One night, three months later, she got it right. Mum did come home. And with her she brought a present: Uncle Bill.
Kit peered at him closely. She wasn’t sure if it was the slightly stained shirt open to the waist exposing a flabby hairy stomach or his leg perched territorially over one side of the armchair or the tobacco stains evident on his teeth as he slowly and deliberately appraised and then grinned at her. She only knew that she didn’t like him one little bit.
From what Kit saw he didn’t do anything. He didn’t work, he didn’t cook and he didn’t clean – he sat in the front room smoking cigarettes and drinking beer. Everything returned to normal, only now they said ‘Bill’ instead of ‘Dad’. Her mother seemed pleased just to have a man in the house and remained as distant to Kit as ever.
By the time Kit moved to the ‘big school’ her sisters had all left home to marry at young ages with their mother’s consent. On the first day of term Kit turned up for school in an ill-fitting ‘free’ school uniform and her fate was swiftly assured. Easily identified by the other girls, the teasing she’d hoped would stop ensured that within her first week she went home with torn clothes and a bloody nose. That was all the teachers needed to label her a troublemaker and ignore her presence in the classroom.
After obtaining a reputation for being tough, the only girls that came near her were the ones from the high-rise flats. Kit admired their school uniform of jeans and T-shirts. They chewed gum, smoked just outside the school playground and only went to lessons when they felt like it.
‘Wanna go shopping tomorrow?’ asked Tracey, a tall girl with cropped green hair.
‘Sorry, money’s tied up in trust funds,’ she snapped with an attitude borne of loneliness.
Tracey nodded appreciatively. ‘Yeah, mine too but what the fuck, we’ll make our own fun,’ she laughed, nudging one of the other girls.
Kit shrugged and agreed to meet them. What the hell, it was better than staying at home being ordered around by a lump of lard. And she liked the idea of walking around the shops with some friends. She liked the idea of having friends.
The high street heaved with people walking from shop to shop to get their weekly groceries. The girls barged and laughed their way into the one department store. Kit hid her surprise and wonder – that wouldn’t be cool. She’d never set foot in it before. She’d had no need to and the pretty furnishings, clothes, shoes and jewellery excited her.
‘Here we are,’ said Tracey, pulling up alongside a selection of knives. Kit admired them. One in particular had a brown, oak handle with an Indian inscription running along it. ‘Go on then,’ Tracey whispered in her ear as the others milled around.
‘Uh,’ Kit mouthed, unsure what she was supposed to do.
‘Emma’s going to occupy that bloke so just put your hand in your pocket like this,’ instructed Tracey, demonstrating how to position her hand so she could grab the item through the thin fabric of the jacket lining.
Kit looked around, sure that anyone watching them knew what was going on. It had never occurred to her that they were going to steal anything, but the more she looked at the knife the more she wanted it in her pocket. It was so pretty. Mixed with the fear was an undeniable excitement.
‘Okay, now,’ Tracey whispered urgently into her ear. Kit deftly retrieved the knife from the counter top and slid it beneath her jacket. She looked to Tracey for further instructions, feeling the need to run, and not stop.
Tracey turned around and sauntered towards the entrance. Kit followed. Each step nearer sent her heartbeat racing faster. Any second a security guard would tap her on the shoulder. One more step and she’d have to make the decision whether to run or be led away to jail. One more step and sirens would blare and bells would sound. One more step and she’d be outside.
The fresh air on her face felt like a release from prison. She’d done it and no matter how hard the guilt tried to take hold, the pure exhilaration beat it down.
‘You did it, you’re not a virgin any more!’ cried Tracey, punching the air on Kit’s behalf.
A shaky smile formed on her face. ‘But what about—’
‘If you’re feeling bad, forget it. These places make more in a week than we’ll see in our whole fucking lives. Anyway they expect theft. Keeps ’em on their toes and gives the plastic pigs a job.’
The following week Kit pinched a pair of jeans. It was the first item of clothing she’d ever had that her three sisters hadn’t worn before her. She ran her hands across the rough denim and knew she’d never felt anything so good in her life.
The police visits that followed, a court appearance and an overnight stay in jail were met with the same response from April: a quiet shake of the head. Kit came to hate that weakness in her.
Two days before her fifteenth birthday she returned home from a day spent truanting to find a police car already outside her house.
Oh shit, she thought as she approached. What the fuck have I done now? She mentally checked the day’s events. She and a few friends had headed to Stanley Docks. For a while they’d sat on the locks near to Howard Street Bridge sharing a couple of cigarettes. A bit later she’d won a competition to see who could throw stones and hit the most panes of glass in the fourteen-storey tobacco warehouse. As the bricks left her hand Kit vaguely remembered being told in class by an anal history teacher that when built in 1901 it had been the biggest building in the world. Personally, she was more proud of the fact that 2,000 of the 5,000 recorded deaths of cholera in 1849 had been in Vauxhall’s Scotland Road area. Now that, she felt, was an achievement.
As soon as she opened the door she knew it wasn’t her. There were two police officers and the female one smiled at her straight away. It was also strange that Bill was sitting at the kitchen table with his head bowed. How weird that he even knew where the kitchen was.
Kit didn’t speak. She just looked from one to the other feeling the claustrophobia of so many people in the poky room.
‘Sit down, dear,’ the female police officer said, placing a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Kit shook it off.
The male constable cleared his throat. ‘I’m afraid there’s been an accident. It’s your mother, she’s…’
Dead. Her own mind finished the sentence as his words trailed away. She didn’t move as they continued to wait for her response. She stared back. A quiet sobbing that came from Bill’s lowered head was the only sound in the room. He continued to stare down at the table. Kit wanted to ask him if he was upset that he’d now have to fetch his own beer, but looking at the sympathetic eyes all fixed on her, she knew that was not the appropriate response. In fact, she didn’t know what the appropriate response was. She merely nodded her understanding.
They both sighed and stole a quick glance at each other. Relieved, she guessed, that there’d been no hysterical crying, shouting or dramatic faints. Their expressions told her they thought she was in shock. Maybe she was because all the workings of her mind were not putting together the pieces of her mother’s death – they were trying to remember the last conversation they’d had.
On the day of the funeral she didn’t cry. She desperately wanted to, if only to ease the guilt, but it wasn’t there. She glanced at her sisters, who grieved openly and comforted each other around their mother’s casket. Back at the house she listened as they lamented the good times with their mother. Kit didn’t remember any of it and wasn’t totally convinced that the episodes they recalled had ever happened. At least not in the way they remembered.
She ate and drank nothing. Instead she sat in the corner and observed everything. She watched Bill’s shaking hand reach for another glass of whisky. She saw each of her sisters ascribing sentimental value to anything worth more than a few pounds and she shook her head as she listened to the neighbours’ talk about a woman she had never known. She wondered if the phrases ‘salt of the earth’ and ‘good as gold’ were wheeled out for every funeral they attended.
One by one her sisters left the house after the
funeral, in the same order they had deserted her to start their own lives, muttering insincere platitudes as they went. ‘You know where I am’ had the undertone of ‘But don’t ever come there’, while ‘Take care’ meant ‘Do as you bloody well like’.
Kit knew that they had each left the house relieved. None of them had to take her with them. They had all agreed with the decision of the social worker who had visited the house to undertake an investigation as to her welfare. The woman conducted the in-depth examination over one cup of coffee, and decided that she should stay with Bill. She left without having once opened her genuine leather briefcase.
Mrs Jenkins was the last to go, taking the curled-up ham sandwiches with her, leaving Kit and Bill alone in the house they would now share. Kit only hoped that they could exist without meeting too often.
‘Look, yer my kid now,’ he grumbled, loosening a tie that was almost as wide as the Mersey.
‘My dad will—’
‘Ha, your dad’s long gone so ya can forget that lark!’
Kit hadn’t realised that she’d been secretly hoping for her father’s return until the words left her mouth.
‘So let’s just try to get on, eh? It’s what your ma would have wanted. I’ll look after ya,’ he said as his tie fell to the side, revealing buttons that strained under the pressure of his huge bulk. ‘We’ve gotta get on, Kit, ’cos neither of us is going anywhere. What do you say?’
Kit was gobsmacked. Few direct addresses had ever come from Bill, she’d only felt his eyes follow her around the house. She nodded dumbly. He was right – she had nowhere else to go.
Shortly after he left for The Swan. Nothing interfered with his nightly visit, not even death, Kit thought and then stopped herself. Maybe she wasn’t being fair. Maybe she should give him a chance. Neither of them had anyone any more and he’d lost someone who had actually shown him affection. She was judging him too soon. Perhaps she could treat this like a real home, somewhere she’d actually like to spend more than the eight hours she slept. They could eat their meals together and share the housework. He’d never actually done anything to harm her. Would he have been nicer if maybe she’d tried a little harder? She resolved that it was time to give him a chance.
Later, she was awoken by his cursing as he staggered in from The Swan. He knocked over a table and stumbled into furniture in his battle to find the temporarily absent light switch.
Kit snuggled further under the coarse blankets when she heard the familiar creaking of the ninth stair. She burrowed down and clenched her eyes shut tight. Even so she became aware of the shaft of light from the landing as her bedroom door opened. This had happened two nights earlier when he’d pulled her out of bed to fix him some supper.
It went dark again. She sighed with relief: her plan had worked. Then she heard his laboured breathing. She moved her head out slowly and opened her left eye. His huge frame blocked the light from the open doorway. Kit tried to keep her breathing even but she was sure her rapid heartbeat was lifting the covers. Something was different this time.
Unable to bear the pig-like grunting any longer she opened her eyes properly just in time to see the brightness behind him increase as his huge bulk came towards her. She pushed herself up into a sitting position, trying to read the expression in the yellowy whites of his eyes.
‘Bill, wh—’
She was silenced. The breath was forced from her body as he launched himself on top of her. The sheer force of his weight threw her head back against the wall.
Her mind reeled against the rising nausea from the blow to her head. She began kicking and screaming as his intentions became obvious. He placed a coarse fleshy hand over her mouth as he undid his zip with his free hand.
His knee forced her legs apart. She gathered all the strength she could muster into her teeth and bit down on the flesh of his middle finger. He slapped her hard. Kit tried to position her left knee to ram him in the groin but he pre-empted it by placing himself right in between her legs as he prised them open. His fist was curled inside her mouth, forcing her jaws wide apart and preventing her from screaming. Her mouth filled with saliva that she couldn’t swallow. Words and phrases thundered through her mind; words that had given her a small ounce of hope.
Let’s just try to get on!
Her hands flailed wildly at his face, her eyes filled with murderous rage. He laughed out loud at her efforts before removing his fat middle finger from inside her to punch her left eye. The swelling was immediate and painful as the room spun around her.
Look, yer my kid now!
‘Fucking bitch, keep still! You know you want it.’ He breathed neat whisky fumes into her eyes, making them water.
I’ll look after yer!
Sharp physical pain ripped her insides apart. She tried to move her head from side to side. The hot throbbing organ forcing her open wider.
It’s what yer ma would have wanted!
She became still. Everything she’d done in her life so far was almost an acceptance of her present. The stealing, smoking, fighting, it was a way of survival in a place where she had no one. It was a way to get by until she could get out. This one thing, her virginity, had been held on to. It was a hope for the future, that some day she’d leave this place behind and take something of value with her to a new life. A gift. Almost a symbol of something inside her unhurt. And now it was gone.
She left her body and watched his obese behind thrusting in and out of her. Silently she observed as the movement intensified and then stopped completely. She watched as he lost control and urinated all over her. She didn’t move. She didn’t struggle. And she didn’t cry.
The following evening she awaited Bill’s return from the pub behind the front door, in the dark. As he entered the house she thrust a flick-knife at his balls. He froze in shock. Dressed from head to toe in black, only the whites of her eyes were visible.
‘Empty your wallet,’ she demanded without emotion.
‘Fuck—’
‘Without money I can’t leave…’ she stroked his fly with the sharp knife, totally in control ‘…and you’ll have to sleep some time.’
His hands shook as he hurriedly extracted all the money from his wallet, which wasn’t much.
She jabbed the knife once more before pushing past him out of the house.
That night Kit hitchhiked to London with a flick-knife in her pocket. Chester to Coventry tried it on. Coventry to Oxford didn’t dare once he’d seen the manic expression in her eyes and Oxford to Soho left her alone.
Val spotted her in front of a hippy, tie-dyed clothes shop in Carnaby Street. She sat on the kerb, oblivious to the drug deals taking place behind her, of the group of youths, eager for a laugh, sizing her up from fifty feet away.
She wore black canvas jeans, T-shirt, patchwork leather jacket and looked right at home to the untrained eye. But Val’s eye was trained – her life depended on it.
She could see the girl’s uncertainty. She wasn’t sure what to do next. It’s so simple isn’t it? Val thought, reading her mind. Go to London, get a job, find a place to live and leave the past behind. Forget all your problems.
So here she was in a city she didn’t know, frightened by the noise and holding on tightly to something in her pocket. Val guessed it was a knife or weapon of some description.
She’d watched as the girl had walked for two hours in her efforts to find a quiet backstreet where she could sit and collect her random thoughts. Val had done that too. But each noisy street led on to another noisy street filled with grotesquely made-up men teetering along on absurdly high heels and wearing low-cut sequinned dresses.
Some of the shops started pulling down their shutters. Val wondered what she’d do now. Where would she sleep?
The girl stood and dusted the dirt from her behind and sent a withering glance in the direction of a youth moving towards her. Val guessed he was around eighteen. He continued to move in her direction. Val watched as her suspicions were confirmed and a knife appeared f
rom inside her pocket. He retreated. Hmm nice, thought Val watching as the knife disappeared back into her jacket and her attention turned to the gold dust in her pocket. You’ll need every penny of that, Val thought.
Val remained closely behind as she followed her to a chip shop, one of the few remaining shops with a light on. She bought the cheapest meal she could find and ate it greedily. There was nothing left inside the paper when she balled it up and placed it in a rubbish bin.
The crowds around Val were changing. There were still as many people but the female population had decreased. Gangs of men now littered the pavement, huddled. The occasional shout or laugh reached her as packets changed hands.
Val followed as she walked quickly through Regent Street, past the bright lights of the department stores. Her butt met concrete as she sat down in a doorway.
A police officer approached with a view to moving her along or taking her to the station as a runaway. It was time for Val to make her move.
‘Oh Wendy, sorry I’m late. I missed my bus,’ sighed Val breathlessly. She caught the girl’s surprised expression, which she quickly hid from the police officer. ‘Is there a problem here?’ she asked, looking from one to the other.
‘Do you know this girl?’
‘Of course, she’s a friend of mine. I told her to meet me here but I’m late,’ she lied with ease.
He looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘Don’t I know you?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Val said, shaking her head.
He looked her up and down, gave them both one more suspicious look and moved on.
‘Who the fuck are you?’ the girl exploded once the police officer was out of earshot.
‘You’re welcome,’ Val replied, aware that the thin veil had slipped to reveal her own strong cockney accent.
‘I didn’t ask for your help.’
‘I’ll call him back then, shall I?’
A shake of the head. ‘Does he know you?’
The Forgotten Woman: A gripping, emotional rollercoaster read you’ll devour in one sitting Page 3