Helpless (4 page)

T
he week before we left the tiny cottage that my mother disliked so much, I helped her pack up our meagre possessions. Bits of kitchenware poked out of cardboard boxes, bedding bulged out of stained pillowcases and clothes had been crammed into two battered second-hand suitcases.

I refused to put either my collection of rag dolls or my beloved blonde-haired favourite into a box. She had been a present from my aunt and I had named her Belinda. Instead I wrapped each one up carefully in whatever scraps of material I could find and placed them in a brown carrier bag that I refused to be parted from.

Two vehicles, a maroon car that had seen better days and an equally battered white van, both driven by my father’s friends, arrived on the morning of our departure. My mother, my small brother and myself, still clutching my precious bag of dolls, were placed in the car, whilst my father and our ragged assortment of possessions went into the van.

Sitting in the back of the car I wondered what our new home would look like. My mother had told me that a young couple with two small children lived in the adjoining cottage. A boy and a girl, she said, but to my disappointment they were still only toddlers, so too young for me to play with.

The husband was a mechanic. He serviced all the farm’s vehicles and that was why the farmer allowed him to rent a cottage on his land. She had only seen him briefly, but his wife was very friendly.

As my mother chattered away about our new neighbours with more animation than I ever remembered hearing in her voice, I looked out curiously at the flat scenery of Essex flashing past. First, there were large farmhouses with pretty gardens and then clusters of farm workers’ cottages with unkempt gardens and broken wooden fences. Then we drove down a long country lane where clumps of flowers added colour to the hedgerows and cows grazed peacefully in the fields on either side. Just as I was craning my neck to see more, the car slowed down and we knew we were there.

In what looked to me more like a large field than a garden stood two red-bricked cottages with fresh paint-work on the doors and windows and a sweep of gravel in the front, large enough for the two cars to park.

My eyes were drawn to the cottage next door. There were pots of geraniums on the front step, pale curtains hung in the windows, wisps of smoke curled out of their chimney and on their lawn a sturdy swing had been erected.

When my father pushed open the door of our cottage it smelt fresh and welcoming. A shiny black stove was at the end of the stone-floored living room. Flowers patterned the newly papered walls, and when we walked through to the kitchen I saw a sparkling white sink.

My father and his friends started unloading the van, and within minutes, it seemed, it was empty. The beds had been carried upstairs and the rest of our possessions were piled in a heap in the centre of the room and finally my father’s bicycle was removed and propped up against the outside wall.

My brother, tired and grizzling, had been placed in the pram and thankfully had shut his eyes and fallen asleep.

‘Anyone for a cuppa?’ my mother asked brightly.

‘Thanks love, another time. We had better be off,’ the men said without any further offer of help, and we watched from the doorway as the van and car drove off up the lane.

‘Done all I need to,’ said my father. ‘I’ll just go down the pub and buy those two a couple of beers for their help. They want to introduce me to a few of the regulars, now that it’s going to be my new local. Marianne’s old enough to help you now. Anyhow, arranging furniture and stuff is women’s work.’

Before my mother had a chance to protest he mounted his bicycle and pedalled off in the same direction his friends had taken.

I put down my bag of dolls carefully and glanced up at my mother who was just staring dolefully at my father’s retreating back.

Her shoulders slumped despondently as she gave a sigh at the thought of how much had to be done with only a seven-year-old to help. All the animation and expectation drained from her face, leaving her looking worn out and defeated.

‘God,’ she said to me, ‘where do we start?’ while I, having no answer, just stared helplessly around the room. ‘I’ll help, Mum,’ I said without much idea how I was going to achieve that.

No sooner had those words left my mouth then I heard a crunch of gravel and saw a smile forming on my mother’s face. A voice called out ‘Hallo there’ and I looked up to see a tall blonde woman with hair swept up in a fancy hairstyle and her feet strangely, considering we were two miles from the village, wedged into fashionable high-heeled shoes.

She bent down to my height so that our eyes met and smiled. ‘Hallo,’ she said. ‘I’m Dora. I live next door,’ she added unnecessary, as ours were the only two cottages in that part of the lane. ‘You must be Marianne,’ and I smiled back at her and nodded furiously.

‘I know what it’s like on a day like this,’ she said to my mother, making no reference to the fact that we had been left without any help. She just gave her a small pat on her shoulder and said lightly, ‘Expect you could do with a break before you start. Come round to mine – the stove’s lit and I’ve got a brew all ready.’

My mother, giving a rueful look at the boxes and bags strewn around the floor, accepted gratefully. I wheeled the pram and followed them over the short distance to the other front door that, like ours, led straight into the living room.

A large wooden playpen dominated nearly two-thirds of her space. Inside it her two toddlers were playing contentedly with brightly coloured wooden building bricks. More toys were scattered within throwing distance on the floor outside it.

‘My most useful bit of furniture!’ she remarked laughingly.

‘Come here, little man,’ she said to my baby brother, who had woken and looked ready to let out a shriek. She quickly scooped him up and, before he was able to voice his protest, swung him in the air, making him giggle loudly. Then she swiftly plopped him down in the pen beside her two. A wooden car was passed to him and tears were forgotten as his plump little hands stretched out and grasped it. We were all rewarded by a wide gummy smile before he turned his rapt attention to his new toy.

‘There, that will keep him quiet,’ she said matter-of-factly and gestured to my mother to take a seat.

A plate piled high with individually iced cakes suddenly appeared and was placed on the table in front of me.

‘Help yourself,’ the neighbour’s wife said with some amusement when she noticed I could hardly tear my eyes away from it. Needing no more encouragement, I stretched my arm out and chose a pale-pink iced one, which was decorated with tiny silver balls. Biscuits and juice were given to the three little ones and cups of hot sweet tea were poured for my mother and me.

For the first time that day I saw my mother relax. An hour passed quickly while the two women chatted to each other. The three younger children, bribed with further biscuits, played happily and I amused myself by surreptitiously helping myself to more cakes and looking at the pictures in a women’s magazine. Treats such as these seldom appeared in our house.

‘Leave the baby with me,’ Dora said as we reluctantly started to take our leave. ‘It will be a lot easier to tackle that unpacking if you haven’t got him under your feet.’

This was an offer my mother readily agreed to.

Already the bond of a new and longed-for friendship was forming.

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.’

I
shivered as those memories came back.

I thought of the care I had taken over my children as they grew. I had never been able to become a parent content just to warn her children not to speak to strangers. Instead every one of my husband’s friends was examined with suspicion, each male neighbour viewed with caution, and should a friendly hand move to touch the head of one of my sons, while a male voice murmured the comment of ‘What a fine boy you have there,’ my body would stiffen with something approaching revulsion.

Invitations for my sons to visit their friends’ houses were inspected carefully, questions as to whether both parents would be there frequently asked.

‘Don’t make such a fuss, Mum,’ said my sons with some irritation when faced with my vigilance. ‘We know not to take sweets from strangers!’

Then I would remember the vulnerable little girl I had once been and the man who had sought out a needy child and how he had gained her trust before controlling her by fear.

For how could I explain to my sons that it was not strangers I was scared of?

Our new home was further away from my school. It took me nearly an hour to walk to the bus stop, but I did not really mind. I liked where we lived, liked the fact it was clean and that my mother seemed happier. Even my father appeared more content.

It was spring when we moved, and for the first few weeks the sun shone. I could smell the promise of summer in the air, and summer meant long weeks of holidays and freedom from school. But when the treacherous English sun disappeared behind dark clouds and squally winds blew across the fields, bending the trees and scattering their leaves, the lanes seemed to grow longer and my home too far away. It was then that I shivered from both the cold and a tiny kernel of apprehension.

It was on one of those blustery days when rain trickled down the back of my neck, my Wellington boots chafed damp bare legs and my satchel grew heavier with every step I took, that I heard the sound of a car slowing down behind me.

As I stood on the verge waiting for it to pass I heard the sound of the engine slowing as the car came to a stop, and with an inherent fear I was suddenly aware of how dark it had become and how far away the nearest house was.

‘Can’t have my little lady getting wet now, can we?’

For a second I froze. Although the reasons had never been made clear to me I had been told never to talk to strangers.

‘Just do as I say and don’t ask so many questions,’ my mother had snapped when I had asked her why.

But this was a voice I recognized: it was the man from next door.

‘Come on, jump in.’ And needing no persuasion to get out of the rain I swiftly obeyed.

A small towel appeared; my hair was quickly rubbed and gently tousled back into place. My hands, reddened by cold, were taken in his larger warm ones. ‘Soon have you warm as toast,’ he said, blowing on them before gently rubbing my fingers.

Opening his glove compartment, he reached in and drew out a yellow tube of sherbet with its black liquorice stick. ‘Here, this is for you. A little bird told me you liked them as well as those dolly mixtures,’ he said with a wink.

Licking my sherbet delight I sank back contently on the leather seat. This time when I arrived home the journey had been too quick.

The following day when black clouds promised more rain he was waiting by the school gates.

I saw the other children look at his car and suddenly felt my chest swell with pride. Not only had someone met me, but someone with a big black car.

‘Can’t have her getting her death of cold,’ he said to my mother as he walked me into the house.

‘That’s kind of you,’ she said, before turning to me. ‘Say thank you, Marianne,’ and I did.

Now every day I wanted it to rain because if it did I was sure he would be waiting.