Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I (2 page)

I needed to ask the Matron
about phoning my dad on Thursdays; his instructions had been so severe. So later
that first evening, I found my way to her flat which adjoined the hostel. I
heard voices so, cautiously, I peeped through the crack of the partially open
door.  Matron Bennett was sitting on her large, lumpy settee, mug of coffee in
hand, face ruddy from exertion.

Mr Emerson, our tall, skinny, house-father and later my history teacher,
propped his elbow on the mantel of the disused fire-place and pushed his
glasses further up his nose. 

Matron Ruth had been reading through a pile of forms and I was about to
tap on the door when I heard my name.

“Ronald,” she said. “We’ll need to keep an eye on young Jane Farrell. 
She’s never been to boarding school before and she’s no visiting rights at
all.”  She turned the form over. “She’s specifically not allowed to go out with
her mother or grandparents ….”

“Well, perhaps the grandparents are drunks or something,” Mr Emerson 
said, trying to be helpful.

Drunks!  I hardly knew my grandparents but I didn’t think they were
drunks! I was sure that Dad never let me see them because they were Mom’s
family and she was ‘the enemy’. Even Dad hadn’t called them drunks!

Mom and Dad’s war was so vicious  that after Joanne and Dad married, Dad
wanted Anthony and me to call his new wife ‘Mom’ and to call our own mother by
her first name!

Of course I refused on principle, and Joanne often threw that ‘rejection’
of her in my face. However, since I never saw my mother, the argument was
purely academic.

“Remind me again, which of the new girls is she,” he continued.

The matron frowned. “Petite, almost frail looking kid with long, dark
hair, sallow skin ... glamorous blonde step-mom….”

“Okay, I’m with you now.”

Matron paused a moment. “You know Ron,” she said, “though she’s a pretty
little thing, those big, brown, doe-eyes trouble me. She’s unhappy.”  I knew I
was unhappy but no-one had ever said I was pretty … except Dad.

“Oh for goodness’ sake Ruth! You just said it’s her first time in
boarding school. Of course she’s unhappy,” said Mr Emerson, interrupting my
thoughts.

“No Ron. There’s no spark. She’s sullen … different.”

He laughed and said, “I think we should change your name from Ruth
Bennett to Ruth Rendell! You’re always looking for a mystery.” I remembered
seeing one of those mystery stories on TV, so I hoped fervently that Matron
Bennett wasn’t a good detective and that she wouldn’t find out my secret.

A buzz in the distance changed the topic and I heard Matron say, “Well,
that’s the bed-time bell. I guess I’d better do the final rounds and turn in
early. I hope there aren’t too many midnight feasts tonight. Tomorrow will be
busy. Goodnight, Ron.”

As they walked towards the door, I turned and fled.

The chaotic rumble of that initial night at boarding school gradually settled.
We each climbed into our beds with our own questions, worries and personal
heartaches.

Tinkie Rayner told us that she’d been a boarder all her life, so these
days she only missed her pony and her dog. Megan Dawson, my second room-mate,
had earlier been sobbing about missing her mother. Now she lay sniffing into
her pillow.  I just kept quiet.

I was certainly not going to pine for Joanne or Dad. Joanne was okay
before the wedding; she’d even let me be a flower girl and Anthony a page boy,
but all that changed when Susie was born and now she had Mickey as well. She
didn’t seem to mind Anthony as much, but I knew she hated me. The feeling was
mutual. 

However, that was probably a mercy, since I think her hatred finally got
me sent to boarding school. Every time I’d asked Dad if I could board for high
school, he just said, “No, and it’s not up for discussion.” Then one evening I
heard Joanne and Dad have an almighty argument. The next day, Dad said he’d
changed his mind and I could go to boarding school after all. So perhaps Joanne
turned out to be an ally by default!

I thought I might miss Anthony, but he was often away with friends at
weekends and to tell the truth, I was jealous of him. Mom even wrote to him,
but never to me! 

I spent all my childhood wondering what I’d done to offend my mother so
badly. Years later, I heard on a family grape-vine that Dad cheated on her
during her pregnancy with me – so I guess I was the scapegoat. It helps to
understand that now, but it was agonising to grow up always wishing for my
mother’s love.

Mom was very pretty with blonde hair and blue eyes, and Anthony looked
just like her.  When I started first grade at school, I’d been so proud when
the teacher commented on how pretty Mom was. But Mom never came to school again
and was always too busy to help with my homework.

I had a really hard time learning to read and write, and my teacher used
to slap my hand with a ruler if I couldn’t remember my words.  Alice, my
beloved Zulu nanny and Mom’s housemaid was the only one I remember actually
being kind to me. She made our lunches for school and in the afternoons, while
she ironed the clothes, she’d listen to me read and teach me to speak a few
isiZulu words.

Mom always seemed to be at work or having her nails and hair done, so the
afternoons were peaceful. Once our parents came home, though, the tranquillity
would end. Dad would arrive home in foul moods and the arguments and yelling
would begin.  

One evening when Dad was watching television, I foolishly interrupted the
news with a question. “I told you to shut-up during the news!” he yelled swinging
a fist that hit me square in the stomach, sending me reeling.

I fled to the bedroom, flung back the bedclothes and cried into my
blankets. I wondered if he knew how much that hurt.

Mom saw it but she did nothing – except pack a suitcase.

The more my parents fought, the more time Mom spent away, and when she
came home, she always had a headache.

One afternoon Anthony and I had been watching the Rothman’s July Handicap
on the TV with Alice while she ironed. She gave us paper to draw race horses.
They generally looked more like rats with saddles, but we thought they were
pretty good.

“This is Husky.  He’s going to win the Rothman’s,” said Anthony proudly.

 “Husky is a dog’s name!” I remember laughing meanly at him, chanting, “A
dog is going to win the July,” until he started to cry. Then he flew into me
with his fists, just like Dad.

That evening, when Dad arrived home, we both raced to the front door, the
fight forgotten, to show him all our pictures of horses.

“Look Daddy, I drew this for you, he’s going to win the next
July,” said Anthony, all rosy cheeks and smiles. 

“Yes, very nice,” Dad answered and he walked straight past
us, pulling a giggling woman by the hand. We stared at her high heeled boots,
short skirt and very red lipstick. She smelt of smoke.

“Who’s that?” asked my little brother in a loud voice.

“Mind your own business,” snapped Dad.

 We followed them, trying to get him to look at our pictures
but he took the stranger into his bedroom and slammed the door. Enraged, I
stared down at my artwork and as I heard the grunting and laughing on the other
side, I crumpled up my picture and stamped all over it. Hurt and confused I
went off to ask Alice for a glass of milk.

Later that night, I heard Mom and Dad screaming and yelling
at each other. It sounded like they were smashing a lot of plates.

The next morning, at the breakfast table, they were all ‘huggy’ and
‘kissy’ but Mom had a dark bruise over her eye and Dad had scratches on his
face.

“What’s happened to your eye?” asked Anthony.

“I walked into a door,” replied Mom unconvincingly.

A few nights later, I knew for sure that she’d lied. Dad started accusing
Mom of spending too much money and she was yelling back: “It’s not yours! It’s
my own hard earned cash!”

 They went on to argue about drink and clothes and food and tarts. Then,
in a horrible explosion of anger, I saw Dad plunge his fist into Mom’s pretty
face. Blood spattered; Mom went reeling backwards hitting her head on a table,
and then my pretty mom just slumped to the floor like a rag doll. Dad slammed
the front door and left.

I ran over to the limp form on the carpet. As I stared at the bright red
blood dripping all over her lovely face I cried out, “Mommy, Mommy, don’t die!”
I cradled my mother’s head, feeling her warm, damp hair in my hands and prayed,
“Oh no, please God don’t let her die.”

I’d been so afraid, but Alice brought a damp towel and ice and we made a
pillow under her head. That day, I hated Dad and wished for
him
to die.
Mom lived and I thanked God, but He didn’t seem able to do anything about the
fighting.

Not long after that, Anthony and I arrived home from school one afternoon
and found a note.  Alice read it to us. “Mom will be back to fetch you – I love
you,” but Mom didn’t come back.

Dad seemed to go crazy after that.  He hit the two of us for just about
anything – or nothing. Sometimes he used a belt. Sometimes it was a plastic
pipe. Sometimes he used his slipper or his hand or he balled his fist and
punched us. I tried to comfort Anthony but it didn’t help.

Later, Dad started coming home with someone he called Mrs Brown and he
became a bit less grumpy.

We’d almost given up hope of seeing Mom again, when one afternoon, there
was a familiar “Hello!” at the door.

 “Mom’s home!” I screamed out for the whole world to hear. “Mommy, Mommy,
you came back!” I dashed to the door, wrapping my arms around my mother’s waist
but at that moment Anthony also rushed in and without looking at me, Mom turned
and lifted him in a loving embrace.

“Hello my darling! My, how you’ve grown. I’ve missed you so much!” She
tousled his hair and kissed him again and again.

I waited. Would Mom notice how neatly Alice had plaited my hair and how
long it had become? Mom hated it when it was untidy. Eventually Mom looked down
and said, “Hello Jane. Go and pack your cases, you’re also coming with me.”

I clung to her but she loosed my hands saying, “No Jane it’s too hot,
don’t cling. Go and pack. Alice, go and help them!”

My Zulu nanny received her instructions quietly. I never realised how
much I’d miss her. I can’t recall when Alice stopped working for Dad and I
often wondered what became of my beloved Nanny but no-one ever told me. 

Mom took us to stay with Aunt Marge and Uncle Peter. They had a garage that
we used as a flat. There, we spent our time feeling crowded, fighting with our
cousins, Steven and Josiah, who Mom said were “spoilt brats” and going ‘home’
to Dad and Mrs Brown at weekends.

Tinkie had a horse-riding Barbie doll here on her bedside locker at
school. Its blonde hair reminded me of a doll I was given when we lived in that
horrid garage.

I never had a Barbie but mine was called a ‘love doll’. She was passed on
to me second-hand, and I adored her. She had beautiful, blue glass eyes that sparkled
and I kept the blonde hair brushed and shiny. Her cream clothes were clean and
lacy and I was so proud of her.

Then one day my beastly cousin Steven grabbed the doll from me and held
it out of reach. “Look what I’ve got!” he taunted.

“Give it back to me!”

“Come and get it!” Each time I lunged for it he swung around and laughed
as I missed.

“Come on Baby, get your dolly.”

“I’m not a baby.”

“Well you’re only nine. And you are a baby. You play with dollies…”

He goaded me until I was ready to crack him. Over and over, I tried to
rescue my doll. Repeatedly he side-stepped, laughing and taunting me. Then once
more, I lunged but this time we collided, and my head hit him full-on in the
stomach.

Steven, the eleven-year-old bully, collapsed, winded. He let out a
shriek, flung the doll away and lay doubled up, howling. Aunt Marge came
running out.

 “She hit me, she hit me for nothing,” he cried out to his mother.

“I didn’t, he took my…” A hand slapped across my mouth.

 “You be quiet, you little trouble-maker. You come here and live off
our
charity in
our
garage and eat
our
food. Now you think you can
just do as you like and hurt
my
children…”

My eyes filled with tears. All my protests and explanations went
unheeded, and I was banished to my ‘room’ in the garage. As I picked up the
object of dispute, Steven looked up from the grass where he lay and a smug
little smile crossed his face. In that moment, I snapped. Slamming the side
door closed, I looked at the love doll.

“You caused this trouble!” I yelled. Then I killed it by ripping off its
pretty little head. “I hate you! I hate you!” I flung myself on the bed
sobbing, but nobody came to see what the matter was.