Читать книгу The One That Got Away - My Life Living with Fred and Rose West - Caroline Roberts - Страница 9
ОглавлениеI WAS POPULAR amongst my classmates, getting on well with both the girls and boys. I was a middle-of-the-road student, but I knew I would never manage to get through my exams – I lacked concentration and confidence. In class, I would never raise my hand to answer a question just in case I got it wrong, although a lot of the time I knew the correct answer. I always appeared happy and confident, but inside I was terribly shy. My bravado and bluff were my way of coping with it.
At fifteen years of age, I was pretty. My eyes were my best feature, like my dad’s. They were a greeny grey in colour with thick black curly eyelashes. My second best feature was my hair, which was long, dark and shiny. I was only 5ft 2in tall and of slender build; although I had developed boobs, they weren’t very big, but I was in proportion. My worst feature, I thought, were my thighs; I always thought they looked fat, though no one else thought they did. I was a late developer and envied the girls who already had boobs, pubic hair and periods. My periods came along when I was fifteen and a half years old.
My sister Sue and I were unfortunate in that we were both knock-kneed. We cost our mum a fortune in shoes, as we always wore the heels down fast. We were sent to a clinic to be trained how to walk properly – backs straight and chests out. I was already walking this way before my boobs developed, but when they did eventually arrive I looked like I was deliberately trying to stick my chest out, and this got me plenty of leg-pulling from the boys, and sarcastic remarks from the girls.
Alf was well aware of my new assets and seemed to come down even harder on me, nagging me about what I wore, where I went, with whom I went out and what time I got in. We seemed to spend all of our time arguing. Looking back, I can see why.
As I blossomed into a young woman, I attracted young men who were several years older than myself. I didn’t know how to deal with the attention they lavished on me. I could feel their eyes on me as I walked home from school in my navy uniform, my skirt rolled up at the waistband, until I reached the turning into our cul-de-sac. I enjoyed the attention and flattery; it made me feel good about myself.
I lost my virginity at fifteen. It wasn’t as I had imagined it would be – it was uncomfortable and awkward. I stayed with my first lover for a year, but my jealousy ruined everything, as it would do so often in the years to come.
All I wanted was to be loved, but I found that the men couldn’t make do with just a kiss and cuddle. They would call me a tease and make me feel bad about myself, or I would feel like a silly little girl and give in to their desires, either to keep them or so they would go away, as they wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.
Girls, jealous because their boyfriends looked at me, bullied me. My stepfather bullied me. My brother Phillip would call me names and pretend to throw up as I walked past him when we were out at the local discos, where I danced provocatively. I was used to being put down by Phillip. I pretended I didn’t care what he thought of me, but it did hurt my feelings. I wanted us to be close, like other friends of mine; they got on well with their brothers. I refused to let him or anyone else see that they had succeeded in hurting me; I would put on my ‘happy face’ to cover the pain I really felt inside.
I’ve used my ‘happy face’ throughout my life, on many occasions; it became my friend. It protected my pride and my feelings; it was a protective barrier I put up around myself. No one was allowed to penetrate that barrier. And, as the years went by, it made me appear confident, when really I felt like a second-class citizen. It was a necessity, as I found I couldn’t talk about my real feelings to anyone. Not to my mum, who would have been too affected by what I was going through. And not to my friends – they were used to me being the life and soul of the party, the bubbly girl with the wicked sense of humour. They wouldn’t have believed how inferior I felt compared to them.
At sixteen years of age, I left home and was living in Southsea, Portsmouth, with my neighbour and friend from Cinderford, Doreen. I ended up getting thrown out by Doreen’s sister, Dee, whom we were staying with, because she had grounded us for letting two sailors stay the night while she was away. I had defied her and left when she tried to stop me seeing my sailor boyfriend of the time, Steve Riddall.
After a short spell in a grotty bedsit, the police came round to tell me that Alf had suffered a heart attack and my mother wanted me home. I hitchhiked home immediately. Alf looked older and frailer than I remembered him. I tried to be nice to him, scared that if I made him angry again he would die. I was glad to be back home again, and tried my best to get on with the rest of the family, helping Mum around the house, cooking the tea for everyone and looking after Alf, who was still recovering from his heart attack. I kept busy, being helpful. For once, I felt Alf appreciated that I was trying to please him.
