by Toni Maguire
Did she know they left me in the flat alone?
I don’t know. She never asked, perhaps guessing that I had gradually been programmed to lie about what went on in our home. I’m sure she understood that for most of the week I hoped that Carl would not stop us coming for lunch and it must have made her angry when she realised by the timing of her daughter’s phone call that he had left it until the last minute to tell us. She would have recognised it was yet another of his power games.
I had learnt through Ben that our turning down invitations really concerned not just my gran but everyone else in our family; they were not happy about my situation either.
‘They worry about you, Emily,’ my cousin told me nearly every time he took me home. He couldn’t stop himself from running Carl down either, not mincing his words when he recounted just what the family thought of him now: ‘That man of your mum’s is such a controlling prick!’ he declared angrily. ‘That’s what my dad thinks anyway and so do I.’
It was clear from that comment and other snippets he told me that the initial good impression Carl had made when he was first introduced to the family had worn well and truly thin. Not one of them trusted him, especially since I had had that meltdown.
‘And none of us think he’s kind to you or your mother,’ Ben told me on another of our journeys home. ‘You’ve both changed since he arrived. I mean, your mum used to be a bit of a bitch really, like always bossing your dad around, but now she’s meek as a lamb. She never leaves his side when you do turn up, so what’s he done to you both?’ His eyes scanned my face as he said this, perhaps trying to fathom out what my response would be.
Each time he brought it up, I wanted to burrow my face into his shoulder, sob loudly and tell him what was happening. Maybe if he had been a few years older I would have, but he was still at school. And anything I told him would be repeated to his father. How could I be certain that the whole family thought the same way about Carl as Ben did? After all, they were nice enough about him when we did meet.
‘That’s because we don’t want to stop seeing you,’ was Ben’s explanation when I put it to him.
Anyhow, Fear was hardly quiet during those exchanges, even interrupting my cousin more than once: He’ll say you’re making it all up, won’t he? And then Carl will punish you was an oft-repeated remark blocking out some of Ben’s conversation.
Then I heard Ben saying that the family really wanted me to visit more: ‘Well, the truth is they want to keep an eye on you. That’s why they’re careful not to do or say anything which might give him a reason for you not to come at all. They’re aware that he looks down on us, thinks we’re country bumpkins. That’s rich, isn’t it, coming from a bloke who’s moved into your mother’s flat! Anyhow, what is it he does for a living? That’s what everyone is curious about.’
‘I don’t know,’ was the answer I gave, for that was the truth then and is remarkably still the truth today.
All I’d ever heard him mention were some property deals he was taking care of. When I repeated that to the curious Ben, he burst out laughing.
‘That’s what he told my dad too. What?! And he’s not moved you both into a nice big swanky house? I don’t believe that for one single minute! Still, he never seems short of money, does he?’
I didn’t have any idea about that either. Just that there were times when there seemed to be plenty of money around and other times when his mood turned even blacker and he told Mum and I that we had to spend carefully for a while.
Most times when he took me home, Ben would try and reassure me that I could always talk to him. His other piece of advice was, ‘Just don’t ever let him change you, Emily.’
As if I had any choice in the matter.
Chapter 24
What had I told you about Carl? That he wanted everything he owned to be perfect. The next stage of his turning us into puppets who only danced to his tune was dictating what we wore. He had already managed to change how my mother dressed and now he turned his attention to me. Not that he didn’t appear to disguise it so well. To any unsuspecting person, his sending Mum out with me to purchase a completely new wardrobe might have been seen as an act of generosity and caring. And I might have gone along with that thought, had I been given any choice in the matter.
Not only did I have no choice, neither did my mother.
He had written a list of the clothes and shoes he wanted her to buy for me. It was he who decided on the colours of each item, not to mention the exact style of shoes. No more dungarees and brightly coloured T-shirts for me – ‘too boyish,’ he insisted. In fact, no brightly coloured anything was specified. My reds and bright yellows were taken to the charity shop. Sensible navy-blue skirts and grey or dark blue jumpers were prescribed for winter – ‘More ladylike’. Even worse were the black lace-up shoes he said were ‘good for her feet’, although everyone else was wearing slip-ons – ‘Their parents don’t care if they damage their feet’. Later, I would think back and wonder why he insisted on Mum squeezing her feet into stilettos. His choice of my summer clothes – stiff cotton dresses in the darkest shades he could find (‘They suit you’) – was no better.
They didn’t.
Clumpy dark brown sandals replaced the black lace-ups.
He didn’t approve of the ‘female sex’ as he put it wearing trousers or shorts. The only concession he made here was that I could don them when cycling.
Once my new clothes were hanging up neatly, he announced that he had arranged something else for both of us – new hairstyles. In Mum’s case a photo of the actress Kim Novak was dangled in front of her. Not that I knew who she was, just that I saw little resemblance between her and my mother.
‘You could look like that,’ I heard him say, ‘so I’ve made an appointment for you to have your hair lightened and cut into a chic bob. You will look just wonderful, I know you will.
‘What do you think, Emily?’ he asked, waving the photo in front of my face.
Not that he wanted my opinion, he just wanted me to agree with him.
‘She’s very pretty,’ was all I could think of to say.
‘And so is your mother!’ he snapped.
I thought it would take more than a new hairstyle to work that kind of magic. Surely Carl did not see her as that pretty woman’s double? I mean, my mum was attractive, but looked nothing like the photo.
But he continued with his instructions: ‘I’ve arranged for you to have a makeover as well once your hair is done – facial, nails, the works!’ His face beamed as he told her, basking in his own, as he saw it, generosity. Good thing he was too snobbish to read the tabloids, or he might have read all about the wonders of plastic surgery. I hate to think how she might have finished up, had he decided she needed a few nips and tucks.
A couple of days later when Ben brought me home, there was my makeover mother. Not only had she had a new hairstyle – a short, pale blonde bob with lots of highlights – her nails were a perfect pink and her lips seemed plumper, more glossy. Her eyelashes also seemed to have grown twice as long since breakfast and her eyebrows were plucked into a neat arch which gave her a permanent faintly enquiring look.
‘What do you think?’ she asked, flapping her manicured hands in front of me.
‘Like the colour of your hair, Mum, you look nice,’ was all I could manage.
‘Yes, her new hairdresser’s good – my friends’ wives all go there,’ Carl said with a smirk that bothered me. With a sinking feeling, I guessed what his next words were going to be: ‘And you’re next for your treat, Emily. I’ve booked you in there for a professional hairstyle too. Now, what do you say to that?’
Well, I had to say thank you, didn’t I? The truth was the idea of a stranger touching my hair absolutely terrified me.
I had wavy hair and when it was not tied back, it fell to my shoulders. It was Aunt Lizzy who trimmed it every so often. She and my gran always remarked on how pretty it was, even though it took ages to wash and brush. Both of them understood
my sensory processing problems and that the slightest tug could cause me real pain – but would the hairdresser?
Hardly, I thought.
Talk about being caught between a rock and a hard place! Saying I didn’t want my hair done would result in a painful punishment, because even Carl could not drag a protesting seven-year-old into a hair salon against her wishes.
A hairdresser who did not understand my condition would also hurt me though.
But not as bad as he will, said Fear. Best grit your teeth and grin and bear it!
* * *
Saturday morning, up I got and dressed in one of those new outfits that I so disliked. Best to please him, I told myself as I pulled on the dark skirt and jumper. It was Carl, not my mother, who was taking me to the hairdresser. I wondered how he was going to tell her to style it – I just hoped it would not be like Mum’s.
The moment I walked into the busy salon my ears were attacked by the cacophony of background music, hairdryers and conversation. Glancing around nervously, the first thing my eyes rested on were all those pairs of large, shiny scissors. They seemed to be everywhere – in the hands of the stylists, poking out of plastic containers and sticking out of half-open drawers. Just the thought of cold metal touching my head was almost enough to bring on a panic attack, as was the second thing I noticed – washbasins, where water gushed over the heads of people leaning backwards over them. I froze, staring in horror at this procedure.
To my utmost relief, Carl just told the assistant to spray my hair damp enough to cut it, as it was clean. I doubt if that was for my sake, more likely to stop him being embarrassed at my having a complete meltdown. Still, whatever the reason, I felt grateful.
‘Just a bit of a trim?’ asked the hairdresser, holding my long wavy hair in her hand. ‘How do you want it?’ she asked me.
‘Short,’ replied Carl, before I had a chance to say anything.
‘How short, sir? She has such lovely hair. How about I neaten it up a little, keep some of the length?’
‘No, I want it cut like this,’ he said and out came another embarrassing photo of the actress Audrey Hepburn when she was young. Again, she was not a name I recognised, nor did the stylist when he told her. But whoever she was, I was embarrassed because with her delicate elfin features, there was no way I resembled her.
‘Ah, the urchin look,’ she said, but I heard the doubt in her voice.
Still, it was he who was paying, but I could tell she didn’t think it a good idea any more than I did.
I have to tell you that both back then and right up until today, short hair doesn’t suit me. And I still don’t have one feature that resembles the waif-like Hepburn.
‘Now, Emily,’ Carl said to me in the warm voice he used only in public, his fingers fidgeting with his rings, ‘you’ll be a good girl, won’t you?’ He smiled as he saw my gaze was riveted on his hands. Right on cue, he gave the signet ring a harder twist and I gulped as that familiar icy fear flooded me.
‘Yes,’ was all I managed to say.
I grabbed both arms of the chair as the hairdresser examined me critically in the mirror. Out came the spray that wetted my hair before she picked up those long, shining scissors. Before she cut off one lock, I was completely stiffened with fright from just sitting there. Already I could feel the blades snickering away and imagined my dark locks laying in clumps on the floor. I’m sure she thought I was shaking at the thought of losing my hair, not the fact that I could hardly bear the feel of her hands or the sound of those cold, metal scissors snipping away.
Finally, the hairdryer was switched on and hot air blasted on my neck while the stylist’s fingers ran through my hair as she styled the blow-dry. I kept thinking how annoyed my gran would be when she saw how short my hair was now. Once the stylist had finished, a carefully angled mirror showed me how it looked at the back, although I was still glancing in dismay at my reflection in the front one. She had done the best she could, giving me a choppy fringe and a few soft wisps to frame my face.
All I could see was how different I looked, and not in a good way. My face looked rounder, my nose larger. Even at seven, I knew instinctively that it did not suit me.
Not that Carl agreed when he walked in.
‘Very stylish,’ he said, giving the stylist a large tip and a beaming smile.
‘Pleased?’ he asked when we were outside.
‘Yes,’ I replied, forcing a smile on my face.
I was learning.
Chapter 25
Since my future stepfather had chosen a family get together to announce that there was to be a wedding, our lives had been a constant flurry of activity.
‘Got something to tell you all,’ he said proudly, tapping his glass to get everyone’s attention. ‘Betty has agreed to marry me and I feel that I’m the luckiest man alive.’
Meanwhile, my mother, all pink-cheeked and coy smiles, flashed her engagement ring, a diamond set in white gold, for everyone to admire.
The men shook his hand and the women congratulated Mum with hugs and kisses. And my gran tried her hardest to look pleased for them, but I could tell she wasn’t.
Once the announcement was out of the way, my mother went shopping with her sisters in search not just for the right dress for her, but for her two bridesmaids: one of my young cousins and myself. She had decided on a white wedding. Now you might think this was hardly appropriate. Especially as I had recently learnt that my birth parents were never actually married, which is why she and Carl could make their vows in church. But still, as I was going to be a bridesmaid and she had been living with him for nearly three years, you would have thought that at least she might have chosen a cream dress. But no, she wanted it all white. And when I say all white, she meant everything white – bridesmaids’ dresses, flowers, shoes and anything else she could possibly think of.
* * *
I’m sure everyone must have breathed a sigh of relief when the wedding was finally arranged. They could see an end to traipsing round shops, looking at pictures of wedding cakes of all designs and sizes, and the endless talk about Mum’s diet. At least the date had been settled, the church booked, which only left Carl to sort one thing out – a suitable venue to hold the reception.
One thing I find very characteristic of my stepdad was the actual date of it. He had circled it in for the day after his birthday, August Bank Holiday Monday. I guess it was his way of saying how special he was.
Why not have it on the Saturday? I thought.
When my mother asked the same question, he replied haughtily, ‘Only plebs get married on a Saturday.’ He wanted two parties in two days, with him being the centre of attention at them both.
The one good thing about it all was that I was getting to see Mum’s family a lot more again. They were forever planning together, either with them calling round to our home or we were going over to theirs. As it was all to do with the wedding, Carl could hardly object. I especially loved it when it was just Mum and I visiting Gran’s and her sisters came over to join us all. Pots of tea were made, Gran’s freshly baked scones perfumed the air and we ate them warm with whipped cream and strawberry jam, except of course my mother – ‘Got to look after my waistline’. Naturally, the whole conversation was about the coming event and how her dress had to be taken in because of her drastic diet of no carbs and certainly no sugar.
‘So, where are you going for a honeymoon?’ Gran asked – a question that had been running through my head ever since I had been told the date of the wedding.
I knew what a honeymoon was – it was where a newly married couple went away for at least two weeks to some exotic country. While they were away, I would have to stay with my gran and have those weekends with my cousins. I held my breath, waiting for Mum to tell her that they were going to France or Italy for two weeks, even three.
A hope that died just as soon as she spoke.
‘We’ve decided not to have one,’ she said. ‘It’s a joint decision,’ she added firmly, thoug
h I noticed the tell-tale flush on her cheeks rather betrayed her embarrassment. ‘It’s just that Carl wants us to move into a house as soon as we can and we are putting the money aside for that.’
‘And where is he now? You said he was looking at some venues.’
‘Yes, he is. He said he wants to make sure we have the right one. He’s already talked to a firm of caterers and he’s arranging the cake. He’s hardly letting me do anything.’
‘Well, if you two are putting money aside, why don’t you have the reception at our houses?’ Aunt Lizzy suggested. ‘There’s so much room between them, that would save you an awful lot. As long as you got in some help, we could all muck in, sorting out and preparing the food.’
‘I don’t know what Carl has arranged,’ my mother said hesitantly.
‘Well, tell him about our offer before he signs anything.’
* * *
When Mum broached the subject with him, Carl turned it down with a burst of derisory laughter – ‘I don’t think so, Betty! Just think what it would be like. Kids running wild and the men staying at the barbecue, drinking beer out of cans while they talk nonstop about their only interest – football. Not to mention how your mother and your sisters will spend the whole time prattling on about some bit of gossip. I can just see it now.
‘Dear me, if that’s not just one of the worst ideas you’ve ever come up with! It’s certainly not what I have in mind and I really can’t think you have either.’
Again, his sarcastic laughter rang out.
This time my mother did not join in. It was not often I saw her looking angry at anything Carl did or said, but there was no mistaking her reaction. Her face froze without even a glimmer of a smile and was set in anger. A muscle in her cheek started to twitch.