Chapter 3

The force of the slipper hitting the side of my head and face stung like a million bees. Mum’s pink slippers were the ones that had fluffy feathers on the front, with a small, hard heal. She always looked good even in her slippers. I fell to floor crumpled up into as tight a ball as I could make. Well trained, I knew how to “assume the position.” When I balled up it hurt less when she hit me over and over again.

“Who do you think you are, you lazy cow? Everyone else is doing their fair share of housework, but no, not you.” Her voice wailed at me. Like the sound of a knife scraping a plate, it went right through to my spinal cord.

“I don’t feel well, honest mum,” I said. My stomach churned, the shooting pains running around my tummy like little knives cutting me up. Then, at that exact moment, I hurled right where I was sat on the carpet, my stomach cramping. I grabbed it holding on and squeezing myself while trying to crawl to the toilet, the pains still shooting in all directions. I grabbed my mouth to try and stop being sick again. The next blow to my head sent me flying, projecting vomit everywhere like a loose garden hose. She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me back into the room, rubbing my face in the mess on the carpet.

“Eat it you dirty little slag,” she screamed. “Clean it up, lick it, go on, it’s only fair after your brothers and sisters have spent all morning cleaning while you were hiding away.” She rubbed my face down hard, pushing it into the carpet. I thought I felt my nose crack and it started bleeding.

She went on, “Is this how much you appreciate them? Bleed all over it too, why don’t you?” The taste of carpet fibre and puke made me vomit, and each time she shoved my face in and made me lick it up, I was sick again. My stomach wasn’t letting up; I felt cold, sweaty and had goose bumps all over. I could taste blood running down the back of my throat. How can this be happening? I thought. Where are the other kids? No one ever tried to stop her from hurting me. Not like me, I always tried to help my brothers and sisters. Eventually she got bored with the whole mess and walked away. Not even looking at me, she discharged me with a point of her finger toward the stairs. I ran.

I spent the rest of the day in bed locked in my room. I had a bucket to use as a toilet and to be sick in. I heard the front door slam, a key in the lock and footsteps walking away. Her high-heel s made sharp clicks. She’s gone, I thought. I can finally relax.

The sound of the birds outside and the hum of a lawn mower played a song in the back of my mind. My head throbbed, my face stung from the carpet burns and my lip was black, fat and swollen. Every now and then I could taste blood, and my nose was far too sore to touch. Those sounds from outside sent me off to sleep, all day I drifted in and out. As I woke up after a while I could hear neighbours in the garden talking. “Those poor kids.” and “Someone has got to do something, surely.” I hoped and prayed they would, but no one ever did. No one interfered back in those days. Beating children was quite common.

The school had been given a letter saying I fell down the stairs whilst playing magic carpets. My teacher looked at me and smiled sweetly showing off her white, straight teeth. I moved my tongue around my mouth feeling the gap where my two front teeth were missing.

She said, “Well you should be more careful young lady.” Then she went on with her business.

I felt that she knew, the frown lines in her forehead and wayward glance, not making eye contact when she spoke gave it away. She knows. The neighbours know. Why? I wondered. Why doesn’t someone come to help us? People just looked the other way.

It became routine that we had to do all the housework before school. Mum would sit and paint her nails while barking orders. The work was always done in silence with everyone trying so hard to get it right the first time. Sometimes we managed, but if she had to move off the sofa or correct you, a slipper or an object that was close at hand, a ballistic missile would come hurtling with deadly accuracy towards your head. And that was if you were lucky and her nails were wet. Woe betide you if the nails were dry!

Mondays were the worst. It was almost like she had to behave so well when daddy was home and use so much self-control, she had to make up for it when he left. It was lovely when daddy was around; everyone laughed and joked. Daddy loved music and would sit on a Sunday afternoon recording the top twenty charts on the radio. We would all dance around pretending to be at a disco. While singing, “Tie a yellow ribbon round the old Oak tree,” I thought, How nice it would be if he was here all the time.

“Daddy please don’t go to work this week!” we would all plead, but he always went to work leaving us to it, and things very quickly got back to normal.

* * *

I couldn’t help screaming, the thought of having my fingers cut off was too much. “I promise, I promise I will stop biting my nails,” I said, petrified as usual and begging her to stop.

She held my fingers down on the thick wooden chopping board with a carving knife pressing into the tops of my fingers near the knuckles, keeping them tight onto the board. I could feel the cold blade splitting my skin as mum slowly slid the knife back and forth over my fingers scraping and cutting at the skin.

“Oh mum, it hurts!” I cried.

“You will never have nails like mine,” she said digging her nails deep into my hand leaving indentations that would stay there for at least an hour as a reminder.

“Your nails are disgusting! I might just as well chop them off,” she teased, enjoying every moment of my horror. She clouted me around the ear and told me to, “Bugger off.” If she ever caught me biting my nails, out would come the chopping board. She often whacked my fingers with a rolling pin or whatever was close to hand if the knife wasn’t handy.

I’m sure she got pleasure out of my tears, but the more time that went by the harder it was to make me cry. Most of the time I just pretended to cry because I knew what she wanted. The quicker I cried, the quicker she would leave me alone. If I didn’t cry she became angrier and angrier; she would hit harder or find new weapons or creative ways of inflicting pain.

I started to dread watching TV at night, because sometimes when the others were having a bath or had been sent to their rooms, she would make me lie across the sofa with my head on her lap. I had to lie on my tummy with my face buried in her lap. I hated the smell down there, but she would push my head in harder and harder, holding and pushing the back of my head. I would choke and gag for breath, then she would let me breathe before pushing my head in again. I couldn’t figure why but this seemed to make her happy. After a while I knew she would let me breathe. I would pretend to panic and gag quicker, so she would let me up for air before I would panic for real. She’d go on and on then moan and sigh and tell me I was a good girl.

Food was scarce for the kids in our house. She would cook lovely meals for herself or any one of our Uncles, but all us kid’s were fed separately, horrible food. If I complained she would force the tripe into my mouth and make me choke.

“It’s good for you,” she’d laugh, “If you don’t eat it today, it will be there tomorrow.”

It was too. Days would go by where the very same plate of food would be put in front of me. I suppose I was saved by the other kids sneaking bits of food off their plates for me. Only when it got to the weekend and dad was home did it stop. But, I would pay for it on Monday morning when he left again. She never forgot.

Alex got away with quite a lot more as time went on. I would take the blame for things he did and he would sneak nice food to my room as a trade-off. The other kids would take their fair share of beatings too, everyone except Debbie. Debbie was the spoilt one. Whilst we would have charity shop or jumble clothes, Debbie had nice new clothes to go with her long shiny hair, brown eyes and olive dark skin. She looked very exotic. We all wanted to look like Debbie.

Molly constantly had her head banged off the wall. “I will knock some sense into you if it kills me,” mum would scream while smashing her head into the wall. Holding on to her hair either side, mum gripped her head with perfectly manicured hands. Molly was a bit simple, they all said. The kid’s at school picked on her too no matter how hard she worked at pleasing them. Mum often tried to knock some sense into her.

Dad started staying away at work some weekends. That meant that there was no escape from mum’s mood swings. We would be up and out of the house by eight in the morning and not allowed back until teatime whatever the weather. Sometimes we would go out in shorts and t-shirts and as the weather changed and maybe rained all day, we would freeze and shiver. If we tried to get back in, we were told, “Tough,” or “Bugger off!” There were times when we would huddle up in the ally beside our house to try and stay warm.

After we cleaned up the house daily, very often we would be locked in our rooms with just our bucket. Mum would go out and leave us alone and locked in. That happened on lots of occasions where mum would go out with one of her male friends. She was trying to get on TV you know and was seeing lots of different men from that circle of friends who could help her. They were friends that were hers and not daddy’s. Men friends who daddy never even met started to come around a lot.

Chapter 4

I was nine years old when I was told by mum, “Go and take this envelope around Uncle Joe’s house.” It was just after breakfast and she said, “I have to pay him for the favour he did with the lawn cutting, and you’re the one he wants to bring it for some reason,” she smirked and looked very pleased with herself.

He lived about a 45 minute walk over in the posh area. I had never walked that far by myself and I was a little nervous about losing my way. I loved looking at the posh houses with the smart, tidy front gardens full of flowers and nice cars parked in the driveways. It looked like only happy families lived there.

Uncle Joe was nice to us kids when he came round our house, often giving us a wink and a boiled sweet from his pocket. We would sit on his lap for stories while he waited for mum to get ready to go out with him. It always took a long time for her to get ready, and she always looked so pretty when she went out. She had to impress the TV people or she would never get on TV shows. Dad knew she wanted to get onto the TV, but I don’t think he knew how often she went out. We would be locked in our bedrooms with our buckets to pee in. It didn’t matter what time she went out and sometimes she didn’t come back until early the following morning.

I never felt uncomfortable when Joe picked me up and put me on his lap. At first I would shift around a lot but I would get a warning glance from mum if she walked in. She would say, “Stop wriggling around and sit still.” So I sat still, even when his hand would accidently on purpose slide up my thigh between my legs while he adjusted me on his lap. He was never nasty to me though. In fact he was so nice and kind that mum would say he had a soft spot for me. All the men did, she said, but she didn’t know why.

“You are so ugly! What a blessing your real mum died. She would’ve died of shock if she could see how ugly you are growing up to be.”

Sometimes if no one was in the room with us, Uncle Joe kept his fingers there, between my legs, moving them gently back and forth, stroking my private bits over the top of my knickers. He was so gentle and it was quite comforting, especially if mum had given me a good hiding that day. I thought it was nice that someone showed me some kind of affection. He was always gentle and kind to us girls.

I didn’t know it was wrong for him to do that. After a while, none of us would want to sit on his lap, it made us feel weird. Mum would pick one of us up and plonk us on one of her friend’s lap and tell him to read us a story. I tried to stay still like she said, but some of the men did fidget a lot.

I remember being jealous because when Debbie or Molly had been messenger for mum, she was so pleased with them. They were treated nicely and got to stay up late and watch TV eating sweets or crisps. “You’re a good girl,” she would say. “You’re helping Mum get on TV being my messenger, and when I get on TV we will be rich and get to live in a posh house too.”

I couldn’t figure out how us going to and from Uncle Joe’s house giving messages was going to help her get onto TV, but we certainly were not going to argue. No one argued with mum.

Walking up that posh road, as mum’s messenger for the first time, I knew she would be pleased with me. Will I get sweets and TV tonight? I wondered. After all, it was a long walk and I would be as good a messenger as any.

“Give him the letter and do exactly as you’re told,” she warned as I was leaving, “Don’t you annoy him in any way. And if you spoil my chances of getting on TV you will feel my wrath like you’ve never felt it before girl.” Why would I annoy Uncle Joe? He was one of the few people who was actually nice to me.

Uncle Joe’s house was especially posh. It had blue shutters by the windows and a playhouse in the garden. I didn’t know if he had kids; I had never seen any. Maybe he was divorced? Joe came smiling to the door open-armed ready to pick me up. He seemed so very pleased to see me.

“And how’s my favourite little Princess,” he said greeting me with a huge hug. I smiled remembering daddy called me that too, and I walked inside handing him the letter. Uncle Joe wasn’t a big man, quite small really, even smaller than daddy. He had reddish hair and ginger eyebrows. He had a small beard and a small moustache. Lines on his face around his mouth and eyes crinkled when he smiled and he had dimples on his cheeks. He read the letter quickly then turned to speak to me.

“I was just about to watch a film on TV,” he said pointing to the television. “Do you want to stay and watch it with me? The letter says you’re allowed to stay for tea.”

“Oh yes,” I beamed with joy. I couldn’t believe my luck. I would have been even more jealous of Debbie and Molly, if I knew they got this kind of treatment. I was so happy I’d been allowed to go this time.

“Come on then,” he beckoned. “Let’s get comfy.” He pulled me onto his lap for a cuddle as he normally did. I was more than happy to sit on his lap while stuffing my face with milk and biscuits. It was pure heaven. Looking around I saw lots of pictures of children. Maybe he does have kids.

I was sat on his lap for a while when he adjusted me further pulling me right in close. He started petting my leg, then his hand moved all the way up my thigh to my knickers and again he started stroking my privates. I don’t know how long he did it, as I was so engrossed watching the film on TV. I had forgotten he was touching me at all, until another adjustment and his fingers slid into my knickers gently touching and rubbing my bare private bits with his thumb. It felt strange as he had never moved my knickers before. I tensed and started to shift nervously, trying to pull away and get down. But he would have none of it. He pulled me close again and held me tightly with enough force to make me think about what mum said, “Don’t annoy him.” So I said nothing and tried to be still.

“You are such an angel,” he said. I could feel his breath on my neck and his whiskers tickled. “Your Mum told me you are old enough to play grown up games now.”

Games mean fun, I thought. So I turned and smiled and said, “If mum said I can, then I guess it’s okay.” I was pleased she thought I was old enough to play grown up games. What are grown up games? I wondered. I hoped she would be kind to me that night.

I could feel a hard lump in Uncle Joe’s trousers. His bottom bits seemed to be throbbing. Uncle Joe moved me aside then stood up and went out of the room for a minute, returning with a camera.

“Get undressed,” he said in a matter-of-fact way, like it was nothing at all. “Take your dress off,” he repeated a little louder when I didn’t move straight away. I shifted slowly towards the edge of the sofa then stood up. I must have looked concerned because Uncle Joe got very angry and snapped at me.

“Okay don’t! I will just write a letter back to your Mum and you can be on your way,” he said while standing up and moving towards the door.

“No, no it’s okay.” I panicked at the thought. If mum found out, I would be in for a beating. Nothing could be worse than that cane. I quickly took off my blue cotton, gingham summer dress and that left me stood there in my vest and white cotton knickers. I could feel the heat rise in my face with the blood rushing to make it so obvious that I was embarrassed. I wrapped my arms around myself, shivering, but I wasn’t cold.

“Now lie down on the floor and open your legs,” he demanded, pointing to where he wanted me. I did as I was told, laying down slowly not knowing what to put where. I felt like a plastic doll as if my body couldn’t bend. At that point he grabbed my knees and pushed open my legs and told me to stay still. I’m not sure how long he took photographs of me, but it wasn’t that bad. Why he would want such silly pictures? I wondered. After a while he pulled my vest off, leaving me with naked nipples and skin crawling with goose bumps. Now I was scared!

“You can get dressed now,” he said smiling. “You’ve been a very good girl and I will write and tell your Mum so.”

I did get to stay up that night. Mum was very pleased with me, and it felt so nice to feel good around her for once. She was like a different person.

“You made me proud ,” she smiled handing me crisps and a bar of chocolate. Later, I heard her on the telephone saying, “I was quite pleased with Abbie. She could become my most valuable possession.”

For the first time in a long time, I had a sense of belonging and a feeling that I was actually wanted.