed.
Because you had to go away for two nights on business, in Sheffield.
Because I found a key I didn't recognise on your key ring.
Because I secretly made a copy of that key.
Because I'd guessed where it was a key to.
Because I went to her flat just before I picked the children up from school, and I tried the key in the lock of her front door and it worked.
Because I rang the hotel in Sheffield instead of your mobile and they didn't have a record of you staying there. Nor did they have a record of her staying there either.
Because I thought of the two of you, at work, or in bed together, laughing at me.
Because I was sure everyone who worked with you both knew what was going on.
Because, in the late evening, after I'd put the younger children to bed, I told Kelly I'd have to go out for a little while. She nodded. I kissed her, said, Good girl. I won't be long. I love you. I went outside, waited in a cafe over the way and drank a couple of mugs of tea. I waited until just before midnight and drove over to her flat. I'd bought two pairs of pink furry handcuffs at Ann Summers, paying in cash so that it wouldn't appear on the credit card statement. I'd saved up old newspapers in a carrier bag I kept under the sink. I walked up two flights of stairs to her flat, pausing for breath for a few minutes at the top. I kicked off my shoes and tiptoed up to the door. I listened through the door but couldn't hear anything and I'd seen from the outside no lights were on. I let myself in.
Because you always complained about my snoring and took a sleeping pill on a work night.
Because you and she were in bed together, naked and asleep, no blankets and with the sheets up to your waists. You lay on your side, your chest slowly moving as you breathed, one arm hanging off the edge of the bed. She was lying on her back, one arm draped over your side, the other around a teddy bear. I cuffed your arm to the leg of the heavy bedside unit, her arm – the one around the teddy – to the headboard. The cuffs were just long enough to reach and I was afraid I'd wake her up, but she was sound asleep. I left the keys to the cuffs in the upper drawer of the unit. I closed the bedroom door quietly behind me. On the kitchen table, I left the cake with HAPPY ANNIVERSARY picked out in blue icing, and lit the three candles. I left the bag of newspaper by the cooker. I turned all four hobs of the gas cooker on. I left a box of matches on the kitchen unit next to it. I tiptoed back out, opening the bedroom door a crack. I hurried down the stairs and dropped the key down a drain. And then I drove home.