Escape From Evil (13 page)

That thought was even more terrifying. Then I really would be killed. Mark and his friends would see to that. They would have to prove I was under control.

A feeling of dread settled in my stomach as the days passed. At times I struggled to breathe. Each footstep I heard in the communal hall sent me running for my room. Every creak of the old house at night had me convinced Brian was coming back for his retribution. But it didn’t happen. And the next time there was a knock at the door it wasn’t the men at all.

It was a social worker and two policemen. And, yes, they’d come to take me away again.

SEVEN

At my lowest points at Preston Park I admit to occasionally thinking,
I would be better off in care.

I never meant it, though. It just seemed a way out, once I realized that Mum’s men friends were using me as a bargaining chip in their game of wills. But I’d felt a lot more uncomfortable under the unyielding regime of the smelly foster parent with the wandering hands than I’d ever felt at home. Because at home I had Mum. We were a team. As far as I was concerned
,
as long as we were together, the world was all right.

Then I found myself taken into care for the second time. I couldn’t believe how sudden these things were, but Alice, the social worker, claimed Mum had ignored all their correspondence. I didn’t know what to believe. Alice looked honest enough and certainly opening letters wasn’t Mum’s favourite pastime, judging by the bundles by the front door. I did wonder why it had happened now, though.

‘There were a number of factors,’ Alice explained.

‘Like what?’

Alice took a deep breath. ‘Where do I start?’ She then reeled off a list of what she called evidence. For a start, without me knowing, Mum had been picked up by the police a few times recently and taken to the station to cool down. It was usually for shoplifting, Alice said, which had escalated into an argument or fight when she’d been caught. Ever the dutiful child, of course, I denied it was possible – even though I’d seen Mum shoplift plenty of times. But who didn’t do that?

Then there was the fact that council records showed I was still not enrolled at school, which was a serious offence. Finally, the last time Mum had been spotted by the police, they’d noticed her hair. Mum had made up some story, but policemen aren’t stupid. They know the signs of domestic abuse when they see it. And that was when they’d reported it and I’d been removed for my own protection.

When she put it like that, Mum’s life sounded horrible. Mine too, I supposed. And that was without mentioning the men. Even so, I still didn’t want to be taken away. And I certainly didn’t agree with her when she said I’d been ‘rescued’.

I lost track of how long we drove for. Even though I stared glumly out of the car window, I wasn’t taking anything in.

Eventually we stopped outside an ordinary-looking block of flats on a non-descript Brighton street. It could have been anywhere. I would be moving into a flat on the third floor. At first glance it didn’t look anything like as nice as my last foster home – but that place had been hellish the second you stepped through the front door. This one was less imposing on every level. But would it, I wondered, be any better?

The answer, if I’m honest, is yes. I hated being there, of course, but then I would have hated being anywhere. I felt like I’d abandoned Mum, thrown her to the wolves, and the guilt made me feel nauseous. But my new temporary family genuinely did their best to help me take my mind off it.

For a start, it didn’t seem like we were all part of a foster-care production line. There were two parents, two of their own children and then two of us fosters. I shared a room with the family kids, rather than the other foster girl, and went to bed when the others did. There were no weird rules, no special treatment for the actual family kids. So when the family sat down to eat breakfast, we all had the same thing – porridge. The problem was, every one else seemed to love it. I thought it was revolting, but we were allowed to stir in one teaspoon of malt syrup to make it taste nicer. The big game was to try to sneak another spoonful in when the mother wasn’t looking. That made break fast a little more fun.

It took me a while to realize that, however tasteless I found the porridge, it was actually a treat to have someone cooking for me. Not only that, but my washing was done and although we all chipped in with a few chores, the flat was spotless. It was nice to have a break from doing all that myself.

I shouldn’t have to mention it, but, considering my past experiences, I was also aware that no one tried to touch me inappropriately. It’s terrible that that counts as a plus.

The other girl and I were so welcome as part of this couple’s family that at the end of the week, when their own children were given a couple of pennies as pocket money, so were we. I’d never got pocket money from Mum before – this was a new experience for me. The only proviso, the mother said, was ‘You have to buy liquorice with it. I’m not having you all getting rotten teeth, not while you’re under my roof.’

She was paranoid about tooth decay and so we were only allowed to shop at one particular sweet shop, where she knew the owner and would be told if we bought anything other than liquorice. I wasn’t a huge fan of the aniseed flavour, but just going to the shop on a Friday was a treat for another reason.

The first time we set off for the little sweet shop I didn’t pay attention to the streets. The other kids knew where we were going – that was good enough for me. But when we arrived I thought,
I know where I am!
I may have lost track of directions in the car, but, unless I was very much mistaken, we were only ten minutes from home! As soon as the other three kids came piling out of the shop, I said, ‘I’m just going for a walk – I’ll see you later,’ and I ran off down the street.

The look on Mum’s face was a picture. Once she’d got over the shock of it being me and not the police or those men, she couldn’t stop smiling.

We had a lovely time, but after about half an hour Mum packed me back out the door before I was noticed as being missing. She didn’t want more trouble with the law.

‘I’ll come back next Friday!’ I promised.

‘You’d better!’

And I did. I think I was at my new home for twenty-eight days, so that was three or four clandestine visits back to Mum. I didn’t care whether she was tired, slurring or full of beans. I just cuddled her tightly and listened as she said, over and over, that she was sorry.

‘I’m going to sort everything out, Cathy,’ she said. ‘I’m going to make everything all right.’

And I truly believed she meant it.

In 1977 my grandfather had the option of taking early retirement from work. If he did he was entitled to a lump sum of £4,000 plus a reduced pension for the rest of his life. Grandpa was a busy person; he loved having something to do. He really wanted to stay on at Wills Tobacco, but more than that, he really needed the money. Because Grandpa had a plan.

After I’d been taken into care again, Mum had reached a water shed moment. She’d confided things to Granny, who in turn had told Grandpa. I don’t think she could have told him everything. Grandpa never even knew about the meals Granny used to bring us every other day. As a former army man, he acted swiftly. He said, ‘We have to put some distance between you and these men.’

So, with the £4,000 early-retirement cash, he bought Mum a lovely attic flat in a four-storey townhouse in Telscombe Cliffs, about twelve miles from Preston Park.

‘You should be safe here.’

That was the plan. And that was where I was taken when I emerged from my month in care. It’s possible Mum had to agree to move house and try to sort herself out before I would be allowed out. I don’t know. All I can say is that she really made an effort. For a month or two everything was just about perfect.

The flat had one large bedroom, a little kitchen, a bathroom and a nice lounge in the eaves, with criss-crossing support beams. I was eight years old by now and Mushka the cat was probably older, but we both loved running in and out of the rafters. Granny gave me a ball on a piece of string and the cat and I would hare around, with her trying everything to catch that ball. Looking back, it’s staggering to think of the bounce-backability of children. After everything I’d been through, every horror I’d witnessed, it took no effort at all to revert to a normal child, happy to waste hours on the most innocent of games.

Just when I thought I’d exhausted the possibilities of the flat, I discovered the cupboards leading out into the thinnest points of the roof. They were so dark and so deep – and so full of treasure! The previous tenants hadn’t cleared everything out, so I spent a day dragging what they’d left behind out and sorting through it. Most of it was rubbish, but in amongst it all was the prize I’d been hoping for. A toy.

It was a car and about four feet of plastic track. I worked out that if you assembled it all properly, the car would whizz down the track and loop the loop like Evel Knievel. What a fantastic game – and something else the cat tried to play with!

I couldn’t remember a time when I’d been any happier. For a while it really felt like we were living inside a bubble, free from the outside pressures of the world. When I wasn’t exploring every inch of our flat, I’d be out in the cold, playing on my odd-wheeled bike. With the saddle and handlebars extended, it was still the right size for me. We found another hall that sometimes showed Saturday morning films, like in the old days. I even enrolled for the Brownies, which I really liked, and I joined the church choir with Granny. Most staggering of all, one day I found myself dressed in a little blue jumper, grey skirt, white blouse, knee-high socks and round-toed shoes and was introduced to a tall, thin woman.

‘Hello, Cathy, I’m going to be your teacher.’

After eight years I was at school. I admit, it was hard. I liked being around all the other children, but keeping quiet was a strain. I wasn’t used to sitting still much either. Most of my days had been spent keeping busy, busy, busy, cooking, playing, cleaning and looking after Mum. The shift in gear was incredibly difficult to get used to. From the teacher’s point of view, she’d been handed a girl who’d been in and out of care, had seen things no child should ever be subjected to and had become almost totally self-sufficient. Finding a way to connect with me was as taxing for her as the whole experience was for me.

And then there were the actual lessons themselves. Apart from a few happy months at the Rainbow Nursery, I’d never had anything close to a day’s schooling in my life. Suddenly I was being confronted by books and exercise pads and pens and black boards. Until that day, it had never occurred to me that I couldn’t read or write. All the other kids could recognize their own names and write them, as well as other words. For the first time, I got a genuine sense that my life might not have been as normal as I’d assumed.

Like so many children, I enjoyed my first day at school, but this was mainly because of the novelty value. When Mum said I had to go back the following day, I tried to fight her. It just wouldn’t sink in that I should be attending every day. In the end, the only argument that persuaded me was coated in threat.

‘If you don’t go to school the social worker will take you away again. It’s up to you.’

As arguments go, that was pretty persuasive.

As much as I resented being made to go to primary school every day, I soon began to enjoy the order of the day. First thing, I’d make breakfast and take Mum hers. Then off to school. It didn’t take long to find some other local kids to walk with and the journeys passed in no time. I was having so much fun one morning that I was nearly run over by a Mini. I tripped crossing the road and, when I saw this car hurtle towards me, I really thought that was the end. There was a squeal of brakes, just like in films, and a smell of rubber. In the end, it skidded to a halt inches from my body. My legs were like jelly for the rest of the day.

Then, after school, it was home again to cook some tea for me and, if she was there, Mum. But as soon as I started school I noticed Mum began to be around less and less during the day. And, as was so often the case with her, an afternoon would quickly turn into an evening, and perhaps longer.

On the days when Mum wasn’t in, I just turned back round again and went out to play. It didn’t bother me. How many other kids had that choice? Even though I was new to the area, I always found someone to mess around with. That was never a problem. Of course, you didn’t always know what they were really like. One day a couple of us climbed a wall. It was about double my height, so probably around six foot. I was sitting up there, like the king of the castle, when I got shoved in the ribs and suddenly I was plummeting towards the ground. I put my arms out, but my nose got a taste of the pavement. I remember being in agony. It was the most pain I’d ever experienced. I was sure it was broken. I started running back home, but the pain was so bad I could barely see. Blood was streaming down my hands as I tried to stem the flow. Worst of all, in all the chaos, I clean forgot I was returning to an empty flat.

We had no first aid kit, no TCP, not even plasters. All I could do was stuff toilet paper up my nose and curl up on the sofa to cry until the pain subsided. Then I got up and dared to look in the mirror. Nothing looked out of place, nothing was broken. It was over.

I wished Mum had been there, but not because of any medical need. She wouldn’t have known what to do any more than I did. I was comfortable with that. Something else that was normal. A hug would have been nice though.