Helpless: The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted. Toni Maguire
I passed was stopped at for me to admire my reflection. At the end of the day I went home still wearing my new clothes.
‘They are for you to keep,’ my younger aunt told me when I thought they must be returned. And I beamed at her with happiness.
She bent down and gave me a kiss, and as I inhaled a mixture of soap and perfume, I knew then what it was that I so wanted. For twenty-four hours it was as though a curtain separating our two worlds had been pulled back, allowing me to step into her world. I wanted to be part of it – a world where houses were full of laughter, children wore nice clothes and little girls were told they were pretty. I wanted to feel special again. It was to be another year before I felt that – it was when I met the man who called me his little lady.
When I look back on my parents’ marriage I think it had taken those five and a half years of my being an only child for my father to come to terms with no longer being single; certainly matrimony was not a state he appeared to enjoy. I learnt as I grew older that my parents’ marriage had been a rushed event, with me being born less than five months after the ceremony. When his eyes fell on me he seemed to remember that I was the cause of all his unwanted responsibilities. His brows would lower, thunderous looks were cast in my direction and at a very young age I quickly learnt to keep out of his way.
When the first of my siblings arrived, a boy, the birth of a son appeared to please my father more than my presence ever had. The tiny red-faced scrap was leant over, smiled at and even on some occasions spoken to. For a brief interlude my mother also appeared content, but no sooner was my little brother crawling than she announced that another baby was on the way.
Maybe the imminent arrival of another mouth to feed made him seek fresh employment, or perhaps with his surly manners and quick temper he had upset his employer. Whichever it was, my father took work on another farm, one where the wages were higher and the rent-free cottage larger.
‘Got a new job,’ he had announced at the supper table and named the farm that would be employing him.
‘We’ll be moving too, so you can start packing,’ was all he said about it.
My mother only asked him where the cottage that was going to be our new home was.
The woman my mother had been, before I came along, might have questioned him more, but seven years of marriage had taken their toll. She showed very little interest in herself and far less in what was happening around her.
Her husband’s drinking and frequent violence, the greyness of poverty, and her total lack of independence, for my father controlled what little money there was, had slowly stripped away nearly all her youth and confidence.
I was surprised that over the days leading up to our moving my mother suddenly appeared happy, put an effort into the evening meal and smiled at my father. She told us both that she had taken herself for a walk to inspect our new home, which was nicer than she had expected, and met our new neighbours.
It was clearly the last part that had put the smile on her face.
‘The people next door seem very nice,’ she had said as she placed my father’s dinner of stew and potatoes in front of him. His response was to lift his fork and commence eating.
‘Yes, they do, really nice,’ she continued. But her words vanished into the silence of disinterest.
Maybe it was then that I recognized the loneliness that my mother endured on an almost daily basis. For hours at a time she was alone in the house with just a brown Bakelite radio for company, and she longed for another adult to talk to. That evening I heard that barely concealed flicker of hope in her voice – hope that she might make a new friend and be able have a conversation with someone other than herself, her small children or her morose husband.
Two weeks later, when we moved to our new home, it seemed that my mother’s wish was to be granted.
The week before we left the tiny cottage that my mother disliked so much, I helped her pack up our meagre possessions. Bits of kitchenware poked out of cardboard boxes, bedding bulged out of stained pillowcases and clothes had been crammed into two battered second-hand suitcases.
I refused to put either my collection of rag dolls or my beloved blonde-haired favourite into a box. She had been a present from my aunt and I had named her Belinda. Instead I wrapped each one up carefully in whatever scraps of material I could find and placed them in a brown carrier bag that I refused to be parted from.
Two vehicles, a maroon car that had seen better days and an equally battered white van, both driven by my father’s friends, arrived on the morning of our departure. My mother, my small brother and myself, still clutching my precious bag of dolls, were placed in the car, whilst my father and our ragged assortment of possessions went into the van.
Sitting in the back of the car I wondered what our new home would look like. My mother had told me that a young couple with two small children lived in the adjoining cottage. A boy and a girl, she said, but to my disappointment they were still only toddlers, so too young for me to play with.
The husband was a mechanic. He serviced all the farm’s vehicles and that was why the farmer allowed him to rent a cottage on his land. She had only seen him briefly, but his wife was very friendly.
As my mother chattered away about our new neighbours with more animation than I ever remembered hearing in her voice, I looked out curiously at the flat scenery of Essex flashing past. First, there were large farmhouses with pretty gardens and then clusters of farm workers’ cottages with unkempt gardens and broken wooden fences. Then we drove down a long country lane where clumps of flowers added colour to the hedgerows and cows grazed peacefully in the fields on either side. Just as I was craning my neck to see more, the car slowed down and we knew we were there.
In what looked to me more like a large field than a garden stood two red-bricked cottages with fresh paint-work on the doors and windows and a sweep of gravel in the front, large enough for the two cars to park.
My eyes were drawn to the cottage next door. There were pots of geraniums on the front step, pale curtains hung in the windows, wisps of smoke curled out of their chimney and on their lawn a sturdy swing had been erected.
When my father pushed open the door of our cottage it smelt fresh and welcoming. A shiny black stove was at the end of the stone-floored living room. Flowers patterned the newly papered walls, and when we walked through to the kitchen I saw a sparkling white sink.
My father and his friends started unloading the van, and within minutes, it seemed, it was empty. The beds had been carried upstairs and the rest of our possessions were piled in a heap in the centre of the room and finally my father’s bicycle was removed and propped up against the outside wall.
My brother, tired and grizzling, had been placed in the pram and thankfully had shut his eyes and fallen asleep.
‘Anyone for a cuppa?’ my mother asked brightly.
‘Thanks love, another time. We had better be off,’ the men said without any further offer of help, and we watched from the doorway as the van and car drove off up the lane.
‘Done all I need to,’ said my father. ‘I’ll just go down the pub and buy those two a couple of beers for their help. They want to introduce me to a few of the regulars, now that it’s going to be my new local. Marianne’s old enough to help you now. Anyhow, arranging furniture and stuff is women’s work.’
Before my mother had a chance to protest he mounted his bicycle and pedalled off in the same direction his friends had taken.
I put down my bag of dolls carefully and glanced up at my mother who was just staring dolefully at my father’s retreating back.
Her shoulders slumped despondently as she gave a sigh at the thought