Dark Avenging Angel (2 page)

My father would gloss over any complimentary points so fast I can’t ever remember being told I had done well at anything. Same with school reports. Even though I could then see for myself the mostly satisfactory comments teachers had made. No, the only ones that mattered to him were those that implied my performance could be bettered. As the years went by, that’s all I noticed too. Explains a lot, I expect.

My father would jab his finger at the report. “Your arithmetic has got to improve. You can’t go to university if you can’t add. You’re a complete dunce at it. Complete and utter dunce. It’s not good enough. From now on, you will work every night and every weekend. I will give you exercises—addition, multiplication, tables. You will do it twenty, thirty times, even, until you get every single sum right. Do you understand, you stupid, useless girl?”

I nodded, my eyes cast downwards, staring at my shoes. Was 62 percent a dunce score? Even my teacher, Mrs. Morgan, had managed to give grudging praise for the 10 percent improvement over the previous term.

“Look at me when I speak to you!”

I raised my eyes, but my head stayed down.

He balled up the school report in his hands and threw it at me. “Get out of my sight. I don’t want to look at you anymore.”

Again the dash for safety and Sukie’s comforting purrs.

The second time I saw my angel, she came to me in my room.

I lay there, wakeful as usual, far into the night. I always did on Mondays. The next day was swimming. I hated swimming.

I nearly drowned on my first foray into the school’s pool. I slipped, went under and panicked. I thrashed about, inhaling the chlorine-tainted water. It burned my throat and the inside of my nose. I couldn’t find the bottom. I tried to stand. Failed.

I opened my mouth to scream, and the water poured in. I couldn’t breathe.

Terror.

I would drown. They would find me on the bottom.

No one helped me. Couldn’t they see I was in trouble? Didn’t they care?

Then, the relief when my feet made contact with the smooth tiled floor of the pool. I emerged, coughing and spluttering. Tears mingled with the stinging water. The teacher hadn’t even noticed. She just glared at me—for disturbing her class with my choking, I suppose.

Bitch.

My seven-year-old self tasted anger mixed with the chlorine.

I had no confidence in her after that, and tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible every Tuesday at nine thirty. While the rest of the class would giggle and horse around, learning the crawl and the breaststroke, I cowered in the shallow end with a polystyrene float and water wings. More fuel for the tormentors.

Now, as I lay in bed that Monday night, I heard a sound. A sigh, like a breeze, ruffled my hair. I sat bolt upright.

The shadows moved and I whimpered. I couldn’t see her, but it had to be her. A wave of calm spread over me, as if she were stroking my head. That time, she said nothing, just smoothed away my fears.

I lay back down and slept.

The third time was different. The third time I wasn’t the only one who saw her.

Chapter Two

Christine and I weren’t speaking and she had rallied her on-again, off-again posse of six classmates who, she said, were in her “gang”. They cornered me on the playground.

“We don’t like you. You’re ugly,” Christine said.

“Yes, and you’re spoiled,” said Jennifer, a freckle-faced girl with flame-red hair and three older brothers. “‘Only’ children are always spoiled.”

As always, I stared at them. Expressionless, I hoped. I tried to project myself into my safe place—a mental version of my corner where their words would just roll right over my head. But today I couldn’t get it to work.

Then I saw my angel, out of the corner of my eye. I turned toward her and the other girls followed my gaze.

Christine spoke first, “Who’s that?”

“A friend of mine,” I said.

The others mimicked me and laughed. I wanted to disappear. I wanted my angel to take me away from all of it.

“You don’t have any friends. Nobody likes you,” Christine said, but I noticed she kept an eye on my angel, who seemed to glide closer.

I said nothing. Could my angel sense my thoughts?

Now she stood at my side and laid a hand on my shoulder.

The expressions of all seven girls changed from sneering, taunting little bullies into frightened children. I smiled.

“I knew you’d come and save me,”
my mind said and I felt a warm glow, like a smile, passing through me.

The children screamed. They turned tail and ran, screaming about black eyes and some unspecified monster.

All except Christine. She couldn’t resist one last jibe at me. “Freak!”

My angel’s hand slipped from my shoulder and I turned to see her raise her arms.

Christine’s face turned from a flushed pink to bloodless white. She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. For a second, she seemed to freeze. Then she was off, running as hard as she could over to the far side of the playground. There she joined her friends, and the group huddled together, comforting each other and casting swift glances in my direction.

I stared at them for a minute, then turned back to my angel. But she’d vanished.

Everyone left me alone after that, but I didn’t care. I would be leaving that school soon, anyway. I didn’t need stupid fair-weather friends like Christine.

Christmas was always a bad time. There would inevitably be a row. My father hated Christmas. I never really knew why. He hadn’t had a bad childhood. His parents weren’t the most popular and kept very much to themselves. But they had a comfortable home which, unlike anyone else in their respective families, they were buying, not renting from the local council.

Like me, my father was an only child. I’d like to think that’s the only thing we had in common, but we had at least one other. I never heard him speak of any schoolfriends. In fact, like me, he never had many friends, even though if you met him, you would have thought him affable and quite charming. But, then, you didn’t have to live with him.

Christmas 1966 was particularly traumatic.

He’d stopped calling me a dunce when I passed the selection examination, then known as the Eleven Plus. I must have done quite well because I secured a place at the school my parents had chosen as their number one preference. Needless to say, I had no influence whatsoever on that decision.

Fortunately, it worked out well. The school had an excellent academic reputation, and, at last, I started making real friends. Not only that, my results were good. Except in one area.

Arithmetic had given way to the dreaded “maths”—or math, if you prefer—and now added algebra and geometry to the jungle of numbers. For some bizarre reason, algebra made sense to me. Maybe it was because letters were involved instead of numbers. But geometry left me bewildered. It didn’t help that the headmistress was in charge of delivering the subject.

Life with my father—the ultimate authority figure—had left an indelible mark that transferred itself to anyone holding a position of control over me. I never misbehaved in class. I was too damned terrified of the teachers! My fear of the headmistresses was magnified ten times at least, so Miss Torrance had the best-behaved, worst-performing geometry student imaginable.

My father wasn’t amused. He had now decided I would study to become a doctor. He had wanted to be one, but the opportunities hadn’t been there, or so he said. Mum told me he just wasn’t good enough. She had gone to a highly regarded school, while he had only managed to secure a place at a lower-ranking school for less academic pupils.

The end of the winter term in 1966 brought me excellent exam results and an outstanding report. Out of a class of twenty-seven, I was top in biology, top in German, second in English, fourth in French. My algebra was good enough to place me in the top five and even the dreaded arithmetic had improved. But there, like a giant, flapping albatross, stood the specter known as geometry, with a damning C minus and a lowly twentieth position. It dragged me down to seventh in the class overall and was the only subject on my father’s mind as I stood there in the dining room while he railed at me.

Up came the inevitable toothpaste-selling career, when I should be good enough to become a doctor. Well, that would never happen, would it? Doctors needed good math results. No point being top in biology if I couldn’t handle a set square or master the angles on the different types of triangles.

The trouble was I saw no earthly use for geometry. I didn’t understand
why
I had to learn it. It made no sense to me, however hard I tried. Not that I was alone in this. One of my new friends had a similar aversion toward it. The difference was, her father didn’t insist she stand in their dining room while he verbally abused her.

I no longer stared at my shoes these days, I stared at the sideboard. This ugly piece of postwar utility furniture stood along one wall, its only saving grace being the solid wood and quality manufacture that may not have earned any awards then, but was far superior to the cheap plywood that blighted many sixties homes.

The wood in this sideboard had an interesting grain. One door looked as if flames fingered their way upwards. I used to think of it as “the fire in the wood”. The other door had a less distinct pattern but, again, during these endless paternal tirades, concentrating on memorizing every detail of the natural design helped take the edge off the barrage of insults.

My father threw my school report down on the table. His eyes were blazing and his face wore that purplish red that always punctuated his outbursts. “Not good enough. Not good enough by a long way. On the first day back at school after the Christmas holiday, you are to go and see Miss Torrance and ask her for some more geometry homework.”

“But—”

His anger spilled over. “Don’t you dare answer me back. Don’t you dare. You will do as you’re told. How
dare
you defy me.” He threw back his chair. It toppled and fell. “You think I’ve been harsh on you, but you haven’t seen anything yet. I’m going to break you, girl!”

He clenched his fists until the knuckles showed white. Any second and I was sure he would hit me like he still hit my mother. She sported a fresh set of bruises on her arm where he had gripped her hard and thrown her across the room.

I said nothing more. My heart pounded and a migraine started to throb in my right temple—the latest of many since I was four years old. From nowhere, the pounding of Thor’s hammers began in the deep recesses of my brain.

Seconds later the pain crashed into my head. Thumping. Thundering at my right temple. Bright flashes of light darted in front of my eyes. Waves of nausea sent bile shooting up my gut. I swallowed hard. The sweet, sickly taste filled my mouth.

I clamped my hand to my mouth and ran to the bathroom. Just made it before a flood of vomit hit the bowl. I knelt in front of the toilet, holding my head. Moaning in pain. Surely the pounding would split my head open.

Still it thumped, an audible, pulsating kettledrum of agony. Tears streamed down my face. I wanted to smash my head against the wall. Anything. Just to make it stop. My stomach muscles contracted in involuntary spasms of dry heaving.

The pain lessened a fraction. I dragged myself to my feet, moving slowly so as not to jar my head. I crawled into bed, laying my head on the cool pillow. Too ill to care what happened to me, only wishing Sukie could come and comfort me with her purrs. But Sukie wasn’t allowed in bedrooms. My father forbade it.

After an hour or so, the banging in my head had subsided sufficiently for me to slide out of bed, careful not to jar my head in case it woke up the pain. I needed to hold Sukie and feel her silky warmth.

I crept downstairs. I heard the television on in the living room and prayed Sukie wasn’t in there. I had no desire to be in the same room as my father. The door to the dining room was slightly ajar and I pushed it open.

A silky, black head lifted from the chair. She gave her usual little, welcoming chirrup, halfway between a muted meow and a purr. Then, she jumped off and ran toward me. I bent—careful to keep my head upright—picked her up and held her close. I curled up on the chair and sobbed into her fur while she purred and licked salty tears from my cheeks.

The next day my punishment was served up. I was forced to watch. Mum protested, but he took no notice. I wept until my eyes burned and stung as, one by one, he broke up each of my beloved dolls and threw them in the garbage can outside. I didn’t imagine the slight smile that curled the corners of his lips. He was
enjoying
this.

He saved the worst till last. He grabbed Sindy by her hair.

“
No!”

My father seemed to revel in the sight of his distraught daughter bawling her eyes out. Hysterical.

He stared at me while he tore off Sindy’s arms and legs. He stamped on her torso and crushed it under his feet. Then he twisted her head 180 degrees and ripped it off. I wailed and he smiled as he tossed her shattered remains into the trash.

He might just as well have thrown chunks of my life into that bin. I may not play with her as I used to, but I still loved her. And the others he had so callously destroyed.

He stepped back and I saw the obscene mess of twisted limbs, broken heads and bodies. But that still wasn’t enough for him.

He ordered Mum to pour on the contents of the ashcan and the kitchen bin. Fish skin, meat trimmings and potato peels mingled with ashes. He even mixed them up with a trowel, just to be sure I didn’t try to retrieve my shattered dolls later.

Poor Sindy’s face stared up at me, stinking and smeared with fish scales. I swear her smile had gone, replaced by a confused and agonized grimace. I stared back at her, too horrified and devastated to speak. Suppressed anger boiled up inside me.

My father’s look of triumph revolted me so much I swallowed down bile, but the sour taste still filled my mouth. My mother stood by. What could she do? It would make no difference and only earn her a beating.

“You haven’t got time for dolls,” my father said as he wiped his hands on an old towel. “You’ve far too much schoolwork to do. Anyway, you’re too old for such nonsense. And if this doesn’t improve your performance, that bloody cat of yours will be the next to go.”

I threw up over the flowerbed.

My father roared, “You filthy, disgusting animal!”

Sobbing, I fled into the living room and grabbed the sleeping and unsuspecting Sukie. Pure hatred for my father filled my soul.

My little cat licked my nose and I cuddled her close. “No one’s taking you away from me, Sukie. No one. And he’s not going to hurt you, I promise. I’ll kill him first.” I was twelve years old. But I knew I would do it.

My angel came to me that night. She sat on the edge of my bed and murmured a lullaby I didn’t know, but heard in my head. Then she whispered to me,
You will have your revenge, Jane. One day, you will be able to make him pay for what he has done to you.

I whispered back, “I can’t let him hurt Sukie. I can’t. She’s all I have.”

She stroked my forehead and my eyes closed.
Hush now, Jane. Sleep. All will be well.

Miss Torrance’s eyebrows rose up to her hairline when I made the request my father had insisted on. Maybe no child had ever asked for such a thing before. Whatever the reason, she took her time responding.

When she did speak, her voice had a kinder tone to it than usual. Maybe she felt sorry for me. “You certainly don’t seem to be able to get the hang of geometry, Jane, but I’m not inclined to pile more on you at the present time. The homework schedule is carefully calculated and you already have forty minutes of my subject each week. I wouldn’t want to see your other work suffer as a result of any imbalance. So, while I appreciate your diligence in making this request, and I will note that you have done so, I won’t be adding any more work for you at this time.”

She smiled. I’d never seen her do that before. I hadn’t told her my father had made me ask. Did she guess? She must know I hated her subject.

Another migraine blurred my vision and I just made it to the toilet before I threw up.

Needless to say, my father wasn’t amused by my lack of extra geometry. “I don’t believe you asked her. You’re lying to me!”

This time, my mother intervened. “Jane doesn’t tell lies.”

I held my breath. The silence hung like a shroud, waiting to be ripped apart. It didn’t have to wait long.

He shoved me aside and I overbalanced, sending the empty coal scuttle flying. It rolled and clattered against the hearth.

My father lunged at my mother. “You stupid bitch!”

I screamed and ran. I heard him slap her. She cried out. I wanted to help her, but I was too scared. I’ve always hated that about myself.

I crammed my hands over my ears, dashed upstairs to my room and slammed the door so hard the whole house shook. I heard him bellowing.

“Stop it. Stop it.
Stop it.
” I sobbed and rolled around on the bed, trying to block out the sound. Tears streamed down my eyes.

The neighbors were in. They
must
have heard. It could have been me he was attacking. Yet they still did nothing. What went on behind closed doors was none of their business.