Escape to Chelsea

As time went on, my life with Mick became more and more unbearable. His idea of a good time was to pour as much beer down his throat as he possibly could, until he went into an alcoholic blackout and turned into a total bastard. He would say terrible things to me, and then expect me to forget it because he couldn't remember anything about what had happened the previous night. He did work most days, thank God. That gave me the chance to escape and go to the Fox & Hounds and be with my friends all day. I tried at first to get home before he did, but as things deteriorated, I started staying at the pub until closing time, and getting home after Mick had gone to sleep.

Of course, this gave him the opportunity to chastise me for being a lush and try to destroy my self-esteem. It didn't work. My anger grew, my hatred for him became almost overwhelming, and as I told him one night, coming "home" was akin to walking through the gates of hell. I couldn't take it much longer, but I didn't know what I could possibly do to escape.

My friendships at the pub had become such an unexpected blessing. The landlady at the pub, Dee, became the best friend I have ever had. We are so different, yet we felt an instant bond. She is tall, lean, blonde, and beautiful. Although she doesn't think so. And she runs the pub with an iron fist in a velvet glove. I've seen her in action, throwing drunken fools out on their butts, yet she's a gentle, kind woman who is easily taken advantage of by the people she loves. I, on the other hand, am a little too well-endowed, have wild and crazy red hair, and lurch from one insane situation to another. I express my feelings and opinions much too freely, and constantly wish I had kept my mouth shut. But somehow, we mesh in a way I have never known before, and I count her friendship among the most precious gifts I have been given.

I had told her a bit about my situation with Mick, but hadn't told her the full depths of my despair. On my first quiz night at the pub, in late March 2007, I ended up on a team with Dee, her son Michael, and one of the regulars, Gerald. We won the quiz, and at the end of it, we sat and had a few drinks. I had been drinking since noon, so I was pretty wasted, and just began spilling the whole story, and finally burst into tears. Dee took charge immediately. She basically ordered Gerald to allow me to move in with him, and told me that she would come by the flat the next day with her car while Mick was at work, and move all of my things to Gerald's house.

Gerald agreed readily, and I was obviously all for it. I had gotten to know Gerald well, and liked him very much. Since he is married to a very nice man named Mark, I knew he had no ulterior motives. I had no idea where Gerald lived. I knew he was the supervisor of grounds at the Royal Hospital in Chelsea, and that he had housing there. He told me he had an extra bedroom and that I was welcome to it, so it was all decided.

The next morning, I tried to act normally as Mick got ready for work and finally left. My heart was racing, and I couldn't believe that two and a half months of hell was almost over. Then I began gathering up my things and throwing everything into suitcases, plastic bags, and boxes. Dee showed up at about 3:00, and we raced around madly getting all my things packed into her car, afraid that Mick would get off work early and we would have some sort of ugly confrontation. Within 15 minutes, we were on our way the few short blocks to the Royal Hospital.

We drove up to a set of iron gates, Dee got out and worked the combination lock on the chain holding the gates closed, and threw the gates open. We drove through, and parked beside a miniature Victorian mansion, and began unloading the car. I then walked into the most heavenly month of my life.

Gerald met us at the door, helped us carry everything upstairs, and showed me my new bedroom. It was sunny and bright, with plenty of room for all my things and had a cozy, safe feel to it. I was amazed at my good fortune, and went back downstairs for a tour of the house. The bottom floor had a lovely sitting room, a dining room, and kitchen. Outside were the greenhouses for the Royal Hospital, and the house itself was covered with wisteria, which was just beginning to leaf out. To the south are the Ranleigh Gardens, where Princess Diana used to take the young princes to play when they were children. These days, Margaret Thatcher often takes walks there in the mornings, before the grounds are opened to the public.

I did hear from Mick that night. I was back at the pub by then, and my mobile (known as a cell phone in America) rang at about 6:30. He said, "You've moved out." I said, "Yes." He said, "I'm just stunned." I said, "When I told you that coming home was like walking through the gates of hell, you didn't realize that I was unhappy?" He asked where I was living, and I told him that I lived in a mansion behind a big iron gate in Chelsea, which apparently stunned him yet again. I'm sure he thought I had no options, and that I would be forced to allow him to mistreat me until May. He remained silent, and I hung up.

The Royal Hospital isn't actually a hospital per se. It's a retirement home for soldiers, and was established in the 1680s by King Charles II. The original buildings, designed by Christopher Wren, are still in use, and are an absolute marvel. I had gotten to know several of the Chelsea Pensioners, as the residents are known, since the Fox & Hounds is one of the closest pubs to the hospital, and many of them are regular customers. Once I moved in, they took me to chapel services, invited me for lunch in the palatial dining room (where one can only enter if invited by a resident), and to the soldiers' private club. These guys are soldiers first, and know how to party. And they receive truly royal treatment. The food in the dining room is delicious, the club often has great entertainment, and members of the royal family and high government officials often visit.

I'm sure I'm the only American woman who has ever lived at the Royal Hospital. My days consisted of sleeping late, then going with Gerald to the Fox & Hounds for lunch. I had gotten some work to do from a lawyer friend in Fort Worth (Richard -- another long story), and spent my afternoons working on that project. Then Gerald and I would go back to the Fox late in the afternoon, stay until closing, and go home together for a late dinner.

We soon fell into a nice routine. After dinner, we would drink wine, listen to classical music, talk, and read. Gerald read poetry to me, I perused his art books, and we finally would stumble upstairs and go to bed at around 1:00 a.m. In the morning, I would drink a glass of Ovaltine, then go for a walk in the gardens. Sometimes I would go to the Tate Britain, go on a London Walk, or take the Tube to St. Paul's and walk around. It was blissful, but it had to end, of course.