I Won't Forgive What You Did (9 page)

My mother never seemed to notice the mess. She never fretted about it, or commented on it, and seldom said, ‘I must tidy up.’ It was almost as if she couldn’t see it. By now she’d spend lots of her time just sitting. I couldn’t understand why she’d want to sit where she sat, because much of the time she was parked only inches away from where she kept a pan of my father’s dirty underwear boiling on the stove. It’d be there for days, and would keep boiling dry, but she never seemed to deal with it, or hang it to dry – she just topped up the water, again and again, for what seemed like for ever. Eventually, she’d tip the whole lot into the sink, where it would remain for a few more days, among the dirty dishes. She’d also often have another pan, of boiling chicken, on the go. She always bought ‘boilers’ as they were cheaper, and, as with the underwear, they’d boil away for days – until my father could tolerate the stench no longer, and then swear at her, and she’d put the stinking pan out in the yard. Mostly, she’d remove the boiled chicken before she did this, but the cooking water would remain in the pan, growing mildew, until the next time she wanted to use it.

And then she’d go back to her endless bouts of sitting, and tearing bits out of magazines, and humming. She hummed more and more, even when out shopping. She also, increasingly, had started twisting her thumbs. Passing them over one another, again and again, quickly, first one way and then the other. She had started tapping as well, clicking her long dirty nails, endlessly, on the wooden arm of her chair. Her tapping almost had a kind of tune – a clear rhythm. It went clickedy, clickedy – click, click, click – clickedy, clickedy – click, click, click – clickedy, clickedy – click, click, click – on and on, often for hours at a time. I hated her clicking. It made me feel irritable and angry. But I never said anything to her.

She looked so hopeless, I couldn’t bear to upset her.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, when the time came to leave primary school, I failed my end-of-year exam. Not that I really understood what the exam was about. All I knew was that I had to take a test, that my mind was blank, that I didn’t know the answers, and that I panicked I would get them all wrong.

As a consequence, I did, and was duly assigned to join the infamous class 1, the dunces’ class at the secondary modern. I could at least walk to this school, though, as it was only a couple of miles distant, up a hill and through the town centre. My mother told my older sister Susan she had to walk to school with me, but as she didn’t want to be seen with me – ever – she and her friends would keep their distance behind, laughing and joking about things I couldn’t share, while I, acutely embarrassed, walked ahead.

My sister was very naughty throughout school. She was in trouble a great deal, though when chastised she’d laugh openly in teachers’ faces. She’d also, from time to time, hit them. In hindsight, it’s remarkable she was never suspended or expelled, as she’d sometimes have the PE teacher in tears, and the headmaster on the phone to our mother.

From day one, it seemed, I was tarred with the same brush. ‘Oh, you’re
her
sister, are you?’ they’d say to me, looking stern. It probably didn’t help that I was placed in class 1, where I had to count oranges and apples and do dunces schoolwork. I hated it. It made me feel sick and headachey. As a consequence, I cried all the time and refused to go to school so, eventually, my mother called them. She told them how unhappy I was, and asked if I could go up a class. The school said that as my primary school test results had been borderline, they’d see if I could cope in class 2.

Though initially joining class 2 was daunting, the teacher, Mr John, was so kind and welcoming, and quick to silence the other children – who all knew where I’d come from, and taunted me – I felt that at last I could do better. But it was a double-edged sword: Mr John, like Daniel, seemed to really like me, and would single me out for special attention.

Mr John made me feel anxious whenever he came near me, in exactly the way Daniel had. It took me straight back to childhood – to being bewildered yet quiescent. To being powerless and unable to tell anyone to go away. Every time he approached me I was always on full alert: fearful, without understanding why. Another girl might have told him to back off, but I couldn’t. I experienced the same conflict that happened with Daniel, whose attention and interest I had always craved and needed, despite him making me do such revolting things.

By now, though Grandpops was still manhandling me regularly, the walks out with Daniel had stopped. At some point between my finishing primary school and going to secondary, Daniel had decided – it was not at my instigation or demand – to stop taking me off for our ‘walks’. Though still confused, and still craving the attention he gave me, I had become increasingly instinctive about avoiding his physical advances. Perhaps he understood better than I did at the time that it would not be safe or prudent to continue. He would still be all over me, bestowing kisses and cuddles, and whispering creepy things to me, and he still had – and would continue to have – power over me. But with hindsight, I believe there was something more too – what Daniel really liked was little girls.

Mr John’s presence made me panicky in the same way Daniel had; so strong was the sensation whenever he came close to me that I felt if I opened my mouth to say ‘Stop it’, my reaction would be outside my control. I therefore just accepted it, and tried not to panic. Instead, I’d walk around school with a permanent pain in my tummy, and a tightness in my throat that wouldn’t go away.

I was also becoming aware of my body. All the younger girls in school were expected to do PE wearing nothing but a T-shirt and pants. Stripping down to these – dissent was not permitted – made me feel terribly uneasy. It was made worse by the fact no one else seemed to care. They were all laughing and joking, and seemed completely at ease with their bodies, while I was almost paralysed with fear. What if someone looked at me, or peered in through the window? Or walked into the changing room and saw me? I was so anxious about my body – how it looked, how much I hated it – I thought I’d die of embarrassment.

I was not only concerned about my appearance, however. I was also extremely uncoordinated. I was, almost literally, crippled by my lack of confidence. Who knows what I might have achieved in different circumstances? As it was, I’d spent all my life being told I was stupid and silly by my mother, and now I believed that. I felt ungainly and hopeless, and doing sport – especially team sports – just reminded me I wasn’t up to scratch, and I would let everyone else on the team down, look completely ridiculous and be hated.

I desperately wished I could be good at PE and gym and swimming, because if I was, perhaps the other girls would like me. As it was, I soon noticed I kept getting a rash, that seemed to get worse whenever I had to run. It wasn’t a big deal, apparently; something inherited from my father, and the doctor, when my mother finally took me to see him, was very relaxed about it. My mother, on the other hand, probably sick of me begging her to do it, wrote to the PE department informing them I must take no further part in sport from then on.

Initially, this felt like a massive relief, but, ultimately, it made things worse. Already socially isolated, due to my feelings of low self-worth, I was now physically isolated too, standing in corners of the gym and on the touchlines, just watching, feeling useless, underlining my difference in the most obvious way.

By the time I’d completed my first year in secondary school, I was despondent, disheartened and miserable. Even before we broke up for summer, I was already worrying and anxious about having to go back in the autumn. I’d developed a strong sense of being on my own in the world, without the confidence or know-how to deal with it. I couldn’t wait for the holidays to begin. Though home was a place of confusion and loneliness, where I felt powerless, bullied and totally without control, at least I wouldn’t have to face the schoolgirls who bullied me as well. I was no safer at home, in reality, of course, but at least home felt familiar.

Plus there was also Phillip.

In a world where almost every male I encountered made me feel bad, my older brother Phillip always made me feel better. I felt closer to him than anyone else I’d ever known – young or old, male or female; he made me feel grounded, somehow. He had his own difficulties with life, just as I did, and part of my love for him was bound up with pity. He always seemed vulnerable and self-conscious about his looks. He had teenage spots, greasy hair, glasses, and was a little awkward, something I could easily relate to. I felt so bad in myself – both on the outside and inside – that I felt a strong connection when around him. He had the same challenges to deal with as I did, but he seemed so much stronger than me, with so much less self-loathing, and much more able to deal with things. He was quietly spoken and sensitive, and I admired him enormously. Where I’d become resigned to all the bad things that had been done being my fault – this being the only way I could process them; why else would they have happened? – Phillip seemed to have a determination about him, to do better, to make something of himself.

I always felt better and safer just knowing he was around, and when he went away I felt a huge sense of loss. It was almost as if I was lacking something necessary for my survival, and I’d think about him every day. I aspired to be like him, to the point I even wished I
were
him, despite also worrying about him trying to overcome all his difficulties.

I never felt afraid around Phillip. We’d sit and discuss things and laugh. I felt no tension or anxiety, and my tummy didn’t hurt. With Phillip, what I felt was accepted.

It was a warm summer’s day, towards the end of the holidays. Soon I’d have to go back and face school and the bullies but, for the moment, my time was mostly mine. Though most of it was spent cleaning the house, washing and hoovering, and listening to my mother’s endless rounds of filthy stories, at least I wasn’t in school, feeling hated.

Phillip’s friend Derek had come round to see him. Derek lived in the next village and, although I didn’t know him well, I quite liked him. He didn’t have much of a family, was stocky, with dark hair, and always seemed fun. He certainly always seemed to be laughing. They were having a cup of tea in the kitchen with my mother, and I was really glad to see them.

It had been a particularly miserable couple of weeks, as I’d just had a horrible disappointment. I’d been asked by a girl in my class, Sandra, if she could come and stay with me for a couple of days. She lived in a children’s home and it was because of that that my mother finally agreed she could come, because she announced she felt sorry for her. Also, my father had lately started not coming home some nights, so he wouldn’t know. I was surprised – Sandra and I weren’t friends because I didn’t
have
friends; she was just another girl in my class. But at the same time I was flattered and excited, and I set to work making everything nice. I decided we’d sleep in the dining room, the upstairs being way too horrible. The dining room was horribly dirty and messy too, but there was a sofa bed in there we could sleep on together, so I did every scrap of ironing – it was piled, as always, to the ceiling – gave the room a thorough clean and moved all the rubbish.

But on the morning she was due, my mother had a call from the children’s home, who were very angry, to say she wasn’t coming after all. They’d found out it was all part of a plan she’d hatched so she could see a boy from school she’d been having a secret relationship with. Worse still was that Mrs Eaton, the owner of the home, thought Sandra and I had hatched it between us. I was not only disappointed, but felt let down. Yet again, it wasn’t that someone wanted to see me. I had just been used.

Phillip and Derek had plans for the afternoon – they were going for a walk along the riverbank behind the field next to our house, to fish for minnows. There were lots of minnows in the river at that time of year, so they were relatively easy to catch. We’d take jam jars to catch them, but we’d always let them go.

I hung around for a bit, as it was better than doing nothing, hoping they might ask me to join them. Phillip did, and said they thought they’d head down to the island. It was a little piece of higher ground in the river, so called because it was in the middle of the water, and you had to wade across the river to get to it. Sometimes the water was too deep and fast to cross, but today was calm and the river was running low, and I was only too keen to go with them. They were both in their mid-teens and I was twelve, and pleased to be considered important enough to be asked.

We made our way down the front garden and across the orchard, dodging the pigs, then getting over the fence and straight into the river. We then walked through it under the bridge and through the field that ran alongside, and were soon across the water and on the island. The boys were wearing plimsolls, but I’d put on my wellies, as the stones on the riverbed were sharp. I had to cross to the island very slowly, holding my skirt up to keep it dry, but before long we’d all started kicking water at one another, so by the time we were across it was soaked anyway. We all fished for a bit, then the boys both bent over the water, calling ‘Here! there’s some here!’ and we all plunged in our jars.

We caught our minnows and proceeded to spend some time inspecting them, and once done, we tipped them carefully back. It was a warm afternoon and, now tired with the fishing, we went back on to the island to sit down. Once on the grass, Phillip pulled a pack of playing cards from his pocket, and suggested we have a game. It was a new game, he explained to me. One I hadn’t played before. He told me it was called ‘Strip Poker’. He was laughing as he said this, and glanced at Derek too. ‘It’s new,’ he said again. ‘It’s usually just us boys that play. What d’you think? Shall we start and you can see if you like it?’