Читать книгу Helpless: The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted - Toni Maguire - Страница 9

Chapter Five

It had been many years since I had allowed myself to think of the lonely little girl that I had once been. But as she appeared in my mind, I felt tears prickle at the back of my eyes. I saw her scraggy little form standing day after day at the edge of the playground, hoping, but not believing, that she might make a friend.

I remembered her bewilderment at hearing words like ‘holidays’, ‘central heating’, ‘conservatories’, ‘patios’ and ‘indoor bathrooms’, and heard once again shrill mocking laughter ringing out when another child saw her confusion.

I thought of how she had tried to cover up her hurt when as the months rolled by she also heard about birthday parties she was never invited to and presents she could not imagine ever owning: dolls’ houses with tiny replicas of modern furniture in every room, three-wheeled bicycles painted a glossy red and dolls whose eyes opened and shut and that cried like real babies.

The children talked of treats she could only dream of: outings to tea shops where pink meringues, scoops of ice cream and fresh raspberries with cream were consumed, of new dresses being bought by doting grandmothers, of trips to the seaside and the funfair and so many other things that set her apart.

Having no stories of her own that she thought she could share, she kept quiet.

I tried to conjure up more images, but my memory seemed fixed on the picture of that little girl standing alone in the playground. Sighing a little, I pushed myself out of my comfortable seat and went to the cupboard where the family albums that recorded happy events were kept. Pushing them to one side I pulled out an old brown envelope that the years had faded to a burnt-out yellow.

Such a thin package, I thought sadly. Although I had not looked at its contents for over two decades I knew that inside it were the only photographs that recorded my first fifteen years. I took those few grainy black and white snapshots out of the envelope and placed them face up on the table.

There were none of me as a gurgling baby or as a toddler clutching hold of my proud parents’ hands as I took my first steps. Most of them showed me with other people. It was as though the camera, wanting to capture their images alone, had included mine by accident, for I was always standing on the edges. There were a few school-group photographs taken when I was about twelve. Those I pushed to one side, for I wanted to see myself when I was younger.

There were only two. The first was a black and white snapshot taken of my first brother and me when he was a plump baby and I was a scruffy six-year-old. We were sitting side by side on our old settee. It was me he was leaning against but it was my mother’s hand he was grasping. A wide gummy smile was on his face while I, all skinny arms and legs, was gazing blankly into the distance.

That was a time when I had grown to realize that my parents did not love me. Before my brother was born I had not seen my parents bestow tenderness on anyone else, but now when I watched my brother being picked up and looked at with those expressions of care that were never shown to me, I did not doubt it. I had listened to words of endearment being whispered to him and even on one occasion heard my father say ‘My boy’ with such a note of happy satisfaction ringing in his voice that I felt an emptiness that physically hurt.

For seeing that love, that unknowingly I had yearned for, given to another left a cold empty space under my ribs. I thought then it must be me that was unworthy of it, for my brother had been born too short a time to have earned it. At first when he was just a tiny mewing little creature I would stand looking at him marvelling in the perfection of his rounded limbs and creamy skin, and as he grew so did my love for him – however, with that love came another feeling; not jealousy but more an acute loneliness.

‘Look at your little brother,’ my mother would say as he took his first faltering steps. ‘Look at that smile,’ she would say to my father. ‘He’s going to be a heartbreaker all right.’

I’m over here, I wanted to cry – look at me; but when they did I wished they hadn’t, for the fond look bestowed on my brother was absent when their eyes fell on me.

I would watch my mother stroke his rosy cheeks and his neck, and blow kisses on his round little stomach before wrapping her arms around him.

I tried to be good then, offered to help with feeding and changing him, but all the time I asked myself a question repeatedly. If she was capable of feeling so much love for my brother, why wasn’t there enough left to give a small slice of it to me?

When our meal was finished I would slide off my chair and pick up the chipped china plates and anything else my small hands could hold. Then, with my brow furrowed in concentration, for I knew not to drop anything, I would take them to the sink.

Sometimes I would be rewarded by a smile from my mother as she ran her fingers through my hair. ‘You’re a good girl, Marianne, aren’t you?’ she would say, and on those occasions just those few words of praise were enough to put a smile on my face.

Apart from my brother’s existence emphasizing my parents’ indifference to me, the biggest change his presence made in my life was that for several months before he was born my mother no longer took me to school. ‘Marianne, I’m too busy and you’re big enough to go alone now’ was all she had said by way of explanation.

So instead of sitting on the seat behind her with my arms wrapped around her body, I had to walk alone for about half a mile to the bus stop and take myself there. That added to my difference, for I was only too aware that I was the only child in my class who walked into the playground alone without a mother to wave goodbye. And when the final bell rang, I was the only one not collected.

At the end of the school day all the children in my class rushed to the gates to receive hugs and kisses and tender enquiries as to the events of the day. Larger ones held their small hands tightly and they left without even a glance in my direction. I felt as though I was invisible, a feeling that grew when after a few months I arrived home to see my brother sitting on my mother’s knee.

Those days I felt an overwhelming need for something in my life, without knowing what it could be.