“Don’t you dare,” she growled. She was so angry with me, and I didn’t know why. “Don’t you dare answer me back. Now get up,” she bellowed, her face contorting. She didn’t look pretty anymore.
I scrambled to my feet.
“Quicker,” she said, just as my head was wacked off the nearest wall. “I’ll knock some sense into you, you spoilt little “daddy’s girl.” She spat in my face, she was so close I was afraid she was going to bite me. Pain was soaring through my head, and I felt sick and dizzy. She continued screaming, “I am your mother now and you’d better shape up girl. Your own mother found a way to get away from you. I don’t blame her either, you ugly little shit, don’t you EVER call me SUE again. Understand?”
“Please, please,” I begged her over and over, but she wouldn’t leave me alone. It just seemed to make her want to hurt me more.
“From now on you call me Mum and think yourself lucky I took you in, because no one else wants you.”
No one else wants you, no one else want you. Those words stuck with me like a dagger to the heart. No one wants me? I was devastated.
That was the first time we were left alone with her. She didn’t even give us a chance to settle in before the beatings started. I remember being kept off school for a few days. I had to stay in bed locked in my room with my bucket to pee in. My head hurt so much I couldn’t move without being sick, and I kept seeing dots floating around my room. I felt dizzy all the time.
“How long has she been like this?” daddy asked her on his return the following weekend. Daddy was a truck driver and worked abroad all week, just coming home on weekends, which left our new ”mum” free to do whatever she wanted.
“She fell down the stairs,” Sue lied, barking at him.
“Fell down?” he said looking me over. I wanted to scream but I was afraid.
“Don’t you dare judge me, I am not your babysitter. Besides she has been a brat all week, and I’ve had to get tough with her too. I can’t cope with five kids especially if she is going to be a brat.”
Daddy looked at the bruises on my face. I could see the pain in his eyes, but he said nothing and walked away. Right from the start I thought he knew I had done nothing, but he didn’t say a word. If I spoke up, I was afraid she might kill me.
Monday morning soon came, and daddy woke me up again. He said, “Be a good girl, Princess and I will be back at the weekend.” Panic immediately set in; I lay in bed and held on to him.
“Don’t go Daddy… please don’t go.” I tried to hang on but he pushed me away. I cried out after him. I really wanted to tell him what she had done and what I was frightened she would do again, but I couldn’t. He must have seen the fear in my eyes.
“Shhh,” he said with his soothing voice. “Things will be okay, just be a good girl for me.” He walked back, kissed me on the cheek and off he went for another week.
I heard the door close downstairs and dad’s car start. It pulled off down the road, then footsteps headed toward our room. I pulled the sheet over my head not wanting her to know I was awake but it was too late. She stomped in, grabbed my hair and dragged me out of bed. Out on the landing, she screamed in a sarcastic taking-the-pee tone of voice, “Aaaw daddy’s princess is sad. Aaaw poor little girl being left here all alone. What are you trying to do, make your daddy cross with me or something?”
“No,” I cried. I should have known better because it fell on deaf ears. “I miss my daddy…I want my daddy!”
I sobbed, but laughter filled the air. She was too busy laughing at me to hear me cry. A cane stood propped just outside the door. I was sure it hadn’t been there before. She grabbed it as she passed and told me to bend over,
“No… no… no!” I begged holding onto myself, covering my bottom from her with my hands.
“Each time you say no, you will get more,” she added and laughed while grabbing my hands away, “Go on, keep saying no,” She warned as she ripped my nightdress off leaving me stood almost naked in just my knickers. She told me, “You get yourself in my bedroom, bend over the end of that bed and grab hold to the bed frame.
To this day it sends chills up my spine. I’ll never forget the coldness of that chrome. “If you let go of the bed I will keep doing it,” she shouted at me. Her eyes looked like they would bulge out of her head. Those enormous eyes had such anger in them. The first smack hurt badly but obviously not enough, so she pulled down my knickers and started hitting me harder. The pain was unreal and I thought, Why? Why is this happening to me? What did I do? She counted to twenty then stopped and left me crumpled in a fetal heap on the floor of her bedroom, shaking and sobbing. Why?
She left the room. “Hurry up and get ready for school,” she shouted up the stairs.
My teacher looked at me sometimes like she knew what was happening. I had tried to tell a teacher several times but the thought of what I’d get from mum for telling tales would be worse, so I didn’t bother. Besides, the whole nightmare was too embarrassing to tell anyone.
I often heard Alex crying and shouting. One morning I woke to piercing screams, “No, please no more, please stop Mum.” I had been dreaming, then shook my head to realise what I heard was not in my dream. I ran to his room and stopped still frozen, standing in the doorway. I looked over to where mum was stood over him, hitting him over and over again because his bed was wet. Alex had started bed-wetting after my real mummy died.
“I’m sorry,” he cried “I won’t do it again.” He pleaded with her as she grabbed him and shoved his face into the wet sheets, rubbing his head around in the urine. She shouted at him constantly telling him how dirty he was. I tip-toed back to my room before she saw me. What could I do? But I could still hear her.
“If you like to be wet that much, then you can smell like it all day,” she said to Alex in front of Daniel. I had seen Daniel huddled up on his bed looking terrified.
And so it was; Alex had to go to school smelling of wee most days. Luckily none of his friends noticed or if they did, no one ever said anything. On return home from school every day when he had been wet the night before, he would be made to go into the bathroom and wash his sheets in the bath, sometimes with bleach if they had stained. One night he had to sleep on the floor with no covers as his bed sheets weren’t dry. That became a regular thing; most nights he slept on the floor.
It wasn’t long after that I began to realise I couldn’t stand hearing him scream any longer. To this day I don’t know what came over me; maybe it was his wailing that went straight through me like a sharp knife through warm butter. One night I ran into his bedroom and threw myself over him to protect my big brother.
“Leave him alone,” I shouted mustering up all my courage.
That was the start of me standing up for Alex. But, of course, I also took a lot of his punishment, or got punished right along-side. At six-years-old I learnt it was easier to be beaten than to witness my brother screaming like that. It was just the way I was.
Alex didn’t stop wetting his bed. He wouldn’t tell mum it was wet and would just sleep in it for days until she found out.
The rooms never got too cold for blankets. It was freezing to me. We often got into each other’s beds and cuddled up to keep warm.
We lived in a small town near Coventry. It was a quiet street with houses that all looked the same, the same red brick with the same porches. They all had bin sheds by the front door that were painted different colours, ours was red. It was a typical town council estate, but not far away was wide open country. I loved wandering out in the country. We got to know the area well, like where the best places were to go fruit picking or scrumping and where to get the best blackberries and gooseberries. At weekends we were kicked out of the house after breakfast--that’s if we were lucky enough to get any--and told not to return until after tea time. We were not allowed back in the house under any circumstances, rain or snow. We couldn’t even use the toilet and certainly not allowed lunch. If we needed the loo then a bush would have to do. There w
ere enough of us to be lookouts and watch for people coming. So we pretty much did as we liked and went where we liked. It was so wonderful just being away from her.
I was probably about seven years old when I found my love of horses. It was during one of those cold, wet days where we had to entertain ourselves. There was a beautiful grey horse nearby. I used to stop and stroke it whenever I went by and give it an apple I’d stolen scrumping from a neighbour’s tree. It was so friendly. One day after watching cowboys on television I decided I’d see if I could ride it, going against Molly’s pleas and begging me not to. I don’t know what possessed me but I climbed up the fence and dragged myself onto the horse’s back. I had never sat on a horse before, never mind actually riding one. I didn’t have a clue what to do but I’d seen in Westerns on TV that you kick them, so that’s what I did.
My heart was beating like crazy; the horse galloped down its field and jumped the paddock fence. It then started running around all the gardens in that posh housing estate. Whilst Molly watched with her mouth gaping open in shock, I couldn’t control it. I was just a passenger on a huge grey cloud. I could feel its breathing under me and the power it had as it moved and I grabbed onto it’s mane to keep me aboard.
Although I was struck dumb by the beauty of that horse, I knew I would be in serious trouble for this one. So when it stopped to eat grass I slid off its back leaving it to fend for itself in some person’s landscaped garden, hoof prints everywhere. How I didn’t fall off and break my neck I will never know. I ran away from the evidence giggling inside and buzzing from excitement. As I caught up with Molly we ran away from the scene of the crime together and were looking back over our shoulders to see whether any curtains were moving. Had anyone seen me? The post lady pulled up emptying the mailbox, and we breathed a sigh of relief that she hadn’t turned up two minutes earlier and witnessed the destruction.
No one had seen me, only my step-sister Molly.
“You will be in major trouble now,” she said with a shocked expression all over her face. “But, don’t worry, I won’t tell.” She smiled at me, her brown eyes sparkling. All the way home we were giggling and remembering how that horse had jumped out of its paddock with me clinging on for dear life.
“I was a little scared,” I said.
“You looked like you were flying,” Molly squealed,
“I felt like I it too,” I bragged. I wasn’t going to let on how frightened I really was. I didn’t for a minute think of the danger I had put myself or that poor horse into. All I could think about was hoping and praying Sue didn’t find out. I was glad it was just Molly and me; I couldn’t trust the others.
Sue never did hear of it. That horse gave me a valuable gift, a sense of power just for a snapshot in time. The thrill of that ride let me escape my misery and go somewhere else. That was the dream I hung onto and often brought back to life. I remembered it whilst I was getting beaten on a regular basis. I would hold onto the chrome bed and think of that horse. I’d travel away, miles and miles away from reality; that way the cane didn’t hurt so much. Memories of that ride, a brief moment of ecstasy, would serve me well.
Chapter 3
The force of the slipper hitting the side of my head and face stung like a million bees. Mum’s pink slippers were the ones that had fluffy feathers on the front, with a small, hard heal. She always looked good even in her slippers. I fell to floor crumpled up into as tight a ball as I could make. Well trained, I knew how to “assume the position.” When I balled up it hurt less when she hit me over and over again.
“Who do you think you are, you lazy cow? Everyone else is doing their fair share of housework, but no, not you.” Her voice wailed at me. Like the sound of a knife scraping a plate, it went right through to my spinal cord.
“I don’t feel well, honest mum,” I said. My stomach churned, the shooting pains running around my tummy like little knives cutting me up. Then, at that exact moment, I hurled right where I was sat on the carpet, my stomach cramping. I grabbed it holding on and squeezing myself while trying to crawl to the toilet, the pains still shooting in all directions. I grabbed my mouth to try and stop being sick again. The next blow to my head sent me flying, projecting vomit everywhere like a loose garden hose. She grabbed me by the hair and dragged me back into the room, rubbing my face in the mess on the carpet.
“Eat it you dirty little slag,” she screamed. “Clean it up, lick it, go on, it’s only fair after your brothers and sisters have spent all morning cleaning while you were hiding away.” She rubbed my face down hard, pushing it into the carpet. I thought I felt my nose crack and it started bleeding.
She went on, “Is this how much you appreciate them? Bleed all over it too, why don’t you?” The taste of carpet fibre and puke made me vomit, and each time she shoved my face in and made me lick it up, I was sick again. My stomach wasn’t letting up; I felt cold, sweaty and had goose bumps all over. I could taste blood running down the back of my throat. How can this be happening? I thought. Where are the other kids? No one ever tried to stop her from hurting me. Not like me, I always tried to help my brothers and sisters. Eventually she got bored with the whole mess and walked away. Not even looking at me, she discharged me with a point of her finger toward the stairs. I ran.
I spent the rest of the day in bed locked in my room. I had a bucket to use as a toilet and to be sick in. I heard the front door slam, a key in the lock and footsteps walking away. Her high-heel s made sharp clicks. She’s gone, I thought. I can finally relax.
The sound of the birds outside and the hum of a lawn mower played a song in the back of my mind. My head throbbed, my face stung from the carpet burns and my lip was black, fat and swollen. Every now and then I could taste blood, and my nose was far too sore to touch. Those sounds from outside sent me off to sleep, all day I drifted in and out. As I woke up after a while I could hear neighbours in the garden talking. “Those poor kids.” and “Someone has got to do something, surely.” I hoped and prayed they would, but no one ever did. No one interfered back in those days. Beating children was quite common.
The school had been given a letter saying I fell down the stairs whilst playing magic carpets. My teacher looked at me and smiled sweetly showing off her white, straight teeth. I moved my tongue around my mouth feeling the gap where my two front teeth were missing.
She said, “Well you should be more careful young lady.” Then she went on with her business.
I felt that she knew, the frown lines in her forehead and wayward glance, not making eye contact when she spoke gave it away. She knows. The neighbours know. Why? I wondered. Why doesn’t someone come to help us? People just looked the other way.
It became routine that we had to do all the housework before school. Mum would sit and paint her nails while barking orders. The work was always done in silence with everyone trying so hard to get it right the first time. Sometimes we managed, but if she had to move off the sofa or correct you, a slipper or an object that was close at hand, a ballistic missile would come hurtling with deadly accuracy towards your head. And that was if you were lucky and her nails were wet. Woe betide you if the nails were dry!
Mondays were the worst. It was almost like she had to behave so well when daddy was home and use so much self-control, she had to make up for it when he left. It was lovely when daddy was around; everyone laughed and joked. Daddy loved music and would sit on a Sunday afternoon recording the top twenty charts on the radio. We would all dance around pretending to be at a disco. While singing, “Tie a yellow ribbon round the old Oak tree,” I thought, How nice it would be if he was here all the time.
“Daddy please don’t go to work this week!” we would all plead, but he always went to work leaving us to it, and things very quickly got back to normal.
* * *
I couldn’t help screaming, the thought of having my fingers cut off was too much. “I promise, I promise I will stop biting my nails,” I said, petrified as usual and begging her to stop.
She hel
d my fingers down on the thick wooden chopping board with a carving knife pressing into the tops of my fingers near the knuckles, keeping them tight onto the board. I could feel the cold blade splitting my skin as mum slowly slid the knife back and forth over my fingers scraping and cutting at the skin.
“Oh mum, it hurts!” I cried.
“You will never have nails like mine,” she said digging her nails deep into my hand leaving indentations that would stay there for at least an hour as a reminder.
“Your nails are disgusting! I might just as well chop them off,” she teased, enjoying every moment of my horror. She clouted me around the ear and told me to, “Bugger off.” If she ever caught me biting my nails, out would come the chopping board. She often whacked my fingers with a rolling pin or whatever was close to hand if the knife wasn’t handy.
I’m sure she got pleasure out of my tears, but the more time that went by the harder it was to make me cry. Most of the time I just pretended to cry because I knew what she wanted. The quicker I cried, the quicker she would leave me alone. If I didn’t cry she became angrier and angrier; she would hit harder or find new weapons or creative ways of inflicting pain.
I started to dread watching TV at night, because sometimes when the others were having a bath or had been sent to their rooms, she would make me lie across the sofa with my head on her lap. I had to lie on my tummy with my face buried in her lap. I hated the smell down there, but she would push my head in harder and harder, holding and pushing the back of my head. I would choke and gag for breath, then she would let me breathe before pushing my head in again. I couldn’t figure why but this seemed to make her happy. After a while I knew she would let me breathe. I would pretend to panic and gag quicker, so she would let me up for air before I would panic for real. She’d go on and on then moan and sigh and tell me I was a good girl.
Invisible Tears Page 2