Can't Anyone Help Me? (2 page)

There are times when, in the small hours of the morning, the recurring dream wakes me and I fight sleep, fearing its return. It is then that those snippets of my past force their way into my thoughts, tormenting me as they make me feel, again and again, the pain that I lived with for such a long time. And as I lie still, my hands curled around the edges of my pillow, I search my mind for the child who was once me. That little girl who, when she came into the world, had no knowledge of the horrors that awaited her. I want to ask her one question, then tell her she must leave me for ever. But, however hard I try, I cannot find her.

It is when the fear and anxiety that the dream has left in its wake makes my heart beat faster and my hands dampen that I climb out of bed. I go to the cupboard where the proof that she lived exists on sheets of paper. Not written in a padlocked diary, which spans the time between childhood and teenage years, by a happy child, but by the psychologists and psychiatrists of Social Services on their formal stationery. Their reports gave their opinions, their diagnoses and their comments. All these assessments were collated and placed in an official-looking lever arch file, which was finally handed to my adult self. I take it down and start turning the pages.

The first report I read documents an interview between a psychologist to whom my school had referred me and my parents. In it, the psychologist wrote less about the child whose problems he had been asked to analyse than he did about the details my parents had given him. He stated that my mother had informed him that when I was little more than a toddler I had started to change into a difficult child. One who had become nervous and fretful, who woke with a start and cried at the slightest sudden sound. No questions were asked as to whether anything had changed in that little girl’s life or if my parents could remember something that might have triggered the stress.

But by the time that first psychologist had seen the child he had written about so sparingly, the damage had already taken root. Rage, one of the strongest of all emotions, had already started to grow deep within her. Just a tiny drop to begin with, sometimes disguised by the occasional smile and her childish chatter as she learnt to form words and sentences. It went unnoticed but, still, it was there.

But emotions have no need for words: they are stored as unlabelled facts in the recesses of our minds. And the anger the small child felt, an anger well documented in that file, was directed at her primary carer: her mother. If she was left alone in a room, her frustrated screams filled the house. When she was given food, she threw it on the floor. She would only sleep if a night light was left burning. And as she grew, so did her rage, until one day it erupted.

When I was first given the file I asked myself the same questions my parents had asked of the many specialists I was taken to. At what age do the self-destructive emotions of rage, bewilderment and fear infiltrate the mind to create a disturbed child? Yes, they asked that, but they didn’t ask why they occurred.

The correct answer, I know now, was ‘At the moment the adult world betrays the child, shattering their sense of safety.’ But that reply was never forthcoming. I wondered what the specialist had said to them instead. Whatever it was, no written notes recorded it.

Instead, over the next few years the psychologists documented the times I had throat infections, without any thought as to what might have caused them, and wrote pages of praise for my parents at their forbearance in dealing with their problem child.

The specialists I was taken to wrote page after page, in their impersonal clinical language, of my descent from troubled three-year-old to disturbed teenager. But, like my parents, never once did one of those specialists ask the critical question: why? Why did a child from such a supposedly good home background display all the symptoms that she did? The facts were in front of them, but instead of asking what was wrong with my life they asked another question: what was wrong with me? Then, unable to think that any outside influence could have been the cause, they gave me coloured plastic bricks to build with and puzzles to work out, as though how I completed them would show the level of my intelligence and the deep inner workings of my mind.

It is when I get to the section of the file where the reports document how my behaviour became the talk of our village, and my parents accused me of bringing shame to our family, that the words blur, making it impossible for me to read any further.

It is always when I come to those pages that I put the file down, for that part I can remember only too well. Reading those impersonal words still has the power to bring back the humiliation and rage that I was made to feel then. Instead I open a small manila packet, the one containing the photographs of my family and myself. One by one I take them out and study each picture, as I have done so many times before.

There is a child dressed in shorts and a T-shirt, whose flaxen hair is tied back in a thick plait. Another shows her in a dark blue velvet dress when she was a bridesmaid at a winter wedding, surrounded by happy faces. There she is again, aged around seven, smiling almost tentatively up at her father. There is even one of her as a teenager, caught unaware, talking to her mother while they sit in the garden. Of course I know the girl is me, but I cannot remember one of the occasions on which those photos were taken.

I search each picture for the child I once was. But, however hard I look, these images are of a stranger. I can see her pain and her fragility – but I do not know her.

There is one more photo, its face turned down. My hand hovers over it. The urge to pick it up is as inexplicable as the urge to scrape a partly healed scab with a sharp fingernail, then watch it ooze blood. It is the one picture that has the power to transport me back in time.

In a pink cotton dress and surrounded by soft toys, a small child gazes unwaveringly into the camera. She looks neither shy, as so many children do when a camera is aimed at them, nor animated as she stares unblinkingly into the lens.

But why would she? She was no stranger to a camera. Photo after photo had already been taken of her but, of course, none of those others had ever been pasted into the family album. By the time this picture was taken the child had not just suffered horrific abuse but had learnt about rejection and betrayal by those who should have protected her.

It is then that the image that haunts me in my dreams is in front of my eyes again, this time clear, painfully in focus, and I am unable to push it away.

‘There’s a good girl,’ she hears that voice say to her again. The voice she recognizes. She tries to see where it’s coming from – she knows he is somewhere behind the tripod and the white light – but all she can see is a dark shadow where he must be.

Click-click, the camera goes again.

‘Smile for me, Jackie,’ says the disembodied voice. ‘Lower your hands, turn around – there, that’s better, that’s what I want.’ Each time she does exactly as he asks.

At last it is over and her uncle comes over to where she is standing, a man who is always immaculate. His thick dark-blond hair is brushed smoothly back from a surprisingly youthful face. He’s somewhere in his forties, but only a hint of his age shows behind the deep tan that comes from the sun and the tanning booths.

The little girl looks into the face she knows so well, watches his mouth with the plump lower lip, a mouth that seems too small for the face, with its sharp planes and piercing blue eyes, forming the words that only he ever says to her. ‘Such a good girl you are – such a pretty little one too. There, that didn’t hurt you, did it?’ Sweets, a child’s reward for good behaviour, are pressed into her hand. Warm hands caress her, smooth back her hair, then help her into her clothes. ‘I love you,’ he says then. ‘I love you as though you are my own daughter. When you’re not here, I look at your pictures. They’re all I have until you come back.

‘Come to me,’ he says, and as he opens his arms, she walks into them.

‘So special,’ he murmurs, as his arms wrap around her small body. ‘So innocent, so precious.’ And she, feeling safe again, leans against him, her small form appearing almost boneless as she rests against his much larger one.

It is when I see that image that the others refuse to stay away. It is as though a projector held by malevolent hands is flicking them over faster and faster. Then I am forced to remember those other times, the times when he played what he called ‘the game’.

‘The game’ always started with him blindfolding her. When she first played it, it seemed innocent and it was one that the little girl liked. She trusted the man and wondered what surprises would come her way this time. Childish giggles would escape her when the soft strip of material was tied over her eyes. ‘Open your mouth,’ he would say, and obediently she would do so.

First, a small piece of chocolate was placed between her lips. ‘What’s that? Tell me and you can have another piece.’

‘Chocolate,’ she would say enthusiastically, then smile with anticipation at the thought of another piece, which, dutifully, he gave her.

Next a small soft toy animal was pressed into her hands. ‘If you get this right, you can keep it,’ her uncle would tell her, as her small fingers stroked the fur in her search for ears or tail that would give her a clue as to which animal it was.

As her vocabulary grew and she became more adroit at naming them, her collection of soft toys expanded – a cat, a pink rabbit and a red elephant soon belonged to her, as did some more unusual species. A green and brown felt tortoise, a spotted long-necked giraffe, which she had needed help in naming, and an Australian bush baby, which she had thought was a big-eyed teddy bear.

It was after they had played the game for a while that something else was placed in her mouth. Something that filled it, making her cheeks bulge and her throat tighten in protest. Her body jerked, her hands flew to her mouth, but one of her uncle’s much larger hands covered hers as he whispered soothing words before he removed the thing.

The next time they played the game, she eyed him warily but only nice-tasting things were placed in her mouth and another soft toy was added to her collection. The last thing he spooned into her mouth was thick ice-cream and, despite the blindfold, she could sense him watching her enjoyment.

It was not until the game had continued for several weeks that it was spoilt for her for ever. It started off as usual, with small pieces of chocolate, but no sooner had she swallowed the last than that thing was in her mouth again. She tried to wriggle away but this time he held her head so she couldn’t move.

‘Good girl,’ he said, over and over, but then his voice changed, grew thicker until she hardly recognized it as his. She heard another noise, almost like the one her mother’s dog had made when it had hurt its paw – a whimpering sound followed by a groan. Her hands rose in protest and tried to push his away. The hands that were holding her head shook, and then her mouth filled with something that tasted sour and horrid. It trickled down her throat making her gag. He released her but she choked and retched until there was nothing left. The bitter taste lingered.

He took the blindfold off, but this time he avoided looking directly at her, as though he couldn’t bear to see the reproach that shone out of her tear-filled eyes.

He brought her some ice-cream – ‘Come, Jackie, there’s nothing to be frightened of, that’s all it was.’ She didn’t believe him and turned away, her back stiff with indignation at his actions.

But when she heard his voice telling her how much she was loved and that she was just being silly, she allowed him to place her on his knee. Gradually, as the soothing words were whispered over and over, she relaxed and her head fell on to his shoulder.

It was he who bathed her after those games. ‘Must get you nice and clean before your auntie comes back from work,’ he would say. Then, taking her hand, he would lead her up the stairs to the bathroom where sweet-smelling liquid was poured under the tap. She was placed in the warm water and the foam came up to her chin. A little yellow duck floated in the bubbles, a sponge trickled water down her back, and when he lifted her out and gently dried every crevice of her body, she said no more of what had happened in that room.

Those are two of the memories I have of the time before I started school; another lurks constantly in my subconscious, one so painful that I want to leave it there unexamined, but so often I cannot.

I grew up in a pretty Yorkshire village where new estates of large, detached houses had mushroomed on the outskirts and many of its small terrace houses had been transformed into second homes for wealthy city people. Hedges were neatly clipped; front gardens were immaculate. The three pubs were adorned year round with flower-filled hanging baskets, and the pretty exteriors of the shops were repainted annually in vibrant colours, yellow, turquoise and plum.

It was a place where supermarkets were only allowed to open if they were totally out of sight of the village, fish-and-chip shops were banned and the council had never been able to get permission to build the small grey boxlike houses that were badly needed for the lower-income population.

The local school was considered one of the best in the area – after all, no riff-raff was allowed in to corrupt the children of the well-to-do. Crime was minimal so front doors and garden sheds were seldom locked.

To anyone who did not know the truth, I was a lucky child. I lived in a lovely house. My parents were well off and, to the outsider, appeared to be caring and supportive.