I dug deeper and deeper. My nails grated on the rough stones as the hole grew bigger and bigger. I wasn’t looking for anything in particular, but this was fun! I loved digging in the mud.I was well out of sight, underneath the branches of a willow tree at the back of the house. Crouched down on my naked knees, my dress spread around me on the dry ground. I ignored the discomfort of the shingle as it embedded itself into my young flesh. I was six years old and having fun.It was summer and the same sun that had hardened the soil was beating down on my back.
As a “young lady”, I was always clothed in pretty dresses and willowy skirts, but wished on this occasion that I wasn’t. I grew impatient with the floral skirt as it became an obstacle in my pursuit of “whatever”. Each time I tucked it behind me, it crept back to obscure the view of my excavation attempt. The spoon that I had sneaked out from the dining room was a formidable tool to begin with but was beginning to bend with the pressure of being forced repeatedly into the ground. Eventually, I lay it down beside me and scraped once again with my bear fingers.“AHA…….what was this?”I held the round, white object tightly between my thumb and index finger, holding it up to the bright sun for a better look.I was excited, elated at my find.I looked around me to see if anyone had spotted my activity. No….not a soul was anywhere near me.
The other children were in the far meadow with the Aunties. I could hear their playful squeals coming from way off. I turned my attention back to my find and quizzically squinted at it. What on earth was it? Maybe if I got rid of some of the mud, I might be able to see it more clearly. I dropped it into the palm of my tiny hand and began rubbing my two palms together. No….that was no good. I still couldn’t see what it was.I pulled up the bottom of my skirt and rubbed feverishly at the object. It was no good!
I was going to have to take drastic action. After another quick glance behind me, I quickly lifted the object to my lips, stuck my tongue out and licked it.Mmm…..it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Before I had given myself the change to consider the consequences, I popped the object into my mouth. I moved it around my palate with my tongue, hoping to remove the stubborn mud that was still refusing to come off. It was hard. It was round. It was rattling around in my mouth, bouncing off my teeth. This was fun. I moved it around faster and faster in the saliva that had formed in my mouth.
“And what are you doing?”
I looked up quickly as a huge shadow blocked the sun from my back. I spun round and gulped!Panic-stricken I quickly got to my feet to face Auntie. I was too afraid to open my mouth, not that there was anything left in it!I could feel the marble descending down my throat. I felt sure that Auntie could see it. I didn’t like the feeling and raised my hand to my neck. I gulped again. And again.Tears pricked my eyes as I began to panic more. But words would not come. I couldn’t tell Auntie what I had done. She continued to block out the sun as she waited for some response from me. I was now feeling quitecold, and then quite hot. She bent down and picked up the grubby spoon.
“Have you been making mud pies again?”
she asked in a much softer tone to the one she had greeted me with. As I nodded my reply, the tears began flowing fluidly down my cheeks. I licked them from my muddy lips.
“What on earth is the matter?” she asked,
It was no good, I had to tell her. I reasoned, in my panic, I simply couldn’t spend the rest of my life gulping. As I told her about the marble, I watched as her lips tightened into a line and her face into a scowl.
“You silly, silly girl!”
Grabbing my hand she marched me back along the pathway, up the steps, into the house. By this time I was wailing, my stifled sobs held back no longer.Once indoors, I was hastened to the toilet and told to
“sit there!”
until something was produced
“at the other end”.
I obediently hitched my soiled skirt up and shuffled myself onto the toilet seat. Needless to say nothing appeared that afternoon, or the afternoon after that, but I am sure it must have in the “passing of time”.
The elderly couple were kind to me, especially the woman. She would let me make cakes with her in the farmhouse kitchen, chat to me and give me hugs. I had never had hugs before and enjoyed the closeness and subsequent warmth her body gave me. I would settle on her knee, leaning against her ample bosom and stretch my arms around her waist whilst she squeezed me gently telling me how pretty I was. She seemed amazingly soft and smelt pleasantly sweet. I felt no threat from her and welcomed her desire to hold me, to embrace me and dream I was the child she never had. It felt good. It was out of the ordinary but enjoyable to have so much attention and to experience close bodily contact with an adult.We rarely received any form of physical closeness from the Aunties in the home. On occasion, after a fall or after sustaining some kind of injury, we might be picked up and our wounds attended to - but we were never cuddled for cuddling sake. We didn’t ask for it – we didn’t receive it. We didn’t expect it, so we were not disappointed.
I felt differently towards the man who was to become my adoptive father. The closeness I felt from him was a little bewildering; uncomfortable. He didn’t feel soft and he certainly didn’t smell pleasant.There was something – something a ten year old little girl could not possibly put into words, that made me feel uncomfortable when he approached me with his arms outstretched, asking for a hug. Obediently, I would grace him the pleasure of a cuddle from “his new little girl”, but would grimace and hide my face, burying it into his stomach as his clinch persisted. The smell of the farm on his clothes would repulse me and I longed for him to loosen his grip on my slim body.
If I sat on his knee it wasn’t soft and yielding like his wife`s. It was hard and uncomfortable. I hated it more if he insisted on hugging me outside the farmhouse, near the barn. He would direct my hand inside his overalls urging me to feel him. and although I did, I couldn’t understand why I never actually saw the parts I touched – I didn’t know what I had touched. It was all so surreal and bizarre, but not in a nice dreamlike way – in a way that confused and tormented me each time I visited my new adoptive parents. Some nights he would come into my bedroom late - never touch me, just stand in the darkness - the light from the landing emphasising and magnifying his tall frame against the bedroom wall. I lay very still, hoping he would think I was asleep, breathing so shallow only I could hear it along with the rapid beating of my heart. And then he would vanish, disappearing silently into the light leaving me to squirm deeper beneath the covers on the bed.
Sunday was visiting day. We would sit on the floor in anticipation of the smiling, optimistic adults. On their arrival our visitors would scour the sea of young faces in the hope of finding one that appealed to them - a face that might fit into their incomplete family setting. Many would smile at me but it was seldom that my name was called for me to join the visitors in another room where the lucky ones were ushered, hopefully to become acquainted. It was a familiar course of events for us children and one that we all took as part of growing up. Some children got excited at the prospect of leaving the home and starting a new life in a new family. I experienced confusing mixed emotions. I had been at the home since birth, since my mother had sent me to Barnados` fresh from her womb. My security was being in the midst of scores of children each with equally sad histories unknown to them. That was the reason I never felt the need for a mother, never expected one, never wanted one. I was used to living in a large house with many rooms and acres of land. I could not get used to such small houses – I grew claustrophobic and despite the incentives, promises and rewards offered to me if I stayed just one night - my distress was palpable, solved only by returning me to my “home”.
As a “young lady”, I was always clothed in pretty dresses and willowy skirts, but wished on this occasion that I wasn’t. I grew impatient with the floral skirt as it became an obstacle in my pursuit of “whatever”. Each time I tucked it behind me, it crept back to obscure the view of my excavation attempt. The spoon that I had sneaked out from the dining room was a formidable tool to begin with but was beginning to bend with the pressure of being forced repeatedly into the ground. Eventually, I lay it down beside me and scraped once again with my bear fingers.“AHA…….what was this?”I held the round, white object tightly between my thumb and index finger, holding it up to the bright sun for a better look.I was excited, elated at my find.I looked around me to see if anyone had spotted my activity. No….not a soul was anywhere near me.
The other children were in the far meadow with the Aunties. I could hear their playful squeals coming from way off. I turned my attention back to my find and quizzically squinted at it. What on earth was it? Maybe if I got rid of some of the mud, I might be able to see it more clearly. I dropped it into the palm of my tiny hand and began rubbing my two palms together. No….that was no good. I still couldn’t see what it was.I pulled up the bottom of my skirt and rubbed feverishly at the object. It was no good!
I was going to have to take drastic action. After another quick glance behind me, I quickly lifted the object to my lips, stuck my tongue out and licked it.Mmm…..it wasn’t as bad as I thought it was going to be. Before I had given myself the change to consider the consequences, I popped the object into my mouth. I moved it around my palate with my tongue, hoping to remove the stubborn mud that was still refusing to come off. It was hard. It was round. It was rattling around in my mouth, bouncing off my teeth. This was fun. I moved it around faster and faster in the saliva that had formed in my mouth.
“And what are you doing?”
I looked up quickly as a huge shadow blocked the sun from my back. I spun round and gulped!Panic-stricken I quickly got to my feet to face Auntie. I was too afraid to open my mouth, not that there was anything left in it!I could feel the marble descending down my throat. I felt sure that Auntie could see it. I didn’t like the feeling and raised my hand to my neck. I gulped again. And again.Tears pricked my eyes as I began to panic more. But words would not come. I couldn’t tell Auntie what I had done. She continued to block out the sun as she waited for some response from me. I was now feeling quitecold, and then quite hot. She bent down and picked up the grubby spoon.
“Have you been making mud pies again?”
she asked in a much softer tone to the one she had greeted me with. As I nodded my reply, the tears began flowing fluidly down my cheeks. I licked them from my muddy lips.
“What on earth is the matter?” she asked,
It was no good, I had to tell her. I reasoned, in my panic, I simply couldn’t spend the rest of my life gulping. As I told her about the marble, I watched as her lips tightened into a line and her face into a scowl.
“You silly, silly girl!”
Grabbing my hand she marched me back along the pathway, up the steps, into the house. By this time I was wailing, my stifled sobs held back no longer.Once indoors, I was hastened to the toilet and told to
“sit there!”
until something was produced
“at the other end”.
I obediently hitched my soiled skirt up and shuffled myself onto the toilet seat. Needless to say nothing appeared that afternoon, or the afternoon after that, but I am sure it must have in the “passing of time”.
The elderly couple were kind to me, especially the woman. She would let me make cakes with her in the farmhouse kitchen, chat to me and give me hugs. I had never had hugs before and enjoyed the closeness and subsequent warmth her body gave me. I would settle on her knee, leaning against her ample bosom and stretch my arms around her waist whilst she squeezed me gently telling me how pretty I was. She seemed amazingly soft and smelt pleasantly sweet. I felt no threat from her and welcomed her desire to hold me, to embrace me and dream I was the child she never had. It felt good. It was out of the ordinary but enjoyable to have so much attention and to experience close bodily contact with an adult.We rarely received any form of physical closeness from the Aunties in the home. On occasion, after a fall or after sustaining some kind of injury, we might be picked up and our wounds attended to - but we were never cuddled for cuddling sake. We didn’t ask for it – we didn’t receive it. We didn’t expect it, so we were not disappointed.
I felt differently towards the man who was to become my adoptive father. The closeness I felt from him was a little bewildering; uncomfortable. He didn’t feel soft and he certainly didn’t smell pleasant.There was something – something a ten year old little girl could not possibly put into words, that made me feel uncomfortable when he approached me with his arms outstretched, asking for a hug. Obediently, I would grace him the pleasure of a cuddle from “his new little girl”, but would grimace and hide my face, burying it into his stomach as his clinch persisted. The smell of the farm on his clothes would repulse me and I longed for him to loosen his grip on my slim body.
If I sat on his knee it wasn’t soft and yielding like his wife`s. It was hard and uncomfortable. I hated it more if he insisted on hugging me outside the farmhouse, near the barn. He would direct my hand inside his overalls urging me to feel him. and although I did, I couldn’t understand why I never actually saw the parts I touched – I didn’t know what I had touched. It was all so surreal and bizarre, but not in a nice dreamlike way – in a way that confused and tormented me each time I visited my new adoptive parents. Some nights he would come into my bedroom late - never touch me, just stand in the darkness - the light from the landing emphasising and magnifying his tall frame against the bedroom wall. I lay very still, hoping he would think I was asleep, breathing so shallow only I could hear it along with the rapid beating of my heart. And then he would vanish, disappearing silently into the light leaving me to squirm deeper beneath the covers on the bed.
Sunday was visiting day. We would sit on the floor in anticipation of the smiling, optimistic adults. On their arrival our visitors would scour the sea of young faces in the hope of finding one that appealed to them - a face that might fit into their incomplete family setting. Many would smile at me but it was seldom that my name was called for me to join the visitors in another room where the lucky ones were ushered, hopefully to become acquainted. It was a familiar course of events for us children and one that we all took as part of growing up. Some children got excited at the prospect of leaving the home and starting a new life in a new family. I experienced confusing mixed emotions. I had been at the home since birth, since my mother had sent me to Barnados` fresh from her womb. My security was being in the midst of scores of children each with equally sad histories unknown to them. That was the reason I never felt the need for a mother, never expected one, never wanted one. I was used to living in a large house with many rooms and acres of land. I could not get used to such small houses – I grew claustrophobic and despite the incentives, promises and rewards offered to me if I stayed just one night - my distress was palpable, solved only by returning me to my “home”.
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