Daughter of Mine. Anne Bennett

than marry the man.’

      And Lizzie knew Steve was good. Even after she’d agreed to marry him, he’d not urged her to go further in their lovemaking than fondling and kissing her. She didn’t know what it cost Steve, and Lizzie hadn’t admitted to him that she often wanted things to go further, nor told him how she longed for fulfilment on their wedding night.

      And when it came, it was wondrous, rapturous, a feeling that superseded the sudden sharp pain, and afterwards she cried with joy, glad she’d waited and that her wedding night was all she’d wanted. Steve lay curled beside her, delighted he’d pleased her. He’d taken his time because he’d wanted her to enjoy it. It was a long time since he’d slept with a young, tight virgin and he’d also wanted to savour the moment.

      There were many things about Steve that Lizzie hadn’t been aware of, and many a woman could have warned her that you never know a man fully until you marry him.

      She didn’t know he drank so much, for instance, nor that he wanted to drink almost every night. He could carry his beer well most nights at least, and though he was not sober when he came home and sometimes a little unsteady on his feet, their lovemaking, which Steve wanted often, was almost as good as it had been on their wedding night. However, on the fairly rare occasions that Steve was really drunk it was a different story. He’d be so unpredictable; Lizzie would be afraid to say anything much in case he took it the wrong way, for he could be aggressive and belligerent and he’d be rough and unfeeling later in bed and often hurt her.

      She didn’t bother complaining for she knew this was the lot of many women. She met her neighbours: Violet, who lived beside her with her husband Barry and their two teenagers, Colin and Carol, and the others down the yard: Ada Smith, Gloria Havering, Minnie Monahan and Sadie Miller, who she met at the tap and in the brew house, where they helped her with the weekly wash in the early days of her marriage.

      Between herself and Violet there was a special bond. Violet felt sorry for the girl with none of her own beside her and became quite motherly towards her, and Lizzie was glad of it, of all the women’s company. All the women complained about their husbands and only Violet’s and Gloria’s besides Lizzie’s were in work. Quite a few also complained about the amount the men drank. ‘He’s always down the boozer and I’m always down the pawnshop,’ Ada would say.

      ‘Yeah, and when they comes home bottled, they can’t think of owt but getting their leg over,’ Minnie put in.

      ‘Mine don’t get owt if he comes home bottled,’ Gloria said with a sniff. ‘Told him I’d brain him with the frying pan if he comes home again in that state. I’m having no drunken pig in my bed.’

      ‘Mine wouldn’t stand for that,’ Sadie said, and there was a murmur of agreement.

      ‘He had to stand it,’ Gloria retorted. ‘He has to tie a knot in it some nights when I’m not in the mood, anyroad. I’ve told him, I’m not a brood mare.’

      ‘Jesus,’ Minnie cried. ‘My Charlie would have the priest up to me so quick his feet wouldn’t touch the floor.’

      ‘That’s the trouble with you papists, hidebound by the priests,’ Gloria said witheringly.

      Lizzie knew that for most of them sex was a duty and done for their husbands’ sake. They never spoke of enjoying it themselves and when Lizzie mentioned it to Violet, she’d said, ‘It’s not done to say you enjoy it, Lizzie. Most women don’t, or else say they don’t. If you enjoy it, you’re lucky, but keep it to yourself.’

      So Lizzie kept to herself the times she enjoyed sex, and put up with the bad times. Sometimes she was able to encourage Steve to do something other than drink himself stupid every night and entice him for a walk, or even to go to the nearby Broadway Cinema on Bristol Street.

      Flo had been scathing of that when she got to hear. ‘You’re a married woman now,’ she’d screamed, ‘not a kid playing at it. Your gallivanting days is over and your place is in the home looking after it and seeing to your man.’

      Lizzie honestly couldn’t understand Flo’s anger. ‘We only went to the pictures.’

      ‘“Only went to the pictures”,’ Flo mimicked. ‘And his father waiting on him at The Bell.’

      ‘He works with his father every day,’ Lizzie answered, and added a little bitterly, ‘Anyway, he’s at The Bell every other night.’

      ‘Oh so that’s your tack, is it,’ Flo said. ‘Stopping a man having a drink after he’s been at work all day.’

      ‘No, but…’

      ‘He’s always enjoyed a drink, like his father before him. Brass workers need to drink. They’re all the same.’

      Flo was right there and not just about brass workers either. The Bell would be full of men most nights, and while the women might moan and nag their men a little, in the main they put up with it.

      Flo was the thorn in Lizzie’s life that her mother had prophesised, coming around and always complaining. She was jealous of the friendship developing between Violet and Lizzie, which meant Lizzie wasn’t depending on her as she’d thought she would be. Lizzie could have told her she’d never have leant on her anyway. She’d rather rely on a viper than her mother-in-law, or muddle through on her own before she’d ask her to do a hand’s turn.

      Flo also constantly complained of Lizzie’s housekeeping skills. Steve’s shirt collars weren’t clean enough, nor stiff enough in her opinion, and her ironing left a lot to be desired. She ran her finger over the mantelpiece and clicked her tongue at the state of the grate, and made disparaging remarks about Lizzie’s cooking. If there was washing on the line she’d sniff her disapproval and say she wasn’t maiding the things well enough and had she boiled up those sheets?

      ‘How do you keep your patience?’ Violet asked her one day.

      ‘Oh she’s just a bag of old wind,’ Lizzie said. ‘And Steve hates me to argue with his mother.’

      That was an understatement. One day, when she’d had an up and downer with Flo, his father was quick to make Steve well aware of it that night at the pub. ‘Your mother was proper put out,’ he said. ‘Your Lizzie really flew at her, she said, and all she did was make a comment, like.’

      Later, a drunken Steve went for Lizzie. He said the last thing he wanted to cope with was arguments between her and his mother. Lizzie had to understand Flo’s position. ‘Can’t you show some consideration? You knew she would be jealous.’

      Lizzie knew she should let Steve rave on, knowing he hated to be criticised, argued with, and especially when he had a load on, but the unfairness of his accusations got to her. ‘Why doesn’t she show me any understanding? She’s always moaning, complaining and finding fault, and I’m sick of it.’

      Steve grasped Lizzie by the arms and shook her as if she was a rag doll, shook her till she felt as if every bone in her body had loosened. ‘She needs to show no consideration for you, you stupid bitch. You respect her because she’s my mother, or I’ll want to know the reason why.’

      Lizzie, shocked to the core and frightened, said not another word but got into bed, and later, while Steve slept, cried herself to sleep.

      The next morning he was contrite when he saw the dark blue and black bruises ringing both arms. ‘Sorry about that,’ he apologised. ‘I know I was a bit too rough, like, but dad went on and on, and God, she is my mother. I can’t have my wife treating her badly.’

      Lizzie didn’t bother with a reply and kept her arms hidden from Violet and the others. They’d have sympathised, but would be unable to lift a finger to help her. Lizzie had heard of women near killed by violent husbands, and within the bosom of the community, where everyone had been aware of it and those in the house adjoining must have heard every blow, every shuddering scream through those paper-thin walls, and yet none had gone to their aid. So, what price sympathy?

      When Lizzie told Steve she was expecting, she could