Читать книгу Helpless: The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted - Toni Maguire - Страница 13

Chapter Nine

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 door he took out a bag of brightly coloured dolly mixture sweets from his glove compartment and tipped a small mound into my hand.

‘I 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.’