get her some Doctor White’s,’ Mum said and Richard went scurrying off to the shops. ‘You’re a lady now,’ they kept saying, insisting that I didn’t exert myself in any way.
They gave me a few days off school while I continued ‘becoming a lady’ and I thought it was a pretty good scam. Had I realized how terrible my periods were going to be in the coming months, sometimes lasting for three weeks at a time with one week intervals in between, I might not have been so keen. The pampering wore off pretty quickly too. My periods also worked against me as they gave Mum and Richard more reasons to keep me off school.
I loved going to school because it meant that for a few hours each day I could do and say whatever I wanted and I wouldn’t have to pay any gruesome penalties. I revelled in my freedom and was always the class clown, known by pupils and teachers alike for my loud honking laugh and high spirits. The teachers never seemed to mind my behaviour because, unlike many of the children in that school, I was never rude and was always co-operative. I just bubbled over with the joy of escaping the house. Everyone, staff and pupils alike, always seemed to like me, which puzzled me. If I was the despicable creature that my stepdad kept telling me I was, how come no one else could see it?
Knowing that I was liked at school improved my spirits still further when I was there and made dragging myself home at the end of each day even more of an ordeal.
In the beginning I did alright, top of the class sometimes, but as I got older and I was expected to do homework and put in the extra hours, I started to fall behind. I daresay in other schools my lack of academic results would have counted against me, but in an area like ours the teachers were happy just to have someone cheerful and enthusiastic in the classroom. They knew that I was doing my best, but that I had difficulties at home.
I must have been different from most abused children, which is probably why none of the authorities picked up on my problem. Normally they’re on the lookout for children who are withdrawn and having difficulty within their peer group, as well as for the obvious signs of bruising and other marks. Many years later Hayley told me that I did always seem to have to wear long sleeves because of bruises on my arms, but I wasn’t particularly aware of that. Most of the tortures my stepfather inflicted on me left no visible marks – the scars were all inside my head – and if ever I was badly marked I was kept off school until I had healed.
There was, however, one occasion during my first year in the juniors when my eye had turned completely bloodshot and I was called into the headmaster’s office to talk about it. When I got there I found there were some social workers waiting to see me. They must have known something else was going on because the teacher asked, ‘Did your father say he was going to kill you?’
I opened my mouth to say ‘yes’ but at that moment Silly Git burst into the room, sweating as if he had run all the way from the house. I guess they must have been legally bound to let him know or something.
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘He only says things like that when he’s joking, like everyone does.’
‘Does he hit you?’ they asked me.
‘No’ came out of my mouth, although inside my head I was screaming, ‘Yes!’
Richard told them all to fuck off, dragged me out of my chair and took me straight home, giving me a good hiding for getting the social workers involved in our family business.
I never heard anything from any of the others. I guess they were happy to take my answers at face value.
Although the authorities probably had no reason to believe that I was being abused in the way I was, they certainly knew that my parents were difficult, violent and abusive. The teachers knew that on Mondays I wouldn’t be coming in to school because I would be picking up their social security cheques. All the people in our
They gave me a few days off school while I continued ‘becoming a lady’ and I thought it was a pretty good scam. Had I realized how terrible my periods were going to be in the coming months, sometimes lasting for three weeks at a time with one week intervals in between, I might not have been so keen. The pampering wore off pretty quickly too. My periods also worked against me as they gave Mum and Richard more reasons to keep me off school.
I loved going to school because it meant that for a few hours each day I could do and say whatever I wanted and I wouldn’t have to pay any gruesome penalties. I revelled in my freedom and was always the class clown, known by pupils and teachers alike for my loud honking laugh and high spirits. The teachers never seemed to mind my behaviour because, unlike many of the children in that school, I was never rude and was always co-operative. I just bubbled over with the joy of escaping the house. Everyone, staff and pupils alike, always seemed to like me, which puzzled me. If I was the despicable creature that my stepdad kept telling me I was, how come no one else could see it?
Knowing that I was liked at school improved my spirits still further when I was there and made dragging myself home at the end of each day even more of an ordeal.
In the beginning I did alright, top of the class sometimes, but as I got older and I was expected to do homework and put in the extra hours, I started to fall behind. I daresay in other schools my lack of academic results would have counted against me, but in an area like ours the teachers were happy just to have someone cheerful and enthusiastic in the classroom. They knew that I was doing my best, but that I had difficulties at home.
I must have been different from most abused children, which is probably why none of the authorities picked up on my problem. Normally they’re on the lookout for children who are withdrawn and having difficulty within their peer group, as well as for the obvious signs of bruising and other marks. Many years later Hayley told me that I did always seem to have to wear long sleeves because of bruises on my arms, but I wasn’t particularly aware of that. Most of the tortures my stepfather inflicted on me left no visible marks – the scars were all inside my head – and if ever I was badly marked I was kept off school until I had healed.
There was, however, one occasion during my first year in the juniors when my eye had turned completely bloodshot and I was called into the headmaster’s office to talk about it. When I got there I found there were some social workers waiting to see me. They must have known something else was going on because the teacher asked, ‘Did your father say he was going to kill you?’
I opened my mouth to say ‘yes’ but at that moment Silly Git burst into the room, sweating as if he had run all the way from the house. I guess they must have been legally bound to let him know or something.
‘No,’ I said quickly. ‘He only says things like that when he’s joking, like everyone does.’
‘Does he hit you?’ they asked me.
‘No’ came out of my mouth, although inside my head I was screaming, ‘Yes!’
Richard told them all to fuck off, dragged me out of my chair and took me straight home, giving me a good hiding for getting the social workers involved in our family business.
I never heard anything from any of the others. I guess they were happy to take my answers at face value.
Although the authorities probably had no reason to believe that I was being abused in the way I was, they certainly knew that my parents were difficult, violent and abusive. The teachers knew that on Mondays I wouldn’t be coming in to school because I would be picking up their social security cheques. All the people in our
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