Thrown Away Child

by Louise Allen

  I was speechless. Fat, salty tears started rolling down my cheeks. The truth was further than I could possibly explain. I had started really happily at this new school and I was again being bullied for being smelly. And I was smelly because I wasn’t allowed baths or showers and even my soap and flannel had been taken away. But I was so upset I couldn’t speak. That was the end of the meeting and we were ushered out.

  I looked at Barbara. Why was she doing this to me? She seemed to really enjoy my humiliation. She smirked at me, turned and walked away. When I got home she gave me an old frayed towel that she used for the dogs, a white bottle of MUM roll-on deodorant and a flannel. I was told I would be allowed two showers a week from now on. I made sure I didn’t look too excited, as I knew now that if I liked something it was a good reason to take it away. So I bit my lip and said a very polite ‘Thank you, Mummy,’ and behaved like a good little girl. Inside I was cheering; outside, I looked demure. That was how the war had to be won.

  Although I’d started my middle school enthusiastically, and had a bit of a difficult time over my body odour, two things did get better around this time. The first and most important thing was art. This school was much more interested in helping its pupils express themselves with both art and music, and one day the art teacher, Mr Tunning, told us there was going to be a competition. I got very excited. Art was the one thing I could do. I was drawing all the time at home, on any spare piece of computer paper that Ian left around. He had loads of it, big white and green striped sheets with holes down the side, that I asked to have – and I would draw and draw and draw. I loved making pictures, especially of people and things, like flowers and the dog. I would sit with Sean and draw his knickknacks or plastic flowers and his chocolate Labrador, Frida. We were told we had to draw our ‘Family Tree’. I realised, as we walked home, that I had no idea what my family tree was. I didn’t really understand what it meant. I had no sense of where I had really come from, or who belonged to me. I actually felt that I had no one. I was constantly told I was unwanted, thrown away, discarded. I didn’t have the same blood as Barbara and Ian. I didn’t ‘belong’ to William (who was gone anyway), or to Sean or the Polish people. I did ask Barbara and Ian and they both just shrugged off the question. I never got an answer.

  However, I had an idea. I begged paper from Barbara, Ian and Sean, old boxes and stuff from the shed and garage, and I built a huge five-foot tree with Sellotape and cardboard. It was based on an old apple tree in the garden, which was an interesting shape. I stared at the trees in the park, too, and saw all their wonderful colours and shapes. It was huge, with a greeny brown and purple trunk and loads of big branches with blossoms made out of collage from magazines and newspapers. I made it in the corner of Ian’s garage. I laid the cardboard on the ground and Sellotaped it all together. Then I got to work. It was a fantastic experience, and I didn’t notice anything around me. I even forgot I was hungry for once. I drew on birds in a nest with wonderful feathers. I coloured it all in with felt-tips.

  It was a huge work of art. I carried it into school wrapped in two black bin bags (which I begged for), and placed it next to all twenty-nine other pictures, which were of ‘typical’ family trees, drawn on a single piece of A4. Mine looked really big, colourful and different.

  When Mr Tunning came in he looked at all the work and said, ‘Wow, everyone has done an amazing job.’ We all beamed. Then he looked at mine – which was literally standing out above the rest – and he said, ‘Who did this?’ I put my hand up very slowly.

  ‘This is the best in the class,’ he said. ‘Louise, this is truly fantastic – you’ve won.’

  To my utter amazement, the whole class clapped. Me. They clapped me – the smelly odd girl in weird clothes who no one usually wanted to sit next to. The girl who couldn’t really read or write properly. The one thing I could do, though, was draw and paint. I felt my heart swell with pride and tears prick my eyes. My tree was best! It was a fantastic moment. And all because I had no idea who my family actually was!

  A week later it was announced that the prize was a trip to the Tate Gallery in London. I had been chosen to go with six of the children who had done the best pictures. I couldn’t believe it. We were going in a minibus with our art teacher. I had never been on a proper day trip to something like a museum or gallery, and it was a really fantastic prize. Of course, Barbara didn’t say ‘well done’ or anything like that but the night before the trip I was incredibly excited. When I got home from school I asked if I could make a packed lunch for myself – but Barbara refused to let me touch the kitchen. I also asked if I could have a clean shirt and skirt, as I really wanted to look good for the trip.

  Suddenly she turned and bore down on me with a nasty look on her face. ‘That bloody school is filling your head with ideas.’ I felt my enjoyment freeze completely. ‘You’re nothing special, my lady, you’re just a stupid little girl who can’t read or write properly.’

  She looked down her pointy nose at me and sneered. ‘The likes of you will never make a living from art. Don’t be ridiculous. Only rich people can do art. People like you have to work.’

  I felt all the excitement and happiness drain out of me. Then she said, for a final slap, ‘Your mum is a slut and your dad is a drunk, and if you don’t watch it you’ll go the same way.’

  My bubble was burst. The next day I went on the school trip in my dirty shirt and skirt. There was a grubby brown stain round the neck and I smelt fairly bad. I felt like I had a heavy stone in my stomach and I no longer wanted to go on the trip to London. The prize already felt spoiled. All the popular kids jumped on the bus past me and grabbed all the window seats. I just sat at the back of the bus feeling nothing. I didn’t care any more about the trip to the Tate, or the bus journey or the packed lunch. I just felt heavy.

  ‘Are you all right, Louise?’ Mr Tunning asked kindly when no one sat next to me.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ I said in a small voice. How could I begin to tell him what was going on for me, or at home? It all seemed completely impossible to explain. Who would believe it? Where would I start?

  As we got nearer to London – my first time there – I did begin to feel my heart lift a little as I took in all the buildings, the shapes, the lights, the colours, the roads, the cars, the clothes, billboards – absolutely everything. I didn’t even feel sick. Everyone on the bus was excited as we neared the gallery. We parked the minibus and walked to the Tate, an enormous building. I fell in love. I was amazed by the pictures, the art, the colour of the walls, the light, the little white cards with things written on. It was all completely wonderful.

  At lunchtime we had our food outside on the steps. I watched as another girl took out a purple plastic Disney box, which had a little note to ‘Darling Sarah’ inside, ‘from your mum, with love – have a wonderful, creative day’. She had gorgeous fresh food, lovingly prepared. I took out a plastic sandwich bag with a plain white cheese sandwich in it. No drink, no extras. And certainly no note. I wondered what it would be like to have a loving mum like Sarah’s who wished me well and wanted me to have a nice day, and who packed food for me with love, not hate.

  After lunch, we wandered round the gallery some more and I saw some amazing things made of wood, and brick, and metal. My eyes were opened. Near the end of the day I stood next to a big American man who was talking to a woman, saying, ‘Art is for everyone.’ He had dark shoulder-length hair and sideburns, a green shirt with a strange, lace-up collar, and was younger than our teachers. His blonde friend was beautifully dressed in a long flowing dress with lots of beads. I was as interested in these two people as I was in the gallery.

  On the way home, in the bus, I could smell my shirt wafting up after a long day walking about and felt embarrassed. But I kept seeing the two beautiful people: the man and the woman, and how he said, ‘Art is for everyone.’ I realised I was part of ‘everyone’. I loved art. It was for me, too – smelly or not; unwanted or not.

  I suddenly realised, watching
the light become dull and the streetlights flicker on as the roads whooshed by, that I wanted to be an artist, and that the world of the Tate was also the world for me. Those people were people I liked, too. But that also the most important thing would be to keep this idea to myself – it was too precious to be smashed by the likes of Barbara. It would be secret. All mine. I hugged it to myself. However, there were even more challenges to overcome.

  Apart from art, the other thing I liked doing was singing. I had spent many afternoons and evenings with Sean, with him singing old Irish tunes and sometimes playing his tin whistle. It was magic. He also had an old radio that we could listen to together while he read the paper and I drew. He taught me some songs, and even though we didn’t have music in the house, I really loved hearing his tunes. At middle school I always liked the singing we did in class, and at Christmas and the end of term. I didn’t think I had a great voice but singing made me feel happy.

  I think because I said so little at home – and had to watch what I said all the time in case I got into trouble – that I liked the freedom of singing, of making sound. After the art competition and day trip I made a couple of friends at school. Actually, a lot of the children asked me to draw things for them when they were doing pictures, like arms and legs and things, so I became a tiny bit more accepted. One of my new friends at middle school, Janet, was in the choir. She kept saying, ‘Why don’t you join?’ It was after school on a Thursday. I really wanted to try but I felt very shy about singing in front of the teacher, Mrs Isaacs.

  One lunchtime we were sitting in the school field and Janet got out Jackie magazine, which we all loved reading. At the back were the words for a Marie Osmond song called ‘Paper Roses’. We both sang this song out loud to our heart’s content and we even harmonised with each other. We smiled and laughed. I felt carefree for once. It was fantastic making music together and it was a whole new experience for me. I loved it. There was an audition for choir coming up the next Monday and Janet kept saying, ‘Go on, Louise, you can do it. Pleeeese.’ It was great that she wanted me to join. I was beginning to make a friend. I felt wanted for once.

  That evening I spent time thinking how I could ask Barbara. In the end I plucked up the courage and told her about the audition and singing ‘Paper Roses’ with Janet in the field. She burst into nasty laughter.

  ‘Why would anyone want you?’ she sneered at me. ‘Are you completely mad?’

  Nonetheless, I was determined to have a go. This was a real chance for me to start joining in things despite my appearance and lack of learning. The art prize had given me a real boost and I felt I could at least try for the choir. So on Monday, despite being one of the shyest children in the whole school, I went along to the audition. Singing out loud in front of Mrs Isaacs, standing by the piano, was a pretty big deal. My knees were knocking and I felt really sick. As I started singing ‘Paper Roses’, my palms and armpits were sweating. I was so nervous I was shaking visibly. But Mrs Isaacs was nice and said she would count me in, and she did: ‘Louise – are you ready? One, two, three…’

  I had to stop and cough a couple of times but I got through it, despite my little coughs and splutters. My friend Janet was sitting on the floor smiling at me, along with some other children who were waiting for their auditions. There were also some dinner ladies I liked (and who were nice to me) across the hall by the kitchen door that backed onto the hall. At the end of my song a couple of the dinner ladies clapped. My friend Janet also whooped. I went bright red but I felt amazing. I had actually done it.

  ‘Well done,’ said Mrs Isaacs, smiling. ‘I will let you know tomorrow.’

  I was desperate to go to school the next day, Tuesday, to find out if I had got in. But Barbara kept me home: ‘You’re not looking well,’ she said. I was fine but, as always, she wanted me to help her with the garden, the chickens, the housework. I was eager to get to school, and just wanted to know if I had got into the choir.

  ‘I doubt you’ll get in with your croaky voice,’ said Barbara, as we hung out the washing. ‘They want proper singers. You can’t hold a tune.’

  I didn’t think she would know if I could or not, as I’d never sung anything with her; she wasn’t interested in music. But I said nothing, and just hung up Ian’s discoloured underpants and her grey underwear in silence. I was then put to weeding the vegetable patch. Later I heard Barbara’s voice wafting through the kitchen window out over the lawn – she must be on the phone: ‘Oh dear, she will be disappointed.’

  She came out and stood over me, looking grim. ‘That was the school,’ she said. ‘They said you’re totally tone deaf and you are not in the choir.’

  I hadn’t heard the phone ring but I was devastated. I felt so ashamed. I must have been horrendous as a singer. I felt such a failure and tears filled my eyes and fell on the hard ground as I pulled out weed after weed. I felt angry with Janet – how could she put me up for something so embarrassing? I was as useless as ever. I felt ashamed, hurt and desolate, as my world had suddenly collapsed. Yet again.

  I was off school for two weeks then. Barbara kept me home to do housework and I didn’t care, as I wasn’t in the choir. I had imagined singing in a little group round the piano next to Janet, smiling. Or being in musicals and concerts. And now I was outcast, yet again. Not good enough. I didn’t want to go to school now, as I felt so embarrassed. I had humiliated myself in front of people. Even in front of the jolly dinner ladies, who were often nice to me and gave me extra food. I went back to school with my eyes firmly down on the pavement. I didn’t want to see anybody, and I didn’t want to talk to Janet. I stayed very quiet and hidden in the back of the class.

  That lunchtime I passed Mrs Isaacs in the corridor and she stopped right in front of me. I held my breath and wanted to disappear.

  ‘Hello, Louise,’ she said warmly. ‘Are you coming on Thursday?’

  I blinked up at her, confused. ‘You got in, you know,’ she said.

  My heart leapt. I didn’t know what to say. How had Barbara got it so wrong? That evening I told Barbara my news.

  ‘Well, you can think again,’ she said. ‘I’m not picking you up late. Don’t be stupid. You’re not going to choir. They just took pity on you, that’s all.’

  So, on Thursday, I really wanted to go to choir but I didn’t think I could. How could I explain it to Barbara? After school I hovered outside the music room, listening to them warming up, and then I realised: if Barbara came to the school to get me she would pull me out of choir in front of everyone and make up some story. So I went outside to the playground and just waited for her. She was late, as usual. I missed choir, and also the chance to attend.

  ‘I told you, you weren’t going,’ she said when she picked me up, finally. ‘They said you sounded terrible. You must have got it all wrong.’

  And that was the end of that. I was very unhappy after this. Although I’d had the experience of the dinner ladies cheering me, Janet whooping and Mrs Isaacs telling me I had got in, I missed choir and all the fun that went with it. I had a real complex then about my voice. I was sure I couldn’t sing very well, as Barbara continued to tell me I was terrible. It was hard to hang onto the good things when I was told all the time how bad I was.

  As compensation for feeling terrible, or when I had been very badly beaten or punched, or left in my room all day, I would find a way to sneak down and have a swig of cherry brandy. It would help take the pain away. It reminded me of the good times with William, too, when I was not alone. Disappointment and punishment always made me want to have another drink, and another, and I got very clever at disguising the bottles and myself after drinking. It was my quiet act of rebellion, but it was also an act of survival.

  Around this time there was a family wedding on Ian’s side (it was a rare event to go anywhere, especially with family). I wanted to be a bridesmaid in a pretty new dress, but Barbara put paid to that: ‘Why would anyone spend money on you? Have you looked at yourself? Anyway, you’re not real family. You�
�re not blood.’

  So at the wedding I spent my time going round all the tables and slurping the leftover drinks. When the adults weren’t looking, or were doing something else, I would sneak their leftover champagne and get under the table and drink it. I got very squiffy at that wedding. It was a lovely feeling. I felt warm, muzzy and fuzzy, loose, and it felt like nothing mattered to me now. I felt free. I loved it. But I was always careful to stop. I never went too far, as I knew I couldn’t give the game away. Nobody noticed. Or if they did they didn’t say anything, either to Barbara or me.

  I was very careful how I did it in my usual very secretive way. I watched the adults carefully, noticing when they were chatting to or laughing with others, or turned away, and then I saw my chance. I was usually aware of when I had Barbara’s gimlet eye on me, and then I was a perfect little girl, being quiet and orderly. I knew if she got wind of me supping the drinks I would have been punched not only into next week, but into next year and beyond.

  After the disappointment of the choir and the bridesmaid dress and all the usual punishments, I wrote a letter to one of the social workers saying how unhappy I was at home. I found an official letter on the kitchen table and copied down the address and name. I wrote and told them, in my awful English, about how miserable I was. I drew a picture of a little house with no door and a girl trapped at the window that showed how I felt. I hoped that someone would come to the house and talk to me, see the truth and rescue me. Surely someone would visit and I could tell them how horrible everything really was at home?

  I waited and waited but no one came. I carried on going to school some days, and then being kept home out of the blue by Barbara for days and weeks at a time. When the social workers did come round, I was kept away from them in another room. So I didn’t know if they ever got my letter. At school I was always falling behind and trying to catch up, and feeling very stupid as a consequence. There seemed to be nobody to talk to except for dear old Sean, so I would pop round to see him and have milk and biscuits, or bread and cheese, whenever I could. He would always make me feel just that little bit better about things. Just for a while. He was really the only thing that kept me going.