Amelia's story

by D. G. Torrens

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  Llandewii

  My mother and Robert left shortly after their affair was discovered. They moved to a tiny village in North Wales and rented an old terraced house from the Welsh Council, which backed onto a cornfield with just a farmer’s dirt track separating the house from the field. Our new home was cold, as there was no central heating. We had an old coal fire in the center of the small living room, by the side of which was a bucket of coal. I remember the coal man used to knock on the door every Friday selling coal to everyone in our street.

  We had moved there in the depths of winter. The snow would reach up to our knees, and we could not open the back gate for the snow blocking the path, which was only occasionally used by the farmer and his family. At night, we would have three or four blankets wrapped around our freezing bodies to keep us warm. I remember screaming one night when I saw a rat crawling along the wall in my bedroom. I jumped on the bed screaming, and our stepfather ran upstairs and took care of it.

  Jake and I were very young, and our memory banks were just approaching the age of storing memories for the future. On one particular day, Jake was very cold and he was crying non-stop, which was annoying our mother immensely. She shouted at the top of her voice, “Shut up, for God’s sake, or I will put you outside until you stop.” Of course Jake cried harder then, so our mother took off his clothes in temper and dressed him in just a pair of shorts and a t-shirt. She opened the door, pushed him outside, and told him he would have to remain there until he stopped whining.

  The snow was at least two feet deep, I could barely see him. By that time I was crying very quietly so not to arouse my mother to the fact. I kept looking outside to see if Jake was all right. He was crouched down in the corner of the garden sobbing quietly. A long while later, she opened the door and let him in. She gave him back his clothes and said, “I don’t want to hear another word from you today, Jake, or you will be straight back outside, do you hear?” She asked him in that tone that reminded me of someone running their nails down a blackboard. Jake and I never said another word that day; we sat behind the sofa playing quietly, so as not to disturb our mother while she was watching her program and smoking away like a chimney.

  We would receive a powerful slap most days just for looking at our mother in the wrong way. If we slightly raised our voices when she was watching television, we would receive a barrage of verbal abuse, followed by an almighty slap around the head.

  Times were very tough, and we had no money at all. Jake and I were given a regular chore. Each day we had to go out into the farmer’s fields and collect the old swedes that were thrown out for the sheep to eat. We were given an old basket to fill up. If we were lucky, the farmer sometimes threw out old cabbages too, and this would make for a much tastier stew that night. We would sneak around the field, and one of us would be on the lookout, while the other would pick up the old vegetables, and if we saw a glimpse of the farmer we would run as fast as we could back home!

  On our return, our mother would sort the vegetables from the bad from the really bad, and cut out the remaining edible bits to throw in the pot to make a vegetable stew with a few old potatoes and some fresh garden peas, which were also taken from a garden down the road. Life was hard, and money was virtually non-existent. We had to make do with what was available—socks were darned, old clothes would be recycled to make something else, and holes in our trousers would be patched up. There were many times when we would spend nights by candlelight because our electricity had been cut off, or we were told to hide behind the sofa when there was a knock at the door, as it was always someone chasing our mother for money.

  There was no money for the bus to school, so we had to make a two-mile walk every day. This was not easy when the harsh winter was upon us, but we did it every day and actually enjoyed the trip to school. We both knew that as soon as we reached our destination there would be warmth as well as a hot dinner later that day. Not forgetting the two glasses of milk we received at break times, which was worth walking the two miles as far as we were concerned! It gave us a much-needed break from the cold, damp house and vegetable stew.

  Wales proved to be far too isolated for our mother, and it was not long before we were on the move again. We all moved to a very poor council estate in Shropshire, and Robert managed to secure a job packing shelves in a nearby supermarket. I remember that mother put up the net curtains from the old house to re-use in the new one. Every Friday on his return home from the supermarket, Robert was always armed with large bags of sweets for us all. This was the highlight of our week; we used to wait by the front door and watch him come up the front path. Our stepfather always looked tired and weary; he worked longs hours for very little money, and once his shift was over, he would walk the three-mile journey home.

  This never satisfied our mother; Robert tried very hard to please her all the time to keep her wrath at bay. Her temper had become a lot worse, and it was becoming even more frequent. She would lash out and attack Jake and I. There were times when our stepfather would stand between mother and I when she was about to attack me, simply because I was the one nearest to her. My mother had no intention of working; she relied far too much on her looks to get what she wanted, only this time her looks landed her with a poor man, who now had a job that paid the absolute minimum.

  As best as I can remember, our stepfather tried his best to please her, but it was never good enough. The lack of cash was starting to agitate my mother more and more as each day went on. She could not cope with the situation, despite Robert’s best attempts, and was gradually getting angrier and more unpredictable by the day. She would often scream at Robert because she saw him as a letdown. “You’re useless,” “Get a real job, like a real man,” and, “I don’t know what I saw in you” were her favourite phrases.

  He knew not to respond and just to let it go for all our sakes. She was not a woman who could be reasoned with, and reacting to her would only feed her anger; this meant we were all victims of her wrath. As she hit lower depths, Mother started locking our bedroom doors on a nightly basis from the outside with huge industrial bolts. She placed potties in our rooms that would not be emptied until the following morning, regardless of the number of times we had used them during the night. She removed the light bulbs from our rooms and even nailed down the window to stop us from alerting the neighbours about what was going on behind closed doors. At that point I was around seven years old, and Jake one year younger. We were both petrified of our mother. I remember to this day she only had to move and I would flinch.

  The frightening thing was that she seemed to enjoy scaring us, and the more frightened we were, the more amused she became and the worse she would be. We learned never to look her directly in the eye when she was at her worst, as this would only encourage a beating or two. Jake and I have spoken in depth about our childhood and have never understood our mother. We tried to make sense of it all—the reasons and excuses for her behaviour—but there is no reason or excuse for locking your seven-year-old child in a room with no lighting and the windows bolted down. I have learned over time that sometimes we human beings look for reason where there is none, only pure evil.

  Unknown to me, as we were far too young, my mother was already on the Social Services’ watch list for neglect of my brother and I. We were being sent to our rooms after dinner and were not allowed out until the following morning. The doors would be locked to ensure that we did not venture out. This was quite normal to me at that time; mother would lock us in our rooms and then get ready and go out for the evening to the local pub, leaving us home all alone. I have discovered through my research that my mother put sleeping pills into our drinks to ensure that once we were asleep we stayed that way for a long time.

  When we woke up the following morning, our doors would already be unlocked if she had been out drinking the night before. This would be her last job of the night, as she knew full well that it would be a late start for her. However, if she had no
t been out the night before, we would have to wait until she decided to unlock our bedroom doors. We both hated being locked in our rooms at night; we could not understand why she had taken to doing this. Jake and I were petrified of the dark, and she knew this about us, yet still she locked us in our rooms nightly and would not allow us the simple request of turning a light on.

  On the mornings that our doors were unlocked following her drunken spree, we would tiptoe down the stairs mindful not to wake our mother. As always, we helped ourselves to breakfast, trying not to leave a mess in our wake. We would be so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Jake and I would get dressed and quietly let ourselves out the front door, leaving the back door on its latch so we could get back in.

  On one particular day, I had dressed myself in a very pretty blue skirt. I loved it and wanted to show my friend across the square. But when my mother woke up and saw me playing in this skirt, she flew outside in her dressing gown and hurled expletives at me. I was ordered to get back inside the house and take off the skirt. She told me I was only allowed to wear it when she said I could. She then gave me such a hard slap across the face that I ran upstairs crying. I had no idea I was not allowed to wear the skirt; it was kept with all my other clothes, so why could I not wear it? Maybe it was just another reason for her to vent while feeling hung over from the night before.

  Mother had soon begun to fall out with all her neighbours. There were frequent arguments, and we were strictly forbidden from playing with the children whose parents she had fought with. Of course, we children would just meet up around the corner, out of sight of our argumentative parents. Jake and I were very careful not to be seen, as we would receive an almighty slap right then and there in front of our friends. There was an underpass where we used to meet and play two-ball up against the walls. I was really good at it, and it was a favourite game of mine because I spent more time outside of the house than inside.

  Our mother shared all her troubles and woes with us, the falling out with her neighbours, or the last person she had assaulted in the street for daring to stand up to her. Even though we did not understand these troubles, we just nodded in agreement, not daring to ask questions. She was always in the right, of course, and everybody else was always at fault. These were things you should not discuss with your children, let alone involve them in the arguments.

  Jake and I both feared our mother immensely. We sometimes felt as though we were walking on quicksand most of the time and it was very hard not to sink. We were quite often blamed for her bad luck and many problems. Over time, my fear of the dark developed deeper and so did Jake’s. I would often cry out in the night for my mother in fear, as it was so pitch black in my bedroom and I was unable to put the light on. Of course my cries were always ignored. Instead, she would seize the opportunity to make frightening shadows at the top of my door where was a small window. She made echo-like noises to increase the effect, knowing I was already in a state of fear. Mother appeared to enjoy the fact that her children were scared and scared because of her.

  I cried myself to sleep many nights, all the time my mother finding it highly amusing. She would target me some days for total humiliation and then turn on my brother. One day, my mother tied Jake, who was only six years old, to a chair in the kitchen. Then mother sealed his mouth with brown carpet tape, and she carried him upstairs with the chair and left him alone in his bedroom unable to move. She screamed at him, “You bad, bad, boy!” All I could hear downstairs were Jake’s muffled cries. My mother looked at me then and said, “One word, Amelia, and you’re next.” I sat at the top of the stairs for four hours trying to comfort Jake, talking to him through the door while our mother paid a brief visit to a friend’s house leaving us alone again.

  On her return, she finally went upstairs and untied Jake. She ripped the tape off his mouth, then gave him a hug and told him to be a good boy. When he went downstairs, mother decided it would be hilarious to put Jake in a frilly dress. She then tied pigtails in his hair and pushed him outside to the front of the house where the other children were playing football. He cried and pleaded with Mother to let him in but was only met with her twisted screams of laughter. It was a long time later that she got bored of this latest humiliation technique and finally let him in. We were both petrified of our mother, as she could turn on the flip of a coin. It would be so unexpected and often took us by surprise. Yes, even after all this time, the speed in which her mood changed still had that element of surprise from time to time.

  My mother was drinking heavily by that time, and she had also developed a liking for barbiturates, swallowing them daily like they were sweets. This did not help our situation one bit as our home life was becoming more and more unpredictable. I used to kneel by my bed most nights and pray to God to make all this go away, to make our mother happy so that we could be happy and we no longer needed to fear her. (My prayers were never answered.) As a child, I thought that perhaps God was just too busy.

  The relationship between our stepfather and mother was becoming more and more volatile. Our stepfather could no longer cope with my mother’s temper and unpredictable moods. When she was like this, Jake and I could not do right—we only had to look at her the wrong way and she would order Robert to pull down our trousers and give us the belt. He was far too afraid to refuse her; this was a heavy buckled belt, wide and made of leather, and it had studs imbedded through the center. I was always the first and remember the belt to this day. I often tried to fight him off, pleading with him not to strike, but this fell on deaf ears as he was far more afraid of mother’s wrath than he was of the injuries he might cause us. Mother would stand by the door watching while we received at least ten lashings of the belt. Then when she thought we had received enough and could take no more, she ordered our stepfather to stop.

  I knew there would be no use crying; she never soothed our cries and actually seemed to enjoy the tears. The imprints left on our bodies from the buckled belt would remain as a reminder for days. We were ordered to go to our room until she decided we had learned our lesson. Then, and only then, would she unlock the door. At this time in my life, I was confused and feared my mother but desperately needed to please her. I needed her to be happy with me, and I wanted her to love me.

  I did everything I could around the house—vacuuming, washing up, and looking after my little brother so she could watch her movies quietly. I would keep him entertained in the garden for hours. But it was never enough, and every day she picked out something I was doing wrong and suddenly, without any warning, I would receive an almighty slap or even a punch across the face. Jake and I were having problems concentrating at school. But unknown to us at the time, our bodies were harboring small amounts of sleeping pills on a regular basis, and this was affecting us more and more each day.

  I did not know what it was like to live without fear, or to wake up in the morning with my mother in the kitchen getting breakfast ready. I woke up each morning to closed curtains, and my mother still in bed drunk from the night before (nursing a bad headache).

  On days like these, Jake and I awoke to our bedroom doors unlocked and could only assume she thought to unlock them in advance of her drunken spree while we were already asleep. We had to get our own breakfast every day (Ready Brek and cornflakes were a favourite, I recall!) During the winter we would favour porridge, but there was no microwave back then so we would have to make do with cold milk if mother was unable to get out of bed. I could not reach for the cupboards—they were far too high—so I would stand on a chair and climb onto the kitchen countertop.

  After feeding and dressing ourselves, we went outside the front of the house and played with the other children. More often than not, it would be near one o’clock in the afternoon before our mother surfaced, and, always in a bad mood, shouting and screaming because we had left a mess in the kitchen. After she had berated us to the point of bringing us to tears, Mother would then throw us out of the house and shout further abuses at us and in front of the other chil
dren. We would not be allowed back into the house until after dark, but this suited both Jake and I.

  During the hot summer days, we played with the older children from our square and often headed down to the wide river with over-hanging trees. The other kids had been going down to the river long before Jake and I. They had made a makeshift swing out of an old tire and a bit of rope, (we thought this was the best thing ever!) We spent all day hanging onto the swing and would jump off into the deep river below without any fear at all. Those days away from our mother were good days and earned a place in my memory bank for the future, which was pretty empty.

  We also spent many summer days scrumping in an old orchard attached to an old ruin near Shepton School. The orchard was well stocked with damson, pear, apple, and plum trees, and many blackberry bushes too. We would be armed with old Carrefour plastic bags—lots of them—and every bag was filled with fruit until they were bursting, forgetting that we would have to carry them all the way home! Jake and I would climb to the top of the trees, teasing each other to see who could climb the fastest. There were many times when we would slip and fall, but this did not stop us; we got right back on our feet and within seconds we would be at the top of the tree again.

  In the grounds of the old ruin there was a sundial several hundred years old. I remember this so well because I was transfixed by it as a child, thinking it was beautiful. Just outside the front of the old ruin was a small lake, which we used to skim stones in to.