Ensconced on the couch in her newly decorated kitchen, arms hugging knees to chin, Millie surveyed the scene. The hum of animated conversation filled the room courtesy of the rest of the “Belton Belles.” It was Millie's turn to host the monthly girls-only get together. Pimms, puff pastry savories, fruitcake and good conversation was the order of the day with the other girls living in the Close. As she sat there, bathing in laughter and friendship; another time she had been sat like this flashed into her mind. The circumstances were very different then.
It would be around three years ago now. The day “it” arrived, her secret that got her through.
That quintessentially English summer morning she was sitting in the middle of her generous front lawn, daisy's with pink tips to their white petals scattered around, knees tucked up under her chin just the same as now. But she couldn't have been feeling more different. Six turbulent and arduous years had got her to sitting where she was right then. At a snail's pace, the realization of what was happening in her life had unfolded. Not being allowed to work, have friends, leave the house without a chaperone or have post delivered. Yes, he had even engineered it all to be delivered to the office so it could be scrutinized first. Years of living like this, all the while acting out the most perfect “Walton's style” existence for the outside world to see, had taken a huge toll on Millie.
She'd been at the hands of the most crippling form of insidious emotional abuse from her “White Knight.” She had no confidence, found it hard to walk out the garden gate now, her son had left home being unable to cope or understand the abuse that came his way; and, worst of all Millie had chronic fatigue making every day a gargantuan physical struggle.
Millie tucked her skirt round her legs, as if somehow being really neat and tidy would make her less conspicuous. She had no idea what would happen if her husband came back to the office, the barn by the back gate from where the successful family business was run, and from where he would sit and watch Millie's every move if she left the house. She had never done anything remotely like this before. He wouldn't be pleased, that much she did know. But she had to do this. She willed the postman to call before he came back. This one delivery had to be her secret. She didn't want to have to make up an explanation for the parcel, and so tarnishing it in her mind.
Sitting taught, ears straining for the sound of the car—that sound had been etched in her memory long before, these days hearing it always followed by a sinking feeling in her belly; every inch of her willing the postman closer . . .
The sound of an unfamiliar engine, a knot of anticipation in her stomach. As the little red postal van pulled in and stopped at her gate Millie s senses went into overdrive. Now she really didn’t want her husband to turn up. Postie always came in to turn his van round. It seemed to be taking an age.
Standing, Millie went to meet him. No point wasting any time. Opening the back door he retrieved a parcel from the dark recesses. Millie could have wept with relief. She had it, and without anyone knowing. Zealously holding on to the parcel, she hardly stopped for polite conversation and hurried back up the drive to stow her purchase safely away. It would be undisturbed in her bedroom. He didn't come in there any more. Millie had had a brainwave a couple of years before when her back was in spasm, suggesting he use a spare bed as rolling over was the only option for movement. Turning on the little space he left her was impossible. Strangely he had complied; and as he'd never asked about the state of her back since, he stayed in the spare room. It had also stopped some of the more physical side of the abuse. Genius.
