Escape From Evil (5 page)

‘Is everything okay?’

I was old enough to know she would be hurt if I told her the truth.

‘It’s beautiful,’ I said. ‘Just what I’ve always wanted.’

I don’t know if she ever knew how mortified I was by the mismatching tyres. I remember moaning about it to Grandpa though. His response was typically logical.

‘Cathy,’ he said, with that familiar air of knowing everything, ‘third-class riding is better than first-class walking. Be grateful.’

But I wasn’t. I was selfish – a normal selfish little girl. Everywhere I went I imagined people laughing. I was embarrassed, to be honest. But of course he was right. If I was that bothered I could have not ridden it at all. But that wouldn’t have done. I loved having a bike. I didn’t realize it, but a life-long love of all things two-wheeled began right there.

For a while, then, things were good. From Mum’s point of view, they were probably the best of times, really – certainly since splitting from her husband. She had a small but regular income, her daughter seemed to have settled into nursery and finally she had a bit of freedom. I could never have guessed it at the time, but it was that freedom, I’m sure, that signalled the beginning of the end.

It started with Mum having the odd Saturday night out with friends. She’d drop me off in Saltdean and go skipping down the road to catch a bus into town. I didn’t mind. I liked staying with my grandparents. I could take my bike and bomb up and down their garden or play with other kids in the woodland or the park at the back of their house. Sometimes I’d go with Granny to walk her dogs along the promenade between Saltdean and Rottingdean, or if the weather was bad she’d read me stories or teach me some new craft, like knitting, sewing, crocheting, drawing, flower-arranging or doll-making – you name it, she wanted me to learn it. Grandpa was more of a distant figure, but it didn’t matter. My time there was always great fun. The only downside was knowing Mum was out during our weekend time.

Gradually, our sacrosanct mother-and-daughter time was being eaten into. I don’t think Mum intended it to happen; it just did. First it was occasional Saturdays, then every week. Then she added a Friday or two as well. I can’t blame her. She was barely twenty and she deserved to have some fun. I just wished she could do it on a weeknight.

Missing her on a Saturday night was okay because even if I’d been at home with her, I would have been in bed. The real kicker was not seeing her Sunday morning. As the months went by, Mum’s pick-up time for me got later and later. Granny didn’t mind – she just scooped me into the car and took me to church with them. I was there so often I became the flower girl, handing out posies on special occasions. It was fun – I enjoyed being centre of attention, even in a church. But really I just wanted to be with Mum.

Some Sundays Granny would give up waiting and just take me straight home after the service. If we were lucky, Mum would be up and running around, getting some lunch ready. Then there were the other days. Once, I remember getting to the building and knocking on the communal door. There was no answer so Granny rang the bell. Someone else who lived in the block recognized me and let us in and we went straight over to the door of our flat and knocked again.

‘I don’t think she’s in,’ I said.

Granny wasn’t having any of it. ‘She’s in, all right. But what state she’s in is anybody’s guess.’

I didn’t know what that phrase meant. Even when a zombie-looking Mum opened the door five minutes later, hanging onto the latch like she would fall without it, it didn’t register. I was just so glad to be home I gave Mum an enormous squeeze and skipped into the flat. Granny wasn’t so abundant in her cheeriness.

‘You need to get yourself cleaned up, my girl,’ she scolded. Again, the words meant little to me. I thought Mum looked lovely the way she was. I always did.

I thought nothing of it at the time. The following week the same thing happened and still I didn’t notice anything was wrong. As the weeks wore on, it became another weekend ritual: wake Mum up, say bye to Granny, snuggle up with Mum if she went back to bed, or potter round the flat with her if she stayed up. I really didn’t mind. Anything to be with her.

It was only years later that I questioned what she was doing. That was with the benefit of hindsight. When you’re in the eye of the storm, however, you’re not aware of half the chaos going on around you. As it turned out, I wasn’t aware of any of it.

By the time Mum had been at AmEx a year, we’d settled into a routine. Or rather, we’d settled into several mini-routines. She worked hard all week, picked me up from nursery and we’d either play or she’d drop me at Granny’s and head out for the evening. Then, sometime after my fifth birthday, I stopped going to nursery. Mum said I was too old now and I accepted it. Once again, why wouldn’t I? I knew it was nothing to do with money. After all, lots of my friends had also stopped going. They were too old as well. What I didn’t know, though, was that they all stopped nursery because they had somewhere else to go. School. You don’t miss what you’ve never had.

That was the story of my life. It could have applied to a dad (I don’t remember him as a child at all), to toys, to heating – anything. You name it, I probably didn’t have it. But it’s not in my nature to want what I can’t get. Consequently, even if I heard friends talking about school, it never entered my head that I was missing out. I wasn’t envious. Possibly I was a little curious about where they disappeared to in the days, but not enough to ask Mum if I could go too. And it certainly never once occurred to me that I should be attending.

Because I didn’t go to school, I still needed day care. Granny stepped in for at least a couple of days a week and Mum would drop me off on her way to work. For the rest of the time, she found another solution.

I suddenly found myself being taken to a neighbour’s flat, that of a man who lived alone. He was older than Mum, but was probably only about thirty, certainly no older than forty. Kids are really bad at ages. Everyone looks old to them. I don’t recall ever meeting him before and we certainly weren’t introduced first. It was just up, dressed, shooed out the door as usual – and across the hall into the neighbour’s flat. I really didn’t want to go in. Mum was in a rush though.

‘Be a good girl. I’ll see you later. Love you.’ And she was off.

So there I was, just a few feet from my own home, but it felt like a million miles away.

The man was all right. He made me breakfast and lunch and, best of all, let me watch telly. That was the deal-maker as far as I was concerned. Without that, I wouldn’t have wanted to spend a minute there
.
Unfortunately, without the telly, I also wouldn’t have been subjected to what he put me through.

Once I got to know our neighbour – let’s call him Paul – I really grew to like him. During the months he looked after me, he was never less than lovely and caring, always trying to make me laugh. He really knew how to make a day fly by. For a five-year-old, that’s half the battle of childcare.

When it came to watching telly, I’d snuggle up to Paul on the sofa. Then, one day, he suggested I move nearer.

‘Come and sit on my lap, Cathy.’

So I did, just as I would have done if it had been Mum, Granny or Grandpa suggesting it.

There was nothing like CBeebies or Milkshake on telly in those days. People were still getting used to having a third channel and BBC2 only really got going in the afternoon. Earlier in the day they would show that famous ‘test card’ of the little girl playing noughts and crosses with her clown doll. Whatever was broadcast was still better than nothing, though, and I lapped it up. Even when I didn’t understand what was being said. And even when I felt Paul’s hands moving over my legs.

I didn’t know how long he’d been doing it. I was just suddenly aware of his hands sliding up my bare legs and underneath my skirt.

‘What are you doing?’ I asked, but he just giggled.

‘You mind your own business and watch the telly,’ he ordered.

Okay,
I thought.
It’s not like you’re hurting me.

Children just assume adults have their best interests at heart, don’t they? Granny and Grandpa had caused me a lot more pain than that by telling me off, so I just got comfortable and ignored him.

I feel sick looking back and more than a bit apprehensive about even mentioning it. My life had been one round of surprises followed by another. Mum was always finding new ways of pulling the rug out from underneath me. So, if you like, I was conditioned to accept weird things as normal. Even when a man I barely knew flicked my little pants aside and pushed his fingers inside me.

I didn’t cry, I didn’t scream. I don’t even remember fighting him off. I’m ashamed to admit that I just sat there, watching television and trying not to pay him any attention.

As young as I was, I knew I wasn’t being hurt. He was gentle with me, like he’d always been when we messed around. He never shouted or hurt me or really told me off. In every other way, as far as I was concerned, he was looking out for me. Yes, I thought what he was doing to me was odd, but, as I say, my life so far had been a series of odd events lined up next to each other.

When the programme finished, or when it was time to go, I jumped off his lap and that was it. No awkward words, no silences, no recriminations. In fact, when I returned the next day, he did exactly the same thing. And the next day, and the next, and the next. Every time I saw him, in fact, Paul would do that.

Another sign that I thought it was ‘normal’ is that I never told Mum. It wasn’t like I was too scared to or I didn’t think she’d care. It was just something that happened during my day, as regular as afternoon naps and cleaning my teeth after lunch. By the time I was at home with her, it didn’t even register as an event.

By normalizing it, like Paul did, I wasn’t even aware a crime was being committed. And that, I suppose, is how people get away with it for so long.

I wonder if Mum should have picked up on any change in my personality at that time. Apparently an abused child will give off signals, if you know where to look. I doubt Mum noticed anything untoward. For a start, as I said, I wasn’t even aware I was being violated. And, more importantly, looking back, I’m amazed she even remembered my name sometimes.

The longer Mum worked at AmEx, the less active she seemed to get at home. When she wasn’t out, she would spend a lot of time in bed. Once I asked her if she was going out as usual on Saturday. Imagine how my heart leapt when she replied, ‘No, not this time.’

I had visions of us skipping through the park, paddling along the seafront or visiting our favourite café – maybe even all three. In the end we did exactly none of them.

Mum was as good as her word. She didn’t go out Saturday night. But she didn’t go out Saturday morning or afternoon either. In fact, I don’t recall her getting out of bed except to visit the loo or have a cigarette.

Of course I was disappointed, but mainly I was worried. For Mum to stay in bed all day, she was obviously ill. I think I learnt how to make coffee that day – too young, I realize now, to be handling boiling water. And I was in charge of lunch as well. I managed to rustle up a sandwich.

By the time Monday morning came round Mum was right as rain again and it was back to our weekly routine. Or so I thought. By the middle of the week she was starting to slow down again. After a night out on Friday she once more retired to her bed. Saturday came and went. Sunday too. The only difference this time was that she didn’t get up on Monday – not early enough for work, anyway.

I don’t know if it was related, but Mum’s job with AmEx ended soon after that. Granny was really disappointed, but Mum took it quite well.

‘What will you do now?’ Granny asked her.

Mum just shrugged.

‘Find something else.’

But she never did.

Hearing that Mum wasn’t working anymore was like going to bed on Christmas Eve. I was too excited to sleep, knowing all the fun we were going to have the next day. Yet again, it didn’t quite pan out the way I envisaged.

Mum spent her first day off work in bed. This time, though, I knew she wasn’t ill. When I asked, she just said, ‘I’m tired.’

Fair enough
, I thought. After a day of mooching around the flat she’d be raring to go tomorrow. We could have our fun together then.

Wrong.

Tuesday was another bed day. Once again, the only things that could entice Mum up were tea breaks, loo stops and the lure of another cigarette. Food seemed to pass her by. It would have passed me by as well if it had been up to her. I managed to open a tin of baked beans and heated those. Obviously I offered Mum the same.

‘No thanks, darling,’ she smiled, lighting another cigarette. ‘I’m all right here.’ Mum had always smoked. Now, though, her cigarettes smelled very sweet, like herbs.

Quite a lot of our time together ended up with me playing nurse and waitress to Mum, although she never actually asked me for anything. Not a drink or medicine or even to pass her matches. That didn’t stop me offering, though. I was desperate to do something for her. But she always waved my offers away with a smile. Then I’d climb onto the bed with her and she’d fall asleep. I’d never had a doll of my own to look after, but I imagined this was what it must be like.

Writing this down, it sounds like a pretty horrendous life, but I can’t tell you how happy I was. I didn’t care that Mum wanted to mope around the flat in a fug of smoke. If I’d had my way, I would have sat on her desk at American Express. Just being with her was all I ever wanted. It’s what I still want today.