Invisible Child Page 4

  Chatter, chatter, tick, tock. It felt like an unexploded bomb.

  The first twenty minutes was not so bad. I could suffer that; after all, they could be held up, missed their bus or something. But as the half hour turned to forty-minutes I found the clock ticked even louder. I watched the beds around me to see who would be first.

  Tick, tock, forty-one minutes, chatter, chatter, and then one Mum noticed.

  My shame exploded in my face for the first time—Mum had not come.

  The lady turned, then pointed, then whispered, “No visitors, poor girl—no, don’t look—not now!”

  The child looked. Glancing down, I died inside. Now the child knew! I had to live there—oh, I felt so ashamed and desperately alone and it hurt me so.

  The Staff Nurse looked. She sighed and looked at her watch, and then at me.

  Tick, tock, forty-two minutes, chatter, chatter.

  I didn’t want her to come over! The kid next door dropped a spoon. The chatter stopped. They looked.

  No! Not now—I felt it would draw attention to me, and I was beside myself with upset. I didn’t want it!

  She reached out for a book she had on the desk and turned to come over to my bed. I screamed silently for her not to come, but it was too late and another tick of the clock exposed my dignity.

  One mum looked round.

  Tick, tock, forty-three minutes, chatter, whisper, whisper.

  She tossed her head in my direction. She hoped I wouldn’t notice, but I saw. I saw it all.

  Tick, tock, forty-four minutes, chatter, whisper.

  They didn’t realise I could anticipate their moves. They looked at the child that was me, and to them I was just that—a child. But inside I was thinking like an adult, and I knew what they thought.

  How dreadful, all alone, shame, chatter, chatter, poor thing. I shrank down and dived under the covers to hide the humiliation of it all.

  Staff Nurse gave me another book to read. Another mum turned and looked. I was mortified. Then another and each in turn, like targets on the firing range. I felt the pain as each target was hit, each layer of self-respect peeled away, exposing the raw hurt. I felt the awful shame as I was singled out again and again.

  Silence.

  Then the hubbub of conversation started again.

  Tick, tock, forty-five minutes, and suddenly it was clear to everyone that I had been abandoned and was unloved.

  I noticed the lady with the red coat snatch a glance.

  Perhaps it was the sudden rush of warmth that came over me, but I swear I felt from her an overwhelming love, a compassion that seemed to stretch, seamlessly, tumbling out across the ward.

  I watched her twitch with an anxious hesitation. Was she going to come over to me? I could see her glancing across at me like a lookout on a heist, nervously flicking her head. She paused, then glanced first at the nurse, then back at me, and finally glanced back to her little boy. She appeared to whisper in his ear.

  The scraping of the chair, loud and piercing, announced her intention to act.

  I felt both naked and frightened all at once, and with my heart pounding I shot down into the bed. I did not want her to do this. I felt so humiliated, so ashamed, and burrowing my face awkwardly into my pillow until the feathers pricked my face, I pretended I wasn’t looking, although of course I was.

  I prayed she would go away.

  Family secrets; I couldn’t tell her that my life was like a delicate pack of cards, balanced on a knife-edge. My imperfect world was the only world I had, and the threat of losing even that, was my biggest fear.

  She carried on walking. I just wanted the floor to open up and swallow me.

  Bang, bang. The ward doors clattered as Dad stumbled in, all dressed up with his collar and tie. Mum followed in her old green coat, a thin georgette scarf, her handbag slung over her arm.

  It was just three minutes before the end of visiting.

  The lady with the red coat froze, glanced at my Mum and Dad, and then, realising the situation, slowly and sheepishly retreated back to her little boy. I didn’t know if I was disappointed; at the very least it might have shown my parents that someone cared for me. But I quickly dismissed the idea because in my heart I knew they wouldn’t have taken much notice.

  Struggling to contain my feelings of upset, I forced myself to welcome my parents, managing a short smile; I didn’t know why because inside I was so angry at them for coming late. Oh! I wanted to cry so much. At that moment I wanted to shame them. To scream to the world and tell how they were destroying me—destroying my love and walking over all my feelings as if I didn’t matter.

  I stifled my upset. I knew that everyone on the ward would see me. I couldn’t have that. The lady in red probably thought I was a quiet good girl and here is mummy and daddy after all and now I am loved; isn’t that nice?

  I thought to myself—If only she knew! I hurt inside, but I cannot say. I cannot tell that they always do this and yet—I never get used to it. I feel the upset and anger each and every time. The wound is just as painful, just as deep and yet I notice that the last cut seems to be more painful than the first.

  Do they not realise I was wounded the first time? I didn’t understand why they needed to wound me again. Are they stupid or didn’t they love me? Do they think I didn’t need them? My mind was dizzy with thoughts.

  “How are you then?” Mum dropped herself into the chair. “Yer looking a bit thin—are you eating anything?” She turned to look at all the others.

  Struggling to say something nice, I nodded and indicated that I couldn’t talk too much.

  They sat there in silence.

  Dad brought me some Orange Squash and made me up a drink. Putting it down on my tray, he sat on the end of the bed, gazing uncomfortably around the ward.

  Silence.

  I took a few sips, but the acid sharpness burned my throat and I choked and spluttered.

  “I’ll put it on the side so you can have it later, shall I?” Dad shoved the bottle into my cabinet at the side of the bed, and as he did so, I caught the familiar smell of drink on his breath. He looked around nervously.

  “Are you eating anything?” Mum tried to make some sort of small talk, before glancing round at the other mothers.

  “I can’t eat much,” I whispered. “My throat hurts too much.”

  They sat there like condemned killers in the courtroom dock, their heads held in shame. Mum shuffled uncomfortably, then lent forward. “Nice ward then?”

  Leaning back to look at the passing nurse, Dad snatched a glance at the clock, then at his watch, then up at the Staff Nurse.

  The bell was first to break the awkward silence. Its stuttered rattle was right on cue.

  “Well, er…eh... we had better go,” Mum glanced at her watch with a sigh of relief, and they both slinked off down the corridor out of sight. I wondered why they had come.

  The nurse brought me some peaches the following day. She must have known I couldn’t rely on my parents to bring them in. It was just what I needed to boost my confidence and gradually I started to eat again, putting back some of the weight I had lost until I was looking almost normal.

  Then something happened that I couldn’t explain. Dr John came into the ward unexpectedly. He was much younger than the other doctors and seemed to take an interest in me; perhaps he was still in training. He came straight to my bed with a twinkle in his eye, pushing an old wheelchair and for a moment I was worried about what was going to happen.

  “Come on,” he said excitedly, lifting me into the wheelchair. “We’re going for a ride.”

  We rattled off down the corridor, grabbing some blankets from a trolley on the way. He stopped to wrap them tightly around me, tucking them into the chair. We raced down the ramp, burst through the exit doors and then emerged into the brilliant warm summer sunshine.

  “Are you ready?” he asked. “Hold tight, we’re going to race down the hill!”

  Suddenly he pushed me down the hill with all the
sound effects.

  “Whoosh, broom-broom!” He turned the chair at breakneck speed ready for the next run. “Whoosh! Come on!” he shouted as we raced down the pavement and then back up the other side, and then back down again!

  I laughed and laughed.

  “Broom, broom!” He scooted off again at great speed, crashing all around the grounds of the hospital, up the ramps and then plunging down again.

  Two nurses watched from the window; I can’t imagine what they thought.

  I screamed with such joy and laughter as we turned first left, then right, then left again. The chair rocked off the ground once more, flying through the narrow paths like Stirling Moss. Finally we came crashing back through the double doors and into the warmth of the corridor once more.

  I laughed and chuckled and, in those few brief moments, I was able to forget the pain and discomfort, and the world once again seemed happy and full of laughter.

  Somehow I found a renewed hope, lifting me up from the curtain of despair that had dogged my every waking moment, and in those few precious minutes, I felt a sudden overwhelming sense of happiness rise inside me. It lifted my spirits and gave me a lesson for life. I often thought about the kindness and thoughtfulness of that one person, Dr John, who will never be forgotten and will always have a place locked in my heart.

  A few days later I was sent home, and then shortly after that I returned to the hospital doctor for a check up.

  There was an examination of my throat and then they weighed me on the big scales.

  Noticing I was still underweight and painfully thin, they started to ask me awkward questions about what I had for breakfast and dinner. I didn’t get to answer any questions myself, as Mum jumped every time, making sure the truth would remain hidden from the outside world.

  Dad reverted to his hangdog look as if he were about to be shot, and Mum sat there staring down at the floor.

  If only I had known how painful the recovery was to be.

  5

  Convalescence

  AS SILVER STREET STATION was only a mile from our home we didn’t need to catch the bus. Arriving on the platform, I stood there with Mum and Dad, and it wasn’t long before the train to Liverpool Street arrived. Mum gave me a ticket and my little bundle of clothes and took me onto the carriage and settled me down.

  “Now don’t forget you’re going to Hastings,” she said. “It’s all arranged, so don’t forget now.”

  I thought Mum was just closing the door, but it slammed behind her and the next thing I remember was the stationmaster’s whistle, coupled with the smell of smoke and soot.

  Chug, chug, chug!

  I watched helplessly as the platform was swallowed up in a huge cloud of white steam, and then in the next glimpse, they were both standing on the platform; my little compartment was consumed by the steam and thunder of the train.

  I had thought they were coming with me. How could they do that to me? How could they?

  Suddenly there was the bittersweet taste of life at home. They knew I wouldn’t go if they told me, so they tricked me!

  I slumped down in my seat, looking around the little cramped carriage. It was just big enough for eight people, a bench on either side, a netted luggage rack above.

  The lady sitting opposite looked directly at me.

  “Hello,” she said. “My name is Miss Maria Allen.” She held out her hand. “I’m the lady your mummy would have told you about.”

  I shook my head, and looked up at her. I was upset and could not speak.

  She lent forward and as her bosom unfolded she held out her hand once more.

  “I am to take you to the convalescence home with Roger and Jo here.” She cautiously gave a half smile before turning back and glancing at the other two children. “So I need you to follow us when we get to the station and not get lost.”

  I glanced up at her once more, flicking the hair from my eyes. I refused to take her hand and clenched my fists in the pocket of my coat.

  Rejected again by my parents! Why do they not trust me?

  “I hate her,” I muttered quietly to myself.

  The worst of it was the betrayal. I started to realise I trusted my family the least and I found that strangers would do more for me. Tortured by my thoughts and unable to hold back the jerking sobs, I cried for what seemed to be most of the journey.

  I looked up and tried to dry my tears on my cuff. Miss Maria tried to distract me with games of ‘I Spy’ but I found it too difficult to swallow my pride. I could not be bothered with ‘I spy’ games, and all that. I seemed to be far more interested in watching the people getting on and off. That was my game.

  The train clattered and rattled, and then I heard the sound of squealing brakes as it slowed at White Hart Lane.

  I played my game—I watched to see what the people on the platform were really saying to each other. Not by the language, lip-reading or anything like that—no, purely by observation alone. Besides, I found myself too far away to hear. Sometimes I was unable even to make out their faces. I rarely needed facial expression—just the slight gestures, the flick of the wrist, or the wave of the hand. A man might greet a woman, he might hug her, and she might be young. Was he father or brother I wondered? Did she kiss him back, and if she did, would it be on the cheek or on the lips?

  I found watching people fascinating because I was able to shut out the world of hurt. Their stories were betrayed by the briefest of movements, and the faintest of gestures. Were they angry, happy or gay?

  “Bruce Grove—Bruce Grove!” The stationmaster’s whistle blew. I looked up and then the stations arrived in quick succession, Seven Sisters and so on until we got to Bethnal Green.

  “We’re changing at Liverpool Street,” Miss Maria said. “We have to get out with all our things and go onto the Tube.”

  “What’s the Tube?” My question went unanswered.

  “Don’t forget your things—now bundle up children, bundle up,” she called.

  Miss Maria pulled the big leather strap that opened the window, and then putting her hand outside, she opened the door just as the train was pulling into the station.

  We jumped off at Liverpool Street. As I glanced back at the train I noticed the doors all swung open like a swarm of butterflies drying their wings in the sun. But in my distraction I became overwhelmed by it all. Porters in their black waistcoats, pushing large carts of luggage and goods, their iron wheels banging and clattering on the hard station surface, all seemingly at once; crammed into one gigantic station dwarfed by the deafening roar of engines and whistles, echoing behind the billowing smoke. All of it drowning out the voices of Miss Maria and the boys.

  I scurried off down the platform dragging my belongings as best I could. I struggled to keep up with the boys, now racing into the maze of tunnels, first left, then right as we headed for the underground train that would take us across London. Plunged into a writhing snake pit of a carriage, I tried to grab hold of a pole by the door. It slipped from my grasp. Unexpectedly, Miss Maria grabbed me and shoved me into the corridor. The train lurched forward, and I almost fell over struggling with my belongings between my legs. As the familiar whine of the train snaked through the tunnels, I glanced up at the faces: all different. Black, white, yellow, none of the umbrellas were the same. No one spoke. Instead, they stared blankly at the floor, or at the ceiling, but never at me. I caught a lady’s eye. She looked away in silence like an inmate in a prison.

  The train stopped at the station, the doors opened, and bodies drifted in and out like seaweed on the tide. I noticed a smart businessman, his newspaper firmly tucked in his jacket pocket and his umbrella outstretched like a Zulu spear. He looked determined not to miss his train. He pierced the sliding doors with the tip of his umbrella, and having forced them to open, he leaped the gap with the agility of a gazelle, only to be swallowed up in the stuffy compartment like half melted butter: his luggage too big and the space too small.

  The train unexpectedly stopped then started,
then stopped again, and we were stuck in the darkness of the tunnel. Fear gripped me as the lights flickered off, then on. There was silence. I heard a baby’s cry and then the clunking of a motor that churned beneath my feet.

  Everyone turned and looked. The familiar rattle of newspapers, magazines and books, and then—all faces down as if in prayer. The train started again and finally we pulled into the station. Someone snatched my collar. I looked up and found Miss Maria pulling me through the crowd, and then she dropped me down into the sudden stampede. I was thrown to the floor, trampled. I picked myself up and jumped off the train onto the hard paved surface of the platform.

  I looked up. London Bridge was written on the wall in big bright letters, set against the background of white tiles that lined the large curved surface of the tunnel. It was as though I had been shrunk down real small and standing inside the top half of a big Smartie tube.

  The train doors closed, a whistle blew and the familiar whine and clattering carriages faded, and I was left with the warm oily breeze, sucked in by the vanishing train.

  Charging left along the platform, we turned right into another tunnel, and then up a long flight of stairs. Learning fast, I realised that falling over wasn’t an option now, such was the force of the charging crowd. It flowed quickly through the turnstiles. It was as if time itself was as precious as blood: none was to be spilled.

  Bursting up onto the overhead platform like a surfacing bubble in the fizzy pop, I breathed in the fresh air. Blinded by the sunlight, I strained my eyes at the notice board and waited for the Charing Cross train to Hastings. Meanwhile the two boys dived into the waiting room and sat huddled around the flames of a coal fire burning in the old Victorian tiled black open grate. I stayed outside on my own with Miss Maria, as we both gazed down the railway track, lost in our own thoughts.

  It could only have been about fifteen minutes before our train pulled in. Miss Maria gathered us together, and quickly she ushered us through the clouds of sooty steam and into an empty carriage for the last part of our epic journey. It was like the one from Silver Street Station, about eight feet wide with two soft cotton long benches, one on either side with enough seating for eight people. I sat on the first seat on the right-hand side nearest the door. Miss Maria sat opposite and the boys curled up on the other side away from us both.