‘Look at him! Reedy as a rake,’ my dad would sneer at John.
But I was not a great big man. To my five-year-old eyes, John was a big boy and I looked up to him, in all ways.
I held his hand tightly as we crossed the main road between the beach and the hotel, John’s eyes darting from left to right as we zigzagged between the cars and scooters. He steered me through the crowds milling in the lobby and then took me up to the first floor, eventually turning the tasselled key in the door to our suite. The door swung open and I skipped in behind him, already throwing off my beach dress in readiness at getting into a nice, hot, bubbly bath. Only my little swimming cossie remained next my sandy skin.
‘Okay, shall we run a bath for you?’ John asked me in a singsong way. ‘Get all that sand out of your hair?’
Smiling, I nodded enthusiastically.
The large roll-top bath in the marble bathroom filled quickly and after dropping my blue swimming costume on the floor, I was lifted in gently by my big brother. Taking a cup from the sink, John filled it with water and, tipping my forehead back at a slight angle, slowly bathed my head before taking the shampoo and lathering my hair into foam shapes.
‘Do the spikes! Do the spikes!’ I squealed, as I looked at my funny reflection in the mirror opposite. John, obligingly, molded my hair into two spiky horns at the top of my head.
Then, using the foam from my hair, he washed my back.
‘Stand up,’ he ordered. ‘So I can wash you all over.’
As I stood up, I held my arms in the air and he rubbed my shoulders, my chest, under my arms and my torso. As he reached my bottom he took extra care and attention, slowly working his way through my legs with his hands. He looked at me as he did this, a strange expectant smile on his lips.
‘Does this feel good?’ he asked.
I just shrugged. It felt fine, I supposed, but why was he taking so long down there? All this foam everywhere, washing me over and over again in the same place. Down there.
My mind started to wander. I remembered that tonight there was some entertainment at the hotel. I will wear my white sailor dress again, I thought, the one I love best. Now, is it a disco? Or is it a live band? I don’t . . .
Ow! A pain shot through my private parts. What was that?
John had put his finger inside me. Just a little bit, but it hurt. I stared at him in surprise and there he was again, watching me, intently.
‘This is good,’ he said slowly, quietly, still holding my gaze. ‘This is what special brothers and sisters do together. But it’s our secret. Okay?’
I didn’t speak. Spreading my legs further apart with both his arms he carried on working the foam inside me, very softly and slowly.
What is this? Why is he doing it? I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all. He is touching my private parts and it hurts.
But I didn’t know how to tell him to stop. He was my older brother and he knew better than me. This is what special brothers and sisters did together, that’s what he’d said.
After a little while, he stopped and for a moment I was relieved, expecting that it was time to shower off and get out of the bath.
But John didn’t pick up the shower head. Instead, he stood up and removed his T-shirt and swimming shorts. He climbed into the bath and sat down opposite me, holding onto his thingy with one hand between his legs.
‘Sit down, Dawn,’ he ordered, then he pulled me towards him so that each of my legs went around his waist and I was now sitting on his lap, facing him.
He held his thingy with one hand and, with the other, he moved me onto it.
Oh no. Oh no! Pain shot up inside me.
‘Is this hurting?’
I nodded, too afraid to talk, confused and scared to do the wrong thing.
His thing was inside me. Placing his hands under each of my arms, he lifted me gently until I was directly on top of him. His eyes now shut, he moved his arms behind the base of my back and with one awful movement, he thrust his pelvis up and pushed me down hard.
I wanted to scream. It felt like my insides were being split in two. I sat motionless as the bath water turned red around us.
‘Shhhhh . . .’ he whispered, stroking my hair. ‘It is always a bit uncomfortable at first but it will get easier the more we do this. As your big brother, I promise.’
I put my arms around his neck as he thrust himself inside me, trusting his words that he would not hurt me. I shook now, my whole body vibrating from the impact and the terrible pain that was growing worse and worse with every single thrust. If he goes on any longer, I’ll surely break apart, I panicked silently. But I was too scared to cry. I didn’t want to upset him and I felt that if I stayed as still as a statue, it wouldn’t hurt quite so much.
‘Hold onto me tightly,’ he instructed and, immediately, I did as I was told. I wrapped my legs snugly round his waist and my arms around his neck. This close, I could smell the sea in my brother’s tousled hair and hear the strange deep grunts coming from somewhere in his chest. I fixed my eyes on the gleaming brass taps in the bath as I bounced up and down. His movements were slow and deep and after a few moments, he sighed and pushed with one longer thrust, before exhaling and staying still.
Neither of us moved for what felt like eternity. Then, slowly, he lifted me off him and stroked my hair, before pulling the plug out of the bath to drain away the pink water.
Finally, he turned on the shower head and washed off all the soap from both of us. I hardly moved a muscle, too afraid even to breathe.
And all the while my brother whispered to me: ‘That was very good, Dawn. That was lovely, you made your brother very happy. What a good girl. Are you clean now? All over? Good, come on then, let’s get you out.’
Wrapping me in a towel, he carried me through to the bedroom.
‘Next time it will be easier,’ he said quietly. ‘I promise.’
I said nothing in reply. Next time?
John crouched down in front of me then and, for once, looked me in the eye. ‘Now remember,’ he said solemnly. ‘This is our special secret. If you tell anyone what’s just happened, the police will come and take you away. You won’t see Mum or Dad again, or any of us. It’s okay for me because I’m a big boy, but you’re just a little girl so you have to keep quiet. This is our secret, so don’t tell anyone. Okay? I’m just trying to protect you.’
I lay still, not crying, thinking only of the throbbing pain between my legs – and one other, dark thought.
How will ‘next time’ be easier?
Chapter 2
This Is Normal
Once John had started, he didn’t seem able to stop. Now, after every day on the beach, he took me back to the hotel alone, where he would run a bath for me and put his thing inside me. I hated every single minute of it but I didn’t know how to stop him. He was my big brother and I had to do what he said. If I didn’t, he would tell Mum and then they would take me ‘into care’ which meant leaving home forever and never seeing anyone again.
‘You’re a good girl, Dawn,’ he’d whisper in my ear afterwards. ‘You’re keeping your big brother’s secrets safe for him, and you make me very happy.’
I didn’t know what this meant but I was pleased at least that this made him happy. So I just carried on as normal and hoped that the problem would go away once we got home.
As the train lumbered into Glasgow station, Dad’s huge, oversized frame was easy to spot on the station platform. I was thrilled to see him. I loved my dad so much; he was a big bear to me, the one person in my family who gave me cuddles and love.
‘Look at you all!’ he laughed as we each hugged him in turn. ‘Don’t you look tanned! Except you, John. Still white as a sheet, I see. What happened? Did you stay inside the whole time?’
Now back at the hotel, we still had three weeks left of the summer holidays. Not Mum, though. No sooner had she put away her expensive summer clothes in their plastic dry-cleaning covers than she donned her blue apron, all ready to start
cooking again. And us children had our chores too. There, up on the kitchen wall, was the rota for our duties in the coming week – walking the dog, taking out the rubbish, setting the table, bringing in the coal, clearing the table – and we were all expected to carry out our domestic duties accordingly.
‘It’s your turn to take the dog out today,’ Mum said to John over breakfast the morning after our return. My brother let out an exaggerated ‘Urgh!’ and my dad’s eyes flashed in anger.
‘Come on now, John,’ said Mum hurriedly. ‘Don’t try and get out of it.’
‘Fine, fine,’ he muttered into his cornflakes. ‘Dawn, do you want to come with me?’
The mention of my name made me start in surprise and I looked up guiltily at the faces around the table. He asked me to go with him, right in front of everybody! I didn’t know what to say. So I didn’t say anything. I just stood up, not wanting to go, but not knowing how to say no. I didn’t want to cause a fuss.
Our chocolate Labrador, Misty, bounded up to me the moment I picked up the lead from the side table in the porch, excited to be getting the chance to stretch her legs. John led us both out of the back door and through the great big garden, trudging along one of the many paths which zigzagged in and out through the trees and sheds at the back.
But instead of going towards the main road, which would take us eventually to a park, he veered off onto a small track, just out of sight of the house.
Keeping tight hold of Misty’s lead, I followed John obediently as we picked our way down some stone steps and through a wall of conifers towards the gardener’s shed.
What are we doing here? John didn’t say a word as he jimmied open the wooden door before stepping into the dark, smelly shed. I stepped in gingerly behind him, my nostrils in revolt at the putrid, musty stench of the vegetable compost that was rotting in open bags. Beside them sat sacks of crocus and tulip bulbs, ready for potting next year. It was a dank, gloomy place: the sunlight could hardly penetrate the dusty window panes and cobwebs covered every surface, including the one light bulb that hung from the ceiling.
I stood in the corner, squinting into the darkness and stroking Misty’s head nervously. She looked up at me, wagging her tail slowly, both of us silently waiting for our next instruction. Spiders ran to safety as John busied himself moving garden tools off the dirty wall to make space for him. Urgh! I hated spiders. I wanted to run away too at that moment, run back up those stairs and into the safety of the big house.
But I couldn’t move. I felt rooted to the spot.
Now John threw the largest hessian bags to the floor by the wall, to create a seat. He turned to me.
‘Take off your trousers,’ he ordered, as he unzipped his own. I had on my favourite green-and-white striped pedal pushers, the ones I had begged Mum to buy for me while on holiday in Italy. We were each given a ‘holiday present’ allowance and I was desperate to own these lovely, jolly trousers. They reminded me of peppermint sweets.
Now I felt anxious and scared as they slipped to the filthy floor. They’ll get dirty, I worried. I’ll get into trouble with Mum and she’ll say I can’t look after my nice clothes.
As if sensing my growing panic, John bent down and picked up the trousers, then found a rusty nail to hang them on. Next, he dropped his shorts and there, staring me in the face, was his thing, already big and hard.
‘Suck on it.’
I did as I was told, though it didn’t taste very nice and I didn’t like doing it. I just wanted it to be over as quickly as possible now so that I could get out of there. The shed gave me the creeps. All the while Misty sat patiently in the corner, her big brown eyes watching us the whole time.
Now John positioned himself on one of the closed sacks of bulbs and, with his two hands under my armpits, he pulled me onto his thing. Once I was in place, the thrusting started again; the pain was unbearable. I gritted my teeth as I let him move me up and down, praying it would be over quickly. I did as I was told and kept very still and quiet, frightened of alerting someone’s attention and being ‘put into care’.
When he had finished and let out his final, shivery grunt, he carefully placed me back on my feet. He then handed me a piece of carefully folded kitchen towel which he took from his back pocket.
Afterwards, I retrieved my jolly trousers from the hook and put them on over my knickers, which were now damp and uncomfortable.
‘Not yet,’ he warned as I stepped out of the shed to go back to the house. ‘It hasn’t been long enough.’ And he nodded at the dog.
Poor Misty had never got her walk and now here we were, standing in a stinking shed, just waiting until enough time had passed to pretend to Mum that we had taken her to the park. I felt sorry for her.
It can’t have been more than ten minutes but it felt like hours as we waited in that shed in silence. John had his back to me. He used this time and his sleeve to make a peephole on the cobwebbed covered glass window to make sure the coast was clear.
Eventually, like two captive prisoners, Misty and I were allowed out and the two of us bounded up the stone steps towards the house.
I felt so dirty and horrible as I walked back in that morning. Surely Mum would smell the rotting food on me or see the dirt and grime from the shed? Wasn’t there some evidence of what John had just done? I felt guilty as hell, as if the crime was written all over my face.
Frightened, I went straight upstairs to the toilet and peeled off my wet knickers. There were red bloodstains in the gusset so I washed them out in the bidet and stuck them behind my radiator in my bedroom. I didn’t want Mum to see what he had done to me. I didn’t want her to discover my shameful secret in the wash. I yearned for a bath, but there was no way I could run one myself without attracting attention. Besides, the immersion didn’t come on until the early evening, so there was no hot water. Instead, I used my flannel to wipe myself and gave myself a little stand-up wash in the basin.
And so, it carried on. After our holiday in Italy, my brother regularly took me to the potting shed or to a crumbling outhouse behind the compost heap in the garden to rape me. That’s what it was, even though – at five years old – I didn’t know the word. Each time, we stayed at least fifteen minutes, long enough to satisfy Mum that the dog had been walked, which of course she had not. Each time, I was filled with fear that we would get caught, especially when he took me to the compost heap, which was just underneath the kitchen window, where Mum was often stationed at the sink washing dishes.
The smell there was even worse than in the shed. Next to the compost heap, it stank of rotting meat and vegetables, and clouds of insects swarmed the area. At times, the stench was so overpowering I would retch.
Here, we picked our way over piles of bricks and sections of collapsed asbestos roofing until John found a place for me to stand where I could put both feet solidly on the ground. My skirt was hoisted up to my waist and my panties removed. Facing the wall, I would place my hands shoulder width apart for support; the position I was told to adopt when coming here. I’d hear the sound of him unbuckling his belt, then the crumple of his trousers as they fell to the ground. He spread my legs with his knee, then he’d guide himself into me. His hands would move to either side of my small hips and then I’d find myself on the ground, with him fully straddled over me, my body clasped tightly between his thighs. There was nowhere to go. I was trapped.
His thrusts were fast. He panted like an animal, knowing there was no time by the compost heap; it had to be over quickly. Every time he pushed, I could feel myself tearing, his bodily fluid stinging the open wounds. Afterwards, he would wipe me with his sleeve.
I hated it. I cannot tell you how much I hated it. But there was nobody to turn to; nobody who could help. John had told me over and over that this was normal for ‘special brothers and sisters’, but that I couldn’t tell because I’d get into trouble.
‘It’s like if you take an extra chocolate bar from the sweetie tin,’ he explained. ‘Everybody does it sometimes. It�
�s normal. But you don’t tell Mum because she only wants you to have one chocolate bar. Right?’
There was so much of the world I didn’t understand, and this was just one of those baffling activities that made no sense. It was normal, said John, but not so normal I could talk about it.
As summer faded and the days got colder, I returned to school. Now, instead of taking me outside, my brother made me do it in his bedroom before lessons. One day in class, I felt a sticky moistness in my knickers. Shyly, I put my hand up, as was usual in our school.
‘Just go to the toilet, Dawn, if you need to,’ called my primary teacher Miss Vickers over the heads of the other children. I scraped my wooden chair back and hurried out of the door towards the loos. She thought I needed to wee, but it wasn’t that. It was him. I rushed into the cubicle and banged the door shut behind me. And there, in my blue-and-white checked summer dress, wearing my white ankle socks and my new black patent Clarks shoes, I wiped away my big brother’s semen from my private parts.
Night after night, I lay in bed, curled up in agony, desperate to make it all go away. Why did he have to do this to me? I didn’t want it and I didn’t like it. My thoughts went round and round in circles, but finally, out of desperation and despair, I came to a decision. I can’t take this anymore, I thought, I just want it to stop. I would do anything – anything – to make that happen.
And so I decided to tell.
Even if it meant I would get into trouble, even if it meant I might be put ‘into care’, I knew I had to make it stop.
It was one Sunday afternoon in early November that I screwed up all my courage and went to the kitchen to find my mother. If anyone could help me, surely it was her. There she was as usual, pinny tied behind her back, sleeves rolled up and several large pots on the stove, all bubbling away. She had her head bent down and, as I scooted round her, I could see she was carefully laying down the pastry on a lattice tart.
Since it was a Sunday, the bar closed at 2.30 p.m. and reopened at 5 p.m. Most of the staff did split shifts, which meant there was no point in them going home while the bar was shut, only to have to come straight out again. Consequently, my mother always cooked a big meal for all the staff and the family each Sunday, a large and noisy affair with us five and at least ten other staff members. That was what she was preparing that day as I nervously loitered in the kitchen by her side, watching her amid her hive of industry, waiting patiently for a break in the proceedings so that I could spill the shameful secret that was hurting me so much.
I Own You Page 2