Thrown Away Child

by Louise Allen

  Another strange thing I remember from my earliest days with the Taylors is learning to sit on my potty. I must have been about two or three and, as I peed, I felt this terrible burning on my bottom, like it was on fire; as the water rose up and touched me it burned my private bits. I screamed out and tried to stand up. Barbara appeared and pushed me back down on the potty: ‘Stay there, you stupid bitch.’ Tears were streaming down my face as my thighs and bottom and where I weed were burning with unbelievable pain. I would fear doing a big wee or poo, which made the water rise up. I would tense up, but still she pressed me down on the pink plastic potty, a fierce, grim look on her face: ‘Don’t you dare move.’ Afterwards I’d have large blisters that turned into red sores everywhere, which were painful and running. I would have to sit on the potty for ages, blistered and burning, but after a while I wouldn’t cry. I wouldn’t be allowed. In any case, there wasn’t any point.

  Later Barbara would take me to the doctor and shake her head, saying she had ‘no idea how I’d got them’. The doctor would look at me with a hard stare, but I would say nothing. I would look at my shoes – the second-hand blue Clarks ones with a T-bar strap. I knew better than to speak. He would put ointment and bandages on my sores, and I still wouldn’t cry, but I would fear weeing or pooing for ages after that.

  I later saw a big blue bottle of Domestos bleach near the potty. Somehow it got in the potty and I think it was Barbara who put it in. I don’t know why. She did this several times, to both William and me, to ‘teach us a lesson’, but we never said a word to anybody. We didn’t understand. We would give each other our special look – we knew what the other was going through. Didn’t she want us to learn to use the potty? It was all very confusing.

  Sometimes Kevin would watch and snigger from the doorway, making ‘ha ha, glad it’s you not me’ faces and looking very smug to see me in terrible pain.

  Barbara could flip. She could seem normal one minute, almost pleasant, and then she would turn. Her pointed face would harden, her eyes would narrow, her lips would purse, and then we’d know we were in for it. A sort of mist would come over her eyes, and I’d feel scared. She would seem remote, dangerous, and I would know to keep quiet. I learnt to please and appease, to be a ‘good girl’ and live a double life right from the start. If the mist was upon her, and her eyes went funny, she would suddenly grab me and put a chair by the sink.

  ‘Climb it,’ she would command. I would inevitably be barefoot and I’d do as I was told. ‘Feet in the sink,’ she’d bark. I’d know what was coming. I’d hear the kettle bubble and click off.

  As the boiling water hit my small feet I would scream, then hold my breath, not wanting to anger her. Instinctively I’d pull my legs back but she’d force them back down.

  ‘Sit. Don’t make such a bloody fuss.’

  Sometimes she would refill the kettle, boil it again and pour it over my already blistered feet and legs. If I tried to move she would slap my legs until they bled, while holding me down hard with the other hand. I was powerless to get away, so I had to get away in my head – I would go to my special ‘Louise place’: a cool, calm zone where it was quiet. Sometimes I would gaze at something: a picture on the wall or the garden through the window – it helped to focus on nice things like trees and flowers. Looking at nature helped me breathe. Then I would start counting. Or I’d look at the room and count round things: the edges of the bread bin, the sides of the doorway, the table legs: one, two, three, four. Sometimes, to finish things off, she would get a wooden pole, like a bamboo stick, that she kept handy in the kitchen, and rub my blisters so they were red and bleeding.

  By now I was hurting so much I was numb. I couldn’t feel any more, or cry. I would sit there, taking it. Waiting for it to end. Only later, in bed, would I feel the searing, stinging pain in my feet and legs and be quiet as a mouse, alongside my equally battered adopted brother. I would hear Ian come in the house and knew he had no idea what had gone on. Or if he did he didn’t seem to care, as he never came up to see us, despite my willing him to. William and I would lie there silently or just moaning, side by side, divided by a screen, strapped in and drugged: our life, behind the neat net curtains, was our nasty little secret. It was living hell.

  2

  Starving the Devil’s Child

  ‘You’re the devil’s child,’ Barbara would spit at me as often as she could. ‘You’re a little bastard born out of wedlock’ and ‘You’ve had a touch of the tar brush.’ This was to shame me, as I understood these things were bad. Very bad. She disliked me a lot because of them. My hair was dark and silky, my skin was olive and went nut brown in the sun, unlike Barbara, whose hair was wavy, iron grey, and whose skin was pallid and yellowy. I didn’t understand about the tar brush; to me brushes were for hair or for painting or for me to sweep up with downstairs.

  Barbara said my first foster home hadn’t worked out. They hadn’t wanted the likes of me, so I’d been left in my pram all day, with a bottle propped up on a towel just out of reach. I didn’t thrive. I wasn’t held or cuddled, so I cried and cried and cried and the foster parents soon gave me back. They went on holiday and I went to another foster family, who only wanted a baby less than one month old, and I was now six months, so I was given back again. Then I was passed on at nine months, like an unclaimed parcel, to the Taylors, the next fosterers on the list and whose home I was now living in. They already had Kevin (then six) and William (two) and wanted a baby girl. But all was not right from the start.

  ‘I cannot bear to look at your horrible cold blue eyes,’ Barbara would snarl at me. ‘They’re horrible devil eyes, staring right up at me.’

  At the age of three or four I would sometimes tiptoe to the bathroom and peek at my eyes in the mirror. Devil eyes? What were devil eyes? Instead I saw bright-blue eyes, like little blue buttons; like the blue flowers in the garden with the black centres. My favourites. Barbara didn’t like to look in them, or hold me, or cuddle me. She seemed to hate me all the time. She never showed me or William any love, affection or care. She only seemed to want to punish us, so she must have been right. I must be the ‘devil’s child’ after all.

  In fact, William and I lived a different life from Barbara, Ian and Kevin. We were not allowed to eat when they ate or what they ate and we couldn’t sit with them. The kitchen belonged to Barbara and had a door that led onto the garden. It had brown walls and cupboards, a cooker, a fridge, a sink with a drainer and a small plastic table and chairs. The cupboards had big locks with chains running through them and only Barbara and ‘the family’ could open them. This didn’t mean William or me. We weren’t allowed to help ourselves to anything; we had to wait and eat what we were given. We were not allowed to complain, or ask. The kitchen never really smelt of food cooking, but of cat food, bleach and vegetables; everything was hidden away. There was no fruit on the table, no bread on the side – everything was out of sight.

  At breakfast time, William and I had to sit still at a tiny kiddie table with two baby chairs, and we were given a small bowl of Ready Brek. It was often cold and a bit lumpy. We ate it very fast and were always hungry afterwards, watching as Kevin had toast and jam. I wanted toast and jam, too, but I learnt not to ask or make a sound. Once I said, ‘I want some,’ but Barbara’s face clouded over and I would feel scared and she would lash out and whack me across the face.

  ‘I want doesn’t get.’ Slap. I was used to this by now. She would casually slap and whack us round the head or across the face as she passed. Her hand was big and hard and it hurt. But I didn’t cry. One of Barbara’s favourite weapons was her rolled-up newspaper, which she kept in the kitchen. When we were watching Kevin eat, almost drooling, she’d whack us across the head, shoulders or back.

  ‘Sit up straight,’ she’d bark. We would sit up straight and watch Kevin eating his toast and jam with relish, spooning on more jam just to show us he could. We said not a word – hating him and fearing Barbara. Kevin would chew on his toast and smile, smug and safe, helping h
imself to more, triumphant. Meanwhile, Barbara would tell us we were illegitimate and bad or stupid and, with each word, she would swipe us with the newspaper. ‘Bad.’ Whack! ‘Stupid.’ Thwack! ‘Bastards.’ Whack! Each word would be emphasised with a blow from the rolled-up newspaper across the shoulders, legs, arms, bottom, back.

  Sometimes she lost her temper so much she forgot to be careful, and I watched her slap William so hard across the face that he fell off his chair. I would wince. He would get kicked, punched, shoved and pushed while I held my breath. I felt, ‘Poor William,’ but I knew she would turn on me just as quickly, so I would be nice, obedient, silent. Even so, I did get whacked with the paper while being hungry, hungry, hungry all the time. If I cried, she’d say, ‘Look at you, you bloody baby, it’s only a newspaper.’ I knew there would be no sympathy if she really hurt us, so I learnt to shut up. I learnt to shut down – to go to the Louise place in my head. One, two, three, four.

  Both William and I were underweight for our ages, and had been in hospital a few times for not growing properly. ‘You’re just backward little bastards,’ Barbara would say. Indeed, I hadn’t sat up until fourteen months, as I had been lying in my cot all day. And I didn’t take my first steps until I was two years old. ‘You’re stupid, that’s why,’ Barbara would spit. ‘Just like that little bugger,’ meaning William.

  After our small breakfast, which never changed, we never had any food in the day, no snacks or anything like that. But we would see the family go in and eat together round the table at dinnertime. William and I weren’t included, so we had to lump it. Our tummies hurt and gurgled with pain. Hungry, hungry, hungry all the time. We would sit on the hard ground in the garden, poking in the earth with a stick, or just sitting and listening to them eating indoors. We could hear the clatter of pans and plates. By teatime we were utterly starving, almost too hungry to eat. We were called in at about five o’clock and would be given the same meal every single day, come rain or shine.

  On two baby plates (like dolly plates) Barbara would count out five raisins, then put a dot of salad cream, half a tomato, a handful of crisps, and half a piece of Mother’s Pride white bread and butter. That was it: tea. We would gobble it down and have to sit up straight. Meanwhile, Kevin and the family would eat something like chops, potatoes and peas (after we were done), pie and mash or fish and chips. My stomach would feel growly with hunger, a gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. Sometimes I pressed my knee against William’s for comfort. I would long for the chops, potatoes and peas, but I would know better than to ask.

  Sometimes after tea, and while they were eating, we would wander into the garden and go into the big wooden shed. It was usually locked, but sometimes Ian left it open. I would reach up on tiptoes, push the metal latch and, holding my breath, lift it. Then we would creep in. It was dark and smelt of soil, damp and chemicals, and in the corner was a big brown sack of birdseed. This was what we were after. The first time we saw it William and I looked at each other, silently thinking. I held my breath, really afraid. He was smaller than me, even though he was two years older. He had cuts and bruises all over, almost permanently, and he had brown eyes, freckles and ginger hair, which stuck up like a brush. He moved over to the sack, opened the top and put his hand in, pulling out a handful of seed. He buried his face in it and started eating. I did the same.

  It was crunchy, nutty, dry and hard to swallow. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, as it was so gritty, but after a few handfuls the gnawing pain in my tummy eased. We sat on the floor, looking at each other in our secret game, eating the seed in silence, peeking up and down again warily like animals, listening out for movements in the kitchen, which was just up the concrete garden path. There’d be hell to pay if she found out. Then, without a word, William got up and carefully folded the bag top over, so it looked the same as before. I carefully brushed the seeds that had fallen on the ground to the edges of the shed and spread them out. No one would ever know. Ian wouldn’t notice, or even care particularly. It was Barbara we were terrified of. And Kevin, her sidekick – he would tell on us if he saw us or suspected anything. Silently we tiptoed to the door, lifted the latch while holding our breath, peeked out to see if it was safe, and then slipped out into the daylight as if nothing had ever happened. It was war, and these were our guerrilla tactics to survive.

  Scavenging and stealth became the name of the game. I got to be an expert at covering my tracks. The kitchen had a small open larder at the back, which was cool and dark with a dank smell, and there were some packets and tins in there and shelves with things on. One day I was starving and crept in when Barbara was right down the bottom of the garden. I found a packet of Complan, her favourite night drink, and I opened it very quietly and carefully, holding my breath. I pricked up my ears and waited to hear Barbara’s footsteps or biting bark, but meanwhile quickly licked my index finger and dipped it in the box. Quick as a flash I licked my dusty finger and it was malty and sweet tasting, so I dipped and licked, dipped and licked a few times and then, getting scared, shook the box, smoothed all the powder down, closed it carefully and put it back exactly where it had been. I crept out of the larder, hardly breathing, just as I saw Barbara striding up the garden path. I licked my lips carefully, checking for evidence. Phew. None. She was now in the doorway staring at me suspiciously.

  ‘What are you doing in here? Go outside this instant.’ At this I smiled my sweetest, most innocent smile.

  ‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, and went off down the garden, satisfied. She sensed something was up but I played very innocent.

  Another time, Barbara was not at home and Ian had left the butter dish out on the kitchen table. I spied it from the garden through the open door. I tiptoed in and lifted the blue-and-white striped lid – and there was a golden ocean of butter, all soft and shiny. So inviting. I listened carefully. No one was around. I seized my moment and my index finger, my dipper, was licked and in the butter. I quickly scooped out one, two, three fingers full of wonderful, buttery, yellow heaven. And then I stopped. I wouldn’t go too far. I’d get found out. So I smoothed it all over. Sculpted it. Made it look perfect. Swallowed. Put the lid on carefully, exactly as it was. Checked my finger for yellowy traces. Not breathing, listening out, I returned to the garden, to exactly where I was before. I was waiting for the swipe of the newspaper, the back of the hand, the shriek of Barbara’s sharp cuss. None came. Luckily she was still out, although I always felt that she would somehow be watching or would know.

  ‘I’ve eyes in the back of my head,’ she would tell us. ‘Don’t think you can get away with anything with me.’ But today I had done it. My tummy was happy. My ears and eyes were pricked for any reactions, but this time none came. It was my buttery secret, and I had got away with it. Phew.

  My trips to the larder became a way of life, of staying alive. I got very good at being stealthy, quiet and scavenging without leaving a trace. Sometimes there was a new loaf of bread – a wonderful sight and smell – and I developed a way of digging in my fingers, lifting up the crust, pulling out some dough, like a soft white ball of heaven, and stuffing it in my mouth. As I was chewing and savouring I would fold the crust back down and press it carefully to cover my tracks. From the outside it looked completely untouched while I would slink out of the larder swallowing a mouthful of wonderful, melt-in-your-mouth soft bread. Sometimes there was a carton of St. Ivel Five Pints powdered milk, and if it had already been opened I would flip the corner, take a huge slug, swallow and swallow as fast as possible, fold it back and get out of the larder as soon as I could, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand to remove all traces.

  I took increasing risks at the age of four and five, and got bolder as I went, but I wasn’t always successful. I found a way of sneaking some food from the larder into my knickers, into a pocket or hidden in my cuff, and then take it up to my room. I pulled a little hole in the mattress material underneath where I slept, and popped in there whatever I could scavenge. Sometimes it was a crust, or a biscuit or
a bit of cheese. I would fold the material part over it, so it wasn’t visible from the outside. I felt I had my own little larder, my own private stash, which I could sneak out later and eat quickly when I was really desperate.

  I got bolder and once or twice took small tins of baked beans and sweetcorn out of the larder and hid them in a children’s red cardboard suitcase that was in my room. One day Ian came in for a rare visit and he saw the tins out on the carpet.

  ‘Mummy will be cross,’ he said, looking pale and terrified himself. ‘Take them downstairs now, quickly, and she’ll never know. Quick!’ Without a word, I scrambled off the floor and slunk like a weasel down the stairs, into the larder and out again, having placed them back on the shelves exactly where I’d found them. My heart was pounding like a sledgehammer and my mouth was dry. That was close.

  Then one day I became aware that Barbara was having a woman in the village round for coffee. This was very rare, as we seldom had people to the house. Peeking into the larder, I saw, gleaming on the middle shelf, a big packet of biscuits. Shiny purple paper, snazzy design: a packet of five – FIVE – Club biscuits. I couldn’t help myself: I took one out, slipped it up my sleeve and crept upstairs to my room. I hid it under the carpet beneath the bed, right at the corner. I held my breath. I imagined eating it later, sinking my teeth into what I knew was thick dark chocolate and biscuit. Mmmm, the very thought.

  Then I heard her coming. Oh no! She’d found out. I could hear her taking the stairs two at a time, thumping the banisters as she went, and I was frozen to the floor. I watched her fling the door open and fly towards me like a demented monster. She bounded up to my face and bent over me, so close I could smell her sour breath, shouting, ‘You little thief, give me my biscuits NOW!’ I was terrified. She was almost drooling over me. I started crying uncontrollably. I pointed to the corner of the carpet. She lifted up the corner and picked up the biscuit, still wrapped in its shiny purple paper.