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green, blue, blue,
red,
blue,
green,
yellow, red, blue, blue, yellow, green, green, red, red, red,
yellow, red, yellow.
I wanted the numbers to fit better. I wanted the colours to fit better.
It should have been sixteen red front doors. One half. Eight green doors. One quarter. Four blue doors. One eighth. Four yellow doors. One eighth. It was simple. The colours could look really nice. I had worked it all out.
red,
red,
green,
red,
green,
red,
blue,
blue
green, red,
yellow, red, green,
red, yellow, red,
red, green, red,
green, red, blue, blue,
green, red, yellow,
red, green, red,
yellow, red, red.
I wasn’t happy with Mr Lewis (Number 17). His colours didn’t match. Maybe he didn’t realise. I wished that I had the courage to talk to him about it.
There was a little wall in front of the garden. A dwarf wall. A dwarf wall for Snow White’s friends to play on. There was also a drive for my father’s Mini. There was a garden to the front and a slightly larger one to the back. The front lawn was just big enough to squeeze onto it a folded tartan picnic blanket. The soil surrounding the perfect square of grass was always packed with flowers. I watched the flowers. I noted them all in a little lined book. It was green and lived on my windowsill. Thorny rose bushes, coordinating colours and then down to a mixture of blossoms. Depending on the month.
Gaillardia ‘Burgunder’.
Shiny red flower, with light yellow centre.
June-October. 30cm.
Dahlia.
Really orange and red.
June-November. 60cm.
Narcissum ‘Amergate.’
Orange outside with a darker orange
in the middle.
March-April. 45cm.
I liked to write things down. In the green notebook that I kept on my windowsill. Flowers. Colours. Number plates. Full names. Times. Routines. All of the first chapter of Danny Champion of the World. So I wouldn’t forget.
Hold your palms out. Let me read your fortune.
I see that you are destined for great things.
Love…yes. A great love.
Children…bend your little finger…
Ah. I see a boy and a girl.
It’s all here. Written within your palm.
Aunty Maggie lived at Number 30 Disraeli Avenue and every Monday she looked after me. Her hallway walls were jam packed with black and white photographs of her darling husband Samuel. Who passed away in his prime. They were all the same photograph, but in different-sized frames. Aunty Maggie had never been blessed with children. I didn’t understand. Before my mother died, she liked Aunty Maggie. Aunty Maggie used to make boiled rice for my mother. She’d cook it to a fluffy perfection in one of my mother’s pans. Then. She’d walk along Disraeli Avenue. Number 30 to Number 9. Both hands clutching the black handle of the steaming pan. My mother used to pretend to my father that she had cooked it. My father used to like Aunty Maggie’s feathery white rice.
When Aunty Maggie looked after me. I would sit in her pink room and she would open a cupboard brimming with untouched toys. They were shiny and perfect. Treasures. Aunty Maggie was always old. Always one hundred and ninety-five years old and her face was a web of wrinkles. I wanted to run my finger along the tracks. Round and round and round and round. I never did. Her breath was smelly. Mint. Toothpaste mint. And about her lingered a flowery scent. Sweet and lasting.
In the pink room, where everything was pink, I was surrounded by smiling faces on photographs of school children who sometimes visited. I would play with her Bible Fuzzy Felts and sip at milky tea. I was on my best behaviour. As I left she would always give me a shiny fifty-pence piece. A whole shiny fifty pence. I was rich. Aunty Maggie spoke with a swish accent and her house was always tidy. Always. She used to watch me from her window and I knew that she longed to be my mother. I was glad that she was not my mother.
On February 1 1981 I was seven years, two months and eight days old and it was within the first year after my mother’s death. Although Rita was nearly always in my mother’s house, I still visited the neighbours after school. Aunty Maggie was expecting me. As I entered her house, cigar smoke was swirling from her pink room.
She had a guest.
Eddie was her brother. He was fat. He wore brown and his big belly was forcing the buttons on his shirt to cling to the holes. His trousers stretched over his solid fat belly. Up and over. Up and over. He looked like a brown egg. With little chicken drumsticks coming out the bottom. He was perched on the edge of Aunty Maggie’s special chair. Not daring to touch her plump cushions. He wore a brown cardigan with a thin mint green tissue sticking out of the pocket. His hair was flat and looked like it had been drawn on with black felt tips. He was shiny. Very shiny. But he had a laugh like I imagined Father Christmas would. Ho Ho Ho. He boomed and he chuckled. I thought that I liked him. When I left he gave me a fifty-pence coin too. I was rich. Two fifty-pence coins. One hundred pennies. One whole pound. They asked if I would like to visit them again the next day. I knew that I would be given more coins and I had had a nice time. So Aunty Maggie said that she would have a word with Mr Johnson.
On February 2 1981 I went to Aunty Maggie’s straight from school. Eddie was perched on the edge of the special flowery chair. Ready to swoop. I saw him watching me through the dirt-free windows. Edged with coordinated flowery drapes. He was ready. He opened the door. A fat cigar balanced in between his fingers. His shirt was a dirty cream. A hot wash of whites and browns. Tight shirt. Old shirt. His forehead glistened with tiny beads of sweat. A tiara of sweat. His nose was a purple plum and as he spoke stale smoke escaped between his narrow lips. He smelled. Sweat. Sour smoke. Chip fat. Smelly smelly man.
Eddie was happy to see me. I liked that he was happy to see me. He’d been looking forward to it all day. He smiled. He smiled and showed me his painted brown teeth. Aunty Maggie had had to nip out. She wouldn’t be long. He led me into the pink room. Where everything was still pink. He told me to take off my shoes. He liked my white socks. Aunty Maggie didn’t like shoes to be worn in her house. I didn’t know that. Eddie had shoes on. Brown shoes.
He sat down on the pink chair. Daring to sink into the freshly plumped cushions. He patted his lap. He wanted me to sit on him. I stayed still.
Again.
He slapped his thighs with the palms of his fat hands. He was telling me where I must sit. I didn’t want to. I didn’t feel happy. I didn’t want to sit on Eddie’s lap. I wanted to sit on my own chair. He told me not to be a naughty girl. His face went all screwy. Angry lines sprouted on his forehead and around his eyes. Not happy anymore. Not smiling anymore.
I sat on his lap.
He rubbed his fat fingers over my cold thighs. Pushing the tips into my skin. He was strong. He kissed my neck. Kiss nibble kiss kiss. A nibbling eagle. His breath was getting faster and faster. His fat fingers were playing harder and harder. His hands moved up to the top of my thighs. Up up up. Gripping. Gripping. Gripping my thighs. Pulling me into him. He asked me if it felt nice. I didn’t say anything. Silence. Fear. Silence. He told me that it felt good. His angry voice asked me to like it. I said yes. I said that it was nice. It wasn’t. Really it wasn’t. I didn’t like it. I didn’t want to be on his lap. I didn’t want him to touch me. I didn’t know what to do. I was drowning. Drowning. Drowning.
A key in the door.
A humming accompaniment. Aunty Maggie was home. Eddie jumped onto his heavy feet. I was pushed forward. My legs were shaking. Shaking quaking shaking shaking. My knees buckled to the floor. I stayed on the floor. He scuttled to help his sister with her heavy bags. I stayed still. Rooted. Rooted. I didn’t understand. I didn’t understand what was happening. I wanted to cry. Big girls don’t cry. Do you hear me? Big girls don’t cry.
Eddie and Aunty Maggie came into the room. Aunty Maggie was looking at me. She wasn’t smiling. She was looking at me. Over me. Up and down. Up and down. Eddie told Aunty Maggie that we were just about to play Bible Fuzzy Felts. He winked at me, as he carried the box from the cupboard that brimmed with toys that failed to excite. Eddie was excited. He was all happy and jolly and all ho ho ho. I didn’t understand. He was happy again. He was funny again. He liked me again. As Aunty Maggie prepared her feast, she bustled in and out of the pink room. I placed Noah beside his arc, but baby Jesus could not be rescued. Two by two. Two by two. There had to be two. I knew that baby Jesus would die. Two. There had to be two. Eddie sat close to me. Too close. Knees touching. His smell was next to me. His smell was on me. Waiting. Waiting. It’s oor little secret. You’re me special girlfriend. Here’s an extra fifty pence.
As I left, I clutched my shiny coins. Three shiny coins. One hundred and fifty pennies. Two days of coins. Totalling two hundred and fifty pennies. I was rich. Really rich. Eddie said that he liked having me around. It made him feel young. It was nice to have a youngster around the house. Aunty Maggie thought I might like to come again the next day. She would have a word with Mrs Clark. She liked to see her only brother happy. He was very dear to her. He was such a lovely man.
On February 3 1981 Eddie was lingering with a camera. He wanted a nice shot of me to take home with him. Aunty Maggie had a spare frame. I was to have pride of place on his mantel. Over the electric fire. In between his Madonna and a clock that had stopped working at ten minutes past three. But he wasn’t sure if it had happened in the morning or in the afternoon. Ho ho ho. Aunty Maggie thought that it was a wonderful idea. Her brother was such a lovely man. He was so very dear to her. Aunty Maggie was cooking in the kitchen. She was humming. She was buzz buzz buzzing. I could hear her. Eddie could hear her.
He told me to lift up my skirt. He told me to do it. An angry voice. I knew that I had to. No choice. No choice. I had to keep Eddie happy. Aunty Maggie liked her brother to be happy. Pink knickers with tiny butterflies fluttering over them. They were too tight. A little bit too tight for me. Click. Click. Flash. Quick. No one need know. I was a funny-looking thing. He thought that I was a funny-looking thing. He asked if I had a boyfriend. He asked if I would like a boyfriend. I didn’t understand. I was seven years old. I didn’t understand. He told me to sit on the chair. On the edge of the chair. He told me to pull up my skirt. Higher higher. He told me to open my legs. Wide wide wide. Click. Click. Flash. Aunty Maggie droned a happy song. It’s oor little secret. You’re me special girlfriend.
My father came for me. He told Eddie that there was no need to give me money. Eddie insisted. He was such a nice man. A real gent. I clutched my shiny coins. Two coins. One hundred pennies. Totalling three hundred and fifty pennies. Three pounds and fifty pence. I was rich. Very very rich. Eddie told my father that we were having such good fun together. Ho ho ho. He winked at me. He smiled his special smile for my father. A brown painted smile. Eddie asked me if I had had a good time. I said yes thank you very much. I hadn’t had a nice time. I was being polite. I was being a good girl. Good manners were very important. I had to be polite. Please and thank you. Please and thank you. My father suggested that I visit again on Thursday. He was sure that Mrs Roberts wouldn’t mind. Eddie was pleased. I didn’t feel very happy.
On February 4 1981 Eddie put his hand up my school skirt.
We were sitting at the table. In the pink room. Cups of milky tea and still hot scones were placed on white lace doilies. Aunty Maggie went to fetch a jar of strawberry jam. Eddie pushed his fingers up my skirt and inside my knickers. He rubbed and rubbed. It hurt. He was being hard. Big, heavy, fat fingers. He was trying to push his fingers into my skin. Aunty Maggie was coming. He swiped them out. He lifted them to his mouth and sucked.
Suck suck suck.
He turned to me, just as Aunty Maggie bustled nearer. It’s oor little secret. You’re me special girlfriend. Here’s an extra fifty pence. Eyes down, cheeks red. I didn’t understand. Aunty Maggie spooned the jam into a delicate bone china dish. She didn’t speak. She didn’t speak to me. Eddie heaped the jam onto his scone. Dribbling in delight. Eyes glistening. He guzzled scone after scone. One two three four. Forgetting to swallow. Scoffing. Wolfing. Devouring. Moaning with pleasure. Staring at me and smiling. Not a nice smile.
His eyes were not smiling. A dollop of strawberry jam escaped. It tumbled down his brown shirt. Tumble tumble tumble. It stopped. Next to button number five which was desperately clinging to its nearest hole. When I left he gave me an extra fifty pence. One hundred and fifty pennies. Totalling five hundred pennies. Five pounds. I was richer than I had ever been.
On February 5 1981 I went to Aunty Maggie’s house. I thought about the two or even maybe three fifty-pence pieces that I was sure to get. Eddie asked me to go for a walk with him. It was getting dark. We would have to hurry. He wanted to see the Lymouth coast. The street that I lived on was a ten-minute walk from the beach. Surfers enjoyed the North Sea. Pirates explored the Lymouth caves. Eddie told me all about pirates. Eddie told me that there was buried treasure in the caves. He had a map in his pocket. But it was a secret. It was our secret. I held his hand and he took me into the cave. It was dark in the cave. It was salty. I could see him. Just about.
He took off his brown cardigan and laid it on the grey floor. I kneeled onto it. Waiting for the treasure map. I wanted him to hurry up. Before the pirates came. Eddie told me to lie down. I did. He unfastened his belt and pulled his trousers down to his knees. He put his hand up my skirt and pulled off my knickers. He threw them into the cave. I didn’t speak. I watched as he climbed onto me. I was winded by his weight. He hurt me. He burned into me. He ripped me. He filled me with damp sand. I opened my mouth to scream. No sound came. He placed his hand over my mouth and he ripped into me further. Rip rip rip. The pain. Such pain. It took away the sound. I tried to scream. No sound. No sound.
He stopped.
He told me to move off his cardigan. I could not move. The pain ran from my belly and down my legs. He pulled his cardigan from below me. It rolled me onto the damp sand. My knees were shaking. My body was shaking. Cold cold cold. He shouted at me. His cardigan was ruined with my blood. He threw it deeper into the cave. His cardigan. My knickers. Buried treasure. It’s oor little secret. No one would believe a strange bairn like yee. Tell anyone and I’ll get yee. He left me. I lay on the wet sand. Shaking shivering shaking. I could not move. I tried to think of my mother. She did not come to me.
Spain…
France…
Scotland…
America…
London…
Spain…
France…
Scotland…
America…
London…
I knew more countries. I used to know more countries. But. But they were gone. I wanted the sea to visit me. To sweep me away. I was riddled with sand. My teeth chattered. My knees were shaking. I needed help. I didn’t understand. Pirates. Treasure. Pain. Such pain. I was dying. This had to be the end. My mother had not saved me. Eddie had taken her memory from me. I had nothing left. Nothing nothing nothing.
I stood. Blood and wee slid down to my white ankle socks. He had lit a fire inside me. My hair was matted with sand. My blue school blouse was ripped. I was seven years two months and twelve days old.
I walked out onto the beach. It was quiet. It was dark. Too dark. The lighthouse was still. No eye. No yellow eye. No green and orange little men. No one was watching. I climbed the one hundred and twenty steps. I did not touch the green handrail that wove next to the steps. I had to keep stopping. Doubled in pain. Difficult to breathe. Difficult to carry on. I walked myself over and along the main Coast Road. The lollipop lady had gone home. I walked past the Dewstep Butchers that doubled as the New Lymouth Post Office and displayed a garnished pig’s head in the window. Past New Lymouth Primary School. Past New Lymouth Library. Past Brian’s Newsagents. Stretched across 127-135 Coast Road. Past the detached homes which housed the professional types. I walked to my mother’s house. Eyes never looking left or right. I hoped that a car would hit me. I walked slowly. I had ripped clothes but my brown parka covered them. I had a single line of blood trickling down my inside thigh. Inside my brown parka. I was covered in sand. Nobody stopped me. Nobody asked me what had happened. People looked away. Neighbours called their children in from play. Nobody. Nothing.
A greedy decision. A need for shiny fifty-pence pieces. A greedy need. I was saving to buy a globe. One that lit up with the flick of a switch. Paul Hodgson (Number 2) had gotten one last Christmas. I needed fifteen pounds. That was a lot of money. A greedy need. Misguided trust. My whole life stepped onto a path. I stepped onto a path. I sometimes imagine that my palms were smooth and blank. Right up until that week. That precise week. That my palms had promise. I still had a future. That I still had exciting challenges and a glossy journey ahead of me. With my decision. With my greedy need. The lines appeared. Abracadabra. Hey presto. The lines were engraved. Tattooed. Forever. Scraped in a web of complications. My palms told of the self-destruction that lay ahead.
I never bought the globe.
Sand
In my pants.
Itchy itchy sand monster.
Sand
In my tummy.
Sand
In my head.
Nasty nasty sand monster.
Sand
Make me vomit.
Sand
Make me die.
Naughty naughty sand monster.
