Free Key to the Door by Alan Sillitoe Page A

been stopped years ago, had gone out of fashion.
    â€œHe tipped the table up as well,” she told him, “and smashed all the pots.”
    â€œWhatever for?”—still unbelieving.
    â€œI don’t know. Because we overlaid. He’s always using filthy talk. They’ll cart him off to Mapperley one day, the hateful way he looks at you. I couldn’t stand his dirty talk, and he hit me because I told him about it. I’m going back to my mother’s. I daren’t stay with him.”
    Ernest caressed the top of his bald pate, looked at her sardonically, stood before the fire with his legs apart. He patted her on the shoulder. “Calm down, Vera,” he said kindly. “Beryl will be back soon with the shopping, and we’ll have something to eat.”
    But she couldn’t calm down, felt Seaton’s blows once more and saw the table flying across the room, and she felt them again for tomorrow and the next day. “Can’t you talk to him?” she asked, a last desperate remedy that she didn’t think would help.
    He was cautious. “I suppose I could, but I don’t know anything about it.”
    â€œI’ve told you already,” she protested.
    â€œI haven’t heard Harold’s side yet, have I? I must be fair.”
    â€œAnd you won’t hear it,” she cried. “He daren’t tell you, don’t worry.”
    â€œI think he will. There’s two sides to every story. People don’t do things like that for nothing.” He hadn’t meant her to take this in the way she did, but blood was thicker than quicksilver in the Seaton family.
    â€œBut he did,” she roared, “because he’s looney like the rest of the family.”
    Well, this was the bloody limit. Now he could see how Harold had been provoked. They’re all alike, these women. And on she went: “He’s a numbskull who can’t even read and write, so it’s no wonder he does such rotten things. If he’d been to school he might a been a bit more civilized.”
    The two things don’t figure, he told himself. “You must have asked for it,” he said sharply, “that’s all I can say.”
    Yes, they’re all alike, she thought. “You’re all the same,” she threw at him.
    They must fight like demons, and I’ll bet she does a good half of it. If me and Beryl did a bit as well, our lives would be a bloody sight livelier, but one word back from me and we’d be finished. And this no-good bloody girl complains of Harold, and then comes here to cheek me off as well. “You should go back and look after him,” he exclaimed.
    As thick as thieves, that’s what they are. “But won’t you help me? Won’t you talk to him for me?” she pleaded.
    â€œNo, I bleddy-well won’t; not until I’ve heard the full story.”
    She turned from him: “I’m going. But he isn’t going to swear at me and hit me any more. I’m going to do myself in,” she sobbed. “I can’t stand it, I tell you. I’ll chuck myself under a bus.”
    The door slammed, every window in the house tingling against its frame. She pushed the pram down the path and into the empty street, walking quickly along the semi-detached rent-collecting shop-managing pavement. Everybody hates me, and he’s only the other side of the bad penny. I can’t understand why I ever got married. Now, why did I? And I didn’t want to, no, never wanted to do any such thing, though if I’d stayed at home the old man would have gone on pasting me, because they’re all rotters and if it ain’t Harold it’s the old man. Everybody hits me, and why? That’s what I’d like to know, because it’s no use living like this. I can’t keep on with it. I’d be a sight better off dead, I’m sure. I wish I was dead, and I will be soon, quicker than anybody thinks, under