Rumours

A lot of people know mother. Some of these people don’t like her; some of these people positively hate her. Many people comment that I look just like mother. I think this may be the reason why they sometimes direct their hatred towards me.
I had one friend at high school, she was my best friend. She came from a nice regular family which consisted of a mother, father and brother. I loved going round to their house as I loved seeing her parents together and I craved the atmosphere that her family generated. However my friend’s parents never really approved of me and they made it quite clear that their reasons for this disapproval stemmed from who my mother was. I was tarred with the same brush as mother and because of this was considered to be a bad influence and generally no good. Mother would never give me a reason when I asked her why my friends family thought so badly of her, her response was always to make derogatory comments about my friend and her family.
My friend’s parents were not alone in their disapproval of mother. Daddy’s sister (once my step-aunt) told me that no one knew who my real father was. She said daddy had told her that mother had said to him that he was either a soldier from the local barracks or an Irish man. Daddy’s new wife told me that no one knew who it was, that it was either the soldier, the Irishman or a cousin! All these comments left me feeling very confused, disorientated and angry. I remembered my doubts following the initial telephone call with my so called father and these comments reinforced my confusion.
I tried to talk to mother about it. I told her the things people were saying. For the first time I tell her about that first phone call at grandmothers. I beg mother to tell me the truth. But she won’t, Mother tells me that as I think she is a slut (I haven’t said that!) she really can’t answer any of my questions. The arguments get heated and I am sent to live with daddy for a while, where I have to listen to daddy’s new wife repeatedly telling me how bad mother is and how no one knows who my father is. After a short while I’m sent back to mothers to live.
My head is full of questions, I want answers. I keep asking mother to tell me the truth. Mother gives the same answer every time, if I think she’s a slut then she can’t answer my questions. She is never sad when she shouts these words, she’s laughing. The arguments get more and more heated as I’m desperate for an answer and I get very angry. I shut myself away in my room or in the bathroom and pull my hair out by the roots and cry and rock my body to try to comfort myself. I tell no one about this.
One day during one of these monumental arguments when I’m asking mother to tell me the truth about who my father is she starts her laughing at me again, but this time she actually laughs right in my face. Her eyes look hateful but her mouth is laughing and I can feel her breath and spittle on my face. I can’t stand it. I lash out, striking mother. We are at the top of the stairs. Mother almost falls down the stairs but I catch by the arm, just in time. Mother screams and says I have hurt her arm and she runs down the stairs to the telephone and phones her friend who lives in the same road as us. I’ve been brought up to call this woman aunt; she’s not really my aunt, just another pseudo aunt. The aunt comes round and she and Mother go into another room to talk. I am left alone and I am crying. I’m afraid of what may happen to me. Mother and the aunt come out to the hallway; I can see them from the top of the stairs where I’m sitting. The aunt encourages Mother to make a phone call. Mother does, she telephone’s the social services and tells on me. A social worker comes to the house I am being taken away to be put into what they call care. I don’t want to go am terrified. I want to stay where I am. I want my father, whoever and wherever he may be. I am sent to London for one week to my alleged father’s after which I have been told that I am being sent to a Foster home. My alleged father cries when I tell him.

Number 3 Is Dead

He is dead. Number 3 is dead. We are asked by mother if we want to go and see him in the coffin. I say yes.
I want to make sure he is dead.
It is really creepy at the undertakers. Number 3’s sister is there having travelled down from Essex. She is really crying and wailing, she is hanging on to the open coffin and she keeps throwing her upper body across it which makes the coffin shake. In my head I imagine that she will pull the coffin over and that number 3 will fall out onto the floor. I wonder to myself if I will laugh out loud if this does happen. But it does not, and so I just stand staring at number 3. He really is dead. Number 3 is dead.
There is a lot of tension at the funeral as number 3’s ex wife has turned up, and even though she is standing discreetly at the back of the church mother is not pleased with this.
In the evening it hits me. I have seen a dead body. The dead body is number 3. At bedtime I am frightened as I think the ghost of number 3 will come and get me whilst I’m sleeping. I wonder if my brother and sister are also frightened as they have said nothing. I want mother to stay with us but she does not because there is someone knocking on the front door. Mother goes to answer it, it is the Life Insurance man, and mother gets her coat and goes out with him to the pub. I lay in bed wondering how she can leave us alone at a time like this. But my mind is clouded by thoughts of a ghostly number 3 and so I cover myself completely with the duvet and remind myself that this time number 3 has really gone. Number 3 is dead.

In My Fathers' House

Their place is amazing. I’ve never seen anything like it. They have an amazing cooker, it’s called an AGA, and I’ve never seen one before. They have a piano and really nice furniture. The whole place is a little bit messy but this just adds to the appeal. My stomach is still churning with nerves. The wife is lovely. She is very pretty, really trendy, she has really nice clothes and shoes. But above all this I can tell immediately that she is a really good mother. The two girls, (my half sisters?) really love their mother and, I notice, their mother is always talking to them and cuddling and kissing them. Father is really handsome and funny. The two girls call him daddy and they clearly really adore him. He has a sports car, his own business, and a villa in Spain. Really, for the 15 year old girl I am he is my dream father. We all go to Petticoat Lane market. I am given chestnuts and latkas and pomegranates to eat on the street whilst we’re walking in the market. I have never even seen these things before, let alone tasted them. I find them delicious. We stay at their place for a couple of days. I feel like I’m in a whirlwind, everything is so exciting yet at the same time a little scary. I have not forgotten the initial doubtful telephone call to grandmothers; it is continually in my mind. But I do not want think about the possibility of this man not being my father. Everything is too perfect and I want to be part of it. They seem to have accepted me. I want to be perfect for them; I want them to really want me and to really love me.
I am very careful with my appearance, I mean my hair. I spend a lot of time making sure the bald patches are covered up. I don’t want them to find out what I have done and what I continue to do. They can’t find out that I pull my hair out; it has to remain a secret. They definitely wouldn’t want me if they knew.
All too soon the trip is over and my sister and I return to our home city and mother. Upon our return mother has taken to her bed with a mystery illness that has no symptoms except for the bad mood she is in. Mother refuses to see the gifts that father had brought for me and she does not want to hear anything about the visit. She does not voice her disapproval but makes it felt by her stony silence and the way she continually pulls the blankets up around her. Finally, as I turn to leave the room she speaks. Mother reminds me that I must never tell Daddy about any trips to London. When I ask her why not? Mother again replies “Just don’t, it would break his heart”. I don’t understand this but I do as I am told and keep this secret tucked away with my other secret.

Hello Father

January 1st 1982. I travel by train with my sister to London to meet my father. I’m really excited but also really nervous. My sister won’t talk to me about him, all she will tell me he is he is married again with two children, both girls. Throughout the journey I keep thinking about the first phone call that took place at grandmothers. I wonder if he is my real father. I tell myself he must be, why else would I be sent to him? We arrive at Victoria station. I’ve never seen so many people, the station is packed. My sister tells me that we have been told to go to the taxi rank where we shall be met by them. But when we get there no one is waiting for us. We wait and wait but nobody comes. My sister tries to telephone them but there is no answer. In my head I am convinced that they have come and are hidden in the crowds of people that are milling about. I’m convinced that they have seen me, that this man who I am told is my father has seen me and decided that he does not like the look of me so has decided to run away. To disappear into the crowds. My sister does not seem at all worried, but I am really scared. My sister telephone’s mother and tells her that no one has come to meet us. Mother says we must return home. I can’t believe this is happening. I want to meet him. I want to see my father. Unbeknown to us mother has telephoned the station. We hear our names being called out over the tannoy system. We’re being asked to hurry to the gate to board the last train home to our city. We are running, my sister and I towards the departure gate. We reach the gate, the train still there. All the time I am thinking that they have seen me, my father and his family, and they don’t like the look of me. They hate me, they don’t want me. I’m still running toward the train when I become aware that I cannot hear or feel my sister running by my side. I stand still and turn round. I can’t see my sister at first, I am terrified, and I think I must have lost her in the crowds. Suddenly I do see her, in the distance, back by the departure gate. My sister is being hugged by a man and a woman and two smaller girls. They are all happy, embracing and kissing each other. I remain on the spot where I have stopped running, standing still, watching. This is how I meet the man they call my father. Is he my father? Is this my father? I walk towards them, my stomach churning with nerves. Then they greet me and embrace me, and we head off to their place. I am aware of feeling nothing at this point. I am just numb.

Lost Innocence

I have a boyfriend now. I am 14. He is seven years older than me. I have never had sex before and I am glad because I don’t want anyone to get too close to me. I don’t want anyone to touch my hair, to try to run their fingers through it, as to do so would expose me, expose my bald patches and questions would surely be asked. I definitely don’t want anyone to see me naked, to see that I have no hair between my legs and sore patches from where I have been picking at myself.
Mother has always had men, either husbands or boyfriends. I often hear noises coming from Mothers bedroom when she is in there with a man. The noises come from her and whatever man she happens to have at the time. I believe that these are the sounds and noises of sex. I believe that girls must have sex with men, that sex is the most important part to having a man and that girls are nothing without a man.
Mother has lots of books about sex. I have looked at these books, I have plenty of opportunity to do so as Mothers works at night and there is no one to look after me and my siblings,so we are left on our own all night.
My boyfriend really wants to have sex. I am really scared but think that I must do it as it is what girls are expected to do, so one night I let him. I don’t want to get undressed, so I leave my clothes on and just push my underwear to one side.
We do it. We have sex on the couch. I hate it. It is so painful.
I make all the sort of noises that I have heard Mother make. This pleases my boyfriend. He is very pleased with himself. He thinks that I like it.
But I am just pretending.
I hate it.

The Return Of Number 3

Number 3 has come back to live with us. Mother has asked him to. He is dying. He has cancer. Mother fusses around number 3. I don’t understand her behaviour as she had separated from him and had other boyfriends since he had been gone. But Mother loves a drama. Special nurses come to the house to see to Number 3 and special meals are delivered for him.
My sister and brother avoid Number 3. I help Mother with him, she expects me to. I heat up the special meals over a pan of boiling water, sometimes I give Number 3 rice pudding. He can’t eat very much and he is very thin, weak and frail. He looks like he is dying. As I feed the rice pudding into Number 3’s shrivelled mouth I realise that I am no longer afraid of him.
I think about going to meet my Father in London. Mother tells me that I must never tell Daddy about any trips I may take to see my Father. When I ask her why not, she tells me that it would break his heart to know. I ask her why? Mother replies that it just would ,adding that I should keep my mouth shut.
I know how to keep my mouth shut, to keep a secret.
After all no one knows my secret. That I pull my hair out by the roots.

Telephone Call

At weekends I travel by train to the next town to meet school friends and hang out. When I return I always ring Mother to say that I am back in our city and am walking the short distance home. One weekend during this routine phone call Mother tells me that I must go to my Grandmother’s house before coming home, to meet up with my sister, and wait for a call from my Father. I think that she means Daddy is ringing and I do not understand why he would be ringing me at Grandmothers instead of home. When I ask why, Mother sounds angry and says I must go because grandmother is expecting a call from my father, my real Father!!!
I am beyond excited. This is a moment I have dreamt of for a long time. I can feel my heart beating so fast that I think it may burst in my chest. I reach Grandmothers house and see that my sister is already there waiting for the call, she is very calm. I am not. As I am begging Grandmother to let me talk first the call comes. Instead of answering the telephone immediately Grandmother turns to me and tells me that I must wait in the other room whilst she talks first. I don’t understand why she is making me do this but I am so anxious that the telephone will stop ringing that I do as I am told and leave the room. My sister is allowed to stay with Grandmother and the ringing telephone. I don’t go into the other room where I have been told to wait; instead I listen outside the door with the ringing telephone, Grandmother and my sister. The ringing stops and for a brief moment I think that Grandmother has not answered the call, but then I hear her talking. She is talking to my Father!!! I am so excited but I keep quiet so Grandmother does not hear me listening at the door. I hear her talk about my sister, but not me. I cannot hear her talking about me. I can only hear Grandmother’s end of the conversation but from what I can hear it is obvious that he is asking to talk to my sister as I hear her say that she has something to tell him before he can do that. I hear Grandmother tell him that he has another daughter, me. Again, from Grandmother’s end of the conversation it is obvious that there is a dispute going on about me. It is obvious that he knows nothing about me. He does not even know that I exist. Grandmother continues to argue and I hear her tell him that he can speak to both of us, my sister and me or else he will not be allowed to speak to my sister at all.
I am crushed. I feel tears pricking at my eyes and my cheeks flush with the embarrassment of the shame of my existence as I move away from the door and enter the next room where I had been told to wait.
After what feels like an eternity Grandmother comes to me to tell me that I am to go and speak on the telephone, that it is my turn now. She can see that I have been crying but she does not ask me what is wrong, I think that she must just think that I am over excited. She has no idea that I listened at the door. Inside my stomach feels like it is in knots but I do as I am told and pick the telephone up and talk to the man at the other end, the man who I am told is my Father.
Because of what I heard whilst listening at the door I feel weird and uncomfortable, I'm so embarrassed that he did not know about me that when a visit is set up I don’t go, I am not brave enough, so my sister travels alone. I think that I shall ask my sister all about him, Father, on her return, but she refuses to tell me anything. I have so many doubts because of what I heard at the door. Is he really my Father? I tell myself that surely he must be, why else would I be sent to him?
Other than telling me to go to Grandmother’s in the first instance Mother makes absolutely no comment nor does she ask any questions regarding the phone call. When I try to talk to her about it she just looks at me blankly and either walks away from me or changes the subject.
I decide that I shall be on the next visit.