On one memorable occasion when finances were particularly bad, Mum decided that she would capitalize on Lucas and me, and to that end she decided to take us along to a modelling agency.
‘You’re both good-looking children,’ she told us, as she scrubbed and brushed us into shape. ‘I’m sure they can use you for a catalogue or something.’
I was enormously excited. It would never have occurred to me to think of myself as model material, but perhaps Mum knew something I didn’t. With high hopes of fame and glamour, not to mention days off school, I allowed myself to be dressed in a hideous flowery frock passed on to me by a friend of Greta’s, and off we set. But the woman at the agency shook her head.
‘No, no. Not the girl,’ she said, after I had paraded in front of her. ‘I’m afraid she’s not suitable. The boy, now ... The boy we can certainly use.’
At the time, it seemed desperately unfair, but when I look back now, I can see that Lucas’s high forehead, clear complexion and dazzling combination of blond hair and brown eyes must have made him an exceptional candidate. But to Mum’s credit, she turned the offer down. If the woman wouldn’t accept us both, then she shouldn’t have either of us.
‘They come together,’ she said grandly, as though we were some sort of double act. ‘I can’t allow you to have Lucas without Cassandra. It just wouldn’t be right.’
Lucas, it has to be said, appeared to be much relieved at these tidings. He had been worrying for days about what his friends would say if he were to turn up in their mothers’ favourite magazines advertising cutesy children’s clothes, but I was bitterly disappointed. I think it was the first time in my life that I realized my looks were unexceptional. Never a particularly vain child, I had nonetheless hitherto been quite pleased with what I saw when I looked in the mirror. Mum had always told me I was pretty; I had therefore had no reason to believe otherwise. Now, it seemed, I must accept that there was room for doubt, and I never quite regained the cheerful confidence in my appearance which I held in those early years.
Was my childhood a happy one? As with many childhoods, the memories are so tinged with nostalgia that it is hard to be objective, but there were certainly some wonderful moments, and there is no doubt that I was much loved.
But when I was fourteen, everything was to change.
Two
May 1961
Up until that time, while I was of course aware of my essential femaleness, I had given little thought to myself as a sexual being. Puberty may have been well on the way, but I was not particularly impressed by its manifestations, and had I not had to put up with the regular leerings of Uncle Rupert, I probably would have ignored it altogether. My breasts at that stage were poor little things, barely disturbing the surface of my chest and certainly not requiring the services of a bra; and any other bodily changes were not sufficiently interesting to exercise my mind more than fleetingly. I knew that I was turning into a woman, and I was quite pleased about that, but unlike many of my friends I was in no hurry. I had the good sense to recognize that childhood doesn’t last forever, and that I should enjoy its advantages while I could.
Even now, after all these years, I still find it astonishing that innocence can be destroyed so quickly and so thoroughly in just a few brief minutes. One day, I was an ordinary child when I got up in the morning (as ordinary as it was possible to be in our household), but when I went to bed that night, I was someone else altogether. And yet nothing had actually been done to me. I had suffered no physical harm. I suppose, when I could bring myself to think about it objectively, I had been lucky. I had had a lucky escape. But at the time, lucky and escape were two words which seemed to have little connection with what happened to me on that awful day.
Apart from Uncle Rupert, who had gone to bed early, I was on my own in the house. My mother was out pulling pints at the local pub (a new job, and one which she appeared to be enjoying enormously), Lucas had gone to the pictures with his friends, the put-u-up was temporarily out of commission, and even the Lodger was away for the weekend. The only sounds were the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hall (a funny lopsided tick, strangely comforting in the silent house) and the occasional swish of tyres as a car drove up the road past the house. I never minded being on my own — after all, I had never had any reason to — and I felt relaxed and happy. The weekend stretched invitingly before me, and if I could get my homework done now, I would be free until Monday morning.
I don’t know how long Uncle Rupert had been watching me, but it could have been for some time. I rarely closed my bedroom door, as one of my mother’s more sensible house rules was that no one was allowed into anyone else’s room without permission, and I had been fully absorbed in what I was doing. So it was with some shock that when I looked up I found him standing behind me, looking over my shoulder. He had a habit of shuffling silently round the house in his slippers, appearing unexpectedly in odd places, so his arrival in itself was not particularly disconcerting. But his rather odd demeanour together with the fact that he had entered the room unannounced immediately rang alarm bells.
‘Hello.’ Uncle Rupert placed an unwelcome hand on my shoulder. ‘How’s it going, then?’
‘Fine. It’s going fine.’ My hands were clammy and I wiped them on my grey school skirt. ‘I — I’m doing my homework,’ I added, more for something to say than anything else, as it must have been perfectly obvious what I was doing.
‘You’re growing into a very attractive young woman,’ Uncle Rupert said, as though I hadn’t spoken.
‘Am I?’
‘You know you are.’
There followed a pause, in which Uncle Rupert appraised my body unashamedly. I felt as though he were peeling the clothes off me garment by garment with his pale, fishy eyes, and I tried to stand up.
‘No. Stay where you are.’ Uncle Rupert squeezed my shoulder. ‘I like looking at you sitting there.’
Why didn’t I just get up and leave the room? Why didn’t I at least move away, as my instincts told me to? But it was as though I were suddenly paralysed, unable to move or even speak. To this day, I can still see the books spread out on my desk, the maths problem, with the rectangle half-drawn and my pencil and ruler lying across the page, the tiny fragments of rubber where I had erased a false start. I can smell the woody scent of pencil sharpenings, and hear the wheezy, unsavoury breaths of Uncle Rupert as he stood, as motionless as I was, his hand still on my shoulder.
My eyes met Uncle Rupert’s, and there was something in his gaze which I had never seen before; something sinister and predatory; something which sent prickles of fear up and down my spine.
‘I need — I need to finish this.’ My mouth was dry, my heartbeats pounding in my ears. ‘Before — before Monday.’
‘Plenty of time for that,’ Uncle Rupert said. ‘After all, it’s the weekend, isn’t it?’ He reached behind him and closed the bedroom door. ‘I thought you and I could play a little game, while we’re on our own. Just the two of us.’
‘What — game?’ I had never in my life known Uncle Rupert play games, and couldn’t think what he meant.
‘Just a little game. A little secret game. You’ll see.’
‘No, please —’
‘Now Cassandra, you know me.’ He had never called me by my full name before. ‘There’s no need to be afraid of me. No need to be afraid of old Uncle Rupert.’
‘Please. I — I need to get a drink.’ I made as though to get up.
‘Later. You can have a drink later. After our little game.’ He pressed me back into my chair with surprising force. ‘Be a good girl. Be a good girl and everything will be fine.’
By this stage, I was beginning to panic. Uncle Rupert was gripping my shoulder more firmly now, effectively anchoring me to my chair, and I knew I didn’t have the strength to push him away. There was no one else in the house to respond if I were to call out. The bedroom window was open, but I doubt whether anyone outside would have heard me, and even if they did, what could they
do? I had no choice but to stay where I was and hope beyond hope that he would soon tire of this game of his and leave me alone.
But Uncle Rupert had only just begun.
He moved closer. I could smell the stale tobacco on his breath as he stooped over me, and feel his leg pressing against my own. The rough material of his sleeve brushed my cheek as he took my hand in one of his.
‘I have something for you,’ he said. ‘Something special. I think you’re going to like it.’
I tried to pull my hand away, but he held on to it firmly. His own hand was unpleasantly damp, and I could feel his untrimmed fingernails digging into my palm.
‘Look on it as a little present. A present from me to you. A very special present.’
Slowly, very slowly, he began to pull my hand towards him.
‘There’s a good girl.’ His voice was soft, conspiratorial, and there was a faint smile on his face as he drew my hand inside the folds of his dressing gown.
For a moment, I didn’t know what it was that I was feeling; a toy, perhaps, or some kind of practical joke. But only for a moment. Then, I knew. I was innocent and I was totally unsuspecting, but as he covered my hand with his own and began to move it gently back and forth, I realized with a horror beyond any horror I had ever felt before what it was that I was holding; what it was that Uncle Rupert was doing.
‘There. Isn’t that nice?’
Nice? Nice? I was speechless. Nothing could have prepared me for this. Nothing. Not my mother with her cosy chats, not Miss Wilson with her tales of rabbits and buttercups, not the innocent body of Lucas, remembered from the shared bathtimes of our early childhood — none of these things could have prepared me for anything so utterly, hideously, appalling.
For a moment I was so shocked I could barely breathe. Then, at last, I found my voice. And screamed.
Summoning up all my strength, I pushed Uncle Rupert away. Taken by surprise, he stumbled backwards, giving me the chance to get to my feet and throw the door open. I tore down the stairs, half-sobbing as I screamed, stumbling on the loose piece of stair carpet, tripping over Lucas’s school shoes lying in the hallway. I pulled open the front door and fled down the garden path, out of the gate and along the road. I had no idea where I was going; I only knew that I had to get away. I had to put as much distance between myself and Uncle Rupert as was humanly possible, and I had to do it fast.
I don’t know how far I would have gone had I not fallen, literally, into the arms of Greta, who was apparently about to surprise us with one of her unscheduled visits.
‘Cassandra!’ Greta dropped her suitcases and pressed me to her bosom. ‘The matter is what?’ (Greta’s English had improved over the years, and while it was still somewhat eccentric, it was at least comprehensible, if only in parts.)
‘Uncle Rupert!’ I sobbed into the collar of her ancient overcoat.
‘Iss ill?’
‘No. Not ill. Horrible!’ I raised my streaming face. ‘Uncle Rupert is horrible, horrible, horrible!’
‘Iss horrible?’ The tears, which were never far away, welled sympathetically in Greta’s pink-rimmed eyes. ‘Why iss horrible?’
‘I can’t tell you.’
‘Uncle Rupert iss nice man, I think,’ said Greta, stroking my hair.
‘No! Uncle Rupert is not nice man! Uncle Rupert is disgusting old man! I hate him!’
‘No hate Uncle Rupert,’ Greta admonished (she had always, inexplicably, had a soft spot for him). ‘You make mistake, I think?’
‘No! No mistake!’
But of course I couldn’t tell Greta what had happened. At that moment, I couldn’t have told anybody, and besides, in a situation such as this, the language barrier would have proved too great. I didn’t know the German for what Uncle Rupert had done, and Greta was unlikely to understand the English, even if I could have brought myself to say the words.
‘We go home, yes? Nice-cup-of-tea?’ Greta didn’t herself like tea, but she had learnt that this was what the English resorted to in times of stress, and she was obviously anxious to remove me from the street before I made more of a spectacle of myself.
‘No! We can’t go home! Uncle Rupert’s there!’
‘Uncle Rupert no hurt,’ said Greta firmly, taking my arm in a surprisingly strong grip and steering me back down the road in the direction of the house. ‘I take care.’
What could I do? I had nowhere else to go, and no money, and it was getting dark. I wasn’t sure where my mother worked, and even if I had known, I could hardly burst into a crowded pub with my unwelcome tidings. Besides, I would probably be safe with Greta there. Something told me that Uncle Rupert was unlikely to stage a repeat performance in her presence.
As it happened, by the time we got home, there was no sign of Uncle Rupert. The house was quiet, and his bedroom door was firmly shut. Greta set about putting the kettle on and hunting for the teapot while I sat at the table and shivered. I shivered with cold, I shivered with fear, but most of all, I shivered with shock. Up until now, home had been safe; it had been a haven. The people who came and went were a disparate lot, but they were basically OK, and I had certainly never felt remotely threatened by any of them. But now, all that was spoiled. My room — my own bedroom — had been the scene of Uncle Rupert’s ghastly activities. Would I ever be able to go in there again?
Just then, we heard my mother’s key in the front door, and she came into the kitchen.
‘Why, Greta! How nice!’ Mum embraced her. ‘Well, this is a lovely surprise, isn’t it Cass? Cass?’ She looked at me closely. ‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘She no like Uncle Rupert,’ said Greta, pouring boiling water into mugs. ‘She run away.’
‘You ran away? Cass? What’s all this about?’
‘Uncle Rupert — Uncle Rupert — he —’ I burst into tears again.
My mother turned pale, and it was at that moment that I understood. My mother knew. She knew what had happened, and that meant that she knew something about Uncle Rupert that none of us had known; something she should have warned me about; something she should have protected me from. I had always been aware that there was some dark secret in Uncle Rupert’s past, and had hitherto assumed that it was in the nature of a personal tragedy. Now I realized that it was something far more sinister, and something which my mother should have taken a great deal more seriously when she invited him into our home all those years ago.
I stood up from the kitchen table and faced her.
‘You haven’t — you haven’t asked me what happened,’ I said, and my voice suddenly seemed distant and separate, as though it were coming from a long way away.
‘My poor darling.’ Mum tried to put her arms round me. ‘You tell me all about it, then.’
‘You know all about it.’ I pushed her away. ‘You know!’
‘I couldn’t have — I didn’t — oh, Cass! What did he do? Did he — did he touch you?’
Just for that moment, all my hatred and my anger was directed at my mother; my mother, whom I suddenly held completely in my power. Because while I didn’t fully understand the significance of her question, I suspected that if I were to tell her that yes, Uncle Rupert had touched me, she would have been dreadfully punished for what she had failed to do.
‘Tell me, Cass! Tell me at once! What did Uncle Rupert do to you?’ Mum gripped me by my shoulders and half shook me. ‘You have to tell me!’
‘Nice-cup-of-tea?’ suggested poor Greta. ‘Make better feel, no?’
‘Shut up, Greta!’ shouted Mum, still holding on to me. ‘Can’t you see this is a crisis?’
‘Let me go!’ I cried, trying to push her away. ‘You let me go!’
‘But you must tell me,’ Mother said, more gently now, relinquishing her grip. ‘You must tell me what happened. What did Uncle Rupert do?’
‘But you already know —’
‘No. I don’t know. I know Rupert has one or two ... strange habits, but I don’t know exactly what he did to you, Cass. You have to belie
ve me. I would never have left you on your own with him if I’d thought — if I’d thought you were in any sort of danger.’
I hesitated. I knew my mother loved me; I knew that she would have protected me with her own life had she been required to do so. But it was also clear that she knew Uncle Rupert was capable of posing some kind of threat. I was still angry with her, but I also desperately wanted her to know what had happened. I ached for her sympathy, for her indignation on my behalf, and most of all, for the familiarity and safety of being held in her arms.
I looked round the kitchen. We were on our own now, Greta having made a tearful and reproachful exit some minutes ago. I sat down again at the table.
‘What did he do, love? Please tell me.’ Mum sat down beside me and took my hand. ‘I can’t do anything about it if I don’t know, can I?’
‘He came into my room,’ I began slowly. ‘He didn’t knock or anything. He just came in.’
‘And?’ Mum prompted.
‘And then — and then he — he made me — touch him.’
For a few moments, my mother didn’t say anything. She just sat there, stroking my hand, and when I glanced at her, I was surprised to see that she too had tears in her eyes.
‘Did he — did he do anything else?’ she asked. ‘Anything at all? Did he touch you?’
I shook my head.
‘He forced me. He made me do it.’ My scalp crawled at the memory. ‘But I ran away. Greta found me.’ I hiccoughed. ‘Oh, Mum! It was horrible!’
‘I can imagine,’ Mum said grimly. ‘Horrible. Quite horrible. My poor, poor darling.’
And then, quite suddenly, she too seemed overwhelmed by rage.
‘Where is he? Where did he go?’ she shouted. ‘Where is Rupert?’
The Frances Garrood Collection Page 2
