Thrown Away Child

‘We’re going to a farmhouse for the night,’ he said. ‘Mrs Knight will look after you.’

I had no idea who ‘Mrs Knight’ was, and just kept looking out the window. In my head I was counting and pressing my thumb and fingers together on both hands, at high speed. One, two, three, four. One, two, three, four. I had no idea why this was happening to me.

Suddenly the car was slowing. We were on a very small country lane. There was a lay-by in the road – I’d been in one before when I was travelsick and had thrown up on the verge. The social worker put the brake on and opened his door. What was he doing? I looked about me – there were no houses around. I wondered if I should get out too.

Then he opened the back door and got in next to me. I was quite dirty, having trudged across the field of cows. I had a little dress on and white socks, now splattered with mud and poo. I said nothing and looked at the man, who made me feel uncomfortable. He closed the door and said, ‘Want a sweet?’

I said, ‘No, thank you,’ although I was dying to have one. I felt very peculiar with this man. He put his hand on my knee, and then moved it up my thigh. I stopped breathing. What was he doing?

‘You’re very pretty, Louise,’ he said. Then he moved his hand up further towards my knickers, and further up, just as an ambulance came hurtling around the corner a few feet away from the car. He took his hand away very quickly and looked out the window. The ambulance rattled by. We sat on the backseat together in awkward silence for a few seconds. Then he suddenly opened the door, got out and slammed it shut. He got back in the driver’s seat and started up the car.

I sat, shocked, on the back seat. What was going on? I looked at his eyes in the mirror and pulled my dress back down. I felt truly terrified.

‘Louise, you don’t need to tell anyone about this,’ the man said, as we drove off. Who was I going to tell? Who would believe me? Then, without a word, I was driven to a place I didn’t know and handed over to Mrs Knight, a large lady who lived in a big farmhouse.

I sat in her rambling living room. There were three big boys sitting on the floor playing with Lego and bricks. Then I heard the male social worker say to Mrs Knight in the hall outside, ‘Be careful of Louise, she is known for telling lies.’

I was amazed. I heard Mrs Knight say, ‘Oh, thanks, Malcolm. Good to know. You can’t be too careful.’ Then she came into the living room and handed me a sheet of paper.

‘Read this and we’ll get along fine,’ she said. I couldn’t read very well, and the words sort of swam before my eyes. Then Mrs Knight took me upstairs to a room with bunk beds: I was on the bottom. There were more children up there, two girls and two boys. Some were her own children, some were fostered. I didn’t speak to anyone. I had no idea what was going on or why I was there. Why had Barbara left me again? Why had the old people not wanted me? Why had the social worker tried to touch me? Why was I here now, and for how long? Was I ever going home again?

When teatime came there was food but I didn’t really want to eat it. I felt too upset. I had no clothes, no toothbrush, nothing. Mrs Knight found me some pyjamas. That night the children took it in turns after lights out to hold me down, pull down my pyjama bottoms and look at my private parts. They took it in turns to touch my body, like it was a scary animal, and each time they whispered ‘yuck’. Both the boys and the girls did this, mostly in total silence. I just held my breath, waiting for it to stop.

I felt like I’d stepped into a nightmare that wasn’t going to end anytime soon. I was at the farmhouse for two days. I didn’t speak to anyone or play with the children. There was a big sheepdog outside, though, and I went and sat with him and stroked him all day. I loved being with a big calm animal with bright eyes, soft fur and a wet nose. I loved the feel of his coat and his warmth. Eventually Mrs Knight came out to find me.

‘Come with me,’ she said, and I got up from the dog and followed her reluctantly. On the doorstep was Barbara in her grey anorak, looking sour. I felt my heart sink. I didn’t like where I was but I didn’t want to leave either.

‘You’ve worried me to death,’ she said, ‘running off like that.’ And with that I was swept off the doorstep and into the car without any explanation. We sat in silence all the way home. Nothing was mentioned about this incident ever again.

11

Going Up and Down

When I was nine, I went up to middle school. It meant that I finally got away from the horrible school and the dreaded Spencer and his gang. The middle school was also near my first primary school, Vernon Lane, in a nicer part of town, and I wondered if I might see Miss Nickerson, my lovely first art teacher, by going back near there.

I still thought about William from time to time, although his memory was now fading. Barbara had told me during one spiteful moment that he was so stupid and bad he was now in a ‘special school’, whatever that was. He was also in ‘care’. I didn’t really understand what this meant. I had tried to call the phone number I memorised once, but couldn’t get through – so gave up. It was now three years since I’d seen him and I still looked right occasionally when I went down our road, just in case I might glimpse him. I also looked around the shops whenever we were out, just in case I spied a red toothbrush of hair. But I never did see him again, and I had no idea where he was or how to contact him. He was the only other person who really knew what it was like in our house. I certainly couldn’t ask Barbara where he was, Ian wasn’t interested, and Kevin I avoided as much as possible.

Middle school was smaller and seemed much nicer all round. The teachers were friendlier and the children not so harsh. I knew I didn’t look right, as I was still wearing the horrible maroon slippers or Barbara’s old-lady shoes, and my uniform was second-hand and not the same colour or quality as the other children’s. It was navy, and I had yet another knitted tie. Barbara still walked me to school with the dog, and we were still late. I got strange looks when she turned up and I could see people looking at her, and at me, and thinking, Who’s this strange lot? I wasn’t sure if the teachers could see I was different from Barbara, as although I called her ‘Mummy’ I knew we were not blood related. She never stopped telling me I wasn’t hers and that I wasn’t wanted.

I was beginning to feel very self-conscious, as my breasts were starting to develop. I could feel my clothes clinging to my body and I didn’t like it. I didn’t like boys looking at me, after all the things Barbara had said about them. The constant touching, teasing and poking I had endured from Spencer, Kevin, Mark, and even the male social worker in the car, made me feel very awkward about my body. I knew I smelt quite bad, as I didn’t have enough baths, and washing was very quick in the morning and almost non-existent in the evening. I hated smelling. I had started to sweat now, and I asked Barbara if I could shower after school, especially after PE.

‘I’m not wasting water on the likes of you,’ she spat. I tried again and asked if I could have deodorant. ‘You’re too young.’

So I was stuck with trying to wash myself with carbolic or green Fairy soap with a flannel, but I knew I smelt sweaty and my clothes were awful. I would wear the same white shirt all week and it would end up grimy yellow under the arms, with a grey collar. Other girls mocked me for being dirty – they had Impulse sprays in their bags called wonderful things like ‘True Love’ or ‘Romantic Spark’. And they all had shiny hair in beautiful ponytails, with sparkly

bobbles and lovely fashionable hairbands, while I had a black pageboy, cut very short (real pudding basin style) and dandruff. My hair was greasy and it itched, so I had snow all over my blazer. It was awful.

When I was sweating I would stuff toilet paper into my armpits to try to soak up the moisture and then, when I took it out, it would smell really bad and I would flush it down the toilet in disgust. The toilet paper was that hard, greaseproof stuff, so it chafed my underarms and they got red and sore. I couldn’t buy any toiletries as I didn’t have any money, and now, in my new school, I began to get bullied about smelling all over again. Then the soap and flannel disappeared from the bathroom; Barbara had taken it. Children began to move away from me at school, and refused to sit next to me. I would take refuge in the toilets at lunchtime and cry. I would never make a friend if I smelt like this.

Then we were called into the headmaster’s office for a meeting. The night before, Barbara spent a long time pinning up her hair to make her usual demi-wave style. She put rollers in and covered it with a net, and manicured her nails using Nulon hand cream. She wore a dress and jacket and looked unusually smart, but I was grubby as usual and was called out of class before the morning break. I could smell myself; it was awful.

When I got to the headmaster’s office Barbara was already there. She was standing looking very smart – for her – and she nodded at me as I came in. I could see she was in one of her strange moods. She looked quite smug, so I didn’t know what she had already been saying to the headmaster, Mr Phillips, who was very nice. We both sat down in front of him on high-backed chairs.

‘I’ve asked you in,’ Mr Phillips began politely, looking at Barbara, ‘because we are concerned about Louise’s hygiene.’

‘Oh, yes, sir,’ said Barbara, in a polite voice that I didn’t recognise. ‘We are also very concerned. She refuses to wash. She is such a dirty girl. I’ve tried my best to teach her but she just won’t learn.’

I was speechless. Fat, salty tears started rolling down my cheeks. The truth was further than I could possibly explain. I had started really happily at this new school and I was again being bullied for being smelly. And I was smelly because I wasn’t allowed baths or showers and even my soap and flannel had been taken away. But I was so upset I couldn’t speak. That was the end of the meeting and we were ushered out.