Authors: Cathy Wilson
‘Where were you?’
‘Oh,’ Mum looked confused, ‘you know . . .’
I didn’t, but I let it pass. She didn’t look well. I wasn’t going to ruin today by worrying about yesterday.
And so we continued. September turned into October and that, in turn, quickly became November. By now the weather wasn’t exactly park-friendly, but every day I still went out, which had the added advantage of reducing my foster father’s opportunities to corner me alone. Some days I’d be home early, dry but disappointed. Other days, successful days, it wouldn’t have mattered if I’d been drenched head to foot. I’d seen Mum and that was all that mattered.
There was only one blip. I got used to Mum not showing up more than four or five times a week, but I really pinned my hopes on her being there on one particular day – 15 November. My birthday. And she didn’t show up.
I don’t think anyone else knew that was the day I turned seven. If they did, they certainly didn’t celebrate it with me. But Mum must have known. So why didn’t she come?
I couldn’t answer that. When I went to bed I reflected on the most miserable birthday ever. No cake, no presents. Not even a single burst of ‘Happy Birthday’.
I was so furious I couldn’t get to sleep. I’m glad now. If I had nodded off, maybe I wouldn’t have heard the sound of pebbles cascading against my bedroom window.
What on earth’s going on?
I pulled myself out of my lower bunk and peered through the glass.
No way!
Hiding behind one of the bushes was the unmistakeable figure of my mother. Suddenly I was terrified that she might be seen – but Mum had already thought of that. She was waving and pointing somewhere. I couldn’t see from my window, but I could guess where she was directing me to.
A few minutes later, clutching my clothes under my arm, I tiptoed down to the little ground-floor toilet. Throwing trousers and a jumper on, I looked up at the open window. That was what Mum had seen. That was how she expected us to be reunited again.
One foot on the cistern, one on the seat, somehow I managed to pull myself high enough to scramble over the metal window ledge and drop down outside. Luckily, Mum was there to help me down.
I couldn’t get over how delirious I was to see her silly, grinning face. For a second we just stared at each other. Then I thought,
I don’t care who sees
, and gave her the most massive hug.
‘Come on,’ Mum said, and we ran over the road, holding hands. I didn’t know where we were going, but that didn’t matter. I’d have followed that woman anywhere.
About ten minutes later we arrived outside a familiar door. Our own flat. I’d been so close for so long and never suspected. In a way that made me feel even worse.
I couldn’t wait to get inside. I’d been away for nearly three months. I just wanted to be home again. I didn’t care what the social workers said; this is where I wanted to be. As freezing cold as it was, this is where I felt safest.
We went into the lounge and kept our coats on till Mum got the fire going. Then she lit a cigarette from the flames – one of the special herbal ones I used to roll for Mark – and we both fell back onto the sofa. Suddenly, though, Mum leapt up.
‘I nearly forgot, I’ve got some things for you!’
‘Happy birthday, Cathy,’ she said, and pulled two presents out of her bag. For that second, I was so happy I thought I was going to burst.
‘You remembered!’
‘Of course I remembered.’
As I tore off the wrapping, I didn’t care what was inside – which was just as well. The longer, more interesting-looking gift was a blue, plastic baseball bat.
Okay, fine. Thanks.
The other one was a jumbo colouring book. On the face of it a much better present, except I didn’t have a single colouring pen to my name. I never had.
‘Thanks, Mum, they’re wonderful,’ I said, and flung my arms round her neck. That’s when I saw the cat prowling behind us. Without hesitating, I screwed the wrapping into a ball and threw it for the cat to play with.
She loved it. I’m sure she thought it was a mouse, the way she was leaping all over it. Cats have such a way of waiting and then pouncing, leaping up in the air like they’ve had 4,000 volts through them. Mum and I were soon in hysterics at her antics. You don’t need a television when you have a cat pawing paper all over the floor. But then she took a massive swipe and knocked it into the fire.
That wasn’t the problem. As soon as it fell into the flames, the paper began to open slowly in the heat and a second later it floated out of the fire and onto the carpet.
I hadn’t seen Mum move so quickly since the police had appeared at the door. She leapt up and grabbed the first thing she could reach to put out the smouldering paper. It just happened to be my baseball bat. She smacked the wrapping paper again and again, then, when she was sure it was out, she whacked it back into the fire, prodding it into the heart of the flames for good measure. All of which had a terrible effect on the bat.
In her desperation to extinguish the fire, Mum hadn’t noticed the bat getting hotter and hotter until the end actually began to melt. By the time she’d finished, it was completely unrecognizable.
I had to laugh. I’d only ever received two birthday presents from Mum that I could remember in my whole life – and she had just destroyed one of them. As for the other one – a colouring book with no means to colour in – well, she may as well have that for fire food.
But I didn’t care. Just seeing her would have been enough. Actually being together in our flat was more than I could ever have dreamed. I genuinely believed I was the luckiest girl in the world.
For the first time in months I slept through the night and woke with a smile on my face. It didn’t stay there long. Standing over me was a man in dark clothing. As my eyes began to focus, I realized it was a police uniform. And next to him, there was Mum. The policeman spoke.
‘If you’d just like to get up and ready, miss,’ he said, ‘I’d be happy to drive you back to your home.’
I could have screamed.
Don’t you understand?
This
is my home! I don’t want to go back.
‘You can’t make me go,’ I shouted. ‘I won’t go.’
But, Mum explained reluctantly, they could make me go – and they did.
SIX
I don’t know whether someone decided to give Mum another chance or whether the warrant was only due to run for a certain period. Maybe my foster parents got sick of me. Whatever the reason, release day came and Mum and I were reunited. A fresh start and, yet again, a fresh home.
Our new place was back in the Preston Park area. A one-bedroom flat this time, a bit tattier than the last one, but quite high up in the block, with a lovely view of St Peter’s Church in the town centre. Everyone in Brighton called it ‘the cathedral’. I remember staring out at the four gothic spires rising from the top of that majestic building, thinking how beautiful they were, reaching up to the sky. Little did I know they would soon become the source of my worst nightmares.
Seven years old and back with my mum – I couldn’t have been happier. Three months is a long time in a child’s life and part of me fretted that Mum would have forgotten me somehow. I needn’t have worried. We soon slotted back into our old routines. I couldn’t do enough for her. Our meals wouldn’t win any awards, but I did my best. The flat was a bit grubby, with tattered lino on the kitchen floor, and we didn’t have much in the way of cleaning equipment, but I scrubbed and brushed as much as I could. Sometimes Mum would chat to me while I did it. Sometimes she’d say, ‘Leave that and come and sit down,’ but I needed to do it. On some level, I worried that if the home didn’t look nice, the police would take me away again.
I’m not going to let that happen.
For a while Mum and I were inseparable. Then she went out one night and I didn’t see her for two days.
Was I worried? Of course I was. But only about her. The only thoughts going through my head were
Who is cooking for her? Where is she sleeping? Who is looking after her?
It never occurred to me to be worried about myself. I had my own bed, I had our few possessions around me, I could cook any groceries I could slip into my pocket in the shop and play records whenever I liked. The only thing that would have made it better was having Mum to talk to. I was content enough on my own, though.
Mum’s nights out weren’t the only familiar thing. We were home one afternoon when there was a knock on the door. Before I could get up, it swung open.
Apart from the times Granny came to visit, no good ever came of that door opening. I couldn’t hear a knock without fearing the police had come to take me away. On this occasion it wasn’t the boys in blue or social workers. It was Mark and another man.
I said hello and went back to sit with Mum. I hadn’t quite reached the seat when Mark said, ‘And where do you think you’re going?’ His voice was firm.
‘Leave her alone,’ Mum said. That’s when I realized he was talking to me.
‘She knows her job,’ he said, walking over. ‘Don’t you, Cathy?’
I did. How could I have forgotten? I started to head to the kitchen, ready to begin rolling. As I stepped out of the lounge, I glanced back at Mum. She wasn’t smiling.
She doesn’t want them here.
It was the first time I’d ever noticed.
Mark’s friend gave me the stuff to make the cigarettes. He wasn’t as nice as Mark, but he was all right. He didn’t raise his voice. In fact, he just stared silently. I don’t think he trusted me to do a good job. Feeling someone’s eyes burning into you is enough to make anyone all fingers and thumbs.
An hour or so later, there were about six men in the tiny flat. By then someone had brought the bong, so I was kept busy preparing that. Mark watched me this time. It was the first time he’d been in the kitchen of our new flat.
‘Christ, this place is a tip,’ he said, kicking the loose flaps of the well-worn lino. ‘We’re going to have to do something about this.’
‘Yeah,’ I replied, not really knowing what he was referring to, and carried on getting the bong ready.
Just then, another man came in. I’ll call him Brian.
‘We going to get started, or what?’
Mark looked at me, then back at Brian.
What else do they want me to make?
It turned out they didn’t want me to do anything.
‘I’ve got something for you,’ Mark said, and he fished a small packet out his pocket. It looked like a little paper bag.
‘What is it?’ I asked nervously.
‘It’s a sweet.’
I wasn’t convinced.
‘I’ll ask my mum.’
As I went to leave the kitchen, the one called Brian blocked my way. Without thinking, I dived to my knees and scampered through his legs.
‘Mum! Mum! Mark wants me to take something!’
Mum’s face was suddenly alert – and terrified.
‘Leave her alone!’ she shouted, pulling me over to hold. ‘Don’t even touch her.’
The four other men immediately looked to Mark for instruction. He, in turn, looked calmly at Mum.
‘We need to have a party, Jenny. I suggest Cathy takes one of these pills.’
I felt shivers run up my spine. The way Mum gripped me, I knew she felt it too.
Pills? What pills? What will they make me do?
Mum was standing now. ‘She’s not taking anything.’
I held Mum’s hand tight. Mark moved to within an inch of her face.
‘You know what will happen if she doesn’t take them, don’t you?’
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. That was a threat. An actual threat. Mum was shaking, I could feel it. What did he mean, ‘You know what will happen?’
What will happen? What will he do to her?
Then a thought struck.
Or is he talking about me?
I didn’t have time to decide. Mum was looking at me.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, desperately trying to fight back the tears. ‘Come with me.’
Mark stood back and let us pass into the bedroom.
‘You’d better do as he says.’ Mum sighed. ‘They’re just sleeping tablets. They won’t hurt.’
‘But I don’t want to sleep.’
‘Just do it!’ Mum shouted.
Shocked, I slumped backwards onto the bed.
Why is she shouting at me? What have I done wrong?
Then I realized. She was scared. Scared of what would happen if I didn’t take the pill. Scared because she knew exactly what would happen because she’d seen it before.
I had no choice. I was crying now, like Mum, but I held out my hand, took the pill and popped it into my mouth. Mum handed me a glass of water from my bedside cabinet and I swallowed it. Then she helped me lie on the bed and stroked my forehead and told me, ‘I’m sorry. I love you.’
And that was the last thing I remember.
The next time I saw a clock it was already after noon. I’d slept for about fourteen hours straight – although, from the cloudiness in my head, it felt more like ten minutes. Looking back, a pill designed to knock out an adult was obviously going to have a severe effect on me, but I couldn’t understand why I felt so groggy after such a huge amount of sleep. Gradually the fog cleared, however, and I got on with my business of cleaning the flat and making sure Mum was okay.