Caroline Smailes - In Search of Adam

My father came for me. He told Eddie that there was no need to give me money. Eddie insisted. He was such a nice man. A real gent. I clutched my shiny coins. Two coins. One hundred pennies. Totalling three hundred and fifty pennies. Three pounds and fifty pence. I was rich. Very very rich. Eddie told my father that we were having such good fun together. Ho ho ho . He winked at me. He smiled his special smile for my father. A brown painted smile. Eddie asked me if I had had a good time. I said yes thank you very much. I hadn’t had a nice time. I was being polite. I was being a good girl. Good manners were very important. I had to be polite. Please and thank you. Please and thank you. My father suggested that I visit again on Thursday. He was sure that Mrs Roberts wouldn’t mind. Eddie was pleased. I didn’t feel very happy.

On February 4 1981 Eddie put his hand up my school skirt.

We were sitting at the table. In the pink room. Cups of milky tea and still hot scones were placed on white lace doilies. Aunty Maggie went to fetch a jar of strawberry jam. Eddie pushed his fingers up my skirt and inside my knickers. He rubbed and rubbed. It hurt. He was being hard. Big, heavy, fat fingers. He was trying to push his fingers into my skin. Aunty Maggie was coming. He swiped them out. He lifted them to his mouth and sucked.

Suck suck suck.

He turned to me, just as Aunty Maggie bustled nearer. It’s oor little secret. You’re me special girlfriend. Here’s an extra fifty pence . Eyes down, cheeks red. I didn’t understand. Aunty Maggie spooned the jam into a delicate bone china dish. She didn’t speak. She didn’t speak to me. Eddie heaped the jam onto his scone. Dribbling in delight. Eyes glistening. He guzzled scone after scone. One two three four. Forgetting to swallow. Scoffing. Wolfing. Devouring. Moaning with pleasure. Staring at me and smiling. Not a nice smile.

His eyes were not smiling. A dollop of strawberry jam escaped. It tumbled down his brown shirt. Tumble tumble tumble. It stopped. Next to button number five which was desperately clinging to its nearest hole. When I left he gave me an extra fifty pence. One hundred and fifty pennies. Totalling five hundred pennies. Five pounds. I was richer than I had ever been.

On February 5 1981 I went to Aunty Maggie’s house. I thought about the two or even maybe three fifty-pence pieces that I was sure to get. Eddie asked me to go for a walk with him. It was getting dark. We would have to hurry. He wanted to see the Lymouth coast. The street that I lived on was a ten-minute walk from the beach. Surfers enjoyed the North Sea. Pirates explored the Lymouth caves. Eddie told me all about pirates. Eddie told me that there was buried treasure in the caves. He had a map in his pocket. But it was a secret. It was our secret. I held his hand and he took me into the cave. It was dark in the cave. It was salty. I could see him. Just about.

He took off his brown cardigan and laid it on the grey floor. I kneeled onto it. Waiting for the treasure map. I wanted him to hurry up. Before the pirates came. Eddie told me to lie down. I did. He unfastened his belt and pulled his trousers down to his knees. He put his hand up my skirt and pulled off my knickers. He threw them into the cave. I didn’t speak. I watched as he climbed onto me. I was winded by his weight. He hurt me. He burned into me. He ripped me. He filled me with damp sand. I opened my mouth to scream. No sound came. He placed his hand over my mouth and he ripped into me further. Rip rip rip. The pain. Such pain. It took away the sound. I tried to scream. No sound. No sound.

He stopped.

He told me to move off his cardigan. I could not move. The pain ran from my belly and down my legs. He pulled his cardigan from below me. It rolled me onto the damp sand. My knees were shaking. My body was shaking. Cold cold cold. He shouted at me. His cardigan was ruined with my blood. He threw it deeper into the cave. His cardigan. My knickers. Buried treasure. It’s oor little secret. No one would believe a strange bairn like yee. Tell anyone and I’ll get yee. He left me. I lay on the wet sand. Shaking shivering shaking. I could not move. I tried to think of my mother. She did not come to me.

Spain…

France…

Scotland…

America…

London…

Spain…

France…

Scotland…

America…

London…

I knew more countries. I used to know more countries. But. But they were gone. I wanted the sea to visit me. To sweep me away. I was riddled with sand. My teeth chattered. My knees were shaking. I needed help. I didn’t understand. Pirates. Treasure. Pain. Such pain. I was dying. This had to be the end. My mother had not saved me. Eddie had taken her memory from me. I had nothing left. Nothing nothing nothing.

I stood. Blood and wee slid down to my white ankle socks. He had lit a fire inside me. My hair was matted with sand. My blue school blouse was ripped. I was seven years two months and twelve days old.

I walked out onto the beach. It was quiet. It was dark. Too dark. The lighthouse was still. No eye. No yellow eye. No green and orange little men. No one was watching. I climbed the one hundred and twenty steps. I did not touch the green handrail that wove next to the steps. I had to keep stopping. Doubled in pain. Difficult to breathe. Difficult to carry on. I walked myself over and along the main Coast Road. The lollipop lady had gone home. I walked past the Dewstep Butchers that doubled as the New Lymouth Post Office and displayed a garnished pig’s head in the window. Past New Lymouth Primary School. Past New Lymouth Library. Past Brian’s Newsagents. Stretched across 127-135 Coast Road. Past the detached homes which housed the professional types. I walked to my mother’s house. Eyes never looking left or right. I hoped that a car would hit me. I walked slowly. I had ripped clothes but my brown parka covered them. I had a single line of blood trickling down my inside thigh. Inside my brown parka. I was covered in sand. Nobody stopped me. Nobody asked me what had happened. People looked away. Neighbours called their children in from play. Nobody. Nothing.

A greedy decision. A need for shiny fifty-pence pieces. A greedy need. I was saving to buy a globe. One that lit up with the flick of a switch. Paul Hodgson (Number 2) had gotten one last Christmas. I needed fifteen pounds. That was a lot of money. A greedy need. Misguided trust. My whole life stepped onto a path. I stepped onto a path. I sometimes imagine that my palms were smooth and blank. Right up until that week. That precise week. That my palms had promise. I still had a future. That I still had exciting challenges and a glossy journey ahead of me. With my decision. With my greedy need. The lines appeared. Abracadabra. Hey presto. The lines were engraved. Tattooed. Forever. Scraped in a web of complications. My palms told of the self-destruction that lay ahead.

I never bought the globe.

Sand

In my pants.

Itchy itchy sand monster.

Sand

In my tummy.

Sand

In my head.

Nasty nasty sand monster.

Sand

Make me vomit.

Sand

Make me die.

Naughty naughty sand monster.

Never to be gone.

Dirty dirty sand monster.

I used my key. It was tied to a piece of string and fastened with a safety pin inside my brown parka. I fumbled with the pin. My hands were shaking. Sand and blood poked from the tips of my nails. I was dirty. Sand clung in between my fingers. Dirty dirty dirty. I needed to wash my hands. I needed to scrub and scrub and make my hands clean again.