Nobody's Child (3 page)

But in Openshaw, as in all working-class ghettos, it was impossible to do anything without your neighbours finding out. There were too many eyes.

John had picked us up outside our house at Mammy’s insistence. She hoped that by being open about our outings the neighbours wouldn’t get the wrong message. But one of them obviously had and, keen to cause trouble, had told Daddy about our secret trips. We never did find out who had betrayed us.

It did achieve one result, though. It made Mammy and me more determined than ever to escape.

A
lthough we were to carry the scars of Daddy’s most brutal attack to date for many years, the actual pain from our burns lasted little more than a week.

The day after my branding, the burn on my arm was a mass of broken, weeping blisters, so Mammy, whose own arm was in much the same condition, took me to the chemist’s. There she told me to show my burn to the man behind the counter and asked his advice on what she should put on it.

The chemist wanted to know how it had happened and Mammy told him the story we had concocted that morning before leaving home. She said I had been playing with a ball in the living room and had tripped over and accidentally banged my arm against the hot grate.

‘What about the bruise on his face?’ the man asked. ‘How did he get that?’

‘It must have been the same fall,’ said Mammy quietly. ‘He went head over heels with a big crash.’

The chemist stared hard at me and at Mammy.

‘I just tripped over,’ I told him.

‘And I suppose the bruise on your face came from a fall too,’ the man said to Mammy.

‘Yes,’ she replied in almost a whisper. ‘A few days ago. I’m as clumsy as the lad.’

I had told similar lies to our neighbours when they had asked about my cuts and bruises, though they probably all knew the truth anyway, but this was the first time I had given a total stranger a made-up story to cover up a beating from Daddy.

I’m sure the chemist didn’t believe us but he finally turned away and selected one of the many small boxes that were piled up on the shelves behind him. He gave it to Mammy and told her, ‘Put the ointment on twice a day and keep it covered. He looks a healthy enough tyke, so it should heal up fairly quickly. But he needs to be more careful in future. And so do you.’

Mammy didn’t say anything. She paid him and almost ran out of the shop, dragging me behind her. Outside, she stopped long enough to blow her nose, and I could see that she was fighting back the tears.

‘That man knew,’ she said in a trembly voice. ‘He knew that I’m married to a wife beater. Everybody knows. But it’s not my fault, so why should I have to
suffer all the shame? I really don’t think I can cope with this much longer.’

But inside I think we both knew that we would have to go on coping. We had nowhere to run to, nowhere to hide. Not at that time anyway.

But that changed for me after I started school, or at least I thought it had.

My fifth birthday was marked by a small party. A handful of local kids came in and we shared a cake that was decorated with five candles, which I managed to blow out in one go. It was the first party I could remember. We never even celebrated Christmas at home. No decorations or tree, not even a cooked meal.

Daddy wasn’t there, but Mammy gave me a present, wrapped up in brown paper. I opened it straight away and discovered a small canvas bag with a long strap.

‘You’ll be going to school after the holidays like a big boy,’ Mammy told me, ‘and this is your new satchel. You wear it over your shoulder and can carry your school things in it.’

I don’t think any child ever looked forward to starting school with more excitement than I did. I imagined it would be just like my days out with John. A safe friendly place, full of nice adventures and out of Daddy’s reach.

Our little local Catholic primary school in Openshaw, St Brigid’s, was an old Victorian building. I was automatically sent there because my parents were Catholic, even though Daddy was lapsed and Mammy no longer bothered to go to church.

She had taken me on a few occasions to nearby St Anne’s Church, a dark and gloomy building with very little lighting inside and dirty walls outside. The first time I was taken there, I was lost. Nobody was allowed to talk unless they were invited to by the priest, who said everything in a funny language I didn’t know and which Mammy told me was Latin.

It was something to do with God, but, as there were never religious discussions in our home, I didn’t know who God was then. But I liked the smell of the incense and felt very safe there. The feeling that nobody could get at me.

By the time I started school, even these rare visits had stopped, but were replaced by class visits to Mass at the same church on Monday mornings.

I found that many of the kids in our immediate neighbourhood were at my school, some starting with me that year, as well as older ones that I knew from playing in the streets or from the homes I had visited with their younger brothers.

Like most of my clothes, my school uniform was a mixture of new and second hand. Mammy had bought the blazer and grey shorts from a neighbour whose son had grown out of them. My grey V-necked sweater came from a second-hand clothes shop but I had new black shoes and grey socks. On that first day, I felt like a prince in my, to me, new finery. It was as though I really belonged when the final school bell of the afternoon jangled and I joined up in the
playground with a crowd of other boys and girls to walk home together.

After that first morning, Mammy never took me to school again, and she was never outside with the other mothers when school turned out in the afternoon.

Some of the other mums found it strange and would ask me where she was, but I never expected her to be there. I used to make up stories about her and Daddy having to do more important things, and after a while people stopped asking me. I was always careful not to tell these tall tales when other kids from my road were about, though I’m sure some of them were telling similar stories to cover up secrets of their own, not to hide the shame of their fathers beating them or their mothers’ neglect, but just to conceal the poverty we lived in.

These fantasies took root and grew throughout my school years, as I tried to hide the truth about my nightmare home existence from my teachers and classmates and their parents. As time went by, I became more confident about lying to the teachers about my bruises and other injuries caused by Daddy’s beatings. Many of these, though, were in places that were not normally visible.

One of my injuries, more painful than most, happened a few weeks after I started school. It was on a bath night and, as usual, Mammy had half-filled the battered tin bath, which stood on a tattered plastic sheet spread out on the carpet in front of the fire in the
living room. She carried the hot water, which was heated by a gas geyser on the kitchen wall, to the bath in a plastic bucket.

I was sitting in the bath and she was soaping my shoulders and back with a flannel when Daddy came in, reeking of beer and with the wide-eyed stare and mean look on his face that usually came before an explosion of temper.

That night was to be no exception. Just the sight of me in the bath seemed to set him off. He must have seen me when he got to the top of the stairs and had already armed himself with a fish slice from the kitchen, which he was slapping against the side of his trousers.

‘You’ve always got time for that little bastard and never any time for me,’ he growled at Mammy, who was kneeling on the carpet next to the bath and had to look up at him.

‘He’s got to have his bath,’ she protested meekly.

‘Then let the stupid brat bath himself,’ he bellowed, and pushed her roughly away by her shoulder.

I felt very exposed sitting naked in the bath, so I stood up and bent over the edge to take the towel from a chair next to where Mammy had been kneeling.

‘I’ll tell you when you can get out,’ Daddy shouted, and raised the fish slice above his head.

I could see him over my shoulder and I knew what was coming, but I had nowhere to escape to. The flat metal end of the implement, which was covered in holes, landed squarely across the bare right cheek of my
bottom with a huge thwack, and the force of it shot me over the side of the bath.

I screamed at the top of my lungs and then again as the fish slice connected violently with the other bare cheek of my bottom. The pain was awful. It was as though the whole of my bottom was on fire.

By this time, Mammy was back on her feet. ‘Stop it, Joe,’ she cried. ‘You’re going to maim him for life if you carry on. He’s only a five-year-old child.’

Daddy’s answer was to grab hold of the end of the bath and up-end it over the two of us. Mammy was soaked through and water went everywhere. The bath ended upside down, almost on top of me, and, by the time Mammy had pulled it clear and checked that I wasn’t badly hurt, Daddy had done his usual disappearing act.

Mammy flopped down on her bottom on the wet carpet next to me and we both sobbed our hearts out. I had to kneel because I had discovered that sitting was far too painful. When I reached around to rub my sore bottom, I found that it was all lumpy. The fish slice had left its pattern on both buttocks.

That time, like many others, the teachers couldn’t see the marks and ask difficult questions, but I spent several very uncomfortable days being unable to sit down without it hurting.

A
fter this latest beating I was more determined than ever to run away from home, and very soon I believed a real opportunity had come when I heard that the circus was in town.

The big top had been set up on a large bombsite about half a mile along the Ashton Old Road from where we lived. Several gypsy caravans parked there all year round and some of the gypsy children attended my school. Even at my age, I had heard frightening stories about little boys and girls being carried off by the gypsies and never being seen by their families again. When I found out that two of the boys I had palled up with in the playground were gypsies, I remembered the stories and wondered if I might be lucky enough to be stolen.

On one occasion, I had gone back with them to where they lived, to play after school. I had been nervous at first, because of the tales I had heard, but that changed within a few minutes of getting there. The boys were members of two large families, who seemed to have at least four dogs between them and two
red-faced
, round-cheeked, cheerful mothers who welcomed me with smiles and offers of drinks and biscuits. After my home, it was like being in heaven and I was very sorry when the mother of one of the boys told me to get along home because my own mother would be worrying. There was no point in telling someone nice like her that my mother would not even have noticed I was missing. But it was true.

Mammy had closed the shop and was dozing on the settee. She hardly noticed I had come home at all and didn’t even bother to say hello.

I found half a sandwich and a banana in the shop and had my meal in front of the television. Mammy was still asleep on the settee, so I settled myself in an armchair, clutching my thin blanket around me and wishing like mad that I could be back in the gypsy camp with my new friends.

After school the next day, I went back with the same boys and played with them around the big top. To one side of the site was a small cluster of caravans and trailers which housed the circus acts and their families.

My new friends said they didn’t know any of the circus children and warned me to keep my distance as some were quite nasty and liked to bully smaller boys.
But I had already decided on a plan and was determined to see it through, so I told them that, if they didn’t want to come, I would go on my own and play with the circus children.

I felt brave when I said it, but I didn’t feel quite so brave when my new friends all chose to stay behind, yelling after me to be careful and run like mad if I got into a fight.

My idea was not to get into a fight. I wanted the circus people to take me with them when they left town. This was to be my escape route from Daddy and his beatings.

Several boys and girls were standing around by the caravans and most of them looked a lot older than me. Two of the boys nearest to my age were playing with a football and I asked if I could join in.

‘Who are you then?’ asked one of them. He and his friend stopped kicking the ball and stood in front of me. One or two of the other boys started to wander towards us.

Suddenly I wasn’t feeling brave at all.

‘I was playing with the gypsy boys and wanted to see the circus,’ I told them.

‘Does this look like the bloody circus? This is private,’ said the boy who had spoken before. ‘Outsiders aren’t wanted, so bugger off.’

‘Maybe he needs a thick ear,’ said one of the bigger boys who had joined us. ‘Teach him not to come sneaking round here.’

He made a move towards me and I ran. A caravan was
in the way, so I dived under it and rolled to the other side, sprang up and kept running.

I could hear the boys shouting behind me, so I scrambled under the next caravan and crawled behind one of the wheels.

My teeth were chattering now and I was scared the boys would hear me. I could still hear them calling to one another but they hadn’t spotted me going under the second caravan, and soon their voices died away. I reckoned they had gone back to the spot where I had first seen them, but I was too frightened to come out of my hiding place.

When I finally plucked up the courage to crawl out from the far side of the caravan there was no one there. It was dark by now and, although I could see the big top, lit up beyond the caravans and trailers and outlined against the black sky, I didn’t dare go in that direction in case I ran into the boys who had chased me earlier.

I had never been out after dark by myself before and it was all very frightening. A fine runaway I had turned out to be.

I made my way back to where the gypsies lived. Their mobile homes were all brightly lit inside and I could picture my school friends sitting with their smiling mums having their tea or watching television. I longed to be a part of their world and I was just plucking up the courage to knock on one of the doors when I heard Mammy’s voice calling my name.

Moments later, she appeared and I ran over to her and clutched her round the waist. I had never been so happy to see her.

She burst into tears as soon as she saw me, but she was also very angry. She pulled my arms from around her waist and boxed my ears so hard I heard ringing noises in my head. Mammy had never hit me before, except for a slap on the bottom, and the shock was almost as bad as the pain.

I started to cry, and then she pulled me close.

‘Oh, Michael,’ she said, ‘I was so worried about you. One of the gypsy boys came and told Mrs Watson [one of our neighbours] that you had gone off with some older circus boys who were really bad. She came and woke me up and told me, and I came to look for you.’

In that moment, I felt happy. Mammy had been so concerned that she had come out to find me – and that meant she really cared for me. Today, when I think back on it, I suspect she was really more concerned about what the neighbours thought of her mothering skills than about my safety.

But my joy lasted only a few seconds, for Mammy’s next words brought all my fear flooding back. ‘Daddy’ll be home by now and he’s going to be mad at you
and
me for being out. I don’t know what I’m going to tell him, and, if he sees Mrs Watson before he sees us, then there’ll be hell to pay.’

Mammy’s hand clung on to mine as she dragged me, so unwillingly, along the Ashton Old Road, the terror
building inside me at every step as my imagination conjured up the many awful things Daddy might do to us when we got home.

The house was silent when we went in through the shop and I could hear nothing as we climbed the stairs to the flat, not even the television. My spirits soared. Perhaps Daddy hadn’t come home yet.

But when we reached the top of the stairs I could see him sitting on the sofa in the living room, glaring in our direction. When he spoke, I could tell straight away that there had been a subtle shift in his attitude. Whether it was because my mother had dared to go looking for me, which to him would have been tantamount to mutiny, or it was seeing the two of us together like co-conspirators, whatever it was, something that night sent him into a rage the likes of which I’d never seen before.

‘What the hell have you been up to, you little nobody?’ he snarled at me as he stood up. ‘You and your useless mother. You’re up to mischief, getting yourself into trouble, and she can’t keep you under control. A bloody five-year-old.

‘Or perhaps you’d prefer to go with the gypsies too,’ he yelled at Mammy. ‘You bloody whore. You both need teaching a lesson.’

He had already taken off his belt and must have been sitting there waiting for us, holding it ready, for he was now swinging it, folded double, in his right hand.

Mammy pushed in front of me and took the first blow on her arm. It seemed that this one gesture to protect
me was all that was needed to set off his rage. As she screamed and turned away, the next swing of his belt, with its big buckle, caught her right across her buttocks.

I realised then that he was completely out of control. This wasn’t his usual calculated bullying. This was a man gone berserk.

As I turned to run and lock myself in the toilet, he grabbed me by the shoulder with his left hand and began beating me on every part of my body with his fist, feet and belt.

The pain got worse and worse and I begged him to stop, but he just carried on swinging and hitting.

When he did take a pause from beating me, he went back to using his belt on Mammy, who was by this time down on her knees with her head on the ground, not even attempting to defend herself, just sobbing.

This complete capitulation by Mammy was more frightening to me than anything my father did to us that night. I realise now that on that night Daddy had finally achieved what must have been his objective – to break her spirit.

When at last he threw his belt on to one of the armchairs, I thought our punishment was over, but I quickly learned differently.

Daddy sometimes carried a black leather-covered baton in a holder fastened to his uniform. It was to use if the prisoners at Strangeways became violent. He drew this out of its holder now and came at me again, jabbing it menacingly in my face and saying quietly, through
gritted teeth, ‘Maybe a taste of this will teach you to behave in future.’

His face had gone dark red and his eyes were bulging. His colossal anger had become almost tangible.

The first blow of the baton was across my back and its force almost knocked me off my feet. The pain, which was far worse than when he used the belt, seemed to go right through me. He concentrated on beating my back and shoulders – I suppose so that the bruises didn’t show – but some of his blows caught me on the arms as well.

It all ended when, perhaps deliberately, or perhaps through poor aim, the baton landed on the side of my head. There was a huge burst of light and lightning like fizzes behind my eyes and then everything went black.

He had managed to knock me senseless.

Just before I passed out, I remember pleading in my head to the powers that be – anything, anyone, any being – to give me one small inkling what it was inside
me
that could provoke such terrible anger and violence from the man who was supposed to be
my
protector –
my
father – and was one day supposed to be my guide into manhood.

How long I was unconscious, I have no idea. Mammy had been so badly beaten with the baton, after he had finished with me, that she was too groggy and in too much pain to know exactly what was happening. But when I came round I was still lying on the floor. I tried to sit up straight away, but my head started spinning so badly I had to lie down again.

Eventually, Mammy managed to crawl to the kitchen and, clinging to the draining board, struggled to her feet. It was difficult to know which of us was the more battered. Finally, she pulled herself together enough to fetch me a cup of water. She had also picked up a dishcloth and soaked it with water under the tap.

Holding me in a sitting position with her arm around my shoulders, she put the cup to my lips. After I had sipped some water, she bathed my face with the wet cloth.

It was then I began to realise that it was me who had come off worse this time, because the roles had been reversed. Usually it was me helping Mammy.

Every bit of me felt tender and I started to cry again and just couldn’t stop, even after Mammy helped me up into an easy chair.

It took me a while to notice that Daddy was no longer there, but I was still so frightened by what had happened that I couldn’t stop shaking. It was a feeling I was never going to lose while he remained a part of my life. So this new level of fear was to be my daily companion for years to come.