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

She was murmuring now, and I could see her cardigan rising and falling on her chest.

She wasn’t dead. Thank God she wasn’t dead.

The next day, I was furious and demanded an explanation. ‘We would be better off dead,’ was all Mammy said, over and over again. I felt so miserable I didn’t care whether I lived or died, but I was outraged she might have killed my siblings in their beds. Who did she think she was?

I was twelve-years-old now, and in my last year of primary school. I never got a minute to myself, but I thought that was a good thing, because I liked to be busy.

If ever I did stop to think, horrible thoughts came into my head, and I didn’t want to think horrible thoughts.

They confused me and frightened me, but I couldn’t escape them. I had constant nightmares, but when I woke up screaming I couldn’t tell myself it was all over and had just been a bad dream, because it wasn’t.

In the dark at night, in the depths of my nightmares, I heard men’s voices saying, ‘She’s my favourite!’, ‘Get over here, you!’

I could see Daddy with a nasty smile on his face, Mammy was cutting her wrist and lying with her head in the oven.

I woke up screaming and sweating so many times. The only relief I got was realizing nobody was actually touching me in my bed at that very moment, but then I’d lie there feeling terrified of what Mammy was doing downstairs.

I always went to check, and many times I caught her with the needle again, moaning she was ‘better off dead’.

Mammy didn’t do anything useful in the house at all now. She seemed to live in a world of her own, lying in bed or drinking endlessly in the chair.

Mary was now eight, Martin was six and Michael and Theresa were both two-years-old.

I loved my little brothers and sisters and did everything I could for them, washing and dressing them, feeding them and taking them out at the weekends to Sandycove or the park.

Martin finished school at twelve thirty, while my class worked on until two thirty, and Mammy made me sit Martin by my desk for those two hours, as he was too young to walk home alone and she wouldn’t come and collect him.

I felt embarrassed having to mind him. It reminded me of when I’d first had to take him into class when he was two, when Mammy said she was sick. Now I knew she just couldn’t be bothered to look after him.

I thought she was mean and selfish, but I didn’t want Martin to suffer, so I let him sit with me, even though he distracted me in the classroom and the teacher shouted at me when I made mistakes because of him.

Some of the other girls rolled their eyes when he made a row or scratched his head, but they could look all they liked. He was my little brother and I was taking care of him. I’d toughened up, and I had far more things to worry about than what the other girls thought of me. I couldn’t really care less about them.

Mammy never went out of the house in daylight now, and she didn’t like it if I went out either. My friend Eileen asked me to go to the youth club with some other girls from the neighbourhood one night, and I begged Mammy to let me. I’d been before, with my big sisters, when they had been forced to drag me along even though I was too young, but I was old enough to go on my own now and I pleaded desperately with her to be able to go.

I was thrilled to bits when she agreed, and got myself dressed in my cleanest clothes and gave myself a good wash with a bucket of water I took upstairs to the bedroom. I even did my hair, making it look all blond and fluffy.

I heard the knock at the door and made my way downstairs, my heart racing with excitement. But it sank like a stone when I heard Mammy get there first.

‘Fuck off! She’s not comin’ out!’ she yelled, before slamming the door in my friend’s face. I stood on the stairs burning with shame and anger, but Mammy burst out laughing, as if she’d played the best trick ever.

The following week she agreed that I really could go to the youth club, as long as I took Mary and Martin with me. I felt so desperate for a bit of fun and freedom I took them, and sat the pair of them in the corner with a bag of crisps while I chatted to my friends for a while, until the little ones got too bored. My friends didn’t seem to care what Mammy was like, they didn’t mention her or make any remarks at all. They were great for that.

The next day, I dawdled to school, sending the younger ones on ahead. That way I could get a few minutes’ peace. I didn’t care if I was late. I didn’t care if my teacher made a show of me or sent me to Mother Dorothy to be caned. It was worth it to have some precious moments to myself.

The sun was breaking through a cloud and the birds were singing. It was spring 1974, and I was surviving. My teacher had a fit when I sauntered in. ‘You’re late!’ she shouted, stating the obvious. ‘So what?’ I said back, shrugging my shoulders to show I didn’t care.

Often I was late because I was busy sorting the little ones out on my own. There was nothing I could do about it. I didn’t care if I got told off. Worse things could happen than being told off or threatened with a stick.

I knew that, and I pulled my hand away, as always, when Mother Dorothy stood me in front of