House of Straw

by Marc Scott

  When she was not busy cleaning clothes or sewing, Mrs Houghton was cooking. She loved cooking, not just meals, she loved baking cakes. Poppy’s favourite was chocolate brownies. They tasted so good she could have eaten a hundred of them, not that Mr Houghton would have been too pleased if she did. She allowed Poppy to help when she was in the kitchen, letting her lick the mix from the bowl to confirm that they tasted good enough, before baking them in the oven. Poppy’s attempts at trying to make them herself were amusing to say the least, but the large round lady of the house, with a big smile and a loud laugh to match, would assure her that with plenty of practice she would get better. Poppy often thought that all that cooking every day was probably the reason that Mrs Houghton was so big and so round. She never told her that of course. Her new foster parent would forever be saying to her, ‘We will make a chef out of you yet, little Poppet, you wait and see.’ But Poppy never did learn to cook.

  That’s what she became over the first few weeks in their home, Mrs Houghton’s ‘little Poppet’. Her new foster mother would forever be on the telephone to her friends saying things like ‘my little Poppet baked some biscuits today’ or ‘I bought a lovely little yellow dress for my little Poppet’. The only time she ever saw her angry was when Poppy had found a photograph of her and Mr Houghton’s daughter. It was hidden in a cupboard that was usually kept locked. Mrs Houghton snatched the photograph out of Poppy’s hand and told her that her daughter was a most ungrateful girl, who moved away to a place called Canada. It was very far away, too far for them to visit her. Because of this, her and Mr Houghton no longer spoke to their daughter and said that Poppy should never mention her again. Poppy never knew their daughter’s name, but she wondered at the time why she would ever move so far away from such nice people.

  The house was large. It had a long garden at the back with a fishpond and a neatly kept hedge. It must have been near an airport because the planes that flew over were very low. Poppy could hear their engines clearly as they would take off and land. She would often sit in their beautifully kept garden, watching those planes flying overhead, wondering if she would ever be brave enough to be in one of them, so high up in the sky.

  And she had a friend too, his name was Skittles. He was a large ginger cat, with lumps of fur missing from his back and tummy. He was nearly fourteen years old and was blind in one eye. Sometimes he would fall over for no reason, but Poppy never laughed at his mishaps. She did not want to upset the Houghtons.

  Skittles was the ‘king of the house’. He had a large purple pillow in his basket with his name engraved on it and all his meals were freshly cooked. He was never given anything out of a tin. He even had his own cushion on the sofa, in between Mr and Mrs Houghton, and he would sit there in the evening watching the television with the couple, usually once Poppy had gone to bed. According to Mrs Houghton the cat had his own favourite TV programmes, something which Poppy found bizarre to say the least.

  Most nights when Poppy was supposed to be in bed, she would creep to the top of the stairs and look down at the three of them sitting cozily on the sofa, watching the television. Mr and Mrs Houghton always seemed to be laughing. Poppy never knew what they found so funny all the time. Skittles would simply lie there having his balding tummy tickled, no doubt waiting for one of his favourite shows to start. Poppy often thought that her foster carers were both a little strange around the ageing ginger cat.

  So those first couple of months were good at the big house near the airport. Poppy had some new clothes, she had learned to play four tunes on the piano and they had enrolled her to start at a local school once the summer was over. Every day was good. She would make cakes, learn a new tune on the piano, play silly games with Skittles. Every day was good at that house, every day, but not Sundays, Poppy hated Sundays.

  Each week when the loud bells at the end of the road would welcome the locals into the old church for Sunday service, Mr Houghton would be hurrying his wife to make sure she was not late for her journey. Every Sunday he would take her to the local station, so that she could catch the 10.16 train to London to visit her mother. Every week, without fail, he would make that trip, taking him less than half an hour to get there and back. Every Sunday Poppy waited nervously for him to return, and then it would start, the reason she hated Sundays so much.

  Firstly, on his return, before it started, Mr Houghton would always make sure she was wearing a dress. She was never allowed to wear jeans or trousers on a Sunday. He used to say that it was ‘out of respect for God’s day of worship’. But it didn’t take Poppy long to realise that there was nothing ‘God-like’ or ‘respectful’ about Mr Houghton.

  It always started the same way. They would sit at the piano together in his special room and he would pretend to show her how to play a new tune. He would hold her next to him on the piano stool, squeezing her tightly so she could not move. His hand would then go up beneath her dress and inside her knickers. She never moved when he did this. She wanted to, but something about him frightened her. She remembered when Mr Donovan had done the same thing to her at the children’s home at Bluebridge, and the staff there had not believed her, so why would anyone believe her now?

  After a while he would place her hand around his private parts and make her rub him hard. His face would turn red and be all twisted and distorted when she did this. Sometimes he would make funny noises and he would be shaking as though his head was about to explode, but it never did. Her ordeal would usually last around half an hour, a little less if she was lucky. Afterwards he would give her a couple of packets of sweets he had bought on the way back from the station and let her help herself to the chocolate ice cream in the freezer. She never liked that ice cream anymore, she would pretend to eat it and simply let it melt in the bowl. Poppy would usually spend the rest of the day looking out of the skylight of her room, watching the planes going backwards and forwards. He would lock himself away in his music room, playing very old songs, very loudly. She didn’t like those songs, she didn’t like Sundays, she didn’t like Mr Houghton anymore.

  At exactly twenty past five, he would leave to collect his wife from the station, but not without a lecture for her. He would tell her that Mrs Houghton would always believe him over her and that she was nothing but a ‘little wretch that been thrown into the gutter by her parents’. He reminded her that she was lucky to be living in such a lovely house with good people and that she should be thankful. Poppy certainly didn’t feel very lucky at that time.

  Mrs Houghton would return from the station with him, both laughing. Something or other always seemed to amuse them. Poppy would usually make herself scarce, sometimes pretending that she had a tummy upset or was exhausted from running around too much that day. In her bedroom she would look up at the skylight, watching the planes, until she fell asleep. Something told her that she would be brave enough to fly now, up there, high in the sky, to get away, far, far away. She sometimes wondered if her mother had flown on one of those planes and gone somewhere far away. Maybe she had gone to Canada, perhaps she had met the Houghtons’ daughter. Maybe their daughter had told her that her father was not a very nice person, maybe her mother would come back for her, to get her away from him. But something in the back of her mind always told her that she was only fooling herself, her mother would never be coming back for her.

  She wanted to tell Laura, each time that she visited the house to check how things were. She wanted to ask her if she could find another place for her to live. But she remembered how friendly she was with the Houghtons, often laughing at their silly jokes and spending most of her time stroking Skittles’ tummy. She thought Laura might think she was making things up or being ungrateful. She didn’t want to be sent back to the Bluebridge home, so she thought it better to say nothing.

  When Laura did next visit, Poppy asked her about her parents. Laura had promised that she would do her best to get in touch with them. She made it clear, however, that there had still be
en no contact and promised to keep trying. Poppy began to believe that Mr Houghton was right after all, maybe she was just a ‘little wretch whose parents didn’t want her’.

  Poppy never slept well on Saturday nights, she would lie on her bed hoping that Mrs Houghton would fall ill or find a reason not to go to her mother’s the next day. Why couldn’t her mother visit them? Or why couldn’t her mother move far away, like her daughter did, too far for her to visit on a Sunday? Sometimes she would get on her knees and pray that Mrs Houghton’s mother would die. If she was dead, there would never be any need for the woman to leave the house again. But, like most things Poppy prayed for in her life, her prayers were never answered.

  On this warm Sunday morning they were running late for the 10.16 train. Skittles had been ill the previous night and Mrs Houghton was worried and wanted to find a vet that was open at weekends. But her husband was determined that she visit her mother that day. She reluctantly agreed. The lovely large lady still found time to put Poppy’s hair into a neat ponytail, as she often did, and gave her one of her ‘special hugs’ before she left. Poppy had hoped that Mrs Houghton would see something was not right in her sorrowful eyes before she departed, but she didn’t.

  When they left for the station, Poppy sat next to Skittles on the long sofa and reached for the remote control for the television. ‘And we are watching my favourite programmes today, stupid fat cat,’ she said. ‘Not yours!’ Running through the channels she found a music station she had not seen before. She liked the music, she left it on. When she looked down at the clock on the DVD player, it was nearly half past ten. He would be back soon. Her mind began to wander as the music blared out in front of her. She started to move and then dance to the beat of the track playing. There on the screen was a handsome black man stripped to his waist. He was gyrating on the bonnet of a car. There were scantily dressed girls, dancing behind him. Just for that moment, Poppy was on that screen, she was in that video, she was one of those dancers. She swayed around the living room, the music was thumping out from the television, the man on the car singing out louder and louder, but then suddenly she stopped. He was there, Mr Houghton had returned, he was watching her, she could see the anger in his face.

  She knew what was coming. Her eyes began searching desperately for an exit route or maybe something to defend herself with. But he was quick. Before she knew what was happening, he had swept her tiny legs up into the air and had her under his arm. She screamed and shouted as he carried her towards the music room, her legs kicking out at him along the way. Once inside the room she watched him close the door and turn the key in the lock. She knew that this was it now. Her shouting stopped as he threw her feeble body onto the floor. He towered over her, a twisted smile on his wrinkled face.

  Looking up at him, Poppy could see that anger was still there in his eyes. She had really upset him this time. She offered him a child-like smile. She hoped he might take pity on her. A smile that said, ‘Please don’t hurt me.’ But there would be no clemency today, Mr Houghton was in no mood for forgiveness.

  ‘So, you want to be a little whore?’ he asked her in a calm tone, almost as if he was asking which cereal she wanted for her breakfast. ‘You want to be a little whore, like all of those other whores on the television!’

  Poppy wanted to speak, she wanted to defend herself, but she was frozen to the spot. She shuffled her legs to get away from him, but he had her move covered. Grabbing her ponytail tightly in one hand and her body in the other he lifted her up and moved her towards the piano. She didn’t kick out at him, she knew that there wasn’t much point now. He placed her facedown on the piano stool, her head hung over the edge and he pinned his body down on top of her. His heavy weight made her gasp for air. He moved slightly to one side and she felt that she was able to breathe again. Suddenly, she felt her dress rise and touch the back of her head. She could hear him breathing, more heavily now, next to her face. Poppy winced as she felt his hand slip inside her knickers. In a matter of seconds, they had been pulled down and were around her ankles. She closed her eyes and her body shook. She knew what was coming next. This is what had happened at her previous foster home when she had refused to clean her room. She gritted her teeth and waited for the large slap that would follow, but it didn’t happen. She could now hear the zipper on his trousers and felt his skin touching the back of her legs. She began to panic, the music chair wobbled violently beneath her. He held her more firmly, one hand pushing her head down, so that she was unable to struggle, the other pushing her legs apart. And then he did it, he pushed it inside her, not where he usually put his fingers, but into her bottom. She screamed loudly, as she felt the excruciating pain as he pushed it further and further inside. Her eyes began to water, she bit her lip, her teeth biting so hard that her whole mouth began to bleed. It went on for what seemed to be forever, but in truth was probably less than a minute. Suddenly his head fell over the stool and his face was beside her neck. All at once he let out an enormous groan and his body moved violently on top of hers. All she could hear now was his heavy breathing and the sound of her heart racing inside her chest. She wanted to cry so badly at that point, she wanted to let go of a river of tears. Crying would surely ease this terrible pain she felt inside. But she didn’t cry, she bit her lip even harder, swallowing her own blood as the cut opened wider on her side of her mouth. She was in so much pain, but she refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing how much he had hurt her. Instead, she moved out from underneath him, and reached for her discarded underwear. No words were exchanged. What could he possibly have said to justify what he had just done to her? Poppy felt a sharp pain in her backside as she put on her knickers and pulled down her dress. It was a pain she would remember for the rest of her life. She moved away from the monster beside her, still trying hard to regain his composure, and sat by the door of his ‘special room’, waiting for him to release her from his torture.

  There were no sweets that day, no chocolate ice cream and no television. Poppy lay on her bed watching the planes fly past, praying that he would die now, instead of Mrs Houghton’s mother. That would be much better, she thought, if he were dead instead. Her bottom felt as if someone had kicked her there, kicked her very hard. She touched it a couple of times, but it began to make her feel sick inside. She noticed that a button had come off her dress in the struggle. Mrs Houghton will be angry, she thought, she will have to sew that back on. I will need to find that button for her now.

  Mr Houghton spent the rest of the day playing those old songs, very loudly, more loudly than she had ever heard him play them before. She didn’t want to hear those songs again, she despised them now. She wanted to run away from the house, but she knew she would not get very far. She lay on her bed, trying to work out the best way of escaping her tormentor. In Poppy’s head, she knew what she wanted to do now. He would be sorry for what he did to her. She didn’t care now if she had to go back to the home. Nobody did what he had done to her at Bluebridge, not even Mr Donovan, nobody was that evil.

  Something inside Poppy died that day, maybe it was the last shreds of her innocence. She felt different now, something happened to her at that moment in the music room. Her bitterness and helplessness had been replaced with an unequivocal feeling of anger, a burning rage that would stay with her for the rest of her life.

  She bided her time and waited for him to leave, the plan for revenge was slowly formulating in her head. Mr Houghton came to her room before he set off for the station. He did not come to apologise for the vile act he had performed on her that day, his despicable crime against a defenceless child. No, he had entered her room to remind her not to say anything to Mrs Houghton about what had happened. He used those words ‘unwanted’ and ‘gutter’ again in his warning, but this time Poppy was not listening.

  As soon as she heard his car leave the drive, she made her way downstairs to the music room, that terrible place where it had all happened. But she had not returned to the
scene of his brutal act to find the missing button from her dress. Reaching up onto one of the shelves, above the music books, she found several strips of piano wire. She chose the longest one, about eighteen inches in length, then walked back to the living room. Skittles was fast asleep on the sofa, probably wondering what would happen in his favourite shows later that evening. Poppy did not want to disturb the big cat. He was stretched out, purring gently, his overweight tummy no doubt waiting for a friendly rub. Poppy toyed with the wire for a few seconds, bending it and stretching it, before wrapping it around her wrist, as if to make a bracelet. Sitting on the edge of the sofa she looked down at her furry friend, so peaceful in his slumber. She watched him for a minute, maybe two, then delicately slipped the wire underneath his big ginger head. She slowly pulled the cord through, feeding it across the ring she had created and waited a few seconds. The poor unsuspecting creature was blissfully docile, he had hardly stirred at all.

  Suddenly, with one almighty yank on the wire, Poppy rose to her feet. Skittles screeched, an ear-piercing cry, as his body swung from the makeshift noose around his neck. A frantic struggle ensued as the animal’s paws clawed desperately at the wire. Poppy pulled harder, tightening the wire’s grip until it began to rip into the cat’s neck. Skittles continued to struggle, shaking violently and spitting venom at his aggressor. Poppy was undeterred, stretching her arms wider to tighten the grip even further. Suddenly the cat’s eyes bulged, wide and then wider, as if they were about to explode. Skittles lashed out at his attacker, hissing at her, his body began to gyrate, as if he was having a fit. Poppy stood firm, watching every strain of torment and agony on the poor animal’s face. Finally, the struggle ended, the cat stopped fighting, he stopped moving, it was all over. Skittles was dead!