I looked away, p.16
I Looked Away, page 16
‘Fair enough,’ he said brightly, as though I’d said the right thing. ‘Poetry can help us express our emotions but you don’t need to read it right now. These things take time.’
These things? A surge of anger welled up inside me. Standing up, I kicked my chair onto the ground. Cornelius frowned. ‘That’s not really going to help, is it, Ellie?’
How can he tell? What did this man know about me? Picking up the poetry book lying between us, I threw it at him. It grazed the side of his head. A red mark appeared. A trickle of blood ran down. ‘I wish you hadn’t done that,’ said Cornelius sadly. He pressed the green button on the wall behind him. Instantly the door opened and two men in white came rushing in. They held my arms behind my back.
I knew what would follow because this had happened on our very first session too. I would be taken to Solitary until I behaved myself again. Then I would go back to the room I shared with the girl who had told me about the boy who’d jumped. I’d still have the nightmares that haunted me night after night, paralysing me so that I’d wake in a pool of sweat, unable to move with terror. And Cornelius would continue to encourage me to talk.
But I had to resist. Because if I didn’t, I might tell them the truth about what really happened that day.
12.05 p.m., 17 August 1984
It’s the day of the Daniels’ lunch party. My stepmother has been in a state of excitement over the last few days, even buying two different outfits ‘in case the weather changes’, despite my father warning her that we ‘have to be careful about money’.
‘Stop trying to ruin my fun, Nigel,’ she retorts. ‘It’s not as though I get much of that.’
I like it when they argue.
‘Will everyone hurry up and get in the car?’ she snaps. ‘We’re going to be late.’
I’m trying, but Michael thinks it’s better fun to play hide-and-seek round the house. Eventually I catch a flash of his red T-shirt as he crouches behind my bedroom door. I scoop him up, tickling him affectionately. He roars with laughter.
‘This is no time for games,’ scolds my stepmother, addressing me as if I am the one to blame. When she turns her back, I stick my tongue out at her. Michael promptly does the same.
‘Don’t,’ I whisper, both horrified and amused. ‘You’ll get us both into trouble.’
Sheila might even ban me from going to the lunch party. That would upset me more than anything. I can’t wait to see Peter, even though I’m really nervous at the same time. What if he doesn’t like me any more?
‘Nigel,’ says my stepmother coldly when we get in the car. ‘Why are you wearing that shirt? I thought we’d decided on the maroon.’
My mother had given Daddy the shirt he had on. I remember clearly. It was for his last birthday before she’d died.
‘I think he looks nice as he is,’ I hear myself saying from the back.
Sheila turns round and glowers. ‘What business is this of yours?’
Then she casts her eye over my outfit. I am wearing a pink strappy sundress which I had made myself in domestic science. Actually, I’m rather proud of it – the teacher had told me I had a ‘flair’ for sewing.
‘That neckline is too revealing,’ declares my stepmother. ‘Don’t you think, Nigel?’
My father makes an ‘I’m sorry’ face in the driver’s mirror. Both he and I know there is no point in arguing.
‘Go and change,’ she commands. ‘Both of you.’
I’ve shot up in height since last summer. The only other dress I possess is navy blue with a Peter Pan collar, which makes me look much too young. My stepmother had promised my father to take me shopping for more summer clothes but it hadn’t happened.
Yet what choice do I have? So I get out and stomp upstairs and put the wretched dress on to keep the peace.
My father comes down in maroon. It was my mother’s least favourite colour.
Eventually, nearly half an hour late, we set off.
28
Jo
When I get back to the caravan site, my mind is so full of noise it takes me a second to register that something’s wrong. There’s a big car by the entrance. One of those huge things that take up the space on both sides of a lane. I can hear shouting. Then I see Tim coming towards me.
For a minute he appears younger. More vulnerable. Then he looks up and I can see his eyes harden with determination. He catches me by the arm. ‘Come on. We’ve got to get out of here. The bloody caravan-site owner came back to do a check. Told me that he was going to call the police. Quick.’
Lucky and I race along after him down a narrow dirt track. ‘How do you know where we’re going?’ I puff.
‘I don’t.’
We keep on, barely jogging now as my breath comes in short bursts. The track is sloping downwards. The sea lies below. Every now and then there is a rough step where someone has put a plank of wood across to make it easier for walking. It’s muddy after the rain. I slip. Tim steadies me. He slips. I steady him.
‘Now what?’ I ask. We’re on the beach. Lucky is racing on, burying his nose in the sand every now and then and trying to dig out a rock to play with.
I look back at the way we’ve come. No one seems to be following.
‘Move it, Lucky,’ says Tim sharply. ‘There’s no time to mess about.’
We follow the coast path for three days, sleeping under bushes and foraging for food. My legs are aching, my feet have got blisters and my toenails have grown so much that they’re pushing against the ends of my trainers. We see signs to Penzance, but I don’t fancy going back there. Then we see another signpost. MOUSEHOLE.
I like the name. A mousehole is somewhere you can hide.
Together we walk in silence. Even Lucky stops running ahead and instead falls into line with us. The stones on the beach hurt my feet. Part of the sole is now coming off one of my trainers. Shoes are the most difficult things to replace when you’re on the road. Who knows where I’ll find another pair.
To think I’d thought we’d be OK. That we might even be able to stay for the whole winter. But people like me can never really get on in life. I should’ve known that.
‘Nearly there.’ Tim scrambles over a huge rock covered with seaweed and shells, holding out his hand to help me follow. ‘Looks like a harbour.’
All I can see are some old boats, sitting in mud. Hope 2, says a sign in white letters on the side of one. I can’t help wondering what happened to Hope 1. A fisherman is sitting next to it, mending a net. He glances up at us and then down at his work again.
‘Look!’ Tim grabs my arm in excitement. There’s a packet of chips on the pavement, right in front of us. I suddenly realize how hungry I am. Tim dives forward. At the same time, there’s a scream and a flash of white. A seagull has got to them first.
‘Fucking thieves.’ There are actually tears in Tim’s eyes.
‘It’s all right,’ I say, biting back my disappointment. It’s just like that time in Bristol when that woman beat me to the chips. But now I’ve got to be strong for the kid. ‘We’ll get something else to eat.’
That’s when I see the blood. Tim has a gash on his cheek, not far from the scar. ‘Bastard scratched me.’
‘We need to wash that,’ I say. ‘It could get infected.’
‘Got your bloody first-aid kit with you, have you?’
‘Very funny.’ I point to a pub sign a bit further along the road. ‘Find the toilet there. Put some soap on it.’
We step inside hesitantly, trying to look like we belong. There’s a fire blazing in the corner. My muddy feet leave stains on the nice carpet. Will I get told off? Tim heads through a doorway marked ‘Toilets.’
A man carrying a tray of glasses comes up to me. I wait for him to throw us out. It’s what usually happens. Instead, he bends down and pats Lucky. ‘There’s a special area for dog owners in that part of the bar. Want a biscuit, do you?’
‘Yes, please,’ I say.
He laughs as though I’ve said something funny. Then he puts his hand in his pocket and takes out a bone-shaped treat. Lucky wolfs it back in one. I’d do that if someone gave me a biscuit too.
The smell of food is making my stomach turn over. I try to block it out while Tim is gone by looking at the photographs on the walls of boats and fishermen staring out at me. One shows this massive fish that some bloke ‘landed’ back in 1871.
‘Really cool, aren’t they?’ says a woman in a voice that sounds like an American I once met inside.
I nod, not wanting to get into conversation.
‘You in the queue for food?’
I shake my head.
‘I don’t want to interfere but my husband and I saw you outside just now when that bird got the fries. I’ve read about seagull bites. They can be real dangerous. Is your kid OK?’
Just then, Tim comes back. The cut is still bleeding. Lucky begins to whine like he knows something’s wrong.
‘Cute dog,’ coos the woman. Then she looks at Tim’s cheek. ‘Think I’ve got something for that.’ She opens a really fancy beige handbag with a gold clasp. ‘Here they are! Antiseptic wipes. I carry them everywhere when we’re on vacation.’
‘Thanks.’ Tim’s eyes are watery again. I’m beginning to learn he can turn them on and off. ‘It’s my birthday ’n’ all.’
Tim hadn’t mentioned any birthday.
‘Mum and me are on the road and we haven’t eaten for ages.’
Then I realize that his ‘birthday’ is all part of the act. He’s trying it on. This boy is smart!
‘Oh you poor things. Listen, why don’t you let us buy you a meal as a birthday present?’
‘Wow! That would be great, wouldn’t it, Mum?’
I nod enthusiastically. I’d give my right arm for something to eat.
‘Good.’ The woman looks as though we’ve done her a favour instead of the other way round. ‘You know, I’ve been shocked by how many people need help in Britain. We just didn’t expect it. Now here’s a menu. Order whatever you want. Get a sausage for that cute dog of yours too. What’s he called?’
‘Lucky,’ I say. ‘But we don’t need any charity, thanks.’
I try to pull Tim away but he pushes me off. ‘Mum, please.’
The woman touches my arm. I jump as though she’s burned me. She sees my reaction and steps back. ‘I’m sorry if I’ve offended you,’ she says. ‘My own kids are so far away and I miss them. Let me help you and your boy. Call it a gift from one mother to another.’
Should I trust her?
My head says no. I’ve trusted people in the past and look what happened. But my stomach is on empty. Tim is hungry too.
Maybe we’ll take a chance.
Primrose (Primula vulgaris)
A symbol of safety and protection. In ancient times, a bunch was placed on the doorstep to encourage the fairy folk to bless the house and its inhabitants.
12.50 p.m., 17 August 1984
‘Ellie! Ellie! Can we play I spy?’
‘No,’ I say shortly. The traffic has been slow and I am getting worried, which in turn makes me irritable. We’re already late. What if Peter thinks I’m not coming and decides to go home?
‘Don’t be difficult, Ellie,’ hisses my stepmother from the front. ‘Play nicely with your brother.’
‘Don’t want to.’
Michael looks upset. Instantly, I reproach myself. ‘I’m sorry,’ I say, stretching out my hand to him. He gives me a sulky look.
‘I spy with my little eye,’ I begin, ‘something beginning with “C”.’
We play for a little while, spying clouds and a car. It reminds me of the games I used to play with my father before Sheila came along. ‘Dad,’ I say. ‘Why don’t you have a go?’
I lean forward, patting his back.
‘Don’t touch your father when he’s driving,’ Sheila snaps. ‘He might crash.’
‘Fine,’ I snap back. ‘We won’t play any more.’
29
Ellie
After a while, I lost track of how long I’d been at Highbridge for. But it must have been some time since I’d thrown that book at Cornelius because there wasn’t a mark on the side of his head any more.
Cuts take time to heal. But sometimes they stay in your brain. One thing was certain. There was something wrong with me. I heard everyone saying so.
I was back in my old room now, although I had a different roommate. No one said what happened to the first. It was like that there. People came and went. I could ask but I still didn’t want to talk – at least, not to others. Occasionally I practised out loud at night when the other girl was asleep. I wanted to check I could still do it. But my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth. It reminded me of a piece of ice my mother had shown me in a book before she was ill. ‘It’s called a “stalactite”,’ she’d explained. ‘You can remember it because it has to hold on “tight” to the roof.’ The memory made me feel sick.
Months passed. Things happened that I don’t want to remember. So I have shut them out of my head. But one day at Highbridge in particular still stands out.
‘Morning, Ellie,’ said Cornelius brightly when it was my turn to see him after breakfast, which, as usual, I had hardly touched. His room was cold. Outside there was frost on the ground.
Ignoring him, my eye fastened on a spider’s web hanging from a beam. I couldn’t see the occupant so maybe he’d managed to escape. Perhaps it was a ‘she’. I wished I could run away too, but if I did, where would I go?
‘Ceilings are interesting, aren’t they?’
Why couldn’t he just stop talking? Immediately I looked down at the ground.
‘So are floors. Did you know that the Romans invented underfloor heating?’ He pushed a picture across the desk towards me. It was a house, just like the Roman villa my father had taken me to years ago. Before Michael.
‘Does this look familiar to you?’
Instantly I knew this was a trick. He wanted me to tell him my feelings about those days before it happened.
I picked up the picture. It was on glossy paper as though it had come from a magazine. Very carefully, I folded it into two. Then I tore it along the crease. Cornelius said nothing. I took one of the smaller bits and folded that one in half. It was very important to make sure that the two sections were exactly the same size. Then nothing could go wrong. I tore those bits in half too.
I was aware of Cornelius watching me. I was also aware of the green emergency button behind him. I wouldn’t mind going back to Solitary. My new roommate was so irritating with her snuffling.
‘You went there with your father, didn’t you, Ellie? Were you happy then?’
I took the remaining large bit and scrunched it up into a ball. I threw it in the air. Then I caught it. Up and down. Up and down.
The rhythm was soothing.
‘How would you change things if you could go back to that day with your father, Ellie?’
I watched the piece of paper fall down into my hands. Purposely, I let it drop onto the ground. It was so light that you couldn’t hear it fall. I wished it was a brick so it would make a big, loud sound. Anything to drown the agonizing noise in my head.
‘What do you think you’d say to him?’
I ran towards the window with the bars. Bang Bang Bang went my head on the metal.
‘Stop!’ Cornelius’s voice rang behind me. ‘You’ll hurt yourself.’
Good.
He must have pressed the green button again because more arms were around me then, pulling me away. I could feel blood trickling down my face. There was, I’d discovered, nothing that could really describe the taste.
‘Get her to the San,’ ordered Cornelius.
A nurse patched me up. She told me I was lucky not to need stitches. And then they took me to Solitary. Peace at last. I lay down on the mattress, which was on the floor for safety. They gave me something to help me sleep. I swallowed the tablets greedily, desperate for the blackness that would soon overtake me.
30
Jo
The American woman (‘Call me Mary-Lou, dear’) tries to buy me a glass of cider while we wait. ‘We love this stuff, don’t we, Doug?’ she says to her husband, who doesn’t say much. If you ask me, he’s not too keen that his wife has taken on some waifs and strays. You get that with couples. There’s usually one who wants to do good and the other has you down as a murderer.
‘I don’t drink much,’ I say.
‘Is that so?’
I see her looking at me, thinking that all people like us must be alkies. ‘What will your son drink?’
I could tell her he’s not my son but then I’d have to explain too much.
‘I’ll have a beer,’ he says.
‘No you won’t,’ I cut in quickly. ‘You’re not old enough.’
He scowls but Mary-Lou and her husband nod approvingly. ‘We have to watch our boys too. How about a lemonade, honey?’
Tim swigs it back – and another – before the food arrives. We’ve ordered steak and chips. He eats it, head down as if he’s swimming in his plate, occasionally coming up for air. Despite my rolling stomach, I have to stop after a few mouthfuls. The meat feels heavy. It’s been so long since I had decent stuff like this that my teeth – more used to cold baked beans – can’t work their way through.
‘You’ve had enough?’ says Mary-Lou like I’ve let her down.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘But I’m stuffed already.’
Tim leans over in my direction and grabs the rest of my steak without so much as a ‘please’. He wolfs it down as if I might try to snatch it back.
Something’s loose inside my mouth. I pull it out. It’s a tooth that’s been giving me some gyp for a while. It bleeds a bit but it doesn’t hurt. It’s not the first I’ve lost and it won’t be the last.
‘That’s unlucky. Is there a dentist near here?’
I laugh out loud.
‘What’s so funny?’ says the woman’s husband.
‘We haven’t been to a dentist for years,’ says Tim, his mouth half full.
