by Toni Maguire
Had he forgotten this was her family he had just ridiculed?
Seeing her response, he patted her on the knee. ‘Oh, look, I know it was kind of your family to offer, don’t think I’m not grateful. I just want the very best for you, Betty – you deserve it.’ This comment finally brought the beginnings of a smile back to her face. ‘We might not be going on a honeymoon, but we’re not cutting costs on our wedding. Isn’t that what you want as well, a really smart affair that everyone will still remember for years?’
Of course, she folded and agreed with him. Which is why, between them, they worked out a compromise: Mum would ask her family to throw a birthday party for Carl at their homes on the Sunday instead. An afternoon affair, he explained, where everyone could have fun and then they would have the more formal wedding the following day.
I wished I could have stuffed my fingers in my ears when they got to the next part of their conversation – where they were going to sleep after the party.
‘You know it’s bad luck not to have separate rooms before the wedding,’ I heard Carl say, giving her one of those winks before his hand slid around her waist. Her response was to giggle and snuggle up to him.
‘Guess we’ll just have to risk it,’ she said, giggling even more.
Personally, I thought marrying him was the risk, but I kept that thought along with many others well and truly to myself.
I wished they would leave those little intimate displays until they were out of my sight. To say they were embarrassing was an understatement. Not that I knew what went on in the bedroom, apart from the times he hit her. I guessed it must have been something like touching each other all over, because I knew he enjoyed that, didn’t I? Enough to make me shudder at the thought that this was something my mother liked him doing.
I did wonder then why he wanted a birthday party as well as a wedding over the same bank holiday weekend. After all, it would be the same people going to both. Now as I think back to that time, I have a suspicion that he wanted everyone to compare the reception he had arranged to the party Mum’s family had thrown for him. It was the first time he had asked if it was OK to invite a few of his friends, or rather men he did business with and their wives. And yes, they would be coming to the wedding as well so it would be them he would want to impress.
* * *
Considering it was approaching autumn, we were having what Carl called ‘an Indian summer’. Blue cloudless skies and golden rays of sunshine promised us a rain-free and extremely hot bank holiday weekend. That meant we would all be outside for the birthday party and I would be free to spend time with my cousins.
Except for the pile of presents placed in front of Carl, the raised glasses and the rendition of ‘Happy Birthday’ sung at the tops of their voices, the celebration was more or less the same as all the other family get togethers. I might not have enjoyed singing ‘Happy Birthday’, but ‘For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow’ really made me cringe, although I was enjoying myself playing ball and chatting to my cousin Ben, who had refused to join in any of the singing. He made sure to spend some time with me and was tactful not to mention again my new look in clothes and hairstyle. I will never forget the look of dismay on Gran’s face when she first saw it, which she quickly replaced with a smile as she told me how nice it looked.
Not often I had caught my gran out in a lie, but that was definitely one.
I had also noticed Ben’s shocked look when I walked in the first time after my ‘makeover’. His eyes went up and down my navy-blue outfit as well, before coming to rest on those clumpy black lace-up shoes, but still, he said nothing for which I was grateful. His tact ran out, however, when he spotted the puffiness around my eye: ‘So, Sprat, what happened to your eye?’ The truth was that this time I really had walked into a cupboard door – it must have been the only injury I had ever given myself.
I saw that the words ‘cupboard door’ did not impress – it was soon clear that Ben didn’t believe me.
‘Walked into a cupboard door! Oh, come on now, that’s an old one, isn’t it?’ he said, holding my gaze.
‘I really did, promise.’
‘All right, Sprat, this time it was an accident,’ was his reply with emphasis. ‘Is it true that Carl hasn’t invited one member of his family to the wedding?’ he continued. ‘Strange, that. My dad says he’s just got business connections on his list of guests, really weird. Anyhow, how are you feeling about tomorrow?’ he asked, obviously deciding to change the subject.
‘Don’t like my dress much,’ I answered, thinking of that white, wide-skirted bridesmaid’s outfit hanging up on the side of my wardrobe.
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
‘It scratches and makes me look like a huge meringue,’ I answered with a grin.
‘You know what I mean, though, don’t you? How do you feel about him becoming your stepdad?’ he persisted.
‘Can’t see it making much difference,’ I replied matter-of-factly. That was more or less the truth – I was pretty sure once that ring was on Mum’s finger, I was stuck with him and my life wasn’t going to improve.
‘Well, you know I’m always here for you, don’t you?’ he said, giving my shoulder a reassuring squeeze as I smiled up at him. Then I realised that something behind me had caught his eye. Just as I started to turn my head to see what it was, he grabbed my arm. ‘Don’t look now, your stepdad’s watching us,’ he said, ‘and he doesn’t look too happy either. Just turn around slowly and see for yourself.’
Ben was right, for out of the corner of my eye I could see, even from where we were standing, that Carl was far from pleased about the two of us chatting. Had we been any closer, he would have used some excuse to beckon me over. But he wasn’t, and he could hardly call out to me in front of his fancy friends, so I ignored him, which did not stop my stomach from clenching.
He’s going to get angry and that’s never good, Fear muttered.
Shivers ran down my spine as I pictured him making some excuse to punish me. Because that’s what he did, even when I’d done nothing wrong.
He won’t this time, said the voice of Reason. He won’t want you having any bruises tomorrow, now will he?
So, listening to Reason, I made myself relax.
‘You’re scared of him, aren’t you?’ said Ben, who had been studying me closely.
‘Don’t be silly, of course I’m not,’ I countered.
‘Heard you were sick a few weeks ago and you couldn’t go to school, so what was so wrong with you that you couldn’t have any visitors?’
‘Oh, just flu,’ I murmured, managing to repeat what my mother had instructed me to say.
‘Mmm . . . OK . . . Yes, that was what I was told too,’ he replied and I knew he didn’t believe me.
Reason was right: not only did Carl not punish me, but that evening, he surprised both Mum and me.
Chapter 26
The day of the wedding, I woke early and looked with disdain at that frothy white dress which was too fully skirted to fit inside the wardrobe. All too soon, I would have to put it on.
It was Aunt Lizzy who arrived after breakfast to help me dress and do my hair. First on went the stiff net underskirt that felt scratchy against my legs and over it went that wide-skirted dress with its tight bodice. My aunt had realised the net would be a problem when she had seen my mother choose the dress and she dug in her handbag and pulled out some very thick white tights and helped me into them; they stopped the worst of the scratching and I smiled gratefully at her. White ballet pumps, the only good thing about Mum’s choice of outfits, were removed from their box and my feet slipped into them – at least I could say goodbye to my hideous sensible shoes for one day.
Next up was getting my hair looking the way my mother had said she wanted it – ‘An Alice band, a white velvet one,’ I had heard Carl say. Not only were my senses tingling with the touch of the underskirt, but he knew anything on my head would be painful for me. To make matters worse, an arrangement of white
roses was somehow meant to be stuck into it. It might have worked with long wavy hair, but not my new shorter style.
I’m sure Aunt Lizzy must have been thinking the same thing.
‘Don’t worry,’ she told me. ‘I’ve got that sorted.’ And she produced the white velvet Alice band, pinned some white rosebuds on it and slipped it onto my head as carefully as she could. ‘Now, don’t you look pretty?’ she said as she spun me round to face the mirror.
Well, that might have been her opinion, but it really wasn’t mine – at least my hair didn’t look too bad.
* * *
What can I say about the ceremony? All I remember is a hard seat that made me want to wriggle, a lot of talking by a creepy-looking priest, rings being exchanged, a kiss that somehow managed to look tender, lovely music pealing out, the couple walking down the aisle and me getting in the procession, followed by my cousin Sally, the other bridesmaid.
If people are meant to cry at weddings because they are so moved, I did not see one tear being wiped away on this occasion. I glanced at my gran, but no, a tear- and smile-free face there all right!
Out we all went for photographs – ones of the bride and groom, others of the bride, groom and bridesmaids. Then the whole family . . . On and on they went, until my mother threw her bouquet of white roses, baby’s breath and freesias. We then piled into the hired limousine and were off to the reception.
The other bridesmaid had brought a change of clothes with her: a brightly coloured party dress and a pair of pink glittery sandals. ‘It’s a party, isn’t it?’ she said when she spotted my envious gaze.
It might have been for her, but it wasn’t going to be one for me.
I had already asked if I could bring a change of clothes only to be told no.
I was to remain in my dress as it had cost a lot of money and I wasn’t to be so ungrateful.
The reception was held in a huge room attached to a very smart hotel. Music Carl had chosen was being played through the speakers, and waiters bustled around serving drinks and elaborate canapés before we sat down. I was seated on one side of Carl, my mother on the other.
Then came the food: oysters and foie gras for the starters. Judging by the expression on the faces of some of my mother’s family, they might have preferred the burgers Carl had mentioned.
Swallowing an oyster for the first time at seven was not a nice experience, I can tell you! It took all my willpower not to spit it out. Luckily, it was a small one that slid down my throat before I could spit it out and it stayed down too. The foie gras wasn’t too bad – good thing I had no idea about those force-fed geese when I ate it.
Wine was kept flowing, as were soft drinks. After the main course of poached salmon and summer pudding for dessert, cheese and liqueurs followed. Carl had not stinted himself, that was for sure. When his business friends, wearing their smart suits and wide smiles came over to the top table (not that I was introduced to any of them), I heard them praise his choice of venue and say the meal was wonderful – ‘And such wonderful wine pairings!’ one of them exclaimed.
Then came the speeches. I could almost feel sorry for Mum’s eldest brother, Peter – who no one had seen in years – having to stand up and say how they had welcomed Carl into the family. I was beginning to feel uncomfortable, the net underskirt was scratching and my headband had become heavier, so I missed a lot of it.
Afterwards, the DJ did his bit, tunes from the sixties blared out and couples imitating the teenagers they had been back then were soon shaking and twisting the night away happily.
‘Come on, Sprat,’ said Ben, suddenly appearing at our table, his hand outstretched to take mine.
‘She’s too young!’ Carl snapped. ‘Think you’d better find someone else your own age. She can stay here.’
For a moment Ben looked startled before saying very calmly to Carl, ‘All right,’ and then, ‘See you at school tomorrow, Sprat,’ to me before walking off.
And stay there I did – bolt upright, watching all the guests having fun and wishing I was anywhere but there.
Chapter 27
Not long after we had returned home from the reception, Carl disappeared for a few minutes and came back, holding three prettily wrapped packages.
For a moment, I thought they were more presents for him.
But I was wrong.
Two were handed to me and one to my mother.
‘Tomorrow is the start of us being a family,’ he said. ‘So here are my presents to both of you.’
I must say I was a bit dumbstruck at this show of good humour. Plus, I was being handed two presents, while my mother was only being given one. Not only that, but with all the preparations for the wedding, Carl had seemed too busy to lay down any new draconian rules, which of course meant I had not been punished for forgetting them. So, he had little reason to try and get round me, which he was known to do after one of his severe beatings.
Also, I was now certain that he disliked my friendship with Ben intensely. I had seen the anger on his face at the birthday party when he had spotted me with my cousin. And all that day I had felt his gaze burning into me whenever I was in his sight. And how about how he had spoken to Ben just a few hours earlier when he asked me to dance? So why was he trying to be so nice to me? It was not like him to put his anger to one side, whatever the reason.
He’s up to something, whispered Fear.
‘Open that one first,’ said Carl, breaking into my thoughts, still with that beaming smile I never trusted fixed firmly on his face. I could feel his eyes boring into me as I undid the gold-coloured string and carefully pulled off the wrapping. Inside was a narrow box and inside that a silver pen.
‘Like it?’ he asked.
I did, it was just so sleek. I was sure that no one at my school had one as nice as this. As I picked it up and found it fitted snugly into my hand, my suspicions simply melted away.
‘Oh yes, I do! It’s the best present ever,’ I told him, my face breaking into a wide smile of delight.
‘Excellent! Now, can you guess what’s in the other parcel?’
‘A book?’ I asked, for the shape told me that it probably was.
‘You’re warm, but we’ll let your mother open hers first, shall we?’ he said, while I folded the wrapping paper carefully – he couldn’t stand mess.
‘Now it’s your turn,’ he told Mum with one of those winks I hated so much. He no doubt thought he looked sexy; I just thought they made him look creepy.
I watched her take care of her pink nails as she opened her parcel delicately to reveal a dark blue square box.
‘Don’t just look at it, darling, open it!’
Smiling up at him, she removed the lid and gave a gasp of pleasure. Carl was certainly doing well in that direction.
‘Oh, it’s so beautiful, Carl!’ she sighed as she lifted out a silver bracelet with a single charm, a silver replica of a church, dangling from one of its links. ‘I love it, I really love it,’ she added, as he moved to her side to fasten it round her wrist.
‘Better open your other one now,’ Mum told me as she jangled her bracelet so that the church swung back and forth.
Instead of the book I had been expecting inside, the parcel contained something much better: a thick cream-coloured diary, complete with a tiny brass lock.
‘Oh, thank you, thank you!’ I squealed, holding it tightly to my chest. My face, I’m sure, was bright pink with pleasure as I beamed up at him.
It was something I had wanted for ages. I enjoyed writing. Without someone to confide in, I often had the urge to put down on paper what my thoughts and wishes were. But I would never have dared write them in a notebook – I was far too careful to do that. I knew he went into my room when I was out and on my return, I could see that things had been moved slightly. Occasionally, I could smell his aftershave hanging in the air, which told me he had only just left when he heard me coming through the front door. But now I could write in my diary and then put the lock on. I could share
my thoughts and secrets with it – I even had the best pen ever to write in it.
‘I saw this in a shop and thought it had your name on it,’ said Carl, smiling at my obvious pleasure. ‘Well, they both did actually – I’ve seen you scribbling away. Let’s call them early birthday presents. You’re going to be eight very soon, aren’t you? Now, here’s your last little gift. Hold your hand out,’ and he dropped a minute brass key into it.
I really can’t blame my seven-year-old self for being so gullible. It never entered her head just why he had given her those presents. She was too busy stroking the cover of the diary and thinking how wonderful it was to have a journal where she could write whatever she wanted inside to question why he had done it. Why, in that moment she almost felt a wave of affection for the giver of that diary.
But that was then.
It took nearly four years before she finally learnt the reason; four years of being given a new diary on each of her birthdays. Four years of her confiding to what she thought was her secret friend. You know that expression, ‘I wish I could see into your head?’ Well, with those diaries in her room, he could. All her thoughts and wishes, who she had spoken to, who were her friends at school, and his biggest worry, what she and Ben talked about.
Everything was in those pages.
The idea of me having a journal was completely his idea, of course. What better way to know everything I thought, felt and planned to do?
What better way to get into my head?
The child I was then had become a reserved little girl. One who had learnt to keep any opinions to herself and never, ever say anything about her home life. Which did not mean her mind did not stop racing. There was so much bottled up inside my younger self for there was no one she dared confide in, no one to share what was really going on and no one to stop her loneliness.
Over the next four years, she felt she could tell her journal everything. She felt a sense of freedom at being able to do that. For talking was dangerous, didn’t Fear tell her that every day? But writing couldn’t harm her, could it? Or so she thought.