Punished: A mother’s cruelty. A daughter’s survival. A secret that couldn’t be told. (17 page)

I
n September 1962, I started at Pershore High School wearing my brand new navy skirt, navy and mid-blue striped tie and a crisp white shirt. After the village school it seemed huge and frightening, but I soon realized that the sheer size made it easier to slip into the background and be anonymous. I was definitely not one of the ‘in’ crowd, especially after Mum chopped my hair into a crude boyish crop, but that suited me just fine.

From the beginning I was in the top set for maths, and I also did well at history, religious education and domestic science. The games teacher enlisted me in the netball team and I loved playing, but unfortunately I could never make it to the matches in the evenings and at weekends because it was too far to travel and Dad usually wasn’t around to give me a lift.

I started singing in the choir at Hadzor church and found I had a certain talent for it. I only needed to hear a piece of music once to remember it and although I didn’t have the strongest voice in the world, I had a tuneful soprano and they were happy to include me in the choir. The hall where we practised backed on to a monastery
called St Joseph’s and for the first time I got to see some real monks going about their daily life. Watching their graceful movements and their kind, calm expressions reinforced my desire for monastic life. I wanted their solitude, stillness and serenity. I had a chat with the choirmaster, whose name was Graham, and I told him my plans.

‘You’re obviously a very spiritual person,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘and I can see that it would suit you in some ways, but you must finish your education first. Get the best qualifications you can so that you will have more to contribute to whatever community you end up in.’

I liked and trusted Graham and on one occasion I decided to tell him about my communication with the spirit world. He looked very taken aback and didn’t reply for a while, then he said: ‘I think you need to keep this to yourself. There aren’t many people who will understand what you are saying, yet they will be quick to judge you harshly.’

I was beginning to realize he was right. The psychiatrist had shown me that I certainly couldn’t expect understanding from any conventional sources, such as the medical profession. I still hoped that when I entered a convent the others there would welcome my links with spirit and appreciate the insights it could bring.

My world was expanding in those years and I began to make a few tentative friendships and come out of my shell a little bit. In particular, I got to know the Howard children who lived on the farm on the other side of the canal
from us. David, Stephen and Shirley were older than me but we shared the same tortuous journey to school every weekday morning, with a mile and a half walk to Oddingley parish hall where the coach picked us up, followed by the opposite on the return journey home in the evening, so we soon got to know each other pretty well. Before long, I was being invited to the farm at weekends and after school to play in the straw, help tend the animals, or – my favourite thing of all – to exercise the horses they kept. I loved those horses to pieces, especially a black and white one called Pinball, and I was soon a proficient rider, often seen trotting round the lanes and fields of Shernal Green.

I always got covered in mud, manure and animal hair when I went to the farm and I knew I would be in huge trouble with Mum if I had gone home like that, so I became crafty. I sneaked out an extra set of clothes and kept it in a barn at the Howards’ so that I could leave my dirty clothes behind for next time and go home looking pristine. I think Mrs Howard must have had some idea what was going on at home because I would sometimes arrive at the barn to find that the dirty clothes I’d left there the last time had been laundered. It could only have been her. When I saw her in the yard I tried to thank her, but she just smiled and winked and told me not to mention it.

One spring day after I turned thirteen, I got home from school to find Mum with a nasty expression on her face and a cruel red glow to her aura.

‘Janie’s been shot,’ she told me. ‘Your precious dog must have been worrying the lambs. Mr Richards at the top farm rang to say he’s got her up there.’

‘Is she dead?’ I asked quickly.

‘Not quite, but as good as.’

I started running upstairs to change out of my school uniform, knowing Mum would never let me go up to the farm wearing it, even in an emergency. Halfway up, I turned back suspiciously. ‘How did she get out of the house?’

Mum shrugged. ‘She must have escaped when I was out in the garden.’

‘You left the back door open?’ I was horrified. Mum, Dad and I had discussed over and over again that although Janie was very well trained, she needed to be kept indoors or on a leash during lambing season. Any farmer seeing a stray collie in his field would take a pot shot at that time of year.

Mum gave her malicious smile and I knew she’d done it deliberately. I got changed as quickly as I could and rushed over to the Richards’ to find Janie lying, barely breathing, on some blankets on their kitchen floor.

‘I’m so sorry, love,’ Mr Richards said. ‘I’d no idea she was your dog until I got up close and read the collar. She was not fifteen yards from my lambs so I couldn’t take the risk. We’ve called the vet and he’s on his way.’

I crouched down to whisper to her, trying not to look at the dark blood matting her coat. She didn’t seem to know I was there.

The bullet was lodged in her back and although it had missed her spinal cord, she’d lost a lot of blood. The vet decided to operate on the spot rather than risk the bullet
moving around if he tried to take her to the surgery. I held her head in my hands and tried to speak calmly to her as he cut the bullet out and cleaned up the wound. Once she was stabilized, he lifted her into his car and drove us slowly back to the cottage, then we carried her to her bed in the kitchen. I could see Mum wasn’t pleased at this turn of events – she would no doubt be worried about blood on her kitchen floor – but she was pleasant and chatty with the vet, asking questions about what we could do to help Janie as if she really cared.

At first, Janie barely lifted her head off the bed, sleeping most of the time and wakening only to whimper when the painkillers wore off. As soon as I got home from school I’d sit on the floor beside her, talking to her.

One afternoon the Clown came and suggested that I tried to heal her by placing my hands directly over the wound, a few inches above it. The first time I did this, I felt the strangest tingling sensation in my hands and a real sense of heat radiating between my palms and the wound.

‘Imagine that you are drawing out the pain and sending it into the atmosphere, at the same time sending in your own good healing energy,’ the Clown instructed, and I swear I could feel this happening. I began to hold my hands over the wound morning and evening, focusing all my thoughts on Janie’s recovery.

‘What are you doing?’ Dad asked.

‘I’m sending all my nice energy into Janie to make her well,’ I told him, and he looked puzzled but didn’t try to stop me.

Just a week later, Janie was up and walking around again, albeit tentatively. It was the first time I learned that
I had healing powers and I was very excited about it and keen to find other creatures I could practise on.

‘Don’t ever abuse your powers,’ the Clown cautioned. ‘Only use them wisely or you may lose them. You’ll know when the time is right to heal because I will tell you.’

In fact, it wasn’t for many years, until adulthood, that I would understand how powerful those powers could be and learn how to use them responsibly.

T
he following Saturday, Dad said he was driving Mum to Droitwich to do some shopping, and I could come along if I wanted.

Janie’s old collar had got soaked in blood so I decided to use some of my pocket money to buy her a new one. There was a good pet shop in Droitwich where I was sure to be able to find a good one. I ran upstairs to retrieve my pocket money stash from under the wardrobe. There should have been several pounds there. I slid my fingers beneath the ledge but couldn’t feel anything. I moved my hand along from side to side then I laid my head down on the floor so I could peer underneath. The money had gone. I noticed indentations in the carpet that showed the wardrobe had been pulled out from the wall and put back in a slightly different position. Mum must have been spring-cleaning behind it and she’d come across my secret hiding place.

I marched through to her bedroom, where she was smartening herself up for shopping. She had on pink lipstick and a burgundy raincoat and she was just bending down to put on a pair of burgundy slingbacks with high stiletto heels.

‘Where’s my pocket money?’ I demanded, made brave by the knowledge that Dad was downstairs so she couldn’t punish me – or so I thought.

‘What money?’ She smiled slyly and I knew she had taken it.

‘The money that was under my wardrobe. You’ve taken it and I want it back.’

‘Are you calling me a thief?’ she asked in a dangerous tone of voice.

‘If you don’t give my money back then yes, you are a thief.’

Mum lifted her right hand, still holding the stiletto. I raised my arms to protect my head from the blow and felt an excruciating pain as the pointed heel pierced my left elbow between the bones. I sank to my knees on the carpet and the shoe fell to the floor.

‘That will teach you to fling accusations around.’

I felt breathless with the pain. I cradled my lower arm, trying hard not to faint.

‘Are you girls ready yet?’ Dad called from the bottom of the stairs.

‘Vanessa’s not coming. She’s not feeling well,’ Mum shouted back. ‘I’ll be down in just a sec.’ She turned to me with a grim smile. ‘You’d better go to your bed and think about the importance of being polite to your elders.’

‘I can’t move my hand. It’s all pins and needles.’

‘Stop making such a song and dance about it. As far as your Dad’s concerned, you fell and landed with your elbow on the shoe. You’d better not tell him any different or there’s more where that came from.’

She picked up her shoe and inspected the heel for blood, then slipped it on and whisked out of the room. Her head
reappeared round the door a few seconds later to hiss ‘Don’t you dare bleed on my carpet.’ Then she was gone.

I got up slowly, feeling sick with the pain, and went to the bathroom to survey the damage. Because of the position of the puncture wound, I could only see it clearly in the mirror. There was a hole, maybe quarter of an inch deep, and it was bleeding but not profusely. The main problem appeared to be damage to the nerve that passed between the bones there, because I kept getting shooting pains from my shoulder to my fingertips and it was hard to move my fingers.

I put a plaster over the wound and fashioned a sling from an old scarf, then I went out to sit in the garden for the afternoon, playing with Janie and talking to spirits. When Mum and Dad got back, it was obvious she had already told him her version of the story.

‘What a crazy accident, Lady Jane! You must try to stop being so clumsy.’ He patted me on the head. ‘Maybe we should start calling you Calamity Jane.’

I didn’t bother to contradict him. There never seemed any point. I knew what I had to do and that was stay out of Mum’s way as much as possible until I was old enough to leave home. I could endure the regular beatings and the nights in the pigsty, and I reckoned I could get through most things Mum could dream up so long as she didn’t actually kill me some time. And, to be honest, I didn’t much care if she did.

In summer 1963, Grandpa Pittam’s heart problems worsened and he became seriously ill.

Mum was evidently upset and was always dashing over to visit him in hospital whenever she could. This meant I frequently had to wait in the pigsty when I got home from school before she returned to let me in the house. She wouldn’t give me a door key, saying, ‘I can’t trust you in the house on your own. You’d probably go and steal biscuits from the biscuit barrel.’

From the way Mum spoke to me, it was as if it was my fault Grandpa was ill and nothing to do with the heart problems.

‘You destroyed him. He’s never been the same since you made up your lies. Woe betide you if he dies. God will never forgive you, and neither will I.’

‘Mum, you know it’s not lies,’ I protested. ‘You were right there smoking your cigarettes and Grandma said “That will make him happy for the week.”’

‘Don’t be so ridiculous!’ she snapped and turned away.

She returned from one visit and told me, ‘I asked Dad if he could forgive you today and he said no. He said he never loved you and never would. He thinks you are a selfish, ungrateful bastard.’

‘What’s a bastard?’ I asked.

‘Someone shameful whose parents weren’t married when they were born. Just like you. Someone mean and horrible.’

I felt completely unmoved by this. I had wanted Grandpa dead. I didn’t like living in a world where I might turn a corner one day and find him standing there with his creepy monocle, stale tobacco smell and leering expression.

One afternoon, Mum came home red-eyed and shaking.

‘He’s dead,’ she whispered when she saw me. ‘He’s passed away.’

I felt nothing but a sense of triumph that suddenly turned into a surge of bitter hatred. It burst out of me before I could stop it. ‘I hate him and I hate Grandma too!’

Instantly I was reeling under the force of the slap Mum gave me. It was true, though. I had thought I might feel a sense of relief when he passed over but my hatred burned as fiercely as ever. Mum was distraught, and took to lying on the sofa sobbing for hours on end, and I felt no sympathy; if anything, I felt angry with her that she was mourning such a monster.

There was an article in the newspaper that weekend about stepfathers who murder their partner’s children, after a horrible case that had been in the news all week. Dad read out some of it to Mum and me at the breakfast table: ‘“These men are often childlike themselves and resent their wife’s attention to another man’s children but they’re not intelligent enough to analyse their own motives. Testosterone, the male hormone, takes over and makes them lash out in anger.”’

‘Grandpa Pittam was like that,’ I said. ‘He lashed out at Nigel and me.’

Mum gave a strangled scream then burst into tears, covering her face with her hands. Dad leapt to his feet to put an arm round her, glaring angrily at me. ‘That was cruel and insensitive,’ he rebuked. ‘Can’t you see your mother’s in mourning? Remember how you felt when Nan Casey died and try to be a bit nicer.’

I scraped my chair back and ran out into the garden. How could he compare Grandpa Pittam to Nan Casey? Why did no one seem to see what a monster that old man had been? It seemed as though Dad had just forgotten the horrors I’d been put through. Had he ever known the true
extent of it? Aunt Gilly knew that Grandpa had put his penis in me, but I had no way of knowing what Dad had eventually been told.

More painful, though, was that he could use the past tense when talking about my grief for Nan. It was so raw and recent. Sometimes it felt as though I missed her more every day.

A couple of weeks after Grandpa Pittam died, I was lying in bed one night when I saw a strange light coming through the curtains. I went to the window and looked out to see a bright spirit hovering over the canal. It was just a light at first but then it began to take on a fuzzy shape. I sensed it was a very important visitation before I could make out who the figure was, and then I gasped out loud. The spirit floated up from the canal. I stepped backwards and seconds later Nan Casey came in through the closed bedroom window. The expression on her face was calm and very beautiful.

‘I’ve been wanting to come and see you to make sure that you’re all right. You must have known I would come some time.’

Over the years since she died I had often hoped she would, but didn’t dare believe it could be true. As I watched, her outline was becoming clearer until it could almost have been the real person in the room, apart from a luminescent glow around her.

‘I’ve been watching over you and trying to keep you safe. I’m glad you are free from Charles Pittam now but it doesn’t mean things will be easy for you. Your life will
always be a rollercoaster but remember that you are a strong person. You will be challenged but there won’t be anything you can’t cope with.’

The figure was starting to pulsate and fade and I reached out a hand. ‘Please don’t go. Stay a while longer.’

‘I’ll be back very soon. I love you so much,’ she said as she disappeared.

Choked with emotion I climbed back into bed and noticed a single yellow cowslip on the bedside table. That was the first flower that Nan and I had ever pressed together and we both loved them. From then on, whenever Nan visited me she always left behind a cowslip as a present.

I started to worry that Grandpa Pittam’s spirit might come to visit, but I was reassured by the Clown that he wouldn’t. It is only the people who love you who come back to find you.