Living With Evil Cynthia Owen (inspirational books for women TXT) 📖

hurting me too. Sometimes, when the thug had finished with me for the night, he would go and Mammy would send me to sleep in the front bedroom again, and Daddy would roll in from the pub and attack me too. I rarely got through a night without one or both of them forcing themselves on me.

Other girls at school chatted about what they had done at the weekend or watched on TV. They had family gatherings, walks to church and shopping trips with their mammies. I didn’t do any of those things, and I felt left out.

I just couldn’t talk to my friends, in case I really was a very bad person. What would they think of me?

They wouldn’t want to hear about the time in the building when the men put me in a different room, then all queued up outside the door and took it in turns to come in and hurt me. In fact, no one would want to know any of what happened to me. Having all those men there simply to do terrible things to me was too traumatic to contemplate. Who would want to hear about all that? It was sickening.

Sometimes the men sat on chairs in a row and passed me round while they all laughed loudly. I didn’t want to even think about it myself, let alone tell my friends.

At least when I was in school I knew nobody was going to hurt me in the way Daddy and the other men did.

I loved fooling around with my friends. Even though the posh kids kept out of my way or looked down on me for my scruffy appearance, I didn’t care. I had my own mates, and when I was making them roar with laughter with my impression of Mother Dorothy, nose pointed in the air and pretend cane swishing in my hand, I felt great. ‘You are all SINNERS!’ I’d hiss theatrically. We’d all fall about in hysterics, and it felt so good to switch off from my worries and be myself for a little while.

I relished those golden moments, too, when I could read quietly and enjoy the peace, and on days when my head felt clear I really enjoyed learning. Mother Dorothy still gave out steam to me the whole time, and I never knew when my peace or fun might be snatched away and I’d be punished and shamed, but still, I much preferred being at school to being at home. Home meant horror. Home meant scary, violent thugs forcing themselves on me in the dark and hurting me. Home meant never knowing what Daddy might do. Home meant Mammy drinking and smoking and telling me I was a complaining bitch, I was crazy, I was a devil child; It was all my fault. I hated being at home.

Still, though, the one place I always felt better was by Granny’s side. I felt protected and safe, but I couldn’t tell Granny about all the strange and frightening things in my life, could I? I didn’t want to spoil my special time with her, it was too precious to ruin. I’d be beaten so badly by Mammy and Daddy that life wouldn’t be worth living. No, I couldn’t tell Granny.

I started visiting Granny more than ever. I went most lunchtimes and played truant from school whenever I could just so I could enjoy a bit of peace and friendly company. Sipping hot, sweet tea in her living room was a real tonic. It instantly pepped me up and made me feel a bit happier inside.

I felt the knots in my shoulders loosen when I walked to Granny’s. I could feel them easing with every step I took down the road and round the corner.

I would wonder if Granny might have some fruit for me, or maybe some broken biscuits. She always had a treat of some kind in store. Being with Granny felt so special. Hers was the only house I ever really visited, apart from Uncle Frank’s. She made me feel welcome and loved and safe.

I never got invited into any of my friends’ houses. They sometimes said they were sorry not to be able to invite me, but their mammies wouldn’t let them. I knew they were telling the truth, because I sometimes knocked on their door and their mammies told me flatly, ‘No, you can’t come in,’ or ‘No, she can’t play with you.’

I guessed it was because I always looked so dirty and messy, not a little girl anyone would want their child playing with. Anyhow, I could visit Granny whenever I wanted, and I loved my Granny.

‘Come in, Cynthia!’ would beam kindly when I knocked on the door at lunchtime.

‘Sit yourself down by the fire while I fetch you a cup of tea. I’ve got wafers today, lovely pink ones.’

I would smile back at Granny and settle myself on the floor. ‘Can you show me the Irish jig?’ I might ask. She was quite an old lady - she must have been about seventy-years-old - but she often got up and showed me the jig. ‘Please, Granny?’

‘Maybe later,’ she’d say, smiling. ‘Drink up your tea for now.’

A smile from Granny made me feel special. I loved visiting her. Mammy made me go there to do her cleaning and shopping, but I didn’t mind at all, I preferred being there than being at home.

Since the two new babies had arrived, things had got even tougher for me there.

Mammy expected me to look after all four of my younger siblings, and I found it really hard trying to help them all get dressed and give them their breakfast before school.

I was coming up to eleven now. Mary was seven, Martin was five, Michael was about eighteen months, and Theresa was a year old. Every morning I fed all four kids with Weetabix with sugar on, wiped their faces, kissed the babies goodbye and took Mary and Martin to school with me.

I always held their hands,