Starving the Devil’s Child
‘You’re the devil’s child,’ Barbara would spit at me as often as she could. ‘You’re a little bastard born out of wedlock’ and ‘You’ve had a touch of the tar brush.’ This was to shame me, as I understood these things were bad. Very bad. She disliked me a lot because of them. My hair was dark and silky, my skin was olive and went nut brown in the sun, unlike Barbara, whose hair was wavy, iron grey, and whose skin was pallid and yellowy. I didn’t understand about the tar brush; to me brushes were for hair or for painting or for me to sweep up with downstairs.
Barbara said my first foster home hadn’t worked out. They hadn’t wanted the likes of me, so I’d been left in my pram all day, with a bottle propped up on a towel just out of reach. I didn’t thrive. I wasn’t held or cuddled, so I cried and cried and cried and the foster parents soon gave me back. They went on holiday and I went to another foster family, who only wanted a baby less than one month old, and I was now six months, so I was given back again. Then I was passed on at nine months, like an unclaimed parcel, to the Taylors, the next fosterers on the list and whose home I was now living in. They already had Kevin (then six) and William (two) and wanted a baby girl. But all was not right from the start.
‘I cannot bear to look at your horrible cold blue eyes,’ Barbara would snarl at me. ‘They’re horrible devil eyes, staring right up at me.’
At the age of three or four I would sometimes tiptoe to the bathroom and peek at my eyes in the mirror. Devil eyes? What were devil eyes? Instead I saw bright-blue eyes, like little blue buttons; like the blue flowers in the garden with the black centres. My favourites. Barbara didn’t like to look in them, or hold me, or cuddle me. She seemed to hate me all the time. She never showed me or William any love, affection or care. She only seemed to want to punish us, so she must have been right. I must be the ‘devil’s child’ after all.
In fact, William and I lived a different life from Barbara, Ian and Kevin. We were not allowed to eat when they ate or what they ate and we couldn’t sit with them. The kitchen belonged to Barbara and had a door that led onto the garden. It had brown walls and cupboards, a cooker, a fridge, a sink with a drainer and a small plastic table and chairs. The cupboards had big locks with chains running through them and only Barbara and ‘the family’ could open them. This didn’t mean William or me. We weren’t allowed to help ourselves to anything; we had to wait and eat what we were given. We were not allowed to complain, or ask. The kitchen never really smelt of food cooking, but of cat food, bleach and vegetables; everything was hidden away. There was no fruit on the table, no bread on the side – everything was out of sight.
At breakfast time, William and I had to sit still at a tiny kiddie table with two baby chairs, and we were given a small bowl of Ready Brek. It was often cold and a bit lumpy. We ate it very fast and were always hungry afterwards, watching as Kevin had toast and jam. I wanted toast and jam, too, but I learnt not to ask or make a sound. Once I said, ‘I want some,’ but Barbara’s face clouded over and I would feel scared and she would lash out and whack me across the face.
‘I want doesn’t get.’ Slap. I was used to this by now. She would casually slap and whack us round the head or across the face as she passed. Her hand was big and hard and it hurt. But I didn’t cry. One of Barbara’s favourite weapons was her rolled-up newspaper, which she kept in the kitchen. When we were watching Kevin eat, almost drooling, she’d whack us across the head, shoulders or back.
‘Sit up straight,’ she’d bark. We would sit up straight and watch Kevin eating his toast and jam with relish, spooning on more jam just to show us he could. We said not a word – hating him and fearing Barbara. Kevin would chew on his toast and smile, smug and safe, helping himself to more, triumphant. Meanwhile, Barbara would tell us we were illegitimate and bad or stupid and, with each word, she would swipe us with the newspaper. ‘Bad.’ Whack! ‘Stupid.’ Thwack! ‘Bastards.’ Whack! Each word would be emphasised with a blow from the rolled-up newspaper across the shoulders, legs, arms, bottom, back.
Sometimes she lost her temper so much she forgot to be careful, and I watched her slap William so hard across the face that he fell off his chair. I would wince. He would get kicked, punched, shoved and pushed while I held my breath. I felt, ‘Poor William,’ but I knew she would turn on me just as quickly, so I would be nice, obedient, silent. Even so, I did get whacked with the paper while being hungry, hungry, hungry all the time. If I cried, she’d say, ‘Look at you, you bloody baby, it’s only a newspaper.’ I knew there would be no sympathy if she really hurt us, so I learnt to shut up. I learnt to shut down – to go to the Louise place in my head. One, two, three, four.
Both William and I were underweight for our ages, and had been in hospital a few times for not growing properly. ‘You’re just backward little bastards,’ Barbara would say. Indeed, I hadn’t sat up until fourteen months, as I had been lying in my cot all day. And I didn’t take my first steps until I was two years old. ‘You’re stupid, that’s why,’ Barbara would spit. ‘Just like that little bugger,’ meaning William.
After our small breakfast, which never changed, we never had any food in the day, no snacks or anything like that. But we would see the family go in and eat together round the table at dinnertime. William and I weren’t included, so we had to lump it. Our tummies hurt and gurgled with pain. Hungry, hungry, hungry all the time. We would sit on the hard ground in the garden, poking in the earth with a stick, or just sitting and listening to them eating indoors. We could hear the clatter of pans and plates. By teatime we were utterly starving, almost too hungry to eat. We were called in at about five o’clock and would be given the same meal every single day, come rain or shine.
On two baby plates (like dolly plates) Barbara would count out five raisins, then put a dot of salad cream, half a tomato, a handful of crisps, and half a piece of Mother’s Pride white bread and butter. That was it: tea. We would gobble it down and have to sit up straight. Meanwhile, Kevin and the family would eat something like chops, potatoes and peas (after we were done), pie and mash or fish and chips. My stomach would feel growly with hunger, a gnawing, uncomfortable feeling. Sometimes I pressed my knee against William’s for comfort. I would long for the chops, potatoes and peas, but I would know better than to ask.
Sometimes after tea, and while they were eating, we would wander into the garden and go into the big wooden shed. It was usually locked, but sometimes Ian left it open. I would reach up on tiptoes, push the metal latch and, holding my breath, lift it. Then we would creep in. It was dark and smelt of soil, damp and chemicals, and in the corner was a big brown sack of birdseed. This was what we were after. The first time we saw it William and I looked at each other, silently thinking. I held my breath, really afraid. He was smaller than me, even though he was two years older. He had cuts and bruises all over, almost permanently, and he had brown eyes, freckles and ginger hair, which stuck up like a brush. He moved over to the sack, opened the top and put his hand in, pulling out a handful of seed. He buried his face in it and started eating. I did the same.
It was crunchy, nutty, dry and hard to swallow. It stuck to the roof of my mouth, as it was so gritty, but after a few handfuls the gnawing pain in my tummy eased. We sat on the floor, looking at each other in our secret game, eating the seed in silence, peeking up and down again warily like animals, listening out for movements in the kitchen, which was just up the concrete garden path. There’d be hell to pay if she found out. Then, without a word, William got up and carefully folded the bag top over, so it looked the same as before. I carefully brushed the seeds that had fallen on the ground to the edges of the shed and spread them out. No one would ever know. Ian wouldn’t notice, or even care particularly. It was Barbara we were terrified of. And Kevin, her sidekick – he would tell on us if he saw us or suspected anything. Silently we tiptoed to the door, lifted the latch while holding our breath, peeked out to see if it was safe, and then slipped out into the daylight as if nothing had ever happened. It was war, and these were our guerrilla tactics to survive.
Scavenging and stealth became the name of the game. I got to be an expert at covering my tracks. The kitchen had a small open larder at the back, which was cool and dark with a dank smell, and there were some packets and tins in there and shelves with things on. One day I was starving and crept in when Barbara was right down the bottom of the garden. I found a packet of Complan, her favourite night drink, and I opened it very quietly and carefully, holding my breath. I pricked up my ears and waited to hear Barbara’s footsteps or biting bark, but meanwhile quickly licked my index finger and dipped it in the box. Quick as a flash I licked my dusty finger and it was malty and sweet tasting, so I dipped and licked, dipped and licked a few times and then, getting scared, shook the box, smoothed all the powder down, closed it carefully and put it back exactly where it had been. I crept out of the larder, hardly breathing, just as I saw Barbara striding up the garden path. I licked my lips carefully, checking for evidence. Phew. None. She was now in the doorway staring at me suspiciously.
‘What are you doing in here? Go outside this instant.’ At this I smiled my sweetest, most innocent smile.
‘Yes, Mum,’ I said, and went off down the garden, satisfied. She sensed something was up but I played very innocent.
Another time, Barbara was not at home and Ian had left the butter dish out on the kitchen table. I spied it from the garden through the open door. I tiptoed in and lifted the blue-and-white striped lid – and there was a golden ocean of butter, all soft and shiny. So inviting. I listened carefully. No one was around. I seized my moment and my index finger, my dipper, was licked and in the butter. I quickly scooped out one, two, three fingers full of wonderful, buttery, yellow heaven. And then I stopped. I wouldn’t go too far. I’d get found out. So I smoothed it all over. Sculpted it. Made it look perfect. Swallowed. Put the lid on carefully, exactly as it was. Checked my finger for yellowy traces. Not breathing, listening out, I returned to the garden, to exactly where I was before. I was waiting for the swipe of the newspaper, the back of the hand, the shriek of Barbara’s sharp cuss. None came. Luckily she was still out, although I always felt that she would somehow be watching or would know.
‘I’ve eyes in the back of my head,’ she would tell us. ‘Don’t think you can get away with anything with me.’ But today I had done it. My tummy was happy. My ears and eyes were pricked for any reactions, but this time none came. It was my buttery secret, and I had got away with it. Phew.
My trips to the larder became a way of life, of staying alive. I got very good at being stealthy, quiet and scavenging without leaving a trace. Sometimes there was a new loaf of bread – a wonderful sight and smell – and I developed a way of digging in my fingers, lifting up the crust, pulling out some dough, like a soft white ball of heaven, and stuffing it in my mouth. As I was chewing and savouring I would fold the crust back down and press it carefully to cover my tracks. From the outside it looked completely untouched while I would slink out of the larder swallowing a mouthful of wonderful, melt-in-your-mouth soft bread. Sometimes there was a carton of St. Ivel Five Pints powdered milk, and if it had already been opened I would flip the corner, take a huge slug, swallow and swallow as fast as possible, fold it back and get out of the larder as soon as I could, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand to remove all traces.
I took increasing risks at the age of four and five, and got bolder as I went, but I wasn’t always successful. I found a way of sneaking some food from the larder into my knickers, into a pocket or hidden in my cuff, and then take it up to my room. I pulled a little hole in the mattress material underneath where I slept, and popped in there whatever I could scavenge. Sometimes it was a crust, or a biscuit or a bit of cheese. I would fold the material part over it, so it wasn’t visible from the outside. I felt I had my own little larder, my own private stash, which I could sneak out later and eat quickly when I was really desperate.
I got bolder and once or twice took small tins of baked beans and sweetcorn out of the larder and hid them in a children’s red cardboard suitcase that was in my room. One day Ian came in for a rare visit and he saw the tins out on the carpet.
‘Mummy will be cross,’ he said, looking pale and terrified himself. ‘Take them downstairs now, quickly, and she’ll never know. Quick!’ Without a word, I scrambled off the floor and slunk like a weasel down the stairs, into the larder and out again, having placed them back on the shelves exactly where I’d found them. My heart was pounding like a sledgehammer and my mouth was dry. That was close.
Then one day I became aware that Barbara was having a woman in the village round for coffee. This was very rare, as we seldom had people to the house. Peeking into the larder, I saw, gleaming on the middle shelf, a big packet of biscuits. Shiny purple paper, snazzy design: a packet of five – FIVE – Club biscuits. I couldn’t help myself: I took one out, slipped it up my sleeve and crept upstairs to my room. I hid it under the carpet beneath the bed, right at the corner. I held my breath. I imagined eating it later, sinking my teeth into what I knew was thick dark chocolate and biscuit. Mmmm, the very thought.
Then I heard her coming. Oh no! She’d found out. I could hear her taking the stairs two at a time, thumping the banisters as she went, and I was frozen to the floor. I watched her fling the door open and fly towards me like a demented monster. She bounded up to my face and bent over me, so close I could smell her sour breath, shouting, ‘You little thief, give me my biscuits NOW!’ I was terrified. She was almost drooling over me. I started crying uncontrollably. I pointed to the corner of the carpet. She lifted up the corner and picked up the biscuit, still wrapped in its shiny purple paper.
Barbara turned and slapped me with the full force of her right arm across the face, and I fell to the floor and hit my head. I lay there sobbing. She walked over to me and kicked my foot, then kicked my side, hissing, ‘Thieving little bitch,’ then stormed out of the room, biscuit in hand. I cried for some time. It felt like the end of the world. I wiped the back of my hand across my face, and then saw blood on my hand. It had a salty, dark, bitter taste. I looked at the ceiling and counted: one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four; one, two, three, four. Perhaps my luck had begun to run out, or maybe I’d got sloppy. I’d have to be more careful.
On Sundays, Barbara did cook Sunday lunch, which usually turned out to be a difficult event. She didn’t like cooking and would complain loudly about it. She would bang and crash about in the kitchen. She said she was too hot, and would throw open the doors and windows and swear a lot. Barbara was angry about having to cook, angry with the oven, angry with the food and angry with us. ‘Get out from under my feet, you bastards,’ she’d shout, and we’d scuttle away.
Her anger included Ian, who was always turfed out of the kitchen. He usually spent Sunday morning cleaning out his work van, which sat on the drive. It was obvious he was staying out of her way. We all did. Ian kept a small Tupperware box in his van, which occasionally had biscuits in it: Garibaldi and Rich Tea. He often had the two front doors wide open, like widespread wings, while he cleaned it out. I would watch from the sidelines and, when he went to get something, I would dart to the Tupperware box and prise it open. If there were two or three biscuits in there, I would sneak one and quickly slip it in my pocket, then close the lid and slide the box back into its place. All before Ian came back, totally unaware.
The biscuit would burn a hole in my pocket. I would put my hand in and then bring my fingers up to my nose and smell that warm, biscuity smell. I relished when I would be able to crumble a bit off and slip it in my mouth, even just the crumbs were marvellous things to melt on the tongue. When dinner was ready, Barbara would shout at us to get Ian: ‘Tell Daddy dinner’s ready.’
We would run to the drive and tell him, and he would say, ‘Oh, ready? Now?’ He didn’t look that keen. We would look panicked, William and I, as we knew he had to come instantly to appease Barbara. We would give each other a look. I would go back and very quickly get some cutlery and plates out and put them on the big kitchen table – big plates for them; side plates for us on the little kiddie table. We would have tiny bits of roast, like a doll’s meal, while they had a whole plateful and seconds. Kevin would look very smug as he ate to his heart’s content. He’d taunt us whenever he could.
Then one day I was in the garden, down by the big brown shed with the birdseed, which was now locked more often than not. The day we first got the birdseed (and subsequent days) had been unusual, since then a huge new shiny padlock had now appeared. Maybe Barbara had found traces of the seed; we didn’t know. We didn’t talk about it. It was all done in silence with looks, nods and gestures.
This day I noticed the padlock was open and I was starving. It was afternoon time and ages till we would get our meagre tea. Barbara would make jam and mincemeat in the autumn and put it in labelled jars on high shelves. I got on an old wooden chair and found a jar of mincemeat, which had already been opened. I got my dipper out and plunged it into the sweet, strong-smelling goo. Once covered, I shoved it in my mouth and – Oh heaven – the fruity, tangy taste was utterly wonderful. I was just swallowing when I became aware of a change in the light and a grating noise. I swung round, terrified: Barbara was standing behind me, her face red with fury.
In two strides she was across the floor. She grabbed my arm, pulled the jar from my other hand and put it back on a high shelf.
‘You nasty little thief,’ she was spitting, incandescent, as she dragged me hard and fast off the chair and into the garden, pushing me down the end of the footpath. She dragged me along on my knees and by my arm, yanking it overhead. I fell forwards into the flowerbed, full of roses and dahlias, and she kicked me in the side with her brown lace-up shoe.
‘You little bitch,’ she snarled, and with that she pushed my head face down into the earth. ‘Eat dirt, go on, you little thief.’ I was shaking uncontrollably now and crying, but she stood astride me, with me hunched on my knees in the flowerbed, face down. ‘Eat dirt!’ she screamed. So I put my hand in the earth, scraped some out and raised it to my mouth. ‘Go on, then. Eat if you’re that hungry.’
I licked a bit of dirt from my hand; it was gritty and disgusting. She pushed her foot into my side again and kicked. Suddenly she pulled my hair and yanked my head backwards. She bent her red face over mine and spat: ‘Louise, I said EAT, you little bitch. That’ll teach you never to steal again, you horrible little girl.’
She made me dig my hand in the dirt and eat a whole load, and as I ate I cried and cried and it dribbled out of my mouth and down my chin and onto my blue gingham summer dress, making everything a dirty mess. It was then that I saw I was also eating cat poo, little sausages of white stuff mixed in the dirt. I fell on my face and sicked it all up, all the dirt, the poo, the mincemeat. Barbara stalked away shouting, ‘One day you’ll learn that you can’t do as you please.’ I sat, sobbing, my hands on my knees, a total mess.
‘Louise,’ she barked from down the garden, now by the chicken run. We had about six chickens in a coop behind chicken wire alongside the back of the house. ‘Come and help, you lazy little bitch.’
I got to my feet, stunned, and stumbled up the garden. My side really hurt and I was covered in sick, dirt and dribble. I was still sobbing quietly, but I knew better than to show any more feelings, so I tried to stop myself. I started counting as I walked. Counting, counting, counting. Barbara pointed to big sacks that the hen straw had to go in once they had used it, and I had to hold them open while she forked mess and straw into them. She said not a word to me the whole while, and I just tried to calm myself down, thinking I really had to be more careful in future or I wouldn’t survive.