Escape From Evil

by Wilson, Cathy

  I couldn’t imagine anything worse than injecting yourself. I still can’t. To this day, I can’t fathom how she was doing this without me noticing. I never saw a needle or powder or foil or liquids or any of the stuff you associate with heroin. I told Granny this.

  ‘Obviously this is what she was doing when she went out,’ Granny surmised and I agreed. All those times she was out for hours or nights on end, she was high on heroin.

  ‘So why was it different this time? Why did this time kill her?’ I asked.

  Granny had obviously been thinking about it too.

  ‘Maybe the question is: why didn’t all those other times kill her?’

  I wonder when I would have discovered the truth if I hadn’t seen that newspaper by chance during my art lesson. It was yet another example of my grandparents ‘protecting’ me. But look where it got them. I’d been denied closure at the hospital, then at the funeral. I’d appeared to be coping better than expected – better than them, in fact. But it all had to come out eventually.

  For weeks I was horrible, hitting, shouting, refusing to do anything but rail, question, accuse – and cry. Finally the tears had come.

  It felt good to have such an emotional release, but no sooner had the tears dried than the vicious circle began again and I was looking for answers. Whereas Granny had channelled her anger towards the mythical figure of my father, I just blamed her.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me the truth?’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’

  ‘Why didn’t you let me say goodbye?’

  I was out of control, completely screwed up and thirsty for blame. Someone had to be responsible. I needed that, I needed an outlet. And, I’m ashamed to say, for an unpleasant few weeks, it was my grandparents.

  Grandpa did his best to hide away. I’m sure he thought he’d been tested as much as he ever would by Mum’s behaviour and her unnecessary death. But I was something else. There I was, a guest in his own home, accusing him and his wife of not caring. No army training had ever prepared him for this.

  ‘That’s not true, Cathy!’ he shouted.

  ‘Then why didn’t you save her?’

  ‘I tried. We all tried.’

  ‘Then why did she have to die?’

  ‘Because,’ Granny interrupted quietly, ‘she didn’t want to be saved.’

  Every few days we’d have the same argument. The same accusations, the same answers. Even when we weren’t arguing, I didn’t have a civil word in my head. Doors were there to be slammed, books just things to be thrown whenever I felt like it.

  I was awful, I know that now. I had no right to talk to them like that. They’d lost their daughter – no parent should ever experience that – and in the most stomach-churning circumstances. They would have done anything to have saved her: they’d bought the flat, after all. They’d recognized the problem and done what they could. And now here was a foul-tempered child accusing them of not doing enough.

  I’m amazed we ever got through it, but we did. You can only stay angry for so long. I just needed to let off steam, shed the tears I’d bottled up for too long. It wasn’t Granny and Grandpa’s fault, I knew that. Nothing was. They were victims, just like me. No, I realized with great sourness, there is only one person who deserves the blame for this. Mum.

  TEN

  I Was a Handful

  It wasn’t just losing their daughter that tested Reg and Daphne Beavis. As far as Granny and Grandpa were concerned, they’d raised their family, watched them grow up and moved on to plot their retirements together. Now here they were, saddled with an eight-year-old at their time of life. On top of that, Grandpa had been forced to take early retirement to get the money to try to save his daughter. He’d bought the flat, done as much as he could. And now Jenny was gone – and so was his job. In the end, he took a part-time job in advertising. Anything to get out of the house.

  In hindsight, it can’t have been easy for either of them. Being grandparents is one thing – and I’d always loved staying with them at weekends or random week nights, either with Mum or alone – but taking on a parental role is something else entirely. That’s when rules come in. And I was not a child used to rules.

  Time had little meaning when I was living with Mum. In this new, scary world, I discovered that everything ran by the clock. There was a time for breakfast, a time for lunch, a time for evening meals. There was a time for school, a time for playing, a time for church, for Brownies, for cleaning my teeth. There was even a time for bed. That was the hardest one of all. After a lifetime of falling asleep, eating and playing when I felt like it, fitting into this regimented structure was difficult.

  I wasn’t the only one who lived by the clock. My grandparents did too. After Grandpa’s military background, it was probably the only way he knew.

  For example, Saturdays began with homework, if I had any, before I was allowed out to play with friends in the woodland or park at the back of the house. There was a pitch and putt course, which was always fun, especially if you could get on without paying, and there were tennis courts where I would later practise when I was part of the school doubles team. Sundays were even more rigid: after church it was my job to clean all the brass in the house, while Grandpa chopped the vegetables and Granny prepared the weekly roast. Afterwards Grandpa always washed up, while Granny and I retired to the lounge to play cards, with some classic Sunday afternoon Bing Crosby or Omar Sharif film playing in the background. Grandpa never played, but he would come in and do the Telegraph crossword until he fell asleep. Then, at 4.30 on the dot, it was time for high tea – and scones! Then the radio would come on for the evening or we’d listen to the Carpenters on Granny’s old eight-track player. It was a lovely, calm atmosphere and I really appreciated all the effort my grandparents were making.

  If only things weren’t quite so regimented . . .

  I wasn’t a wild child, exactly, but I was used to my independence. I’d always come and gone as I pleased, just as Mum had done. I could wire a plug, peel vegetables, light fires. I could lay kitchen floors, for Christ’s sake. In effect, I’d been living as an adult for as long as I could remember. All that came to a screeching halt at Tremola Avenue and, I admit, it was hard to go from a lifetime of semi self-governance to a world where Granny insisted on brushing my hair, I wasn’t allowed out in the dark and touching sharp knives was forbidden because they were too dangerous for someone my age.

  My grandparents were only trying to give me back some semblance of a childhood, but I couldn’t see that. All I could see was that they were imposing rule after rule after rule and taking away the one thing I’d always had: my freedom.

  Initially it was a rough ride. I was a handful and I thought their curfews were silly. They probably came down on me hard at the start, but you can understand why. They’d lost one child to indiscipline. They were damned if I was going to go down the same carefree route.

  Whatever our early teething problems, I know their hearts were in the right place. When my grandfather died, Granny gave me a box of his letters which included Grandpa’s claim to become my guardian. In it he says, ‘I am a fit and capable man on early retirement and able to offer a good home and background to the said minor. I am in receipt of a pension of £4,000 a year and own capital property worth approximately £30,000. Said minor has for some years been very close to me and my wife because of my daughter’s illness and incapacity prior to her death. I am confident that my wife and I will provide a good home and education for Cathy.’

  He also goes on to say he would ‘allow reasonable access for the petitioner to the said child’. It’s all so formal and, when I first read the letter, I struggled to make out who was who. I was obviously the child, but who was the ‘petitioner’? And then I came across another letter, from my father. So he was the petitioner and he had requested access. I was a bit shocked by his demands: ‘I would ask that reasonable access should be defined as being allowed to take my daughter out for one day a month, following three days�
� notice.’ One day a month? In all honesty, I can’t recall seeing him at all during my younger years.

  My grandparents took all responsibility, then, and became my surrogate parents. I don’t know if you ever appreciate at the time the people who do the most for you – and children, of course, take for granted the fact that someone will be there for them. In an ideal world, out of sheer gratitude alone, I would have been the perfect child. For a while, and to a certain extent, I was. But it wouldn’t last.

  Because of Grandpa’s early retirement, he wasn’t exactly flush with cash. I didn’t appreciate that at the time and, approaching my ninth birthday, I decided it was time to finally get rid of my biggest embarrassment.

  ‘Can I have a new bike, please, Grandpa?’ I begged.

  He thought about it for less than a second.

  ‘No,’ he replied, ‘but I’ll get you another tyre!’

  And he did. What other nine-year-old wakes up on their birthday to unwrap a black tyre and wheel? In hindsight, of course, he did the right thing. I’m the same now. My son isn’t spoilt. Tough love is the only way to go. But no child appreciates it at the time.

  Apart from my grandparents’ rules, school quickly became the mainstay of my life. I couldn’t get over the way it just continued to be there, day after day. I’d never had structure in my life. Getting to grips with timekeeping and homework deadlines took a while, but once the penny had dropped I was a new person. Whatever it was in me that enabled me to survive the unwanted attentions of men like Mark, Brian and their mates had made me stronger. School was nothing compared to that. Just as I’d actually enjoyed making the bongs and joints and taken pride in caring for our flat and for Mum, I totally embraced schoolwork. It was a challenge, there was a logic to it and I could see the path I needed to take to make progress. That was enough for me. I love a challenge.

  Not being able to read or write is a bit of a disadvantage when you join a school late – especially if everyone else can. Unsurprisingly, I was bottom of the class from the moment I stepped through the doors of Saltdean Primary School. But, I’m proud to say, it didn’t last. Set me a challenge and I will meet it. If I can, I’ll beat it. That’s how I am now and that’s how I was then. Whether it was rolling joints or playing glockenspiels in the sand, I wanted perfection and I was prepared to work for it.

  Everyone in the class was above me, but there were these two brainboxes, Peter Haslem and Jeremy Kempton, who were head and shoulders above everyone. Once I’d got my feet under the table, there was only one target. I thought, I’m not having this. I want to beat them.

  So I knuckled down and I worked and I worked and I worked and, by the end of the first year, I’d almost done it. I was in the top three for just about everything, just fractionally behind these two in most subjects. It was quite an achievement. These lads were singled out as potential Mensa candidates, so I was thrilled to be first among the ordinary kids!

  I wouldn’t say I was naturally gifted, but I am definitely a grafter. I really thrived on applying myself, which was just as well because Grandpa insisted on the highest standards. He was very strict. If I made a mistake in my homework, especially once I’d gone up to senior school, I rewrote the whole thing. He wouldn’t tolerate crossings out and, of course, after a while I grew to despise them as well, so I would just start again. I didn’t mind. The strive for perfection burnt bright.

  It wasn’t just Grandpa who was pleased with my progress. I was in the headmaster’s office every single week to get a gold star for the quality of my work. And if there was a new hall display, you could guarantee one of my stories or pictures would be up there. I was completely unrecognizable from the illiterate little girl who’d had to be escorted screaming from the premises.

  If I wasn’t doing homework, I’d be customizing my books. We are an artistic family and I’d think nothing of spending all my free time decorating the covers of my exercise books with colourful borders or intricate flower designs. It was the same diligence that I’d applied to making pom-poms for Mushka back at Telscombe Cliffs, although I tried not to think about that.

  Mum was rarely far from my thoughts, but I had to select the memories. Too many, in hindsight, were soured by this new knowledge of drug-taking. Despite my best efforts, I’d begun to wonder, If it was so dangerous, why did you do it? Why risk your life and leave me all alone?

  But it wasn’t hard to sift out the good memories. Mum never told me off or made me do much that I didn’t want to. Life with her was fun. Just being with her made me happy. She was all I needed. I just wished I had been enough for her.

  Outside school, my thirst for perfection – and, I admit, hunger for winning – was there in everything. When I was young Granny would take me to Brownies. After that I couldn’t wait to join the Girl Guides. I loved everything about it, but what really thrilled me was collecting the achievement badges – for reading, sewing, helping, you name it. The target was thirty-three badges, which nobody got. I’d managed thirty-two by the time I left. One more and I would have qualified for the Queen’s Guard. I wasn’t particularly disappointed to have missed out because it was working towards a goal that really excited me. In any case, I did get to go to a massive Girl Guide jamboree and I always had a really great time.

  I loved a challenge. I was soon picked for the school tennis team and no sooner had Grandpa taken me for swimming lessons at Roedean School for Girls than I was begging him for more and more practice time. Six months after my first lesson I represented the school in a competition. I obviously had a really competitive streak, but Granny was the one with the high aspirations for me.

  ‘You’ll have tea with the Queen one day,’ she told me one morning as she teased my hair into its usual top-knot. ‘It’s your destiny.’

  Of course, as a little girl, I wanted to believe that, so when Granny insisted I learn the correct way to break open and butter a scone, I listened and copied devoutly. It wasn’t just afternoon tea she was concerned about. I was schooled in all manner of etiquette, all in preparation for that day when I would dine with royalty – and marry a certain type of gentleman. Our Sunday afternoons were already packed, but somehow Granny found time to teach me how to speak correctly, how to carry myself upright with books on my head, how to eat fairy cakes, even how to get in and out of cars with grace. It was like being at a Swiss finishing school.

  The final piece of her jigsaw, she thought, was ballroom-dancing lessons. ‘For when you take a twirl around Buckingham Palace.’

  The original Come Dancing programme was on television at the time and, as a nine-year-old, I used to love watching those glamorous couples spinning around the screen. What little girl wouldn’t dream of wearing dresses like that? So Granny made me some wonderful outfits and I started classes. Like everything else I’d set my mind to so far, I excelled. I won badges for my foxtrot, my cha-cha, my paso doble. You name it, I danced it.

  A year or two later I wanted a new challenge. This time it would have nothing to do with preparing me for meeting the Queen. To her credit, Granny didn’t baulk when I announced I’d like to take up judo, even though she’d really enjoyed dressing me like a dancing princess. But she did make me choose.

  ‘We’ve only got money for one class. It’s either judo or dancing.’

  I had plenty of little trophies for ballroom, so martial arts it was. A year or two later, the familiar story: myriad colourful belts hanging up in my wardrobe. Such a desire to win at everything.

  No sooner had I learnt to read than I wanted to do it all the time. There wasn’t an Enid Blyton or Nancy Drew book in the village that I didn’t devour. The more I read, the more I wanted to enact the adventures. Kids used to play outside unattended all the time in those days, so gangs of us would run around the local coppice pretending we were detectives, leaving clues and shadowing each other. I was pretty much a tomboy, I suppose. I even built and raced go-karts.

  Church still played a large role in our lives, despite Grandpa’s epiphany. He was st
ill a warden and we still attended every Sunday. I was a little star of the choir and Sunday School and helped Granny with the flowers and, even though I wasn’t sold on the religious aspect of it all, once again I found myself thriving on the routine. I loved tasks, I loved trying to better my previous work – and everyone else’s. When the church held a fête, I would spend weekends knitting and sewing and cutting and drawing and making as much as I could to sell. Whenever there was a craft show, you’d find me manning a stall, flogging my own little stuffed animals or table decorations. I was such a sweet little girl – I wonder sometimes where she went!

  I loved keeping myself busy. After all those years of just hanging around with Mum, rarely having anything to do apart from household chores, I really responded to a full diary. I suppose I had Granny and Grandpa to thank for that, for packing my early life with events and inspiration. And I found myself realizing that Mum had had exactly the same opportunities. What had made her throw it all away?

  By the time I finished at Saltdean Primary I had achieved just about everything I could. When it came time to move up to Long hill Secondary, I was genuinely excited. I must have thought my reputation as an achiever would count for something there. I was wrong.

  It was a classic case of big fish/little pond syndrome. At Longhill, though, several little ponds merged and I very quickly realized I was out of my depth.

  Whereas Saltdean was a lovely village school whose pupils played nicely together in the copse after class – as I did most afternoons with my friends Peter, Debbie and Sally – some of the other schools didn’t have such a good reputation. The kids from Woodingdean were like creatures from another planet. Granny warned me they would be rough and she wasn’t joking. The girls wore make-up and even the boys had pierced ears. Attitude, though, was the main difference. If there was a chair and a child from Saltdean and one from Woodingdean wanted it, Woodingdean would win. The same with books, sports gear – even dinner money. I’d been there a week before some kid even smaller than me demanded I empty my pockets. Bearing in mind some of the horrendous things I’d witnessed and experienced from people scarier than these, I’m surprised now how much it affected me. I don’t think ballroom dancing would have impressed these kids, but why didn’t I at least try my judo on them? I suppose part of my grieving process over Mum included putting as much distance as possible between ‘new me’ and the horrors of the past. That’s not who I was.