Thrown Away Child

I didn’t think she would know if I could or not, as I’d never sung anything with her; she wasn’t interested in music. But I said nothing, and just hung up Ian’s discoloured underpants and her grey underwear in silence. I was then put to weeding the vegetable patch. Later I heard Barbara’s voice wafting through the kitchen window out over the lawn – she must be on the phone: ‘Oh dear, she will be disappointed.’

She came out and stood over me, looking grim. ‘That was the school,’ she said. ‘They said you’re totally tone deaf and you are not in the choir.’

I hadn’t heard the phone ring but I was devastated. I felt so ashamed. I must have been horrendous as a singer. I felt such a failure and tears filled my eyes and fell on the hard ground as I pulled out weed after weed. I felt angry with Janet – how could she put me up for something so embarrassing? I was as useless as ever. I felt ashamed, hurt and desolate, as my world had suddenly collapsed. Yet again.

I was off school for two weeks then. Barbara kept me home to do housework and I didn’t care, as I wasn’t in the choir. I had imagined singing in a little group round the piano next to Janet, smiling. Or being in musicals and concerts. And now I was outcast, yet again. Not good enough. I didn’t want to go to school now, as I felt so embarrassed. I had humiliated myself in front of people. Even in front of the jolly dinner ladies, who were often nice to me and gave me extra food. I went back to school with my eyes firmly down on the pavement. I didn’t want to see anybody, and I didn’t want to talk to Janet. I stayed very quiet and hidden in the back of the class.

That lunchtime I passed Mrs Isaacs in the corridor and she stopped right in front of me. I held my breath and wanted to disappear.

‘Hello, Louise,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you coming on Thursday?’

I blinked up at her, confused. ‘You got in, you know,’ she said.

My heart leapt. I didn’t know what to say. How had Barbara got it so wrong? That evening I told Barbara my news.

‘Well, you can think again,’ she said. ‘I’m not picking you up late. Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to choir. They just took pity on you, that’s all.’

So, on Thursday, I really wanted to go to choir but I didn’t think I could. How could I explain it to Barbara? After school I hovered outside the music room, listening to them warming up, and then I realised: if Barbara came to the school to get me she would pull me out of choir in front of everyone and make up some story. So I went outside to the playground and just waited for her. She was late, as usual. I missed choir, and also the chance to attend.

‘I told you, you weren’t going,’ she said when she picked me up, finally. ‘They said you sounded terrible. You must have got it all wrong.’

And that was the end of that. I was very unhappy after this. Although I’d had the experience of the dinner ladies cheering me, Janet whooping and Mrs Isaacs telling me I had got in, I missed choir and all the fun that went with it. I had a real complex then about my voice. I was sure I couldn’t sing very well, as Barbara continued to tell me I was terrible. It was hard to hang onto the good things when I was told all the time how bad I was.

As compensation for feeling terrible, or when I had been very badly beaten or punched, or left in my room all day, I would find a way to sneak down and have a swig of cherry brandy. It would help take the pain away. It reminded me of the good times with William, too, when I was not alone. Disappointment and punishment always made me want to have another drink, and another, and I got very clever at disguising the bottles and myself after drinking. It was my quiet act of rebellion, but it was also an act of survival.

Around this time there was a family wedding on Ian’s side (it was a rare event to go anywhere, especially with family). I wanted to be a bridesmaid in a pretty new dress, but Barbara put paid to that: ‘Why would anyone spend money on you? Have you looked at yourself? Anyway, you’re not real family. You?

?re not blood.’

So at the wedding I spent my time going round all the tables and slurping the leftover drinks. When the adults weren’t looking, or were doing something else, I would sneak their leftover champagne and get under the table and drink it. I got very squiffy at that wedding. It was a lovely feeling. I felt warm, muzzy and fuzzy, loose, and it felt like nothing mattered to me now. I felt free. I loved it. But I was always careful to stop. I never went too far, as I knew I couldn’t give the game away. Nobody noticed. Or if they did they didn’t say anything, either to Barbara or me.

I was very careful how I did it in my usual very secretive way. I watched the adults carefully, noticing when they were chatting to or laughing with others, or turned away, and then I saw my chance. I was usually aware of when I had Barbara’s gimlet eye on me, and then I was a perfect little girl, being quiet and orderly. I knew if she got wind of me supping the drinks I would have been punched not only into next week, but into next year and beyond.

After the disappointment of the choir and the bridesmaid dress and all the usual punishments, I wrote a letter to one of the social workers saying how unhappy I was at home. I found an official letter on the kitchen table and copied down the address and name. I wrote and told them, in my awful English, about how miserable I was. I drew a picture of a little house with no door and a girl trapped at the window that showed how I felt. I hoped that someone would come to the house and talk to me, see the truth and rescue me. Surely someone would visit and I could tell them how horrible everything really was at home?

I waited and waited but no one came. I carried on going to school some days, and then being kept home out of the blue by Barbara for days and weeks at a time. When the social workers did come round, I was kept away from them in another room. So I didn’t know if they ever got my letter. At school I was always falling behind and trying to catch up, and feeling very stupid as a consequence. There seemed to be nobody to talk to except for dear old Sean, so I would pop round to see him and have milk and biscuits, or bread and cheese, whenever I could. He would always make me feel just that little bit better about things. Just for a while. He was really the only thing that kept me going.

12

A Dog’s Life

We always had dogs and cats. Barbara was keen on particular breeds of dog, such as Poodles, Shih Tzus and Tibetan Terriers, although she often got crossbreeds as well as pedigrees. She liked driving around the countryside to find puppies, and sometimes chickens. She scoured the papers for special offers and sometimes we went to see breeders and farms, as she was very particular about what she bought. Barbara always liked babies, puppies and kittens, as well as chicks. Just like her weird doll collection, which she adored, she liked things that were small and helpless but hated them the minute they got a bit bigger and had a mind of their own.

During my early years we had many dogs, but they never seemed to live very long. There was Rover, Topsy, Spot, Milo, Misty, Scruff, Kizzy and so on. She often had high-maintenance dogs with topknots and ponytails or special coats. She would buy expensive brushes and shampoos, little coats and leads. She probably spent more on the dogs than she ever spent on me. She would take them for training, and then lose interest halfway through. Typically she was keen for a while, when they were tiny, and would carry them around like babies, put them on her lap and dote on them all the time. Then suddenly she would lose interest. Something would trigger her off. After that she would be very rough and tough with them. She would pull them this way and that on their choker leads till they bled, like poor old Topsy, or she would smack and kick them, and even starve them, just like me. They were always being punished for something. And then they were gone and the doggie cycle would start all over again.

When I was about ten, going on eleven, she had Spot – a white Jack Russell with a black spot over one eye – who came after Topsy, who had died very suddenly. He was still only a puppy and keen on biting shoes and slippers, like all puppies do. I thought he was really cute, if a bit yappy. He had nice brown eyes, sticky-up ears and white fur. I liked stroking him and he wagged his tail with a lot of energy and affection.

Barbara nearly always got into a really black mood on Sundays. Everyone kept out of the way and Ian hid in the garage, as usual. She was angry and resentful about cooking and let everyone know it. As I got older I offered to help but she wanted to keep me out. ‘You’ll only mess things up,’ she said.

This particular Sunday she was in a blinding rage. I had no idea what was the matter with her. We were all treading round her like she was a hand grenade. She was in the middle of preparing the food when, all of a sudden, things started flying out into the garden, like they often did. I could hear her saying, ‘I’m bloody well fed up with all this,’ and, ‘I hate my life,’ as I heard chopping sounds.

Then I saw a saucepan fly out the back, followed by a cauliflower, then a plate and some cutlery. It might have been funny if she hadn’t been so scary. I was by the chickens and kept a low profile, as I didn’t want to be in the firing line. The gun might come out next, as she kept it in a kitchen cupboard. I never knew what she might do: she was completely out of control. However, this morning things were flying everywhere and I could hear ‘bugger this, bugger that’ coming from the kitchen.

All of a sudden I saw something white fly at speed in an arc out of the kitchen and land with a loud crack on the path. Was it another cauliflower or pan? Loud yelping followed. I was hovering by the chickens, watching the drama unfold, when I realised that the last missile had been Spot the puppy. Oh no! I ran over as fast as I could and he was lying on his side at a funny angle, his tongue lolling out. He was still breathing but he was winded, sort of panting and whining very badly. He couldn’t seem to move.

Barbara came beetling out of the kitchen. ‘What’s wrong with the bloody dog?’ she spat. She didn’t realise I’d seen her throw him. I looked at her wide-eyed and the dog was still moaning and whimpering. I scooped him up carefully, and by now Ian had appeared and was watching the scene from a safe distance.

‘Stupid dog’s sick,’ said Barbara, storming past Ian and into the kitchen through the back door. Ian stood looking like he had no idea what to do. Barbara then appeared with her handbag and anorak and the puppy was wrapped in a towel and taken to the local vet.