Toni Maguire - Helpless - The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and exploited by the neighbour she trusted

Marianne Marsh

with Toni Maguire

The true story of a neglected girl betrayed and

exploited by the neighbour she trusted

Prologue Prologue Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven Chapter Eight Chapter Nine Chapter Ten Chapter Eleven Chapter Twelve Chapter Thirteen Chapter Fourteen Chapter Fifteen Chapter Sixteen Chapter Seventeen Chapter Eighteen Chapter Nineteen Chapter Twenty Chapter Twenty-One Chapter Twenty-Two Chapter Twenty-Three Chapter Twenty-Four Chapter Twenty-Five Chapter Twenty-Six Chapter Twenty-Seven Chapter Twenty-Eight Chapter Twenty-Nine Chapter Thirty Chapter Thirty-One Chapter Thirty-Two Chapter Thirty-Three Chapter Thirty-Four Chapter Thirty-Five Chapter Thirty-Six Chapter Thirty-Seven Chapter Thirty-Eight Chapter Thirty-Nine Chapter Forty Chapter Forty-One Chapter Forty-Two Chapter Forty-Three Chapter Forty-Four Chapter Forty-Five Chapter Forty-Six Chapter Forty-Seven Chapter Forty-Eight Chapter Forty-Nine Chapter Fifty Chapter Fifty-One Chapter Fifty-Two Epilogue Acknowledgements About the Author Copyright About the Publisher

The man had been looking for a little girl like me even before I was born.

A special little girl, he told me; one who needed love.

He widened his social circle to include young married couples, watched as they became parents and smiled with an inward sly delight when asked to be a godfather.

‘He’s so good with the young ones,’ his friends said.

He married when I was still the baby he had never met and considered his own small daughter for his needs. But his wife had grown to know his soul. She kept her children safe.

Unobserved, he watched me walking down country lanes as I went backwards and forwards to school. Saw my marks of neglect and knew then that I was the one; the one he had been waiting for.

He started frequenting the pub my father drank in and made himself known to him.

Listened to his tale of woe – low wages and small mouths to feed – and recommended him for a job that came with a decent-sized house.

It was no problem, he told my father; a pleasure to help.

People said he was such a fine man, his wife a lucky woman, and how fortunate my parents were to have met him.

He was everyone’s friend; the one who remembered wives’ birthdays and brought their children presents.

He was the trusted visitor, the favourite uncle.

He always kept sweets in the glove compartment of his car.

I was seven when I first met him, that man; the one who called me his little lady.

Years have passed since he and I last spoke. But still those memories are imprinted on my mind as clearly as though everything that happened happened just yesterday.

Title Page Marianne Marsh with Toni Maguire

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Copyright

About the Publisher

Chapter One

‘Tell us a story,’ my children used to say to me.

‘Where do you want me to begin?’ I would ask as I picked up a well-thumbed favourite book.

‘At the beginning, of course, Mum,’ and dutifully I would turn to page one.

‘Once upon a time …,’ I would start.

But when that story is my own and I have more years behind than in front of me the question is: where should I start?

The tale that I try to keep locked away in the recesses of my mind; that haunts my dreams – that started when I was seven.

My real story, though, started when I was conceived, or maybe even before, but it was not until I sat in my kitchen holding a piece of foolscap paper, with its small neat handwriting covering both sides, that I accepted the time had finally come to confront my past.

But where do I start? I asked myself.

At the beginning, Marianne, my inner voice replied. Your beginning, for you have to remember the years that came before to understand everything that happened.

So that is what I have done.

On every one of my birthdays, during the time I lived at home, before even a card had been opened or a present received, my mother told me how it had rained on the day I was born.

Not just showers, she always said, but great gushes of water that lashed the house and turned the country lanes into muddy paths.

The gutters, which my father never thought to empty of their dead leaves, overflowed. Rainwater streamed down the side of the house and then gushed noisily into already over-burdened drains. Over the years the outside walls had become stained a deep moss green and the blocked gutters had caused large patches of damp and mould to grow on the bedroom walls.

It was the early hours of the morning, before even the farmer’s cockerels had welcomed in the day, when I decided to enter the world. My mother had woken to stabbing pains and a damp nightdress and knew I was about to appear. Suddenly she was terrified.

She shook my father awake and he, grumbling at my inconsideration, hastily pulled on his clothes, tucked his trousers into thick boots, placed his bicycle clips over his ankles and rushed out of the house in search of the local midwife.

My mother heard the words ‘woman’s business’ and ‘no place for a man’ floating in the air behind him before the front door slammed and she was alone with only her pain and fear for company.

In what seemed like hours, but was in fact less than twenty minutes she always eventually admitted, the midwife was standing at the foot of her bed.

A sensible little square of a woman, she quickly took charge and tried to sooth my mother’s fears by informing her that she had delivered hundreds of babies. After a hasty examination she confirmed my imminent arrival.

‘Then do you know what she said?’ my mother would always ask at this point of the story. Obediently I would play the game and shake my head.

‘She just said that there was nothing she could do until my pains were closer together, and that,’ and my mother would draw breath to put emphasis on her next words, ‘all I had to do then was push! And then she asked where the clean towels she had asked to be left out for her were.’

My mother then continued to tell me about the remainder of that long, pain-filled day.

Tutting noises had come from the midwife’s mouth when she saw that my hungover father had forgotten to leave out all the items that she had requested, but with my mother’s help she eventually found everything she needed.