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I began to wonder if I really had taken the ring, like I accidentally took the little-finger ring from Maisie’s. I really thought I had put all three rings back, as I was always so careful to make sure things went back exactly the way they were. I was usually a master of covering my tracks.
It was Saturday again, and I was doing my usual household chores in total silence: the hoovering, the bed making, the polishing with Pledge (although I was not allowed to touch Barbara’s dressing table now, that was out of bounds).
‘You are to go and brush the rugs on the lawn,’ she snapped at me after I was finished. I went outside and started bashing the rugs, which were hanging over the line. Loads of dust flew out as usual. I hated this job. I coughed and spluttered but carried on. Suddenly I heard a scream.
‘Look!’ I heard coming from the kitchen. I stopped. Barbara was showing something to Kevin and Ian. There was a commotion. I stopped bashing and tried to listen. All three were staring at Barbara’s hand. I crept across the grass towards the door and watched. Barbara looked up.
‘It was on the stairs,’ she said quickly, ‘under the edge of the carpet. I found it when I was brushing.’
My heart lifted. The ring! She had it back!
‘I know that’s where you put it,’ she snipped at me, ‘but at least I have it back now. It’s my wedding ring. Nine-carat gold.’
I looked over at Kevin, who was smirking at me with an evil look that said, ‘Gotcha!’ I knew he had been behind the whole thing. What I didn’t know was that worse was to come.
10
Being Dumped
School is horrible, but home is worse. Spencer and his gang are still picking on me, and now he tries to feel me up as I pass. One of his friends corners me in the playground and pokes a pink sausage through his trousers and wiggles it at me. I don’t tell anyone. I keep my head down and try to muddle through. Barbara has a strange attitude to school – she tells me, ‘It’s really a waste of time for the likes of you,’ so she often keeps me home to do chores.
Apart from looking after the chickens, I also do a lot of other housework, alongside the ironing and bed making. Sometimes the social workers drop in without any warning to find out why I’m not at school. Then Barbara shooes me upstairs and I’m told to get into bed, as I’m ‘ill’. I lie rigid in my bed in my clothes, pretending I’m sick, playing along to keep the peace. I hear voices in the hall, and then t
hey’re gone. I wish I could see them alone and tell them the truth but I never get to do that, so I have to play the game otherwise she’ll never let me forget it.
I’m always listening out for what’s going on, as nobody tells me anything. Once the social workers have gone, I hear Barbara come upstairs with a heavy tread. She walks into the bathroom and I hear her open the mirror cabinet. In there are her bottles of pills: green ones, green and black ones, little round yellow ones. I hear her pop open a bottle and the sound of pills pouring into her hand. I hear the toothbrush glass clink against the sink and water running. I know she’s taking a handful; she often does. I’ve seen her do it many times. She thinks I don’t see her. In fact, I also do this myself when I feel very upset. I’ve learnt to go in and sneak a few of those shiny green ones I’m given at night, and I take them with a gulp of water, very quickly. Then I feel all woozy and calm. It’s a nice feeling, a break from all the fear and pain. It’s like my head fills up with cotton wool. I’m often hurting – I have so many bruises, punches, whacks – and I’ve learnt that I can go to the bathroom and sneak a few of these ‘sweeties’ and feel a bit better afterwards. I know they aren’t really sweeties, they’re some kind of medicine from the doctor, but I pretend they are.
Now I hear Barbara coming along the landing and I freeze. Please go past, please go past. I close my eyes, pretending I’m asleep. I’m still under the covers in my clothes and play-acting being ill. The door flies open.
‘I don’t know why I ever had you,’ she says to me fiercely. ‘You are nothing but bloody trouble.’
I’m trying to flatten myself out completely, blinking over the rough blanket. ‘Those bloody idiots don’t know anything about children. I’d love to see them deal with you and all the trouble you are to me.’
I know better than to say anything. I just lie, as quietly as I can. I don’t even blink. I hardly breathe. She looks her at watch. ‘Come on, get up. We’re going to get Dad’s tea.’
I have no idea what the time is, although it’s probably afternoon. I should be at school, and no doubt the social workers have told her so. She has argued with them or something; that’s why she’s taken the sweeties. I get out of bed very obediently and follow her down the stairs. We get the dog, go outside and get in her Ford Escort.
Barbara drives like a maniac all the way to Headington, a village outside Oxford. She swears the whole way at other drivers, calling them ‘bloody idiots’ or ‘stupid bastards’, hits the kerb several times and overtakes on the bend of the road. I’m terrified, so I squeeze my eyes tight shut, trying to see the swirling colours I like. Orange, purple, blue, spots… it makes me feel much safer somehow.
When I open them we’re in a car park behind a supermarket. Barbara is grumbling about having to buy food, cook tea for ‘bloody men who want everything their own way’. She hates cooking, she hates buying food, she hates men. Hate, hate, hate. It’s all she says, all the time. Her eyes are glazed and she’s simmering – I know we are building up to one of her explosions. So I keep very quiet and trot along after her, trying to be pleasing and helpful.
We walk round the supermarket and she approaches one of those ticket machines with a queue system. She snatches a ticket.
‘I only want some sodding meat pie. Why should I have to bloody queue for hours?’ Barbara snaps at all listeners.
I feel my face go red and offer to carry the basket. We are queuing and people are looking at her, as they always do. She’s building up to a volcanic eruption. I feel ashamed. I want her to stop, but she won’t – she is now complaining loudly about the shop, the queue, the ‘bloody idiots’ behind the counter. She starts pacing up and down like a wild hen. I stand, holding the basket, wanting the ground to swallow me up.
Then I see Maisie’s mum coming towards us. She smiles. I smile. Barbara sees her coming too, and her face darkens. She grabs my arm and takes the basket, half full, and throws it on the floor. She’s hurting me as she pulls me by the arm, past Maisie’s mum, who is looking confused. I’m crying now. I hate it when this happens. I say ‘Mummy, you’re hurting me,’ as she drags me across the car park. People stare. I am dragged so I fall on my knees and graze them, which makes me cry louder.
‘What the bloody hell are you looking at?’ Barbara screams at a man standing by a nearby car. ‘Mind your own ruddy business.’
I’m pulled to my feet and we get to the car. She’s fumbling in her bag for the keys. I’m crying uncontrollably and my knees are bleeding. I say, ‘Mummy, please stop, please stop.’ She looks daggers at me and says, ‘I never should have had any of you bloody unwanted children. You have ruined my life.’
Her face is bright scarlet. She opens the driver’s door and I’m standing at the other side, by the passenger door, shaking, holding the car handle. She turns the ignition, revs the engine and backs out. I’m still holding the handle and I run alongside the car. Then I let go as she does a back turn, nearly squishing me against a parked car. She puts her foot down and the Escort drives through the car park at high speed and out onto the road. I helplessly watch it go. I wail. I’m standing and howling and I don’t know what to do. I’m just crying and crying, my knees smarting, and suddenly there’s a hand in my hand. I open my eyes and there is Maisie’s mum, looking down at me, worried.
‘Where’s your mum gone?’ she asks. I shake my head; I can’t speak. I can’t stop crying. Maisie’s mum keeps asking what is wrong with Barbara and I can’t answer. I’m scared of getting her into trouble. I’m scared what she’ll do to me if the social workers and police get involved, but I’m also scared, more importantly, of what would happen to me if I gave the game away.
Maisie’s mum and I walk across the car park and get into her car. She hands me some tissues. I blow my nose. She keeps asking why Barbara would leave me in a car park. Should we go to the police? I feel very scared at the idea and shake my head. Maisie’s mum starts her car up, and I try and get hold of myself.
