Helpless: The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted. Toni MaguireЧитать онлайн книгу.
her looking worn out and defeated.
‘God,’ she said to me, ‘where do we start?’ while I, having no answer, just stared helplessly around the room. ‘I’ll help, Mum,’ I said without much idea how I was going to achieve that.
No sooner had those words left my mouth then I heard a crunch of gravel and saw a smile forming on my mother’s face. A voice called out ‘Hallo there’ and I looked up to see a tall blonde woman with hair swept up in a fancy hairstyle and her feet strangely, considering we were two miles from the village, wedged into fashionable high-heeled shoes.
She bent down to my height so that our eyes met and smiled. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’m Dora. I live next door,’ she added unnecessary, as ours were the only two cottages in that part of the lane. ‘You must be Marianne,’ and I smiled back at her and nodded furiously.
‘I know what it’s like on a day like this,’ she said to my mother, making no reference to the fact that we had been left without any help. She just gave her a small pat on her shoulder and said lightly, ‘Expect you could do with a break before you start. Come round to mine – the stove’s lit and I’ve got a brew all ready.’
My mother, giving a rueful look at the boxes and bags strewn around the floor, accepted gratefully. I wheeled the pram and followed them over the short distance to the other front door that, like ours, led straight into the living room.
A large wooden playpen dominated nearly two-thirds of her space. Inside it her two toddlers were playing contentedly with brightly coloured wooden building bricks. More toys were scattered within throwing distance on the floor outside it.
‘My most useful bit of furniture!’ she remarked laughingly.
‘Come here, little man,’ she said to my baby brother, who had woken and looked ready to let out a shriek. She quickly scooped him up and, before he was able to voice his protest, swung him in the air, making him giggle loudly. Then she swiftly plopped him down in the pen beside her two. A wooden car was passed to him and tears were forgotten as his plump little hands stretched out and grasped it. We were all rewarded by a wide gummy smile before he turned his rapt attention to his new toy.
‘There, that will keep him quiet,’ she said matter-of-factly and gestured to my mother to take a seat.
A plate piled high with individually iced cakes suddenly appeared and was placed on the table in front of me.
‘Help yourself,’ the neighbour’s wife said with some amusement when she noticed I could hardly tear my eyes away from it. Needing no more encouragement, I stretched my arm out and chose a pale-pink iced one, which was decorated with tiny silver balls. Biscuits and juice were given to the three little ones and cups of hot sweet tea were poured for my mother and me.
For the first time that day I saw my mother relax. An hour passed quickly while the two women chatted to each other. The three younger children, bribed with further biscuits, played happily and I amused myself by surreptitiously helping myself to more cakes and looking at the pictures in a women’s magazine. Treats such as these seldom appeared in our house.
‘Leave the baby with me,’ Dora said as we reluctantly started to take our leave. ‘It will be a lot easier to tackle that unpacking if you haven’t got him under your feet.’
This was an offer my mother readily agreed to.
Already the bond of a new and longed-for friendship was forming.
A week after we had moved in my mother invited Dora to tea.
‘Don’t know what you women find to talk about,’ my father said grumpily, ‘especially as you see each other every day. Well, I’m off to the pub after work. Be back for my supper.’
And with those parting words he left and I saw a look of relief cross my mother’s face.
That day she sang a happy tune under her breath. I think she thought then that maybe there was going to be a life for her outside of her own four walls. I imagine that she dreamed of shopping together with her new friend, maybe some afternoons at the cinema, perhaps having coffee together in the morning. Perhaps just for that day she did not allow the sharp prick of reality to pierce that dream by allowing herself to remember her complete lack of money.
That warm spring afternoon I was sent outside to play. My baby brother was confined in an improvised version of a playpen, made out of boxes and a fireguard, and my mother clearly did not want me under her feet either.
She had made me wash my face and hands earlier, then put me into a clean dress that she had found that week in a second-hand clothing shop.
‘We have visitors coming,’ she told me unnecessarily. ‘You are not to wander off and you are not to get dirty,’ and I obeyed, for the aroma swirling out of the stove of gingerbread men baking was making my mouth water and I knew that if I disobeyed there would be none for me.
The old sheepdog, visiting us from the farm, was dozing by the back door. Flies flew round his head and one settled on his nose but although his body twitched he refused to wake. The few hens, which provided us with daily eggs, clucked as they scratched the gravel, their beady eyes searching the ground for food.
I sat very quietly on a small stool enjoying the warmth of the sunlight and watching a fledging taking its first lesson as it learnt to fly. I had discovered the nest the day after we had moved in. Hearing some rustling, I had peeped into the hedge and seen the cluster of woven twigs with the baby birds nestled inside their nest. Carefully I replaced the leaves that protected it from sight and later saw the mother bird returning with morsels to feed her young. Every day after that I sat and watched the small feathered family, hoping I would be there for precisely this event.
That day, as I watched the tiny birds ruffling their feathers in the warm air I was so intent on sitting as still as possible, so as not to startle them, that I was completely oblivious to the pair of gleaming eyes fixed on its prey, nor did I catch sight of a tongue that licked its lips in anticipation and a bottom lip that trembled with the excitement of a kill. I was completely oblivious of the danger slowly creeping towards us.
I felt no sense of warning nor did I hear the slightest sound as with slow careful steps the predator tiptoed closer. I was only aware of it when it pounced and I felt a faint breath of air on my skin.
A shrill squawk abruptly cut off rose into the air, feathers dipped in blood floated in front of my horrified eyes and I screamed. The farmer’s cat, a pale bloodstained feather still clinging to its mouth, its fur bristling with bloodlust, arched his back and glared back at me. There was no sign then of the family pet, or the soft purring creature I so loved to stroke. The cat showed no remorse as he turned and slunk into the bushes carrying a fledging in his mouth.
The mother bird lay in the dirt, a mess of bloody feathers. One eye seemed to look straight at me with what I thought was reproach before slowly glazing over. I screamed again.
My mother came running to where I stood howling. Snot ran from my nose, tears leaked from my eyes and streamed down my cheeks. With a shaking hand I pointed to the pathetic corpse. ‘Look, look what the cat did,’ I sobbed loudly.
‘Come Marianne, stop your noise now and come in to the house,’ my mother said and took me by the arm. I jerked it back angrily. It was then that a car drove into our communal yard. Through my tears I saw a slim, dark-haired man alight and come towards us.
‘There, there,’ were the first words I heard him say. ‘Why’s a pretty girl like you crying?’ And I, unused to kind words, looked up into his face for the first time. I saw warm brown eyes seemingly full of concern for my distress looking back at me. He smiled at my mother, then held his hand out.
‘Come,’ he said, ‘I have something that will make you feel better,’ and I unquestioningly slipped my small one into his. He pulled me gently to my feet and drew me over to his large black car.
Opening the