by Lorraine Bowyer

Created on: March 22, 2009

The glass vase

Marion Henderson slowly bent down and swept up the broken pieces of the glass vase into the dustpan. She walked through to the kitchen and tipped them into the bin; it was only then that she felt the hot scalding tears burn their tracks down her face. She pulled out a chair and sat down; the wrenching sobs that escaped from her were witness to the depths of her despair. As she reached into her jacket pocket for a tissue, her fingers sought the small hole in the lining. It was there that she had hidden the card for the Women's Refuge and Support Group that she had picked up at the library many months before and she took it out and read it again. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, Marion picked up the telephone and dialled the number.

I first met Richard Henderson when I was waitressing with a friend at a Golf Club do. Out of the blue this tall, handsome man came over and introduced himself as I finished clearing the tables. We met again the following weekend at a local coffee bar, and I discovered that he was employed as a junior solicitor and owned his own car, a rather smart little MG. Three months later, I took Richard home to meet my parents, when he left they both said to me, "Marion, hang on to that man, he's a bloomin' good catch!"

Less than two years later we were married at the local church and after our honeymoon, returned to the house purchased with the deposit Richard's parents had given us as their wedding present. I had been working in the typing pool at a local insurance company, but after we married, Richard insisted that I should stay at home, so I handed in my notice. I tried keeping in touch with some of the girls, but Richard never liked me having friends outside of our marriage so contact soon fizzled out. Initially, the days on my own seemed so long and I looked forward to hearing Richard's key in the door so I could put his evening meal on the table and hear his news from the office.

When we were courting, Richard bought me flowers every Friday, but with a mortgage to pay, the little gifts soon disappeared and were replaced by little comments about my inability to cook or to clean the way his mother did. I tried my best, I really did, and would spend hours in the library copying out recipes from Marguerite Patten's cookery books. Back at home, I would attempt to prepare some dish that would earn me praise, but praise never came. Richard would invariably sigh, put his cutlery down and tell me that I was useless, asking

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