Chapter 7

St. Catherine’s Primary school was not far from our house. It took only about twenty minutes and we would walk to school by ourselves. Mum never took us like a lot of the other mums.

The school was small, typical of schools in the 70’s made out of red brick. It had large, glass windows and a flat roof. There were a couple of mobile classrooms in the playground beside a big, plastic, pink elephant slide. Only the little kids were allowed on that. There were at least 200 children in the school and about 30 were in class with Molly and me. We had been in the same classroom together since I started there. I’m glad we were too, because Molly needed me to protect her from the bullying. Molly would never hit back when kids started on her, she was always far too nice.

Things had quietened down at home since the school rang mum. For the last week she hadn’t hit me once. In fact she acted like I wasn’t even there. She totally ignored me and Alex, almost throwing our plates of dinner on the table and walking away. She seemed to be saying she didn’t want us there but found some restraint and never more touched us or even shouted at us.

I was glad the school rang mum. I wish I had told my teacher sooner, I thought, but if I had spilled the beans, would they have believed me? Hitting kids was pretty normal in those days, even teachers did it. Everyone minded their own business too. My teacher had to know something was wrong, our legs and faces were constantly black and blue. How could she miss it? But still neither she nor any of the others did anything to help, all that time. Our tears must have been invisible, I thought. It’s the only explanation, invisible tears. The beatings stopped but not the other stuff. We visited Uncle Joe on and off for the next two years.

On the last day of term before the Christmas break, just as the school bell went, they all ran outside squealing. Everyone was excited after handing out Christmas cards and presents at school. Our class had been making cards for our family, and we had also made a chocolate Yule log in cookery. The thought of Christmas around the corner should have been something to look forward to, but not for me. I never did look forward to holidays; it just gave mum more time to hate us. I didn’t like the lessons much but school was my safe haven.

As I neared the gate running with Molly to meet the others, I couldn’t believe it when dad walked around the corner. I ran up to him shocked and surprised. No one had ever collected us from school before.

“Dad, dad!” I squealed throwing my arms around his waist. “This is a nice surprise.”

“Hello,” he said. “Molly, you go on home now with the chocolate Christmas log. I need to speak to Abbie and Alex.”

I could see she was upset dad wasn’t giving her a lift home too.

It was one week until Christmas and I was eleven years old when dad picked us up from school. It was another big moment when my life would change.

“We’re not going home,” he said

“Why not?” Alex asked.

We were in the van on the motorway when dad said, “Mum is not a nice person. I’m not taking you back there anymore.”

Not a nice person? I thought. I wonder why it took him so long to find out?

“Where are we going then?” I asked.

“We’re going to see nanny in London for awhile until we get a new house. I’ve met a nice new lady who is coming to stay with us in London.”

My mind was in a whirl. What about Molly and the others? What about the chocolate Yule log I made? Molly will get to eat it all. That’s not fair!

“Will Santa know where we are?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“When will we see our sisters and Daniel again?”

He didn’t answer, just ignored me and started driving.

I looked back into the van and saw all of our clothes and a few toys and knew daddy was serious. We drove through the night as I continued to run things through in my mind. I watched the orange street lights go by and wondered what would happen to us.

* * *

I hadn’t seen my nan or the rest of my family in London for years. When Aunty Helen had visited us last summer, I remembered a huge row she had with mum about bruises on me and Alex. She was ordered out of the house and not to come back. She never did. I wondered, If she knew what was going on, why not? Why hadn’t she told dad? Maybe she did and he wasn’t to be bothered! All I understood was even teachers knew stuff was happening to some degree and did nothing. So, I figured, all that went on must be normal then? This must happen everywhere, maybe that’s why all those people had done nothing. There was never a time when I wasn’t carrying bruises from something. I had numerous visits to hospital, had my wounds stitched and bruises tended too, but not one person ever lifted a finger. Was it normal for a child to have belt buckle marks across their back? I wondered.

When I awoke we were still travelling. I lay in the van staring through the side window, amazed at the buildings and the street lights of London. I didn’t remember going to London for years but I was aware I lived there as a baby. My dad came from a typical Irish family with eight brothers and one sister. They all had children of their own as good Catholic families do. Dad said a lot of relations wanted to meet us, apparently over the next few days, Aunts, Uncles and plenty of cousins. It would be exciting to meet them, but for now I wondered what would happen to Molly. Who was to protect her when I was gone? We had a special relationship, so why couldn’t dad bring her too?

I must have said it aloud as dad mumbled, “She’s not mine, just you and Alex are.” With that I felt his warm hand stroke my hair. “It will be all right honey, we’ll be fine.” I fell asleep again.

The grinding noise of the sliding van door woke me, and very sleepily I looked around, rubbing my eyes all I could see were millions of houses. They all looked the same, all grey concrete and pebble dashed. Which one is nans? How would I find it if I ever went out alone? There was a new smell in the air, not a nasty smell but not the clean country air smell I had been used to. Alex stood at the back of the van helping dad unload all the bags. I sat in the van frozen with fear. I didn’t know anyone and this place was a foreign as the moon.

A soft Irish accent called my name from outside the van, “Abbie? Where is she?” the voice asked dad and at the same time a head popped around the corner smiling at me. “Come on chicken,” she said smiling and offering me her hand.

I couldn’t remember nan at all, but I could remember her voice and that Irish accent I found so soothing, but amusing too. She took me into the kitchen and made some Horlicks for Alex and me. I remembered the last time we had Horlicks was when we went to live with someone else after our mummy died. She sliced some fresh bread on a wooden chopping board in the middle of the kitchen table. The table was covered in brightly coloured plastic table cloth and had different types of sauce bottles in the middle. She buttered it with real butter out of the butter dish and I stood in shock and watched as she sprinkled sugar all over it. I had never tasted anything so good. The sugar made my mouth come alive, the bread was so soft and fresh and I don’t think it touched the sides.

“Och be Jesus! This girl needs feeding up,” she yelled at dad as he walked in the door with yet more black bags. “She must be half the weight she should be, poor wee cow.”

Dad grunted and mumbled something to nan, at which point, to my horror and utter surprise she stood up. Being a lot smaller than dad, it was even more shocking to see the way she dived at him slapping him fast and hard around the face.

“What have you let her do to these kids?” she yelled.

Holy Mary, mother of God! I almost fell off my chair.

She ran on, “Their mother would be turning in her grave poor cow, and look at her legs aw-be-Jesus, look at her Paddy!” She must have seen my legs when I was sitting on the floor. She pulled me close yanking my skirt down to the floor and exposing my pasty, thin legs. They were covered in long thin cane marks. Purple, yellow and green bruises covered most of my thighs. She lifted my top and turned me so my dad got a good look at my back. She looked at dad then pulled my top down, stroked my face gently and walked away shaking her head and muttering under her breath.

I looked at daddy and saw shame written all over his face. I had never seen him look at me quite that way before. He almost looked mad at me. He looked upset and in pain. Is that because nan hit him? I wondered. Or because of seeing my bruises? I don’t know. Maybe he felt embarrassed like a child again in front of his mum getting told off? Finally, he smiled and rubbed my head before walking out of room and lighting a cigarette.

I awoke the next morning smelling bacon being cooked--to this day I love that smell. Cooked breakfast with mum had not only been rare but even when she cooked breakfast for dad at weekends, we never used to get any, only left-overs. Nan called me to the kitchen. The radio was playing quietly and the room was filled with the smells of cooking bacon and sausages. Nan stood by the cooker frying bread and nodding towards the table.

“Abbie, get seated and start your eating,” she smiled pointing towards a chair. I took a slice of bacon and a sausage and started to eat. I wasn’t really hungry.

To be honest, my mind was still whirling thinking how Molly would love this food. She always did have an appetite even when I would refuse to eat what mum had dished up, things like tripe or sheep’s brains, kidneys or liver. My mind raced back to mum trying to force fish into my mouth the day before. The fish bits and guts were a favourite of hers. She got a good deal from the guy at the market, saying they were for our cat but really they were for us kids. It was disgusting, there were eyes and bits of skin and bones, but mum thought it was good for us. She would try and make it edible by frying onions with it. The day before she had held my nose and forced me to choke it down. I had pretended to eat some but went straight to the toilet and spit it out down the loo. I did that quite a lot. I was mad at myself for thinking about mum, Why can’t I get her out of my mind?

“Don’t you like it?” nan said scanning my plate. “What a face. You look like I’m trying to poison you.”

“I do like it, but I’m not very hungry,” I replied quietly. I was expecting a slap or something for not eating and answering back.

“Come on honey,” she tried to persuade me for at least an hour.

I did my best but I was feeling so worried about Molly and the rest of the kids. Alex never had a problem with his appetite. He was tucking into breakfast and looking at me like everything was normal. His blue eyes sparkled as he smiled and his scruffy, curly morning hair all over the place. I returned a smile, but it came from my mouth and not my heart.

I could smell he had been wet and wondered if nan would be angry. He was eleven years old now and mum would say, he shouldn’t be wetting the bed. She would even send him out to play with a nappy on for punishment. I hoped nan wouldn’t smell it too; that would spoil how nice she was being. As the morning went on nan was busy doing the housework and let us do whatever we wanted.

“Your bath is ready,” nan called to where I was watching TV.

I had never seen Saturday morning TV. If we were at home with mum we had to go out to play. I walked through to the bathroom and waited for nan to leave before slipping into the water. Nan knocked on the door after a while to check on me and came in to find me under water, seeing how long I could hold my breath. I had never been able to win before. Molly would always hold her breath longer than me.

Nan coming in made me jump up fast. At home we didn’t have baths very often and when we did, it was for a scrubbing down. Did nan come in to scrub me down?

Seeing how embarrassed I was, she walked out and pulled the door too. “Your Aunty Helen is coming to visit today,” she called through a gap in the door.

I hadn’t seen Aunty Helen since mum chucked her out of the house.