Chapter 02 Change or Suffer.
The Forewoman’s Husband
My boss, Mr. Jones, wanted to send all the French knickers out as Valentine’s Day presents to the firm’s best customers. I persuaded, Mary, his secretary, to give one pair to me. She agreed. I don’t know why. She frightens me. She is so competent and a witch as well.
Mary selected a pair that fitted me and deleted one company from Mr. Jones’ list that is only an occasional customer.
Should I wear them? Mary has put a spell on them but we all helped. The spell is supposed to be only for good but I wonder. How benevolent is Mary?
Whether the spell works or not, I have problems with my husband Reshad that need sorting out. As Forewoman I earn more than the other women on the shop floor but I feel as if I’m running to keep still. Reshad doesn’t work. He drinks with his “friends” all day long in an illegal-drinking den. He spends more than we can afford so we are always short of money. We shouldn’t be. If he didn’t spend so much we could survive. If he didn’t drink and had a job we could live well and provide for our children. As it is, everything is a crisis. New school uniform? Borrow more money. New shoes? Borrow more money. Rent due? Borrow more money.
Keeping the borrowing under control is almost impossible. I try to keep back some money each week to cut down the outstanding amount but the essential spending keeps eating into that few pounds. If only Reshad would change.
What can a pair of French knickers do for me? Even with Mary’s spell they are just a garment. Anything is worth trying. Reshad is out, of course. He won’t be back for hours. My mother has put the children to bed and is dozing in front of the television. She doesn’t really understand it but it keeps her happy. Or at least it does when Reshad is out. When he is home she is ashamed that she chose such a poor husband for me. He makes her unhappy too and even our children are ashamed of their father.
Under the kitchen sink I keep a locked suitcase. Reshad would never look there for things I am hiding. The kitchen is the “women’s place”. He would never wash up, or help with the cooking. That is beneath him. I carry the suitcase upstairs and put it on the bed. Before opening it I will take a shower. I want to be clean for the delights inside the case.
I shed my cotton overall dress. Even the dress reminds me of debt. I bought four white cotton nursing overalls in a charity shop. I wear them to work because they have pockets to keep my pens and notebook in. The women think my dresses are a status symbol separating me from their saris. How can I admit that I can’t afford to wear my saris to work?
Once clean I ease the French knickers up my legs. The feel of the silk thrills me. I would love to wear underthings like this every day. Well, perhaps not at work, because cotton panties are more comfortable, but for the evenings this feel would be nice. I sit on the bed and reach for my newest bra. The silk slides into my crack and I sigh. I would like to feel Reshad caressing me, not just a piece of cloth however luxurious. Once my bra is fastened I pull on my long waist slip and tie it. The silk blouse that ends just below my breasts holds me. I wrap the heavy silk sari around me with practised deftness. Looking in the mirror I see myself as desirable and feel that I want a man, a real man, who will appreciate the reflection looking back at me. Once that was Reshad. Now…
I think of the spell that Mary and all of us worked into the knickers. I can feel myself dampening the crutch with desire. All of us? What did that remind me about? I don't know.
I sit down and start to cry silently. Then I undress from my finery and carefully replace it in my suitcase leaving the flaming red knickers on. I feel more naked with them on than I would in a totally bare body. Naked... That was it. I remember now. One of the women had told us about a news story from India. Apparently the women of a small village had become tired of their men just drinking themselves silly and never working. They had ambushed the men one by one, stripped them naked and beat them up. They did it night after night until the men began to change. If only those women were here to do that to Reshad? They weren’t. They were in a small village in Southern India, not in a grimy part of an English city.
Even my finery brings me no pleasure. I owe it all to Mr. Jones. I hadn’t lied to Mary. I just hadn’t told her that he gives me an appraisal, which is what he calls his secretive sex sessions, as well as all the other staff. Apart from money he has given me this blouse, this waist slip, this silken sari and the few other clothes in my suitcase. What I really need is ordinary clothes but Mr. Jones doesn’t understand that. Any extra money I get from him goes to reduce the debts. For the other women Mr. Jones’ hush money buys extras. For me it defers the eventual day of reckoning when the debts become too much. All the women know about Reshad. Most of their husbands go to the drinking club sometimes. Reshad is always there. The factory is like a village. Everybody knows everything about each other.
Then it sinks in. The factory is like a village. We all live close to each other. We know everything about each other. They all know about Reshad and how difficult life is for me. All I have to do is ask. They could say no but would they? Reshad is the worst offender but there are many other lazy drunken husbands. If Reshad was made the example it might persuade the others to change as well. If not, they could get the same treatment, couldn’t they? I stroke the red silk of these knickers. Is the spell helping me? Will my friends, colleagues, co-workers help me even though I’m the forewoman?
That is enough for tonight. I strip off the knickers and add them to the other finery in my suitcase. I put my shabby nightdress on and carry the suitcase back to its hiding place. I will ask my friends tomorrow. In the morning, if he is awake I will have one last try to persuade Reshad to cut down his drinking and look for work. If he doesn’t...
The next morning I knew I had wasted my time worrying about giving Reshad one last chance. He had returned home hours after I had gone to bed, drunk and staggering. I had to help him up the stairs after he had woken me with his crashes against the furniture. When I left for work he was still snoring, still dressed in his beer stained clothing.
At lunchtime I was nervous. I asked for quiet and then told them all about Reshad. I told them how drunk he was every night, how much of my money he spent, how much in debt I was, and how I couldn’t continue. Then I told them about the women of the Indian village. I didn’t have to go into detail because they volunteered to teach Reshad a lesson that night. I didn’t know how many friends I had. I broke down and cried my heart out surrounded by sympathetic faces and caressing hands.
Reshad left the club late that night. A few yards from our home a sari-veiled woman approached him and stopped in front of him. He peered drunkenly at her. She pushed him backwards and he fell over the woman crouching behind him. It is an old trick but it still works. Many hands that grasped fiercely at him caught his fall. He was gagged and blindfolded, stripped and tied. Then he was punched and kicked. None of the punches or kicks were very hard but there were hundreds of punches and kicks. He became unconscious. His gag had been removed to let him vomit the expensive beer into the road. The women left him in the recovery position but still blindfolded and tied. A soft knock on my door was my cue. I didn’t need it. I had watched everything round a corner of curtain.
I rushed out to my husband.
“Reshad! Husband! What has happened? Who were the villains who did this to you? Where are they? Are you injured?”
I kept this up while I removed his blindfold and untied him. I found some of his clothes to cover him while I half-carried him to our house, still bewailing the attack on him.
Once inside I pushed him upstairs and onto the bed. I stripped him again and examined him. His skin was reddened almost everywhere and would certainly show many bruises tomorrow. I kept up my pretence of being the concerned wife as I smoothed baby oil all over him and rubbed it in despite his winces. He gradually relaxed and slept.
By the morning his bruises were beautiful and everywhere. He couldn’t get out of bed so I brought him breakfast and the anonymous letter that I had found on the doormat. It hadn’t been difficult to find because I had dropped it there a few seconds earlier.
He opened the letter and peered at it. Then he swore loudly two or three times.
“The bitches!” he shouted or would have shouted except that he found it too difficult because of his bruising. He thrust the letter at me.
“What do you know about this?” he asked.
“Me?” I said innocently. “I found it on the doormat this morning, addressed to you. That’s all.”
I was lying, of course. Mary and I had drafted it yesterday and she had typed it for me. She used a font we never use and cheap paper totally unlike the firm’s paper. I read it aloud.
“Reshad.
You are a drunken lazy slob who is breaking your wife’s heart.
This night was a warning.
If you do not start supporting your wife and family you will get more of the same.
You are barred from your drinking club and any other place where you can get drink. If you disobey you will suffer.
We are watching you. If you punish your wife you will be punished much harder. If you drink you will suffer.
If, within a month, you have not found paid work, any work, you will suffer.
If you commit any offence against your wife, she can signal us by wearing red panties at work. If she does, you will suffer.
We mean what we say. Your bruises should be a reminder.
The angry women.
