Dear Diary,
Last night I finally snapped. I nudged Brians arm while he was still halfasleep and hissed, Come on, Brian, do something already! This cant go on! He mumbled something incoherent, his eyes still closed. The shrieks from upstairs did not bother him, but they kept me awake.
Poppy is shouting again! Cant you hear her? I muttered to myself, halflaughing, halfcrying. Brian just rolled over and drifted back into his dream. I was fed up.
Fine, Ill go myself, I snapped, pulling on my robe and slamming the flat door behind me with a decisive bang.
Brian groaned, sat up, and cursed the world under his breath as he shuffled after me.
By the time I reached the hallway, Poppys door was ajar and the whole building seemed to vibrate with the noise of our little drama. I pounded on the door with all the force I could muster. Just then Paul flung the door open, his face redcheeked from a few pints, wobbling on his feet.
From somewhere deeper in the flat I could hear sixyearold Elliots whimper and Poppys sobs. What do you want? Paul growled, slurring his words. Its night, you know! I shouted back, trying to keep my voice steady.
What then? Paul stepped forward, fists clenched. Nothing! Brian roared, and with one massive swing he knocked Paul flat onto the landing. The whole corridor fell silent.
A terrified Poppy peeked out of the flat a few minutes later, her face a map of bruises. She stared at her husband, too scared to move any closer. Call the police, Brian said, his tone softening as he looked at her misfortune. Hell be fine and start again tomorrow.
He wont, Poppy sniffed, hell just go back to sleeping. I asked, Are you sure? She shrugged, I hope so I cut her off sharply, No, Im not willing to listen to any more of this charade. I have work in the morning. Take the boy and stay with us for the night. As for tomorrow, youll sort it out yourself. I glared at Paul, disgusted.
Nighttime confrontations have become the norm on our estate; most neighbours keep their heads down. Only I, obeying my wifes demands, sigh heavily, dress, and head upstairs. Eventually Lucy grew tired of the routine. She also noticed that the farther she climbed, the more eager Brian became to save the neighbour.
Again, you saint! she hissed after him. He didnt hear her; his eyes were fixed on Elliots frightened gaze as he clutched his mothers lap, and on Poppys pale, trembling face.
After dealing with Paul, Brian would always bring the woman and child back to our flat, away from the sin of the hallway. Lucy would put out a spare sofa in the lounge.
Soon enough Poppy started thanking her rescuers with fresh scones and biscuits. The neighbours became friends. Over time Poppy and Elliot turned into regular guests at our place. Poppy offered to help around the house, and Elliothe adored Brian. He looked at him like a superhero, the way a kid looks at a man who smells faintly of tobacco and exudes calm.
Brian warmed to his adoration, buying the boy toys, fixing his model cars, once bringing home a metal construction set, another time a football. We never had children of our own. Wed hoped to settle down first, then life just didnt happen. That quiet ache became a third tenant in our flat.
One evening, after a particularly rough day at the office, I stopped by the local offlicence for a few bags of groceries. The door to Poppys flat was slightly open. Out of habit I peeked in and froze on the threshold. No kisses, no embraces, nothing scandalousjust a simple scene.
Brian was perched on a stool, hammer in hand, while Elliot handed him nails with a solemn seriousness. Poppy, leaning against the frame, watched them with a calm, deepsatisfied smile. The sight made my chest go cold; they seemed like a single, perfect unita family Id never manage to create myself.
What a monstrous thought, I whispered to myself, turning away. Nonsense! Brian could never Im everything to him, and that that Poppy is a foolish hen!
The next time Poppy came seeking help, I stopped her at the door and shouted loud enough for Brian to hear, Enough, Poppy! When will you finally snap out of this? He isnt even your husband! Why put up with this drunken monster in your own flat? Get him out, and this will be over! Do you enjoy playing the victim? Your son is watching you!
My words fell like poison on fertile ground. Within a week, a slumped Paul appeared with a suitcase and left the building for good. I celebrated my victory. Finally, Poppy and her son would vanish from our lives forever; they wouldnt need our protection any longer.
The peace that followed was deafening. No more weekend scones, no more childrens laughter echoing down the hallway. At first I welcomed the quiet, the cleanliness, the order. Yet the silence soon became heavy, oppressive.
Brian came home from work, ate dinner in silence, and retreated to the lounge to stare at the telly. He grew darker, more withdrawn. Hes just tired, I told myself, thats why he doesnt look at me at the table, why he doesnt laugh at my jokes. He even sleeps with his back to me, as if Im not even there.
Then something turned my world upside down. I came home early one Saturday because a pounding headache sent me straight to the lift. In my daze I pressed the wrong button and stepped out on the floor below. The door to Poppys flat was ajar again déjà vu. I stepped inside.
I kept asking myself why, why Id gone in. I saw Brian and Poppy tangled together, oblivious to everything else. I was so stunned I said nothing, didnt reveal my presence, slipped out quietly and shut the door behind me.
An hour later Brian came home, ate, and buried himself in the television as if nothing had happened. I kept my mouth shut. I never told him what Id seen. I told myself that simply knowing his secret was enough to try to fix things.
In that moment I loathed Poppy, and I loathed myself for having pushed Paul out, freeing up space for my husband. But Brian wasnt really my husband; hed proposed many times, and I always brushed it off, saying the ceremony didnt matter. Now he could walk away from me.
I wouldnt confess to Brian that I know about his affair. What if it never works out with this chicken? Ill wait. Ill endure.
And so I endure.
Brian and Poppy continue their secret romance. I know, but I pretend not to see, not to understand. Occasionally Poppy visits with her son and homemade pies. I smile, accept the treat, and say nothing. Ive been tolerating this for years.
One day, when I called Poppy a softhearted fool, I had no idea I was scripting my own future. Now I sit in a pitiful position, and my silence is the loudest confession of my own defeat. Im terrified of saying anything that might shatter the happy life where Im cast as the chief victimthe perpetual sufferer.
Lucy.
