Amelia's Story (Box Set the Complete Series Books 1 & 2) (18 page)

The reunion

I was finally going to get to hug my brother, after being separated for so very long. The tears
cascaded down my cheeks at the thought of all the lost time between us. The pain of that was still strong within me.

Once I reached the top of the stairs I could hear a rustling sound coming from one of the bedrooms. I peeked through the door, and there sitting on the bed was Jake. I squealed with happiness. The feeling was overwhelming.
I had had no news of Jake while living at the Norwegians. I had no idea whatsoever that Jake had recently been released from the state-care-system.

A thought ran through my head. “It’s in your best interest,” the authorities were always telling me.

“It would unsettle you both to be in contact,” they would say each time I requested a phone call to my brother.

“Sorry Amelia, it has been decided to restrict all contact between you and your siblings,” I would often be told.

I cried at the recollection of those words. The hurt they caused was irremovable from my memory bank, where I knew they would remain forever.

Jake and I hugged each other very tightly. He was much taller than I had remembered. He had grown into a handsome young man. It was very strange to see him like that at first, because in my head I still had the image of him as a child. His hair was now dark. It used to be so much lighter; now it was jet black. Jake was very quiet, nervous almost.

We spent the next couple of days getting to know each other again. Neither of us talked in detail about our time in care; the memories were still raw, still painful. We never mentioned our pain, the loneliness, the despair, or the longing. We had both suffered greatly. The one thing Jake and I did talk about was the old ruin! A few days after our reunion we decided to spend the day at our secret garden. We sat against the sundial, reminiscing about past adventures. Oh how I had missed my brother, and he had missed me too! Although we were young adults now, we were as close as ever. We ate our sandwiches, skimmed stones like we once did as children, peered through the old ruin, and then slowly made our way home.

Our walk home was a quiet but not uncomfortable one. There was a peaceful silence between us, one of contemplation. I could not shake off the sadness that enveloped me. So much time had passed between us; so much of our childhood had been stolen from us. Tears fell from my water-filled eyes as I looked at my very vulnerable brother. It was clear to me right there, right then, that we were both dealing with our inner pain in silence.

The one thing I had noticed was how quiet Jake was now; he had a very distant look in his eyes. He always looked as if he was somewhere else in his mind. He seemed so fragile, there was a look permanently displayed in his eyes, one like that of a frightened kitten. I just wanted to protect him forever. Jake and I had suffered in ways most people only read about in books, and I was determined not to let that pain, that suffering, ruin the rest of my life. Sometimes it was very hard, though, as I would wake up some days shrouded in a dark blackened cloud. This would appear so unexpectedly, without any warning whatsoever. No matter how positive I had felt the previous day, once I was encased in this darkness it was almost impossible for me to function normally until it had taken flight and left me temporarily once again. Only then could I continue with my quest for a greater life.

At that time I had no idea that the black cloud was my depression. I had a different name for those dark days. My “abyss” I felt as if I had been swallowed up, and all my will power and strength had been swallowed up with it. I found it impossible to lift my spirit, to climb out of my chasm. However, I did not give in to it. I continued to struggle with it, until eventually I learned to live with it.

I hated those dark days with a vengeance, because they held me back, preventing me from moving forward. However, I had learned to recognise the signs within myself, and I would prepare myself mentally for the appearance of my nemesis. I realised I had not come through my tragic childhood unscathed or unaffected after all. I had been affected greatly. It was now up to me to deal with this affliction of sorts, and work with it rather than against it. I did not believe in therapy; I did not want to talk about my childhood to anyone; I was ashamed of my past; I did not want my life going forward to be affected by the past. I had made a conscious decision to tell everyone going forward that I had spent my childhood in a boarding school. This prevented awkward questions from new friends that came into my life, and future employers going forward.

I battled with this decision for a very long time; I thought long and hard about whether I was doing the right thing. I came to understand a need in me, a need to fit in, to be the same as all the other teenagers out there. This need was so great, I felt like I had everything to prove to the world, more so than anyone else. I needed to show the world and myself that I could make a great life for myself in spite of my past. So many children once they left the care system ended up on the streets with prostitution being their only means of income. Or they would journey down another darkened road, with no hope of ever returning. This was the sad reality, a frightening reality, and one that I promised would never be mine.

I remained at my mother’s house for a few more months. Life was not easy at all, and I knew this had been a mistake. I made the decision to look for a new job, one that would take me away from Shropshire. I scoured the newspaper each week, looking for the right opening. In the meantime, I was still working at my office job. I was modeling whenever I could, and I was going out quite a lot with new friends I had made.

For a while Jake would remain at mother’s also, as he had nowhere else to go. He seemed desperately to want our mother’s love; he fought hard for it. He was a
people pleaser; this had become apparent to me over time. He was also shy and needed to be loved.  I could not bear the thought of leaving him now; however, it was something I had to do. So many lost years between us, so preventable, time lost forever. And now I was going to leave him behind, I had to leave him behind; but I would come back for him one day. I knew if there was any chance of making it in the big world then that would involve me leaving Shropshire for good, and once again being separated from Jake.

I wanted to make life better for the two of us. But I knew deep down that I would have to go away for quite some time before I could make that happen. I had no idea how life had treated Jake since we had been separated all those years ago. I prayed that Jake would be okay. I prayed he was strong enough to cope without me, though I knew he was not as strong as me. He was damaged in a way I was not. He was vulnerable, and lacked confidence in himself and in life. He found the future frightening, as he had become institutionali
sed after many years of being in care. I was the stronger one. I had to be.

I had not seen my sisters either. They were sent to
Shrewsbury to live with foster parents. I had not seen them for many years, and I knew I would never see them again. I still had my job as an office junior so I decided I would work every hour God sent to make as much money as possible and to keep me out of the house for as long as possible. I joined a gym and went every other night after work. I started to make more new friends at work now. I was more settled and more sociable too.

I joined as many social activities as I possibly could, and through my hard work and dedication I was soon promoted. With all my new responsibilities and extra money, roughly £30 per week taking me up to around £85 per week, I actually felt like I was making some progress towards
my dream of owning my own home. I saved the extra money that I was earning and put it straight into my savings account.

One day I came home from work and mother was in a foul mood, much like the ones I remember her having as a child. She was waving a phone bill at me, and demanding money from me; I had only used the phone twice, and had agreed at the time I would pay for the calls. Mother demanded £20 off me there and then, which was an awful lot of money then for just two phone calls; in fact
, it would be an awful lot of money now. I asked to see the phone bill and reminded her I had only made a couple of calls.

And she said, “If you do not give me the money Amelia then you can no longer use the phone.”

I gave her the £20 she had demanded. She never showed me the phone bill. She also discovered I had been promoted and upped my rent to £125 a month, again if I refused she would kick me out there and then. I could not win and realised why she had agreed to let me stay in the first place: money. Not because she wanted to make up for the past, not because she was sorry; she still hated me as she always had done. How foolish I was to think she had maybe changed! How foolish was I to think she harboured some genuine feelings for me deep inside of her somewhere!

Modeling

While
at work one day a couple of the women suggested I applied for some modeling jobs. They told me I was very beautiful and could make lots of extra money at weekends! This sounded great. I was so desperate for money; however, I did not feel as beautiful as the two kind ladies had mentioned. I most certainly did not have the confidence in myself. For a while I forgot about their suggestion, until one day during my lunch break, the same two ladies came up to me with a newspaper clipping for a modeling competition, I gladly took the clipping and read each and every word carefully, as there was no way I was going to take my clothes off or do any sort of topless modeling work, that was for sure!

Everything seemed to be above board. There was a contact number for a local professional photographer and a time to call him
, which was after 5 o'clock in the evenings. The requirements were you had to be of slim build, size 8 or 10, no mention of age requirements at all. Being only 17-years-old, I thought I would be okay. After all, he was advertising in the job section of the Shropshire Star newspaper.

That evening on my return home I sat in my bedroom wondering how I was going to call Mr. Harris the photographer. There was no way I was going to call him on my mother’s phone. Back then, there were no such things as personal mobile phones. My mind was set. I took a walk to the local phone box just down the road, armed with a stack of ten pence pieces. I had to wait ages for the old lady to finish her phone call. I practically fell into the phone box once it was free! I dialed the number hand written on a piece of paper and waited for the dialing tone. I nearly jumped when I heard a voice at the other end.

“Hello, Mr. Harris speaking.”

I took a deep breath and then replied, “Hi, my name is Amelia. I am calling regards your advertisement in the local newspaper
this week.” The line went quiet for a while, and then Mr. Harris said,

“Are you a model?”

“No, I am not a model Mr. Harris; however, I am looking for a modeling job.”

Mr. Harris went on to ask me my weight, size, height, bust size, and any previous experience. I told him I was new to this industry and was looking to model part
-time for extra money. A meeting was set up for the following Saturday morning at 11 o'clock at my mother’s house.

To say I was nervous is an understatement; he advised me that he would go into more detail about the competition when he saw me. Mr. Harris also added that there had been a lot of interest in his advert and many local girls had entered.

Over the next couple of days I went jogging twice a day, in the morning before work and in the evening. I was drinking plenty of water, and eating like a bird as I wanted to look perfect for my interview. At that age I did not drink alcohol at all, and was already a healthy eater.

I tried to quiz my mother as to what time she would be going out on Saturday, as I could not bear for her to be around when the photographer arrived. I could just imagine the reaction I would receive from her. As it happened she was not going out until much later in the day. I was going to have to tell her about my interview after all.

Why was I here? I had thought to myself. After everything I had been through, I had ended up right back here! I was so desperate to get away once and for all and yet there was a part of me that still very much needed my mother’s love. I wanted her to be proud of me. I needed her to say sorry for my childhood. I wanted her to offer an explanation then hug me and tell me she would make it up to me, that going forward we would have a close relationship, go shopping together, watch movies together, all the things that mother’s do with their daughters.

I knew deep down it would never happen. She was
incapable of feeling any kind of emotion. I still dreamed of it, though. However, I was like a deep-filled bramley apple pie where emotions were concerned, steeped through to my very core with emotion of every kind! I seemed to feel for the hurt and pain of others tenfold. My heart was heavy, my mind confused. Somewhere deep inside I hoped upon hope that my mother may have changed with age, but I was not witnessing any such change as yet.

Mother was still filled with hate; regular daily snipes were quite normal. If I said “black” she would say “white”. Whatever I was wearing she would tell me I looked dumpy. She often looked me up and down with a look of disdain on her face and then she would shout at me,

“What do you think you’re looking at?” when she was the one looking at me in a disapproving manner.

I knew I was not dumpy. I was only a size 8 or 10, but it seemed she could not bear to pay me a compliment of any kind. The only pleasure she seemed to get out of me was making me feel as insecure as possible, and she was doing a fantastic job of that. I let it go most of the time as you cannot reason with the
un
reasonable.

Outside of the household I had made a few new friends who I went out with after work on Fridays. They knew nothing of my past. Because of our age the topic of schools came up frequently. This was a subject that at that time I had no intention of talking about. I had made a pact with myself when I left the state
-care-system that I would just tell everyone going forward I had been away at boarding school in Wales. It was easier that way: no awkward questions to answer, no awkward silences from people who just don’t know what to say to you. This also gave me a far better chance socially as far as fitting in was concerned. I had a rather posh accent really. I had been moved around so much as a child I was never anywhere long enough to pick up the dialect, and this stood me in good stead going forward.

Finally
, I plucked up the courage to tell my mother I had a modeling interview with a photographer and that he would be arriving at eleven o'clock on Saturday morning. She could not have laughed any louder, asking why I thought I was good enough to be a model. I could not muster a response to that and just asked her if she would allow me some privacy for half-an-hour. Mother grunted, not saying yes or no. I thought it went a lot better than expected. I had been expecting a far worse reaction than the one I received. 

On the Saturday morning I spent two hours getting ready for my interview. I washed and curled my hair, took my time applying my make-up, and already had my outfit laid out on
my bed. By 10.45 am I was all ready and dressed. I popped my lovely new black high heeled sling-backs on to complete the look. I took one last long look at myself in the mirror and smiled to myself. I could not believe the reflection looking back at me was my own, a beautiful young woman. At that moment my mother came out of the kitchen and stood and stared at me in her usual way, she looked me up and down then said,

“Amelia, are you really going to wear that?”

I was flabbergasted, speechless. She could not even find it within herself to tell me, her first born daughter that I looked nice. I simply replied yes and that I was happy with my choice. My mother then told me she thought it made me look a little dumpy, and maybe I should consider changing my outfit. I knew she was just being unkind; she could not help herself. She knew she could no longer use her physical power to hurt me as she once did: I towered over her by 5.5 feet. However, I was still afraid of her, she knew how to hurt me emotionally, she knew just how to get inside my head, she was shameless, un-relenting, and it hurt.

Harry, my mother’s fourth husband, was a skinny white-haired man who worked in a factory. He had been loyal to his company for over 20 years. His job was a secure one and
he never missed a da
y‒
a far cry from the men my mother had been used to over the years. Harry was a lovely pleasant man. You could not find a kinder and gentler natured person, and this puzzled me immensely. How on earth had he managed to handle my mother? As the days and months passed by I was beginning to find out. Harry was petrified by my mother; he did what she said, when she demanded. He would never argue back with her, not ever.

One day Harry came home from work, took off his boots outside of the front door before entering the house, walked into the kitchen, where I was making a drink and mother was cooking. Harry walked over to her and went to plant a kiss on her cheek; mother spun around and punched him square in the face, with no warning at all. I dropped my tea, Harry just looked at my mother with puppy dog eyes and she punched him again and again. I shouted at her to stop, but she then turned on me and slapped me around the face. All this happened with no warning signs whatsoever. Just before Harry came home from work, mother was discussing what to cook for dinner; the radio was on, and there was definitely no sign of a bad mood.

I was in complete shock, not because she slapped me too, but because of Harry’s reaction or rather lack of it. He said, and did nothing. Mother told him to sit down and take off his coat, which he did like an obedient dog. I walked out of the kitchen, my mother started after me, screaming at me that I was no better than she was, and that I would never amount to anything. So that was the day I saw my real mother once again, as she re-surfaced in a blaze of unexpected anger. I knew I could not stay there for much longer. Anything was better than living there. I just needed the right job first, and to start a new life, a positive life, as far away as possible from my mother.

My modeling interview went well with Mr. Harris. Over the next few weeks he helped me prepare my portfolio at a great cost to myself of course! This was standard practice back then it was like an equity card for actors. Without one you would not be seen by the modeling agencies, well at least that’s what Mr. Harris had told me. I hung on his every word, believing I was heading towards great things. Mr. Harris took me to
Ryder Falls in North Wales. He advised me this was a beautiful backdrop for my new photos; my portfolio would benefit greatly.

I packed all sorts of wonderful outfits, swimwear, lingerie, evening dresses, day dresses, and casual wear! I wanted to ensure my portfolio reflected many different looks, and that it would show the modeling companies that I had a very versatile look. On our arrival at
Ryder Falls, I was blown away by the sheer beauty of the area. The famous waterfalls were amazing. Mr. Harris was right: it made an incredible backdrop for the many photos that were taken that day. Mr. Harris was a trusted photographer, and he had worked with many local models that had gone on to do great things. He was also well-known locally as a landscape photographer.

The day was perfect; the sun was shining. Mr. Harris made me feel like a princess. I remember one particular photograph he took: I was wearing a simple day dress, sitting on a floating log in the river, with the waterfall directly behind me. It was a very calm and peaceful day. I was leaning back on the log and kicking my feet in the water playfully. It was a very natural photograph. I loved it and still have it to this day. Many films were used that day. Mr. Harris was a perfect gentleman. He always turned around when I needed an outfit change, and he would hold the towel for me when I stepped out of the water. I felt completely safe in his hands. The truth be told, I felt like a true star that day!

Mr. Harris had a lot of faith in me as a future model. He built up my confidence. He started acting as my agent for a while and would get me modeling jobs locally. I remember one was for a local foundry, not the most glamorous of contracts, but a modeling job nonetheless. As far as I was concerned this was one more step towards my dreams. I had to wear a very tight fitting T-shirt with the company’s logo written across my chest, holding onto a fence near a railway line and leaning back playfully. It was harmless. I got paid and was treated very well. That was my very first job. I did one or two jobs like that over the following months. What they did for my confidence was incredible.

Mr. Harris took me on location to the most amazing places for photo shoots; I was always in awe at the beautiful places he managed to find. They were always so peaceful, so beautiful, and so far removed from my own surroundings. I was full of optimism, full of plans, and full of hope. No amount of verbal abuse received from my mother on a regular basis could dampen my spirit. Not any more.

I was saving what money I could, working hard in the daytime, modeling the occasional evening, and every other weekend I was being advised and polished by Mr. Harris. He helped me to think differently; he encouraged me to believe in myself; he was a genuinely nice man. Much older than I was, Mr. Harris was then in his 40s, a man who could be trusted. He never took advantage of me, not ever; he was very fatherly in how he treated me.

My mother hated the fact I had started putting together a portfolio and doing the odd job here and there. She would tell me almost daily that I was not good enough. Who did I think I was? No one would want to hire me as a model. At just size 8
-to-10, I was a nice slim build, However, my mother continually told me how fat I was, that I had my head in the clouds and that modeling was not for the likes of me. I was not pretty enough, and I would never amount to anything. This daily taunting hurt me, not because of what she said, but because she was actually saying it to me, her own daughter. She would spout out ugly words about Mr. Harris too, saying he was a pervert, and only interested in one thing. This was not the case at all.

Why I was still surprised by her abhorrent attitude and outrageous behavio
ur, I have no idea. Looking back now, I realise how innocent and naïve I was. Anyone in her sphere was like a trapped fly in a web. I truly believed at that time, that I had no other alternative place to go. The only other option was a hostel for waifs and strays. Had I taken that option I feared I might have been forced down a road I would never return from, like so many children who leave the care system. And that was just not an option for me.