‘No, you cannae do it!’ I said firmly. ‘I’m going to tell Mum. I’m going to tell Mum if you come near me again!’
The words came out before I could stop myself. I could feel my heart beating through my chest. Faster and faster my heart beat. There was the sheer terror of disobeying, not knowing if he would tell Mum what he had been doing all these years. What would happen then? I would never be able to go to school again. As he slumped off me on to the floor, he looked at me and laughed, then shrugged his shoulders and told me to calm down. Lying on the floor at the side of my bed, he peered under it, as if he had seen something important. Then, pushing my bed-socks to one side, he stretched out his left hand and grabbed the box of tampons that were hidden under my bed.
‘Now I get it. My wee sis is all grown up.’
It was over. I was still breathing hard but he didn’t even argue; he knew that he could never have sex with me again. For the first time I had said no and it was such a relief. As a child I had never said no to an elder – I was taught to be polite and obedient at all times – but this time I had no choice. I had to protect myself. At the same time I was afraid it was already too late. Every night for the next few weeks I lay in bed, tormented by nightmares of giving birth. I walked around in a daze, deeply scared that inside me was a growing living being, the product of incest and rape.
‘Hello, 591522. Penelope McConnell speaking!’ my mother trilled in her best ‘phone voice’. It was two months later and John was safely back in Cambridge for his final year at university, while I’d finally stopped worrying about being pregnant with his baby. With him away at college, I tried to put my brother out of my mind altogether. Today, I’d been back from school for an hour and was just getting to grips with my French homework at the kitchen table when the big green phone sprang to life.
‘Yes, this is John’s mother . . .’ my mother replied hesitantly to the tinny voice down the line. Silence. And for some reason, I knew that it was bad news.
‘Why would he need to hand it back?’ My mother sounded confused as she twirled the pearl earring in her left ear.
‘Oh.’
Even from where I was sitting, I could hear the sound of her heart breaking.
‘Yes,’ she replied, sadly. ‘Yes, I’ll see that he does. Thank you.’
Then she put down the phone and sat staring at the receiver for a long time. I didn’t say a word but I noticed that she wiped at her eyes before she went back to the stove, where she was cooking a large casserole.
Later, when Dad came in from serving at the hotel, she told him he had better sit down because she had some ‘very bad news’ and he wasn’t going to like it. Once Dad was seated, she came straight out with it: ‘He’s flunked his exams. He’s dropped out.’
‘Who?’ asked Dad. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘John,’ Mum replied dully. ‘John flunked his exams months ago. The proctor’s office called earlier, asking him to return his room key and settle his college bar bill. He hasn’t been there for weeks. They can’t get hold of him so that’s why they called here.’
‘What?’ Suddenly she had his full attention. Sitting in the dining room, colouring away at my history project, since the hatch between the two rooms was still open after last night’s dinner I could hear the confusion and disbelief in his voice. ‘He failed his exams? All of them?’
‘Yes, all of them. Last April, apparently. He dropped out last term and he owes nearly two hundred pounds to the college bar.’
Dad was now shaking with anger. In a deep growl he spoke to the table in front of him: ‘His allowance? HIS COLLEGE RENT? He’s been taking money from us this whole time. Thousands of pounds.’
‘I know, I know.’ Mum shook her head, her mouth set hard in a thin line.
Now Dad rose from the table, his voice getting louder and louder: ‘Here we are, scrimping, saving and nearly going bust and that . . . that BASTARD has flunked out!’
‘I know . . . I know . . .’ Mum sank down into the seat next to her, head hung low, utterly dejected.
Dad was only just getting started: ‘THAT NO GOOD, LYING BASTARD! He’s really bloody blown it this time. What a waste of money. All of it! Down the sodding drain. Here’s our business slowly dying on its arse and he didn’t even have the guts to tell us? We paid for extra tuition for that bloody blockhead. He’s nothing but a failure and an embarrassment to us both. Taking us for a ride, all this time, treating us like mugs! That’s your precious boy for you. Waste of money. Waste of bloody space!’
Mum just looked down, sad and disappointed. I think she really loved John, more perhaps than any of the rest of us, including my dad. Certainly in later years, when the truth finally came out, she revealed her true colours.
After he dropped out of university, my parents disowned John completely. I overheard one very tense phone call from my dad when John finally found the courage to call home:
‘Listen, boy, you’re not welcome here anymore. You got it? Your mother and I don’t want to see your face. The shame and the financial burden you’ve put on this family . . . It’s bloody disgusting. That’s what it is. It’s time you woke up because life doesn’t come for free. I swear, I shan’t be responsible for what I might do if you come round here again so just stay away. We’ve got enough on our plate now, paying back the loans we took out to finance your bloody college career. So much for that! When you’ve got a few thousand pounds in your pocket and you can pay us back then I might think, THINK, of letting you back in this house. Until then, you can get lost.’
The fact was, our business was in trouble. It was obvious to everyone, including me, that the hotel was in a kind of terminal decline. The old factory workers who had been our regular customers were now retired or their factories had shut down, and the weekend and summer holidaymakers were not coming in sufficient numbers to keep us afloat. Mum looked ever more harassed and unhappy while Dad drank steadily from mid-morning all the way through till midnight – when he fell asleep on the couch downstairs, too tired even to get himself to bed.
The furnishings in The Drayton Arms had lost their lustre and now the main reception carpet was shabby and stained. Lights broke and weren’t replaced, paint peeled off the walls and the furniture in the rooms was scuffed and old-fashioned. And with John having bled my parents dry, they certainly didn’t have anything left in their savings to give the hotel a much-needed facelift.
It was during this time that the old schoolhouse opposite the hotel was taken over by a new owner. It was turned into a house of multiple occupancy. At first, it looked like a disaster and my parents were appalled at our new neighbours.
‘They’re the lowest of the low,’ my mother complained. ‘All of them on benefits, all of them stealing. You know, last night someone broke into the cellar and took a keg! Your dad’s not impressed. He’s banned them from the hotel. They’ve brought the area down and the crime rate around here has soared. I’m telling you, it’ll be the end of us all together. We might as well just shut up shop right now.’
My mother was always talking doom and gloom like this; little did she suspect that the new owners of The Schoolhouse were about to change our lives forever. And for me, at least, there would be no going back.
Chapter 5
The Schoolhouse
‘Who is this boy you’re seeing?’ Mum demanded as soon as I walked in the door. It was unusual for her to be at home when I got back from hockey practice so I felt wrong-footed from the word go. I wasn’t prepared for this.
‘W-what do you mean?’ I stumbled.
‘Who is the boy you’ve been seeing? You know exactly what I mean, Dawn. Don’t mess me around.’
I knew the game was up but couldn’t for the life of me work out how Mum had found out about Dominic. That woman must be psychic or something!
‘His name is Dominic, he’s just a boy,’ I shrugged, peeling off my light summer jacket and putting my book bag down in the hallway, keeping my face hidden from her inquisitive eyes
. I wasn’t used to lying to my mum. I had this horrible feeling that she always knew everything anyway and it was pointless to try and deceive her.
‘Is he your age? Fourteen?’
‘No, he’s a bit older, I think,’ I mumbled.
‘How much older?’
‘I don’t know. Sixteen?’
‘I see. And what school does he go to? Is it a fee-paying school?’
‘No – he goes to St Andrews.’ This was the local comprehensive up the road.
‘And what do his parents do?’ Mum was on a roll now.
‘Urgh! I don’t know!’ I sighed, exasperated.
‘Do you know where he lives? Hmm? I presume this Dominic is working class then, is he?’
‘I don’t know!’
‘Exactly!’ exclaimed Mum, triumphantly. ‘You don’t know anything about him, do you? You don’t know where he’s from, the area he lives in or what his family are like, do you?’
I just shook my head, angry and resentful now. Why did she have to blow everything up like this? It wasn’t like I was doing anything bad. God, she should hear some of the things the girls in my class got up to these days! If she’d known, she probably would have dragged me out of school and enrolled me in a convent by now.
Dominic Farley had been introduced to me by one of my friends from the tennis club; he’d asked me out a few weeks before. I wasn’t that into boys, unlike all my friends, who had suddenly taken a terrific interest in the opposite sex. My mates dressed up in sexy, provocative clothes and wore jewellery and make-up when they went out. I wasn’t allowed to wear make-up; not that I wanted to anyway. I’d much rather be on the tennis court than anywhere else but, nonetheless, I agreed to go out with Dominic a couple of times, just so that I wouldn’t seem like a complete square. I’d already got myself a bit of a reputation as a geek for not being allowed to go to parties like the cool kids, so I thought that if I dated a handsome, older boy like Dominic, I’d stop getting teased.
We’d only met up a handful of times, after school at the local cafe. Our ‘dates’ were on the days I had hockey practice, so I reckoned Mum and Dad wouldn’t notice if I was home a little late, assuming that practice had overrun. Until this afternoon, it had worked out okay – and it had taken some of the pressure off at school too.
‘Well, what happened?’ Simone had asked excitedly the day after one of my Dominic dates.
‘Nothing much, really. We talked, that’s all.’
‘Did you kiss?’
‘Mmm, maybe . . .’
Simone’s eyebrows had shot up. ‘Maybe?’
‘Well, yeah. Just once, though.’ Dominic had cornered me in an alleyway on our way to the bus stop and, since he was quite a nice lad, I’d let him give me a French kiss. It was alright, a bit wet, but I certainly didn’t feel anything magical.
‘Are you going to see him again?’ Simone had asked.
‘I don’t know. Maybe. We’ll see,’ I’d replied somewhat aloofly, not really that bothered one way or the other.
Mum, it seemed, was bothered though. ‘Well, you’re not seeing him again,’ she now announced decisively.
‘Why?’
‘Because he’s not right for you and, frankly, you’re too young to be dating boys. Your dad will pick you up from school until the end of term. No more cycling home on your own.’
‘You can’t stop me!’ I objected. ‘It’s my life and I haven’t done anything wrong.’
‘Haven’t done anything wrong? You lied to me!’ Mum retaliated sharply. ‘I had to hear it from the hairdresser that you’d been spotted with some . . . some common little runt! Mucky gossip. Can you imagine?’
‘You don’t even know him!’ I was outraged on Dominic’s behalf. Mum was such a snob, always passing judgement on others based on nothing more than where they lived, how much they earned or what their parents did. What gave her the right?
‘Not. One. More. Word.’ Mum’s eyes blazed now and she enunciated each word very slowly and clearly, the way she always did when she was really angry. I knew I’d pushed her too far. ‘You’re grounded! And next week, when you break up from school for the holidays, you’re coming to work in the hotel. Find out what real hard work is for a change, somewhere I can keep an eye on you!’
My life was over. I wasn’t that upset about being banned from seeing Dominic again, though it was humiliating to admit to my friends that I was grounded and couldn’t go out. But even being grounded had its perks; square that I was, I actually liked staying home where I could practise my drawing. No, the real punishment was being confined to a quiet, suburban hotel for two months over the summer holidays, serving teas, coffees and sandwiches to a handful of decrepit regulars. After all, it was a place where the highlight of the week was the weekly Saturday funeral.
How on earth am I going to survive this? I wondered, as I surveyed the dismal clientele in the bar one warm, June evening. The Drayton Arms was no longer the busy, vibrant hotel of my childhood. Now the dreary bar was peopled by equally dreary people – tonight there were just two men in their sixties, both standing at the bar, staring into space and nursing half a pint each.
Dad’s most loyal bar-person, Jean, was examining her new manicure, while I shuffled from foot to foot. I was the waitress, should anyone order food, or a general mucky-in doing whatever was needed.
‘Well, well . . . Who’s this, then?’ Suddenly, a booming voice woke me from my daydream. A large man in an extraordinarily colourful ensemble had walked into the bar, fixing me with an amused smile.
‘Hello, sir,’ I said politely, as I’d been taught to do.
‘Aye, you can get us a drink, a lovely-looking lass like you,’ he grinned, flashing a mouthful of gold teeth. ‘In fact, you can get me and my friends here a few drinks.’
He gestured towards the group of men walking in behind him.
‘We’ll have three bottles of Mateus Rosé to kick off. And once they’re gone, we’ll have three more, darling. And . . .’ The man waved a hand heavy with gold rings in the direction of the stunned regulars, who were now openly gawping. ‘Whatever these gentlemen are having, of course. It’s on us!’
‘Yes, of course,’ I said quietly, taking in the man’s maroon suit, white collar and cuffs and striped pink shirt. Behind him were five other men, all similarly decked out in bold colours, arms and hands dripping with chunky gold jewellery. I’d never seen anyone like them before. Each one wore a heavy camel coat on his shoulders, just like Arthur Daley from Minder, and several clutched fat cigars between their teeth.
These must be the men I’ve heard Mum and Dad whispering about at home, I realized. I’d seen their cars parked outside The Schoolhouse opposite ever since the new owners had moved in, a dazzling and impressive array of Rolls-Royces, Jaguars, Bentleys and BMWs, but I’d never met any of the cars’ owners in person. My mother, in her typically snobbish fashion, had referred to them as a ‘horde of criminals’, using that particular way she had of talking that looked like she was smelling something disgusting as she spoke.
‘I would nae complain, woman,’ my dad had responded drily from behind the newspaper, his glasses perched on the end of his nose. ‘Those men have got money. We’ll be lucky to get their custom.’
Now, as Jean rushed around, pulling every single bottle of Mateus Rosé from our bar fridge and gathering wine glasses, the men arranged themselves on a large table at the window. They were loud and jovial and when I delivered their drinks to the table in my black-and-white waitress pinny, they showered me with compliments.
‘Here’s this beautiful girl again!’ said the first man, now talking to his friends, placing his arm around my shoulders.
‘Aye, and she’s brought the drinks . . .’ his pal responded. ‘This one can stay, Jim!’
‘What’s your name, darling?’
‘Dawn,’ I said shyly.
‘Aye, I’ve been up the crack of Dawn before . . .’ one man sniggered.
‘Ignore him, Dawn,’ said the first m
an again. ‘Peasant! He doesn’t know how to behave in the presence of beautiful women! It confuses him, you see.’
He held out his hand: ‘Jim Crace at your service! It’s an honour!’
I went to shake his hand but as soon as I offered my own, he grabbed it and kissed the back of it. I didn’t know where to look or what to do. I could feel the colour rising in my cheeks now. Jim grinned.
‘You’re a stunner, you ken that?’ one of the men called out. ‘Look at those long legs! How old are you, gorgeous? Please tell me you’re over sixteen.’
‘Fourteen,’ I replied.
A general groan went up around the table and a couple of the men pretended to swoon.
‘Oh darling, you’re killing me,’ said Jim, pretending to mop sweat from his brow. ‘If only I was fourteen again!’
I tried to keep it together but as soon as I turned back to the bar, I grinned to myself. A stunner, he’d called me! They were grown men and they thought I was pretty. Nobody had ever said such nice things to me. And these men, they were so different from anybody I’d ever met before. In our area of Glasgow, it was rare to come across men who so loved to make a point of spending money. ‘Flashy’, that’s what Mum would have called it, but two hours later, when they’d drunk the bar dry of all the rosé and I called up Dad, who was at home with his feet up, he couldn’t have been happier.
‘Dad, there’s no more rosé left. What do I do?’
‘There’s two old cases in the back,’ he said excitedly. ‘They’re probably no good, but see if they’ll have them. Give it to them half price. They’d be doing us a favour; we’d only have to chuck them out otherwise..’
And fortunately, when I offered the men the half-priced wine, they roared appreciatively: ‘Course, love! Aye, just keep it coming. And here, take this. It’s for you!’
Jim waved a ten-pound note above his head. I took it tentatively: ‘Don’t look so scared. It’s called a tip, love. It’s a good thing. Trust me!’
The others laughed and for once I relaxed and enjoyed myself. In the company of these men, I felt special and very flattered. I’d never had so many compliments in all my life. Later, when Dad came to take over from Jean at the bar, the men were still there, laughing, joking, smoking and drinking like fish.
I Own You Page 5