Can't Anyone Help Me? Read online

  ‘You have to try and hit them, Jackie,’ my father explained. ‘When it breaks the sweets will fall out and you get to keep the ones you manage to pick up. Come on.’ He took my hand and led me nearer to the target.

  Other fathers were placing blindfolds over their children’s eyes but my father saw panic on my face when he tried to do the same. ‘It’s all right, Jackie,’ he said soothingly. ‘As you’re a visitor you don’t have to wear one.’ He led me into the midst of the activities.

  We squealed with excitement when a stick connected with its target. With loud cracks, the papier-mâché broke and a shower of brightly wrapped sweets fell to the ground. Shouting with delight, we gathered as many as we could find and crammed them into mouths and pockets before joining our families to show them our spoils.

  Once the sky became streaked with the orange and red of sunset, we knew it was time to go home; rugs were gathered up, baskets packed, children marshalled and reluctant teenagers urged to say their goodbyes.

  That was near the end of our holiday and the final days sped by until it was time to leave. I said goodbye to all my new friends in the village and said I would be back next year. I promised to try and learn more Spanish by then. I did not know as we packed up the car that none of that would ever materialize.

  17

  We arrived back from Spain a week before school was due to start. My uncle remained curiously silent and I was not sent to stay with him.

  Each day I took out my bicycle and rode it off the estate till I reached the country lanes. Pedalling along them, I could feel the wind on my face, and smell the scent of freshly cut fields and grass. But I missed Spain, the friendliness of the people, the children I had played with and, most of all, I missed how we had at last seemed like a family and how my parents had treated me while we were there.

  I consoled myself with the thought that I was going back again next year. And in the meantime I had so many stories to tell the other children at school. My father had taken photographs and he gave me an extra set of my own. There were some of our cottage that showed the lemon trees, part of the village and the surrounding countryside. But mainly they were photos of me. There I was, happy and tanned in a group of laughing children, dancing at the fiesta. Another showed me riding my bike, a smile lighting my face as my father called to me to look up at him, and others where I was simply enjoying playing with my friends. Those pictures were already in my satchel ready to show to everyone once the new term started, and the stories that accompanied them were locked in my memory.

  If I had those photographs now they would show how my holiday had distanced me from those images of my uncle and what he made me do. They would demonstrate that, without his presence in my life, I could have been a normal child.

  That realization came to me when I was a teenager and looked at them again. It was why, in a blind rage at the unfairness of the world I lived in, I tore them into little pieces. But that came later, and with it, the second part of my story.

  For six lovely weeks there had been no teachers shouting at me, no doctors appraising me sternly from across their desks. My mother had ceased to give me those cold glances, tempered with worry and dislike; instead, there had been moments when she had shown me genuine warmth.

  And my father had told me that he just wanted me to be well. His face had lost the concerned expression it so often wore when he looked at me.

  Last, there had been no uncle with his camera.

  18

  It was my bicycle, gleaming with polish, that found me a new friend. Concentrating on rubbing the chrome trim, I didn’t see the girl until she spoke.

  ‘Hey, cool bike!’ said a voice, and looking round, I saw a girl leaning over our wall.

  We eyed each other for a few moments, she with a friendly expression, and me with a puzzled one because I had never seen her before.

  ‘Hang on,’ she said. ‘I’ll come round.’ Cloth in hand, I waited for her to appear, which, wheeling her bike, she did a few minutes later. ‘I’m Kat,’ she said. ‘We moved in while you were away.’ That explained why I hadn’t recognized her. She was a couple of years older than me, tall for her age, and like me, she was dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. Her dark hair was tied into a high ponytail, her eyes were brown and her face was lightly freckled by the sun.

  ‘I’ve seen you around,’ she said offhandedly. ‘If you’re going for a ride, do you mind if I tag along?’

  ‘Suppose,’ I answered, hiding my pleasure at being singled out.

  Being older, she rode in front. Her slim tanned legs pumped furiously, and her ponytail swung, as she half stood on her pedals to gain extra momentum. Occasionally, just to check I wasn’t too far behind, her head would swivel round and she would grin at me. ‘Can’t keep up, then?’

  At the challenge, my head went down and, like her, I stood on my pedals and urged the wheels to turn faster.

  She showed me how, when we were at the top of the hill, to kick my legs off the pedals and freewheel down. When there was a bump in the road we both crouched over our handlebars so that the wheels almost left the ground.

  When we stopped to rest, I learnt that her parents were divorced and that her mother had recently remarried. ‘Dad’s got a new girlfriend too. But she takes me shopping and lets me choose what I want – all goes on Dad’s credit card, of course,’ she said, with a laugh.

  She didn’t like her mother’s new husband. ‘Oh, he’s nice enough to me, but I know he wishes I’d go and live with my father. I heard him talking about sending me to boarding school the other day. And he always calls me Kathleen not Kat. My real dad calls me Kitty. Stupid, eh?’ I sensed that, underneath, she liked it.

  Nonchalantly she pulled a packet of cigarettes out of her shorts pocket. ‘Pinched them,’ she said airily. ‘They never notice,’ she added, as she lit one and inhaled. A plume of smoke drifted above her head and my eyes opened wide. Smoking was banned in our house – ‘A filthy, dirty habit,’ my mother said repeatedly. Friends and my uncle were sent to the garden to indulge in what she called ‘their addiction’.

  Not wanting Kat to think I was a baby, I stretched my hand out for one.

  ‘You’ve not smoked before, have you?’ she teased.

  ‘Have so,’ I answered defiantly as I took one. I put it into my mouth, took the box of matches, struck one and, as I had seen her do, sucked in the smoke. As it went down my throat, I coughed and spluttered. Tears ran down my cheeks as I tried to draw breath and I could hear Kat’s laughter.

  I don’t know what grown-ups see in this, I thought, as a wave of nausea rose from my stomach.

  ‘Cool,’ was what I said, as soon as I could get the word out, and by the end of the afternoon, although careful not to inhale again, I was puffing away like an expert.

  That was the beginning of our friendship, in which she would introduce me to her taste in music and later tell me the facts of life – or, rather, her version of them. Little did I know that both would get me into trouble with my mother.

  My mother, pleased that I had made a friend, even if she was a little bit older, was friendlier to me for the first few weeks after we arrived back from Spain.

  ‘Can I stay at home this weekend?’ I had asked, the first time my uncle invited me to visit. And on that occasion they told me of course I could: not only had I found a friend but I also had things to get ready for my new term at school.

  Loitering near an open door, I heard my parents talking about me. ‘Maybe she’s going to be all right now,’ I heard my father say, as though what had been wrong with me was no more serious than a cold that a few weeks in the sun had cured.

  My mother, I could tell by her reply, was not as optimistic: ‘We’ll have to see, Stewart. Let’s just hope so.’

  A week after school had started, my mother announced that my uncle was picking me up and that I would be spending the weekend with him and my aunt as usual. ‘He said it’s so long since he’s seen you and he’s really looking forward to it, Jackie,
’ she said, when she saw my face fall.

  I had wanted to take my bike out again and ride in the countryside with Kat. I dreaded seeing him but knew that arguing would get me nowhere. I had seen the fridge full of groceries, heard telephone calls: my parents were planning one of their dinner parties. I also remembered what I had seen before and knew from the odd snippet of conversation that that was why they wanted me out of the way. Although I still did not understand exactly what wife-swapping meant, I had some idea of what happened on those evenings.

  Once when I had returned from my uncle’s house I found a used condom under my bed. I might not have known what it was but I recognized the smell when I threw it away. My mother had changed the bedding but must have forgotten to check under the bed. I wondered which of her friends had been in it.

  The realization of why I was being sent away enraged me. If the holiday had helped me, it had not changed anything, or how my mother really felt about me. I was, I began to understand, an inconvenience to her and her way of life, something that could be farmed out to relatives when it suited her.

  19

  When the bell announcing that school had finished for the day rang on Friday, the sounds were always different from other days. There was the excited chatter of children who had the weekend free. As they scampered to the gates, they shouted plans of what they were going to do and made arrangements to meet up with best friends. I walked slowly across the playground. I was in no hurry to go home and hear my mother greet my uncle before turning to me with one of her bright smiles as she said goodbye.

  He was waiting for me as I walked through the school gates. ‘I couldn’t wait to see you, Jackie,’ he said, as he leant over and opened the car door.

  He offered his cheek and I gave it a peck. A chaste kiss between uncle and niece in a public place that could not have offended even the most prudish observer. ‘How well you’re looking,’ he exclaimed, and gradually, as it always did, his charm began to cast a spell over me. It was not the spell of love or even admiration, but the spell of need. My need to have someone in my life who said I was the most important person in theirs.

  We went back to my house where I picked up my already packed case and listened to my mother telling me to be good. Every time the car slowed, my body clenched – I was frightened that he would turn off towards one of his friends’ houses. But to my overwhelming relief we just went straight back to his.

  That weekend he played the part of caring uncle and took me out for the day to the closest northern city, with its large shops and restaurants. ‘Is there anything you would like?’ he asked, when we went round one of the department stores.

  Unable to think of anything I needed, I shrugged. Undeterred by my seeming indifference, he chose something I really did want: a Walkman. I had seen the portable cassette player complete with earphones advertised in the paper and in magazines, sported by attractive young adults and teenagers. The thought of owning one was exciting but still I maintained the ‘cool’ demeanour I had learnt from Kat.

  ‘You can take it out with you when you go cycling,’ he told me. ‘Just don’t wear it when you’re on the road. You won’t be able to hear the traffic if it’s loud.’ Promising him I wouldn’t, I took hold of my latest present.

  Our next stop was a music shop where he allowed me to wander around the aisles and choose whatever I wanted. He said there was no point in having a player without the cassettes. Kat had mentioned a couple of singers she liked so, not knowing much about pop, I chose cassettes by them. Finally, we ended up at one of the new hamburger bars – McDonald’s – where, perched on a red plastic stool, I happily consumed a large hamburger with chips and a creamy strawberry milk shake. Then we went back to his house to spend an evening in front of the television with my aunt.

  For the rest of that weekend he never referred to his previous actions and just talked about Spain, what I had seen and done there.

  It was on the drive home on the Sunday evening that he told me he and my aunt were taking a two-week holiday. ‘We have ours at the end of the summer, once the schools have gone back. It’s quieter then,’ he said.

  Somehow, although he hadn’t touched me and had said nothing about what had taken place before, I was not lulled into feeling safe. Instead, over the time he was away, I felt apprehensive. Even then, I instinctively knew that he had no intention of stopping. I wondered what he had in store for me.

  But however suspicious I was at nearly nine, I was not mature enough to fathom why he had given no hint of his feelings for me, or why he had just acted as a middle-aged man should towards his niece. He had not changed: he was simply biding his time. My uncle had other plans for me, and he wanted to make sure that, after being away from him for two months, I was still going to comply with them. He could not have found that out in one day.

  20

  Three weeks later my suspicions were confirmed. I was sent by my parents to stay at my uncle’s house again. There, on his home territory, he used reminders of past deeds, warnings of what would happen should anyone find out, and reassurances that he would always look after and protect me to keep me ensnared in the web he had woven.

  It only took him a couple of weekends to have me where he wanted me.

  Once he was sure that I was once again in his power, Chubby returned. It must have been some time in October because I remember my mother referring to the warm days we were having as an ‘Indian summer’. It was late morning and my uncle and I had taken chairs outside into the garden and were sitting companionably near each other in the sunshine. I had my headphones on, listening to music, and was sipping from a glass of Coke he had poured for me.

  I was daydreaming about Spain while he was reading his newspaper.

  There was nothing in his demeanour that morning to warn me of what he had planned, so when the doorbell rang I wasn’t alarmed.

  My uncle went to answer it, then called out to me: ‘Come into my office, Jackie. We have a visitor.’

  At those words the old dread returned. I walked in to find the man whose face I had tried unsuccessfully to block from my mind.

  ‘Hallo, Jackie,’ he said, as he sat down near to where I was standing. I felt my legs turn to jelly. ‘Remember me?’ From the look of fear on my face he knew that, of course, I did.

  This time there were no presents, no card tricks to entertain me and no twinkling eyes. Just a short fat man, who sat with his ample legs splayed and pulled me towards him while, in a flat, expressionless voice, he told me what he wanted to do to me.

  He was so close to my face that he breathed his sour breath into my mouth with every word he spoke. ‘Now, then,’ he said, ‘this time you’re going to show me your bedroom.’

  I looked at my uncle for help but he turned away and I knew that Chubby’s arrival had been planned and that no assistance would come from him.

  Fat fingers prodded me in the direction of the door leading into the main house. As I stumbled through it, and up the stairs to the bedroom that was mine when I stayed, I could hear him wheezing behind me. But not a word was spoken.

  As we entered the room he closed the curtains, cutting out the bright sunlight and the likelihood of being observed by prying neighbours.

  He then turned his attention to me and removed my clothes. My dress was yanked over my head; my knickers were pulled down until I was wearing only my sandals. ‘Take them off,’ he said.

  Bending down, I undid the straps and slowly set them aside, feeling giddy as I raised my head.

  Chubby, I came to realise, knew the weakness of little girls who had reached the age of being shy about anyone seeing their naked bodies. He knew that the humiliation he could inflict on me would have an even greater effect than the pain of the act. It was the humiliation, as well as the thinly disguised threats – oft-repeated ones that the child would be blamed should they ever be discovered – that ensured silence. Also, to speak out would mean having to relive those moments of degradation.

  I was like a rabbit cau
ght in the headlights of a car. It must know when it sees the huge metal machine hurtling towards it that if it doesn’t move it will be crushed. But, transfixed by the lights, the rabbit waits for its inevitable fate. I, too, did not have either the will or the strength to refuse to do what was expected of me. I knew by the expression on his face that, should I try, his delight in making me would give him even more pleasure.

  So I did everything he told me to.

  ‘Stand there,’ he said, moving the pillows and lifting me on to the bed, pushing my back against the brass rail. ‘Now spread your legs wide.’

  My uncle came in with the camera equipment and I shivered as he set up the tripod. A light shone on my face as Chubby instructed me to touch myself. Then, leaving his shirt on, he pulled off his trousers, climbed on to the bed and made me sit on him. Underneath my small frame with his hands holding me firmly in place he jerked and grunted. ‘Uh, uh,’ he groaned. The sounds gradually became higher-pitched and louder as they climbed the scales of his ecstasy, and his fat body shook with shudders. He tossed me off him then and I lay dry-eyed in a small, crumpled heap.

  It was when he had finished that, for the first time, I was slapped. I bit my lip to stop myself crying out as his large ring-covered hand slammed against my bottom. He laughed when he saw me wince. ‘You’ll learn to like that soon,’ he said. ‘Pain can become pleasure.’ With those words, which I was to hear more times than I want to remember over the next five years, he stood up and got dressed.

  ‘Now it’s your turn,’ he said to my uncle, and then it was Chubby who took over directing the camera.