When Charlene told me about everything that had happened to her in her life, I could only imagine what that must be like. Our family seemed very dull and ordinary by comparison, but secretly I was glad. I thought that Charlene must have had some terrible experiences and I hoped I’d never have to go through anything as bad. I was happy feeling safe and secure at home.
We lived in a maisonette in Hastings, upstairs from my granddad, my mum’s dad, whom I was very close to. He lived in the flat below, and I’d be in and out of his place all day long. He used to be a teacher before he retired, so he helped me with my homework after school – but he’d never give me the answers, and instead made me work them out for myself. He’d give me juice and biscuits while we worked, and find bits of paper for me to do my drawings on when we finished. He loved my art – I was especially good at copying cartoon characters – and was always encouraging me to draw pictures for him.
Upstairs, there were four of us children – my brother James, who is two years older than me, my sister Christine, who is two years younger, and the baby, Georgie, who is nine years younger than me. My dad was very strict. We all had to sit around the dinner table together every evening and we weren’t allowed to leave until we had cleaned our plates and everyone else was finished as well. Dad hated noise and the kind of mess and racket that children make, so we weren’t allowed in the front room when he was watching telly in case we disturbed him. We were rarely allowed to have friends over to play, and Dad never let us have anyone over to stay the night, even though we begged. He said he worked very hard and needed his rest when he was at home. He worked as a gardener for the council, doing the flowers along the seafront, and he just loved gardening. He was very good at it, I think.
My mum didn’t work. I used to think she was very beautiful, with long black hair and a slim figure, but she could be a bit dopey and I couldn’t really confide in her if I had a problem because she never kept secrets. She was always going out with her friends while Dad stayed at home to babysit for us, and if she were at home, she’d have friends round to sit and gossip with her over a coffee or a glass of wine.
I was a very girly girl, with my Barbies and my pink bike. Dad built us a Wendy house in the back garden that had carpets and curtains and some old car seats to sit on and I liked taking my friends in there to play cards when Dad let them come over. In my bedroom, I had posters of the Spice Girls, Leonardo di Caprio and Snow White, from the Disney film. I shared my room with my sister Christine and I kept my half of that bedroom spotlessly clean and tidy – in fact, people used to compare me to Monica from Friends, who is obsessive about cleaning. I could tell instantly if anyone had been in, because everything had its own place and I’d notice if things were moved by even a millimetre or two. I’d know if Christine had borrowed my shoes because she never put them back in exactly the right place, and I knew when my brother or sister had found the latest hiding place for my money pot and helped themselves to fifty pence. It used to make me furious but no matter how hard I tried to think of good new hiding places, they always seemed to find them.
I liked primary school and did well at most subjects – except for science, which I hated. I won a competition once for a story I wrote about a rainbow fish, and I was good at art, reading and maths. I had plenty of friends – Samantha, who had been a close friend since nursery school; Lisa, the chatterbox with the same name as me; and Luke, who was sometimes mean to me because he was a boy and boys that age aren’t meant to be nice to girls, but who was basically a friend as well. And when I was ten, I had a boyfriend called Stevie. He had black hair and pale skin, and we used to go out on our bikes together or I’d go round to his house to play on his computer. I was his girlfriend for about a year, but we only kissed once, and that was just a little peck.
As soon as Charlene arrived at Christ Church Primary and I lent her my Spice Girls sharpener, we were best friends. She had long dark brown hair that was held back in a pretty hairband and seemed quite quiet – although I soon found out that was just because she was new to the school and feeling a bit shy. Once the holidays started, we spent hours and hours at her house. Her dad, Keith, made me feel completely welcome and said I could stay over at weekends whenever I wanted to. He was obviously very pleased to have Charlene living with him, and wanted to see her happy, so if she asked me to come and stay, then I could.
Even though her dad doted on her, Charlene didn’t have a totally easy life at home. I felt sorry for her, because I could see that she didn’t get on very well with her stepsister Ceri-Jane, who was always accusing her of messing with her make-up and touching her things. When they passed in the hall, Ceri-Jane would say things like ‘Hello, smelly!’ Charlene would ignore her and pretend not to care, but I could see that it hurt her feelings. Her stepmother, Philomena, didn’t seem too keen on Charlene being around the place either – she was always snapping at her and telling her that her dad was spoiling her. She didn’t seem to like me much either – I don’t think she liked any of Charlene’s friends. We never asked her for anything because we knew she would say ‘no’ but Keith was so kind, he would give us whatever we wanted, so we were always asking him for sweets or this and that. I loved it round at Charlene’s house because it felt so relaxed compared to my home, if we ignored Ceri-Jane and Philomena, and we were really allowed to do whatever we liked.
When we were playing, Charlene was usually the one who would be in charge. I’ve never been a bossy kind of person and I was quite happy to just go along with her. She usually chose the games we played and decided the rules. When we realised we both had lots of teddy bears, we decided to swap some and I don’t know how but I ended up giving her three of my bears for the one of hers that I wanted, but I didn’t mind.
I was an innocent nine-year-old, and my childhood had been very sheltered. Char was much more streetwise than me and I listened open-mouthed when she told me bits and pieces about her background: that her mother had been a drug addict and that she’d been taken into care when she was four because she wasn’t being looked after properly. She had only come to live with her dad that year even though he’d been applying through the courts to have her for ages. I thought it was a very sad story and I felt so sorry for her when she told me that her mother had died. I couldn’t imagine anything worse than losing your mum. After Charlene confided in me about such an awful thing, I felt very close to her.
Charlene was more grown-up than me in other ways as well. We had a sex education class at school one day, where they told us about starting periods and growing breasts, and I thought periods sounded disgusting. When we came out of the lesson, I said to Charlene, ‘Yuck! Imagine all that blood in your knickers.’
And she said, ‘It’s not that bad. Don’t worry about it. I started mine earlier this year.’
I was amazed. ‘But you’re only nine. The teacher said in the lesson it might happen when you were eleven or twelve.’
She shrugged. ‘I’m just an early developer.’ Then she said something I didn’t understand at all. ‘It means I could get pregnant now.’
I looked at her questioningly but she changed the subject. I had absolutely no idea how you got pregnant. I suppose I thought it was something that only happened when you got married. I knew babies grew in their mother’s tummies because my mum had only just given birth to Georgie that year, but as to how they got there I hadn’t a clue and I’d never thought to question it.
Because Charlene seemed more mature than me, and she was a good few inches taller, I suppose we slipped into a pattern where she looked after me, like a big sister. She would stand up to my brother if he was bullying me and cook meals for me at her place, and comfort me if I was upset. My brother James, who is two years older than me, used to beat me up sometimes and once he made me ride my bike all the way to Filsham School with him, which is about half an hour away, then he left me to find my way home on my own. I think he felt left out in our family, because there were three of us girls and no other boys, and maybe that’s why he took it out on us sometimes – or maybe it’s just an oldest child thing. Maybe all big brothers are the same.
In September, we went back to school. Now we were in Year Five, and very excited to be moving up and getting our new timetables. We were both kitted out in our new shoes and schoolbags. Now that we were ten years old, our parents decided that we were big enough to walk to school together: it was only ten minutes away and there were no main roads to cross. Charlene’s stepmum Philomena would walk her down to our house, then we’d set off on our own, chattering away about all sorts.
That’s what we were doing on the morning of Tuesday 19 January 1999. Just going on our way to school, like any other day. Two small girls walking along the road, talking away to each other and expecting to be at school in just a few minutes.