by Cassie Harte
One of my jobs around the house was to make Mum’s bed, and the week before Christmas, as I moved her bedside table to tuck in the sheet, I spotted a box. A baby-doll-sized box. Of course I knew I shouldn’t look. But I did. I was only a little girl doing grown-up chores, and I couldn’t resist. As I lifted the lid, I could see the glowing china face and painted hair. Postwar, dolls had painted-on hair, not hair you could touch and comb like today’s dolls. He was beautiful. I wanted to lift him out of the box and hold him in my arms. I wanted to make his eyes open to see if they were blue. I wanted them to be blue. Not that that would have mattered—they could have been any colour and I’d have loved him.
I was beside myself with excitement as Christmas approached. None of the others liked dolls. My sisters were far too old and Anne was a tomboy, more interested in outdoor games. The doll had to be for me. It couldn’t be for anyone else.
Christmas morning finally came and we were all summoned to the ‘best room’. Mum brought in a large parcel for my brother first and he opened it to find a metal racing car painted in bright colours. He was thrilled with it and I was happy for him.
Then in came my dad, carrying the box. Although it was wrapped in Christmas wrapping, I knew it held the china doll. I half-stood up, ready for him to hand it to me, and then I heard Mum’s words and I froze.
‘This is your main present,’ she said to my little sister. ‘Come and see what we’ve bought you. You’ll love it.’
She glanced over at me, looking for my reaction, her eyes narrowed, as the box was placed on the floor in front of the child who didn’t like dolls. The child who hadn’t asked for a doll.
My little sister opened the parcel and said a polite thankyou. I held my breath. Perhaps they had another baby doll. Perhaps they would bring mine in next. Perhaps…perhaps I’d got it wrong again. Perhaps I wasn’t to get one. Perhaps I was right the first time.
After all the other presents had been handed out, and my sister had tossed the baby doll aside, my dad came in holding another present.
‘This is for you, Cassie,’ he said. ‘I made it specially.’
I didn’t dare look at Mum in case she spoiled the moment. I ran over to him and took the parcel in my arms.
‘How dare you have a present for her!’ Mum screamed. ‘How dare you do this in secret, without my permission? I never said you could, did I?’
For the first time in my life, I ignored Mum’s angry words. I took the gift Dad was handing me and unwrapped it to find a beautiful, hand-made pink cot. A doll’s cot. A cot for Suzie. I’d asked for a cradle the Christmas before and hadn’t got it. Dad must have remembered and decided to make me one out in his shed. I thought he’d been spending a lot of time out there, and on a couple of occasions when I’d gone out to visit him I’d been disappointed that he didn’t let me in. This must be why! He’d been making me a cot. I loved it. I loved him. I stood up and thanked him, with tears in my eyes.
But before I could fetch Suzie to show her the new bed, Mum, who was outraged, lifted this beautiful cot, the cot my Dad had spent evening after evening making. She lifted it high in the air without a thought for anyone, without even looking at it properly, and she threw it against the wall. It shattered into lots of pink splintery pieces. What was left in her hand, she hurled at me.
‘Did you really think I would let you have a present that had been made in deceit? Did you really expect me to let you have a present that you hadn’t asked for or deserved?’ Her voice was full of hate. ‘It’s shoddy, and made of painted tomato boxes. It’s shabby and cheap. And although you don’t deserve anything better, you won’t have it, I’ll make sure of that!’
I stood rooted to the spot, looking at her, then looking at Dad, and feeling numb. Did she really just do that? Was I seeing things? Did what I thought just happened, happen? Yes, it did, she had.
I must have done something very bad to deserve this mother. What had I ever done to her? Why did she hate me so much?
I would have loved that cot. The cot that my dad had worked on for weeks.The cot he made to make things better for me. But now there was no cot. Now there were broken bits of pink painted wood all over the best room floor.
No one moved.
No one spoke.
The room was silent. All you could hear were my tiny shivery sobs.
So Christmases and birthdays were times I learned to dislike, to put up with, just to get through. They never got any better. They were the perfect chance for Mum to show me how much she disliked my very being there. How the rest of her children were loved and I wasn’t.
To get me through the bad times, I made up a little story in my head. I’d imagine it at night when I lay in bed unable to sleep, embellishing it with extra details as I went along. The story went like this.
One day there was a knock at the door of our house, the house where I lived with a mother who hated me. She called out to me to answer it. On the doorstep stood a handsome man and a beautiful lady. They were dressed really well. I imagined their clothes in detail, right down to the shoes, and the lady’s handbag.
‘We’re here because there’s been a terrible mistake,’ the man said. ‘A mistake of the gravest concern.’ His voice was gentle, well-spoken.
The woman continued, ‘When we were very young, we had a baby. A baby girl. Because of our ages, we were forced to give her away. We had no choice. But now we have changed our minds and want her back. We’ve come to put the mistake right and take the little girl home with us.’
‘What age are you?’ the man asked. ‘And what’s your name?’
I answered their questions and they looked at each other. ‘It’s you, our beloved baby. We’ve missed you so much. Will you come home with us?’
I was loved. I was wanted. I would belong. They took me home and from then on I was the happiest child alive.
Chapter Six
When I was ten years old and at home in bed one day with Asian flu, Mum left me in the house on my own and went out with Ellen and Rosie. They didn’t tell me where they were going but they locked the door behind them, so at least I didn’t have to worry about Uncle Bill turning up.
When Mum got back, she came upstairs holding a little bundle of black fur.
‘This is for you,’ she said. ‘A present.’
I didn’t believe her. It had to be a trick. Why would Mum buy me a present? I looked more closely and saw that it was a tiny black puppy with its pink tongue hanging out. He was looking up at me trustingly.
I stretched out my hands. ‘Can I hold him?’
Mum pulled him away. ‘Not right now. You have to learn how to take care of him first.’
He was a black poodle puppy, a toy dog who would never grow very big, and Mum called him Bobby. He was the most adorable dog I’d ever seen and I was quickly smitten. But I soon realised that the only reason why Mum said Bobby was mine was because she wanted me to be responsible for walking him, feeding him, toilet-training him, and looking after any aspects of his care that constituted chores, so that she could enjoy the fun bits of pet ownership, such as sitting with him on her knee, stroking him and feeding him titbits when she felt like it. The ‘ownership’ was selective, depending on whether anything needed to be done at the time. He was most definitely my dog whenever a mess needed to be cleared up.
I didn’t mind at all, though. I took him out for walks at every opportunity, sometimes wandering as far as the sea, which was about four miles away from our home. Once there, I’d throw sticks for him on the beach and he’d fetch them and bring them back to me, or he would go for a swim while I paddled in the waves. Sometimes, if I had the money, I would buy an ice-cream and we would share it. I would break off the bottom of the cone and offer it to him with a little ice-cream in it and he would gulp it down. Then, if I had any money left, we’d take the opentopped bus back home again. We’d sit right at the front and Bobby would stand on my lap letting the wind lift his floppy ears.
One of the ways I made money was by hel
ping my brother Tom with his paper round. He wasn’t very good at getting up in the morning and most days he would tell me that he was running a bit late, he’d just be a minute and could I run into the shop and start to mark up his papers for him? I fell for it every time. I would rush off and mark the papers with the addresses and I’d have everything ready by the time he finally strolled in.
When we went out to do the paper round together, he would remain seated on his bike, roll up each paper then instruct me to deliver it to the appropriate house. My little legs would take me off as ordered, with Bobby running by my side, and I’d deliver the paper, then run back for the next one and the next and so on. At the end of the week, my brother would collect ten and sixpence from the newsagent and he’d give me the sixpence. Just sixpence, but that was OK. I didn’t mind because I loved Tom, although he was completely spoiled by Mum.
Bobby provided me with a perfect excuse to leave the house when Mum’s nagging was getting too much for me: time for another walk. He was a loving, affectionate dog and I quickly grew to love him dearly. He was loyal to me, running to the door to greet me as soon as I got home from school and following me around the house as I did my chores. When I was sad, after Mum had been screaming abuse at me, or after a trip out somewhere with Uncle Bill, Bobby would look up at me with his big dark eyes and it was as if he knew, and was saying, ‘Don’t worry, I love you.’
Times with Bobby were in-between times, good times, but there were bad things going on as well. Nasty things. Uncle Bill started coming to pick me up from school in his car on the days when he wasn’t working.
‘Isn’t that kind of him?’ Mum would coo. ‘Say thank you, Cassie.’
On the way home, he’d always find some excuse to make a detour, then he’d park in the bluebell woods and make me do disgusting, awful things in the back of the car. And there was a horrible new development in his games. One time, after I had found the ‘love toy’ in his trousers, he told me I had to lick the foul thing until it was clean. When I said I couldn’t, he tried to push my head down into his lap and force it into my mouth. I started to sob hysterically, terrified that I would choke to death, and at last he stopped, muttering crossly that I would have to do it another time. The thought was petrifying to me. Did people really do these things? How did they breathe? How did they stop themselves from retching and throwing up?
I was always looking for excuses to get out of accepting a lift with Uncle Bill: too much homework, chores to be done at home, Girls’ Brigade on Fridays and, of course, walking the dog. I found another refuge at the age of ten when Mum volunteered me to sing in the local church choir. The choir had a dwindling population and needed some new voices. Trying to impress the vicar, Mum offered him my services and so it was arranged that I would have to sing at church twice on Sundays, attend a choir practice on Wednesday evenings, and then I’d have to be there some Saturdays for weddings as well. I was over the moon at this! Four times a week when Bill couldn’t take me out and force me to do the things I hated with a passion. Four times a week when Mum couldn’t yell at me or order me around. The choir was a refuge where I could be me, rather than the object of her anger and ridicule. I’d felt sure I’d be safe there. Safe from the evil that was Bill.
I had always enjoyed Sunday school back when I was younger, and I believed in the teachings of the church. Perhaps once I joined the choir, God would answer my prayers and keep me safe from now on. Perhaps God would protect me from Uncle Bill. That’s what I wished more than anything else in the world.
I loved every aspect of being a member of the choir. The music was beautiful, the other singers were all very nice to me, and I liked the whole atmosphere of the church. I hadn’t been singing there for long when our vicar, a lovely man who had been a missionary in Africa, asked if I wanted start confirmation classes so I could become a full member of the church. I said yes straight away, hoping that if I became a proper member of God’s family I would be protected. Hoping that these classes would provide at least one more night a week when I was safe from unwelcome attention.
There was no one else to protect me. I’d told Mum what he did with me, that he touched me between the legs and hurt me, and still she waved me off gaily when he came to pick me up.
‘Go on, my love,’ she’d say. ‘Have a nice time.’ She never spoke harshly to me in front of Bill. She was all smiles and sweetness and light around him, but I knew that it was more than my life was worth to argue back. I’d tried that when I was seven and my life wasn’t worth living for months afterwards.
And if I ever tried to resist Uncle Bill and stop him doing what he wanted, he would say that he had the right to do it, which puzzled me a lot. What gave him that right? Did all men have a right to make little girls hold their ‘love toys’? Did all men have the right to touch them inside their panties?
‘You know you like it,’ he’d say. ‘I can tell you do. Men know these things.’
But he was wrong. I hated it more than anything else in the world. It was the worst thing that ever happened to me, and it kept happening week in, week out, all year round. All I could think of was to keep myself as busy as I possibly could so that there was less time when I could be with him.
My eleventh birthday came and went and it was time to sit the Eleven Plus exams that would decide whether I was bright enough to go to the local grammar school or whether I had to attend the secondary modern. My mother was determined that I had to go to the grammar, not because she cared about my future prospects but because she wanted to be able to boast about it to the neighbours. Having a clever child would reflect well on her. Tom had failed the Eleven Plus because he never worked very hard at school but Mum couldn’t stay angry with her precious boy for long. The pressure transferred to me. I had to be the one who was an academic success.
My grades at school had been slipping, though, with all the trauma and insecurity of my life. I hardly ever felt safe. I found it hard to trust anyone. I tried to study for the exams but my thoughts were elsewhere, constantly worrying every time there was a knock on the door that it would be Bill coming to pick me up and take me out for a drive, or that Mum would find some reason to pick on me for a household chore I hadn’t done to her satisfaction.
I sat the first part of the exams, but before the second part came along I caught a cold and became very run-down. I couldn’t seem to shake off a bad cough and sore throat, I was having trouble getting to sleep at night and I didn’t have any appetite for food. On the day of the second part of the exams I struggled in to school and sat at my desk staring at the exam paper, feeling more and more weak and dizzy. Then I began a coughing fit and couldn’t stop. One of the teachers came over to help me out of the room for a drink of water, and as I stood up the world went black and I collapsed on the floor of the exam hall.
I was taken home by my worried form teacher and a doctor was called, who listened to my chest and told me I had pneumonia. I’d have to take antibiotics and stay in bed for several weeks to get my strength back. If it got any worse, he said, I’d have to be admitted to hospital.
Mum was furious when she heard the news. She managed to act the concerned mother for as long as the doctor was there but as soon as he left she screamed at me: ‘Typical! How am I supposed to look after you? As if I’m not busy enough.’
And then another thought occurred to her. ‘I suppose this means you’ll fail the Eleven Plus and you won’t get in to the grammar school. You’ve done this deliberately to hurt me, haven’t you? You’re such a selfish child.’
I didn’t see how catching pneumonia could possibly be my own fault. Being stuck at home for weeks on end with Mum looking after me was a horrific thought and not something I would ever have chosen deliberately. I wouldn’t be able to escape by walking the dog or going to choir practice or confirmation classes. I would be at the mercy of her tongue-lashing all day, every day, and I felt far too weak to deal with it. I kept having hacking coughing fits that left me drained and exhausted. Everything
was an effort, even breathing.
Then, when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, Uncle Bill came round to visit. ‘You need a bit of time off, Kath,’ he said to Mum. ‘You’re a saint for looking after her like this, but if you want to nip out to the shops or to get your hair done, I don’t mind sitting with her. In fact, it would be a pleasure.’ He winked at me.
‘No, Mum, don’t go!’ I protested weakly.
‘Bless her, she wants her mum.’ She smiled at Bill and raised her eyebrows. ‘Don’t be silly, dear. Your uncle is perfectly capable of looking after you. You’ll be just fine.’ And off she went with a clip-clop of her high heels down the path.
Bill sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes glittering, and he felt my forehead, which was burning with fever. ‘Now we can have some fun,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve missed my little Cassie.’
I tried to jerk away as his hands dived under the covers, pulling up my nightdress, but there was no escape. He tried to climb on top of me but I began to wheeze and cough.
‘Please don’t,’ I rasped. ‘I can’t breathe.’
I thought this would stop him and was relieved when he got off me.
‘OK,’ he said, ‘we’ll have to try something else.’ He was very red in the face and seemed to be in a hurry. He opened his trousers then pulled me off the bed and tried to get me to kneel in front of him, but I couldn’t balance.
‘For goodness sake, just stand up and take this into your mouth.’
Not that again. Please, God, no. ‘I can’t,’ I moaned desperately, shaking my head from side to side. ‘Please, I can’t.’
But he forced my mouth open and pushed inside, making me gag. I couldn’t breathe because my nose was blocked with the cold. I thought my mouth was going to rip at the sides, he was so big. I kept gagging and gagging but still he wouldn’t stop, and the coughing was trapped in my chest so I felt as though I was choking. The back of my neck hurt where his hand was gripping me. It was horrible, disgusting, nasty, awful.