Heart and Soul - The Emotional Autobiography of Melissa Bell, Alexandra Burke's Mother. Melissa Bell
so that wasn’t a problem to me, until my first day at my new school. What I hadn’t been prepared for was that to the other children I would seem very different, an object ripe for derision. At my school in London, I had been pretty much like everyone else, but in Jamaica I appeared to be a spoiled little rich girl, and they instantly hated me for it. Things that I would never have given a second thought to at my old school, like the fact that Dad had his Hillman Hunter shipped over from England and drove me to and from the school gates in it each day, made me look really pampered compared with everyone else, as they had to walk everywhere and didn’t have their parents watching over them every second of the day. The fact that I was wearing normal leather shoes, bought from Clarks back in England, also marked me out as being different from the others, who came to class in worn-down slippers, sandals or even bare feet, and they set about making my life a misery at every opportunity.
‘You’re a rich bitch, with your leather shoes and being driven to school!’ they taunted.
‘You must be some kind of millionairess!’
‘Give us some of your money!’
Mum would pack me up a nice lunch each day, making me different from the others yet again, but she didn’t give me any money, so I had nothing I could give my tormentors to make them leave me alone, and that made them even angrier. To begin with, it was only one or two of them picking on me, but the feeling of hatred towards me seemed to spread and before long virtually every child was throwing abuse in my direction. Even some of the teachers seemed to think I was some sort of lowlife, singling me out in front of the class for humiliation.
‘Is that your real hair, girl? Let’s have a look and see.’
In class, I was a hard worker, so I had some protection there, but in the playground I was totally exposed and the bullies had free access to me with no restraint from adults. I realised that I needed to find someone to look after me if I didn’t want to end up being teased and maybe even physically hurt every day. Some enterprising local traders had set up stalls all round the grounds to sell snacks and books and stationery to the kids because the school was too poor to supply anything for free. In a poor society, there are always street traders ready to fill every gap and cater for every need, desperate to make a little money to live on, always struggling through one day at a time. This was my chance to find some protection against my tormentors. Plucking up all my courage, I went to a man who was selling stationery.
‘Can I help you during playtime?’ I asked.
‘Sure,’ he grinned, probably spotting that I was a lonely little fat girl in need of a friend. ‘You can stand there and watch the stall. Make sure the kids don’t steal the rubbers and stuff.’
It was a relief not just to have a friend and ally, but also to have something to do during the breaks since I didn’t have any friends to play with. From then on, the moment the bell went for break time I would head to the stall and help the trader, making sure that I stayed close and that everyone could see he was my friend. He was pleased with the arrangement too because he found that his profits actually went up with me guarding his merchandise. The others couldn’t touch me as long as I was around a grown-up, and I got free stationery in exchange for my services, but of course it didn’t help me to integrate myself with the other kids and probably made them hate me all the more.
Dad was always surrounded by loads of hangers-on wherever he went, because they all thought he had money and hoped some of it would rub off on them. Compared with the rest of them, I suppose he had. He did nothing to discourage them because he liked to be the centre of attention and to have everyone listening to his words of wisdom, laughing at his jokes. Most of them, however, were pretty unreliable friends. He was out drinking with one of them one time and the guy, who had probably had far more to drink than he should have done, took the keys to the Hillman without asking, drove off at speed and ended up crashing it into a petrol station. He was lucky to get out alive, but the car was a write-off and I don’t think Dad had any insurance. People seemed to be very casual about things like insurance in Jamaica.
We might have seemed rich to the other kids, but we certainly didn’t have enough money to buy another car when everything we had was going into building the house. Not having a car any more meant that I had to start travelling on the school bus with my tormentors, which was like hell because it meant they had me totally at their mercy and it was impossible for me to escape their taunts and threats. I might have found a way to make my lunchtimes and breaks safe, but I still lived in fear of being caught on my own by the others. My life was such a misery that eventually I told Mum I wasn’t going to go to school any more.
‘I want to go back to England,’ I told her firmly. ‘I want to go back to my old school. I was so happy there.’
She must have been able to see that I was serious, because she told me I didn’t have to go to that school any more.
‘We’ll find you somewhere else,’ she promised.
It was such a relief to be able to stay at home and not face all the bullies. But finding somewhere else for me to go was never going to be easy, especially when Mum and Dad were distracted with the problems of building the house, and a year later I was still at home every day and still miserable. I didn’t waste my days completely, because I had plenty of time to read books, but in other ways my education ground to a halt as Mum searched in vain for a suitable school. I didn’t care how long it took. It was too hot for school anyway and if I had to be in Jamaica I was perfectly happy to laze around in the shade all day, chatting to the neighbours, who were all a great deal friendlier towards me than the kids at school had been.
That year the workmen finally finished building our new home, a beautiful wooden house. The results were impressive, even if it had taken a lot longer than Dad had originally anticipated. To me it seemed like the poshest house in the area, partly because it was the only new building and partly because it was such a nice grey colour, with smart red doors and white windows. People actually used to gather at the metal gates to the courtyard just to stare at it and take pictures, which made me feel very proud. No one would want to take pictures of it now because it is so rundown and the whole area round it has gone to seed. It’s hard to keep things nice in Jamaica when the sun is so hot and the rain storms are so fierce, and no one ever seems to have any money for repairs or enough energy for regular maintenance work.
Outside of school, I did manage to make friends with a few people of my age. There was a boy called David Burke, who was six years older than me and lived in the next big house down the road. He first got my attention by throwing bottle tops at me, which I thought was quite funny but which made Dad so angry that he forbade me to talk to him again. It was probably just an excuse: I think Dad would have forbidden me to talk to any boy at that stage, however well behaved he might have been. I guess all fathers can remember what they were like when they were boys and want to protect their daughters from the truth.
But David was too full of self-confidence to allow himself to be intimidated by Dad, and persisted in coming to our gate most days, sometimes on his own and sometimes with a group of other boys. When Dad arrived home unexpectedly one day and found me out there with them all, he completely lost his temper and stormed straight into the house, leaving me frozen to the spot in horror at what might be in store. Having grabbed a leather belt he came running back out and set about beating me with it, shouting and flailing about and putting on a show in front of the whole street. It was the only time he ever hit me and I was mortified, not so much because it hurt but because everyone else was laughing and pointing as he whacked me, knowing that I was too fat to be able to run away.
It was perfectly normal to see Jamaican fathers doling out corporal punishment to their children, but it was unusual for Dad, and in any case I thought it was really unfair. I hadn’t even been doing anything bad with David and his friends, but the rule was that I was never allowed to play with boys, no exceptions. I think it was the fact that I had directly disobeyed him that really made Dad angry because normally I was a pretty obedient child, for all my tantrums. Humiliated at being made such a spectacle of, I burst into tears and ran indoors to escape the jeering of the crowd with Dad in full pursuit, shouting and lashing out at me. It was the only time I can remember him raising his hand to