by Angela Hart
It was cloudy that day and rain was forecast for the afternoon, so we decided to go ice-skating in the next town.
‘I’ve never done it before,’ Vicky said. ‘Is it difficult?’
‘No!’ Jonathan said. ‘It’s very easy to pick up.’
Michelle and I shared a knowing look when he said this, because we’d seen Jonathon in action on the ice several times and he was very uncoordinated. However, Vicky actually did find it very easy to pick up and was soon looping the ice rink with ease, leaving Jonathan in her wake. He fell over so many times you could have wrung out his trousers by the end of the session.
‘Come on, Jonathan!’ Vicky cried whenever she saw him fall. ‘What’s the matter? It’s very easy to pick up, you know!’
‘I’m getting better,’ he called. ‘It’s just practice I need!’
Both Vicky and Michelle ribbed Jonathan relentlessly all the way back to the campsite, and then they proceeded to tell all the friends we’d made in the neighbouring caravans how hopeless he was. It was all done in good spirit and Vicky, being by far the cheekier of the two girls, led the teasing.
‘Let’s hope it doesn’t rain all night,’ she said. ‘Or how will Jonathan dry his wet clothes! Hey, Jonathan, would you like ice with your Coke or have you had enough today?!’
Jonathan jokingly waved his fist and chased a squealing Vicky around our caravan. It was great to see her looking so happy and carefree, and it was also a relief to see Jonathan letting his hair down: his nephew’s illness had hit us both very badly, and the holiday could not have come at a better time.
One of the teenagers from the caravan next door who had heard about our ice-skating trip suddenly started telling a story about a friend of hers who had had a ‘wipe-out’ at an ice rink.
‘I think he was like Jonathan,’ she giggled, ‘a little bit accident-prone! He fell over by the exit, landing on his hands, and you won’t believe what happened!’
‘What?’ everybody chorused, including Vicky.
‘Another skater ran over his hand and his little finger was nearly sliced right off.’
This was a very unexpected ending to the story. The way the teenager had set it up I was expecting there to be a funny twist in the tale, not a nasty accident.
‘Did he lose it?’ someone gasped.
‘Nearly. There was blood all over the ice and apparently it was touch and go, but in the end the doctors managed to sew his finger back on.’
‘Is he all right now?’
‘He’s fine! Amazing! Just has scars on his fingertip. Urgh! Imagine all that blood on the ice? That would properly freak you out, wouldn’t it?’
I noticed that Vicky had gone very quiet and turned a bit pale, and then she disappeared inside our caravan without saying a word to anyone. Jonathan and I gave each other a sideways glance, and when Vicky hadn’t emerged after several minutes I went to see if she was all right. She was standing very still in the middle of the caravan, not moving a muscle and staring blankly into space.
‘Are you OK, sweetheart?’ I asked tentatively, speaking in a soft voice so as not to startle her.
Vicky blinked repeatedly several times without looking at me.
‘I’m fine,’ she whispered eventually, but I could see that she wasn’t.
The colour had completely drained from her face and she was holding both her wrists with the opposite hand.
‘Are you squeamish, Vicky?’ I asked gently. ‘It was quite a gory story. I didn’t like it much myself.’
Vicky sunk onto the bench that pulled out to make her bed and then she sat there incredibly still, without speaking or looking at me. I slowly crossed the caravan and sat myself down beside her.
‘Not everybody likes to hear stories like that, Vicky. Some people find it difficult to listen and it makes them feel sick. Is that what happened to you?’
Vicky gazed forlornly ahead, not moving a muscle and not even acknowledging I was there, just as she had when we’d been out making the deliveries and she froze near her mum’s estate. What felt like several minutes went by and Vicky continued to sit statue-like. Eventually she took a slow, deep breath, and as she did so she bit her bottom lip.
‘My mum,’ she said flatly, still staring straight ahead. ‘She used to smash glass and then cut . . .’
‘It’s OK, sweetheart, you can tell me.’
‘Cut her fingers, the ends of her fingers.’
‘Did you see her?’
‘Yes. She only did it when I was watching. She made me watch.’
‘I’m so sorry to hear that, love. It must have been awful.’
‘It was. I didn’t want to watch but she made me. I would ask her to stop, over and over again.’
‘And did she listen to you?’
‘Sometimes. But other times she carried on, and it got worse.’
‘Worse?’
‘Yes.’
Vicky had tears dripping down her cheeks but she didn’t wipe them away; she still had hold of both her wrists. After a few minutes she stood up and washed her hands in the sink, splashing water all the way up to her elbows.
‘Sorry, Angela.’
‘You don’t need to say sorry at all. I am here to listen and to help if I can. Do you want to tell me any more?’
Vicky smudged her tears away and shook her head. The two of us then sat in silence for quite some time before she added, ‘I’m really sorry about being a nuisance with the clothes.’
‘Goodness me! That’s all right, love! It’s not that important, is it?’
‘I suppose not, but I’d like to explain. It must have been annoying to you, but the thing is, Angela, I’ve never had new clothes before.’
‘Oh, I see,’ I said, silently berating myself, because I had been irritated by Vicky’s awkward attitude to clothes shopping. Now it all seemed so obvious, but how many thirteen-year-old girls had never had new clothes before? It wasn’t a thought that had crossed my mind.
‘I had no idea,’ I stammered. ‘I’m sorry, I should have realised there was more to it . . .’
‘It’s OK, how would you know? That time you took me to C&A, it was the first time I’d ever been in a clothes shop. I didn’t really know what to do. It kind of spooked me!’
‘Well I can imagine it did! So, where did your clothes come from?’
‘Alf – he’s the man who lives next door to my mum – he used to bring bags for me, from the charity shops. That’s why nothing fitted and all my stuff was old and horrible.’
‘I see. That’s such a shame. I’m sorry.’
Vicky suddenly looked me straight in the eye, inhaling deeply as she did so, her eyes locked on mine intently. She appeared more angry than upset now, and then her eyes suddenly narrowed and blazed.
“The only time my mum bought me a new outfit was when I was six, and my nan was visiting. I was so pleased with it! I couldn’t believe how beautiful it was!’
‘What was it like?’
‘It was a dress with buttercups all around the hem, a pair of white tights, a yellow hairband and some shiny shoes.’
‘That must have been lovely . . .’
‘It was. But. . .’
I noticed that as she was talking Vicky was squeezing her hands into tight fists, and she was using so much force her knuckles had turned white.
‘I put it on and stared at myself in the mirror in the hall. It didn’t look like me! I’d never had such a pretty dress, and I’d never had new shoes, or even ones that fitted properly. Everything smelled nice and new too. I never wanted to take it off, ever, but . . .’
Vicky caught her breath and stopped speaking. I waited, expecting her to say some calamity had befallen the new dress, like she’d torn it or spilt something on it, but what she said was far worse than that.
‘I wore the outfit for about an hour, that’s all. As soon as Nan left my mum made me take it off and put on the smelly old stuff Alf gave me. And then. Well . . .’
‘Go on, love. Tell me what happened n
ext.’
‘Then my mum put everything back in the packet it came in, and returned the whole lot to the catalogue company. I even had to be the one who handed it back to the delivery driver, because Mum was asleep on the settee when he came to make his rounds on the estate.’
I could feel tears pricking my eyes as Vicky spoke.
‘Can I give you a hug?’ I asked, but she shook her head.
‘It’s OK. I also want to explain about the tracksuit, because I know you think I’m some kind of weirdo wearing it all the time!’
Vicky laughed bravely, but that just made me want to cry even more, and I couldn’t help letting a few tears escape from my eyes.
‘What happened is that Lorraine bought the tracksuit for me when I went to live with her. It was the first thing that had been bought for me that I could keep, and that’s why I like it so much. Lorraine couldn’t afford to get me anything else but she did get me some second-hand stuff that actually fitted, and they’re the other things I wear. I’m really sorry I’ve been a pain.’
‘Vicky, love, you really don’t need to apologise.’
‘Thanks,’ she said, sniffing and giving me a little smile, which seemed to signal the end of the conversation. ‘Now,’ she declared decisively, standing to her feet, ‘is there still time to take the mickey out of Jonathan?’
‘Yes!’ I grinned. ‘Of course there is! There’s always time for that!’
‘Great! OK. I’ll be out in a minute.’
I took my cue and stepped out of the caravan, leaving Vicky to compose herself – or so I thought. Two minutes later she appeared with a jug full of water and ice cubes, clearly having emptied the contents of the ice cube tray from the little freezer in the van.
‘Jonathan, would you like more ice?’ she said, before very unexpectedly tipping the full jug-load over his head.
There were gasps and squeals all around. I could tell that Jonathan was not actually very amused. It had given him a real shock and he was on his feet now, shivering, gasping for air and saying, ‘What on earth?’
Vicky was laughing her head off and so was Michelle, and soon everybody sitting in the vicinity of our caravan had joined in.
‘Don’t tell her off,’ I whispered as I handed Jonathan a towel. ‘I’ll explain later.’
‘OK,’ he said through gritted teeth, before saying jovially, ‘I’ll get you back for this, Vicky!’ and chasing her all around the van once more.
The next morning Vicky was up early and offered to walk to the convenience store in the centre of the campsite, as we needed bread and milk for breakfast.
‘You’re very willing today!’ I teased, as Michelle had gone to the shop most mornings before Vicky was even awake.
‘Just fancied a walk!’ Vicky chirped.
Unfortunately, when she returned I realised why she’d wanted to go to the shop; Vicky now smelled of smoke and had clearly had a cigarette or two on her travels. I was disappointed by this on two levels, and I decided to talk frankly to her.
‘Vicky, I’m not daft and I know you’ve had a cigarette this morning,’ I said as she put the milk in the fridge. ‘I thought you were trying to stop. I’m disappointed that you’re still smoking, but I’m also very upset that you’ve lied to me again.’
‘I haven’t! If you’d asked me if I’d had a cigarette I would have admitted it! The whole reason I did it behind your back and told a stupid little fib about the shop was because I didn’t want to upset you!’
‘But you did lie, Vicky. You said you volunteered to go to the shop because you wanted a walk, but the truth was you wanted a cigarette. I know things aren’t easy for you, but you’re not making it any easier by sneaking around behind my back. I’m on your side, you know!’
Vicky huffed and puffed, in a kind of ‘I can’t be bothered with all this’ way.
‘Well if you really are on my side, get off my case. I’m doing my best, OK?’
‘Vicky! I won’t have you talking to me like that. That was rude! I know you’ve been through a lot and I care about you a great deal. I want to help improve things, but I can’t if you’re lying to me. You said yourself that you want to stop smoking, so let’s talk about how we can keep you on track, hey?’
‘I just don’t think I can do it, Angela!’ she blurted out. ‘I can’t stop because I’m too stressed! Having a fag calms me down.’
It was an awful thing for a thirteen-year-old girl to admit and I had a lot of sympathy for her, and not just because of the way she had started to smoke, stealing cigarettes from her sleeping mother as she did. I had been through the pain of quitting myself, and I knew exactly how tough it was, even with the full support of Jonathan and with virtually no other stress in my life.
‘I know it’s very, very difficult, but you have to try harder, Vicky. I’m worried about your health. I don’t want you making yourself poorly or doing any long-term damage.’
‘I know all that, Angela. I’m so stressed though! It’s so hard!’
‘OK, let’s talk about the stress then. What is it that’s stressing you out the most? Is it the fact Carl wouldn’t let you see James?’
‘Er, that’s part of it, but I know it will all be fine once Lorraine has had a rest and I’m back living with her and can help her and stuff.’
By now I had serious doubts that Vicky would be moving back in with her sister any time soon, but I kept any such thoughts to myself.
‘OK, and so is it stressing you out living with me and Jonathan?’
‘No!’ She smiled. ‘I love living with you! It’s not that at all.’
‘What then?’
‘Seeing my mum,’ she said nervously. ‘I really don’t want to see her, Angela. I’m so stressed about that meeting thing that Tricia has organised. Honestly, I can’t see her, I really can’t! I don’t have to go if she’s there, do I?’
‘Well, Tricia would prefer it if we all sat around a table together. That’s you, me, Jonathan, Tricia and your mother. Tricia’s manager would probably be there too, to oversee the meeting. You’d be perfectly safe.’
‘I hate her though! I’m terrified of her! I haven’t seen her for months so why should I have to now?’
‘Nobody will force you to be there, don’t worry. But the thing is, Vicky, the meeting is all about you. It really would be best for you to be there. You need to tell the people in charge where you want to live, and why; that is what the meeting is all about.’
‘So they’ll listen to me, to what I want?’
‘Of course they will; your view is the most important one.’
‘So if I say I don’t want to live with my mum, I don’t have to?’
‘If you would be at risk there, then no, you won’t have to return to live with her.’
‘Well I would be at risk, wouldn’t I? So that’s it. I’ll be allowed to go back to Lorraine’s.’
Vicky seemed to be overlooking the fact Lorraine had put her in care in the first place. It was not a question of Social Services allowing her to go back to her sister’s house, but more a case of Lorraine and Carl accepting and inviting her back, if it was deemed appropriate. With a new baby to cope with and in the light of what had happened on Vicky’s cancelled second visit, it seemed unlikely that Lorraine was going to take Vicky back as quickly as she hoped.
Having a sometimes messy and occasionally unruly teenager to contend with is tough for any family at the best of times, and Lorraine had clearly hit breaking point when she put Vicky in care. The fact she did this when she, more than anybody, knew what life had been like for Vicky in the past, made me think things must have been really very tough for Lorraine.
‘Do you mind me asking, Vicky, is Lorraine your only other family? Only you mentioned your nan earlier?’
‘Her!’ she huffed. ‘She died a couple of years ago, and she was horrible anyway. She never wanted to know me.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What makes you say that?’
‘She fell out with my mum ages ago. The last
time I saw her was about five years ago, when she had a big argument with my mum and said she was washing her hands of the lot of us. My nan was a very selfish woman, and my mum didn’t even go to her funeral. As for my dad, he was worse. He was horrible – a very nasty man indeed.’
This was the first mention Vicky had made of her father and my ears pricked up. It is routine practice to make every effort to contact both parents and any other close relatives in cases like Vicky’s, but I’d heard nothing from Tricia about how she was getting on with her enquiries. In those days, before we had the internet and social media to hand, tracking people down was often a long-winded and frustrating process, and I was therefore not surprised this was taking some time.
‘Your dad was a very nasty man, was he?’ I said, trying to sound as calm and collected as possible, though I had all kinds of questions racing through my head. I still hadn’t been taught to mirror what a child says when they are making a disclosure, but this instinctively felt like the right thing to do.
‘Yes he was. He and my mum split up when I was just a few months old, and then he disappeared. He’s probably dead. He had something wrong with him, some kind of disease.’
‘Oh, I see. I’m so sorry to hear all this. Did your mum tell you this, or Lorraine, by the way?’
‘My mum. Lorraine never knew him, as far as I know. She’s got a different dad, you see, and she was living with him when I was born. If Social Services are looking for my dad you should tell them not to waste their time. Even if he’s alive he’s a lost cause, a total loser.’
My heart sank. Poor Vicky had been dealt a terrible hand in life and it was so sad to think she had never known her father, and that she had no idea if he was alive or dead. I did have an alarm bell ringing in my head though, because Vicky’s very negative description of her father was purely based on what her mother had told her.
‘We only have Brenda’s word for it that he was a nasty character,’ I found myself saying when I relayed the conversation to Jonathan later.
