The chaotic rumble of that initial night at boarding school gradually settled. We each climbed into our beds with our own questions, worries and personal heartaches.
Tinkie Rayner told us that she’d been a boarder all her life, so these days she only missed her pony and her dog. Megan Dawson, my second room-mate, had earlier been sobbing about missing her mother. Now she lay sniffing into her pillow. I just kept quiet.
I was certainly not going to pine for Joanne or Dad. Joanne was okay before the wedding; she’d even let me be a flower girl and Anthony a page boy, but all that changed when Susie was born and now she had Mickey as well. She didn’t seem to mind Anthony as much, but I knew she hated me. The feeling was mutual.
However, that was probably a mercy, since I think her hatred finally got me sent to boarding school. Every time I’d asked Dad if I could board for high school, he just said, “No, and it’s not up for discussion.” Then one evening I heard Joanne and Dad have an almighty argument. The next day, Dad said he’d changed his mind and I could go to boarding school after all. So perhaps Joanne turned out to be an ally by default!
I thought I might miss Anthony, but he was often away with friends at weekends and to tell the truth, I was jealous of him. Mom even wrote to him, but never to me!
I spent all my childhood wondering what I’d done to offend my mother so badly. Years later, I heard on a family grape-vine that Dad cheated on her during her pregnancy with me – so I guess I was the scapegoat. It helps to understand that now, but it was agonising to grow up always wishing for my mother’s love.
Mom was very pretty with blonde hair and blue eyes, and Anthony looked just like her. When I started first grade at school, I’d been so proud when the teacher commented on how pretty Mom was. But Mom never came to school again and was always too busy to help with my homework.
I had a really hard time learning to read and write, and my teacher used to slap my hand with a ruler if I couldn’t remember my words. Alice, my beloved Zulu nanny and Mom’s housemaid was the only one I remember actually being kind to me. She made our lunches for school and in the afternoons, while she ironed the clothes, she’d listen to me read and teach me to speak a few isiZulu words.
Mom always seemed to be at work or having her nails and hair done, so the afternoons were peaceful. Once our parents came home, though, the tranquillity would end. Dad would arrive home in foul moods and the arguments and yelling would begin.
One evening when Dad was watching television, I foolishly interrupted the news with a question. “I told you to shut-up during the news!” he yelled swinging a fist that hit me square in the stomach, sending me reeling.
I fled to the bedroom, flung back the bedclothes and cried into my blankets. I wondered if he knew how much that hurt.
Mom saw it but she did nothing – except pack a suitcase.
The more my parents fought, the more time Mom spent away, and when she came home, she always had a headache.
One afternoon Anthony and I had been watching the Rothman’s July Handicap on the TV with Alice while she ironed. She gave us paper to draw race horses. They generally looked more like rats with saddles, but we thought they were pretty good.
“This is Husky. He’s going to win the Rothman’s,” said Anthony proudly.
“Husky is a dog’s name!” I remember laughing meanly at him, chanting, “A dog is going to win the July,” until he started to cry. Then he flew into me with his fists, just like Dad.
That evening, when Dad arrived home, we both raced to the front door, the fight forgotten, to show him all our pictures of horses.
“Look Daddy, I drew this for you, he’s going to win the next July,” said Anthony, all rosy cheeks and smiles.
“Yes, very nice,” Dad answered and he walked straight past us, pulling a giggling woman by the hand. We stared at her high heeled boots, short skirt and very red lipstick. She smelt of smoke.
“Who’s that?” asked my little brother in a loud voice.
“Mind your own business,” snapped Dad.
We followed them, trying to get him to look at our pictures but he took the stranger into his bedroom and slammed the door. Enraged, I stared down at my artwork and as I heard the grunting and laughing on the other side, I crumpled up my picture and stamped all over it. Hurt and confused I went off to ask Alice for a glass of milk.
Later that night, I heard Mom and Dad screaming and yelling at each other. It sounded like they were smashing a lot of plates.
The next morning, at the breakfast table, they were all ‘huggy’ and ‘kissy’ but Mom had a dark bruise over her eye and Dad had scratches on his face.
“What’s happened to your eye?” asked Anthony.
“I walked into a door,” replied Mom unconvincingly.
A few nights later, I knew for sure that she’d lied. Dad started accusing Mom of spending too much money and she was yelling back: “It’s not yours! It’s my own hard earned cash!”
They went on to argue about drink and clothes and food and tarts. Then, in a horrible explosion of anger, I saw Dad plunge his fist into Mom’s pretty face. Blood spattered; Mom went reeling backwards hitting her head on a table, and then my pretty mom just slumped to the floor like a rag doll. Dad slammed the front door and left.
I ran over to the limp form on the carpet. As I stared at the bright red blood dripping all over her lovely face I cried out, “Mommy, Mommy, don’t die!” I cradled my mother’s head, feeling her warm, damp hair in my hands and prayed, “Oh no, please God don’t let her die.”
I’d been so afraid, but Alice brought a damp towel and ice and we made a pillow under her head. That day, I hated Dad and wished for him to die. Mom lived and I thanked God, but He didn’t seem able to do anything about the fighting.
Not long after that, Anthony and I arrived home from school one afternoon and found a note. Alice read it to us. “Mom will be back to fetch you – I love you,” but Mom didn’t come back.
Dad seemed to go crazy after that. He hit the two of us for just about anything – or nothing. Sometimes he used a belt. Sometimes it was a plastic pipe. Sometimes he used his slipper or his hand or he balled his fist and punched us. I tried to comfort Anthony but it didn’t help.
Later, Dad started coming home with someone he called Mrs Brown and he became a bit less grumpy.
We’d almost given up hope of seeing Mom again, when one afternoon, there was a familiar “Hello!” at the door.
“Mom’s home!” I screamed out for the whole world to hear. “Mommy, Mommy, you came back!” I dashed to the door, wrapping my arms around my mother’s waist but at that moment Anthony also rushed in and without looking at me, Mom turned and lifted him in a loving embrace.
“Hello my darling! My, how you’ve grown. I’ve missed you so much!” She tousled his hair and kissed him again and again.
I waited. Would Mom notice how neatly Alice had plaited my hair and how long it had become? Mom hated it when it was untidy. Eventually Mom looked down and said, “Hello Jane. Go and pack your cases, you’re also coming with me.”
I clung to her but she loosed my hands saying, “No Jane it’s too hot, don’t cling. Go and pack. Alice, go and help them!”
My Zulu nanny received her instructions quietly. I never realised how much I’d miss her. I can’t recall when Alice stopped working for Dad and I often wondered what became of my beloved Nanny but no-one ever told me.
Mom took us to stay with Aunt Marge and Uncle Peter. They had a garage that we used as a flat. There, we spent our time feeling crowded, fighting with our cousins, Steven and Josiah, who Mom said were “spoilt brats” and going ‘home’ to Dad and Mrs Brown at weekends.
Tinkie had a horse-riding Barbie doll here on her bedside locker at school. Its blonde hair reminded me of a doll I was given when we lived in that horrid garage.
I never had a Barbie but mine was called a ‘love doll’. She was passed on to me second-hand, and I adored her. She had beautiful, blue glass eyes that sparkl
ed and I kept the blonde hair brushed and shiny. Her cream clothes were clean and lacy and I was so proud of her.
Then one day my beastly cousin Steven grabbed the doll from me and held it out of reach. “Look what I’ve got!” he taunted.
“Give it back to me!”
“Come and get it!” Each time I lunged for it he swung around and laughed as I missed.
“Come on Baby, get your dolly.”
“I’m not a baby.”
“Well you’re only nine. And you are a baby. You play with dollies…”
He goaded me until I was ready to crack him. Over and over, I tried to rescue my doll. Repeatedly he side-stepped, laughing and taunting me. Then once more, I lunged but this time we collided, and my head hit him full-on in the stomach.
Steven, the eleven-year-old bully, collapsed, winded. He let out a shriek, flung the doll away and lay doubled up, howling. Aunt Marge came running out.
“She hit me, she hit me for nothing,” he cried out to his mother.
“I didn’t, he took my…” A hand slapped across my mouth.
“You be quiet, you little trouble-maker. You come here and live off our charity in our garage and eat our food. Now you think you can just do as you like and hurt my children…”
My eyes filled with tears. All my protests and explanations went unheeded, and I was banished to my ‘room’ in the garage. As I picked up the object of dispute, Steven looked up from the grass where he lay and a smug little smile crossed his face. In that moment, I snapped. Slamming the side door closed, I looked at the love doll.
“You caused this trouble!” I yelled. Then I killed it by ripping off its pretty little head. “I hate you! I hate you!” I flung myself on the bed sobbing, but nobody came to see what the matter was.
Sometime later, Uncle Peter fixed the doll but I no longer loved her. “People don’t really like things that have been damaged, do they?” I reasoned.
One evening Steven was left to babysit Anthony and me. I don’t know who decided the film was suitable, but we’d been left at home, watching James Bond on TV. Steven and Anthony were lying on the floor.
“Janey, come and lie next to me,” Steven called. I did so want my big cousin to like me so foolishly, I joined them under the blanket on the carpet. Perhaps I should be kinder to myself, since I was only nine years old at the time but I’ve often felt I should have known better. Anyway, Steven’s hand was soon exploring inside my pyjama pants.
“No Steven, what are you doing?” I whispered, embarrassed. I shoved his hand away but he said, ‘It’s what grown-ups do. You just saw James Bond put his hand under her dress. Stop being a baby. You don’t want me to call you a baby do you?”
He began to touch me intimately and at first it was curiously pleasant but I became progressively more disturbed by it. As I objected he started to bargain. “If you let me look at you while I touch you I’ll give you a chance to …”
Anthony was giggling.
“No! Gross!” I pushed him away again.
“You baby!” That taunt again! I jumped up and for want of something better to do, found my way to the fridge for a glass of juice.
When Mom came home and we were back in our garage flat, I told her about Steven’s touching. Mom didn’t say anything.
“I want you to smack Steven or tell-on to his dad,” I demanded.
“I can’t do that, Honey. We live here and we can’t cause problems.”
“That’s not fair. He’s ugly and he needs a slap!” Mom said to forget about it; he was just being curious and it was over. Luckily Mom soon rented a little old cottage out of town on some rich people’s farm. Steven never touched me again but the memory of that day plagued me for years to come.
Chapter 3
“O my God, I cry out by day
but you do not answer
by night,
and am not silent...”
Psalm 22:2
Our little farm cottage was surrounded by the smell of fresh grass and cow manure. Daisy, a big black and white cow, grazed in the paddock next to the house. She had a massive udder and no horns, so we could stand close to her and stroke her while Erasmus, the Zulu farm-worker drew her milk down into a metal pail with his strong, dark hands.
The people in the big house were wealthy – in my young eyes, supremely rich because they had horses and Wendy, their sixteen year-old daughter rode them. This made her the envy of every pre-teen girl in the area but especially me. I stared at her blonde hair trailing in the wind as she cantered confidently across the fields and wished I was her.
Awestruck, I decided to write about her. A friend had given me a diary for my ninth birthday. It was brown and looked old. I was disappointed until I realised it had a lock and key like a treasure chest. It was clearly meant to be a secret diary; so long before I began writing in it, I’d made a game of keeping it hidden. My first entry read:
Tuesday 8 May 1984
Wendy rode her horse today. It’s so big and strong. It’s black and shiny. It reared up and she didn’t even fall. I wish I could ride too. I wish I was older and pretty like her. Like a princess with golden hair…
I continued to record my cheerless little life in my diary for the next few years...
Wednesday 12 September 1984
Mommy doesn’t talk nicely to me like she used to when I was small. She’s always busy with Adrian Spencer now. I think he’s a farmer. He lives on Sweet Meadows farm. It’s like next door but further. She acts like she wishes she didn’t even have children anymore. Last time we visited his farm Mommy and Adrian were playing the song “Tonight I’ll celebrate my love for you” and they sat on the veranda and kissed for a very long, long time. It was disgusting. They stayed like that till I got bored and went away. Now the more this man comes to visit, the more horrid Mommy is to Anthony and me.
I hate people with long nails washing my hair. Mommy hurts my head. My teacher said she is worried. She thinks I have a sickness.
Friday 14 September 1984
Today Anthony fell off the bed and started to cry. Mom blamed me. His face hit the wall and it was very sore. Mom came to his rescue and boy did my face and head hurt after she had finished with me.
Tuesday 18 September 1984
Now the teachers want to know what all the bruises on my arms are from. It’s where Mommy pinches me whenever she is cross.
Thursday 20 September 1984
Some ladies came to school today to talk to me about the bruises and sores on my head. The teachers must have told them.
Monday 24 September 1984
The ladies – called social workers – came again … I was crying but they said we don’t have to worry. They said they will come again to talk to Mom.
Saturday 9 February 1985
Standard two has been so hard. Now it is the holidays and we are staying with Dad. Today my nanny, Alice told me that Mom got married to Adrian on the weekend! Now she is Mrs Spencer! She didn’t even tell us. And we didn’t get invited to the wedding! Nice mother hey? I guess she doesn’t have time for us now.
Thursday 14 February 1985
Hey Diary – Guess what? It’s Valentine’s Day. We made red hearts at school. And love is in the air. Now Daddy and Mrs Brown (her real name is Joanne), are getting married. I am going to be the flower girl. Anthony will be a pageboy. We are going with them to Cape Town in the holidays.
Saturday 16 March 1985
We still live with Mom but we go stay with Daddy and Joanne some weekends. His house is much better and he has clean water. We like going to his work. We play with the wax.
There is no water in our taps here. Mom says they are broken. We have to use the water from the swimming pool to wash and drink. It’s dirty and we carry it inside in a bucket. Mom and Adrian sit by the pool and drink their brandy and coke but they don’t swim. We have to boil the water because Mom says it will make us sick. Dad has clean water and a clean swimming pool.
Sunday 17 March 1985
Mom sen
t us next door to the neighbours at lunch time because there was no food in our kitchen. Mom says we are poor. I feel embarrassed but I get so hungry, so me and Anthony go.
Monday 18 March 1985
Guess what! Mom says we are moving again. But I don’t know how long till we go. I will have to start at ANOTHER new school. I suppose I will have to try to make new friends AGAIN! The problem is every time I change schools the work gets harder. But at least we get new clothes – uniforms I mean.
I hope the new place has clean water.
Friday 22 March 1985
Mrs Simpkins feels sorry for Mom so she asks us over for dinner every Thursday. But last night she gave us peas – yuck! Mom says we should be grateful.
Tuesday 30 July 1985
Rochelle is my new best friend. Her Mom and Dad are also divorced. She lives with her Mom who is really nice. She understands about divorce. She knows why it makes me so angry and sad that my Mom and Dad got divorced. I go to Rochelle’s a lot. It is very nice to play at her house. They have a lot of food and their water is clean.
Sunday 4 August 1985
We went to Cape Town with Dad and Joanne in the holidays.
Mom had a new baby while we were on holiday. Yesterday I was holding her and playing with her. Mom kept on and on saying nice things about the lovely baby. Eventually I moved too close to the fan and I got the baby’s finger caught in the fan. I was a bit jealous of her because Mom loves her so, so much. Mom gave me a fat slap and I guess I deserved it. The baby didn’t hurt me. But boy, Mom did.
Thursday 8 August 1985
Well, we have finally moved again and I really miss Rochelle. Now we are all staying with Adrian’s sister, Rose. Mom says we needed to have a place with clean water for the baby. Rose’s son is Damon. I can’t stand sharing this house with Rose and Damon.
Damon has yellow hair and pale green eyes. He is three standards ahead of me. He touches me just like Steven used to do. What is wrong with boys? Mommy leaves me to look after the new baby and then Damon touches me in the places my costume covers. The teacher once said those are private places. Damon is MUCH bigger than me and I am afraid of him. I said I will tell and he said he will tell them I am a liar and they will believe him because he is older. Damon also has books with rude pictures. I hate Damon.
Unspoken - Kiss of the Wolf Spider, Part I Page 2
