She stood at the sink looking at her hands. Dishpan hands
he鈥檇 called them, more than once and in a mean way.
She wouldn鈥檛 argue that point. She knew and agreed
that that鈥檚 what she now had - dishpan hands. But
they were talented hands, experienced hands, hands that
held a secret. They were her hands, good, strong, almost
honest, and loyal. Loyal to him, they鈥檇 never wandered,
never strayed, never held or touched another, not since
they鈥檇 been together. That meant a lot to her and
it should have meant a lot to him.
She couldn鈥檛 decide what to do about the dishes that
lay in the sink, whether to wash them or not. She glanced
at the kettle 鈥 no, she would leave them for now and
make herself some tea. That was always the best thing to
do in a crisis, have a cup of tea. She filled the kettle
and lit the gas on the cooker, placed the kettle on the
ring, sat down at the kitchen table, lit a cigarette and
waited. As she watched the kettle her mind wandered, she
looked at her hands and she remembered that he hadn鈥檛
always been like that. He鈥檇 met her in the park when
she was sketching. She was going to be an artist.
The kettle whistled. She stubbed out the cigarette and
walked across the kitchen, careful not to slip. She stared
at the dishes in the sink and the frying-pan as it sat on
the draining board 鈥 maybe she should just wash it,
she thought. No - tea first. She carefully returned to her
seat and lit another cigarette. She didn鈥檛 used to
smoke so much. She didn鈥檛 used to smoke at all. But
that鈥檚 what happens when your circumstances change
鈥 you change with them. She held the cup between her
hands. Hands that were worked rough and calloused 鈥
no longer artist鈥檚 hands. She sipped the unsweetened
tea and looked around the kitchen. So what if she never
cleaned another dish, or washed another floor, or cooked
another meal? He鈥檇 never complain again. He鈥檇
never tell her that she was nothing without him. He was
gone and she was glad. He鈥檇 left her a couple of times
before, but this time he wouldn鈥檛 be back. She was
free.
They鈥檇 known each other two weeks when they moved
in together. She told him it was the happiest day of her
life, actually the second happiest. The day they met was
the happiest and he was the best thing to have happened
to her. He was kind, generous and considerate. But men always
are, for a while. They buy flowers and chocolates. They
take you for romantic meals and tell you how gorgeous you
look. They notice everything about you, if you鈥檝e
changed your hair, your lipstick, your eye shadow or your
perfume. They notice your smile and your eyes. Especially
your eyes 鈥 they tell you how beautiful they are and
how they 鈥榞et lost鈥 in them.
Her eyes scanned the wreckage of the kitchen as she sipped
her tea. She didn鈥檛 drink herbal tea anymore 鈥
another of the changes in her life. She didn鈥檛 paint
or draw or sketch. She had hundreds of pieces of artwork
in the attic, all from a very long time ago. Or was it?
She鈥檇 met him just three years ago and it was perfect.
But as time passed the little things she鈥檇 do, that
he once found endearing, irritated him. No matter how hard
she tried to meet his standards within the home they were
never good enough. He鈥檇 changed and it wasn鈥檛
just because of her. She couldn鈥檛 remember when the
changes happened, but she did notice that gradually he became
different. He would become sullen and introverted, he wouldn鈥檛
discuss his day and showed no interest in hers. As he became
more isolated he snapped and criticised anything and everything
about her. She鈥檇 try to explain. 鈥淓xcuses鈥
he鈥檇 say, dismissing her with a roll of his eyes,
or worse.
She remembered the first time he hit her. He鈥檇 been
drinking and came home very late. He came into the bedroom,
stumbled and staggered, fell onto the bed and tore at his
clothes. Her eyes were shut tight, senses on full alert,
as he crawled up the bed. He still had his shirt and jacket
on, his trousers around his ankles, his stale alcoholic
breath on her neck. He turned her towards him and pressed
his mouth to hers. She asked him to stop, tears trickling
down her cheeks.
Then came the slap. Hard and unrestrained, it split her
lip and she bled onto the pillowcase. She was stunned and
submitted. No amount of make-up could cover the bruises.
It was too late for her 鈥 he was possessive and violent.
She was trapped.
She looked at the sink and the dishes and the frying-pan.
No. She wasn鈥檛 going to wash a thing. No more dishpan
hands. She lit another cigarette and looked at herself in
her compact mirror. Her face was swollen, battered and bruised.
Her whole body ached. Her clothes were encrusted in blood.
She looked at him. She wasn鈥檛 going to clean this
up. He would just have to lie there on the floor, in his
own blood, until she called the police.
