by Anita Waller
Playtime was ostensibly the same as always – she remained with the infants on one side of the playground, the juniors congregated on the other, unwilling to mix with “the kids”. Occasionally a sibling of one of the infants would wander across but in the main they remained segregated.
Amy stayed by the wall. She had tried playing hopscotch but the jumping had caused her pain. She watched with a degree of surprise as four of the older juniors left the area they normally inhabited and began to infiltrate the infants play area. She felt uneasy, realising they were heading in her direction. She began to move slowly along the wall, keeping her back to it, trying to reach the security of the school doors.
One of the boys moved to her right, blocking her way into school. The other three ranged themselves around her.
‘Okay now, kid?’ She recognized Danny Simpson and flinched. Her mother had told her to have nothing to do with anyone in that family, they weren’t very nice. Thugs, she had called them.
She nodded, unable to speak. These were boys and they had thingies. She crossed her arms over her waist afraid that if they hit her it would hurt her scars.
All four of the boys were grinning. She looked around searching for a teacher but saw only the smaller children busy playing with toys or running around. No one was taking any notice of her.
‘Tell us what it felt like then, kid.’ The speaker this time was Bob Farrow, Danny’s constant companion. ‘Go on, tell us,’ he taunted.
Felt like? What were they talking about? She shivered in spite of the thickness of her coat and pulled her arms tighter round her waist. She wanted her mum, Mrs Carey – anybody, even Mr. Mawson as long as it was an adult.
‘Come on,’ one of the other boys chimed in, a boy she didn’t know. ‘Come on,’ he repeated, ‘had a cock up yer, didn’t yer?’
Terror enveloped her as she became aware of two more boys approaching and she sank to the floor. One of the new arrivals grabbed hold of Bob Farrow’s hair and threw him to the ground, stamping hard on his hand. Bob let out a yell of shock and pain and tried to get to his feet. John Thornton followed up the hand stamp with a well-aimed foot to Bob’s ribcage and the boy, now in considerable pain, rolled over as he attempted to escape from the unexpected assault. Danny, who had been pummelled to the floor by a panting red-faced David Farmer, squashed him.
The first saviour, as Amy now thought of him, turned to the other two boys who were standing mesmerised and held up his hands, his fists clenched.
‘Now bugger off,’ he said, ‘leave the little lass alone, she’s gone through enough. An’ I’ll kill you if I ever see you near her again.’ The remaining two boys helped Danny and Bob to stand and rapidly headed back towards the junior area, frequently looking over their shoulders to make sure they weren’t being followed.
Amy stared wide-eyed at her two champions. John reached down and took hold of her hand.
‘Let me help you up. Are you ok?’ She stood and leaned against the wall.
‘Yes,’ she said, still unable to register what had happened. ‘Yes, they didn’t touch me.’
‘Well, if they bother you again, you tell us.’
She nodded, a worried frown on her face.
‘But I can’t talk to you. I don’t know you and my mum said…’
The taller of the two boys laughed.
‘We’ll look out for you. My name’s John Thornton and this ugly sod is David Farmer. You know us now, so don’t forget, if they come near you again, we’ll have ‘em.’ John looked at Amy for a moment as if wondering whether to say anything further or not. ‘Look,’ he began, ‘we… er…. know what happened to you. They’re idiots, morons, my mum says, so take no notice. As I said, we’ll watch out for you.’
David interrupted.
‘Besides,’ he grinned at the little girl, ‘it gave us a good excuse for bashing them.’
For the rest of the week she was aware of the careful eye kept on her by the two boys. The week after she was conscious of a feeling of disappointment that she didn’t see them. It was good that they weren’t in school – both had numerous lacerations, black eyes and David had a broken nose.
Danny, Bob, Sam and Stewart had waited patiently until they could take them by surprise and came to understand the true meaning of the proverb they had learnt only that week; revenge is sweet.
Amy began to settle back into school life and the other kids slowly stopped staring at her as if she had two heads. It was tiny Jennifer Wainwright who eventually caused the anger, the tears, the terror.
Jennifer was a pleasant child with a clear melodic voice. At six years of age it seemed as if nature had forgotten to endow her with the necessary hormones for growth, so tiny was she. Everyone, including Amy, liked her and that made it all the more remarkable that she should be the one to open Amy’s mind to everything she had suffered.
The whole class was sitting on the floor in the reading corner, listening to the three little pigs. Mrs Carey’s voice normally held the attention of the children from beginning to end, grunting squeaking and honking to order but out of the corner of her eye she spotted a movement.
‘Jennifer!’
The child looked up guiltily and then a quick smile flashed across her face.
‘Sorry, Miss, I was listening, honest.’
‘Yes, I realize that Jennifer but what else…yes, Amy?’
‘Please, Miss, she was stroking my hair.’
‘Stroking your hair? What on earth for?’
Again the smile crossed Jennifer’s face.
‘Because it’s beautiful, isn’t it, Miss?’
Beautiful.
The scream seemed to start in Amy’s stomach as she remembered the man hurting her so much she had been unable to cry out – each thrust accompanied by … ‘beautiful, beautiful, beautiful’.
She looked wildly around the classroom then stood and ran, grabbing a pair of scissors from a desk.
For a moment Claudia Carey was immobile, stunned at the speed at which events had got completely out of control.
‘Children! Wait here and no talking! I’ll just go and find Amy then we’ll continue with the story.’ She ran from the classroom searching up and down the corridor with her eyes before deciding to head outside. Amy was nowhere in sight and she prayed that she was right in thinking that maybe the child had decided to run home.
The playground was deserted. Rain splattered into the puddles and she shivered as a gust of wind hit her. A door banged and she turned towards the sound. The girls’ toilets. She ran, skipping around the ever-deepening patches of water, the heavy rain flattening her hair to her head.
‘Amy?’ Her voice was soft. ‘Amy? Are you in here?’ She brushed a raindrop from the end of her nose.
A sob that turned into a hiccup told her that the child was close by and she breathed a sigh of relief.
‘Come on, sweetheart, come out and tell me what’s wrong.’ She tentatively pushed against a door that opened too easily and moved on to the next. The third door remained closed.
’Amy, it’s Mrs Carey. Now be a love and let me in so we can talk. Do you want me to send for your mum? Are you hurting somewhere?’
She put her ear to the door and heard muttering.
‘Beautiful, ugly, beautiful, ugly, beautiful, ugly’ – and then there was a clatter as the small silver scissors fell on to the stone flagged floor.
‘Amy?’ There was panic in the teacher’s voice as her mind visualised the walls and floor splattered with the child’s blood. ‘What are you doing? Let me in at once…’ The door opened abruptly and Amy stood there, tears coursing down her cheeks.
‘I’m not beautiful now, am I, Miss?’ The long blonde hair lay in swatches all over the floor of the toilet, hacked from her head by the blunt scissors meant only for paper. Tufts stuck up all around her scalp and clumps of hair clung to her wet clothing.
Claudia Carey held out her arms. ‘Oh, Amy,’ and the little girl moved slowly towards her, tears now flowing unchecked.
‘Nobody will put thingies in me now that I’m not beautiful,’ she stammered. ‘Nobody!’
She took hold of the teacher’s hand and allowed a shattered Claudia Carey to lead her small charge back to the main building.
3
The man in the grey prison uniform stared morosely into space. Thin almost to the point of emaciation, his clothes hung on him like sacks and his long greasy hair, falling forward to hide a high forehead, added nothing meritorious to his appearance. He had discovered early on in prison life how to make his face a blank, how to hide his thoughts and now it had become a permanent part of him, that vacant staring at the opposite wall.
His bed was hard but he didn’t bother moving. The spot six inches away was no more comfortable than where he was sitting now. Occasionally his thoughts turned towards the old red armchair that he had sat in so many times in the empty house, just one piece of furniture in an otherwise bare room.
That chair had been old but wonderfully soft, a haven for nesting mice. He supposed that someone once must have looked at that chair with pride, with its rich red moquette upholstery – beautiful that chair had been, beautiful.
Footsteps moved slowly along the corridor giving advance warning of a meal delivery. He couldn’t remember which meal it was. The other prisoners in solitary confinement would receive their food before him; he was in the last cell. Sometimes he regretted being in solitary but mostly he felt comfortable with his own company; he needed the time for formulating plans.
The door opened and a trusty, his red band displayed around his upper arm, moved into the tiny room accompanied by a warder. The warder stood to one side of the door his eyes never leaving Ronald Treverick, as if daring him to make a move.
No words were spoken as the plate containing four slices of bread made into sandwiches was placed on the metal chair. The door clanged shut and the key turned before he made a move towards the food. He felt unusually hungry, eager for the rationed prison fare.
He picked up a sandwich and automatically lifted the top slice. The ball of phlegm lay almost exactly in the middle and he grabbed the plate, hurling it at the opposite wall.
‘Fucking Andrews kid,’ he screamed. ‘One fucking day I’ll have the whole bastard family,’ and he picked up the metal chair, throwing it to follow the flight path of the plate. ‘One fucking day…’ he repeated.
The warder and the trusty guard turned and smiled at each other. Another successful mealtime accomplished.
4
‘But it’s not normal, Jack.’
He looked up with an air of resignation from the newspaper he had been trying to read for ten minutes without success and, removing his glasses, calmly surveyed his wife’s lined face. She had aged in the two years since Amy had been attacked and every second was etched into her features. She looked ten years older than her true age of thirty.
‘Of course it’s normal – well, for some children it is. Some children are naturally tidy… we’ve just been fortunate with Amy. Thank your lucky stars that she does put everything away when she’s finished playing with it, it cuts down your work.’ He tried to soften his words with a smile but realised the attempt to defend the actions of his daughter sounded aggressive. These days he was always making excuses for Amy, even if only to himself.
What made matters worse was that he knew Brenda was right. Admitting it openly was another thing altogether. Amy’s face, a face that so very rarely creased up into a smile, floated through his mind as if some hidden hand was dragging her momentarily across his life. He gave an involuntary shiver.
‘But that’s just it, Jack, she doesn’t play with things – she just tidies up all the time, everything in neat little rows. Even her dressing table set isn’t arranged prettily. It’s laid out like soldiers along the back of the dressing table. And all I can get out of the doctor is give it time. Give it time, I’ve given it time.’ Her voice rose hysterically. Brenda Andrews felt that she couldn’t cope with the rest of her life and she turned her troubled face to her husband.
Jack hurriedly dropped the newspaper and moved to her side. The pain in her voice caused panic inside him. Brenda had always been the rock and he feared for all of them if she gave in.
‘Now come on, love, don’t let this get you down, not now. We’re over the worst, Amy’s recovering well, and…’
‘Amy is not recovering well,’ she retorted angrily, ‘there’s something very, very wrong with our little girl and only I can see it! You know how she used to love playing with Patty, that little doll – now she won’t even look at any of her dolls. She won’t get the doll’s pram out, won’t even look at her bike. It’s like she’s forgotten how to play, Jack.’
Jack pulled his distraught wife close, kissing the top of her head. ‘Brenda, stop it. Amy will be in soon and she won’t want to see you upset. Shall we have a cup of tea?’
‘That’s your answer to everything, isn’t it? A cup of tea? No, I don’t want a bloody cup of tea, I want a double brandy!’
‘You don’t drink.’ He smiled down into her bloodless face.
‘I just started – and don’t be so damn calm. I’m frightened, Jack, really frightened.’
The door opened quietly and Amy let herself in. ‘Aunt Freda is just locking the car,’ she explained. She moved towards the fire and knelt to warm her hands.
‘Well?’
Amy turned to look at her mother.
‘Well what? Oh – the swimming? Yes, it was good. I can swim a full length now.’
A curse from outside the door told them Freda Andrews was about to enter the kitchen and the door burst open with a loud bang.
‘Bloody cat,’ she complained grumpily. ‘Fell over it, soddin’ animal.’
Brenda smiled at her sister in law, grateful to her for lightening the tension.
‘Well, that’s one way of making a grand entrance, Freda. And how’s the cat?’
‘Dead, I hope,’ she said.
Amy’s eyes widened in horror. ‘Aunt Freda!’
‘Oh, sorry, pet, I didn’t really mean that. Perhaps I just broke its back legs. Or crushed its spine. Here Amy, put these somewhere,’ and she handed her niece a towel and swimming costume, both smelling overpoweringly of chlorine.
Brenda wrinkled her nose. ‘Disgusting smell, I’ll put them to soak. Will you stay for something to eat, Freda? We’re having meat and potato pie and there’s plenty.’
‘No thanks, Brenda, good of you to ask but I must go. Got a game of Bridge tonight.’ Her short clipped way of speaking perfectly matched her countryside appearance. Dressed in tweeds with sensible brown brogues encasing her large feet, she looked a true stereotype of landed gentry. In reality she was a doctors receptionist, unmarried, and, as she said, likely to remain that way. Men, she was frequently heard to remark, were alright in their proper place – preferably down a coal mine, never allowed to see the light of day.
She headed for the door and Brenda said a silent prayer for the cat to have disappeared. Moving towards the sink she had a sudden premonition that Freda was hesitating, worried about something, and she paused.
‘Er… got a minute, Brenda?’
Brenda turned her head, concerned more by Freda’s unaccustomed reluctance to speak bluntly than by her not immediately going out of the door.
‘Yes, sure; problem?’
With a swift movement of her head and a glance across at the kneeling Amy, Freda indicated that Brenda should go outside with her. Brenda grabbed hold of a cardigan as protection against the cool of the evening and hurriedly followed the older woman outside.
Standing by the car, again Freda seemed ill at ease.
‘What is it, Freda?’
‘I, er, oh, hell. Look, I hate to put any more on your shoulders but have you seen Amy’s chest?’
‘Amy’s chest? What are you on about, for goodness sake?’
‘Look Brenda I’m only telling you because I love that child dearly and I’m worried. When we came out of the baths w
e went into separate cubicles and after I’d dried myself I realised I hadn’t brought my talc. I wrapped my towel round me and popped my head round the curtain of Amy’s cubicle.’ She paused while she collected her thoughts, unused to making such long speeches. A long minute passed before she spoke again. Brenda waited patiently knowing that Freda would speak in her own good time and sod the rest of the world.
‘She was sitting right in the corner of the cubicle, nothing on her at all, pinching herself on the chest. Oh Bren, the top half of her is black and blue… don’t say you haven’t seen it!’
Brenda shook her head miserably.
‘No, she doesn’t allow us near the bathroom now, says she’s too grown up.’
‘I don’t think she even realised I was there. I helped her to stand and towelled her down because she seemed blank. I dressed her but the funny thing is that when she’s got her vest or her swimming costume on you can’t see anything. It’s as if she knows where to hurt herself without anyone knowing about it. Once I’d dressed her she seemed to snap out of the trance and she just sat quietly waiting for me to get ready. It… scared me, Bren.’
‘And it’s scared me too,’ Brenda said quietly. ‘Thanks for telling me. What on earth do I do about this? Where do I turn to for help?’ Despair was etched into her voice.
‘It’s called self-mutilation, Brenda. You have to find somewhere to turn. I’ll ring you tomorrow and we can discuss it further.’
Initially Brenda sought the help from school, from Claudia Carey in particular. The teacher, although no longer teaching Amy’s class, maintained very close contact with the young child. She was aware of something inherently not right with Amy and hoped to be there when the issue finally surfaced and the volcano erupted.
‘Bruises? On her chest?’ The look of consternation on her face was unmistakable. ‘No, I haven’t seen them and I’m sure none of the teaching staff have. It would have been mentioned, you would have been contacted.’