Can't Anyone Help Me? (5 page)

Within a few minutes my uncle returned, only this time he was carrying something: his camera equipment. I wondered, as he set up his tripod, what he was going to photograph.

‘Come, Jackie,’ he said, ‘get undressed.’

My body quivered with the fear of something unknown and the shame of being asked to undress in front of two complete strangers. I tried to shake my head. But as I moved it, I felt faint and the room swam around me.

‘Jackie, have some more lemonade – it’ll make you feel better,’ the boy said. Another glass full of the light-coloured liquid appeared. I took it and put it to my mouth as I looked pleadingly over the rim at my uncle. He wouldn’t really make me take my clothes off in front of these strangers, would he?

Faintness overcame me and I crumpled to the floor. I felt my uncle’s hands on me as he roughly pulled off my clothes until I was naked, apart from my shoes and socks.

‘Now, Jackie,’ he said, ‘I’m making a film and you are a little actress. All you have to do is the same things as those people were doing on the television. Do you understand me?’ His voice sounded as though he was a long way away, but when I looked, he was standing close to the boy who had already taken off his jeans and T-shirt.

He was thin. I could see the outline of his ribs rising and falling as he breathed. Apart from the deep purple of bruises on his arms and back, his skin was pale, as though it was seldom exposed to the sun. Standing there naked, he looked vulnerable and childish.

‘Dave will show you what to do – he’s an old hand at this, aren’t you, son?’ the man said, and I noticed a sullen, defeated look cross the boy’s face as he muttered, ‘Yes, Dad.’ I didn’t know whether he had agreed that he was an old hand or that he was going to show me what to do.

Then the boy’s voice changed and a pleading note came into it. ‘But, Dad, she’s so young, do I have to?’

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than the man’s face darkened and he raised his fist.

It was my uncle who spoke then, his words stopping the man’s hand landing on the boy. ‘That’s enough,’ he said, and the hand fell to the man’s side. ‘Dave’s a good boy, aren’t you?’ my uncle added, cajoling.

Again I heard the muttered ‘Yes.’

The boy leant over me. His mouth covered mine as he kissed me. I felt his tongue slide between my lips. His hands stroked my body, then slid between my legs, and all the time I could hear the man instructing his son on what to do next.

Click-click, went the camera.

‘Turn round, son, get your legs behind her. Now lick her.’

The boy’s legs went around my neck as he turned and pressed his mouth to the part I thought was completely private. I felt something soft and damp move between my legs and tried to squeeze them together.

‘Part your legs, Jackie.’ This time the words were spoken by my uncle, and when my legs did not move, it was his touch I felt drawing them wide apart.

Lights flashed as my uncle filmed the boy licking and fingering every inch of my shivering body.

Later, it was the man who lifted me and placed me in the same position that the boy had been in.

My head was held by adult hands and something hard pressed against my mouth. I wanted to move, but I was too sleepy to try.

At last it was over and I fell asleep. Voices entered my dream. I saw the man’s face swimming towards me, felt something in my mouth, something I wanted to spit out but had not the energy to do so. Once again I fell asleep.

When I woke, only my uncle and I were in the room. I was fully dressed. The curtains were still closed, but the television was off and there was no camera equipment. My mouth tasted sour and felt sore, my head pounded and I wanted to be sick. My uncle handed me another drink but this time it was not so sweet. ‘This will make you feel better,’ he said, although I had not told him I felt ill.

‘Where are they?’ I mumbled.

‘Why, Jackie, you’ve been asleep all afternoon,’ my uncle told me, without answering my question. ‘You’ve been dreaming.’

For a while, I believed him, believed that nothing had happened, and, like my nightmares, I pushed the events of that afternoon to the back of my mind. That belief lasted until he introduced me to another friend and then another.

But that first time I still felt I could trust him. I picked up Paddington, who was now sitting beside me, walked on shaking legs out to the car and climbed in.

The day I had been dreading was fast approaching. All week my mother had rushed me to shops to buy new clothes and shoes. ‘You’ll like school,’ she said, with an assurance I didn’t share. ‘You’ll make lots of little friends there.’

School. Just the word made my stomach churn.

I didn’t want to be with strangers, to have to talk to them or sit with them.

Strangers frightened me now.

The week before I was due to start, my sleep was constantly disturbed by nightmares. I dreamt of trying to escape from something I had no name for, of feeling pressure in my throat and of choking. When I woke it was to tears running down my face and the taste of something thick and sour in my mouth. Once I screamed so loudly that my father came running into my room.

‘What’s the matter, Jackie? Another bad dream?’ he asked, and put his arm around me.

I stiffened and froze – the thought of moist lips touching my cheek repelled me. I managed to whisper, ‘Yes.’

He pulled the duvet gently up around me, brushed my hair away from my face and I felt him standing beside my bed, watching me. He sighed deeply before he left me huddled under the bedclothes, pretending I had already slipped back into sleep. And when I did, other dreams slid into my subconscious, dreams that made me twist and turn. When the morning sounds of the household rescued me, the remnants of those nightmares still lingered. My head felt heavy, my stomach hollow, and a sinking feeling of dread ran through me.

No matter how much I complained or how dark the shadows under my eyes from lack of sleep, nothing was going to stop my mother getting me ready that first morning.

Unceremoniously she pulled the bedclothes off me when I tried to cling to them, jerking me on to the floor. I clutched at the door jamb, wailing that I didn’t want to go, but she took no notice of my distress and just prised my fingers away. ‘Jackie, you’re going to school whether you like it or not so stop your nonsense now,’ she shouted, in exasperation. I sobbed and told her I didn’t want to, but she just became angrier.

My new clothes were pulled over my head, my hair was brushed roughly and plaited, a ribbon tied to the end, my shoes were forced on to my wriggling feet, and then downstairs I went, propelled by a firm hand.

Breakfast was a meal I seldom ate with both parents. My father relished a peaceful breakfast when he was at home – he had told me so. ‘Sets me up for the day,’ he explained. ‘Bad start, bad day. Remember that, Jackie.’ He sat with a slice of toast or cup of tea in hand, the morning newspaper obscuring much of his face. Occasionally when a headline caught his attention he commented to my mother who, notepad in front of her, was writing one of her many lists of things to do.

The start of my schooldays marked the end of the calm time my father had told me he needed. I did try, but my resolve didn’t last for long.

My breakfast of a lightly boiled egg and a slice of brown toast was placed in front of me. I pushed it aside. There was something in my throat, something blocking it, and I knew that if I tried to swallow, the food would choke me.

‘Jackie, eat your breakfast,’ my mother said.

Her face showed no trace of sympathy, only a resigned displeasure at my behaviour. Scared of her disapproval, I forced down some toast, but with the first mouthful I retched. My eyes streamed, I couldn’t swallow, and the soggy mess landed back on my plate.

My mother shouted, ‘Jackie!’

My father jumped to his feet. ‘For God’s sake, Dora, do something,’ he said tersely. With the paper, he left the room. ‘I’ll get breakfast on the train,’ he called, over his shoulder.

I cringed with embarrassment and fear.

My mother glared at me. ‘Well, that’s a family breakfast ruined,’ she said, and marched me to the downstairs cloakroom. A damp cloth was wiped none too gently across my face, my school dress was inspected for any sign of damage, and all the time her angry voice was buzzing in my ears.

I screamed at her again that I didn’t want to leave the house. But I couldn’t tell her that my nightmare had stepped out of my sleep and that the fear it brought was sweeping through me. And even if I could have, it would have made no difference. I was going to school and that was that.

I can’t remember what happened on the way there or when we arrived. The next thing I do remember was that my mother had gone and I was in a classroom seated at a desk. I sat looking at the door, convinced that somehow I had to reach it and escape.

The teacher turned to write something on the board and I seized my chance. Out of my seat I sprang, and I ran as fast as my feet could take me. Behind me were the images from my nightmare and the echoes of a voice telling me I had to run.

The teacher caught me before I reached the door. She held me against her as I wriggled and cried that I wanted to go home. In the end, unable to pacify me, she picked me up and took me to the headmistress’s office. Then there was another voice. It came from the headmistress and eventually calmed me. Gradually my breathing slowed and my fear diminished.

Eventually I was calm enough to be returned to the classroom.

Bottles of milk were passed round, and later we were taken to the school canteen to have our lunch. I was placed next to the teacher and I knew it was because of my behaviour earlier that morning. I didn’t mind because she was nice to me and kept trying to include me in conversations. I told her that I liked drawing and she said she would be getting us to do lots of that.

That afternoon we played with sand in the playground before a story was read to us. Just as I was beginning to feel sleepy, a bell rang and my first day at school was over.

After that first day I began to like school – there were days when I raised my hand to answer a question and smiled happily when a word of praise came my way. The teacher tried to encourage me to mingle more with the other children by asking me to pass round books or crayons.

We were each given sheets of paper and told to draw something familiar. ‘Why not try and draw the house where you live? Yes, children, let’s do that first,’ she said, when twenty puzzled little faces looked at her for inspiration.

I drew a large square, then a series of small ones within it to represent windows and the front door.

‘Very good, Jackie,’ she said. ‘Now, who lives in the house?’ And again I bent my head to the task. Little stick figures appeared with circles for faces. ‘Well done,’ she said, to each child in turn, as she walked around the classroom inspecting our work. She stopped at mine. ‘Who’s that?’ she enquired.

‘Mummy and Daddy,’ I replied.

‘No, that one,’ she said, pointing to a smaller figure standing apart from the two larger ones.

‘That’s me,’ I answered. She made no comment, but unlike the other children’s pictures, which showed groups of figures standing together, I had drawn myself standing alone.

As the days went on I tried to draw animals and flowers as I had seen other children do. Once I drew another house much smaller than the one where I lived. It was in the corner of the page.

‘And who lives there, Jackie?’ my teacher asked.

‘My uncle,’ was all I said, and again she made no comment.

I watched as a boy sitting near me drew a big yellow sun, its rays spreading right across the paper. I reached for the darkest crayon in the box and drew dark clouds followed by dots of rain.

Over the next few weeks our teacher showed us letters of the alphabet, which were placed next to pictures she had pinned up around the room. I tried to stretch my mouth into the required shape and join in with the rest of the class when asked to repeat the sounds she made.

‘A is for apple,’ we chanted, ‘B is for book,’ but by the time a picture of a cat was held up, my mind had wandered and the letters were blurred. By the end of the first week of trying to learn the alphabet, I had hardly progressed beyond ‘A is for apple’. Simple arithmetic confused me, but when she showed us a large cardboard clock and turned the hands round, I was able to give her the right answers.

We learnt to sing songs and the teacher kept time on a triangle. I tried to remember the words to ‘The Wheels On The Bus’. When we heard it start, we all stood up and raised our arms to make circles in the air in imitation of wheels turning. Twenty little bodies swayed to the beat as we sang with more enthusiasm than tunefulness.

But it was drawing I liked best, and gleefully I stuck on the gold stars that showed how well I had done. I was the first child who managed to draw a face with not just a nose and eyes but a bright red mouth full of rather large teeth. For that particular picture I was given more praise. Some of my drawings were pinned to the classroom walls alongside other children’s. Others I took home to show my parents. But, unlike my classmates, I knew my pictures would never adorn the fridge or kitchen walls.

At the end of each day, as soon as my coat was on, I would pick up my satchel and go to the gate where my mother was waiting.