High and Mighty E-Book

Elaine Louise

• Herausgeber: epubli
• Kategorie: Sachliteratur, Reportagen, Biografien
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 359

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

Monsters do exist. Real monsters aren't always obvious. Not all monsters resemble the stereotypical super­natural, mythical beast, look like the devil, or have colossus abnormalities. These monsters are far more predictable than child­hood fairy tales and Hollywood movies that are simply derived from someone's imagination, which helps brings a story to life. The most dangerous monsters are the ones we inno­cently pass by every day in the streets, and perhaps even talk to. These monsters can form part of our daily routine. They could be a complete stranger on public transport, work in an office, a school, or even be a customer in a local bar. They could be a relative, distant or close, someone we eat meals with, or spend considerable time with. These are the monsters who are careful about how they reveal themselves, and how they integrate into our world and our lives. We don't always know they're monsters until it's too late.

Leseprobe

High

and

Mighty

Elaine Louise

First published in Great Britain in 2022

Copyright © Elaine Louise 2022

ISBN

9783952579596

1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2

Elaine Louise has asserted her right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permissions of the publishers.

ebook by Falcon Oast Graphic Art Ltd

www.falcon.uk.com

To all the Survivors

I realize now I am a survivor. I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become. I now understand how owning our story and loving ourselves is the bravest thing we will ever do.

At any given moment, we have the power within to decide – this is not how I want my story to end. I am a stronger woman because of it.

For my family

For my husband. Thank you for loving me, when there were many times I felt unlovable. For taking the time to patiently listen and understand. For empowering me, and through many difficult moments, holding me tight.

For my three beautiful girls, and gorgeous fur baby. You have helped shaped me as a Mother when I never thought I could be. Together, your hands and paws in mine, we learned how to navigate this beautiful life. For this, I am eternally grateful.

For my family in heaven. I would not be here today if it wasn’t for the love, sacrifice and interventions you made. I hope we will meet again one day, so I can thank you properly.

Foreword

This is a true story, an account of what took place during the early 1970s in the United Kingdom. This is a story within a story.

A story of a young child, articulated as an adult during a tumultuous period. This is also a story that highlights some of the conflicting problems and restrictions of social services and how a young child survived this travesty. This is a story of survival, of a child who survived.

It touches on some of the social and welfare issues during this decade, where services for welfare and mental health had only just been introduced with the aim to unify the social services infrastructure.

The 1970s were an incredibly difficult decade from a social and economic perspective, with a number of issues deriving from poverty, high unemployment, soaring inflation and political upheaval. The instability of the economy heavily influenced further issues of substandard housing, high crime rates, substance abuse, child abuse and neglect.

Although the 1975 Children’s Act came into effect during the time of this story, it’s important to highlight that there were few established facilities and even fewer qualified social worker professionals who were able to monitor, track and deal with the high number of issues during the Act’s inception and formative years. This meant there were many desperate situations left unresolved.

The unification of the 1975 Children’s Act and the subsequent 1985 Children’s Act focused on the concept of Children in Need legislation, to provide fundamental care for children’s social services. Their established role was put in place to ensure the best interests of the child, although this was not always possible as there was no broad focus on child sexual abuse and neglect. This story demonstrates the huge amount of resources required to sustain the growing numbers of children who were and still now continue to be affected.

This story in no way makes the social services statutory framework responsible or places any blame or wrongdoing on them. On the contrary, this story demonstrates that without their intervention and support, it could have been a completely different story being told.

The names and places in this story have been changed to protect identities.

Prologue

Monsters do exist. Real monsters aren’t always obvious.

Not all monsters resemble the stereotypical super­natural, mythical beast, look like the devil, or have colossus abnormalities.

These monsters are far more predictable than childhood fairy tales and Hollywood movies that are simply derived from someone’s imagination, which helps brings a story to life.

The most dangerous monsters are the ones we innocently pass by every day in the streets, and perhaps even talk to.

These monsters can form part of our daily routine. They could be a complete stranger on public transport, work in an office, a school, or even be a customer in a local bar. They could be a relative, distant or close, someone we eat meals with, or spend considerable time with.

These are the monsters who are careful about how they reveal themselves, and how they integrate into our world and our lives. We don’t always know they’re ­monsters until it’s too late.

1

Happy Birthday

I have many memories from my early childhood, perhaps more than most at such a young age. Some of them are very clear, whilst others are a little more fragmented. All of them, however, are true.

My story starts from one of my earliest memories. A clear and real memory; not a story told by someone else. A memory of a day I could recall for all the wrong reasons.

The day began as it normally would. I woke up, peeling my eyes open, hoping and wishing that today would be good. A better day than the previous ones.

On this particular day, I knew it was going to be different. I had that tummy fluttering, toe tingling sensation, filled with excitement, because today was my fifth birthday.

As I quietly lay in my bed, I began to feel nervous. If I made a noise this early, I knew I would be in trouble. But this was the one day where I wanted it to be my special day, where the unwritten, unsaid rules didn’t apply.

I pulled my dirty white sheets tightly up under my armpits and curiously looked across the room at my plain, drab, paper-thin curtains that were wafting slightly in the draught coming from the window. I wasn’t entirely sure what time it was, but I could already see daylight. I could hear the birds singing merrily, their beautiful morning chorus, chatting happily to one another.

I lay still, careful not to make any sound. I could make out the noise of people leaving their homes, some setting off to work, whilst others organised their children into their cars ready for school.

Slamming their front doors, children talking excitedly, the sound of car doors closing, the engine roaring to life, and then as they leave, silence.

There was no school for me today. I was allowed to have a day off because it was my birthday. As I thought once again about all the things I would be doing, I fidgeted in my bed, gazing around the room, trying to kill time until I was allowed to get up.

As I patiently waited for my mother to come into my bedroom, my thoughts drifted to the house we lived in, and the room I slept in.

Ours was a 1950s, semi-detached council house that we rented. The house, as ugly as it was, was situated in a pretty cul-de-sac, a few miles away from the town centre. It had a good-sized garden, laid to lawn, front and back, with a plush green hedge around the perimeter. Inside, the rooms were basic, with shades of brown and beige adorning the walls and floors. Upstairs, beyond the small bathroom, were two decent sized double rooms, and a small box room. The box room was mine.

It wasn’t particularly nice, painted in a sickly, glossy pink colour that I hated, and it was chipped and ­peeling on different parts of the wall. There were dark mould stains that seemed to spring to life, growing fast down the wall and in the corner of the ceiling. These stains scared me, especially at night. I always thought they were ­monsters whose faces grew and divided as dusk settled, and which came alive during the night. I used to think they were moving closer and closer and would come for me and swallow me up if I moved too much or drew attention to myself. I quickly perfected the art of keeping deadly still, controlling my breathing, and squeezing the life out of Penguin, my soft toy, holding it tightly to my chest for comfort.

I had very few toys or furniture in my room. There were two boxes of Lego, kept in old vanilla ice cream ­containers, that I was always happy to play with, which wasn’t often as it made too much noise when I tipped it out.

Any kind of noise was not a good thing in our house.

After what seemed like an eternity, I finally heard my mother stirring in her bedroom, and I knew that any minute she would come in to get me up and ready for the day.

I was very anxious. My heart began to race painfully, banging hard against my small, thin body. I wondered how she would be today, if she would be nice to me. I was sure she would, it was my birthday after all, my special day. I tried to push away my anxiety and calm my nerves, feeling the tummy-fluttering excitement returning.

I could hear her heavy, uneven footsteps pounding across the creaking hallway landing, and her small grunts, incoherent from my bedroom. I remained in my bed and pulled the sheet slightly higher over my mouth, shaking with fear and anticipation.

Suddenly, like an explosion, my bedroom door slammed open and crashed into the wall opposite my bed. My mother launched herself into the room with such force the walls seemed to come alive and recoil from her, the curtains wavering in the breeze she’d created. The old wooden floorboards creaked and groaned under the pink threadbare carpet from her heavy footsteps.

“Get out of bed, you little bitch! Why aren’t you up yet?” she spat at me, the words like knives spilling out of her mouth and into my chest.

I cowered deeper into my bed, whimpering in fear. I still hoped she would start laughing and give me a hug, perhaps even a kiss, and tell me she was only joking. This happened sometimes, it was very confusing, and I didn’t always know the right way to react. If I reacted wrongly there would be hell to pay. I could never win this game, so my best strategy was to do and say nothing until it became clear what her next move was going to be.

“Here you are, you little bitch, here’s your birthday present,” she said, and threw a handful of coins hard, at close range, that painfully hit me everywhere, like bullets spraying out of a machine gun, catching my lip hardest, the top of my left eye and cheeks. I could already taste the blood leaking from my swollen lip. I tensed further into my bed, trying to disappear into the mattress, fear and pain gripping me into a paralysed state of shock.

“If you want a birthday present, you have to get out of bed and buy it yourself, now get up!” she screamed again. Her face had a truly frightening expression, one that didn’t look quite like my mother. The face of a stranger, the face of a monster whose features contorted with rage and insanity, eyes red and bulging, face red and blotchy, her lips snarling back over her gums, and blood-filled veins protruding from her neck and temple. I stared back at her wild face with fear, waiting to see what her next move would be, my heart pounding hard in my chest, threatening to burst out of my body at any moment.

I didn’t know whether to do as I was told and get up, or wait until she’d left my room, when it was safe to move again. I whimpered more loudly. I couldn’t control myself by that point, and my own reaction scared me further; I was making too much noise. I didn’t know what to do. I panicked, lost control and moved, trying to distance myself from her as much as I could, away from this ­monster. Too late.

Her hand came hurtling towards me, exploding like a firework through the air. I tried to move my head away from her long, sharp nails, knowing from experience how lethal they were. It wasn’t the slap I was expecting. Instead, she grabbed a handful of my long, white-blonde hair, ­fingers digging deep into my scalp. She lifted me completely out of bed and catapulted me across the bedroom. I landed in the corner against my Lego boxes, Lego spilling out across the floor and crashing loudly around me. I fell hard onto the little green, yellow, red and blue pieces.

I lay still around the shattered boxes, dazed and confused, wondering how I had landed at such a funny angle. I tried to get up and move as far away as I could from her, but the sheer pain from my head where she had grabbed me was excruciating. I wondered if I had been scalped, if there would be a bald patch. I tried to lift my arm to check, but I couldn’t move it above to my head, and I decided it was safer to stay still until I could recollect what had happened.

Other parts of my body screamed and burned with pain. My head had hit the wooden toy trunk, and my left knee had scuffed across the threadbare carpet, taking off a large area of skin. I cowered against the floor, scared of what was coming next, not knowing if she was finished with her reign of terror, or if she was still mad at me and the punishment would continue. She was an unpredictable monster. I just had to wait. Hold myself together, not saying a word, not crying or screaming out in pain and confusion. I had to take my thoughts inwards, deep inside where no one could reach me.

I couldn’t cry anyway. It hurt too much to cry. Crying was bad, and she didn’t like me to feel sorry for myself. I remained hunkered down on the floor, the pain slowly emerging like a burning fire, first in my head, then my shoulders, and my chest and arms. I gasped for air as the pain continued to radiate throughout my body, my senses awakening, my heart beating loudly. The silence around me took hold. I could no longer hear the birds singing their happy chorus, or the people busying themselves outside. Time stopped, and everything around me felt like it was settling back into its rightful place again.

My mother made no further movement. I was trapped in a protective bubble of time, waiting.

Once I manged to get my breathing under control, I tried to look towards my bedroom door. My head and neck were so sore I whimpered. It was no good, I couldn’t move my neck any further. I had to twist my body around so I could see what was happening.

Silent tears rolled down my face, and I tentatively lifted my eyes to look at my mother, to gauge her reaction, careful not to hold her gaze, but just enough to quickly see what she was doing.

Her expression had changed again, softened, her face pale and calmer. This time it was her who looked pained, her mouth held wide open in horror, clasping her shaking hands and slowly moving them up towards her face. With her eyes wide and tearful, she drank in my expression, moving her gaze from the blood coming from my nose, and the bleeding lip already starting to swell and bruise, to the red marks over my head, to the awkward way I half sat on the floor, surrounded by the Lego pieces and the broken plastic vanilla ice cream containers. She took a deep breath and quickly moved towards me, this time gently lifting me up off the floor and tenderly cradling me in her arms, stroking my back and rocking me, making a strange humming noise that almost sounded inhuman.

My senses began to recover from the shock, the adrenaline slowly coming back to normal levels. I could taste blood, mixed with my tears. As I tried to lick it away, I cried out in pain. My mother slowly released me from her embrace and took my face in her hands. Silent tears continued to run down my cheeks, and she gently brushed them away.

There was no reason for what had happened, why she had done what she did, there never was. There was never a pattern to her unpredictable behaviour. It would come as fast as a thunderstorm, but without any warning of dark clouds, or the distant rumbles of thunder, but there was always that heavy weight, a pressure building and hanging in the air. And then you wait for that lightning bolt to strike, and you just have to hold tight until it was over.

As the heavy weight of the air and the dark clouds in the room seemed to lift, she softly said, “Let’s get dressed so we can go and buy some nice presents for your birthday.”

“Ok,” I managed to croak in a quiet voice, too scared to say or do any more than that.

We dressed in silence as we got ready for our long walk into town, trying not to think about what had happened, pushing another fight once again out of my mind, and trying to find clothes that would hide the bruises I knew would show very quickly.

There was no breakfast. There never was, and I was never, ever, allowed to go into the kitchen. I had tried to take a sneaky look, to see if the door was left open on a rare occasion, but it was not somewhere I was able to go. I knew the kitchen was relatively small and basic, with black and white linoleum flooring. But more strangely there was always a dining chair placed on the floor in the middle of the room, facing the doorway. Hanging on the back of the chair were my mother’s headphones, bright yellow ear mufflers that builders used to wear on site, to protect themselves from all the loud construction work. My mother rarely took them off. She hated the noise. She was still sensitive to sounds even when she wore her headphones, and when a noise got too much for her, she would clasp the earphones closer to her head, hoping that it would block out everything.

My mother couldn’t drive, and my father was rarely home. He always made the excuse of having to work, so we didn’t get to see him very much.

As we put our coats on and opened the front door, a blast of early morning spring air hit my sore face. I winced and bit the inside of my cheek to stop myself from crying again.

My mother was a striking woman, strangely ­beautiful, and always drew a lot of male attention. She had an unusual face, with an acutely prominent bone structure, high cheek bones, a strong jawline, and the most beautiful emerald eyes, accentuated by her pale skin and short black hair that framed her face, like a beautiful oil ­painting, that you kept wanting to look at.

It was unusual for her to venture outside. She always became very agitated and would never speak or make eye contact with others. She often wore ear protectors, both at home and outside, as even the simplest noise made her aggressive. There was never the usual kind of physical contact with my mother. We were never allowed to hold hands, there was no comforting arm to put around my shoulders, and the smallest of touches would make her step away, repulsed.

As we walked down the street of our council estate, I could see some of our neighbours through their windows, busy cleaning or tidying up, some even taking advantage of the first chilly spring day to hang their washing on the line to dry. I waved and greeted them politely, however this morning nobody seemed to want to say hello to me. They only stood silent, unmoving, just staring with a horrified expression on their faces. I put it down to the fact it was because my mother was actually outside with me, as this was the first time she had ventured out for many months.

As we walked out of our estate, we continued in the direction of the town centre, about two miles from our house. Here was my least favourite part of the walk. On one side of the road was our local grocery and corner shop, and directly opposite was the children’s foster care home. I held my breath and averted my gaze from both sides of the road, looking down at my dirty, scuffed shoes, hoping the shopkeeper wouldn’t come out and tell my mother what I’d done the week before. I walked faster and tried to get my mother to skip with me, anything to get past there as quickly as I could.

“Come back here,” she spat, “don’t run off, come here!”

I froze as she spoke, hoping the shopkeeper hadn’t heard her. Luck was not on my side today as the dark-haired, balding man in his long white coat came out of the shop with a large wooden broom in his hands. I tried to hide myself around my mother’s coat, careful not to touch her, and almost tripped her over in the process. She screamed in shock and rage, and automatically grabbed a large handful of my hair which she used to pull me out of the way. I screamed in pain, my head still very sore from earlier that morning.

My mother swung me to the side of the road, where I came face to face with the shopkeeper. He was about to say something to my mother when he looked down at my face and stopped still in his tracks, mouth open wide, waiting for the words to tumble out. His gaze went from my face, back to my mother, still not able to articulate himself. After a few moments, he composed himself and looked away, beginning the task of sweeping the front of the shop. I breathed a sigh of relief, my heart steadying itself once again.

The previous week had been a particularly bad week for me. My father had not been home until late every evening, and on this occasion, really upset my mother, making her mood swings and temper more volatile. It also meant she guarded the kitchen more.

On one particular day, I was so hungry, as I had eaten very little over the past few days, that I stole some food from this shop. It wasn’t something I had ever done before, and it wasn’t something I had planned to do, but extreme hunger had gotten the better of me. That moment always stayed with me.

I had just been walking past, on my way to school, and I noticed in the entrance my favourite thing to eat: crisps. They seemed to call out to me, beckoning me over, willing me to take them.

I’d crept as quietly as possible over to them, ­peering inside to make sure the shopkeeper wasn’t nearby. I hadn’t realised there was a round security mirror that hung near the ceiling, where he could securely control the whole shop from every angle. As he watched me suspiciously loiter around the entrance, he made his way out, walking purposefully towards me. As quick as lightning, I’d grabbed two packets of crisps and ran as fast as I could from the shop.

It was an adrenaline-fuelled sprint that continued until I’d reached the corner of the road, leading to an alleyway of newer housing estates. I hadn’t dared to look back and check to see if he had followed me until I had stopped.

I waited for the shopkeeper’s shouts and footsteps to catch up with me. I strained my ears, listening out for the sound of police sirens wailing out to the street, informing the residents that there was a criminal on the loose. I crouched down on the cold, damp floor of the alley, my exhausted body still shaking with fear and hunger. I waited a few minutes to make sure that nobody was coming for me, but everything remained still and quiet. I grinned widely for a moment, proud that I was able to fill my hungry belly. I’d gotten away with it.

Without waiting a moment longer, I ripped open the crisp packet, and although it wasn’t my favourite flavour, I devoured them.

After eating half the packet, I slowed down, suddenly thinking about the next time I would be hungry again. I didn’t want to steal anything ever again, so I stopped and licked my fingers slowly, savouring every last remnant before twisting the packet closed and shoving it into my pocket. Out of sight, out of mind. My tongue wriggled over my teeth and gums, searching for every last morsel to swallow. I closed my eyes tightly, trying to push the ever- present thoughts of hunger and guilt out of my head.

Feeling ashamed, I got up off the cold floor, my head hung low, and took another route, behind the shop, continuing my journey to school.

My mother and I had finally reached the town centre without further incident. I grew excited again, the ­tingling coming back into my whole body. We had come to a toy shop and I couldn’t hide my excitement. I jumped up and down, clapping my hands together. My mother dragged me past the shop, this time by the hood of my coat.

“We’re going into this shop,” she barked at me without even looking in my direction, and pointed at an old-­fashioned children’s clothing store that had been run by three generations of family since the 1930s. I couldn’t contain my disappointment as she dragged me up to the doorway.

Forgetting myself for a moment, I exclaimed, “No, Mummy, not here. I want to go to the other shop.” I indicated wildly back to the toy shop. “Please, Mummy, I want to buy a new toy, please let me,” I begged, the tears of anger and frustration bubbling up.

Her face turned red with rage as she looked down at me, grabbed my shoulders and shouted, “You don’t deserve anything, you little bitch! We’re going in here to buy things you need.”

I couldn’t stop the desperate tears from streaming down my face. “No,” I sobbed miserably, “I don’t want to go in there, please don’t make me.”

Out of sheer frustration and anger at my insolence, her hand was already coming down towards my cheek, with a loud cracking noise. The impact of her slap sent me spinning sideways, and I lost my footing. My head hit the ground so hard it almost knocked me out.

I slowly half-raised my body, when out of nowhere the shop door burst open with the sound of a large brass bell, and a middle-aged lady, without a word, barged past my mother, scooped me up off the floor, and carried me into her shop.

My mother was initially outraged, then quickly ­collected herself, telling the lady I had tripped over the step and fallen to the ground. The shopkeeper, ignoring all her protests, tenderly took me out to the back of her shop, behind the counter. She gently took off my coat and placed it on the floor next to me. Then she sat me down on a chair, where she could get a better look at me, and inspected the swelling on the side of my head.

I silently gazed at her face with tearful eyes, longing for a gentle touch and warm, kind arms to surround me and keep me safe, to look after me, and to be my new mummy. My mother barged her way into the back of the shop and demanded, “What are you doing with my daughter? You have no right to bring her in here.”

The lady slowly turned her attention to my mother, and glared at her for a long time before answering, “What have you done to this child? What’s happened to her face? Her lip is bruised and bloody, her face is swollen and red. This has just happened now on the step; I want to know exactly what has happened before I make a call to the police,” she demanded in a low and controlled voice.

“She was over-excited this morning. It’s her birthday today, and she fell down some of the stairs. She’s clumsy and wasn’t looking where she was going, it’s her own fault,” my mother stuttered, each lie sounding less convincing than the first.

The lady looked down at my face tenderly, brushing a lock of hair away. I winced in pain, unsure of what her hand was going to do. I instinctively recoiled away from her.

“You can talk to me, sweetie, you’re safe here, no one can hurt you. Tell me what happened to your face,” she asked me slowly, gently.

I looked in the direction of my mother, trying to read her face and figure out how best to answer the kind lady’s question. My mother glared at me, her face red and ­nostrils slightly flared, lips pinched together, waiting, just waiting for my reply. I felt scared again and I didn’t want to answer her question. She was a nice lady, but she couldn’t help me, no one could help me, no one would believe me. So I said the only thing that I knew would keep me safe.

“I fell down the stairs, and I bumped my head,” I mumbled, defeated in my answer. “I always fall down and hurt myself,” I added miserably. I looked back towards my mother, who seemed to visibly relax.

“You see?” she spat. “She’s just a clumsy child, you heard her, it’s the truth.”

The lady looked back at me, her expression telling me she wasn’t convinced, but there was nothing more she could do or say to help me.

2

High and Mighty

My heart was pounding hard against my chest, so hard it hurt to keep running, but I knew I had to. Far, far away from the torment, the pain of what just happened. I ran to the end of the road of the council estate and quickly looked over my shoulder to make sure I was still alone. Alone was always how I felt, and it was exactly how I preferred it. Alone made me feel safe, alone was almost a guarantee that no one could hurt me.

At the end of the road, I turned right and ran towards my old school. Not far from there was an apple orchard and an old farm where I could hide and rest, and perhaps eat at long last.

I sped past rows of houses, hoping no one could see me, report me or, worse, inform my parents of the direction I was running in.

I thought about my parents again, dug my nails into the palms of my hands, and with a gritted determination ran faster, the pain in my chest and the cool air against my face burning into me, cutting my lungs open with a knife. It didn’t matter, I could handle it, the fear was always worse than the pain. I kept going, crossing roads and passing by streets. I got closer to the school; on my left across the green was a playground which I used on a regular basis. I slowed down and glanced over to a crowd of younger children and teenagers. Nothing out of the ordinary, but strange to see so many people gathering at one time. Curious to see what was going on, I walked in their direction, my pounding heart decreasing, thoughts that previously consumed me turning towards what was happening in the playground.

There he stood. Surrounded by people, scared, unsure of himself, and confused about his environment.

This was where I first saw him, my horse. This was the memory locked into my brain and my heart forever. This was the memory I returned to again and again in my head. This was the memory that helped save my life many times, in many ways.

In one brief moment, this memory changed my purpose in life. I was forever connected, filled with empathy and understanding, instantly knowing he felt exactly as I did. I could see it in the tenseness of his muscles, how they rippled and twitched like a nervous tick. How he stomped his feet, shifting his weight from side to side, restlessly swaying and kicking up his front hoof, tail twitching, trying to communicate like a cat or a dog would.

I stared open mouthed, in awe of this beautiful and graceful animal. His golden coat shone in the late afternoon sun, matted in places with clumps of dried mud. I noticed scars all over his body, some healed whilst others looked fresh. I noticed because I had them too. I pulled at my top and looked at my fresh cuts and swollen skin, made by the long, manicured nails of my mother as she’d grabbed, punched and slapped me.

I turned my attention back to the horse, eager to remove the thoughts of my mother. One way or another, we were connected, we were the same. Although a horse, both of us had the same feelings and thoughts: our survival.

The horse, throughout all the noisy chaos, seemed to sense me there near the playground, lurking in the background, silently and from afar. Although we were not close to each other, I felt I could see right into his beautiful dark eyes. They were large and scared, the whites showing, tinged red from the veins that looked like they were about to burst. He looked directly at me and stopped his nervous sways, standing still like a bronzed statue. The screams and chanting from the other children seemed to fade to silence.

This moment was ours.

I stood still, watching in awe and confusion at the strange situation he was in. Desperate, I wanted to know more, to be closer to him, know who he belonged to, know who had hurt him so cruelly.

I took a deep breath and bravely moved slowly towards him, not wanting to scare him or alert the other children there. As I neared him, I could smell his strong scent, a beautiful perfume, a fusion of his musky sweat with an undertone of mud and freshly cut grass. I stopped a few feet away and suddenly the noise of the other children swelled like a giant wave around my head. They had seen me.

I awkwardly looked at some of the faces in the crowd, and much like the horse, I nervously moved my feet from side to side, my hands and fingers twitching together as I clasped them. I pinched them together tightly, trying to regain control of my fear. My face was flushed from all the running, and the awkward situation I now found myself in. I tried to calm my breathing, taking slow, deep breaths that kept catching nervously at the back of my throat, making me cough and splutter. I tried to talk, but it was only my mouth that moved, words not able to come out.

Some of the older children walked towards me, the younger children hiding behind their legs, shouting and jeering. I held myself tall and waited for whatever was to come, unsure if I was about to get another beating. I didn’t care, I was ready for it, and accepted it if it meant I could be closer to the horse.

A teenage girl, the leader, stepped towards me confidently, stalking me like a cat about to pounce on her prey, her face unreadable.

When she was up close and personal, she stopped and stared down at me, saying nothing for the longest time, her rancid breath, a mixture of stale cigarettes and un-brushed teeth, sweeping over my face like a strong slap. I instantly recoiled, taking a step backwards, wincing with distaste. I nervously held her gaze, still waiting for what was to come.

Without any words, she drank me in, piece by piece: my dirty tear-stained face, runny nose, trembling and swollen, bloody lips, my eyes glistening with the tears that were both old and fresh. Her expression changed, softened slightly with sadness and tenderness, suddenly recognising me, knowing who my family were. She collected herself again quickly, her expression reverting back.

“What do you want? Why are you here? This playground belongs to us, you’re not welcome here,” she screamed, spit hitting my face and mouth.

I didn’t want her to know what happened to me, and why I was running away, so I desperately tried to think of a reason why I could possibly be here.

“Whose horse is that? What’s his name? Can I stroke him, he’s beautiful.” The words tumbled out of my mouth at high speed. I hoped the questions would make her forget that I was intruding in her space amongst the gang of children.

She looked over her shoulder at the horse and then back at me. “He’s my horse,” she replied aggressively. “I’m showing him to my friends,” she added. It was obviously a way to increase her popularity.

“He’s beautiful,” I repeated breathlessly. “What’s his name? You’re so lucky to have a horse,” I went on, trying desperately still to distract, and to show her how cool I thought she was.

She stared at me again for a moment, wondering whether I was worth the trouble of talking to. She relaxed a little, and her fierce expression seemed to soften once more as she talked about her horse. “He’s called High and Mighty,” she said proudly, lifting her chin as she spoke his name. “He used to be a racehorse, but he’s too old to race anymore, so now I have him.”

I wasn’t able to hold myself back any longer. I had a name, something to call him by, a name to put together with a million memories and images I had already formulated in my head.

“Can I touch him, please? I will be gentle, I promise not to hurt him or do anything to scare him,” I pleaded, my eyes wide in anticipation. She looked at me for a moment longer, seeing the desperation and need to be near him.

Her whole attitude towards me changed in that moment. Perhaps I reminded her of happier moments when she was my age. The other children were forgotten about, it was just me and her and High and Mighty who existed in that moment.

“Ok, but you need to do something for me if I let you touch him,” she said. I felt nervous again, heart pounding in anticipation, wondering what exactly it was that I would have to do. I was already in enough trouble at home, and things couldn’t be worse than they were already.

“I’ll do anything!” I yelled rather loudly, not really caring anymore. “Sorry,” I said, lowering my head and looking at the tarmac on the playground, which had started to melt away in places. “I didn’t mean to shout, it’s just that I love horses, but I’m not allowed to touch them, my mother won’t allow it,” I replied sadly. “What do I need to do?”

“He won’t walk well on his own, he gets very nervous, and he needs to have two people walking either side of his head. He can suddenly rear up and veer off to the side of the road,” she explained. “The other kids won’t go near him when he’s walking. I think they’re too scared to go near his feet,” she added, turning her head in the direction of the other kids, scornfully puffing her frustrated, stale breath out of her mouth.

“Of course, I can help, I’m not scared. And if you need anything else, I can help you with that too. I’m not going back home,” I added sadly. “I can stay with you all night.”

She quickly turned her head to look back at me, ­studying me, whilst I was absorbing every moment with Mighty as I now called him in my head, not wanting to take my eyes off him, frightened that it could all just be a dream, and he would suddenly disappear.

She smiled gently at me, clearly wondering what had happened to me. She knew of me and my family, most people did. There was a lot of talk and rumours around the town, but people just couldn’t bring themselves to ask. If the rumours were found out to be true, it meant that someone had to do something, and nobody wanted to help or get involved.

“Ok, let’s go and untether him from the swing, then we can walk him back and turn him out in the meadow for the night,” she said as she walked back through the ­children towards him. The children dispersed left and right, looking at us both, whispering and giggling nervously to one another.

High and Mighty let out a short snicker as soon as he saw us approach. I skipped eagerly behind the girl, ­wanting desperately to touch him as soon as I could. Mighty bobbed his head up and down wildly, as if in agreement, realising that he could soon get back to his meadow, in the peace and quiet and the safety it provided him. The girl gently touched the side of his head, running her fingers expertly and confidently down the side of his face, reaching down to untie his reigns from the swing.

“Hello, High and Mighty,” she whispered softly in his ear. “Let’s get you back home.” She looked across his head towards me. “Ok, stand on his left side and stay near his head. Don’t get too close to his feet, just in case he kicks out and stomps on you,” she said bossily, steering him in the direction of home. “He’s a big horse and he moves quickly. You might have to run a little bit to keep up with him.”

I took my opportunity to touch him before we set off, excitedly taking in every moment, capturing in my head how soft his fur was, how his skin felt underneath my dirty fingertips. He snorted wildly, a sweet breath punching its way through the late afternoon sky. I relished every moment with him. He snickered again when I ran my hand down the side of his neck.

“He likes you,” the girl replied, surprised at how at ease we both were.

“I love him,” I blurted out, tears stinging my eyes, a smile running from ear to ear. I winced as my smile seemed to pinch and pull at my face, contorting into a position it hadn’t been used to for a long time. I didn’t have much to smile about up until now.

I jogged excitedly the whole journey back to the meadow, one hand glued to the side of his neck, not quite believing I was actually doing this. We reached his meadow far too quickly. It was almost hidden from sight, off an old disused railway, the tracks and its path long ago covered by years of nature, the wild grass easily reaching up to my waist. I looked back in the direction we’d come from, eager to make sure I didn’t forget a single turn, knowing this wouldn’t be the last time I would be coming down this path. As we reached the meadow, I saw the barbed wire nailed onto the wooden fence, bits of Mighty’s fur attached to some of the barbs. We stopped just short of the gate and I peered around Mighty’s face, one hand still glued to his neck.

“Ok, I need you to unlatch the gate and open it widely for me. You need to push it open and move out of the way quickly as he’s going to bolt through and make a run for it as soon as he gets inside,” she said, as she steadied him with her arm and her back up against his chest.

He eagerly bobbed his head again, stomping his feet impatiently. I reluctantly let go of him and opened the gate, not wanting him to run away from me, but I could see how excited and happy he was to be home, away from the loud screams and stress of the playground.