Читать книгу Abandoned: The true story of a little girl who didn’t belong - Anya Peters - Страница 14

My older sisters, Marie and Sandra, were almost a different generation to us five younger ones. They were teenagers when we were still very little.

Of us three younger girls I was the eldest. Stella was two and a half years younger than me and my uncle’s real daughter. She was born premature – sick and tiny, small as the palm of your hand, Mummy said – and at first she slept in an empty drawer at the side of their bed. My uncle adored her from the start. Even when he was drunk, she was the only one able to bring out his softer side. Mummy often shouted at him, saying he was giving her attention on purpose to try to make me feel even more left out.

When she was born he found a use for me. I had to look after her. I was told never to let her out of my sight, and had to go with her wherever she went. As she grew older he told her that if I didn’t do everything she said, or did anything wrong, she had to tell him when he came back from work, and she would, even though Mummy would warn her not to, or even if I pleaded with her. She was his favourite, not Mummy’s, and also his pawn.

‘I don’t care,’ she’d say defiantly. ‘I’m telling.’

Mummy called her a traitor, and told me not to worry, that she’d treat me the next day when my uncle wasn’t there. But Stella didn’t care, running across the square to meet him from work some evenings. I watched her long blonde hair swinging across her back as she skipped off, like a canary sent ahead down a mine. If he was in a bad mood she’d return on her own and sit in front of the TV with her face screwed up, and I would wait, trembling. If she re-appeared around the corner swinging off his arm it wasn’t as bad, although I never knew what she had told him.

Sometimes, she wouldn’t tell him immediately. She would draw the agony out all evening. I would sit on the end of the settee, like one of the statues on the mantelpiece, waiting to be smashed. Just when I was starting to think she’d forgotten, as we all sat squashed up together on the settee, she would stretch up with a little yawn in her pink nightdress and say out of the blue, ‘Someone did something today.’

‘Did what?’ he’d ask, and she’d tell whatever it was.

‘Broke a cup,’ she’d say, without taking her eyes from the TV, and my heart would stop.

‘Who?’ my uncle would ask, while Mummy swung around to Stella with a tight, angry face that said ‘You wait, you little troublemaker.’

‘Good girl, Stella, you tell me what they’ve been up to,’ he would say as Mummy scowled at her. And he would take another opportunity to punish me.

Sometimes, if he was in a good mood, she’d get up onto his lap and fall asleep there, curled up like a kitten. But as soon as she felt ready she would say, ‘Come on, Anya, I want to go to bed.’ Even if it was near the end of the programme we were watching, just when we were about to find out what happened, I had to go with her. Mummy would try to make her wait, or tell her to go on her own.

‘She’s old enough to go on her own now,’ she’d say, if my uncle was in the right mood.

‘No, I want Anya to come,’ Stella would insist.

I couldn’t say anything in front of my uncle, and she knew it. So I would have to lie in bed thinking about the programme the others were still watching, trying to guess what happened next.

When my uncle couldn’t stand the sight of me any longer he would send me out to the kitchen to stand in the dark. In our small flat there was nowhere else to send me.

‘She’ll stay there until her whore of a mother gets here to take her back over with her,’ he’d say.

He used to send Marie and Sandra out to the kitchen too. But they were older by then and had to clean while they were there. He’d send one of us out to check up on what they were doing.

‘Sneak up on them,’ he’d say, trying to get us all not trusting each other. ‘Don’t talk to them, just check and then come back and tell me what they’re doing, d’you hear?’

If we didn’t tell the truth, or warned them that he had sent us out, we were the ones that got hit. He always seemed to know.

Sometimes, if they were both out there together for some reason, he’d make us stand outside the door to hear what they were talking about. He always thought everyone was whispering about him. Mummy said he was ‘paranoid’. ‘Sick in the head with all the drink, you are,’ she’d shout at him, as he shut the door on her and tiptoed along the hallway to see what one of us was doing, or saying about him.

When he first sent me out to the kitchen I was too young to clean it. I just had to stand in the dark. I wasn’t allowed to sit or turn on the light or move from the exact spot on the red lino where he’d told me to stand. The kitchen was always cold and if he’d thrown me out there in the middle of one of their rows, I’d be there for hours, until Mummy fought for me to come back in, or to be allowed to go to bed with the others when it was time.

I didn’t mind it in the kitchen most times. It was quiet and the short, red checked curtains were so thin that even with them drawn I could see from the landing light outside. I would read the backs of boxes and jars of food, finding things to do: a box of Cornflakes weighs 225g, divide by 2 that’s? Add 7? Minus 15? Times 5? I practised school work: doing sums, memorising the spellings on the packaging and telling stories inside my head. If I got all the spellings right I would lick my finger and have a dip in the sugar bowl, smiling at how naughty I was being. Inside my head I’d say, ‘I don’t care,’ and pull my nightie off one shoulder and shrug it bare like Stella did to make my uncle laugh. It felt as if I’d got a friend there that I was talking to.

Sometimes when I was sent to the kitchen Mummy would decide she’d had enough. Instead of whispering in to me when she came past to go to the toilet that she would ‘treat me tomorrow’, she would come barging out, saying, ‘No … no, I’m not having this,’ and switch on the light, talking in a loud voice and then whispering down to me, ‘It’s alright, it’ll give him a fright.’ She’d then return to her screaming voice, calling him names and trying to drag me back in behind her, my heart tumbling about in my chest as I tried to resist and grab things to hold on to, trying to stay where he told me.

Occasionally she would win. But most times he jumped up and was there behind her, forcing me to get back, and Mummy would get hit instead. When she shouted louder than him and managed to pull me back into the front room, she would push me onto the end of the settee, telling the others to move up and to make room for me.

‘She’s staying there, right? I’m not having her treated any different to the others.’

But he never stopped threatening things. Even if he had slept off his rage and woken up quiet, I wasn’t allowed to move on the settee or make a sound. Even if someone pinched me to move up I couldn’t pinch back, not while he was there.

Soon the settee wasn’t big enough for five of us and one of us sometimes had to sit on the floor. I loved being up on the settee, squashed in amongst the others, but if my uncle was in a good mood Stella might say, ‘I’m too hot, sit on the floor, Anya.’ And my uncle would laugh with her and I’d have to sit on the floor.

‘No, she won’t,’ Mummy would say to Stella. ‘You sit on the floor, madam, and just shut up – I’m warning you.’

I wished Mummy would let me fight my own battles. I was willing to sit on the floor if it meant I could have some peace.

The others used to sit like statues in a row on the settee and refuse to look at me after fights, after he’d told them not to talk to me, that I wasn’t one of them. I knew they hated me for all the trouble I caused by being there, and for making them take sides when Mummy and their dad argued. I know they thought it was my fault. Me the troublemaker again.

Later, in bed, I’d burrow down into last night’s wet sheets and lie there crying, trying to find a way to stop the tears and everyone picking on me. But when I woke up in wet sheets again the next morning they’d start up again. It would be years before I stopped wetting the bed most nights.

If he woke up in his armchair and heard us whispering around him, trying not to wake him, he would fly into one of his rages and his mantra would start up again. ‘She’s out,’ he’d shout again, meaning me, his hand flying out, and the gold signet ring on his little finger busting my lip.

‘Don’t listen to him, okay,’ Mummy would say to me after the rows, when she came out to the kitchen to check I was okay. When I asked her what I’d done wrong and what I had to do so that I wasn’t in the way, like he said I was, she would pull me to her, ruffling my hair, telling me I was never in the way.

‘Don’t mind him. You’re as good as gold, better than all the rest of them put together,’ she’d say.

I was always frightened he would come in and catch her talking to me, but she would refuse to go back into the front room until I’d given her a smile. She’d lift my face to look at her and stick her tongue out, pulling funny faces and flicking V-signs towards him in the dark, until eventually she made me smile.

‘One day me and you are going to leave this place, okay?’ she’d say, lifting my chin and trying to make me look into her eyes. ‘Just you and me, okay.’

I probably believed her the first few times. I stopped believing everything after a while.

When everyone was at home, there were nine of us, including Mummy and my uncle, so you could never be on your own unless you were being punished. In a way I liked it when I was sent outside and all the sound stopped and I could think of things, or of nothing at all. For a while he used to send me to the bedroom the five of us younger ones shared, and it was nice because I could read. Although once, when I lay on the bed happily reading a book, chewing a Black Jack I’d found in the lining of Sandra’s jacket, he caught me and laid into me, tearing the book away and ripping out its pages. From then on, when I was sent there I had to keep the lights off. But if one of the others tipped me off that he’d gone to sleep in his armchair I would sometimes risk standing on the bed and go under the curtains to read on the windowsill by the bright light on the landing outside our flat, escaping into the better worlds in stories.