Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. (13 page)

O
ne day, a friend of Mum’s called Auntie Pat came to stay. I’d never heard of her before and couldn’t decide what to make of her at first. She was a short woman with a pointy, witch-like nose and a ruddy complexion. She spoke in a slurred voice that was sometimes difficult to understand, and she bumped into furniture a lot. There was a fruity, pungent smell about her, which I realized after a while was gin. She guzzled gin from morning to night and wherever she was sitting, there was always a bottle nearby.

‘Why is she here?’ I asked Dad.

‘She’s a friend of your mother’s family. She’s not very well and she needs people to look after her,’ he explained. ‘Usually she stays with your mum’s sister Dorrie, but Dorrie needs a break so she’s coming to live with us for a couple of weeks.’

I hoped that Mum would have to stop being so cruel to me with a witness in the house but it soon became apparent that wasn’t going to be the case. Auntie Pat was delighted to become Mum’s partner in crime, quite happy to laugh at Mum’s cruelties and lash out at me herself given half a chance. She was usually drunk, making it easy
to duck out the way, but she caught me a few clips round the head when I wasn’t looking.

An unpleasant side-effect of Auntie Pat’s alcoholism was that she wet her bed most nights, and it became my job to change her sheets and put the soiled ones in the washing machine.

‘It’s the very least you owe me after all the times I changed your sheets when you were younger. Not just sheets – your pants, skirts, socks, everything. It’s time for you to pull your weight round here,’ Mum told me.

My duties already included washing the kitchen floor, vacuuming the stairs and doing the dishes after dinner every night, but this new task was by far the most unpleasant. I couldn’t bear the acrid stench of the urine as I stripped the wet sheet from the bed. Sometimes there were streaks of yellowy vomit encrusted on the pillowcase as well. If it had soaked through into the mattress, I had to bring a brush and a bucket of soapy water and scrub away the stain. The soap seemed to exacerbate the psoriasis on my hands and they would be inflamed and painful afterwards. Meanwhile, Pat would stomp around the room acting as if it was all my fault.

‘Get a move on, brat. I need to get changed and I’m not doing it with you here. Move that face away from me!’

I was filled with fury, thinking, why don’t you change your nasty sheets yourself, then, you horrible old woman? But I knew better than to say as much out loud. I’d put her sheets in the big twin-tub washing machine and set it to run, and then hurry off to school, inevitably late and with the unmistakeable scent of urine still stinging my nostrils.

One evening, Mum and Auntie Pat were particularly raucous when I got home from school and I got the impression they’d both been drinking for a while. The gin bottle on the kitchen table was nearly empty and the ashtray between them was overflowing with lipstick-smeared cigarette butts.

‘Look what the cat dragged in,’ Mum snorted when she saw me. She poked me in the stomach. ‘It’s getting fatter and uglier every day.’

‘Send her outside,’ Pat suggested. ‘We don’t want her sour face spoiling our drinkies.’

‘Yes, out you get,’ Mum agreed.

‘Please can I go to the bathroom first?’ I asked.

They looked at one another and grinned spitefully. ‘No. Go outside. Now.’ Mum commanded.

‘I’ve got an idea,’ Auntie Pat suggested brightly. She lurched to her feet, staggered across the floor and pulled a tumbler from the cupboard. ‘Pee into that, and bring it to the back door when you’re finished.’

I looked at Mum. She shrugged. ‘You heard her. Do what you’re told.’ They both sniggered.

I took the tumbler and went out into the garden. Janie followed me so I bent down and rubbed her tummy and she jumped up with glee, always grateful for any attention. Did I really have to pee in the tumbler? What were they going to do with it?

‘Get a move on!’ Mum yelled out the door.

Sighing, I moved round the corner of the house, pulled down my pants and tights and tried to squat over the tumbler. I was permanently swollen and sore between my legs now and I had a smelly discharge that streaked my
pants. It stung as I peed into the tumbler, and some spilled on my fingers, irritating a patch of psoriasis there. I pulled my pants and tights up again and washed my hands at the water butt.

‘Is that you done?’ Mum called. ‘Where’s the tumbler?’

I shuffled to the back door and handed it to her. She put it on the side by the sink.

‘What are we going to do with it?’ Pat asked. ‘How about a pregnancy test? You could see if the little slut has been up to anything she shouldn’t be.’

Mum chortled. ‘She’s only just started her monthlies. She couldn’t be pregnant.’

I was startled by this suggestion. At the time, I was very unclear about how pregnancies occurred. I’d heard somewhere that the man’s seed had to get inside the lady’s egg, but I had no idea how that happened. Vaguely I suppose I was aware that what Grandpa was doing to me had something to do with the facts of life, but the mechanics were very muddled in my head. Where was my egg kept? And where were his seeds? How did they come together to make a baby?

‘Nah, she’s not pregnant,’ Auntie Pat said. ‘What boy would look at her with that face? It’s all blubber in her belly, not babies.’ She suddenly touched her forehead to signify that she’d had an idea. ‘I know! Why don’t we make her drink her pee? It’s supposed to be good for you. I read about it in a magazine.’

‘Really?’ Mum looked dubious.

‘It’s supposed to cure all kinds of illnesses. Maybe it would get rid of that revolting rash she’s always clawing away at.’

Mum suddenly seemed tickled by the idea. ‘Well, why not? Vanessa, drink your pee. Gulp it down. It’s good for you, Pat says.’

I screwed up my face. ‘Mum, I can’t. Please don’t make me.’

Mum stood up menacingly and lurched towards the back door. She held out the tumbler, her hand shaking so that some wee spilled on my school shoe. She grabbed my hair to hold my head in place.

‘Drink it!’ she growled, bringing the tumbler to my lips and breathing alcohol fumes in my face.

I kept my lips pressed tightly together, so she forced my head down towards it and a little more spilled on my blazer.

‘Do as your mother says,’ Auntie Pat ordered, taking a huge slurp of her gin.

‘Drink it now or I’ll beat you black and blue,’ Mum hissed. ‘I’ll flay you alive. Drink!’ She yanked my hair again and I took a sip of the still warm, cloudy urine. Instantly I began to retch. The taste wasn’t too bad – slightly vegetable, with a chalky aftertaste – but it was the thought of what I was consuming that turned my stomach.

‘If you’re sick, we’ll make you drink ours as well,’ Auntie Pat cackled.

Mum wasn’t laughing any more. This was serious. ‘Drink!’ she commanded and I took another sip. Mum tipped the bottom of the tumbler. ‘More!’ she said.

I just gave in. I couldn’t fight the two of them together. I glugged down the entire tumbler of my own urine, then held a hand over my mouth as waves of retching convulsed my diaphragm, threatening to bring the whole lot back up again.

‘Stand there!’ Mum ordered, pointing to the corner of the kitchen. ‘If you throw it up, we’ll just make you drink more.’

‘Disgusting,’ Pat crowed. ‘She really is repulsive, isn’t she?’

I stood, trying to listen for some comforting spirit voices but I couldn’t find any that day. It was probably because Mum and Auntie Pat were in the room, their alcohol-fuelled sadistic gaiety blocking any spiritual atmosphere. My cheeks felt hot and my stomach was churning but I was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing me throw up or burst into tears. At last Mum gave me permission to leave the room and do my homework. I headed straight for the bathroom to brush and rinse my teeth over and over again, trying to get rid of the taste that coated my mouth and tongue.

Although I did not suffer any ill effects from this experience, the emotional abuse battered away at what remained of my spirit. It was hard enough to resist Mum and escape her fury when she was on her own. With Pat to encourage her, she was even more impossible. What else would they do to me? Where would it all end?

Pat left after a couple of weeks, as Dad had promised, and I was delighted to see the back of her. She was a mean-spirited woman, who treated me like an animal and brought out the worst side of Mum as well. I could sense Dad couldn’t stand her either because he kept well out of the way when she was around. The morning after she left, he was there at breakfast time and seemed to be in a very jolly mood.

‘Have you ever made pie clits, Lady Jane?’ he asked. ‘It’s a Casey family tradition and I’m going to show you how.
Then you can make them for me in future and the custom will be carried on to a whole new generation.’

First of all he got me to sprinkle some yeast and sugar on to a warm milk and water mixture and we set it aside. Then I had to sift the flour and salt into a bowl and make a well in the middle. When the yeast was ready, I mixed it all together with a big wooden spoon, and Dad dropped dollops of the paste into special ring shapes he’d laid in the hot frying pan. I stood on a chair to watch as lots of little bubbles rose up on the surface of the pie clits and burst, leaving holes like craters on the surface of the Moon.

When the first one was ready, Dad lifted it out and buttered it for me. ‘Have a taste. What do you think?’

It was delicious – warm, buttery, soggy and chewy all at once. I took another bite and a dribble of butter escaped and dripped down the front of my cardigan. I gasped. ‘Oh no!’

‘What is it?’ Dad asked and turned round to see me staring in dismay at the mark. ‘Not to worry, it’ll come out in the wash.’

‘But Mummy gets angry if I get my clothes dirty.’

He put his head to one side thoughtfully. ‘All children get dirty sometimes. It’s part of what being young is all about. They just need to get cleaned up afterwards. Now, are you ready for another delicious pie clit?’

I took one because I could see how much it meant to him, but I was cautious not to let any butter drip from it this time. Mum came into the kitchen, looked at what we were doing and sighed loudly.

‘Not the bloody pie clits!’ she moaned. ‘You Caseys think you’re so special with your secret recipes and traditions passed through the generations like you’re the royal
family or something. It’s just a bloody crumpet, for God’s sake.’

She stormed out of the kitchen, slamming the door. Dad stared down into the pan and didn’t comment.

I
never knew what ‘games’ Grandpa Pittam would have in mind when I visited. I’d long ago stopped trying to resist him. He kept a huge tub of Vaseline in the garage that he’d plaster on whenever he wanted to penetrate me because I was too tight and swollen to make it possible otherwise. Cuts in my delicate tissue often didn’t heal from one session to the next and ripped open again at his lunging. My psoriasis always flared up when I went there, making my skin agony to the touch.

While he had his way, I focused hard on my spirit world. I’d realized I could have conversations with the spirits inside my head without talking out loud. They heard what I wanted to say if I just thought it, and the only problem was that I often got several voices clamouring to speak to me at once, making it hard to separate one from the other.

Certain characters were regulars: my guardian angel, of course; the one-armed girl, whom I now called Polly Poppet; and a wise old spirit called the Clown. My guardian angel brought the Clown to meet me one day and explained that he would be with me for the rest of my life.

‘Always listen to him carefully,’ she said. ‘Never doubt his word. He is the special spirit who has been assigned to guide you in this world.’

I could see him very clearly, unlike many other spirits who were just vague, misty forms I could only hear. The Clown was quite short and dressed like a court jester of old, in a multi-coloured jacket. He had a warm smile that reached his eyes and I was pleased to meet him, although I had no idea how important he would become to me.

Listening to spirits and concentrating hard, I could project myself away from the pain in my body. I no longer smelled the stale, horrid smell of Grandpa or felt his scratchy bristles or calloused workman’s fingers. The ugly panting sound he made in his throat faded into the background.

I sometimes imagined I was floating outside my body, up near the garage roof or even higher into the sky. When I looked down, I could make out the shape of a white-haired old man pounding away at a little girl’s naked body, and I felt sorry for her in the abstract. I wished I could save her but at the same time I knew I couldn’t.

Sometimes it was worse after he finished, when Grandma filled the tub and made me get in it. If she were in a bad mood, she’d bring out the old scrubbing brush and the pink disinfectant soap and scrub away at my skin until the patches of psoriasis were raw and bleeding.

It still broke my heart that Mum watched without comment. One time, when I had some bad bruises on my inner thighs from Grandpa’s belt buckle, I thought I caught a flicker of recognition, even sympathy, in her eyes before she turned away and lit a cigarette. The thought
flitted through my mind that perhaps this had happened to her as a child. Did she have to do these things with her daddy? But she was still flirty and affectionate around him, whereas I had grown to hate him passionately.

From time to time, I considered telling someone what was happening to me. Nan Casey was the obvious person but I’d look at her kind, smiling face and wouldn’t be able to get the words out. What if she didn’t believe me? Mum kept telling her that I was a liar with a vivid imagination. I couldn’t bear it if I told her and she thought I was making it up. Besides, if I told Nan and she mentioned to Mum what I’d said, my life would be a living hell.

There was another thing: I couldn’t bear to put my experiences into words because somehow that made it all the more real and shocking. I had learned that Grandpa’s ‘thing’ was called a penis, and the white stuff was called sperm. Sometimes I tried rehearsing in my head what I would say if I told someone but it sounded so strange that I almost didn’t believe it myself.

I considered telling someone my own age rather than an adult, just to find out whether this happened to other girls as well. I hardly ever saw Fifi any more because she had her own group of friends and was seldom around on the occasional days when I visited Rugeley. I didn’t have any close friends at school but there were a few girls I talked to about homework and pets and skipping. In the end, shame stopped me from speaking to them. Although I knew, because the spirits had told me, that what Grandpa was doing was wrong and wicked, I felt
ashamed and dirty myself because I let him do it. I worried that my contemporaries might be repulsed if they knew I’d had an old man’s wrinkly penis inside me. When I did at last tell someone, I made an interesting choice of confessor: someone who would listen without asking any questions.

Dad’s youngest sister, Gilly, was a kind, pretty woman who worked from home as a hairdresser. She was married to a lovely man named Roy and they had a daughter, Alison, about my age, who had Down’s syndrome and a range of serious disabilities. A chubby blonde child, Alison couldn’t walk or talk but she was extremely affectionate and loving to me and I liked playing with her. I rarely saw them – perhaps only once a year – but one weekend in January 1959 I was dropped off to spend a few days at their house while Mum and Dad went to Surrey to visit Nigel.

On the Saturday morning, Aunt Gilly had hairdressing clients coming in and out but she gave Alison and me some rollers, kirby grips and combs so that we could style our dollies’ hair. We were told we could sit in the corner of her workroom so long as we kept reasonably quiet. My doll had long blonde hair and first I rolled it up into a bun and changed her into a silvery evening dress. Alison beamed at me and gave me a hug. Then I braided pigtails into her doll’s hair and dressed her in some jeans and a checked shirt.

I decided I wanted to wash my doll’s hair so I took her through to the bathroom and rinsed it under the tap. The evening dress was getting wet so I took it off and my attention was caught by the lack of genital features – between the doll’s legs was just smooth, unbroken plastic.
I wished I could be like that and then Grandpa wouldn’t be able to play his games with me. I was thoughtful as I wandered back through to sit with Alison on the workroom floor. Gilly was chatting to her client about a new car.

‘Alison,’ I began tentatively, keeping my voice low, ‘when you go to Granddad’s, does he make you play with his thing?’

She looked at me puzzled, not understanding.

‘You know. The thing between his legs. His penis.’

She shook her head, no idea what I meant. Her big eyes were watching me in a concerned, utterly trusting way that encouraged me to say more.

‘When I go to Grandpa Pittam’s he puts his thing in my bottom there and there.’ I pointed to the places on the doll. ‘And sometimes he puts it in my mouth too.’

She continued to watch me intently.

‘He makes me do it. He forces me to sit on his lap or he makes me bend over the rocking horse and then pushes it in me.’ I showed her again on the doll. ‘In there and in there.’ I took my finger and rammed it hard against the plastic. ‘Then he pushes it in and out like that.’

I had been talking in a very low voice but suddenly I became aware that Aunt Gilly had gone quiet. I turned round and she was looking at me with a most peculiar expression on her face. Fear gripped me. Had she overheard?

‘Could you hold on just a minute?’ she asked her client, and turned to me and held out her hand. ‘Can I have a word with you in the other room, Vanessa? You stay there, Alison.’

She took my hand very gently and led me back to the kitchen. My heart was beating hard and I had a big lump in my throat and tears behind my eyes. I was very scared of what was coming next.

Aunt Gilly sat me down at the table and gave me a cup of juice. Then she sat beside me, her face very close to mine. ‘I heard you telling Alison about someone putting his thing inside you.’ She stroked my hair back from my face and looked me in the eyes. ‘Who did that, Vanessa?’

I was so terrified I could barely speak. ‘Grandpa Pittam,’ I whispered.

‘It must have hurt a lot,’ she said, and I nodded. ‘Does he do it often?’

‘Every time I visit them.’

Gilly had tears in her eyes. She kept stroking my hair. ‘How long has he been doing it? What age were you when it started?’

I’d thought about this before and knew the answer. ‘I was six the first time he played his games with me, because it was just after my hands got burned. But it got worse after Nigel went away.’

‘That’s a long time,’ she gasped, and then she held out her arms and gave me a big hug, stroking my back. Not once, for a second, did she question whether I was telling the truth or not. She believed me completely, and that was an incredible feeling for me.

‘We’re going to fix this. It’s not right,’ she told me firmly. ‘Don’t worry. It’s going to stop now.’

She got up and went to the telephone in the corner of the kitchen. She phoned her husband Roy first of all and spoke briefly and urgently. ‘I need you to come home as
soon as possible to watch Alison. It’s important … I’ll tell you later. There’s something I’ve got to do.’

It was a black telephone with a long, curly flex and she was winding it round her fingers as she spoke, keeping one eye on me the whole time.

She pressed down the little buttons to get a dialling tone then rang another number, putting her fingers into the holes on the dial then letting them slide round with a clicking noise. ‘Hello, Mum? It’s Gilly. Look, there’s an emergency. Roy’s on his way home then I’m coming over to yours with Vanessa. Wait for us. Don’t go out.’

It took me a minute to work out who she was talking to then I was overjoyed to realize that Gilly’s mum was Nan Casey. She confirmed it a minute later. ‘I just have to finish off the client in the front room and wait for Roy to come home, then I’ll take you over to your Nan’s,’ she said. ‘I want you to tell her everything you’ve told me. We’re going to help you, OK?’

‘Mummy will be cross with me,’ I said.

‘No, she won’t,’ Gilly told me firmly. ‘We’ll explain to her. No one’s going to be cross with you, my love.’ She kissed my cheek and she smelled sweet, like flowers. Her lips were lovely and soft.

When we got to Nan Casey’s house, Gilly asked me to sit and play with the toys in the playroom while she had a quick word with Nan in the kitchen. I picked up the spinning top in a desultory manner but didn’t spin it. Instead I sat, utterly still, listening hard, too nervous to go and eavesdrop at the door but desperate to know what they were saying. I was worried that Nan Casey wouldn’t believe me, and on the other hand I was scared that she would, because what would happen then? I heard a little
scream at one point and it made goose bumps stand up on my skin.

It wasn’t long before Nan came into the playroom. She sat down on the floor beside me and pulled me into her arms for a big hug. I could see she’d been crying and I could hear tears in her voice. ‘Nessa, why didn’t you tell me?’ she asked.

‘I thought you wouldn’t believe me,’ I mumbled.

‘Of course I’d believe you. I’ve always believed you. You’re not a liar. Besides, no child your age should know about these things. Can you bear to show me what he does to you?’

My tears started to flow and I wasn’t very articulate but I showed her the places he put his penis in me, and I told her about the way he blindfolded me and tied my hands behind my back and beat me with his belt. She was sobbing out loud and holding me so tightly she was nearly squashing me. ‘My poor baby,’ she said, over and over again.

‘Nan, please don’t tell Mummy. She’ll be cross with me.’

Nan shook her head. ‘She won’t be cross, my love. She’ll be very, very sad to hear about this.’

It was on the tip of my tongue to say ‘She already knows’ – but I didn’t, because I couldn’t say for sure that she knew. I just assumed she must.

Gilly brought in a tray with some tea and cakes, and orange squash for me, and Nan went to make a telephone call. When she came back, she told me: ‘Do you remember that nice doctor who fixed your hands when they got burned? He’s going to come up to visit you and see if you’re OK. It won’t hurt, and I’ll be with you the whole time,’ she added, seeing my panicked expression. ‘Then as
soon as your dad gets back this evening we’ll ask him to come over here and have a chat.’

‘Not Mum?’ I asked quickly.

‘No. We’ll talk to your dad first then we’ll decide what to do. But you’ll stay here with me tonight no matter what. Is that OK?’

I nodded.

The doctor came that afternoon and he was very gentle but it upset me when I realized he wanted me to take my pants off so he could look at me down there. I sat on Nan’s lap with her arms round me while he examined the scarred, torn bits and took a swab of my discharge. He asked me to pee in a little jar and I was alarmed, remembering when Mum and Auntie Pat made me drink my own urine, but he explained that it was just so he could test if anything was wrong with me. It turned out that I had a urinary tract infection and a nasty dose of thrush, and he said there was damage to the cervix. The doctor prescribed medication to deal with these complaints and also gave me a prescription for some pills to help ease my psoriasis. He didn’t ask any questions. I assume Nan and Granddad had explained the situation to him and assured him they were dealing with it.

It was dark outside and I had gone to bed by the time Dad arrived, on his own. I was wide-awake though, my mind whizzing through all the possible outcomes. Gilly had gone home, but Dad, Nan and Granddad went into the front room and I crept out in my nightdress to sit on the stairs and listen. The door was closed so I could only make out the words when voices were raised.

Dad shouted ‘How dare you!’ then I heard Granddad sounding uncharacteristically fierce as he said, ‘You do not
talk to us like that in this house.’ The strangest thing was that at one point I thought I could hear Dad sobbing. It was a loud wailing sound punctuated by gasps for air and it upset me a lot. I wanted to go and comfort him. I must have fallen asleep on the stairs listening to the murmur of their voices, because I vaguely remember Nan carrying me back to bed some time later.

Dad stayed overnight in the house and when I saw him next day over breakfast he seemed very subdued and shame-faced. He didn’t refer directly to what he’d been told, but he said, ‘Lady Jane, Nan and Granddad and I have agreed that it’s best if you never go to the Pittams’ house again. You don’t have to see them any more. Would you like that?’