Deliver Me From Evil (20 page)

By the time I was fourteen, Eunice noticed I enjoyed being skinny and not having to eat because it made me feel more attractive, even with short hair. She got it into her head that I was now probably anorexic. I’m sure she was right – that I was beginning to see food as a means of taking back control. But I was only doing this because I had been so terribly and confusingly controlled by Eunice. As ever, she saw my problem as my fault, and nothing to do with her.

Since happiness was not allowed by Eunice, now that I wanted to be thin, she decided maliciously that she had to do something about it. It wouldn’t be something to help me, or be pleasant for me, obviously. Quite the opposite. Eunice had a new eating plan: I was to eat lard. A whole pound before every meal. One day I came into the kitchen and Eunice was standing by the table, hands on her hips with a determined look on her face. I was in for it.

‘Sit down.’

I sat down, as commanded. Rather like Jet would ‘sit’ when Eunice snapped her orders at him. Eunice went over to the counter, then returned to the table and there, glistening on a plate, was a whole slab of solid white lard. I looked at it in horror. Eunice watched my face closely, as I swallowed hard.

‘You’re to eat it. All of it. Every mealtime, I want you to eat a pound of lard. You need fattening up.’

I knew better than to respond, but as I looked at the block of fat my stomach heaved. It looked disgusting – I couldn’t possibly put that stuff in my mouth. I’d really rather die.

‘Go on. Eat.’

Eunice was not budging. Her face was set in its usual grimace of rigid determination. Her eyes gleamed cruelly behind her glasses. I’d been here a million times and it was yet another battle of wills. The other children gathered at the kitchen door and watched in horror as I took the spoon. I sliced into the solid fat and brought a slimy spoonful to my lips. They wouldn’t open, but oily, piggy odour wafted up to my nose.
I cant eat this, I just can’t. I’m going to throw up. Please don’t make me. Please.
I said nothing and stared at the spoon, wanting it to disappear in a puff of smoke.

‘Eat it. Now. Or do I have to make you?’

I opened my mouth and put in the spoon. Almost instantly the fatty mass started melting and sliding over my tongue and teeth, coating them with grease, then it slipped down the back of my throat, tasting of oily sausages. It was vile and made me want to retch. Eunice stood over me, almost willing me to be sick, or to protest.
I can’t swallow. I can’t.

‘Swallow.’

I forced it down and instantly felt my stomach churning as the greasy mass hit my system. I dug into the lard again and, blanking out my mind, raised the next revolting spoonful to my lips, trying not to experience it as it melted on my tongue.
I want to be sick. I’m gonna retch.

‘Swallow.’

I could feel the other children’s eyes riveted on me in morbid fascination as I managed to work my way through about a quarter of the block, trying to stop myself being sick at every mouthful. They knew it could be them next, so they said not a word. When I chewed, I retched automatically, as the grease spread around my mouth, so I had to quickly swallow back down the rising contents of my stomach. I had really never eaten anything so revolting in all my life. Even the rat-poo porridge was not as bad as having to fill my mouth and my system with this stinking, oily gunge.

Satisfied with my obedience, Eunice finally turned away, busying herself at the counter, clearly believing that I was now conquered. I quickly spat out everything from my mouth into a paper towel and tucked it under my bottom on my seat. Eunice turned back and I sat up, looking innocent. Then she went out of the room, followed by the other children. Thinking quickly, I grabbed the block and threw it across the room, over the cooker, where it disappeared into an open space in the alcove behind, where a range used to be.

Other times, when Eunice left me with a plate of lard to consume before a meal, I would come prepared with toilet paper pushed into my pants. When she wasn’t looking I’d retrieve the paper, wrap the lard up quickly, dirtying the spoon first, of course, then I’d pretend I’d eaten it all. As soon as I could I would rush out, over the lawn, past the barn and across the open field, where I would lob the lard as far as I could over the hedge. Sometimes I was seen by Charlotte and I would pray silently that she wouldn’t tell because I knew my lard nightmare would only increase if she did. She did tell on me once, having seen me throw the lard over the field from her bedroom window. I had an extra beating and an extra dose of lard as a consequence.

Luckily, neither Eunice nor her spies could watch me all the time and I had become clever at dealing with the lard. Sometimes I would microwave it to melt it down so I could drink it; it was still awful, but I had to try something to get it down. Then I could even pour a little bit down the sink if no one was there. I would risk anything because, to be honest, I would rather have starved than eat the stuff. It was so sickening that even to this day, the very thought of it, the very smell of anything like it, makes me instantly want to throw up. It’s also made it hard for me to cook with oil or taste anything that is slightly fatty. Even the smell of sausages cooking or fast food outlets turns my stomach.

The renovation of the farm – which seemed to take for ever – had reached the kitchen. All the quarry tiles had been removed and new concrete foundations were being laid. In fact, most of the household furniture had been moved out to the barn and Eunice had almost gutted the place. She was also planning to convert the attic into a loft space. New staircases were built and we were living, largely, on a building site.

Judith was involved in the project because she worked as a secretary at a builders merchants and her boss had been roped in to help out with the planning and refurbishment. Judith was often at the farm now and the living conditions had become even worse, if that was at all possible. It had always been cold, but it was now tougher and rougher. There was still a caravan on site and Judith sometimes slept in it. As always, I still slept on the floor, just on a doubled-over quilt with a dirty, old sofa cushion, still with no proper bedding or privacy, even though I was nearing fifteen.

We had a pet goose, a duck and a rabbit, all of which lived in the house with us. I had two cats then – an epileptic one called Posey and an old one called Poppy. Judith had one called Gobbelino, which lived at the farm with us, too. Before the kitchen floor was lifted up, I had been sleeping under the kitchen table with the goose and duck in a box of hay beside me and the rabbit in a little cage. (I was always moving from the living room to the kitchen and back again, according to which of my tasks was uppermost in Eunice’s mind at the time.) I felt at home with the animals which I looked after lovingly (a good sight better than Eunice ever cared for me), so I liked sleeping with them in the kitchen. It was better than having to tend to Robert all night in the living room, anyway.

There was a period around this time when I was left at the farm with Judith for a while, so I could look after the animals, while Eunice took the others back to George Dowty Drive. Judith was good with her hands and she was making wooden furniture for the farm – she was quite skilful. Life was a hell of a lot better with Judith than it was when Eunice was around. It was almost pleasant. Although Judith did hold us down for beatings or carry out other punishments, it was usually only when Eunice told her to do it. On her own Judith wasn’t that bad, especially away from Eunices evil influence. I never dared ask her why she thought her mother was so horrible to children or why she stayed at home so long. Neither did I manage to find out why Judiths younger sister left and wasn’t in touch any more. I wasn’t used to asking questions, so I kept quiet, as I’d been trained to.

However, life for all of us, was about to come crashing down. It was in September 2000 that Eunice decided we were going to have a short break of four days away at Pontin’s Holiday Camp at Brean Sands, near Weston-super-Mare, on the coast. Judith joined us in her Bedford Rascal and brought a couple of Jehovah’s Witness friends to the resort. It was not a holiday on the grand scale of our trip to Disneyworld – that was truly a one-off – and we just lived in an apartment for the weekend. Although there was a funfair and things to do, we weren’t really allowed out to explore and have fun. I was in Eunice’s Bad Books that weekend as I had forgotten to bring the washing-up liquid, so I was being punished. I got a clout in the mouth, plus Eunice had developed a new delightful habit of kicking me in the shins when she was annoyed, perhaps as I was getting a bit too big for her to beat my feet very easily. She kicked me whenever she felt like it and I was often left with big bruises on my legs as a consequence.

One night we went out to the social club, where there was a disco (Eunice hardly went wild, drinking only half a shandy) and we also watched a puppet show, but we were largely prisoners in the apartment, and it very much like being at home rather than being on holiday. There were no special treats either.

On the last night, as we were packing up to go home, Robert lost his temper and threw a toy digger at me. It hit my eyebrow, splitting it open. Blood was pouring everywhere, and Eunice got very annoyed at the mess. Judith’s Jehovah’s Witness friend who was with us at the time said I ought to go to First Aid as the cut was deep, plus to check if I had concussion. She also told Eunice I would probably need stitches as the cut was pretty big.

‘I’m not doing that, she’s perfectly fine,’ said Eunice, as ever the concerned carer.

Judiths friend remonstrated with her, as my clothes were spattered with blood and I was clearly dazed, saying that at least I shouldn’t travel. Eunice roughly pulled the edges of my cut eyebrow together and stuck them together with butterfly plasters, irritated by my having caused so much trouble. No anaesthetic or words of comfort, of course. She tugged hard at the tender skin as she held my wound in place. I was made to feel that
I
had done something terrible. Amazingly, Robert didn’t get told off at all: it was all my fault, yet again.

The upshot was that we stayed an extra night at Pontin’s and Eunice was pretty annoyed about the whole thing – I guess because of the extra cost and also because she didn’t like anyone interfering in her plans. I knew better than to show that my injury hurt or to ask for any comfort or care; I just had to put up with it and stay quiet.

The next day after breakfast, having finally packed up our apartment to go home, it was agreed that Judith, Robert, Charlotte and Sarah would go swimming on the way back, while Eunice, Thomas and I would go via the cattery to pick up the animals. I asked if I could go swimming, too, but Eunice looked outraged and snapped that I was still in her Bad Books, so I had work to do.

Thinking about it now, I probably couldn’t have gone swimming because of my cut, but I just wanted to extend the holiday, have some fun and get away from Eunice, because returning to the farm always filled me with dread. However, Eunice told me I had to go straight home and look after the animals. I knew better than to argue with Eunice, or show her that I cared in any way, so we drove home in silence. But I did love my animals and looked forward to seeing them again.

It got to about teatime that day and we had stopped at Eunice’s mum’s bungalow for a lovely supper of spaghetti Bolognese. However, after supper we had still not heard from the others, which was odd, but we thought they must have got held up. There was a big shopping precinct near to Pershore and Eunice said, sarcastically, that she bet Judith had stopped off there to do some clothes shopping and that she’d kill her if she had.

A couple of hours later we still had not heard anything, and by now it was very strange. Maybe Judith had gone a different route and had got stuck in traffic, but she would have called as she had a mobile. Eunice tried phoning Judith but there was no answer.

We were not allowed TV or radio at Eunice’s mum’s either, so we didn’t know what was on the news. However, at around eight or nine o’clock the phone rang. It was one of the Jehovah’s Witnesses who Eunice knew from the Kingdom Hall in Tewkesbury, calling to check that Judith was OK. They had watched the news on TV that teatime and had seen a report about a multiple car smash; they thought they had recognized Judith’s car among the vehicles.

Eunice called Frenchay Hospital and found out that everyone was there. I could hear her asking if they were alive or dead and when she came back she was pale and grim-faced, but didn’t say anything to me. Instead she just went round the room thumping things while I watched her. I knew better than to ask anything.

Then Eunice disappeared in her mustard Volvo Estate and I stayed the night with Katie. Thomas stayed with me, too. None of the grown-ups told us anything at all, so we felt very confused. The next day, two Jehovah’s Witnesses came to fetch us and we were driven to Frenchay Hospital, in silence. It was all very mysterious, but I did sense that something had gone dreadfully wrong. I just didn’t know what, which was even worse.

When Thomas and I arrived we were taken into a little room and Eunice came in, looking very frosty. I don’t know why I remember that I was wearing a pink and white checked top and a pair of old jeans. I had no idea what Eunice was going to say, but it was clear from her white, drawn face that it would be bad. She simply stood in front of us, without emotion and gave it to us without any preparation: ‘Judith and Charlotte are dead. Sarah is critical and probably won’t make it through the night and Robert is in the High Dependency Unit.’