Helpless (18 page)

L
ooking back on that day as I sat looking at my small pile of photographs and the envelope, I felt the futile need to pick up the phone and speak to my own mother. I wanted answers to some of the same questions I felt my daughter wanted from me.

Did you ever love me, Mother? When you carried me, did you want me? Or was I just the reason you got married?

And the one question I wanted the answer to more than any other: Even if you didn’t, even if you felt nothing when you first held me, did you grow to care for me, your eldest daughter? I know you loved my brothers and sister, but did you ever love me?

Those questions that had so often screamed out silently in my head, those questions that I had never found the courage to voice, were once again in my mind.

But I had left them too late to ask, for several years previously my mother had passed the stage of remembering my childhood.

I pictured her hunched form and vacant stare as, locked into her own world, she looked uncomprehendingly at me. I was no longer even a trace in my mother’s mind: dementia had mercifully taken away her memories of a life which had known little happiness. Except for one: that of her husband.

‘Oh, but he was handsome,’ she would say with a sigh as his face drifted through the fog she lived in. ‘Oh, but he was such a handsome man.’ And that one sentiment told me why she had stayed all those years. And I would smile at her, tuck a blanket around her age-withered knees, pat a trembling shoulder, brush sparse hair or gently stroke her face; anything to show that the residue of my childhood love still remained.

When I reached adulthood and was myself married I had forgiven my mother for her lack of care. With the understanding that maturity brings, as opposed to the feelings of the angry, hurt, neglected child, I had seen the sadness not just in my life but in hers as well.

Practically my mother’s entire ration of love had been used up on her husband. A small portion of it had been shared between the children she wanted, but there had been little over for me and even less for herself.

My thoughts drifted to dwell fleetingly on my father, who withered by age and alcohol abuse had died several years before my mother’s dementia had placed her in the nursing home. I remembered his tempers, his violence and the very occasional moment that showed me that once someone nicer had lived within his mind.

No, my questions of them had been left too late to ask, but my daughter’s hadn’t and I was going to have to answer them.

I cast my mind back to those years and asked myself if there was anything I could have done differently. If I had known what I do now I suppose I could have, but I didn’t. And if I had – I said to the letter – then you would not have written to me for you would not have been born.

I thought of that lie I had told to the social worker and the matron; that lie which at thirteen had set the course for what was to follow.

Even then, nearly a quarter of a century later, I still could not accept those years when I had conceived not just one but two daughters, carried them for nine months, loved them even before they entered the world, then when they were still tiny babies handed them both over for adoption.

There were so many nights when those images of another time had visited me. My sleep set them free to roam in my dreams and so often when I awoke they demanded to be remembered; something that I tried so often to deny them.

B
y the time I had settled back at home, the man next door seemed to have taken on the appearance of a phantom presence. There was only the odd glimpse of the back of his head or a quick view of his profile as he stepped from his car. Before my eyes had focused or my lips had time to call his name he had disappeared so quickly that I was left wondering if it was my imagination that had conjured him up.

Sometimes I heard his children calling ‘Daddy’ and occasionally I saw Dora peering through her window, watching for him to arrive, and just once I thought I saw him in the street. I quickened my pace that day but when I closed the gap between us it was only to see a stranger. Apart from that he seemed to have disappeared from my life. But I was relieved, wasn’t I? I no longer liked him, did I? But still I wondered, just sometimes, if he ever thought of me.

It was four o’clock in the afternoon when that questioned was answered. I was at the bus stop when I heard the sound of a car slowing down.

‘Hello, little lady,’ said a voice from inside it and, turning, I looked into the face of the man next door.

To my amazement he leant over and opened the passenger door. ‘Get in,’ he said. I looked at him incredulously as the hurt of months welled up inside me, and then I turned and walked off.

He followed me.

‘Go away,’ I said. ‘I don’t want to talk to you.’

‘But I have something to say to you,’ he replied, giving me what he thought was a winning smile. ‘Come on, get inside.’

That time I didn’t, nor did I the next day or the one after that.

But the fourth time I did.

‘I’m so sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t have a choice; but I thought of you often.’ I tried not to listen to him, but as these sentiments, the ones that I so wanted to hear, started to pour out from him, just for a short time that first day, I believed him. Memories of how he had been when I had first met him – when he had listened to my stories and made me feel special – superimposed themselves over the more recent painful ones. That day, when he spoke to me for the first time after so many months, those other memories, of his blackmailing threats and cruelty, were, if not forgotten, then pushed temporarily to the recesses of my mind.

He gave me a present, a beautiful silver locket. ‘Wear it under your blouse,’ he said.

And then slowly, every time after that when he and I met, little by little the mistrust of the recent years slipped away until once again he seemed my childhood friend, the one to whom I could tell my dreams and fears.

He listened to me and, unlike my parents, showed interest in everything I said. His face showed concern when I repeated what Susan and her mother had called me. His arm went briefly around my shoulder when I confided in him how different I felt from my family and how much the latest row with my father had upset me. But I never talked about the girls’ home or our baby, and he never asked me.

I told him about my ambition to train as a nurse; how I could not wait for the months to pass until I could.

‘I’ll miss you, Marianne,’ he said. I thought then that he was the only person who would. But later, when I was alone and free of his power over me, I again remembered how he had been and how he had deserted me when I became pregnant.

‘You lied to me,’ I said once. ‘Girls don’t get hung for having sex with men. They told me in the home.’

He told me that he had only said that for my sake. Surely I knew that there was more than one sort of trouble that I could have brought down on myself if I had talked? Hadn’t I found that out already?

I had; it meant no one talked to me. They just talked about me.

I was still naïve enough to believe him, because I wanted to, and I gave little thought to the fact it would have been him who would have been in deeper trouble.

I did not recognize that the man next door had started his wooing of me all over again; that his was a game of patience and skill, honed sharply by his intimate knowledge of me and all my youthful weaknesses. He knew of my loneliness, my feelings of isolation at home and at school. For hadn’t I told him all about it myself? I did not know then that each time I laid bare a little piece of my soul I handed him the tools to control me again.

The first part of his game was to make me pleased to see him. That was a simple one – some days he arrived, other days he didn’t. And after a short time I started looking for his car as, of course, he had known I would. The second part was not difficult either – making me believe that he was the only person who cared for me, a sentiment that he cleverly reinforced each time we met. He never tried to touch me, not then. Gradually I began to trust him again while he prepared for the final part of his game.

I
finally turned fifteen – the birthday I had been looking forward to, for that was the age of freedom. What I overlooked was that, although I was old enough to leave school and work by law, I needed my parents’ permission to live anywhere else but their home.

A few days before that birthday, the one I considered such a milestone in my life, the headmistress called me into her study. She told me that it looked as though my ambition was going to be possible. A hospital in the north of England had agreed that I could start on their training programme. There I could live in, and although my wages would be minimal, the hospital would provide my board and keep. The best part, although the headmistress did not spell it out in so many words, was that none of the girls at my school had applied to go there. That, combined with the fact that the hospital was so far away from my home, made it very unlikely that I would bump into anyone who knew me.

‘It will be a fresh start for you, Marianne, and you deserve that,’ she said gently. ‘You have worked very hard this year to get your grades up. I’m very pleased for you.’ I recognized by the expression on her face that, even though she knew little about my home life, she had known how the other pupils had ostracized and victimized me.

Her next sentence, though, suddenly brought me face to face with the reality of what this job offer meant.

‘Your parents will have to write a letter giving their permission for you to go.’

‘What happens if they don’t?’ was my next timorous question.

‘Why, Marianne, without it the hospital would not take you. Surely you have discussed this whole idea with your family?’

‘Oh! Yes, of course,’ I lied.

I waited until suppertime to tell my parents.

‘What? You went behind our backs and arranged this?’ said my furious father. ‘You thought you could do that without talking to your mum or me? I suppose we don’t count? We’re just the people who feed and clothe you, are we? Well, if you think I’m giving my permission for this nonsense, you can think again.’

My mother examined her hands intently and twisted her thin wedding ring and said nothing.

‘Time you put some money back into this house, my girl!’ he continued. ‘You’ll get a job round here and start paying for your keep. Show a bit of gratitude for everything we’ve done for you. Everything we’ve had to put up with. It’s the least you can do.’

I tried pointing out that they would not have to feed me if I was not at home, but he refused to listen.

I pleaded, I cried. But it was no use. I turned to my mother for support. ‘No point looking at her, Marianne – your mum agrees with me. Don’t you?’ he said, turning in her direction with such a ferocious look that I knew she would be too scared to argue.

‘You can’t go unless we write a letter saying it’s all right with us for you to leave home. Isn’t that true?’ I gave a miserable nod. ‘Well, I’m not going to do it. No chance!’ he said with a note of triumph in his voice.

He paused for a moment to ram another fork of food into his mouth, then he looked up at my stunned and unhappy face again. ‘You know what you are going to do tomorrow? You’re going to get a job in that new factory. There’s a sign up saying they want workers. They pay good money, they do. So you mind you get yourself down there. Now I don’t want to hear another word.’

Before I could open my mouth to protest one more time he aimed his final verbal shot at me. ‘Anyway, Marianne, you’ve given us enough trouble. You’ll not be leaving home at fifteen and getting yourself into any more.’

I did not return to school the next morning. Instead I went to the factory and asked to see the person who was interviewing all the school leavers. I was told to report for work the following Monday. They would train me to be a coil winder.

My father was right. They did pay well.

But no amount of money could compensate me for my shattered dreams.

W
here I was working was a large modern building on an industrial estate, one of the many that were being constructed in our area. My supervisor, a slight, mousy-haired man wearing wire-framed glasses, explained, in his strong London accent, what would be expected of me.

The following Monday morning I was to come to his office at seven forty-five where he would show me the room where my initial two-week training course was to take place. I was going to learn how to do coil winding for the growing telecommunications industry. I would be taught how to use a soldering iron and to recognize the different gauges of wires that I would be working with. As I racked my brains about what I would wear, all I could settle on was my school-uniform skirt and a hand-knitted jumper from the second-hand shop. I had washed and pressed each item the night before so, even if it looked old fashioned and childlike, at least my attire was clean. When I nervously reported for work I found myself with a group of older women who were also starting at the factory that day. We were taken to a small outer building where, after a few minutes of introductions, we started our first lesson. To my surprise, although I found the work both boring and tedious I also found it easy because of my small hands. Praise rained down on me that first day, and suddenly working in the factory did not seem as bad as I had thought it was going to be.

I was the youngest by at least five years. Most of the other women had husbands who also worked in one of the nearby factories. Some of them had moved from inner London, seduced by better schools for their children and the opportunity to buy an affordable semi-detached house on one of the new estates that were beginning to cover the Essex landscape. They were a friendly bunch, and when the factory whistle blew to tell us we had a fifteen-minute break for tea, I found myself sitting with a couple of women who seemed determined to take me under their wing as they had worked there for some time.

‘You’re a little one, aren’t you! How long since you left school, love?’ said one, a dark-haired woman with smiling brown eyes and a smattering of freckles over her snub nose, who told me her name was Bev.

‘Only just left,’ I replied, feeling then the stab of sharp disappointment at not being on my way to the nurse’s home.

Her friend, whose name was Jean, said, ‘Well, that explains your clothes,’ but her tone was not unkindly.

I wriggled a bit then. I was only too aware that they, with their permed hair and made-up faces, presented a very different image than I, with my hair tied neatly back and my face devoid of any make-up whatsoever. Even though we all wore some sort of protective clothing, I could see that both Bev and Jean were wearing outfits that were nicer than anything I had in my meagre wardrobe. My heart sank once again and I felt that I was never going to fit in. Apart from my school uniform, all I had were a few second-hand dresses that, because I was so small, were either too young or too large for me.

I knew the cost of clothes. I had looked into enough shop windows with a longing for something new and fashionable, but I knew it would take me a long time to save up for anything like the outfits my fellow workers were wearing. My father had told me how much I was expected to give my mother each week for my board and keep and, having learnt what my wage would be, I knew it left very little over for me.

‘Tell you what, love,’ Bev said, on seeing my downcast face. ‘I make most of my own clothes – got an electric sewing machine at my house. I’ll run you up couple of pretty outfits, no problem. All you need to do is find the material.’

Before I could ask her if she really meant it, she continued as though what she was suggesting was an everyday occurrence in my life.

‘We can go shopping when you get your first pay packet Friday week. Now, I want to do a bit of overtime on Saturday. You can put your name down for that too as soon as you’ve finished your training. Then we’ll pop into town to that new store that’s just opened and buy some pretty fabric.’

‘I’ve got to give most of my wages to my mother,’ I told her. ‘There’s another four younger than me at home that need feeding.’

‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘It won’t cost much – it will only take a couple of yards to cover your tiny figure. Tell you what, you can stay and have a bite to eat at my house and I’ll get it cut out, then my hubby and me will drive you home.’

I was not to know that day as I mumbled my grateful thanks that this was the start of a friendship which, in the months that followed, would prove to be one of the most important of my life.

My first pay packet was handed to me on the Friday afternoon. It was a sealed brown envelope with the calculation of my wages written on the outside. It stated how many hours I had worked and how much was inside. I took it home and gave it to my mother, still unopened. From it she removed a note and some coins; the latter she handed back to me.

‘That’s for you, Marianne,’ she told me. ‘You spend it on something you want.’ Furthermore, when I told her about the possibility of earning overtime, she said that I could keep that extra money. I found my face breaking into a smile as I wondered if I was going to have enough money to go shopping after all.

That Saturday afternoon I went into town with Bev and searched the shops that were selling dress fabric. I found a small remnant of pastel material dotted with sprigs of tiny flowers that Bev said she could turn into a blouse. She then found quite a reasonably sized piece of navy-blue fabric to make me a flared skirt, one that was nipped in at the waist and would swirl around my knees as I walked. ‘It’ll show off that tiny waist of yours,’ she said with a smile, and happily I agreed. My meagre allowance just covered these purchases and I could barely contain my excitement. We celebrated with tea and a cream cake before we went home. ‘My treat!’ said Bev. ‘You can do the next time when you get your first overtime.’

A couple of hours later I was in my new friend’s house being measured from every angle so she could get the cut right. When I had first walked in I instantly loved her house and admired its new three-piece draylon suite, fitted floral carpet and shiny pale-teak dining table and chairs. In comparison, my parents’ home looked even shabbier.

‘Lovely, aren’t it, Marianne? The coffee table’s my favourite, though it’s that Ercol! Cost a bomb, but it’s quality. Got it all on the never-never,’ Bev told me. ‘Wanted to get everything new before we start a family.’

Her husband, a chunky blond-haired man in his late twenties, worked in another factory doing piecework, which paid even better money than we were on.

Within a short time I found myself eating once a week with Bev and her husband, and then afterwards they drove me home. That first time, as their car turned into the lane where I lived, I was aware of how our house, with its thin ill-fitting curtains hanging in the windows and the peeling paint on the front door, must have looked to them. But whatever they thought, they did not say anything; they just dropped me off and wished me good night.

Theirs was the first relationship I had seen of what is now termed a modern marriage. They both worked and earned money and they jointly decided how it was spent. They also went out together in the evenings, first discussing what they wanted to do. Sometimes they went to a cinema or the pub, and once a month they dressed up and went out for a meal and then dancing. On Sundays, though, Bev always cooked a roast dinner while Phil washed the car and worked in the garden. It was Phil’s job to wash up the dishes afterwards, and then they watched television and just lazed around together. I had never heard of a man helping with housework, and it was also my first glimpse at what a happy marriage could be like.

The only thing missing, Bev confided to me, was a baby. The hire purchase was all paid off and Phil was due promotion to a better job as a supervisor. That meant that Bev had no real necessity to work, and they both felt it was the right time to start a family. They had been trying, but so far without success she told me, and a sad expression came into her eyes. Those words made me feel even guiltier, for what would she think if she knew not only had I had a baby, but that I had given her away?

It was during those early weeks of knowing them that I allowed the thought to enter my head that maybe, just maybe, I might meet someone nice; someone I too could marry and settle down with one day. But no sooner did that idea enter my head than I banished it. Men, I had been told, like their wives to have been good before they met them, and who decent would accept my past?

How could I ever tell anyone that not only was I not a virgin but that I had not been one since I was eight years old?