In the Beginning
Taking the crumpled-up piece of paper from her pocket, she began to dial the code for London. The newspaper had said there would always be someone available at the end of the line, to talk things over. She’d rung before and spoken to someone called Kevin. He’d listened and offered what advice he could but it usually concluded with her being taken back home - nothing changed.
She’d used up the last of her pocket money, and the returns from the bottles of pop she’d been saving, to catch a bus to a nearby town. It felt exhilarating, riding through unfamiliar territory. This must have been the fifth time she’d run away from home. Each time she got further, one day she’d make it to London and meet Kevin. But for now, she just prayed they wouldn’t send her back.
Kevin talked calmly; he said he had to inform the authorities where she was because of her age, just twelve, but he promised he would try and get them to listen. The two policemen she’d seen earlier checking the shop fronts walked towards the telephone box. She knew that they knew now - they were looking for her. Sure enough they tapped on the glass and when she came out they asked her name, expecting the truth - she didn’t bother to lie. They always told her off for worrying her parents; they never spotted the clues and helped her to tell. She never found the right words, she always got taken back. There was always a next time.
Perched halfway down the stairs, brother and sister sat side by side listening to an all too familiar argument. Their mother never
won. There would always be tears and threats. Afterwards they scurried back to bed. It wasn’t wise to make any noise that night.
For years she hadn’t gone to school. Her mother let her stay home - encouraged it in the beginning - as she needed the company. Each afternoon she would prepare herself for the lie: he mustn’t know she hadn’t been. The times he found out she’d pay for it by getting a good hiding; his face red, eyes rolling to show their whites. Her mother standing by, helpless.
She remembered the times her mother had tried to make her go to school, when the truant officer had called and threatened to come back in the evening to speak to her father. The girl would kick and scream as she was dragged to school; once there she would hang on to the school railings until her fingers were prised off. Usually the school gave in and sent her home - it was easier. At home the hours ticked by until he arrived from work, dirty and sweating from operating the machine. He was a steelworker and proud of it.
As night-time rolled on, the silence gave rise to pure fear. Lying there in the double bed, waiting for her unwelcome parents to take their places either side of her, not able to stop her heart from racing, the panic rising. Sometimes the asthma stopped the roving hands. The coaltar lamp sat on the dressing table, burning in the dark.
An asthma attack, while being frightening enough on its own, offered relief of sorts. At the onset of an attack she’d be taken downstairs to await the doctor or, if it wasn’t too serious, her mother would prop her up in the bed. Whichever, her father would leave her alone that night. Not so her brother. If the girl remained in bed the father would go and sleep with the boy. She never found out what happened between father and son.
As far back as she could remember, her parents had slept either side of her. Her father’s hands had always explored, groped her body. She used to try and wriggle away to her mother’s side of the bed, but the hulk that was her mother prevented her escape. Her mother knew that without a substitute the hands would reach herself - something she’d avoided for years. Afterwards the girl would cry silently. Often she felt sore and couldn’t sleep, lying there praying it was over. As day broke, everything went on as usual. Her mother would have to decide whether this was a day when she would attempt to get her daughter to school, or a day she’d leave the girl sleeping in the large bed.
By the age of twelve the girl had taken all she could. Now she had a room of her own. This room became like a prison cell. Her father had nailed down the windows to prevent her escape and the door had no inside lock. Her father’s needs had increased; his night-time visits became a ritual.
One day, on returning from school, she’d found the house locked up and her mother gone. After a while her father returned from work and unlocked the door. They searched the house, but her mother was not to be found. The evening was silent. Her brother stayed safely in his room, while she had to make her father’s lunch pack for work. The lard made her feel sick as she spread it liberally on the bread.
That night she lay in fear, praying her mother would return. As expected he came creeping, turning the door handle quietly. She had her lamp on and she could see him. He was bare - no clothes - and frenzy in his eyes. As he climbed into the bed she realised that this night would be far worse than all the other times, and it was. This time the pain was searing. During the rape the girl stared at the wall. As every thrust ripped into her she took in every detail of the patterned wallpaper. She remembered picking the yellow flowered print; her father had said she could choose whatever she wanted. Now she despised those golden buds; they represented him and the burning pain she felt right then.
Afterwards she sobbed silently, bleeding on to the sheets. Her mother returned, some time late in the night, with muddy shoes. The next day the mother washed her daughter’s sheets, saying nothing. After that the girl ran with urgency. Unable to express what she felt, she knew something was wrong with it all: the silence, the secrecy, being told by her father never to tell or she’d end up locked away in a children’s home where she’d be beaten and never see her mother and brother again. This didn’t stop her; her quest became to reach London, meet Kevin, never go back.
Page(s) 4-6
magazine list
- Features
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- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
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- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The