Invisible Child

by Mary Hayward

  Suddenly I felt a snatch of irritation. I didn’t look up. I knew who it was. I was led away and we walked into a large community hall nearby. As we opened the door we walked into a bustle of people. The hall was alive with chatter and bubbly laughter, fun and excitement as people greeted, hugged, smiled and shouted with surprise, and then buried their faces in the wealth of food spread out as far as the eye could see. I stood in wonder at the wall of endless tables and clattering plates, of clinking glasses, each segregated along different sides, like checkers on a board. Hoards of boisterous children descended, like locusts, on the ginger pop, lemonade and Tizer, the table swimming with it all.

  Dad’s was one of ten children and soon the little procession of Aunties and Uncles paraded up to my parents.

  “My, how little Mary has grown—and isn’t she pretty then! Where’s Les these days? Isn’t he here today?”

  I don’t remember Mum saying much as she tried to avoid most of the questions.

  Crashing chairs, and scraping of tables, first signalled the start of the dance. A band of musicians formed on the stage, like mobsters on a heist, and then they tuned up with some jazz and background music. I was quietly sitting on the side next to Auntie Hilda, the new bride, when my Uncle Norman first came over to me.

  “May I have the pleasure of this dance with the most beautiful young lady?”

  I shot a glance at Auntie Hilda, assuming he was asking her, but she turned back to me, gesturing with her hand stretched out to me.

  “No,” she smiled, “he means you, darling.” She took my hand and coaxed me over to Uncle Norman.

  I looked right up to him, such a tall handsome man, so dapper in his wedding suit. I was filled with pride. The music played as the background chatter was hushed by the clapping.

  Sneaking out through my shyness I stood up next to him. He was so tall that I only came up to his waist. I felt a little frightened at first, and sensing this, he took my hand in his, and slowly walked me onto the dance floor. I was beaming with happiness as he twirled me around again and again, lifting my little feet above the floor. I laughed, he laughed and the crowd laughed with me, as he swept me along on a cloud: I didn’t want it to end.

  Out of all the little girls there, he proudly asked me! My little lace gloves, the matching shoes, and stiff net petticoat that made my pink lace dress hang so beautifully—all made me look angelic.

  Auntie Alice came up to me and asked me to stay at her house overnight. I really liked my Auntie Alice, Dad’s older sister, because her house was so spick and span, everything so fresh and clean. Dad tried to get me to stay overnight, but I wanted to go home; I didn’t know why—perhaps it was just a feeling of clinging to what I knew.

  The legacy of the wedding for me was the nice new dress to wear at a special occasion, although it would be some months before another occasion would arise.

  School started to become much better for me as I got older because I found I learned very quickly. It put me one step ahead of some of my friends, and that made me popular.

  One day, out of the blue, the music teacher came and asked if we would like to play an instrument. She had taught some of us to play the recorder, and I was lucky enough to be picked from the class. For me this was a frightening prospect because there was no way I could afford to buy an instrument, so at first I declined to join in. It was a bit of a relief when I found out that the school could lend us the instruments and we didn’t have to buy them. In my situation I had to think of all those things before I could volunteer for anything, although I must admit I enjoyed the experience of playing.

  Mrs Ritchie, the music teacher, came in one morning and explained that we were all expected to stand on the stage and perform a concert at the end of term. I couldn’t contain my excitement at being chosen to be one of the players on the platform, especially as I knew I had a nice dress to wear.

  She lined us up and made us recite each piece of music in turn, and then she got us to work as a group until she was satisfied we were good enough. Each week we would rehearse together until everything was perfect and we all knew our parts.

  The day of the concert arrived and I rushed home at lunchtime to pick up my dress. I bounded in, rushed upstairs and got out the pretty pink dress that I had for the wedding. It was really nice with a fine netting over it, and I had cut it down the previous week to make it a little bit shorter; but now I had the chance to look at it properly I found it crumpled on the floor exactly where I left it: there was nowhere for me to hang it.

  Mother knew I wanted to wear it, but she hadn’t bothered to get it out and give it an iron for me. I couldn’t ask her now because she had gone to work, and I desperately wanted to wear it.

  I wondered if I could wear it as it was? I looked in the mirror at it from all angles—it had hideous creases! I decided there was only one thing for it—to iron it.

  Pulling the chair from the table, I dragged it over to the cupboard, clambered up and got the iron out, and then, traipsing into the kitchen, I hastily plugged it in. Putting up the ironing board proved to be a bit of a challenge. Each time I opened it up and tried to lock it in position, it would jump out and fall down, and it wasn’t until three attempts later that I found the locking lever underneath. The broken spring probably explained why Mother never ironed anything. Anyway, by the time I had managed to get the ironing board in position, the iron was hot.

  I smoothed the dress over the board and cautiously ran the iron over the dress, but instead of flattening the creases it all clung to the iron. No matter what I did I couldn’t get it off. As I tried to clean the iron with an old tea towel and some water the steam burnt my hand, the netting stuck like glue, and gave off an awful smell.

  I was mortified. I looked down at the dress and racked my brains to see what I could do. I turned it round, lifted it up and tried everything I could to do to make it wearable, but very quickly I ran out of ideas. I took the dress outside and slung it in the bin—there was nothing I could do with it now.

  I sat down at the kitchen table and was determined not to cry, but despite my best efforts I couldn’t stop myself, and I burst into tears. I had hit the rock bottom of despair. What does a little girl do in this adult world where other mums care? My Aunties and Uncles all cared. Auntie Hilda cared for me, yet she was not my mother. I sat alone in my sobs and asked myself what I had done wrong.

  I didn’t know why, but in that moment of despair I suddenly remembered a cerise dress I had.

  Rummaging through the cupboard I found it, and pulling it out from the pile of assorted clothes in the old box, I quickly inspected it. It looked really good—no holes or anything on the back, and then, turning it around, my little heart sank. There on the front of the dress was a big stain. But what could I do?

  I tried it on and looked in the mirror, turning round to see if I could hide the stain. No, I couldn’t hide it and I just had to accept that it would show.

  Time was running out and if I didn’t get back to the school soon, I would be late. I couldn’t have that—that would be worse and I would be humiliated in front of the whole audience.

  Forgetting my hunger I ran back to my school in Grove Street, arriving in the hall just in time.

  “Where have you been? You’re nearly late?” The teacher ushered me up to the front row. “Get up on stage in front, next to Janet,” she said, guiding me as she gently pushed me forward.

  Taking my place in the front row, I tucked the stain on my skirt between my legs.

  The concert started and I played my piece with the rest of the girls and, thankfully, everything went very well. The parents in the audience applauded and the teacher was very pleased with us.

  I felt a great sense of pride as I played the recorder and all the notes came out loud and clear. I remember looking at the teacher as she conducted, making sure I came in on time, and paying great attention to getting it right. I was proud of my success and my small part in the band. It felt good because I belonged. I was one of the
m and had been accepted.

  I walked down from the stage with the other girls and sat on a row down the side of the little hall whilst the head teacher said a few closing words. I noticed that other girls went to talk to their parents who had been watching from the audience. There were lots of cuddles, patting of heads and praising from the mums and dads.

  Not mine—they never came!

  Still, I looked forward to a time when I would do something good enough for my Mum and Dad to come.

  8

  Birthday

  LIFE WASN’T SO BAD. I was in the last year of junior school. I kept telling myself I was okay and each time life bit into me I would find a way to cope.

  Begging for food from the shopkeepers was more or less a routine thing now, although never easy and the trauma never got any better. I became ashamed of my family and the way we lived; our unique ways of getting food, money and clothes; and at the same time I had an acceptance of my situation coupled with a determination to hide it from the outside world. For me, their way of doing things was not my way, and I vowed it never would be. But for now, I had to look out for myself.

  I needed to fit in. Making up stories to pretend I was like everyone else, worked well for me some of the time. If my friends had holidays and birthdays, then I would make up even better holidays and birthdays. The fact that they never took place was a depressing disappointment, which I didn’t want to face. I had to live in this secret world, to which I came home. To me, the nights of darkness were part of me, and who I was. Other children played. I found I had lost the ability to play silly games. My play was keeping clean, staying warm and getting food.

  At school my friends told me how they all went to what we called ‘The Green’ after school. It was a little patch of unkempt grassland where tarmac paths crossed, nestled in between the tall buildings. I was told that it probably was the result of bomb clearance after the war and was left, either because it was such an awkward shape, or the ownership was unknown. In any event, it provided an unsupervised patch of land on which older boys would build little camps, play cowboys and Indians, and girls would gather to play catch or roller-skating on the paths.

  They would all meet up. It sounded great fun, like a little club. I went and watched the girls skating once or twice, but ended up playing with the boys in their camp. When I first met them, the boys were all throwing stones from the safety of an old wooden shelter. I say shelter, but it was more like a collection of old doors propped up against each other.

  “What are you doing?” I asked.

  “We’re shooting stones at the old bottles over there,” one of them replied, pointing to a milk crate.

  I followed his gaze and saw, thirty feet or so in front of the shelter, a little mound of earth, topped with an upturned milk crate. Mounted on this were four old lemonade bottles, two of which were shattered. My first reaction was horror. You could get three pence back on each bottle, and they had four. That was a shilling’s worth of bottles, or in my mind a whole loaf of bread. I wondered if they were rich kids.

  The leader of the group was a lippy little rabbit of a kid, buckteeth and short trousers. He turned back to me, his eyes sparkling as though he hadn’t had a girl in his gang.

  “Do you want to join our gang?”

  “Yes please,” I said cautiously. I wasn’t sure about this, but I was lonely on my own.

  “All right, go down behind the target, and when I shout out, you get up there and put the bottles back. Then you can have a turn.”

  “Okay,” I said.

  “Oh, and here’s a white flag.”

  “What’s that for?”

  “You need to wave it before you get up.”

  “Okay.”

  I walked over the little mound and hid behind the target. Clutching the little white flag, I kept my head down as the missiles flew overhead. I heard one smash, then another, and then silence.

  “Okay, stand the bottles up!” someone shouted, I didn’t know who.

  I stood up and waved the white flag.

  Thump.

  It wasn’t the rabbit. Something hit my head. It felt like half a brick, although I couldn’t be sure. I reached up to my head and felt a cut. When I looked, my hand was covered with blood.

  I rushed home, holding my head with a hanky. I burst in, shouted out for Mum, but she wasn’t there, and so I sat by the kitchen table. I washed out my blood-soaked hanky in the old sink with cold water and then dabbed it on my head to see if the bleeding had stopped. I went upstairs to my bedroom to check in the mirror.

  Parting my hair and pulling it back, I struggled to see the cut. I couldn’t see much. There was a little gash about half an inch long, which had quickly dried up. What I could see was a big dried clump of blood, which had stuck in my thick brown shoulder-length hair.

  I decided I had to wash it out in the sink. I got a bar of soap, wet it and then rubbed it on my matted hair as if to melt the blood. Awkwardly, I dipped my hair in the bathroom sink, running the tap and trying to wash the blood away. But it wasn’t as successful as I had hoped. It was some time before I managed to brush out enough of the blood to get a comb through it. I dried it as best I could on an old jumper I found in the landing cupboard, but time was against me; I had yet to light the fire.

  School had just started for the September term in 1959 and soon it would be my eleventh birthday. Meeting up at school with all the other children after the summer break, brought with it a sense of belonging. The next time I went to The Green, I noticed there were a bunch of girls on roller-skates, running up and down the smooth tarmac paths which crisscrossed this little crack in the concrete urban sprawl.

  I wanted to join the roller-skating, but I knew I could never afford the skates. Yet I was so desperate to belong—to belong to anything, really. It was so important for me to join the club and be accepted, instead of always being on the fringe, standing there, and just watching from the sidelines on my own.

  I went home and asked my Dad for some roller-skates for my birthday. He promised, and I was full of hope. After weeks of watching the other children skating up and down, October 30th arrived: it was my birthday! I raced home from school so excited. I rushed around looking to see if Dad had got the roller-skates. But he hadn’t got in yet, and so I sat at my bedroom window and waited for him to get home. I thought he must have been late because he had to go and buy my birthday present.

  I dozed off on my bed, until awoken by the slamming of the front door. Dad was home!

  As he came into the hallway I bounded down the stairs and was still rubbing my eyes when I reached him.

  I sensed something was wrong—I didn’t know what, but somehow I knew. He didn’t smile. I sensed something was coming—I felt it. But he had a parcel.

  Shivering with excitement, I stared at the parcel in his hands. Was this really it? Really roller-skates in his hand? Maybe I was wrong in my feelings. I wasn’t always right. But I knew I was right an awful lot of the time. I had to be, otherwise we didn’t eat.

  Standing by the door, Dad hesitated, then held back as if the parcel was about to explode in his face. It was the size of a shoebox, all wrapped up with newspaper and tied with a string. He held it out for me to take. I impetuously accepted it from him and felt the weight.

  Turning away, he hurried into the kitchen where Mum was cooking mashed potato. I didn’t have a good feeling about that.

  I expected it to be heavy. It wasn’t. It was so light that I was convinced it was empty, but then I thought that he had put some money in it for me to buy the skates, a postal order or something.

  The familiar smell of drink still lingered in the air. Rum and Blackcurrant, I think it was. Usually that would have been a good sign, like he had won on the dogs, but now I wasn’t so sure. I opened the parcel and peered inside. There was a packet all wrapped up, and when I opened that a pair of white long bootlaces fell out.

  I followed him into the kitchen. “Why have I got Laces?”

  For a mome
nt he smiled, lurched to one side bracing himself against the wall, and then—suddenly he must have seen the look on my face.

  “I’m shorry love. I couldn’t afford the skates, so I got the laces. I promisch I’ll get yer the skates another time.” He tried to steady himself.

  I stared at him, and went right up to his face.

  “What’s this, what’s this? I wanted the skates. Why have I got the laces? Why?”

  Silence.

  He just looked at me blankly, but I wasn’t going to let him get away with it.

  “How could you? How could you?” I smacked him with my little fist, but he took no notice. He just stood there and let me swing at him.

  “I’m shorry love.”

  “Why have I got laces—come on, tell me, why?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t you see,” I bellowed, “I can’t join in… I can’t join in with just laces!” I shouted louder: “I’ve told everybody that I am getting skates!” I paused to draw breath, “Don’t you understand?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Don’t you understand, I can’t join in with laces?” I gritted my teeth with anger. “I told everyone I am getting skates.”

  He tried to sneak off into the living room out of the way, but I wouldn’t let him.

  “I can’t have fun with laces, I look silly. You’ve shown me up and I hate you!” I lost it and kicked the table in my upset. “They will ask me where my skates are. What am I going to say now?”

  He was about to say something, but I didn’t give him the chance.

  “Can’t you see that I will have to stand there and watch them!” I banged my fist on the table until the cups clattered. “I can’t be normal, I can’t join in, and I will look silly.”

  “Sorry.”

  “It would have been better if you had got me nothing. Don’t you understand how silly I will look? I can’t go skating with laces!”

  He reached out to hold and cuddle me, but I pushed him away through my frustrated tears. I was so angry.