Helpless: The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted. Toni MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
just knew they would be your favourite,’ he said. And I, with the instant trust that only a child can feel, gazed up at him. ‘How had he known that?’ I asked myself. ‘How did he know when he has never seen me before?’ The picture of the dead bird started fading from my mind and, with my free hand tucked into his, I followed him into my mother’s kitchen.
He sat on our settee and I, with a need to be near him, perched on its arm.
‘It’s what cats do, Marianne,’ he told me softly and wiped the last streaks of my tears away gently with a clean white handkerchief. ‘They find what’s weak and kill it. But it’s part of their nature and we can never change that, can we? No, we can never change our nature.’
And I, still far too young to understand, just nodded.
He put his arm lightly across my shoulders, drew me closer and whispered softly to me, ‘There’s my good little lady.’
I shivered as those memories came back.
I thought of the care I had taken over my children as they grew. I had never been able to become a parent content just to warn her children not to speak to strangers. Instead every one of my husband’s friends was examined with suspicion, each male neighbour viewed with caution, and should a friendly hand move to touch the head of one of my sons, while a male voice murmured the comment of ‘What a fine boy you have there,’ my body would stiffen with something approaching revulsion.
Invitations for my sons to visit their friends’ houses were inspected carefully, questions as to whether both parents would be there frequently asked.
‘Don’t make such a fuss, Mum,’ said my sons with some irritation when faced with my vigilance. ‘We know not to take sweets from strangers!’
Then I would remember the vulnerable little girl I had once been and the man who had sought out a needy child and how he had gained her trust before controlling her by fear.
For how could I explain to my sons that it was not strangers I was scared of?
Our new home was further away from my school. It took me nearly an hour to walk to the bus stop, but I did not really mind. I liked where we lived, liked the fact it was clean and that my mother seemed happier. Even my father appeared more content.
It was spring when we moved, and for the first few weeks the sun shone. I could smell the promise of summer in the air, and summer meant long weeks of holidays and freedom from school. But when the treacherous English sun disappeared behind dark clouds and squally winds blew across the fields, bending the trees and scattering their leaves, the lanes seemed to grow longer and my home too far away. It was then that I shivered from both the cold and a tiny kernel of apprehension.
It was on one of those blustery days when rain trickled down the back of my neck, my Wellington boots chafed damp bare legs and my satchel grew heavier with every step I took, that I heard the sound of a car slowing down behind me.
As I stood on the verge waiting for it to pass I heard the sound of the engine slowing as the car came to a stop, and with an inherent fear I was suddenly aware of how dark it had become and how far away the nearest house was.
‘Can’t have my little lady getting wet now, can we?’
For a second I froze. Although the reasons had never been made clear to me I had been told never to talk to strangers.
‘Just do as I say and don’t ask so many questions,’ my mother had snapped when I had asked her why.
But this was a voice I recognized: it was the man from next door.
‘Come on, jump in.’ And needing no persuasion to get out of the rain I swiftly obeyed.
A small towel appeared; my hair was quickly rubbed and gently tousled back into place. My hands, reddened by cold, were taken in his larger warm ones. ‘Soon have you warm as toast,’ he said, blowing on them before gently rubbing my fingers.
Opening his glove compartment, he reached in and drew out a yellow tube of sherbet with its black liquorice stick. ‘Here, this is for you. A little bird told me you liked them as well as those dolly mixtures,’ he said with a wink.
Licking my sherbet delight I sank back contently on the leather seat. This time when I arrived home the journey had been too quick.
The following day when black clouds promised more rain he was waiting by the school gates.
I saw the other children look at his car and suddenly felt my chest swell with pride. Not only had someone met me, but someone with a big black car.
‘Can’t have her getting her death of cold,’ he said to my mother as he walked me into the house.
‘That’s kind of you,’ she said, before turning to me. ‘Say thank you, Marianne,’ and I did.
Now every day I wanted it to rain because if it did I was sure he would be waiting.
By the time I reached seven I knew that it was not nice to be dirty. At school I was told to wash my neck, remove the dirt out from under my nails and brush my hair. I tried to scrub myself clean but the mirror that my father used for shaving was too high for me to see into. I knew my clothes were not washed often enough and that my hair was greasy. It was Dora who helped me then.
‘Your mother’s so busy with the little ones,’ was all she said when I complained that the tin bath rarely made an appearance and I was getting into trouble at school. ‘You can bath here.’
And once a week that is what I did. She gave me nice-smelling soap and talcum powder, and when I told her I hated changing for PE because my knickers were so grey she bought me new underwear.
‘It’s just a present,’ she told my mother when she protested. ‘She’s so good at helping with the children that I owe her something.’
I loved the feeling of being clean all over and liked the fact that my skin smelt of flowers. Dora showed me how to put my hair into rags.’ Just brush it out in the morning,’ she told me, ‘and you will look a different little girl.’
So each morning after that I went to school with curly hair, a face scrubbed clean and a hopeful smile that someone there would like me now. The teachers stopped complaining about my grubby appearance, but the children still saw my faded second-hand clothes and Wellington boots; they continued to ignore me.
The Easter holidays came and my sister was born, and once again I saw my parents showering another member of the family with love. This time my mother’s energy seemed sapped by the demands of a new baby. It seemed that nearly every time she spoke to me it was to ask me to do something for her.
There were rare occasions treasured by me when my mother seemed less tired, and then she would smile and run her fingers through my hair. ‘You’re a good girl, Marianne, aren’t you?’ and just that tiny slice of praise was enough to put a smile on my face.
But mostly after I helped as much as I could she barely paused in what she was doing to mutter thanks.
More and more it fell onto me to baby-sit my brother who had reached the age when fingers went in electrical sockets and the contents of unlocked cupboards were scattered onto the floor and put into his waiting mouth.
‘Bring him round to play with mine,’ Dora told me when she saw me watching the pram.
‘You’re such a little mother,’ Dora would tell me as I sat by the playpen watching my baby brother and her two playing happily together.
I would beam at her praise, drink the orange squash she gave me and eat the shop-bought biscuits, but all the time I listened for his footsteps, willing him to arrive before I left.