Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. (8 page)

W
e visited our grandparents on alternate weekends, usually on Saturday afternoons when Dad was playing sport. Every second weekend when I was at Nan Casey’s I’d run to the farm to find Fifi. We played skipping games, hopscotch, teachers or doctors and nurses; and we helped with farmyard chores or baked cakes in Nan’s kitchen. Sometimes I looked at Fifi’s happy little face and wondered if she had to put up with all the things I did – the beatings, being locked in a cupboard and the disgusting sausage games I had to play with Grandpa Pittam every other Saturday. I would have liked to talk to her about it all but I didn’t know how to bring it up. Also, I was scared that it would make her think badly of me and maybe she wouldn’t be my friend any more, so I said nothing and just enjoyed the hours of respite from my other cares.

My seventh birthday came and went. Mum never gave a birthday party for me, but it was just as well because Fifi remained my only friend so it would have been a very small party. Around this time Nigel and I were dropping hints to some of the adults we knew about what was going on at home, but it seemed that no one believed us.

One Sunday we were in the kitchen at Rugeley when Granddad came in with an armful of garden canes, ready to stake out some plants. Instinctively Nigel shouted ‘Run! Nessa, run!’

I sprinted out the kitchen door and found a hiding place behind the sofa in the front room, my heart beating so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest.

‘What on earth is wrong, young man? Is this a game of some kind?’ Granddad asked him.

‘Please don’t beat Nessa,’ Nigel asked.

Granddad called Nan into the room straight away and when she heard what had been said, she came to find me. I trusted her absolutely and knew for a fact that she would never have beaten me, so I let her lead me back into the kitchen, where Granddad’s canes lay in an untidy heap on the floor. He looked very hurt and upset that I had been scared of him. He had no idea why I had changed so much in the way I was with him. Nan pulled me on to her lap on the rocking chair and wrapped her plump arms around me, kissing my hair.

‘Now what are you two on about?’ she asked. ‘Will someone please explain?’

I said nothing, just stared down at my hands. After a while, Nigel said, ‘Mummy beats Nessa with canes just like these. I thought Granddad was going to beat her.’

Nan and Granddad looked at each other in horror. ‘Are you sure she beats you with canes?’ Nan asked me directly, in a kind voice. She swivelled me on her lap so she was looking into my eyes. ‘Is that really true?’

I nodded very slowly, feeling nervous. What if they told Mum? I no longer believed that any other adult could
protect me from her so I had to look after myself, basically by staying out of trouble.

‘No one is going to hit either of you here,’ Nan told us firmly. ‘It will never happen so you can stop worrying right now. Vanessa, how often has she hit you? Once? Or twice?’ She looked at my face. ‘More?’

‘Lots, but please don’t say anything, Nan,’ I begged her. ‘She’ll be cross with me. It’s only when God tells her to do it.’

‘Is that so? I’ll make sure she’s not cross with you.’ She looked angry but forced herself to smile at us. ‘Now who wants a biscuit? It’s a lovely day, so why don’t the two of you go and help Granddad in the garden?’

Mum had been visiting one of her sisters who lived nearby and she was picking us up at five o’clock. I think Nan sent me to the garden so she could have a word in private but as soon as I heard the doorbell, I sneaked indoors and hid behind the kitchen door so I could eavesdrop on their chat.

Nan reiterated what Nigel and I had told her, and I heard Mum snort with derision. ‘Unbelievable! That girl has the most fertile imagination. I don’t know where she gets it from.’

‘But Nigel backed up her story.’

‘I’m afraid Vanessa has been teaching him to lie on her behalf. There have been quite a few instances of it recently. She’s a very dramatic child.’

‘She seemed scared of some canes Thomas was carrying. She’s not that good an actress.’

‘Honestly, Winifred, you can’t seriously think I beat her with a cane. Where are the marks? She’s making it all up, just like she makes up those stories about voices in her
head. She’s got a powerful imagination and sometimes the distinction gets blurred between truth and fantasy. We need to keep an eye on that.’

‘She said that God tells you to punish her. Why would she say that?’

‘I don’t know why, but she’s got this idea that God’s people come to her bedroom at night because she’s been naughty. As I said, she’s a very imaginative child. Now, if you don’t mind I have to get these kids home and bathed and into bed. It’s getting late.’

I darted back into the garden so as not to be caught sneaking around. Nan said nothing more to me about it but I think she was watching out for cane marks from then on. If I stayed overnight, she always sponged me very carefully in the bath, and even when I just visited for the afternoon she often came to the toilet with me so she could surreptitiously have a look at my bottom when I pulled my pants down.

Of course, if she knew I was staying over at Nan’s, Mum would make sure there weren’t any marks to be seen. That’s why Monday was always such a bad day for me. Not only was Mum in a vile mood after a day spent doing the washing, but she could also let loose with the cane, safe in the knowledge that the ugly purple stripes and bruising would be on the mend by the time I next went to the Caseys’.

There’s an old saying that if you beat one devil out, you beat seven in. I walked on eggshells at home when Mum was around, but that didn’t stop me making my small
gestures of defiance, no matter how dangerous they were for me. One time I took a packet of raw jelly from the shelf in the spider cupboard. I absolutely loved jelly and Mum never made it for us. I sneaked that packet upstairs to my bedroom and hid it in the secret place under the wardrobe, then, when I dared, I could break off a chunk and put it under my tongue so it melted and filled my mouth with a sickly-sweet goo.

I was also getting a little bit braver about telling Dad what was going on at home – not that it did me any good. One evening, I told Dad about the spider cupboard. I’d said something cheeky to him and I instinctively put my hands over my head for protection.

‘Are you going to lock me in the spider cupboard?’ I asked.

‘What do you mean?’ he demanded sharply.

‘That’s where Mummy puts me when I’ve been naughty. She locks me in there.’

Dad took me by the hand into the kitchen, saying, ‘Muriel, what’s this about locking Lady Jane in a cupboard?’

I hung my head, afraid to meet her eye.

Mum let out a gay peal of laughter. ‘Now I’ve heard everything,’ she said. ‘I suppose there are dragons and witches and a wicked wolf in there, and you prick your finger on a spindle and fall asleep for a hundred years?’

Mum was wearing a scarlet cocktail dress with a full skirt and she had on matching nail polish and high-heeled mules. She always got changed into something special on the evenings when Dad came home. She’d style her hair and retouch her makeup and slip on her high heels just before he walked through the door. I gazed at her. She
looked so beautiful and her laugh was so pretty that of course Dad was going to believe her and not me. At that instant, I disliked him for being taken in by her. Why couldn’t he see the truth?

‘You mustn’t tell lies, Lady Jane,’ he admonished. ‘It’s not very nice. Don’t you know the story of the little boy who cried wolf?’

I did know that story but the point was that no one had come running the first time I cried wolf. Even after my hands were burned, and at last they seemed to realize that I wasn’t safe at home, I was sent straight back out to the same field again where the wolf was prowling. I didn’t understand it. What would it take for everyone to open their eyes and see what Mum was doing?

Round about this time our class had some homework to do. We’d started writing a story at school and mine was about a little girl who had an imaginary friend. The task was to finish the story and bring it in to the teacher the next day. We hadn’t had much homework before – just the occasional Janet and John reading book – so Mum asked what I was doing.

‘Writing a story,’ I told her.

‘What’s it about?’ she asked, peering over my shoulder. A sentence caught her attention and she grabbed the jotter from me. My story was about a little girl whose Mummy was always cross. The Mummy used to beat the little girl with a stick and lock her up in a cupboard but even though it hurt, the little girl didn’t mind so much
because she had an imaginary friend who whispered comforting words and cheered her up.

‘This is a terrible story!’ Mum cried. ‘You can’t hand this in.’ She ripped the offending pages clean out of the jotter and started tearing them to pieces.

I gasped and tried to grab them back. ‘Mummy, the teacher will be cross with me. You’ve spoiled my jotter.’

‘Nonsense. It just needs the torn bits trimmed off. Sit right there and don’t move. Did the teacher look at it before you came home?’

‘No,’ I admitted.

She got some scrap paper from the kitchen cupboard, sat down and drafted out another story about a little girl who was very lonely so she invented an imaginary friend. Her mummy used to set out a plate of food and a glass of juice for the friend at dinner times and she’d always give the little girl two sweeties, so there was one for her friend. Then one day a new family moved in next-door and the little girl got friendly with the daughter and she forgot all about her imaginary friend.

When she’d finished, Mum handed it to me. ‘Copy that in your homework jotter,’ she demanded. ‘I can’t believe you’ve forgotten everything I’ve told you about not letting anyone at school find out how naughty you really are. They’ll all hate you if they realize.’

‘But the story wasn’t about me,’ I protested. ‘It was about a little girl I made up.’

‘Your story was totally wrong and you would have got into big trouble with the teacher if you had handed it in. Don’t do it again!’

I sat and copied out the replacement story and Mum used her dressmaking scissors to tidy up the torn bits in
my jotter. I thought at the time, although I didn’t say so, that her story was much more boring than mine.

But my mother’s next revelation was to prove a great deal more interesting.

I
t was just a few days before my eighth birthday, and Nigel was almost nine, when Mum called us into the dining room one day after school and beckoned for us to sit down at the gleaming dark-wood table. This was virtually unprecedented and we glanced at each other nervously, unsure what to expect. Mum stood with her back to the window regarding us with a very serious expression.

‘I’ve got something important to tell you both, which you should be old enough to understand now.’ She paused for dramatic effect, looking from one to the other of us. ‘The thing is that I’m not your real mummy, and Daddy is not your real daddy. You were both adopted when you were babies. We took you in so that you wouldn’t have to stay in a children’s home.’

‘You’re not our mummy?’ Nigel sounded flabbergasted. I was too confused to say anything.

Mum nodded. ‘That’s right. I’m not.’

‘What about Nan Casey? Is she our real Nan?’ Nigel asked. I held my breath.

‘No, she’s not,’ Mum said. ‘None of your grandparents are blood relatives.’

I started to cry, because I wanted so much for Nan Casey to be my real Nan. I wanted more than anything to be allowed to go and live with her one day and not stay with Mum any more.

Nigel kept up the questioning. ‘So who is our real Mum then?’

‘You’ve got different mothers. Yours,’ she nodded at Nigel, ‘was a very pretty young girl but she had to give you up because she wasn’t married. She cried and cried when it was time to hand you over and although she had no money, she made sure you were beautifully dressed. She begged me, “Please take care of him and love him as if he was your own.”’

I was listening hard. ‘What about Nessa’s real mum?’ Nigel asked.

‘She was old and ugly. That’s why Vanessa’s so ugly now. People usually only pick the pretty babies from children’s homes and she was left over because no one wanted her. They said to us, “You’ve already got one good-looking baby so please take this ugly girl to get her off our hands.”’

I was sobbing now and a glance at Mum’s malicious expression told me she was pleased with the effect she was having. This was yet another of her sadistic games.

‘In fact,’ Mum continued, in a speech that was openly racist, ‘Vanessa’s real father was a darkie. She’s got black blood in her; that’s why she always goes so dark-skinned if the sun comes out.’

It was true that I tanned very quickly and had a much darker skin tone than Nigel. Mum was always commenting on it.

‘I just want you both to know that you owe a lot to your dad and me. We didn’t have to take you on. I often wish I
hadn’t, because you’re such a handful. If you’re ever really naughty, I may just decide to take you back to the children’s home and leave you there to rot with all the other naughty children no one wants.’

I considered this idea. It didn’t sound all bad to me.

‘What about our real mummies?’ Nigel asked. ‘Couldn’t we go back to them?’

Mum smiled grimly. ‘They don’t want you. That’s why they gave you away in the first place. They’ve probably got more children of their own now, their own families, and the last thing they want is some snivelling brats turning up on their doorsteps.’ She looked at my tears in disgust. ‘Oh, for goodness sake go and blow your nose. Get out of my sight. You know the truth now, so I don’t have to tell you again.’

Nigel put his arm round me as we left the dining room. ‘Nessa, it’s good news because it means we’re allowed to get married to each other when we’re older. Brothers and sisters aren’t really supposed to, but we can because we’ve got different parents.’

This speech didn’t comfort me, though. There were two people in the world who tried to look after me – Nan Casey and Nigel – and I’d just found out that neither of them was my proper family. If only I could find my real mother one day. Surely she would love me, despite what Mum said? She’d have to, wouldn’t she?

The conversation with Mum raised dozens of questions in my head, and explained a lot of things as well. When I asked Dad why he hadn’t told me I was adopted, he said,
‘It makes no difference. You’re as special to me as any child could ever be. You’re my Lady Jane and nothing will ever change that.’

‘Can I see my real mum?’ I asked him, and he said, ‘You’re too young. Enjoy being a little girl for now and we’ll explain more to you later when you’re old enough.’

The news made a kind of sense to me. No wonder Mum resented me if she hadn’t wanted to adopt me in the first place. That’s why I didn’t look anything like her or Dad or Nigel, I realized. That’s why I wasn’t pretty. That’s why Mum couldn’t love me. I started to feel more detached from her and to plan ways I could get away from her. I thought quite a lot about going to live in a children’s home, but I didn’t think I would like it. It would be like being at school all the time, and maybe they would make me eat cabbage and boiled beef.

It occurred to me to wonder if I was being punished because my real mother had committed a sin. God punished sinners, didn’t he? Was that why he kept telling Mum to beat me? The logic made sense to me although it seemed very unfair.

The day after the chat with Mum, I got home from school to find the door locked and no one home. I didn’t have a key. Nigel had gone to play with a school friend so I sat down on the doorstep on my own. I was feeling so insecure after the adoption bombshell that it crossed my mind to wonder whether Mum had abandoned me. Maybe she’d never come back.

Aunt Edna from next-door popped her head out and called, ‘Is your mum not back? I’m sure she’ll be home soon, but why don’t you come in and wait at mine?’

I hesitated, suspecting that I would probably get into trouble with Mum for this. I knew Aunt Edna and Mum had had a big row about something and didn’t even speak any more, but Edna was so kind that I finally agreed. We went into her kitchen and I sat down on a little wooden stool while she got me a glass of squash. She opened the biscuit barrel and let me choose whatever I wanted. I had a chocolate bourbon, a custard cream and then a chocolate digestive.

‘Are you all right, little one? You look a bit down.’

And so I told her about how my real mummy didn’t want me and my adoptive mummy didn’t love me and if I was naughty she might send me back to the children’s home.

Aunt Edna’s lips pursed very tightly and I thought I saw a glint of tears in her eyes. ‘I wish you were my little girl,’ she said. She’d never had children of her own. ‘I would love you to pieces. I think you are just fantastic.’

I considered this option and said, ‘I could ask Mummy if I could come and live with you.’

‘No, no,’ she said hurriedly. ‘Don’t do anything to make your mummy more angry, whatever you do. She’s quite often angry with you, isn’t she?’

‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘She can’t stand the sight of me.’

‘Does your mummy ever hurt you?’ she asked, looking at me with sad eyes. ‘Sometimes I hear you crying in the garden.’

I was wary. I always seemed to be disbelieved if I told adults about the beatings and the other punishments, and
then Mummy got cross with me later. I chose my words with great care. ‘Only if I’m very naughty, then God tells her to hurt me,’ I said, thinking this was a fair assessment.

‘How does she hurt you?’

I was beginning to feel very uncomfortable. ‘Oh, you know, just hitting and stuff. With the bean cane on my bottom.’

‘Does she hit you hard?’

‘Hmm. Quite hard, I think. But only if I’m naughty.’

Edna gave me a big hug, and when we heard Mum coming home she let me sneak through her back garden into ours so I could pretend I had been there all the time.

It felt good to know that Aunt Edna had heard something of what went on at number 39 – it meant that she believed me. Knowing there was someone next-door I could talk to, and who said she wished I were her little girl, made me feel a tiny bit safer.

I suspect that Edna may have not been able to stop herself confronting Mum about what went on. If she did, it shows that she wasn’t able to tolerate such cruelty going on within earshot and knowing that an innocent child was being beaten so viciously. I don’t know what was said but the relationship between Edna and my mother deteriorated even further, to the point where they ignored each other entirely and walked past each other on the street in frosty silence.

Then even this small safety line was ripped away.