Gradually, our sacrosanct mother-and-daughter time was being eaten into. I don’t think Mum intended it to happen; it just did. First it was occasional Saturdays, then every week. Then she added a Friday or two as well. I can’t blame her. She was barely twenty and she deserved to have some fun. I just wished she could do it on a weeknight.
Missing her on a Saturday night was okay because even if I’d been at home with her, I would have been in bed. The real kicker was not seeing her Sunday morning. As the months went by, Mum’s pick-up time for me got later and later. Granny didn’t mind – she just scooped me into the car and took me to church with them. I was there so often I became the flower girl, handing out posies on special occasions. It was fun – I enjoyed being centre of attention, even in a church. But really I just wanted to be with Mum.
Some Sundays Granny would give up waiting and just take me straight home after the service. If we were lucky, Mum would be up and running around, getting some lunch ready. Then there were the other days. Once, I remember getting to the building and knocking on the communal door. There was no answer so Granny rang the bell. Someone else who lived in the block recognized me and let us in and we went straight over to the door of our flat and knocked again.
‘I don’t think she’s in,’ I said.
Granny wasn’t having any of it. ‘She’s in, all right. But what state she’s in is anybody’s guess.’
I didn’t know what that phrase meant. Even when a zombie-looking Mum opened the door five minutes later, hanging onto the latch like she would fall without it, it didn’t register. I was just so glad to be home I gave Mum an enormous squeeze and skipped into the flat. Granny wasn’t so abundant in her cheeriness.
‘You need to get yourself cleaned up, my girl,’ she scolded. Again, the words meant little to me. I thought Mum looked lovely the way she was. I always did.
I thought nothing of it at the time. The following week the same thing happened and still I didn’t notice anything was wrong. As the weeks wore on, it became another weekend ritual: wake Mum up, say bye to Granny, snuggle up with Mum if she went back to bed, or potter round the flat with her if she stayed up. I really didn’t mind. Anything to be with her.
It was only years later that I questioned what she was doing. That was with the benefit of hindsight. When you’re in the eye of the storm, however, you’re not aware of half the chaos going on around you. As it turned out, I wasn’t aware of any of it.
By the time Mum had been at AmEx a year, we’d settled into a routine. Or rather, we’d settled into several mini-routines. She worked hard all week, picked me up from nursery and we’d either play or she’d drop me at Granny’s and head out for the evening. Then, sometime after my fifth birthday, I stopped going to nursery. Mum said I was too old now and I accepted it. Once again, why wouldn’t I? I knew it was nothing to do with money. After all, lots of my friends had also stopped going. They were too old as well. What I didn’t know, though, was that they all stopped nursery because they had somewhere else to go. School. You don’t miss what you’ve never had.
That was the story of my life. It could have applied to a dad (I don’t remember him as a child at all), to toys, to heating – anything. You name it, I probably didn’t have it. But it’s not in my nature to want what I can’t get. Consequently, even if I heard friends talking about school, it never entered my head that I was missing out. I wasn’t envious. Possibly I was a little curious about where they disappeared to in the days, but not enough to ask Mum if I could go too. And it certainly never once occurred to me that I should be attending.
Because I didn’t go to school, I still needed day care. Granny stepped in for at least a couple of days a week and Mum would drop me off on her way to work. For the rest of the time, she found another solution.
I suddenly found myself being taken to a neighbour’s flat, that of a man who lived alone. He was older than Mum, but was probably only about thirty, certainly no older than forty. Kids are really bad at ages. Everyone looks old to them. I don’t recall ever meeting him before and we certainly weren’t introduced first. It was just up, dressed, shooed out the door as usual – and across the hall into the neighbour’s flat. I really didn’t want to go in. Mum was in a rush though.
‘Be a good girl. I’ll see you later. Love you.’ And she was off.
So there I was, just a few feet from my own home, but it felt like a million miles away.
The man was all right. He made me breakfast and lunch and, best of all, let me watch telly. That was the deal-maker as far as I was concerned. Without that, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend a minute there. Unfortunately, without the telly, I also wouldn’t have been subjected to what he put me through.
Once I got to know our neighbour – let’s call him Paul – I really grew to like him. During the months he looked after me, he was never less than lovely and caring, always trying to make me laugh. He really knew how to make a day fly by. For a five-year-old, that’s half the battle of childcare.
When it came to watching telly, I’d snuggle up to Paul on the sofa. Then, one day, he suggested I move nearer.
‘Come and sit on my lap, Cathy.’
So I did, just as I would have done if it had been Mum, Granny or Grandpa suggesting it.
There was nothing like CBeebies or Milkshake on telly in those days. People were still getting used to having a third channel and BBC2 only really got going in the afternoon. Earlier in the day they would show that famous ‘test card’ of the little girl playing noughts and crosses with her clown doll. Whatever was broadcast was still better than nothing, though, and I lapped it up. Even when I didn’t understand what was being said. And even when I felt Paul’s hands moving over my legs.
I didn’t know how long he’d been doing it. I was just suddenly aware of his hands sliding up my bare legs and underneath my skirt.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked, but he just giggled.
‘You mind your own business and watch the telly,’ he ordered.
Okay, I thought. It’s not like you’re hurting me.
Children just assume adults have their best interests at heart, don’t they? Granny and Grandpa had caused me a lot more pain than that by telling me off, so I just got comfortable and ignored him.
I feel sick looking back and more than a bit apprehensive about even mentioning it. My life had been one round of surprises followed by another. Mum was always finding new ways of pulling the rug out from underneath me. So, if you like, I was conditioned to accept weird things as normal. Even when a man I barely knew flicked my little pants aside and pushed his fingers inside me.
I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream. I don’t even remember fighting him off. I’m ashamed to admit that I just sat there, watching television and trying not to pay him any attention.
As young as I was, I knew I wasn’t being hurt. He was gentle with me, like he’d always been when we messed around. He never shouted or hurt me or really told me off. In every other way, as far as I was concerned, he was looking out for me. Yes, I thought what he was doing to me was odd, but, as I say, my life so far had been a series of odd events lined up next to each other.
When the programme finished, or when it was time to go, I jumped off his lap and that was it. No awkward words, no silences, no recriminations. In fact, when I returned the next day, he did exactly the same thing. And the next day, and the next, and the next. Every time I saw him, in fact, Paul would do that.
Another sign that I thought it was ‘normal’ is that I never told Mum. It wasn’t like I was too scared to or I didn’t think she’d care. It was just something that happened during my day, as regular as afternoon naps and cleaning my teeth after lunch. By the time I was at home with her, it didn’t even register as an event.
By normalizing it, like Paul did, I wasn’t even aware a crime was being committed. And that, I suppose, is how people get away with it for so long.
I wonder if Mum should have picked up on any change in my personality at that time.
Apparently an abused child will give off signals, if you know where to look. I doubt Mum noticed anything untoward. For a start, as I said, I wasn’t even aware I was being violated. And, more importantly, looking back, I’m amazed she even remembered my name sometimes.
The longer Mum worked at AmEx, the less active she seemed to get at home. When she wasn’t out, she would spend a lot of time in bed. Once I asked her if she was going out as usual on Saturday. Imagine how my heart leapt when she replied, ‘No, not this time.’
I had visions of us skipping through the park, paddling along the seafront or visiting our favourite café – maybe even all three. In the end we did exactly none of them.
Mum was as good as her word. She didn’t go out Saturday night. But she didn’t go out Saturday morning or afternoon either. In fact, I don’t recall her getting out of bed except to visit the loo or have a cigarette.
Of course I was disappointed, but mainly I was worried. For Mum to stay in bed all day, she was obviously ill. I think I learnt how to make coffee that day – too young, I realize now, to be handling boiling water. And I was in charge of lunch as well. I managed to rustle up a sandwich.
By the time Monday morning came round Mum was right as rain again and it was back to our weekly routine. Or so I thought. By the middle of the week she was starting to slow down again. After a night out on Friday she once more retired to her bed. Saturday came and went. Sunday too. The only difference this time was that she didn’t get up on Monday – not early enough for work, anyway.
I don’t know if it was related, but Mum’s job with AmEx ended soon after that. Granny was really disappointed, but Mum took it quite well.
‘What will you do now?’ Granny asked her.
Mum just shrugged.
‘Find something else.’
But she never did.
Hearing that Mum wasn’t working anymore was like going to bed on Christmas Eve. I was too excited to sleep, knowing all the fun we were going to have the next day. Yet again, it didn’t quite pan out the way I envisaged.
Mum spent her first day off work in bed. This time, though, I knew she wasn’t ill. When I asked, she just said, ‘I’m tired.’
Fair enough, I thought. After a day of mooching around the flat she’d be raring to go tomorrow. We could have our fun together then.
Wrong.
Tuesday was another bed day. Once again, the only things that could entice Mum up were tea breaks, loo stops and the lure of another cigarette. Food seemed to pass her by. It would have passed me by as well if it had been up to her. I managed to open a tin of baked beans and heated those. Obviously I offered Mum the same.
‘No thanks, darling,’ she smiled, lighting another cigarette. ‘I’m all right here.’ Mum had always smoked. Now, though, her cigarettes smelled very sweet, like herbs.
Quite a lot of our time together ended up with me playing nurse and waitress to Mum, although she never actually asked me for anything. Not a drink or medicine or even to pass her matches. That didn’t stop me offering, though. I was desperate to do something for her. But she always waved my offers away with a smile. Then I’d climb onto the bed with her and she’d fall asleep. I’d never had a doll of my own to look after, but I imagined this was what it must be like.
Writing this down, it sounds like a pretty horrendous life, but I can’t tell you how happy I was. I didn’t care that Mum wanted to mope around the flat in a fug of smoke. If I’d had my way, I would have sat on her desk at American Express. Just being with her was all I ever wanted. It’s what I still want today.
So anything she did, I didn’t judge. Anything she said, anywhere she went, anyone she spoke to – it was all fine by me. Me and Mum, the old team, were back together. I really couldn’t have been happier.
Having Mum around during the week meant I didn’t mind so much when she went out in the evenings. Without work the next day, however, she wasn’t just limited to Fridays and Saturdays. It might be a Wednesday one week, or Monday, Thursday – you name it. There was no pattern that I could see. She would just announce she was going out, then Granny or Grandpa would arrive to pick me up or we’d catch a bus to their bungalow in Tremola Avenue. I didn’t know who Mum went out with or where to, but I do know it always ended the same way: Granny would take me home the following morning and tut-tut as a bleary-eyed Mum let us in, while I would give her the biggest hug I could muster and skip happily indoors, calling out, ‘Bye, Granny, see you later’ as I disappeared into the small lounge.
I was aware of Granny’s attitude towards Mum’s partying, but not affected by it. She certainly never criticized her daughter in front of me. All my life Granny had been stern, if loving, so her attitude didn’t particularly stand out, just as any change in Mum’s behaviour didn’t really register on my radar. To me, she was just Mum being Mum. Whatever she did was ‘normal’ for us. There was no need for explanation. That was who she was, that was how she was. I didn’t care. I loved her every which way. I was every inch the doting daughter. I completely trusted her judgements – as hard as it sometimes was.
I don’t remember what day it was or whether it was morning, noon or night. But I do remember Mum was smoking as usual and I was teasing the cat with a ball of string. I was blissfully happy, actually. Nothing could spoil my day. The voices at the front door soon put a stop to that.
Suddenly there was a ferocious knocking and a deep, loud voice called out, ‘Police. Open up!’
I’d never seen Mum move so fast! She came flying out of her chair and dived into the small bathroom. A few seconds later she emerged, no longer smoking. Then she grabbed something from her pocket and thrust it into my hands. It was some sort of plastic package.
‘Put it in the panda!’ she hissed through gritted teeth. Her eyes were wide. She was obviously terrified about something.
I was too stunned to move. Realizing Mum was scared was like a kick in the stomach.
That’s not how it’s meant to be.
‘Put it in the panda!’ she said again, and this time shoved me towards the bedroom, where my stuffed arcade toy was lying on my bed. At the same time she darted to a window and, grabbing a copy of the free newspaper, started waving fresh air into the room.
All of this took place in the space of ten seconds. At eleven seconds there was another crashing knock.
‘Open up or we’ll open it for you.’
Regaining her composure, Mum patted down her clothes, did a quick fiddle with her hair and called out, ‘I’m coming, I’m coming.’
That cheered me up. It couldn’t be so bad if she was worrying about her appearance.
Checking that I was back in the lounge, Mum flicked the bolt and opened the door. Standing there were four of the biggest men I’d ever seen. Framed by the doorway, they were giants in police uniforms. To my young eyes, I’d never seen anything more scary.
‘Jennifer Wilson?’ one of the policemen asked.
Mum nodded. ‘What can I do for you?’ she asked quietly. I think that sudden burst of activity had taken it out of her.
The policeman stared over her shoulder at me and the room.
‘Do you mind if we take a look around?’ he asked.
‘Do I have a choice?’ Mum said.
‘None at all,’ he said, and showed her a piece of paper. ‘We have a warrant to search your premises for narcotic substances.’
I saw Mum’s shoulders sag and instinctively ran over to wrap my arms around her waist. I hadn’t understood half the things the constable had said, but I could feel Mum shaking. Whatever he’d said had rocked her, that much was obvious.
Resigned to whatever it said on that piece of paper, Mum stood back and watched as the four of them marched into our tiny flat. While three of them hung around the doorway, a fourth powered straight into the bedroom. He emerged a few seconds later clutching my stuffed panda!
I couldn’t help gasping. I had no idea what I’d tucked inside him, but it was enough to know Mum wanted it hidden. I had a crushing sense
of failing her. Panic washed over me. I must have done something wrong. There was no other explanation.
I stared, open-mouthed, as the policeman unzipped the back of the bear and stuffed his hand inside. Moments later, a smile broke out on his face.
‘What do we have here then?’ he said theatrically, and pulled out the little plastic pouch.
I genuinely had no idea what it was, but it was obviously what the lead officer had been expecting to find. He took one look at the package, had a quick sniff, then said to Mum, ‘Jennifer Wilson, you are under arrest.’
It all happened so fast. One minute I’d been tormenting the cat, the next four burly policemen were terrorizing Mum. And then, within the blink of an eye, it seemed, we were all sitting in the back of a police car. Me, Mum and Mr Panda. With the sirens wailing above our heads, for all I knew, this was the end of my freedom forever. Would I ever see our home, our cat, our family again? I looked at Mum. Her face was blank, staring ahead. No answers there.
Oh, Mum, I thought. What have you done?
It felt like the end of the world. Little did I realize this was the lull before the storm. Compared to who would be knocking on our door soon, the police’s visit seemed like a beautiful dream.
FOUR
Mother Knows Best
A lot of children dream of riding in a speeding police car, blue lights illuminating the night sky, sirens clearing other traffic out of its path. I was never one of those kids. Policemen always looked so intimidating and scary. The last place I ever wanted to be was cooped up inside a cop car with two of them. Normally I would have been happy anywhere, as long as Mum was with me. Not this time. I’d never seen her look so down, so shattered. So out of it.
Escape From Evil Page 4