Mummy Knew (7 page)

‘No, you’ll have to wear the tartan,’ she said, delving into the back of the wardrobe to retrieve a coat that had already been a bit too small when she brought it back from a jumble sale the year before. I was seven now and the label inside said it was for a five-year-old. I had to take off my jumper in order to squeeze into it. Even then it was too tight and made my arms stick out stiffly to the side. It smelled funny too.

‘Why do I have to wear this, Mummy?’ I asked. ‘Why can’t I wear my anorak?’

‘Because we’re going somewhere posh and I don’t want you showing me up,’ she said, slinging her bag over her shoulder. ‘Now get a move on or we’ll miss the bus.’

We had to change buses a couple of times before we arrived in Chelsea. The street was a short walk from the King’s Road and all the houses along it were massive, set back from the road with smart cars outside.

Mummy pointed to a large white house on the corner opposite. ‘That’s it,’ she said, taking a last puff on her cigarette before grinding it into the pavement with her heel. ‘If you think you’re going to be sick, make sure it’s not on the rugs. They’re worth a fortune.’

A black limousine was parked outside with a liveried chauffeur reading a paper at the wheel. Just as we were about to open the ornate wrought-iron gate, four men emerged.
Mummy pulled back and stepped to one side, slightly bowing and nodding her head as she did so. The men were dressed in long white robes and wore what looked like red-checked tea towels on their heads, just as Alan Slaven had when he’d played Joseph in our school nativity play. I guessed they must be from Jerusalem or somewhere like that. The chauffeur threw his paper aside and sprang out of the car to open the door for them, then they all got in and drove off.

Another man, this one wearing a normal suit and tie, stood inside the front door. He had a posh voice and I noticed he was wearing heavy gold cufflinks. He led us up a curved flight of marble steps to the first floor, pulling a handkerchief out of his pocket and holding it over his nose and mouth. We walked down a long hallway towards a set of double doors and as we got closer I noticed a terrible smell. The man mumbled something behind his hankie, which sounded like ‘Sorry about the mess’ and then disappeared off down the corridor again.

‘Cor blimey. Something stinks,’ said Mummy, reaching for the ornate door handle.

As she opened the door, a huge room came into view. There was hardly any furniture, just a few chairs round the edges of the room.

‘What the bleedin’ hell’s all this?’ Mummy exclaimed.

The floor was covered with lots of beautiful rugs, but every square inch of them was strewn with food–mainly sticky grains of rice, but there were also chunks of meat and bones. Silver platters sat in the middle, some still piled high with food, which had rotted and was fit only for the giant bluebottles that
flew from one dish to another. I pointed out what looked like a sheep’s head to Mummy and she made a face.

‘There’s been some bleedin’ party here,’ she said, wrinkling her nose.

She gave me a black bag to fill and we worked side by side all afternoon. By the time we left, the room was as clean as it was going to get without the use of an industrial-strength hose. The man in the suit was very pleased and pressed a large wad of notes into Mummy’s hand. All the way home she kept saying ‘Oh my God’ and looking into her bag to see if the money was still there.

When Dad saw how much the man had given her, he was suspicious. ‘What did you have to do to get that?’

‘They’re sheikhs, Frank. This is small change to them. And I’d still be there shovelling sheeps’ heads now if I hadn’t had her to help me.’ She jerked her thumb towards me.

Mummy thought I had done such a good job that she let me stay off school the next day too. She took me on another job in a place in Notting Hill and this time she let me polish the furniture with a yellow duster and a can of Mr Sheen.

‘Is this alright, Mummy?’ I asked, eager to please.

‘That’s it, Lisa. Give it some elbow grease,’ she urged.

I felt so happy. Not only was I away from Susan Jackson, but it seemed Mummy was actually pleased with me for once.

When we’d finished, Mummy called up a narrow dark stairway, ‘I’ll be off now.’ I had heard somebody using a typewriter up there while I’d been going around with my duster. The door opened at the top of the stairs and a man with greased-back grey hair came down. He wore baggy green
corduroy trousers and a pair of small glasses hung on a cord around his neck. As he paid Mummy for the work, he looked at me and asked ‘Shouldn’t she be at school?’

‘She’s ill,’ said Mummy.

‘Is she now?’ he said, bending down to look at me. ‘She looks well enough to me. What’s wrong with you, sweetheart?’

I didn’t know what to say so I looked up at Mummy for help, and she nodded as if I should tell the truth. So I did. ‘Nothing’s wrong with me. Mummy needed a hand with the cleaning, that’s all.’

He seemed surprised and took Mummy off to a corner, wagging his finger at her.

I could tell she was fuming when we got out on the street.

‘What the fuck did you say that for?’ she demanded. ‘You trying to get me in trouble?’

‘No, Mummy,’ I replied, upset that I’d annoyed her.

‘Nosey old bastard. What right has he got to lecture me, the cunt? He can stuff his fucking job.’

Whenever Mummy took me cleaning I tried my best to do a good job, and hoped that she and I would get closer once we were working together like this but she never said ‘Well done’ or ‘Thanks’ or ‘Aren’t you a good girl?’ If anything, she acted as though it was a nuisance having me around. I would have done anything for a hug or a few words of praise but they were never forthcoming. She wasn’t that kind of a mother, I supposed. She wasn’t the cuddly type.

B
y the time I was eight years old I had finally stopped wetting the bed at night but my bladder remained on a hair trigger, and sometimes when Dad was at his most threatening, he’d only need to make a sudden lunge towards me and I would wet myself before his slap had even connected. He’d been living with us for four years, almost as long as I could remember, and he was as volatile as ever. At various times, one or all of us would be ostracised. When it was your turn, you had to stay in your bedroom and nobody was allowed to talk to you while Dad was at home. Although the silent treatment had its benefits–Dad didn’t scream in your face for a start–it also carried with it a great cloud of menace, which was somehow even more frightening.

Davie was almost always getting the big freeze treatment, but for some reason it seemed I had definitely become Dad’s favourite girl and he took every opportunity to pull me onto his lap for cuddles. I didn’t feel very comfortable with this affectionate behaviour, but if I pulled away even slightly from his scratchy kisses, his face would cloud over and a fierce look would descend to smother the smiles of a moment before.

‘You know I love you like my own daughter, don’t you, Lisa?’

I beamed a big smile at him then, because there was nothing I wanted more than for us all to be a normal family. I wanted him to stay as Dr Jekyll and bury Mr Hyde forever.

When Dad was in a good mood, he liked to play lots of jokes and games. He mostly played them with me, because more often than not he wasn’t on speaking terms with Diane, Cheryl or Davie, and he didn’t like them anyway.

‘You’re not like them other bastards, Lisa,’ he said. ‘They’re all cunts.’

Some games I liked better than others. Bat the balloon was my favourite. Dad would lie in bed and I’d stand near his feet while we knocked the balloon back and forth between us. I never got bored with it, and could have played for hours, but Dad could only put up with it for a short time before he got fed up and burst the balloon with his cigarette.

My heart would sink because then it would be his turn to choose a game. I didn’t like any of his favourites at all. Especially the ones that involved him taking my clothes off. I was eight now and becoming embarrassed. I’d try to cover myself with my arms but that would only make him tickle me, his fingers hurting as they dug in.

‘Are you blushing?’ he would tease, tweaking my chest and bottom. ‘I’ve seen it all before, Lisa. Don’t forget I used to wipe your arse when you were a baby.’

No matter what he said, I still didn’t like it, and when he tied knots in the side of Mum’s knickers and made me wear
them I used to cry. I couldn’t see the fun in it. Sometimes he’d wear a pair too.

‘Can we play bat the balloon again after?’ I’d sob as he slipped Mum’s scratchy lace nightie over my head.

‘Shut up about bat the fucking balloon, will ya?’ he said. ‘First we play this, then we
might
play that. But only if you give me a special kiss.’

I didn’t like Dad’s special kisses either. His whiskers scratched and his lips were all slobbery.

One day Mum came home from work earlier than expected, and he just had time to leap into bed and hide what he was wearing from her. He didn’t seem bothered that I was almost naked and wearing her clothes.

‘What’s she doing with my fucking knickers on, Frank?’ she asked.

Dad laughed. ‘Leave her alone, you miserable cow. She’s only fucking playing.’

‘Get ’em off,’ Mum shouted, slapping my legs.

‘But Dad put them on me,’ I said. ‘I didn’t want to.’

‘Don’t tell lies, you disgusting little cow,’ shouted Mum, her face flushing with anger, ‘or I’ll slap your bleedin’ face for you.’

I looked over at Dad, expecting him to explain about the game, but he only smirked.

‘He’s wearing some too,’ I cried.

‘Eh?’ said Mum, pulling back the sheet to see Dad’s ding-a-ling hanging out of her best silky pink pair.

Dad burst out laughing. ‘What? Can’t you take a joke?’

Mum sent me to my room, with a sharp poke in the back. Later I heard them arguing.

‘I ain’t fucking gay at all, you slag,’ shouted Dad. ‘It’s just a stupid game. I’m only trying to entertain your fucking kid for ya.’

I don’t think we played that game again for a while, though.

During the school summer holidays, Nanny and Jenny asked if they could take Davie and me to Canvey Island Caravan Park for a week’s break. I begged Mum to let me go, whispering so Dad couldn’t hear because we still weren’t allowed to mention certain names in his presence. But Mum must have discussed it with him because he started to look at me in a frightening way, with a nasty tilt to one nostril.

I was amazed and delighted when Mum said we could go. We had a lovely time, running around the caravan park and making friends with the donkeys who lived on the other side of a ditch. Jenny would buy apples and carrots and we’d throw them over and watch while the donkeys chomped them down with their big yellow teeth. I felt as though a weight had been lifted from my shoulders for that week. It was like the old days when I was little. No anger, no violence, nothing to be wary or frightened of, only love and happiness. When it was time to go home I sobbed and cried, and not just because I had to say goodbye to the donkeys.

When I walked back into the flat, carrying my clothes in a bag, already washed and pressed by Nanny to save Mum the trouble, and clutching sticks of pink rock for everyone, the atmosphere was heavy. I found it harder to breathe somehow, and the thick fog of cigarette smoke that lingered in every room had little to do with it.

Mum and Dad were sitting on the sofa watching television. I went in to say hello, and they both just stared at me. I could
see Mum was nervous, already worried I might try and tell them what a good time I’d had, therefore breaking the golden rule about not mentioning or alluding in any way to the people who lived over the road.

‘Tell her to fuck off away from me,’ said Dad, giving me my first clue that all was not well. He didn’t talk to me again for weeks after that. He stared, snarled, sneered and even spat at me, but he never spoke to me once. On the whole I was pleased because it meant less shouting and swearing, less risk of plates, cups and ashtrays whizzing past my head, but I had an inkling that it wouldn’t last.

During this time I noticed he was being a bit friendlier to Cheryl and Davie–especially Cheryl. One day when I was confined to the bedroom, she came bursting into the room crying wildly and clutching her dressing gown to her chest. I heard Mum shout, ‘What’s going on?’ and Dad replied, ‘Well, she’s always flashing her tits.’

A massive row began with Mum shouting at Dad, and Dad shouting at Mum. But it wasn’t long before Dad turned to violence and Mum stopped answering back.

Cheryl and I wrapped our arms around each other and sat crying in the corner, flinching as we heard crashing and banging all over the flat.

‘I never touched her, the slag,’ shouted Dad. ‘But I fucking will if she ever comes near me again. I’ll stab her, the fucking bitch.’

Later when Dad went to the pub, Mum came into the bedroom with a bleeding lip and stared long and hard at Cheryl.

‘You satisfied, are ya?’ she asked.

‘Mum, it’s him,’ said Cheryl. ‘Ask Diane. He’s always leering. I can’t stand it much longer.’

‘Well, you know where the fucking door is,’ snarled Mum.

Cheryl burst into fresh tears and began to stuff some of her clothes into a plastic bag. ‘I’m going over to Nanny’s for a few days.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mum. ‘You always did like to stir the shit. What’s the matter, you jealous?’

‘How can you say that to your own daughter?’ asked Cheryl, shaking her head. ‘It’s sick.’

I couldn’t quite work out what it was all about, but I suspected Dad had been rude with Cheryl. The thought frightened me.

Cheryl left and went to stay with Nanny later that afternoon. The atmosphere in the flat got even worse. Davie and I were the only ones left, and we didn’t know which way to turn. We spoke in whispers and spent most of our time in our rooms. We never knew when another row between Mum and Dad would erupt. But we didn’t have long to wait.

‘I ain’t no fucking pervert,’ shouted Dad, followed by the sound of something smashing against the wall.