In Search of Adam Page 3

  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.

  Never to be gone.

  Dirty dirty sand monster.

  I used my key. It was tied to a piece of string and fastened with a safety pin inside my brown parka. I fumbled with the pin. My hands were shaking. Sand and blood poked from the tips of my nails. I was dirty. Sand clung in between my fingers. Dirty dirty dirty. I needed to wash my hands. I needed to scrub and scrub and make my hands clean again.

  I let myself in. Wiped my feet on the welcome mat and slowly climbed the ruby carpeted stairs. Each tiny footstep sent a flame up my inner thigh. Rita and my father were in the kitchen. My movements were slow. I wanted them to come out. I wanted them to see my pain. I had no voice. Eddie had stolen my voice. I could not speak. No energy. No power. Slowly. Slowly. Slowly. A tiny skulking mouse. Pain flicked with each step. My father shouted a hello and then turned his attention back to Rita. They did not come out to me. She was giggling again.

  Alone in the bathroom. I took off my school uniform. Blood damp socks and ripped school shirt. I neatly folded my soiled clothes and placed them beneath the radiator. A perfect pile.

  Undressed. Exposed. Naked in the centre of the small square room. Too late to cry. I did not cry. I had not cried. Big girls don’t cry. Do you hear me? Big girls don’t cry. My father and Rita had moved into the lounge. I could hear their laughter. The cackles and giggles and boom boom booming. They were drinking from their tin beer cans. Their laughter glided up the red stairs and squeezed under the locked bathroom door. Their joy rebounded between the ceiling and linoleum floor.

  Bounce

  bounce

  bounce

  bounce.

  As I stood stark naked. In the centre of the bathroom.

  I faced the bathroom cabinet. Focused on a perfect thumb print smeared on the bottom right hand corner of the mirror. I forced my eyes to fix on the girl who was hidden beneath that smudge. Through the smears. I stared into myself. I saw my blue eyes. My mother’s blue eyes. I stared at my matted brown hair. Dirty dirty hair. I needed the sand off me. Get off me. Get off me. Nasty nasty sand. It was everywhere. It was swallowing me up. I opened the bathroom cabinet. I took out a pair of scissors. They were sticky and blunt. I tugged at my hair.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Chop.

  Clumps fell into the sink. A nest of hair. Grooming and nurturing collected and then plunged. Congealed feathers over onto the linoleum floor. I didn’t have my mother’s skill. Long strands clung to my gluey fingers, mingled with the knotted blood and sand. I needed to be rid of the sand. I wanted it off my skin. I wanted it out of my hair. It clung. Sticky sticky sand. I yanked. I tugged. It had climbed my hair and grafted onto my scalp. I wanted to scream. I wanted rid. Get off me. Off off off.

  I turned the chrome taps. Hot and cold. I waited in the centre of the room. I climbed into the pea green bath. The water was cold. Rita had used all of the hot water. Rita liked a hot bath. The bath had not been cleaned. An orange ring clung to the slippery sides. I climbed in. I gasped. I was numbed. Pain pain go away. Pain pain go away. I lay stiff. I was rigid. Straight. Head bobbed. Ears submerged into the rising cold. Muffled reality. Frozen sounds. Arms stiff. Blue feet. I dared not move. Sand began to sink onto the bottom of the pea green bath. Floating in my sea. Sailing in my dirt. Away away for a year and a day. I drifted. I danced by the light of the moon.

  The water needed to enter me. To wash away his dirt. I stung. The fire roared. I dared not move. I could not let the water in. The fire roared. And roared. And roared. Tiny white body. Flat and smooth. A swarm of bruises erupted from my veins. Gobbled up my skin. Decorated my secret places. Pain pain go away.

  I heard my father calling. I sat to attention and listened. He was going to the pub with Rita. A swift half. Then they would be back. A swift half and then I would tell him all about Eddie. I had to tell him. I didn’t understand why, but I knew that it didn’t feel right. I needed my father to make everything better. He would know what to do. Too many secrets. Hush hush. My head was pounding. Whirling. Swirling. Round and round. Twirling secrets round and round. Hush hush.

  Again. My father called. I wasn’t to open the door to any strangers and I could have some chocolate from the fridge. It was Rita’s chocolate, but I could have some. Just that once. Four squares. They were in a hurry to get to the pub. Meeting Mr Johnson from Number 19. Just a swift half. Don’t open the door to any strangers. Did you hear me Jude? I didn’t know what a stranger was. Surrounded by neighbours. No strangers in Disraeli Avenue. No need to fear strangers. I was alone. All alone. I was naked in the bath. I was seven years, two months and twelve days old.

  My father and Rita went out. I heard the door. Slam.

  He left me all alone. I needed him and he had left me. I needed someone to make me better. I needed someone to explain the pain. I needed someone to make that pain go away. Pain pain go away. This wasn’t how it was supposed to be. Slam and alone. Fear attacked the veins in my toes. I stayed upright. Bolted within the bath. Shivering. Blue. Trembling. Shuddering. I was alone. The house suddenly seemed so big. So empty. So still. Cold. So cold. I was terrified that Eddie would come back. He would be watching them leave. He would know that I was alone. He would enter my mother’s house. I was naked in the bath. I would be trapped. He would kick down the door. He would hurt me. Aunty Maggie had a spare key. He could let himself in. I wouldn’t be able to stop him. Help me. Help me. Help me.

  I was sick into my bath.

  Sand and sick mingled. Dirty dirty bath. I dried myself. Delicate touches made me gasp in pain. Numbness faded and my secrets flared. I dressed ready for bed. Purple pyjamas covered with cream teddy bears in purple boots. Father Christmas had left them for me on Christmas Eve. I had been on the good list. I would not go to bed. I wanted to wait for my father. I needed to wait and ask him about Eddie. Slowly, I moved down the stairs. Tiny steps caused cascades of pain to rumble in my tummy and tumble down my inner thighs. I sat on the bottom red stair.


  Through the frosted glass panel on the green front door, I watched the darkness stumble down to the ground. I saw the streetlamp flame. I waited for shadows. Then. I hid in those shadows. I watched the twinkling star. In sight of the frosted panel of glass. I was a guard. A quivering sentry. I waited.

  I heard my father. He was singing as he walked and Rita’s pixie boots click clacked a rhythmic beat. I heard them coming. He had had his swift half. He was happy. I had not turned the light on. I was rooted on the bottom red stair. Alone in the dark. My nails dug into my palms, but my knuckles were fixed. I concentrated through the pain. So much pain.

  Spain…France…Scotland…

  America…London…

  Libya…

  Malta…

  Tibet…

  Victoria…

  Boston…

  Greenland…

  Spain…

  France…

  Scotland…

  America…

  London…

  Libya…