A Family Secret Page 3

  I lay on the bed, shaking. Down below, I was sore and bleeding. It was the end of my childhood. And it felt like the end of my life. The lines from ‘Bright Eyes’ about the light that burned so brightly now burning pale swirled through my head, never more apt.

  Jock walked out and switched on his music loudly in the next room. Pink Floyd blared from his bedroom and I clamped my hands over my ears, terrified. For the rest of my life I would associate his music with immeasurable pain. I had a shower to try to wash it all off – the blood, the shame, the revulsion. But no matter how much I scrubbed, my skin prickled with it. I could smell him. I could hear his breath, loud in my ears. I could not escape him. And yet I had never felt more alone. That night I found it impossible to concentrate on my Famous Five book. I could no longer read stories full of childish make-believe and happy endings. I could no longer be George, chasing pirates and smugglers, drinking ginger beer and eating sandwiches by the sea. That part of me was dead now.

  It was late one night, soon afterwards, that I went downstairs in my nightie to get a drink. I had suffered with violent nightmares and anxiety since Jock had raped me and I often woke up, unsettled and scared. A hot drink would usually ease it. Although back then I still didn’t even know what it was. I had no label for it.

  The rest of the house was asleep, except for my parents, who were both at work: Mum at the pub, Dad at the mine. As I crept into the kitchen, Jock suddenly appeared from the shadows and wrenched me backwards into the living room.

  ‘Quiet,’ he hissed.

  I screeched in panic before he clamped his hand over my mouth, using his free arm to drag me behind the L-shaped brown and white couch. He pulled down my underwear and my mouth ran dry. I knew what was coming and my whole body screamed out in protest.

  ‘Please, Jock,’ I begged, muffled through his fingers. ‘Please, no.’

  But he was in auto-mode again, eyes staring and glassy. It was as though he couldn’t hear or see me. Again the pain was unbearable, again I tried to focus on something else, the stitching down the back of the couch, the St Christopher necklace, the rub of the carpet, rough against my bare legs. But as Jock grunted and sweated, and my heart hammered against my nightie, I heard a noise in the hallway. Definitely, there it was. A door opening.

  ‘Someone’s coming,’ I gasped, flooded at once with fear and relief.

  I expected Jock to stop, to panic and run away, but he didn’t seem capable. His expression, driven and fixed, didn’t even change. In the next moment Dad was standing above us, at the end of the couch.

  ‘What the bloody hell is going on here?’ he shouted.

  It was the shock Jock needed and he snapped to his senses, scrambling to his feet and yanking his trousers up. My little hands were trembling as I pulled my knickers up; crimson with shame, as though I was the one at fault.

  ‘Go to bed, Maureen,’ said Dad shortly.

  I didn’t need telling twice. I ran from the room, up the stairs, and threw myself onto my bed, threading the pink bedspread between my fingers, desperate for comfort. I left Jock downstairs to face what I presumed was the harshest of punishments.

  That night I cried myself to sleep as always. But this time they were tears of relief, balm on my poor, weary cheeks. My nightmare was over.

  The next morning I was brushing my teeth in the bathroom when my mother came in behind me and cornered me against the sink. To my amazement, she slapped me hard across the face.

  ‘You dirty whore,’ she hissed. ‘You dirty little bitch.’

  I didn’t understand. Clutching my smarting cheek, I listened in dismay as she insisted that I must have encouraged Jock in some way. That I was just as much to blame as he was.

  ‘You shouldn’t be playing around with your brother like that,’ she scathed. ‘If I ever catch you two fucking again, you’re in serious trouble.’

  I couldn’t fathom it. I was genuinely and devastatingly stumped. At nine years old I didn’t know how to lead a boy on, and certainly not a member of my own family. What had I done wrong? But even then, though I lacked the education and the knowledge to describe my ordeal, I knew instinctively, with every bone in my young body, that what Jock had done was not right. So why was I being blamed?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I whispered limply. ‘I’m sorry, Mum.’

  ‘You had better be, my girl,’ she said, and she slammed out of the bathroom.

  Despite Mum’s bizarre reaction, I hoped that this would be the end of the whole horrible affair and I would be left alone. Certainly, Jock didn’t come near me and I started to think I could put it behind me. But two weeks on, I woke in the night with a fever and a burning sensation in my throat. The next morning I could hardly swallow.

  ‘Looks like you’ve got tonsillitis,’ Mum said, when I opened my mouth.

  ‘I can’t go to school,’ I croaked. ‘I feel awful.’

  I loved school. I would never have chosen to stay at home unless it was absolutely necessary.

  ‘Well, I can’t bloody well look after you,’ Mum complained. ‘I have to go out. And then I’ve got work.’

  But it turned out that Dad was on a late shift, so he and I were left in the house together. I spent the day in bed, and all through the morning I was too poorly even to read, struggling to sip a glass of water. In the afternoon he came into the bedroom and said:

  ‘How’re you feeling, Mo-Jo?’

  I shrugged and smiled.

  ‘Not too bad, thanks,’ I replied. ‘A bit better, I think.’

  He looked serious, his brow furrowed and his ginger hair uncombed. There was a whiff of Old Spice and sweat about him; it was familiar, comforting. Endearing even. But then he sat on the bed, close enough for me to smell his breath, and suddenly I could see Jock in that same spot, and alarm bells screamed in my head. I lay, frozen with terror, as he began rubbing his hand up and down my leg, each time a little further, a little nearer to my underwear. Up and down. Up and down. It was like watching Jock’s necklace swing back and forth, back and forth. Then he pulled down his trousers and forced himself on me, his huge bulk almost suffocating me. The pain was horrific, it felt as though my internal organs were being crushed and pulped. The agony was so all-consuming that I couldn’t even scream. It took everything I had just to breathe. Just to survive it. And then, just as I felt I might faint from the trauma, I felt myself floating up from the bed, away from John Wood, and away from the horror. Silently, I handed the suffering to my other self, and watched, half-hypnotised, half-horrified, as he raped me. Then I glided away, even further.

  Deep, deep in the recesses of my mind, I was sitting in a tree, reading a Famous Five book, with the sun on my face. I could feel the leaves fluttering against my skin. I could smell the sap. I was a little girl again.

  Afterwards, he stroked his ginger goatee beard and said: ‘Don’t worry, I have had the snip.’

  That meant nothing to me.

  Then he snarled: ‘If you tell anyone, I will kill you. Your brothers and sisters will go to a children’s home and it will be your fault. Remember that.’

  That meant everything to me.

  He strode out of the room, slapping his belt closed as he went. He seemed angry. As though this was my fault. Again.

  My insides were burning, raw and ripped apart. I stripped the bed, which was covered with blood, and scrubbed my skin in the shower until it was pink and raw. Three days later, my period started. But again, I’d had no sex education and I had no idea what this was. Instead I stared at my knickers in dismay, convinced that something was broken inside me. My body could not have sent me a clearer metaphor.

  Each morning, I was desperate to get to school, and especially so now after the rapes. It was the closest I had to a safe space, and I loved learning. I was bright at school, always interested and well-behaved, and I was popular with the teachers and, by now, some of the children, too. One afternoon, as I
daydreamed out of the classroom window, I heard sniggering behind me and a hand shot in the air.

  ‘Miss,’ said a voice. ‘Miss! Maureen Donnelly has got blood all down her leg, Miss.’

  I was mortified. I was taken out of the classroom in front of everyone, trying desperately and failing miserably to hide the big blotch of blood on my skirt. My teacher had always been kind and caring towards me, but now, as I walked down the corridor with her, alone, a shiver ran through me. And I wondered whether she was one of them as well?

  Were all adults evil? Did other parents do unspeakable things to their children behind closed doors, too? I doubted whether I could trust any adult. The rape by John Wood had disturbed me to the point that I saw a malevolence in everyone.

  The school nurse called my mum and she came from home to collect me. She shot me a glare and frogmarched me across the playground, and I knew I was in trouble. Yet again. Once we got through the front door, she snapped: ‘It’s a period, Maureen. Everybody has them. Deal with it.

  ‘Make sure you never go interfering with your brother again. We don’t want any babies in this house.’

  She tossed a packet of sanitary towels at me and marched out of the room and out of the house.

  The following day, I ran away. I didn’t plan it. I didn’t even expect it. In fact, I took myself by surprise as I walked straight past our house on my way home from school. It wasn’t that I wanted to run away – more that I couldn’t bring myself to go home. Most kids dreaded going to school, but I dreaded going home. I dreaded walking into the lions’ den.

  Today, I continued walking, past our gate, down the street, across the main road and to the park. Not the local park, where I knew I’d be easily found; I went to a park on the other side of town. I sat on the swings and read The Railway Children, page by page, chapter by chapter, losing myself and forgetting my troubles, in another world. It grew dark but I wasn’t in the least bit frightened. Whatever danger lurked in the park, it was nothing to what I faced in my own home. I had been there maybe three hours when a policeman tapped me on the shoulder and said:

  ‘Are you Maureen Donnelly?’

  I peered at him, more impressed than frightened.

  ‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

  ‘Your parents are very worried about you,’ he said gently. ‘Come on, let’s get you home.’

  I had no choice but to go with him, and as we walked to the police car a small part of me was bursting to tell him, desperate to share the horror of my existence. I wanted him to ask the question.

  ‘So how are things at home?’

  ‘So is your stepdad kind to you?’

  If only he had asked, then I could have replied. But he said nothing, and so nor did I. We arrived home, and I braced myself. I knew I was safe whilst the police were in the house, but the moment they left I got a good hiding, with Mum punching me all the way up the stairs and into bed.

  ‘That’ll teach you,’ she growled.

  But it didn’t, and that was the first time of many. I ran away often – sometimes out of desperation, sometimes out of spite. Sometimes I just wanted to see if anyone would miss me – and quite often they didn’t. Anything, anywhere, was better than home. I was fast learning that family was not to be trusted. And home was not a safe place to be.

  Chapter 3

  I was not close to my siblings. Perhaps that was a failing in me, or maybe there was a lack on both sides, but Mum had made sure of it, too. We had mealtimes in silence. We weren’t allowed to talk, to laugh, to bond. She pitted us against each other, punishing one for the other’s mistakes. It was row after row after row. If one missed a patch of dust on the coffee table, we’d all get a belt. If one was in trouble at school, we’d all be grounded.

  ‘That’ll teach you, you little bastards,’ she would yell.

  Back then, I didn’t understand her motivation for cultivating such animosity between her children. It seemed so calculated and warped. Looking back now, I could maybe assume that she didn’t want us to be friends, didn’t want us to confide in each other, didn’t want us to share secrets. Knowing what lay ahead, perhaps she was simply covering her own back. But the distance was my doing, too. I shrank back and isolated myself, frightened to let anyone in. I was wary of all adults and terrified of all relatives. The more secrets I had to tell, the less I opened my mouth. I was stuck in a downward and perverse cycle.

  After the abuse started, I began refusing to change my clothes. I would wear the same underwear for days on end. Perhaps, subconsciously, it was an attempt to make myself as unappealing and unattractive as possible. Or maybe I was slowly, painfully, giving up on myself. I was withdrawing from life. Whatever the reasons, my siblings were understandably disgusted.

  ‘You dirty little tramp,’ they taunted. ‘Change your clothes, Dozy-Mosey. You smell!’

  Far from being upset by the comments, I welcomed them. I liked the fact that I was marked out. Apart. Alone. I didn’t want to be part of their family anyway. I was bad-tempered and nasty, caustic even, and I took an obtuse pleasure in knowing that I was getting on their nerves.

  ‘I’m not having a bath and I’m not getting changed, so there,’ I replied. ‘What exactly are you going to do about it?’

  Possibly it was a way of downloading my pain. I was suffering and I wanted them to suffer, too. I had no words for what I was going through, so I diverted my agony through other channels. Or perhaps I just didn’t get on with them. It was as simple as that. I was an outsider.

  Just before I turned ten I came home from school one day to find a strange man sitting in the living room. Mum was standing by the fireplace with a face like thunder.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to say hello to your dad?’ said the man, standing up to greet me.

  I looked at him in confusion.

  ‘My dad is at work,’ I said.

  His face dropped, and it was only then that I realised he was my biological father. There was an awkward silence and some stilted conversation as I hung around in the doorway, and then he left. And I didn’t ever see him again.

  To the outside world, John Wood was a good, hardworking man. He had taken on five children to bring up as his own. He kept us in check, held our hands when we were little, made sure we brushed our teeth, went to school, did our homework. He was to be admired and respected. In the local pub he was popular, well-liked. The sort of man nobody had a bad word to say about. The injustice of it was almost too much to bear. Nobody had the slightest idea what he was really like.

  Behind the closed doors of our home I was living on my nerves, walking on broken glass, waiting for the next attack. I knew it was coming. I could feel it. And I was powerless to stop it.

  Jock vanished from the house one day and we were told by my furious mother that he had ‘gone away’ after getting into trouble for fighting.

  ‘He won’t be back,’ she said with a thin smile. ‘He’ll have to learn to look after himself now.’

  Despite everything, I felt a pang of sympathy. I just couldn’t help myself; he was my big brother. But my overriding emotion was one of relief. I was safe from him, at least. Yet it was like escaping a rat to then be faced with a poisonous snake. And I had nowhere to hide.

  The second rape by John Wood was in my bedroom, like the first. There was only me and him around.

  Again, he said to me: ‘You can’t get pregnant. I’ve had the snip.’

  I stared blankly.

  ‘A vasectomy,’ he explained. ‘Look it up in one of your bloody books.’

  But I had absolutely no idea what he was referring to. I didn’t know how babies were made, never mind how to prevent a pregnancy. All I knew was that I was trapped in a nightmare – and it was stuck on repeat. It happened again. And again.

  As the weeks went on, I worked out that John Wood would only strike when the house was empty. As long as there were people
around, I knew I was safe. But it was a little like waiting for the tide to come in; everything would seem OK, with the water lapping around my toes, then suddenly there were danger signals flashing. A door banged. Someone shouted goodbye. We were alone. And the tide rushed in over my head, and I was drowning, my lungs bursting, my eyes popping.

  Every time there was an opportunity, he took it. It could be once a month, or twice a week. The rape was always in my bedroom, and it was always the same routine. It never lasted very long, though it didn’t feel that way to me. And sometimes it was rushed and frantic, as if he was anxious about getting caught. He never spoke, except when it was over, to warn me keep me my mouth shut.

  ‘Or else,’ he threatened, his pale eyes drilling into mine, his goatee beard scratching against my cheeks. ‘Or else, you little bitch.’

  And that was that. He was gone, striding downstairs, to wait for my mother to come home. And I was left in bed, doubled over in pain and choking on my own sadness.

  Soon after my tenth birthday, late one night, I got up to go to the loo.

  Mum had been at work that evening and John Wood had gone along to the pub, after his own shift finished, to wait for her. He filled in as a steward there when he wasn’t working down the mine. The front door slammed and woke me as they arrived home late. I heard them getting into bed and, soon after, I decided I needed a quick wee. As I crossed the landing, Mum shouted:

  ‘Is that you, Maureen? Bring us a brew, will you?’