Invisible Child

by Mary Hayward

  I got Jane up, made sure she washed and dressed, and took her to school out through the French windows at the back, so that she did not have to see Dad. I gave her my last money for her school dinners, and went to school hungry, hoping I would be able to get something during the day.

  It was now five days since I last had a meal and I found that I didn’t get hungry any more. I stopped going to the toilet. I had not eaten any solid food, and so my body just shut down its normal functions. We both still got a third of a pint of free school milk at the morning break, and that served to keep me alive. I told myself that I could survive if I could just keep going, do more jobs, and take more washing to the laundry at the weekend. In that way at least I could keep Jane fed, most of the time.

  I suppose that in my little mind I realised that if Jane complained she wasn’t having anything to eat, then the authorities might ask questions, and perhaps they would take her into care. It was my responsibility to make sure she was all right, or I would get the blame, so in my mind it was better to give her the money for food, and go hungry myself.

  My twelfth birthday was coming soon and with it the start of winter. The weather was closing in as we approached October, and it was starting to get cold in the house. Realising I couldn’t keep up with the need for coal, I began hoarding what little I had, lighting the fire only on the coldest nights, and burning any wood I could find. Scrounging along the railway track for the odd chunk of coal could make the difference between lighting the fire, or staying in bed. But it was a risky business.

  Running round the back of the church, ducking under the wire fence, I would scurry down the shallow embankment by the railway tracks and pick up what coal I could find. It was the main Liverpool Street line to the north and sometimes trains hurtled through at breakneck speeds. I wasn’t always lucky of course, and on occasions I would come home empty-handed, curl up in the chair and cover myself with a blanket.

  As the days went by, I became more tired. I started to notice that my skirt, once too tight for me as I was growing up, was now becoming a nuisance falling down whenever I ran across the road to school. I couldn’t afford to wash my sheets and clothes, and we didn’t have any money for soap; so when it ran out—that was it.

  I had to make choices about every last penny, and how it was spent, until there wasn’t a choice to be made.

  It was the weekend and I knocked at the neighbour’s house as usual, to take the laundry and earn a shilling, but I didn’t get any reply. I went back a little later and tried again, but she wasn’t in. I was relying on the money I earned to be able to buy some food, and I hadn’t expected this. I sat on her step for a little while, feeling more upset as the hours ticked by.

  Mrs Wilderspoon, bless her, she didn’t know that I depended on her money for food. Had I told her she was keeping us fed she might have saved us. But it had to remain a secret. It was so important to keep quiet. People don’t understand why. They don’t understand the fear.

  I knocked again—nothing.

  Again and again I went back and knocked until one of the other neighbours nudged passed.

  “Mrs Wilderspoon isn’t in, she’s gone to her sister’s for a week.”

  “Do you want any washing taken to the Laundry for a shilling?”

  “No!” She looked down her nose at me, turning away.

  “Do you need any errands done?” I pleaded, once more hoping somehow to change her mind.

  “No thank you!” She vanished into a wall of twitching curtains.

  Walking back to our house I tried not to cry, but inside I knew our situation was dire. I didn’t know what to do.

  I recall sitting at the kitchen table, my head in my hands. It was the weekend so there was no school milk. I had done so well up until then. I had found a way of coping, living on my wits, but I began to wonder if this was the end of the road for Jane and me. I wanted to just curl up and die, and it would have been so easy. If life had been hard up until now, then without the money from my errands, life was going to get a whole lot worse.

  I didn’t know why I didn’t try stealing some food from the shop, but it never occurred to me. I guess it was the sign of the times. I was more frightened of being caught than of starving.

  Dad continued coming home late at night with nothing, and although I frantically searched his pockets, I found they were empty more often than not, and I began to wonder if he was hiding money somewhere. Darkness and cold descended on the house. We had no electric, gas or coal. Finally we had hit the buffers. Nothing, no money or food.

  I just took to my bed, hid under the covers and slept for most of the weekend. I can’t remember getting up for anything other than the odd whinge from Jane about being hungry. I gave her a Spangle I found in my coat pocket and let her lie on my bed, fully clothed and we huddled together to keep warm. I read her a story from the light of the candle until she fell asleep, and then, lifting her up, I gently put her back into her own bed for the night. She was too young to know the hunger and pain I suffered, and I tried to shield her from the horror of it as best I could.

  Despite the worry about being kicked out, the fear of the rent man and worry over food, I seemed to have no trouble sleeping. I welcomed sleep as a way of forgetting my worries and losing myself in the dreams of happy times. Occasionally I would wake up and as if still in a dream, I would see a roast dinner, piping hot, lying there on the chair, but every time I reached out, it would vanish. Soon all my dreams would be about food, save one. Perhaps it was because I found an old picture of Dad in his uniform, I didn’t know, but this dream used to haunt me so many times. It always started the same way—Dad as a soldier sheltering in a muddy war-torn trench, explosions all around. At that moment in the dream I am not sure where I am, but I hear Dad’s voice. “Stay here,” he says, “I have to go love,” and then I swear I feel something, as if a kiss on the cheek, and then I watch him disappear over the top. He stops and glances back, waves, but when I wake up, I find myself alone and the house empty.

  Come Monday, I walked Jane to school as usual, but this time I had nothing to give her for the school meals. In desperation I mentioned that I didn’t have any food to my friends, Margaret and Christine, but rather than be interested, I found that they didn’t really want to hear it. They told me not to keep moaning about it. I never understood that, but I took the hint and didn’t mention it to anyone ever again.

  At one time I remember a teacher asking me if everything was all right at home. Perhaps he had noticed I wasn’t looking so happy, or maybe he had noticed I couldn’t concentrate on anything. He probably saw a deterioration in the standard of my schoolwork, my clothes and general appearance, and then he might have seen that I stopped keeping up with the shorthand, concentrating just on typing instead.

  There were a whole bunch of clues that were there for adults to pick up on, despite my attempts to hide my life from the world. I was so frightened of the family being split up—that was the fear that was so great; it was more important than even food. It was the secret that was the important thing, and yet, I almost yearned for someone to notice and lift me up and out of my situation. But the fear of being taken away was so deep rooted.

  I was not sure we would survive this one hurdle. I was going downhill fast and I no longer had the strength to cope anymore.

  13

  Winter Chill

  MUM HAD BEEN AWAY nearly six weeks. It was 25th October 1960 and things had got far worse. It had been relatively warm through September, but it didn’t last. Black damp was the curse Jane and I now endured, and without coal, electricity or gas; it chilled our very bones.

  No longer could I choose which shops to use. I had to do whatever I could to keep us alive.

  I couldn’t steal. I wouldn’t tell lies like the other children. Mum always knew whenever I tried to tell fibs. I would blush and then my little knot of deceit would be unravelled, and my pride laid bare. But more importantly the price for failure would be high. If I were caught and sent aw
ay, then what would become of Jane?

  I decided to go and fetch some coal from Mr Roberts, the greengrocer at the top of the road. Mum hadn’t paid him the last time so I didn’t look forward to it, but it was Hobson’s choice. It was that or nothing; really no choice at all.

  Quickly, I got Jane ready, but she didn’t want to go.

  “Do we have to go, out? It’s so co..old,” she shivered as I wrapped her up with a scarf.

  “Yes darling, I know,” I said, “it’s cold, but we have to try and get a fire lit.”

  “But it’s sooo co..old, can’t I stay here?” She looked up, pleading, stamping her feet to keep warm.

  “No darling, we have to go. Come on, we won’t be long, I promise. I’ll give you a Spangle, will that be okay?”

  “All right then,” her face lit up, “but you promise?” She glanced up at me with a cheeky grin. “Not long…and a Spangle?” I bent down and gave a little reassuring hug.

  “Okay, come on then.” I took her hand in mine and held it for a moment. I needed her to trust me.

  Grabbing the pushchair before she changed her mind, I trotted up to the greengrocer at the top of the road, and gave Jane my last Spangle as I promised.

  The greengrocer’s shop was set out with fruit and vegetables, leaving a small path to the door. Jane stood by the pushchair outside on the pavement, as I sneaked a look inside.

  Was Mr Roberts on his own? I signalled to Jane to wait there.

  Marching into the shop, I found Mr Roberts standing in his white overalls by to the till. There was no time for mucking around or mincing my words.

  “Please could you let us have a bag of coal? Mum will pay when she can—she’s in hospital.” I blurted it out, stood back and waited.

  He looked at me and I could sense the rejection. He shrugged his shoulders and shook his head, then looked down trying to avoid catching my eye.

  I glanced sideways to hide my tears, and then I looked back, holding the stare a tad longer.

  “Thank you anyway,” I said.

  I dreaded the rejection. I couldn’t take the disappointment anymore. Everything was an effort for me, and I found even putting my shoes on a struggle. I wasn’t even sure I had the strength to lug the bag of coal home, even if he had given it to me.

  Turning away, I dragged the pushchair back out of the shop and into the street behind me. Then, glancing back one more time, and as I blindly reached for Jane’s hand, I caught his eye.

  I saw something. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but it might have been a slight hesitation as he turned back. It was as if something unspoken had passed between us, and then I watched as his eyes slowly glistened, until he was forced to wipe away the moisture with the back of his cuff.

  I must have looked such a sorry little mite, my lifeless eyes now haunted and distant, my little dress and coat dirty from making fires and picking up coal. I couldn’t remember the last time I had a meal, and my face was looking gaunt, my once thick hair hanging in a shaggy heap. It was all a reflection of how I felt. Jane had at least been getting the school meals. I managed to fund some of her school dinners from my odd jobs, but I had not eaten solid food myself for over a week.

  Without warning, he beckoned to Jane to bring the pushchair back into the shop. He picked up a bag of coal, heaved it into the pushchair, and then unexpectedly, he placed two large potatoes on top.

  “Thank you Mr Roberts,” I said.

  “Go! Quickly now—before I change my mind.” He turned away and shrank back into the shop.

  I scampered out just in time to see his wife appear. He turned towards her and shooed us away behind his back with his hand.

  I scuttled away as fast as I could, stopping just a short distance round the corner, but far enough so that we couldn’t be seen. I waited and listened. Jane crouched beside me, clinging to the pushchair.

  At first, all I could hear was my pounding heart, and then as I calmed I caught a snippet.

  Mrs Roberts was in full fight, screaming at the top of her voice.

  “I hope you’re not giving more coal away to those children, are you?”

  I didn’t hear his voice, but she was still going as we scurried away along Grove Street.

  Lugging the bag of coal in through the front door, I quickly made up a fire, lighting it with just enough coal to take the chill off the air. Then, taking one potato I quickly put it in the ash tray to cook for Jane, and hid the other under in an old shoe at the back of the under stairs cupboard.

  At lunchtime the next day I came home from school as usual, and started searching the kitchen cupboards looking for food, although it was futile; I knew there was nothing.

  Bang, bang.

  I stopped what I was doing and listened. I looked along the hallway; through the crack by the hinge in the kitchen door. Peeking through the letterbox, I saw a pair of eyes.

  “Hello!” he shouted.

  A few minutes went by and I saw the shadow appear at the back of the house. He was looking through the windows, cupping his hands on either side of his face to look. He then stood on the concrete step by the old drainpipe; peering, tapping and calling my mother’s name. It was the dreaded rent man!

  Mum had told me not to be seen by the rent man; I didn’t fully understand why—I just did as I was told.

  I was trapped in the kitchen. The kitchen door broke into the hallway a few feet from the front door. If I turned right, I could run down the hallway, past the stairs and meter cupboard, straight into the living room. From there I could escape out the back through the french doors and into the garden. Turning left would take me to the front door and into the arms of the rent man.

  I darted back and forth, from the kitchen to the hallway, dodging the darkness of his shadow, and then hiding carefully so that my own shadow couldn’t be seen, I stood still, petrified that he might have seen me.

  Could he hear me breathing? I didn’t know. I was aware that my heart was pounding loudly and I attempted to hold my breath just in case.

  I edged my way to the front window, and then, catching a glimpse of his shadow, I worked my way back through the hallway to the stairs. I couldn’t go upstairs—that wouldn’t help me because I had to get back to school. I had to sneak out the back of the house through the french doors.

  “Open up, I know you’re in there!” his voice bellowed through the letterbox.

  Clap, clap!

  The front door shook under the force of his knocks and the windows rattled in their frames.

  I ducked down behind the meter cupboard, which nestled under the stairs. I was close to the living room, its door slightly ajar, but I had to cross the hallway to get there. From the letterbox the rent man had a clear view down the hallway and could see the living room door.

  “You’re going to have to open the door to me some time you know.” He let the box snap back with a loud thud that made me jump.

  Darting out from behind the gas meter, with my shoes firmly grasped in the pillow of my skirt, I shot back into the hallway. The front door was now behind me, and in front of me the living room directly ahead. I dashed in, clinging to the handle on the inside and keeping the door slightly ajar.

  Clap, clap.

  I was trapped in the house. After about a minute, the letterbox snapped open again and this time cigarette smoke wafted in. I peeped out from my hiding place in the living room, looking up the hallway to the front door; then I saw my shoe.

  “Argh, the bloody shoe!”

  I couldn’t believe I had dropped it in the hall! Could he see the shoe? A shoe that wasn’t there before? My heart was thumping. I was in sheer panic, not knowing what to do. On top of that I would soon be late for school.

  I lay down flat on my tummy and tried to tease the shoelace into my hand, but it was too far away. Instead, my finger burst with pain as a splinter from the rough edge of a skirting board jabbed into my flesh. I muffled my startled cry, and tried to pick out the splinter with my teeth.

  I was lucky, the spl
inter was big enough to grip, and I was soon able to draw it out.

  Licking my finger like a wounded cat, I sat nursing the wound in the living room, one eye on my wounded finger, the other on the shadow of the rent man.

  We were well matched, hunter and hunted. I wasn’t a quitter, but neither was he. It was obvious that if he got to the back of the house before I did, I would be caught.

  I found a brush left by the fireside. I was only small and Mum used it to sweep the coal dust from the grate. I slipped it out from behind the living room door, and managed to pull the shoe back a little. Then it rolled over onto the sole.

  Thump.

  I froze. He froze. He must have heard!

  He moved back to the front window. Then the kitchen window tapped continually as he went.

  I couldn’t wait anymore. I ran into the hallway, snatched my shoe like a baton in a relay race and returned to the living room, this time closing the door. Grabbing my coat, I slipped my shoe over my heel and trod it on. I slipped the latch on the french doors, and quietly closing them behind me, I scampered through the garden, along the path behind a neighbour’s coal shed and up to Langhedge Lane at the end of the block.

  I was almost free. There was one more path to cross—the path that led to the front of all the houses in the block, including ours. The last time I saw the shadow of the rent man he was standing in that path, knocking on the front door.

  I took a quick peek to my left, down the path. He was sitting on the porch, his back to me, scribbling in his little book of papers. I slipped silently by. He turned and looked at me, but I was already well away.

  Once back at school I sat in class and nursed my finger in the relative safety of the warm classroom.

  14

  Starving: Final Struggle

  IT WAS ON SUNDAY 30th October 1960, my twelfth birthday, when my desperation became absolute. I got up about nine o’clock. Dad was still asleep after the night before. The house was cold, damp, and the windows glistened with the misty chill of little Jack Frost, as Dad used to call it.