In the council estate where I grew up, there was a woman up the street, Mrs V, with loads of kids, and she got belted regularly by her big drunken coal-miner husband. She looked terrible, lumpy with long straggly greasy brown hair and no teeth.
We moved away, and one day I was walking out with Mum when we bumped into this pert woman in her 40s, with short blonde hair, lovely teeth, and a cheerful attitude. She and Mum talked, and after we left, I asked Mum who it was. She was surprised I didn't recognise Mrs V. I could not believe it - apparently the booze had given him an early grave, and freedom for Mrs V.
Nowadays, of course, she could have left him much earlier instead of having to wait for him to die. But in the 1950s things were different. Sure, his cruelty gave her grounds for divorce, but this was impossible with no women's shelters and no money to finance leaving him.